"I hereby declare that from now on, you are the head of the Black family!" Walburga's voice rang out, her shout so forceful that it seemed to make the entire house tremble—or perhaps it was just an illusion.
At that moment, Phineas Nigellus appeared in the frame nearby.
"What's going on?" he asked groggily, looking as though he'd just woken up.
"Nothing much. My mother just announced that I'm to be the head of the Black family from now on," Sirius replied, his expression a mix of emotions.
Truth be told, ever since he was disowned and cast out, Sirius had harbored little attachment to the Black family. But having lived in this house for so many years, there was still a faint pang of reluctance deep in his heart. Now, being suddenly declared the head of the family, his emotions were understandably tangled. He never could have imagined that his mother would abruptly acknowledge him as the heir to the Black legacy.
Oh well, Sirius thought. The Black family has no male heirs left anyway. I'll take on the role of head for now… and when Regulus returns, I'll pass it on to him.
With that in mind, Sirius nodded at Walburga's portrait. "Thank you, Mother."
He turned to Harry. "Harry, give me that fake locket."
Harry didn't hesitate. He pulled the golden locket from his pocket and tossed it to Sirius.
"This," Sirius said, carefully folding the note and slipping it back into the locket, "is the key to clearing Regulus's name and proving he's a hero. Once we hand this over to the Ministry of Magic, they'll have no choice but to exonerate him…"
"Why not consider The Daily Prophet?" Dumbledore interjected suddenly.
"The Daily Prophet?" Sirius frowned. "Why would we go to them?"
"Oh, that touches on another matter," Veratia said with a slight smile. "If the Ministry clears one Black's name in a few months, that's fine. But clearing two Blacks? That starts to look like they're handing out exonerations wholesale."
"But it's about the truth!" Sirius protested, bewildered. "My brother was a hero! A hero who fought against Voldemort, not some accomplice to that deranged murderer!"
"Some things are about perception, not truth," Cassandra said, spreading her hands. She was still wearing the white lace gloves Harry had given her, her slender fingers looking delicate and elegant.
"Let's get the public talking first," Harry said firmly. "It's a good suggestion, Sirius. Someone like Fudge doesn't care about the truth—he's more concerned about how things affect him. If the Ministry clears two Blacks in a short time, people will start questioning whether he's been bribed with, say, fifty thousand Knuts from the Black family fortune…"
"Why fifty thousand Knuts?" Sirius asked, puzzled.
"Because it's a big number," Harry said, sidestepping the question. "Point is, the best approach is to get The Daily Prophet to take the lead and charge forward for us. What do you think, godfather?"
"Fine, I'll go along with it," Sirius said, nodding hesitantly. If his godson was this confident, he'd trust him.
"But…" Harry suddenly gave Sirius an appraising look, scanning him up and down in a way that made Sirius feel oddly self-conscious, like he was being judged by an elder.
"I don't think Fudge is particularly competent," Harry continued, rubbing his chin. "Instead of letting an incapable fool like him stay Minister for Magic, why not have my godfather take the job? First, my godfather despises evil and fought against Voldemort as a hero. Second, he's more than capable of handling the role of Minister. And finally… well, I just think my godfather is far more qualified than Fudge."
"I agree," Veratia said, nodding. "Having one of our own in the Ministry is crucial."
"But wasn't Fudge put in place by Professor Dumbledore?" Sirius asked, frowning. "Shouldn't he be one of Dumbledore's allies?"
It wasn't that Sirius lacked political acumen, but years in Azkaban had left him out of touch with the outside world. After his escape, his focus had been on Peter Pettigrew, leaving no time to delve into the Ministry's tangled web of grudges and alliances. Even after his exoneration, he'd been preoccupied with matters at Hogwarts, so he was hardly well-versed in Ministry politics.
"Fudge is ambitious but lacks the talent to match," Veratia explained. "He's terrified that Dumbledore will steal his power, so he's always been wary of the Headmaster. To put it bluntly, as the saying goes, Fudge has raised the average age of the Ministry while lowering its average intelligence…"
Sirius couldn't help but burst out laughing at the quip. The more he thought about it, the more accurate it seemed.
