The grim, evening light outside Harry's kitchen window was dusty and mean; a perfect harmony to his filthy mood.

He'd been simmering for two days, by now. Two dreadful, dreary, angst-ridden days, ever since Grimmauld Place had started revealing secret, hidden things and dumping them in his lap when he least expected it.

Quietly, he reckoned he could have gotten a few more days out of it—wallowing and scowling around the place like he was trying to win a medal in Arseholery—if it weren't for the fact that Ron and Hermione had cracked it with him this morning. With pursed lips (Hermione) and an awkward scratching of noses (Ron), they'd told him gently but firmly that he couldn't keep running from his problems.

So here he was, sitting with his problems, which took the form of a parchment resting on his dining table. A parchment that had appeared at his bedside two days ago, and proceeded to turn his life on its head.

He tried to wither the offending article with his stare, but quickly gave up since he was a wizard, and there was every chance his accidental magic would go off and he'd light the bloody thing on fire. He didn't want to actually burn it.

He just... didn't want to deal with it.

Eventually, he sighed, reheated his cold mug of tea with a flick of his wand, and picked up the parchment. Hermione was right; he couldn't run from this. And Ron was right, too—he'd be happier dealing with it in the long run. Even if it took a lot of heartache and frustration to get there.

Unfolding the parchment, Harry read the words he could now recite by heart.

Harry, dear Harry, if you are reading this then the worst I've feared has come, and surviving a second war was simply asking too much of Fate.

Harry's hands clenched the parchment so tightly it creased at the edges. Even now, after so many repetitions, the remaining words were only visible through a haze of tears.

I've entrusted my Last Will and Testament to you, in its entirety, and legal possession of the vaults and assets of the Noble House of Black fall to you, my godson, effective immediately.

However, as with all the most stuffiest of ancient families, there is more to the Black inheritance than gold. I leave to you, too, its magic.

And this, I'm afraid, is where your life is about to become complicated.

There was a strange sound in the room; after a moment, Harry realised it was coming from him. It was a kind of heaving, wheezing breath that was probably meant to be a sob, but was mixing too much with panic.

Just when he'd thought he could leave the war behind... Two years had passed; it was time to move on. And now this. He'd already known Sirius had left possessions to him. He'd known it since he was fifteen. The legal, bureaucratic matters of Sirius's inheritance had been dealt with years ago.

But this wasn't about the bureaucracy of his inheritance. It was something more complicated than that. More nebulous and cerebral. More emotionally destructive.

And for it to have come from Sirius, of all people. The one person Harry couldn't—wouldn't—turn his back on. Not again. Just the thought filled him with the kind of fierce, frantic dread that he'd only experienced once before, standing in front of a blackened veil fluttering in the wind.

He read on, the tears burning away in anger.

The magic cannot be gifted; it can only be earned. You must prove to the magic that you will trust it, honour it, and above all else, protect it.

Which means, dear Harry, that you must find it.

Enclosed are several star charts describing the translocation of five key constellations of the Noble House of Black onto the land beneath our feet. Using celestial navigation, you will be able to translocate these constellations onto Earth—as my ancestors did before me—discover their hidden secrets, and draw the magic into you.

It sounds complex, but I promise it's highly logical. I know you can do it.

But there is one more thing. To draw the magic free, it requires someone of 'the Noble House of Black Inheritance' to unlock the hidden alcoves.

Harry made himself keep reading, every word burning into his body like a brand. And for the first time, a calm sort of acceptance began to settle with it. A knowing. A certainty.

He was going to do this. He didn't want to—felt conflicted, afraid, and unbearably uncertain—but he would do this.

Harry—you're going to need someone with Black Family blood. And as much as she's fun to have on a pub crawl, I can't see you traipsing around London with Narcissa.

It's Draco. Draco is the one you need.

Sorry.

But this, too, I promise is far less complex than you might try to make it. I know you can do this too. I'm wishing you all of the luck, from wherever I am. But you don't need a drop of it.

We'll see each other again one day, and above all else, above everything, I am so proud of you.

Your loving godfather,

Sirius

*

Harry rapped three times on the door to Malfoy Manor, then stood back and waited. As the birds sang merrily behind him, and the steady stream of sunshine on the grass filled the air with the scent of greenery, he took the time to contemplate the dilemma that was about to greet him.

