—Shade—
by rayningnight

VII.

As the snake shakes its head in an exasperated manner (Harry didn't realize before that snakes could even do that), a deafening shout behind Harry makes both of them startle.

"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Dudley waddles towards them as fast as he could (his watery eyes have completely dried up by the time he exits the Bird House hallway, and Harry thinks he should work on his crocodile tears; they aren't very convincing).

"Out of the way, you," he says, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry falls hard on the concrete floor with a cry of dizzying pain right as he lands on his funny bone. And without his semi-conscious tight hold on his magical core, Harry feels the young, energetic tendrils once caged now breaking free and latching onto the glass of the boa's viewing pen because it just felt like it.

(Harry still hasn't quite tamed his core as well as the next young witch or wizard, and though the man, his Shadow, says the more distinct the character your core has [angry, bubbly, gentle, sorrowful], the more powerful you will become, Harry really doesn't understand why his core has to be so impulsive. Harry's always erred on the side of caution, ever since the day Dudley invented Harry Hunting as soon as they both could walk!

Harry doesn't understand why the man laughed so hard at that when he mentioned it in passing.)

And suddenly, when one second, Piers and Dudley are leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they're now leaping back with howls of horror — because yes his magic oh-so-helpfully decided that the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank needs to be vanished. As if it was some piece of bad décor.

(Harry really doesn't understand why his magic is like that. Isn't the magical core supposed to represent the inner self or something? He knows he has quite a level head, thank you very much, and he'd neverjust randomly vanish/float/combust stuff! …okay, not without purpose, at least.)

Harry's going to keep calm and carry on. He's going to go with the flow. He's going to—

The snake uncoils and slithers out onto the floor and oh gosh, its head, it's body, it's length, and bloody hell, it's freakin' huge. Behind a glass, Harry didn't really notice, but with it now a centimetre away from Harry's splayed fingers on the concrete... waitwaiwaitwait, do snakes bite chunks off or swallow things whole or...?

(He dearly hopes his conversation with the boa will keep him friend-zoned instead of meal-zoned because he really doesn't want to find out.)

"Thanksss, amigo," the boa hisses as it slid swiftly past, eyes scanning down the hallways to the nearest open doors (and, whew, completely ignoring Harry). "Brazil, here I come!"

People throughout the reptile house scream and start running for the exits as they catch sight of the giant snake. The keeper of the reptile house seems to be in a state of shock. "But the glass," he keeps saying under his breath, just near enough for Harry to hear, "where did the glass go?"

Harry bites his lip and looks at his Shadow, and tries not to shrink into himself as there's now a man, the man, crouching in front of him with pursed lips. (Harry wonders; didn't the man just mention that there were security cameras? Won't a twentyish year old appearing out of nowhere catch attention?)

He's disappointed him. Harry can just tell. Because they've been practising for years on his control, even in times of distress and sadness and anger and frustration, and today it just caught him off guard, but it was a mistake and he's been doing this for years and his Hogwarts letter is supposed to come this year, and if he can't control his accidental magic when he could before, what does that tell the man?

Harry hangs his head in shame and waits for it. But instead of words of disappointment, the man simply sighs, pauses, and then ruffles Harry's head as if he were some sort of dog that accidentally peed the picket fence instead of the fire hydrant.

(Harry quickly shoves that thought away. Oh, this is just great; Rolf's weirdness was actually contagious.)

Still, it's an affectionate gesture. Harry furrows his brow and looks up.

"Wh—?"

"Mistakes are proof that you're trying, kit." The man lifts his left lip in the semblance of a quarter-smile. "I'm actually surprised it took so long for you to lose control. Merlin knows most kids have done worse than you." Then he flicks Harry's thunderbolt scar.

"Besides, I've said this before: don't tame your magic. It's not some pet animal. It's part of you, it is you, and like any impulsive, feisty brat, it wants to learn and play and tests its boundaries. Just… lead it. Nudge it to do what you want. Use intent. You've done well enough so far," and under his breath, looking over his shoulder at a screaming passer-by, "may as well start you wandless while you're still an overachieving little bugger."