"But we need to figure out how to make this plan work smoothly," Poppy Sweeting said, drifting lazily nearby. "The biggest problem right now is how to get Fudge to step down quietly instead of clinging to his position as Minister."
"Voldemort's return is already a done deal," Cassandra said, crossing her arms. "Once that news is confirmed beyond doubt, Fudge will have no choice but to step down, whether he likes it or not."
"Hey, hold on!" Sirius interrupted, raising his voice. "You lot are just deciding my future like this without even asking me? Isn't that a bit… presumptuous?"
"Of course not, godfather," Harry said with a grin. "We just think you're the best person for the job, someone who can make a small but meaningful difference to the wizarding world…"
"Well, since you put it that way, Harry," Sirius said, clearing his throat, "I suppose I'll reluctantly accept your suggestion and set aside my personal desires… But as someone who was once a prisoner in Azkaban, wouldn't people object to me suddenly working at the Ministry?"
"That's where The Daily Prophet comes in," Veratia said, crossing her legs confidently. "Our next goal is to turn The Daily Prophet into our mouthpiece—"
"Easier said than done," Dumbledore said, rubbing his temples wearily. "Even Voldemort himself couldn't fully bend The Daily Prophet to his will…"
"We don't necessarily need them to submit," Veratia said with a mysterious smile. "Perhaps we can cooperate instead. But there's no rush. Our immediate priority is to find Voldemort and, ideally, ensure he returns in a way that's impossible for Fudge to cover up—something undeniable, witnessed by the world."
At that, Veratia's eyes glimmered with a faint violet glow. She looked at Dumbledore pointedly and said, "Perhaps you have a way, Headmaster?"
"Let me think, Miss Grindelwald…" Dumbledore sighed, his head genuinely aching now. This senior student was truly relentless.
He was well aware that the Grindelwald family had a knack for prophecy. While Veratia's foresight wasn't always reliable, it occasionally proved accurate. Lately, he'd been traveling frequently to France and Eastern Europe, all for that grand event in Harry's fourth year…
But it was far too dangerous. If Voldemort lost control and caused chaos at such a moment, the consequences would be catastrophic.
"I look forward to your answer, Headmaster Dumbledore," Veratia said, not pressing further but leaving her words hanging with intent.
The others looked on, confused, but Harry didn't ask. He knew Veratia well enough—if she didn't want to share, no amount of prodding would work. But if she wasn't hiding it from him, she'd sneak into his room later that night to tell him in private.
With the plan set, they got to work. Over the next few days, Sirius and Harry made several trips to The Daily Prophet, sharing Regulus's story and presenting the golden locket as evidence. Rita Skeeter, ever the journalist with a nose for sensational stories, immediately saw the potential for a blockbuster headline: "The Black Brothers: A Tale of Love and Vengeance."
It would be a hit, no doubt about it.
In her fervor for the story, Skeeter even overlooked another juicy angle—Harry Potter himself. As the wizarding world's savior, Harry was a walking headline wherever he went. But to Skeeter, the Black family's secrets were the bigger scoop. Perhaps another title would work: "The Black Family: A Hidden History." Equally eye-catching.
Skeeter's gaze burned with unbridled enthusiasm as she stared at Sirius, making him visibly uncomfortable.
"Miss Skeeter? Miss Skeeter?" Sirius called out after finishing his story, glancing at her self-writing quill and then back at her fervent expression.
It took several calls before Skeeter snapped out of her trance. "Oh, you're done, are you?" she said, glancing at her notebook with a look of lingering excitement. "Very well, I've got it all. Don't worry, Mr. Black, I'll make sure your brother gets the justice he deserves…"
"Thank you, madam," Sirius said, putting on an exaggerated show of gratitude.
The very next day, The Daily Prophet published Rita Skeeter's masterpiece: "The Black Family: A Hidden History." The article spun an elaborate tale of the Black brothers' supposed feud over the family fortune, leading to their falling out—one brother sorted into Gryffindor, the other into Slytherin. Skeeter poured her heart into the narrative, detailing Sirius's supposed grief, heartbreak, and despair, even claiming he betrayed his family's Slytherin roots to join Gryffindor.