Namely, how on earth was he going to sell this?

Hey, Malfoy, I'm about to become even richer and more powerful off an inheritance that's closer in blood to you than to me—want to help?

Hey, Malfoy... Remember that godfather of mine your dad helped kill? He's asked you to do me a solid.

Hey, Malfoy, can you—for once in your life—not be a completely self centred twat? Because I really need you.

"Urgh," Harry muttered under his breath at the thought of that last one, his face twisting into a vision of disgust.

It was at this precise moment that Draco Malfoy decided to open the front door.

They stared at each other, Draco blinking owlishly, as if Harry might be some kind of talking spellogram that was conjured to transform into a dove, shit on his head, and fly away. When Harry did no such thing, his frown deepened.

"Potter," he drawled, taking a step forward and looking around. "What are you doing here?" The scowl on his face turned mean. "We've already spoken to the Aurors this month, so if this is some shoddy attempt to—"

"What are you on about?" Harry interrupted, too stunned by the fact that Malfoy had opened the door himself to think of anything more intelligent.

Where were the Malfoy elves?

Malfoy's lip curled into a familiar sneer. "Don't play stupid, Potter. It doesn't suit you." He stepped outside, letting the enormous door fall slowly shut behind him. "I'll deal with it, whatever it is, but don't bother my mother. She doesn't need this."

The door hadn't quite made it shut yet, and its ominous, creaking descent felt oddly like Harry's mind right now. Making a lot of noise, and ultimately getting nowhere.

"The Aurors haven't sent me," he managed finally, just as a loud noise came from inside.

The door, conveniently, stopped moving at all. The loud noise from inside started up again, sounding this time like voices. Shrieking, infuriated voices.

Malfoy's eyes flicked to the gap and then back to Harry. "What do you mean they didn't send you?" he asked, scathing tone ruined only slightly by the sharp edge of fear Harry could hear within it. "Is this some kind of—"

Harry cut him off before he could jump to another dreadful, sneering conclusion. It was a relief, almost. Like ripping the bandaid off.

"I have a problem, and you're the only one who can help me."

Silence descended. Even the loud screeching from inside the Manor had stopped, clearing space for Harry and Malfoy to stare at one another in shock. Harry wasn't sure why he was shocked—he knew why he was here—but then... He hadn't really expected to just say it. To put the words out there, like he was in trouble and only Malfoy held the answer.

But it was true; he was, and Malfoy did, and now they both knew it.

"You what?" Malfoy stuttered after a moment, eyes wide. "I wha— What on earth are you talking about?"

Harry swallowed. The sound echoed between them. Helpfully, the door creaked and began to move again. "Sirius left me some things in his Will. I only just found out. But I need Black blood to collect them. He..." Harry trailed off. "Sirius told me to ask for you. That you were the only one who could help."

He forced himself to be quiet then, lest he reveal any more secrets. Like how many times he'd cried over that stupid letter, until the words were at risk of washing away. And how angry he'd been, for reasons he couldn't begin to identify—how he'd nearly burnt the letter several times over, just so he no longer had the option to follow it.

How he'd felt sick to his stomach at the thought of leaving any piece of Sirius behind when it was right there.

And beneath all that, this other thing. This secret, slimy, hidden thing that even he couldn't really understand. It urged him forward. Demanded he face this challenge and defeat it, now—right now!

Malfoy's expression did something strange. Harry got the impression he might be forcing himself to shut up, too, except with Malfoy, he was so expressive that he had to shut up his entire face as well. So everything grew tight, and eerily still, and Harry realised he'd never before seen Malfoy so blank.

He didn't like it.

"You want me to help you retrieve your inheritance," Malfoy repeated calmly.

Well, it sounded simple when he put it like that.

Harry nodded. Malfoy's face tightened, all those hidden feelings and thoughts just bursting below the surface, and Harry knew he was going to say no. He was going to tell Harry to fuck off and never come back, and Harry would lose this chance forever.

Someone shrieked again inside the Manor, making him jump, and this time the sound was followed by the familiar crash of shattering ceramic. Harry could have sworn he could make out Narcissa screaming something like 'you sent them all away!'.

Malfoy didn't even flinch. He glanced over his shoulder at the closing, darkened crack, expression inscrutable.

Finally, he turned back to Harry and shrugged. "Fuck it. Why not?"

The door slammed shut.