Harry blinks, pauses as those words partially sink in, before a grin stretches his cheeks wide that 'ear-to-ear' wouldn't be much of an exaggeration.

That was practically a compliment! A spoken compliment!

And, not one to let this go, Harry coaxes his rampant (still energetic) magic back from the surroundings, the saturated air now lifting, and tries to make — no, not make, lead — it to remake the glass. Harry closes his eyes and imagines glittery gold dust with green streaks (it's what Harry would suppose his magic to look like if it ever took physical form) scattered everywhere from his 'explosion' of accidental magic now coalescing into a stream and creating a flat, vertical surface…

Harry cracks one eye open.

A reflective sheen is caught in the light and Harry nearly shouts in glee at his accomplishment.

—Then the newly-conjured glass shatters into thousands of pieces and it's only luck that one particular jagged piece only cracked his right glasses' lens instead of his eyeball.

…The man beside him is deathly silent.

After a couple of seconds, Harry opens his mouth—

"Kit. I told you five minutes ago there were cameras."

Harry shuts his mouth, face flushing.

The man sighs but reluctantly pulls out a wand—wait. The man. Wand.

The man pulled out a wand.

Harry's never seen him use a wand before. The man usually only needed a flick of his wrist, a twitch of his finger, even just a blink, and it was like, presto chango, a basket or something would morph in place of a blanket.

But there it is: an ordinary looking stick, with a fire-like, bulb-like gnarl at the back-end and with an inch of knurled wood where the thumb and forefinger are; it sort of reminded Harry of Gandalf the Grey's staff, only shrunken to forearm-length and held upside down at thirty degrees and doing loopty-loops and swishes and flicks.

"…You're lucky I'm not the average day wizarding dad, because clean-up here would have taken hours."

Suddenly Harry's memories rearrange themselves — he feels them rearrange themselves in his mind — and the shattering glass one moment ago now happened at the exact moment Dudley and Piers had leapt away and the snake was freed and the screaming started and—

But Harry has a second set of memories that showed he made the glass vanish and explode at two different times.

A hand ruffles his head, and the fake memories are cleanly erased and Harry's world becomes right-side-up again.

"You okay, kit?"

Harry blinks. Once. Twice.

"Bloody hell, that was weird."

He gets cuffed on the head and thrown a scathing comment about manners this and children that and Harry ducks down, face warming as one particular moment flashes in his mind as the man berates him with a stern face but amused green eyes just like his.

…I wonder if it's okay to call him father…

VIII.

Harry isn't surprised when the Dursleys blame the Shattering Glass Incident on him. See, they had clear evidence against him: a) Dudley said he was close to the glass, b) Dudley said he was talking to the snake, and c) Dudley said he was out to ruin his birthday.

And of course, d) Piers agreed.

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to say, "Go — cupboard — stay — no meals," before he collapsed into a chair and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.

Harry still doesn't think, "Dudley said…" is any sort of incriminating evidence, but Harry kept his mouth shut, because he really didn't want to make an acquaintance with Aunt Petunia's frying pan again.

Or the brandy bottle, once it emptied down Uncle Vernon's throat.

"Well, even if Grandsire doesn't win Worst Guardians of the Century like them, he's not exactly a shining example of one either. He's like an old totem pole that doesn't know it needs a new paint job — or even an added head to its hierarchy. I'm lucky Nanna's here to colour some sanity into him. Crimsons with a hint of cobalt, just to be on the safe side."

Harry looks over at Rolf with a blank expression.

"…Pardon?"

"Oh, yeah, you've never travelled out of the Europe — right, well totem poles are made by cultures of the indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest—"

"No," Harry waves his hands, shaking his head helplessly, "never mind. I think I get it." Sorta. Maybe. Well, no, not really, but it's best not to ask for any justification from Rolf, because, most of time, you'll end up in a state of befuddlement than enlightenment. He could probably explain how a toaster worked in a perfectly reasonable manner without an ounce of logic in actual context. Heck, for all he knows, Rolf would say, that the power of the stars were trapped inside the metal contraption running inside mini-hamster wheels, face totally and utterly serious, that he'd would be hard pressed not to believe him.

