Harry's head was absolutely pounding. There was no other way to describe the ebb of pain that was going on just behind his scar. He'd woken up fuzzily back in his bed which he didn't remember getting into, with a hovering Sirius staring down at him. A couple of questions and answers later, and Harry understood the situation as this: Kreacher had given Harry a cursed locket, Harry had acted like a total bastard to everyone, Kreacher had stunned his bastard self from behind and managed to remove the locket. He didn't really remember much of this, but he took Sirius' word for it.

Harry had only been unconscious for around two hours, so he got redressed quickly and made his way downstairs to assure everyone he was all right and apologize profusely to everyone in the house. He'd started with Mrs. Weasley, giving an apology so heart felt that she yanked him into a smothering hug and assured him that nothing he could say would ever be so horrible that she wouldn't still care for him. Harry had blushed spectacularly at her compassion.

Next had been Hermione. Sirius had informed him that he had dropped the 'M' word a few times with her and he was desperate to correct it. She had waved off his apologies easily, citing that he hadn't really known what he'd been saying, but she appreciated the sentiment anyway. She'd also fretted over his bruised wrist but Harry dismissed her worries. He'd had much worse. Then Harry had made a collective apology to the Weasley kids for having a go at their mother, and they accepted it easily enough.

Harry had rounded off his grand series of apologies with Sirius and Remus, who all but rolled their eyes at him and told him it was fine and to get over it. Harry decided to put it behind him. He'd apologized and there really wasn't more he could do. Except maybe yell at Kreacher the next time he saw him. Otherwise he'd just have to move forward.

Harry enjoyed a late dinner with Sirius and Remus, who wanted to talk.

"Harry, I have an idea. It'll risk serious trouble from people like Mrs. Weasley and Dumbledore but it's going to have to get done eventually, so why not the day after tomorrow?" Sirius started, piquing Harry's interest.

"And just what's this idea of yours Sirius?" Harry asked curiously.

"A field trip!" Sirius exclaimed proudly, "So we can get you some of your own clothes for your birthday."

"Clothes shopping? Does that even count as a field trip? It sounds more like running errands," Harry teased, but he could already see the advantages of the trip. He could stop wearing ill-fitting boots for one. The thick socks helped but it was July; his feet were sweating to death.

"Typically, no. But tell me, Harry, have you ever been to France?" Sirius questioned innocently. Harry felt his eyes widen considerably.

"Uh, no. Never been, heard it's nice," Harry said lamely. The truth was, he'd never been anywhere that wasn't a limited amount of Surrey, Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade or Kings Cross Station. The Dursleys didn't like taking him on holiday, so they left him behind with Mrs. Figg whenever possible.

"It is. And the best part is no one will recognize us there. Remus and I will probably apply a few Glamours anyway, just to be safe considering I'm a wanted convict and all, but you'll be free to just walk around with out anyone wondering why you look so much like Bellatrix Lestrange. Trust me Harry, if you walk down Diagon Alley with that face there will be questions, and then we'll be up to our eyeballs with distant Black relatives, Malfoy's and Daily Prophet reporters," Sirius warned. Harry cringed just thinking about it.

"I see your point. France it is. Uh, I don't have a passport or anything…" Harry trailed off.

"What's a passport?" Sirius questioned curiously.

"Oh, I guess it's a muggle thing. It's like a little booklet with your identity that you need to enter foreign countries," Harry explained.

"Don't worry, Harry, you don't need a passport in the magical world. You just sign off at the International Floo and Portkey Station and let them inspect your wand. And don't worry about the wand," Remus said gently when he saw Harry was about to interrupt. "This place has plenty of back up and emergency wands floating around. We'll find the one that works best for you and then go from there."

"Okay. Is there anyway for me to stop at Gringotts before we go. I don't think I really have enough gold with me to—" Sirius interrupted him.

"Harry, you're not paying for the clothes, that's my job. Hence it being a birthday present," Sirius said in the most 'duh' voice imaginable.

"Sirius, I can't let you do that, Kreacher burned my whole wardrobe, there's a lot to replace," Harry fretted. Sirius waved him off.

"I don't know if you're aware of this, Harry, but for all the Black family madness, we are actually reasonably good investors. I'm loaded. It's really no big deal to do something as simple as buy you the proper fitting clothes you deserve. And honestly, as my heir, the money is just as much yours as it is mine," Sirius said off handedly. Harry was almost positive it wasn't that straight forward or simple, but he was afraid insisting anymore would make him seem rude or ungrateful.