To be fair, with Skeeter's embellishments, Sirius's decision to join Gryffindor suddenly had a compelling, almost believable motive. It was exactly the kind of dramatic, scandal-fueled story the British wizarding public ate up—rife with the kind of aristocratic feuds and betrayals they loved to gossip about. Sure enough, readers lapped it up, convinced this was the true history of the Black family's schism.
Even Arthur Weasley, ever curious, made a trip to Grimmauld Place to ask Sirius about it. When he learned it was all Skeeter's fabrication, he expressed disappointment before launching into a spirited condemnation of her sensationalist nonsense.
But to everyone's surprise, the news of Regulus becoming an Inferius also leaked, appearing in The Daily Prophet.
"How did she find out?!" Sirius roared, slamming the newspaper onto the table. "This is infuriating! Did she spend all her years at Hogwarts learning how to slander people?!"
"I don't think it's that simple," Veratia said, frowning slightly. Something felt off, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.
Harry felt the same. There was more to this than met the eye.
But it was Christmas, and no matter how angry they were, they couldn't storm The Daily Prophet's offices to confront Rita Skeeter. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had spent days preparing Christmas gifts, which they handed out on the day. In return, they received plenty of presents from classmates and even some sent by parents. Ron, as usual, got a batch of hand-knitted sweaters from his mother—this time including one for Veratia, though none for Cassandra or Poppy, as Mrs. Weasley wasn't aware of their presence.
Cassandra looked envious but tried to play it off with a haughty, "I don't care" attitude. It wasn't until Harry handed her a Christmas gift that she let a small smile slip.
"I'm not pleased about the gift, Potter," she said loftily. "I'm simply… gratified that my little follower remembered me."
"Of course, Miss Malfoy," Harry replied, giving her a deep, theatrical bow.
Cassandra's eyes narrowed, clearly displeased. Before she could react, Harry pulled her into a hug.
"What—what are you doing?!" Cassandra stammered, flustered. "How dare you be so impertinent, Potter?!"
"Oh, just a friendly hug," Harry teased, feigning innocence. "What's wrong? Why's your face so red? Thinking of something improper? Honestly, our friendship is pure…"
"Depulso!" Cassandra snapped, casting the spell. Harry floated out of the room with a gentle drift, having anticipated her reaction. If he hadn't been prepared, it would've been a much less graceful exit.
When it came time to give Veratia her gift, Harry took advantage of her distraction and pulled her into a tight hug. A faint blush crept across her cheeks, her high-attack, low-defense nature fully exposed.
"Happy Christmas, Veratia," Harry said cheerfully.
"Mm," she replied softly.
As Harry walked away, Veratia's legs wobbled, and she sank into a chair. Merlin's beard…
"And what about mine?" Poppy's voice came from behind Harry, her ghostly eyes narrowed in clear displeasure—more so than even Cassandra's.
"Your what?" Harry asked, playing dumb.
"My gift!" Poppy huffed, stomping her foot and causing a faint tremor. "Where's my Christmas gift?!"
"Oh, you mean this?" Harry said with a grin, pulling out a handful of grass from behind his back. "Here, have some grass—"
"You scoundrel!" Poppy cried, lunging to swat at him.
But Harry deftly plucked a vibrant rose from the grass. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "It's an alchemical creation, so even a ghost can smell its fragrance. For you."
With that, he placed the rose in Poppy's stunned hands and walked off without a backward glance, cool as a breeze.
Downstairs, Sirius approached him like a conspirator. "So, Harry, how'd it go?" he asked with a gossipy grin. "Those tricks I taught you—pretty effective, huh?"
"You're the best, godfather!" Harry said, giving Sirius a heartfelt thumbs-up. My godfather's still got it.
Gifting three women at once and leaving them blushing? Harry felt on top of the world. Merlin as his witness, he'd never had an experience like this.