Harry blinks. And sighs as he slumps over.

Great, Rolf's contaminated his mind — because even Harry knows this kind of example is hard to think up without it actually happening.

Harry glances over at Rolf, with his dark skin and dark hair and dark eyes, he practically melts into the night-time fields around him doused in shade and shadow. And it's great, especially when he's purposefully decked out in camouflage, binoculars held to his eyes as he tries to search for any Porlocks in the neighbour's barnyard amongst the horses or in the hayshed a little ways down the road.

Harry pauses.

It technically takes a little over two hours to drive to Dorset from Surrey (or half an hour if Stan Shunpike is driving). But when his shadow lengthened, the man appeared in Harry's cupboard after he was thrown into it by Uncle Vernon and told him in a matter-of-fact tone, "They'll be leaving you in here for a few days with the occasional bathroom break, and slice of bread and water after the second night, so would you like to visit the Scamander Family with me instead?"

Harry quickly agreed of course …and he soon learned a new mode of transportation other than the Knight Bus: Apparition.

("Won't they check in on me? And, erm, what about school?" Harry asks inquisitively, as he gets his bearings from the teleportation.

"Yes," the man replies, dusting air off his shoulders, "but I left an illusion there, with other enchantments to eat the food and go to the washroom. And school… hmmm… well, I suppose I could go inform your teacher discreetly of your absences. You wouldn't have missed much even if I hadn't come," he said, as if he knew exactly how it'd pan out.

Harry's learned it was best not to ask questions about things the man should and shouldn't know.)

Rolf suddenly speaks up. "Hey, I think I can see some neighs from them in the distance. Sneaky purples, giggling greens… Bloody Porlocks think they can get the best of us, eh?"

Harry simply nodded his head and followed Rolf's lead.

This was actually really similar to the time he first met Rolf, now that Harry thought about it as he army-crawled with his camo-clad friend.

Harry met the Scamander family by accident two years ago, on one of the man's excursions around the United Kingdom. Harry had wanted to see a real Pegasus for Christmas (he could now follow how their discussion about Santa Claus and reindeer led to that, now that he thought about it), so the man took him over to the ranch in the shadow of Mount Pelée in France in early spring, in place of a physical Christmas gift. And with a bit of Muggle make-up to cover Harry's forehead, and making himself look like an obscure wizard age of thirtyish, and add the fact that they were in France, well, no one had recognized the two.

Well, no one but the Scamander family — Rolf had walked right up into Harry's face and asked, with a very serious look and narrowed eyes, if he'd been possessed by a shadow spirit because how else could he have survived the Killing Curse and have a lookalike gliding by right next to him when, clearly, it was stated in the newspapers that most of the Potter family was dead—

An elderly woman came rushing in and pulled the boy to the side, blushing and apologizing profusely. She'd then whacked the boy on the head because she's taught him tact, boy, and how to act in polite company, and damnit, did her husband make all her hard work on their sole grandson go down the drain again—

Then she froze, her gnarled hand which had been clutching her silver shawl in a white-knuckled grip at her right arm now rubbing and pulling at the fabric and Harry noted that she was breathing in short breaths and —ewww she puked onto the grass by the side.

The rest thereafter was a blur.

Later, Harry learned Porpentina Scamander was lucky to have been right next to his Shadow, because apparently, she'd had a heart attack, and apparently the man had known exactly what to do (— and that was not to Apparate to the nearest hospital, as one of the freaked out bystanders had exclaimed, because that'd have made things worse).

Later, Harry learned that the man, though not a certified Muggle doctor or Mediwizard or, heck, Potions Master, he probably could be one, because why else would he always be prepared with every magical potion known to wizard (and then some) he just happened to have in his (extra-extra-large compartment) pockets?

"Constance vigilance, Harry," said the man, as he packed away his things and flicked Harry's scar again. "It never hurts to be safe than sorry."

Later, Harry learned the Scamander family felt they couldn't thank the man enough, and had invited him to visit their home back in Dorset whenever (they'd recognized the British accent in both Harry and the man's voices), and that one visit led to three more and soon it was abnormal if Harry and him didn't drop by, at least biweekly.