"Thank you, Sirius. Remus," he said with the utmost sincerity. They beamed back at him.

"No problem, Harry. Just remember, don't tell Molly under any circumstances. Merlin save our souls if you do. You'll find in life that it is much easier to ask for forgiveness than permission," Sirius said with an air of wisdom about him. Remus jabbed him in the side with his elbow.

"Don't tell him that, Padfoot! You're supposed to be a role model," Remus said in exaggerated exasperation. Sirius played along.

"I am! I'm being the perfect role model for a young mischief maker," he declared. Remus rolled his eyes.

"If you were perfect you wouldn't have gotten caught so often," Remus remarked.

"I wouldn't have gotten caught so much if someone learned how to lie to teachers. For keeping that big secret of yours, Moony, you're a terrible liar," Sirius shot back.

"Is that supposed to be an insult? That I didn't lie enough?" Remus asked in disbelief.

"It's not that you didn't lie enough, it's that you weren't good at it!"

Harry couldn't help it; he burst out laughing as their playful fight dissolved into a squabble with petty name-calling. This was so much better than Privet Drive, even with the evil jewelry and mad house-elf.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In times of trouble, Hermione knew there was one place to go to find solutions to her various problems and woes: the library. The library with it's hidden knowledge and the smell of ink and paper blanketing the room. So, when your best friend discovers that he is the son of infamous murderers and torturers, the obvious reaction is to go to the library.

The Black family library at Grimmauld Place, however, was proving to be a monster in it's own right. Everywhere she turned looking for family history, she came face-to-face with a grisly illustration of some rare magical torture or other. Some of them were even animated, to show the entire process, and Hermione found those to be particularly sickening.

Hermione picked up a particularly vivid book called The Strategic Wizard's Guide to Muggle Hunting before shoving it back on the shelf harshly. The Black family had a violent streak wider than the English Channel with a superiority complex to boot. They also seem rather fixated on vengeance considering how many revenge curses she'd come across.

The boys were also on the search for family history. Harry insisted that the portrait of Walburga Black told him there were family memoirs in the library, but they had yet to find them.

"Are you sure she didn't say family grimoires, Harry? Because I've found plenty of those," Ron called across the room. Harry shook his head.

"No, she definitely said memoires. She was instructing me on not going to Sirius for family history. She said look at the memoirs in the library or talk to her directly," Harry replied while inspecting a mysterious stain on a book written in Ancient Greek.

"The memoirs are on the back wall, far right," called a cultured voice Hermione had never heard before. She spun around to find the source of the voice, along with Harry and Ron, but didn't see anyone.

"Up here, you daft children."

Hermione's brown eyes tracked up and locked with painted grey. Above the library's fireplace was a portrait that had until now been empty, depicting a stately looking older gentlemen. His hair was iron grey but still thick, and he wore fancy and complicated navy robes. There was a light scar across his jaw, and he had the same grey eyes that Harry and Sirius shared.

"Oh, hello, Sir. Sorry about that, the frame was empty when we got here," Hermione apologized for not seeing him right away.

"Well I'm not going to stay in here all the time, especially since no one seems to visit the library anymore. Tell me, does anyone in your generation read nowadays?" he asked with a hefty dose of condemnation in his voice. Hermione felt herself blush and drew her shoulders back. Reading was her favorite past time, and no one was going to accuse her of neglecting it.

"Of course, Sir. I decided to read the books I brought with me before coming to the library," Hermione defended herself untruthfully. She had been nervous about coming to the library at all considering all the Dark magic floating around, but needs must.

"And who, exactly, are you?" he asked, eyes narrowed. "There are rumors going around the house that there is a Mudblood in our mist. Would that be you, girl?" he asked, sneer making his facial scar standout. Hermione, just for a moment, flashed back to a similar sneer on Harry's face last night when he was under the influence of the locket, calling her a Mudblood.

"My name is Hermione Granger, and yes, I am a Muggleborn," she stated strongly. She was not ashamed of her heritage.

"Naturally. I'm dead for barely five years and there's already vermin infesting the Black properties," he snarked. Hermione might have been more offended by that if she wasn't consistently referred to as filth by Walburga Black's portrait.