Sirius was even more delighted. For the moment, he'd set aside any thoughts of Slytherin women. In his mind, he'd finally proven himself as a godfather, stepping up for his godson in a way that made him proud. His greatest fear had been that Harry might think him useless. But now? Who could say Sirius Black lacked talent?
Who was the walking embodiment of charm at Hogwarts? None other than a young Sirius Black! Back in his day, all he had to do was strike a brooding pose, and witches would swarm, screaming in admiration.
Of course, his "technique" worked for Harry only because the three women already had feelings for him. Try it with anyone else, and it might not have gone so well. Sirius's success came not from skill but from raw charisma—his looks alone had outshone even peak Leonardo DiCaprio. If Snape had tried the same pose, he'd have been a greasy disaster (in the physical sense, no less).
"Thank you, Sirius!" Harry said, giving his godfather a massive hug.
In that moment, he couldn't help but wonder: if his godfather had traveled back a hundred years with him, would he have already helped him achieve his greatest wish?
But Harry overlooked one thing. The reason he was determined to pursue all three women was that they had crossed time itself for him. None of them could be left behind. And the only reason they could sit together calmly, tolerating each other's presence, was precisely because of that shared sacrifice. Let someone else—like Miss Farley—try to step in? Veratia's Avada Kedavra lightning chain would strike faster than Cassandra's weather jinx could spark. They'd be reduced to ashes.
Sirius clapped Harry on the back, feeling, in that moment, like a true godfather. "Don't worry, Harry," he said reassuringly. "I've got your back."
Harry felt utterly secure—his godfather's recent advice had already proven its worth. Whistling cheerfully, he sought out Ron for a couple of rounds of Wizard's Chess.
"What's gotten into you, mate?" Ron asked cautiously. "You're acting weird—actually coming to me for chess?"
"I'm just in a great mood," Harry said, grinning. "Come on, let's play another round!"
He'd already lost three games in a row, but he didn't care. Ron's skill at Wizard's Chess was unmatched among their peers—no one their age could beat him.
After a while, Sirius called them outside for a snowball fight. Hermione wasn't a fan of the game itself but loved watching others play.
"If only we could get your brothers out here," Sirius said to Ron with a hint of regret. "I think we'd get along. They've got the same vibe as me, Padfoot, and Moony back in the day…"
"True, but those two…" Harry began, launching into a detailed recounting of their first-year Christmas, including the time Fred and George pelted Voldemort's face with snowballs via Quirrell.
Sirius was stunned. "Merlin's beard, those two had that kind of nerve?!" he asked, incredulous. "Hard to believe…"
"And don't forget him," Ron added, pointing at Harry. "My brothers just chucked snowballs at Quirrell's head. Harry threw a Biting Cabbage."
At the mention of a Biting Cabbage, Sirius's respect for Harry skyrocketed. "You really are James's son," he said with conviction.
To be fair, even James, notorious troublemaker that he was, wouldn't have dared lob a Biting Cabbage at a professor's head. Sirius's praise carried a touch of exaggeration, perhaps to polish James's legacy.
The Christmas feast was lavish. With Kreacher currently in a useless state, Veratia had borrowed Lucy and Deek to prepare the meal. Kreacher now spent his days doting on Regulus, taking him for walks, even insisting on occasional sunbathing to "improve his complexion."
"You'd better keep him at a distance," Deek warned Kreacher. "Don't let him knock over the mistress's food…"
If Deek didn't know the Inferius was the master's godfather's brother, he'd have locked both Kreacher and Regulus away by now. His warning was as much for Kreacher's safety as anything else—Veratia, frugal as she was, despised wasting food.
"Mistress…" Kreacher muttered, holding Regulus's hand. "Kreacher has only one mistress, and that's Lady Black…"
Deek, knowing Kreacher's mental state was questionable (no sane house-elf would parade an Inferius around the master's home), ignored him and returned to preparing the feast.
By seven o'clock, the house-elves had laid out a magnificent spread, filling a table large enough to seat dozens. The Black family dining table was a testament to their former grandeur, and the feast was nothing short of spectacular.
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