Rolf's bizarre rationality and rude bluntness — and severe lack of the notion of personal privacy — eventually grew on Harry after a couple of weeks in forced company [It was Rolf's company or the Dursleys and his cupboard. …Really, is that even a choice?] and after a few weeks, Harry thinks this is what it's like to have a weird cousin you have to visit and hang out with and don't really acknowledge in public.

…and then, of course, Harry's the laughingstock of fate, because, actually, erm… yeah, Rolf's Harry's fourth cousin through his father's side….

—"…and what's with you today? You've been going off and on to La La Land the whole day," a voice breaks through his thoughts. "And I can't help but feel put out when you don't even bring back a souvenir."

Harry shakes away the memories and stares back at dark eyes and a sudden grin.

"Oh, wait, let me guess — you inhaled some fumes from some Remedy for Recollection or Memory Mixture that your …guardian or long-lost-brother or uncle or whatever — what's his name, actually? — made you do for homework again," Rolf rolls his eyes. "Merlin, he gives you more homework than your Muggle school does!"

Harry nods, not even bothering to wonder how Rolf knows the going-ons of his lifestyle.

"Actually, I'm kinda curious. What is he?" Rolf asks, putting down his camoculars and sitting up on the tall grass. "I notice that when you talk, it's all shades of green and gold, but no matter what tone, that guy's pitch black. It's really weird. Family's supposed to have same differences to everyone else! And obviously you two are family… right?"

"He's…" Harry shrugs. "He's family, yeah. I dunno what kind though. I guess I want him to be my dad since I'm sure we can't be brothers, and I figure being my father is better than my uncle or cousin."

After a few seconds, Harry realizes Rolf's looking at him funnily, dark brows furrowed under the faint moonlight.

"If he's your family, does it matter what exactly he is? He can be pitch black and you can be ...pitch green! I mean, if it's really diluted, I can sometimes see you talk with some darker tinges, anyway, like you're trying to copy him or something, so maybe he's your …no, wait, that wouldn't work, because the Potter tree can't be that big …but he's never…"

Harry tuned out Rolf's chatter after the first sentence, because he realizes — no. It doesn't matter. It never does. It never will.

Because the man is family. Real family. Family where it matters most. Shadow represents care. Love. Happiness.

"—and, oh, I think the man in the moon's climbed too high now. See the blue cricket sounds? We should probably go back—"

Home.

"You know, Rolf, sometimes you can be a bit of a genius."

"Well of course," Rolf nods sharply, cutting off his own rambling.

"…then again, Oscar Levant said, 'There's a fine line between genius and insanity,' so it's not that surprising you of all people—hey!" Harry rubs his forehead, right at his now-stinging scar.

"Huh. It does shut you up," Rolf flexes his fingers and then a sudden, manic grin dissuades Harry of any hope of retaliation.

No, it's best to do a tactful retreat… really, it's getting really late anyway, right…?

"Hey, get back here you coward!"

IX.

"What's your name?"

It never occurred to Harry for years (which is kind of embarrassing actually), but ever since Rolf mentioned it, Harry can't help but wonder. The man is his Shadow, like a father, like a brother, like a really close relative, and the guy's almost always older than Harry… so he never does take the time to actually think about who the man is.

But Rolf's question plagues him for a while. And then, today, the man decides to be a preteen, maybe-probably-about a year or two older than Harry himself. They've been up cleaning the house for a while — and Harry can't think of calling him "the man" in his head, anymore, when he's just a boy right now, which then leads to thoughts of what else to call him— and then his thoughts wander to the man's title, then his name, and it's a cycle all over again.

Aunt Petunia took Dudley over to some back garden tea party with the other housewives up at number eight's house since Gordon and Malcolm would be there with their mothers. Uncle Vernon's upstairs napping on his day-off, snoring away the hours with his bedroom telly left on; his fat fingers grasp the remote every so often, and he accidentally changes the channel every few minutes. For all intents and purposes, the pair of wizards are alone in the house, so the man — boy — Shadow, is able to come out without protest.