"She's not vermin," Ron bit out angrily. He learned early on that shouting at the portraits usually made them shout back and they had the advantage of not needing to breathe to keep ranting.

"Says you. Let's see; ratty clothes, obnoxiously red hair, and living off the charity of my disappointment of a grandson, Sirius. You must be a Weasley and therefore a blood traitor cluttering my family home," he said snidely. "And who is the third member of your little reading group, hmm?"

The portrait turned to look at Harry, completely ignoring Ron's angry, bright red face. As soon as he looked Harry up and down, however, the disdain seemed to leak from his face, leaving only surprise behind.

"Romulus?" he questioned in disbelief. Harry blinked back at him bemusedly.

"How does everyone know who I am?" he asked in exasperation.

"You look just like your mother, my granddaughter Bellatrix. There's no one else you could be," he replied, still staring at Harry intently. Hermione dearly wished she had a photograph of Bellatrix Lestrange so she could make her own comparison.

"Granddaughter? Who are you exactly?" Harry asked, throwing back the words the portrait had all but spat at Hermione with. The wizard pulled himself up, looking even statelier for his trouble.

"My name is Pollux Black. I'm your great-grandfather. Where have you been, Romulus?" he asks, now completely ignoring Hermione and Ron. Harry seemed to dither on the spot, unsure of how to respond.

"I've been staying in Regulus' room, there aren't any portraits on the top floor so I'm not surprised you didn't know," he relays casually. Hermione isn't the only one who caught his deliberate misinterpretation of the question.

"Nice try, Grandson, but I've been dealing with Slytherins and politicians my entire life. You'll have to do better than that," Pollux taunted, although Hermione could detect fondness in his smirk now, like he was humoring a favored child who wanted to prove he could be an adult.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Sir," Harry replied blithely. His tone reminded Hermione of Potions classes where Snape would accuse Harry of various crimes, and he'd deny them easily, even if Snape were right.

"That's right. Deny, deny, deny. We'll make a proper Black out of you yet."

Hermione noticed Harry's subtle flinch at the comment. It would seem her friend was wary of being considered a 'proper Black.' Not that Hermione could blame him, of course. Who would want to be part of a family that pledged allegiance to a psychotic Dark Lord?

"Perhaps, Sir. You said the family memoirs were on the back wall. Are they organized in any way? I think I want to start with some of the more recent ones."

"The oldest ones are on the higher shelves, the newer ones are on the lower shelves. Do try to be more subtle the next time you forcibly change the topic, there's no advantage to manipulating a conversation if the other party knows they are being manipulated," Pollux lectured.

"I'll keep that in mind, thank you for your help," Harry said in forced politeness before turning on his heal and heading to the back of the library. Hermione and Ron rushed to catch up.

"You're welcome, Grandson. Be sure to come back in here soon, or I'll find you. We have a conversation to finish," the portrait called out to Harry. Harry pretended not to hear and didn't respond.

When they reached the back shelves, Harry ripped a few leather bound volumes off the bottom shelf, handed a few to Hermione and Ron forcefully, and all but fled the library. Hermione and Ron shared a concerned glance before following him back to Ron's room.

"Hermione, I'm sorry," Harry said as soon as Hermione stepped into the room. Hermione blinked in surprise.

"Whatever for, Harry?" she asked in confusion. Harry had already apologized for the incident last night and there really wasn't anything else she could think of that he would need to be sorry for.

"For not defending you to my… family. The portraits and Kreacher keep saying all these horrible things and using that word, and I'm not defending you like I should, like a good friend would," he babbled to a flabbergasted Hermione.

"I don't need you to defend me, Harry, I'm perfectly capable of defending myself," Hermione stated reasonably. Harry shook his head.

"That's not the point though. You shouldn't have to defend yourself constantly against people I'm related to. Whenever I want to say something, correct them, yell at them for being awful, it's like I can't and you deserve a better friend then that. You both do." Harry was getting increasingly upset, especially with himself, and Hermione was starting to see the problem here.

"Harry, I get it. They're your family and you want them to like you. It's completely normal considering your circumstances," Hermione said patiently. How could she expect an orphan raised in a loveless house to openly take her side against that of his newly discovered family? The family he thought he'd never have, even if they were just portraits?

"Yeah, but them being family doesn't make them good people, and it doesn't make me a good person for backing down from arguing with them."

"Harry, is this about last night? Because you should know that no one blames you and we still think you're a good person," Hermione reassured.

"It's not just that. I'm worried that I'm… changing."

"We know why you look the way you do, mate, there's really no need to worry about it. I'm sure Sirius will find that Glamour he's looking for," Ron responded optimistically, trying to assuage Harry's worry. Harry was already shaking his head in denial though.

"That's not what I mean. It's just… I… I get angry all the time lately, over the stupidest things. And not just frustration, but rage for no reason. What if… what if the Potter's did something other than just change my appearance? What if they changed my personality too, made me more like them, and now it's fading like the Glamour? What if I'm going mad, like the Lestranges?" Harry whispered, looking more afraid than Hermione can ever remember him being. Hermione immediately shoved the journals in her hands into Ron's arms and walked over to Harry, placing her hands on his shoulders and looking straight into his cloudy grey eyes.

"Harry, I've never heard of any magic that can influence a personality for so long. You're not going mad, you're upset. Frankly, after everything that's happened in the last year, it would be more worrying if you weren't a little angry. It's not like you actually agree with what they're saying, you're just avoiding a confrontation with your family. No one blames you, Harry. You're still the same boy who helped rescue me from a troll. Your parents don't matter," Hermione claimed passionately. Harry was her friend; she wouldn't lose him to Voldemort or his own self-doubt.

They stood face to face for a moment, and an odd sensation bloomed in the front of Hermione's head as her rant replayed over in her mind clearly without provocation. Harry must have felt it too, because he jerked back and blinked rapidly a few times, looking slightly dazed. He shook it off quicker than Hermione, who filed the incident away in her mind to think about later, and Harry seemed to consider her words for a minute. He opened his mouth a few times as if to argue, but ultimately closed it and went back to thinking. Eventually he shrugged his shoulders and gave her an odd little smile.

"Thank you, Hermione. I, uh, needed to hear that," he said with a slight blush. Hermione pulled him forward into a hug.

"What are friends for?" she said, smiling warmly. "Now, I do believe we have some journals to look through," she said, causing Ron to groan.

"I can't believe we are voluntarily studying extra stuff. I mean, I haven't even started my summer homework yet!" Ron exclaimed, tossing the journals onto the extra bed in the room that was originally supposed to be Harry's. Hermione's eyes narrowed.

"What do you mean you haven't started your summer homework? July is almost over, you've had plenty of time," Hermione lectured shrilly, comfortably falling back on an old conversation between the trio.

"Hey, I've been busy! I had to move from the Burrow and clean up this house and… stuff," Ron defended himself weakly.

"Oh please, I've been here too, you know. I've seen hours of the 'stuff' you've been up to: chess, eating, Quidditch magazines—need I go on?"

"I've still got a month to do it. I don't know why you're so upset," Ron replied, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"Because, Ronald, I know you. You'll put it off until the last minute, and then expect me to help you. Harry, you've started the homework, right?" Hermione asked hopefully. Harry raised his hands in surrender.

"In my defense," Harry started, shattering Hermione's hope, "My books were locked up away from me. But I promise, when I leave it to the last minute, I'll beg Remus for help instead of you."

Ron snickered and Hermione let her face fall into her hands with an exaggerated moan of disappointment.

"Why do I bother?" she asked no one in particular.

"Because you've never given up hope that one day your study habits will rub off on us," Ron answered helpfully. Hermione shoved him in the shoulder.

"Well, now that Hermione is disappointed in us, let's do this," Harry declared, snatching a leather bound book off the bed and flopping down into a wooden chair at the foot of Ron's bed. Hermione idly noticed that the move was much more graceful in his new body than Harry's usually awkward flops into furniture.

Hermione headed over to the bed and carefully selected a journal. It was bound in rigid, light green leather that smelled faintly of campfires and brimstone—dragon hide? Hermione cracked it open, enjoying the scent of old parchment. In the top right corner, written in beautiful script, were the words Cassiopeia Virgo Black. The next page, written in the same striking calligraphy, was the date March 3rd, 1932, and the beginning of the journal's very first entry.

Today I, Cassiopeia Virgo Black, reached my Majority. I am now considered an adult by all standards and as such I received this journal, as all Blacks do on their seventeenth birthday, to tell of my accomplishments in life, and contribute my own story to the glorious history of the Black family.