"Oh," the boy says, pausing to snaps his fingertips to vanish the rubbish in Harry's dustbin. "It never did occur to me, but I've never actually told you to call me anything in particular, have I?" He blinks suddenly, as if a thought had hit him like lightning. "Nor have I actually given you a rundown of who I am — and — …Merlin. It's been years. How did I miss that…?"

It's a rhetorical question, so Harry simply shrugs and puts away the dustpan.

"You… what've you been calling me in your head then?" he asks curiously.

Harry stares at him uncomprehendingly, like a deer caught in headlights before he quickly ducks his head behind the broom he's now got clutched in his hands with embarrassment.

"Well… I've wanted to call you 'Dad' for a while—butIquicklychangedmymind!" Harry quickly tacks on as the man's eyes fly wide in surprise and alarm. A silent moment passes, and then there's something strange, something like amusement-but-not-quite glittering in his bright eyes, making Harry think that fluttering laughter's been caught in them.

Harry takes a breath, inhales, exhales — the bulldozes right through before he'll lose his nerve.

"You have black hair and green eyes and you look like me. You're family. Don't give me that look, even I can tell you're family, even with your habit of changing age like Aunt Petunia changing clothes or swapping shoes," he gets small smile for that line as Harry continues, his face a bit hot, "and I realized — well, Rolf pushed me to realize if I'm to be honest — that none of that stuff matters. You're family. You're my family and teacher and close confidant and it doesn't matter if you're technically my uncle or father or great-great-great grandpa for all I know! Because no matter who you are, you'll always have a space in my heart."

A pause, a look, a twitch. This time, Harry gets a light laugh, and it's such a rare thing to hear; soft and bright and nothing like his usual sardonic chuckle, and it's so totally worth saying those mushy-gushy girly lines Harry's bastardized from one of Aunt Petunia's favourite evening soap operas.

Even though he's only a bit taller than Harry, his Shadow still manages to ruffle Harry's bird's nest of hair without difficulty.

"And you'll always have one in mine, kit," he smiles and adds a quick flick to Harry's scar, as of habit. "And just for all that, I think I'll give you a hint to who I am — in relation to you, that is."

Harry perks up. "Really? Reallyreallyreally?"

"Yes. I am… I'm…" the boy pauses mid-chuckle, as if wondering how to word something rather challenging. The fluorescent lights give off strange shadows onto him, accenting under the cheekbones and slanting over eyes, bringing a mysterious air to him. Harry wonders if it's all been staged that way somehow, because there's no way all that could be coincidence. "I suppose I'm your shadow …your shade…" he trails off, and a Look takes over his face. And then he quirks his lip, as if he realized something particularly funny.

Harry pouts. Duh of course he's his Shadow — though Shade does sound cooler… — and could he just get a move on?

Suddenly a wry grin overtakes his Shade's face, as his attention is caught by Harry's partially-hidden books that are just peeking out of the shelf in the cupboard under the stairs. Harry really should fix those up, or else he'll forget, and then Uncle will take not only the ones …borrowed from Dudley but the new ones he got from—

"You may call me …Hades."

Harry blinks, feeling frozen. Only a second passes. "You… —Hades? …as in the ancient Greek god of death and the freakin' underworld, Hades?"

His lip twitches. "That's the one. It all ties back together, as I've suddenly realized — it's an anagram of shade," explains newly-dubbed Hades, and Harry notices there's a strange tone to the word anagram, as if the word tastes a little bitter, a little rotten on the tongue, "and because 'Harry' starts with the same first two letters," and here, Harry's halts as he blushes at the thought of Hades naming himself after him, "and also …well," and now Hades looks sheepish, which is the strangest expression Harry's ever seen on his typically stoic and solemn mentor, "there are quite a few more reasons why I go by this name, now."

Harry's jaw drops before his eyes turn up accusingly. "Hold on. How does this tie in with me? You said—"

He gets a flick on his forehead scar again. (Harry really needs to break Hades' habit of forehead-flicking to divert his attention. It's getting really annoying.) "You're a smart kid, Harry. I've gifted you plenty of clues already and I'm sure you've realized by now that I'm not leaving any time soon. You'll have plenty of time to figure it out yourself."