Seeing as today is such a monumental day, I've finally come to a decision: the first major one of my adult life. I am going to talk to my father, and get him to break the betrothal contract between Alexander Nott and myself. I know myself, and I know I'll never be happy in a life of domestic idleness. I am an innovator of spells and a scholar of magic, I have no need or desire to marry and have children. I'm hopeful my father will agree, seeing as he's currently in a bitter fight with Lord Nott over a new bill that was recently presented in the Wizengamot.

Hermione could feel herself getting sucked up quickly into the life of Cassiopeia Black when Ron interrupted.

"Whose journals did you guys pick up? Mine is by a guy named Orion Black."

"I picked up the one by Cassiopeia Black," Hermione interjected once she tore her eyes away from the page. "How about you, Harry?"

"Regulus Black… Sirius' younger brother," Harry murmured, looking a little pale.

"Hey, isn't that whose room you're staying in? I didn't know Sirius had a brother, I thought he might be a cousin or something," Ron said looking intrigued.

"Sirius has never brought it up. I should have looked closer at the family tree," Harry mumbled, still examining the journal in his hands carefully.

"I wonder where he is?" Ron continued, still thoughtful.

"Dead, I think. Kreacher mentioned something about it," Harry said vaguely.

"Hmm, I wonder how he died. He had that super creepy collage. Think he became a Death Eater? Maybe an Auror killed him," Ron mused. Hermione could see a tinge of frustration creeping across Harry's face.

"I don't know, Ron. How'd Orion die?" Harry deflected.

"How am I supposed to know? I only read the first—oh." Ron stopped short, finally understanding Harry's implication. "Good point."

Saying no more, Harry turned back to Regulus' journal, so Hermione returned to Cassiopeia's.

I've already begun the arithmancy necessary in my next spell creation: The Nail Splitting Curse. I have high hopes that it shall work out, and I can add it to my collection of minor torture curses. The goal is, of course, to keep it just legal enough that I might one day publish my findings.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Harry stared down at Regulus' journal as it sat in his hands. It was significantly thinner than some of the others—the one's owned by the long-lived Blacks—but certainly not the thinnest. Regulus was both verbose, and apparently a talented sketch artist. Every few pages a drawing would show up in carefully regulated coal.

Harry was currently staring down at a page in the middle of the journal. He'd skipped around a bit, fascinated by the various drawings among the beautiful yet masculine script. The page he was looking at right now depicted a young, carefree Sirius from the shoulders up. A brilliant smile adorned his handsome features, and he looked out of the page with blazing confidence. A small inscription lay at the bottom of the page: A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.

Harry found something incredibly sad about the inscription and the picture. Had the Black brothers been rivals? Adversaries? It would make sense in a way—Sirius was a disowned disappointment to his family, and Kreacher had made sure Harry was aware that Regulus had been a 'proper' Black. It had to be more complicated than that though. The drawing was meticulous in detail; one could infer that it was lovingly created by its sheer accuracy and attention to the finer and subtler points of Sirius' visage. They must have loved each other at some point. What came between them? Was it Sirius' rebellion or perhaps Regulus' apparent fixation with Voldemort?

Harry almost couldn't stop himself from grinding his teeth together. Of course. It always came down to Voldemort, didn't it? He destroyed the Blacks as thoroughly as he destroyed the Potters it would seem; maybe even more so considering how the Blacks turned on each other so bitterly. Harry felt that new rage flare up in his chest and he seethed silently. He wanted Voldemort to pay for what he did, to suffer, to scream… Harry shook off those thoughts quickly, letting his hatred cool. He shouldn't think such horrid things; he would be no better than Voldemort if he did.

Harry idly flipped through the pages for a distraction, coming to rest on another charcoal drawing. This one depicted an older looking woman in classic witch attire. She even had a pointed hat and buckled shoes that curled at the toe. Her stern expression reminded Harry a little of Professor McGonagall. The bottom of the page read Cassiopeia Black.

Harry inspected the picture, wondering why Regulus would place it in his journal. He was starting to get the feeling that he would have to actually read the journal for context on the pictures. Harry flipped a few more pages to look at one more sketch before starting from the beginning.

A man with dark hair brushing his shoulders and a square jaw stared out intensely from the last sketch. His features had a rigid straightness that made Harry think his face was carved from stone. There was a light smirk on his lips and a single thick eyebrow was lifted in amusement. Harry supposed he was attractive, in a stiff, masculine way. The words at the bottom of the page almost made his heart stop. Rodolphus Lestrange.

This was his father. His memories from the Pensieve had been less than reliable and far from detailed considering he had been more focused on Bellatrix and Barty Crouch Jr. at the time as they had been much more vocal than the stoic Lestrange brothers. Harry searched the page for similarities to his own face. Romulus Lestrange seemed to take mostly after his mother in looks, but there were still elements of Rodolphus in him, a square jaw and wide shoulders being the most obvious features.

Harry didn't think the man in the picture looked like a murderer. There was a little arrogance in the tilt of his head and his superior smirk, but nothing even close to the madness it must take to torture another human until they shatter. There was a similar absence of madness in the photograph of the three sisters in Regulus' room.

How had two sane, if privileged, people descended to such lows? Was Voldemort the key? The instigator of madness and chaos? Harry doubted that even Voldemort's considerable power and influence could completely rewrite a person. Whatever was in the Lestrange couple that allowed them to commit such awful acts must have been there all along. Was it in him? Was he a ticking time bomb, set to explode in a homicidal rage at any moment?

For the first time in a long time, Harry thought back to his adventure in the Chamber of Secrets. He thought of a young Tom Riddle, a demon with the face of an angel, comparing them, cataloguing their similarities. Harry wondered if they were more or less alike now than they had been that day.

Harry was no longer a half-blood, or an orphan like Tom Riddle had been. But he now came from a Dark family with a Slytherin legacy, and he was still raised by muggles like Riddle, and Riddle hadn't been a true orphan anyway—his father had been alive for most of his childhood, he simply didn't want a witch's son.

Harry was angrier than he had been at twelve, maybe not like the hate he saw in Riddle's eyes, but much closer than he had been. He was still a Parselmouth, still a Slytherin by the Sorting Hat's opinion if not his own choice. He even thought they looked more alike now than they had when Riddle had suggested the similarity when he was Glamoured. His curls were closer to Riddle's waves, if not nearly as neat, his face was sharper and more aristocratic like Riddle's had been, and now his glasses were no longer obscuring his face and thusly eliminated one more difference.

"From what I can gather, all the Black's are gifted with a journal at seventeen," Hermione announced, shattering Harry from his maudlin thoughts. Harry suddenly felt a little immature for getting sidetracked by pictures while Hermione was actually gathering information.

"Do you think Sirius has one?" Harry asked curiously. Would he write in it if he did, or spurn it as a hated family tradition? He had run away before turning seventeen, so it was possible he'd never received one.

"I don't know. Maybe you should ask him. He probably knows tons about the Blacks, it would be easier to talk to him than read through all these journals. Not that you shouldn't do that too, of course," Hermione added. Let it never be said that Hermione would miss an opportunity to advocate for extra reading.

"I thought about it, but his family is kind of a sore subject for him. I don't want to upset him with questions if I can get the information from another source," Harry admitted. Harry had noticed that Sirius was still a bit… ragged around the edges, even if he wasn't nearly as bad as when he'd first escaped Azkaban.

"There's always the portraits. They seem pretty eager to talk to you," Hermione said neutrally. Harry grimaced at the idea. "Or you could try talking to Kreacher."

"No way! Don't ask that barmy house-elf a damn thing! Not unless you want another creepy locket incident," Ron broke in with a stubborn expression on his face. Harry was inclined to agree with him.

"Ron, I'm sure Kreacher didn't mean it. He looked really upset about what happened to Harry, he probably just didn't know what the locket would do. And I told you to stop calling him 'barmy,' he's just old and sick," Hermione retorted adamantly. Harry could sense another S.P.E.W. argument coming on.

"Hermione, I get that you care about house-elves, but Kreacher isn't like Dobby or the other Hogwarts elves or even Winky. He's a mean little bugger that insults everyone in the house—including you—and gave Harry a cursed locket that turned him into an arse. No offence, Harry," Ron added sheepishly.

"None taken," Harry murmured back, completely accepting of Ron's ineloquent assessment.

"He just doesn't know any better," Hermione countered. "He's always worked for the Blacks, he probably never learned how to be decent! Oh, no offence, Harry," Hermione said, blushing a bit at the end.

"None taken," Harry repeated, a little amused. If someone apologized to him every time they insulted the Blacks in this house, he'd spend hours a day being apologized to, mostly by Sirius in all likelihood.