Harry knows he's just made a sound comparable to that of a strangled cat thrown off a second-story balcony, but he doesn't really care at the moment. "Haaaaae-deeeez—"

(On the inside, Harry cheers. He finally has a name to mangle up irrevocably when he's stressed with his tutor/mentor/family/friend and it feels awesome. No wonder Dudley always does it with "mum" or "dad" or "Aunt Marge".)

Hades winces. "Okay, kit, if you don't shut your trap in the next second, I'm waking up the walrus and I'll postpone our trip by a couple of days —after your letter."

Harry snaps his mouth closed with a click. "You wouldn't."

A wicked grin stretches across Hades' face, and Harry can't help but wonder if he could pull that dastardly look off. Then he blinks a couple of times and marvels — did he just think up the word dastardly?

Harry pipes up without second thought. "Hey, Hades, when you were my age, did you think up words like, 'dastardly?' And, while we're at it, what about, 'irrevocably?'"

The grin wipes off Hades' face and Harry almost laughs because he's sure he just gave his Shade some mental whiplash before he's able to track down Harry's train of thought. (Hades is actually quite good at putting himself in other people's shoes, Harry's noticed.)

"Honestly Harry? I don't think I even knew the meaning of those words until I graduated Muggle high school literature."

Harry blushes at the unspoken praise.

"Which reminds me — do you want to continue your Muggle studies during your school year?" Hades tilts his head to the side, a habit of thought. "It'll be double, almost triple your schoolwork, but as with most things that need effort and resolve, it'll pay off in the end. I knew a few Muggleborn wizards and witches that did it during their Wizarding school year because their parents wanted some semblance of normality — but to do so, you and I will need to fill out a few contracts to file into the Ministry, at least a week before your first term starts. They'll either issue you a special time-turner for you to go to some public school in Dufftown or give you a Muggleborn teacher over the holidays, though the latter's a bit more expensive. I could probably do it myself."

Harry furrows his brows and tilts his head to the side in confusion. "Why would I need to continue my Muggle studies out of school? I thought there was a whole class at Hogwarts for Muggle studies!"

He's quite sure, since he pretty much memorized the Hogwarts Brochure when he first heard of "the greatest magical academy in Europe to teach Wizardry and Witchcraft." Of course, Harry didn't really put much into that statement when he's only heard of two or three other schools that even exist in the continent.

Hades shakes his head and sighs, snatching back Harry's attention. "Muggle Studies is exclusively a third year class — and anyway, it's a bit of a joke at Hogwarts, these last few years. All they do in the class is introduce 'new' innovations and hire Pure-blood teachers to try and explain what everything does, or how much better magic is compared to electricity." Hades grimaces. "They still mispronounce 'telephone' as 'fellytone' and… well, I think that speaks for itself."

"You mean they learn about new technology and everyday stuff in that class?" Harry doesn't even bother to multitask anymore and solely focusses on Hades. "Then what about maths? And English? And—and any other core studies? Do they have a health or physical education?" asks Harry in incredulous rapid-fire.

"Like I already alluded to, any rich families are able to hire tutors for that during the summer, and if they can't afford it, parents home school them during the holidays."

"So they don't count as credits for anything? Our non-magical education is recreational?"

Hades nods, waving his hand absentmindedly to finish up the rest of the house chores. "Yes. The magical community doesn't give much to Muggle ways, even though they'd all be a blubbering mess if they didn't know how to speak proper English or how to count and multiply," he taps his chin thoughtfully. "Usually they just learn the basics, what any average Muggle cashier could understand, and sometimes even less than that unless their job needs them to know more — like a journalist for the Daily Prophet would need to be well-versed in their language or a hands-on spellcrafter who'd need a relative grasp on science — the physical world, biology and so on."

Harry gapes. "What? An average cashier? Why would they—?"

Hades runs a hand through his hair with a sigh, sitting down on the couch, though facing behind it. "Harry, you have to remember: the magical community focuses on magical classes because all the Muggle ways can be substituted with less logical means."

Harry grins behind the couch, tucking his arms on the backrest and laying his head on top. "Man, I'm sure glad I'm a wizard then. It'd suck to study stuff all day when I can fix everything up with a bit of magic—ow!"