"That doesn't mean Harry should actually seek him out! If anything, it just proves he's mad if he never learned not to be," Ron countered well. Harry was pretty sure Ron was winning the argument, which didn't happen too often when arguing with Hermione. Harry was kind of proud of him in a bemused way.

"But you shouldn't call him barmy regardless," Hermione said stubbornly. She proceeded to snatch up Cassiopeia's journal and adamantly continue to read, ignoring both her friends in a huff. Ron looked at Harry with wide eyes.

He mouthed 'did I just win?' to Harry, who shrugged, not entirely sure.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bellatrix Lestrange was dreaming. It was a common dream of hers, one of her happiest and more of a fantasy—well developed by years of monotony trapped in a small cell with only her thoughts for occupation.

She was standing at the top of the marble staircase in Lestrange Manor, looking down at the foyer. A ball was being held, and she was dressed exquisitely in shining silver robes made only of the best fabrics gold could buy. The cut was unique, having shorter sleeves to reveal her forearms, the left of which proudly displayed the Dark Mark.

She made her way down the staircase, passing nameless, faceless people as she went who all tilted their heads in differential respect to her. She swept along steadily through decorated corridors—paintings of past Lestranges gazing down on her and talking brightly amongst themselves. Their home was filled with the apex of wizarding society—they should be pleased.

Bellatrix came to the large double doors of the ballroom. They swung open to expose a splendid revel. Bellatrix would be honest, holding a ball was more Cissy's hobby than hers, but the status of organizing this particular celebration in her own home had a certain appeal. The room was decorated in luscious greens and evocative blacks. Candles warped and twisted the room's shadows elegantly, and live music drifted amongst the patrons, who danced, and conversed, and ate.

Bellatrix could see her husband chatting with his brother and Antonin Dolohov, a close friend of his. Across the room Bellatrix could spot Narcissa speaking with Andromeda and Andy's proper Pureblood husband.

At the head of the room, looking down upon the patrons like a benevolent god; was the Dark Lord. He was beautiful; salt and pepper hair, defined features, unnaturally pallid skin and slit blood red eyes that hinted of magic Darker than even Bellatrix could imagine. It is whispered that he used to be a great deal more attractive: less waxy with beautiful dark eyes and a smile that could charm all who encountered it. Bellatrix didn't believe it; he was absolutely perfect in her eyes, even better for his less-than-human coloring. He lounged on a golden throne, his expression neutral as his followers and sympathizers enjoyed themselves in his presence.

The occasion for Bellatrix throwing this ball was a joyous one; they had won the war. Mudbloods, blood traitors and the like had been put in their place once and for all, and the Old Families were finally permitted to practice magic in all it's forms: Light, Grey, Dark, Blood, even Soul Magic was no longer punishable by a lifetime sentence in Azkaban.

Bellatrix approached the golden throne and bowed low before her Master.

"My Lord," she intoned reverently. His lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile and she could practically feel her insides melt.

"Dearest Bellatrix," he hissed, sending shivers down Bellatrix's spine. "A fine celebration you have planned for such a monumental occasion."

"Thank you, My Lord," she intoned breathlessly. A long, bone white finger appeared under her chin and tilted her head until stormy grey connected with haunting scarlet.

"I am pleased," he whispered, words only for her. He gestured to the seat next to his throne—golden but far less intricate and grand. She took it gratefully, her Lord's proximity as he continued to observe his most loyal was the most glorious feeling in the world.

A childish giggle rang through the ballroom. A beautiful little boy, no older than seven with curly dark hair and gleaming grey eyes was racing around patrons with quick grace and bubbly enthusiasm. A little blonde boy that was practically Lucius' clone—but with Cissy's smile—was chasing him, obviously in some form of tag. Bellatrix had only seen her nephew as a baby and had no idea what he would look like as a seven-year-old, but the Malfoy's had a reputation for producing offspring that looked startlingly like their forebears. You've seen one Malfoy, you've seen them all.

The beautiful boy, who looked so much like her, was still evading his cousin efficiently. Normally, it would be unseemly for Black children to behave in such a manner, but this was a revel for the glorious victors of a drawn out civil war—a little decorum could be disregarded. Her son displayed wit and cunning as he continued to play with his cousin; a clever, carefree child in a world that could now be molded into what it always should have been by her powerful and brilliant Master.

The boy's giggles, the most pleasant sound Bellatrix had ever heard, echoed and dimmed as the telltale cold started to stain her fantasy. Outside her dream, in a world painfully more real, the dementors had honed in on her momentary happiness, and they were going to ruin it—as they always did.

An explosion rocked Lestrange Manor as the ballroom doors were blasted inward. With Albus Dumbledore at it's head, a collective of Order members streamed into the room, wands at the ready. Duels broke out left, right, and center. Almost as if he'd apparated, Rodolphus appeared at her side. Together, they plunged forward into the fight as a perfect team. He defended and she attacked. They made short work of seven Aurors. Mad-Eye Moody himself stepped forward, flanked by James Potter and her traitorous cousin Sirius.

They began a ferocious duel, magic sparking violently through the air. Bellatrix had just managed to send James sailing across the room, when her cousin got a curse past Rodolphus' defenses. It was a Black family curse, developed by Cassiopeia Black herself. Immediately, Rodolphus started to choke and splutter as his throat collapsed inward. There was no counter. Her best friend would die slowly and painfully.

Bellatrix shrieked and threw a Killing Curse. It caught Moody in the chest, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes. Sirius barked a laugh, completely ignoring his dead fellow Auror or the fact that his best friend had been flung haphazardly across the room a few seconds ago.

"You know, I never really liked him too much anyway. Doesn't matter now of course," he said, nudging Rodolphus' twitching body with his boot. Bellatrix raised her wand to wipe every last piece of her cousin off the face of the Earth when a sharp cry of desperation stole her attention.

"Mother!" screamed Romulus. He was struggling in the arms of a completely whole and sane Frank Longbottom. "Mummy! Please!" Tears were falling quickly down his pale cheeks as he continued to fight.

"Knock it off you little brat," yelled Frank as he harshly threw Bellatrix's son onto the hard marble floor. He raised his wand to Romulus' tear stained face.

"Diffindo!"

"No!" Bellatrix yelled, racing over to her son and completely disregarding her laughing cousin. She was too late, of course. As if in slow motion, Bellatrix watched in horror as bright light left Longbottom's wand to hit her child. Romulus' delicate throat split open in a spray of scarlet as Longbottom disappeared into the chaos all around them. Bellatrix reached her child's side as blood began to pool around his tiny body, sinking into his light blue robes and clumping his hair into horrifying tangles. She took her dying child into her arms, getting blood all over her once splendid robes that seemed so very meaningless now.

"It's going to be okay, baby. Mummy's going to make it better. Just hold on my precious baby," Bellatrix murmured frantically, rhythmically running her fingers through bloody curls. She should heal him, she wants to heal him, but the spells just wouldn't pass her lips. No matter how hard she tried, the healing spells simply wouldn't come. Large, watery grey eyes stared up at her desperately. Her son was issuing frantic choking sounds, impeded by his slashed throat. A bloody hand raised to rest against her cheek as a few more tears slipped away, and then his body went limp, the hand falling away and the eyes dulling into sightless glass orbs.

Behind her, the Dark Lord Voldemort fell to the wand of Albus Dumbledore. To her left, Andromeda and Narcissa were dueling to the death after Andromeda revealed herself a traitor and a spy. All the while Bellatrix sat amongst the madness, the cooling body of her only son clutched to her chest.

That night, when the cries of the damned echoed through the freezing halls of Azkaban prison, Bellatrix's was the loudest of all.

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Wow, this chapter did not want to be written. The only part that came easily was Bellatrix's dream sequence, probably due to the limited dialogue. There's been a lot of emotional conversation lately, so I'm excited for the next chapter, which should have less of that and more international shenanigans.

I've been getting some reviews asking about how Harry's new birthday affects the prophecy. I mentioned this in the first Author's Note I believe, but people skip Author's Notes all the time, including me, so they might have missed it. This is an AU where there is no prophecy. Voldemort attacked the Potter's for their continued defiance, and turned his wand on Harry to make a clean job of it. No need to let any orphan's grow up with a grudge against their parent's murderer to attempt revenge. I changed Harry's birthday to further draw the line in his mind between Harry and Romulus, to symbolize his rebirth in to the Potter family, and to give Bellatrix time to grow attached to her son but allow the Potter's to play him off as a newborn. Horcruxes, unlike birthday relevant prophecies, are still very much in play. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

P.S. The phrase at the bottom of Regulus' sketch of Sirius is a quote by King Solomon.