Hades clonks him on the head with an unimpressed look.

"Not everything can be solved with magic, kit. And even then, magic isn't as easy as you think. It takes more than a decade to become a certified Muggle medical practitioner, and that's more or less comparable to a licensed Mediwizard. Then there are the specialized Muggle doctors — which are the general equivalents of general and specialized Healers." Hades crosses his arms. "Medical magic and medical science take years to study Harry, and even if wizards live longer, no one likes to waste time when they already have something more or less equal to the other. That's the only reason."

Harry pauses. He supposed it does make sense. Why study two things that'll have the same result in the end? Suddenly a thought occurs to him. "Hey, you told me before that pure-blood families sometimes married their cousins… right?"

"Yes."

"So… wizards have no idea about genetics work and stuff, do they?"

Hades hesitates. "From my accounts, it's doubtful. Whole pure-blood families still continue to run themselves extinct these days, however…" Hades takes a moment to animate the feather duster and send it over to the second bedroom upstairs with some still-wet wipes. "I think many are noticing that bringing in new blood, even Muggle-born blood, allow for easier carriage for children and create less… abnormalities."

Harry immediately thinks of Rolf, and instantly feels guilty and goes quiet. "My—my mum's a Muggle-born right? And she married dad — who's a pure-blood."

Hades nods slowly, looking unsure for once at Harry's reluctance.

"Did… did my dad only marry her — for her — for new blood?"

Hades blinks and a strange smile stretches across his face as he leans down and ruffles Harry's head. "No, kit. They married for love; cross my heart," he gestures across his chest with two fingers, which then zoomed into Harry's forehead with a flick. Harry scowled.

"In fact, I think their parents — at least Mrs Potter — threw a fit when James proposed. They were a proud pure-blood family before, the Potter family that is, and somehow, they'd escaped marrying any third-cousin or closer until Charles Potter married Dorea Black, and everyone's related to the Black family since they've intermarried for generations."

Harry pulls a face at the thought of marrying family. Wouldn't it be weird if you had the same features and stuff?

Hades quirks a slight grin, "You know, I married my third cousin."

Wide-eyed, Harry blinks at Hades with incredulity. "Wait. What? Don't you realize that's inbreeding and your kid'll be all—"

A flick to his forehead shuts him up. Harry swears, if he gets a scar the size of the man's fingerprint… "Kit, I think you'll need to reread some of those genetics books you happened across. Third cousins and up generally won't have problems, but anything below that," here, Hades made a grimace, "yeah, I realize what happens. I actually didn't know we were related until after a few years into our marriage. But Harry, I've seen …closer intermarriages first hand and their progeny — you will too, once you're in Hogwarts. But I think, although it's not proven, magic somehow gives the Wizarding World a lower chance of …irregularities than if Muggles intermarried. Not to say that it should be allowed at this age — but magic is correcting a majority of wizard problems. Thank Merlin we still have those priests and sages to keep the world balance…"

Harry tilts his head to the side, waiting for elaboration, but nothing was forthcoming. Before Harry could ask about these "priests and sages," he heard a click from the hallway and immediately grabs his broom and dustpan.

"Harry! Go preheat the stove — we're eating three-meat lasagna this evening," Aunt Petunia barks, putting down the grocery bags on the foyer bench as she took off her jumper, not noticing the strange lengthening of her nephew's shadow.

"Got it, Aunt Petunia," replies Harry, leaning the broomstick on a nearby wall and seamlessly dodging the charging Dudley aimed for the fridge.

Then a thought occurs to Harry as he takes the plastic bags into the kitchen: when does Hades even eat? Does he even eat? How does he survive without food?

How did he survive all these years without food!?

Notes (posted 27/09/14)

Back in the summer, a lot of family crisis stuff happened, so, uh, sorry for the late chapter. If you spot any grammatical mistakes or typos, point 'em out - I have no beta whatsoever. Also, I'm back in school now, so updates are... going to be sporadic. Mood, time, etc will be deciding factors. Keep an eye on AO3 for quickie chapters if you're impatient.