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HRA# CHAPTER 136
🕑 Added 2025-05-22 20:11:38 +0000 UTCFor Lucius Malfoy, his greatest fear was that Harry would forbid him from doing anything remotely nefarious. If that happened, it would be glaringly obvious to anyone with half a brain that something was off with the Malfoy family. Worse, they might even be suspected of having fully defected to Dumbledore’s side.
In such a scenario, carrying out the orders Harry had given him would be next to impossible. The people who had escaped judgment back in the day were no amateurs; they had skills and resources. If they banded together against the Malfoys, even a family as storied as his would struggle to hold its ground.
Just as he had done before, Lucius Apparated with Harry to the old Potter residence in Godric’s Hollow. Once again, he declined Harry’s polite invitation to come inside for a chat. Truth be told, in Lucius’s eyes, the Potter house was practically a den of horrors.
Hmm… the very idea of a Malfoy stepping foot inside the Potter residence was so bizarre that even imagining it made Lucius’s skin crawl.
It wasn’t until he returned to Malfoy Manor and sank into his favorite armchair that Lucius finally let out a long sigh, his whole body relaxing. Even for someone like him, the revelations of the day had been… well, exhausting, to put it mildly.
Reflecting on the moment they parted, when that boy—not even as tall as his chest—had politely bid him farewell with a “Goodbye, Uncle,” Lucius found it increasingly surreal.
Uncle! Ha! A month ago, who would have taken such a familial connection seriously?
To be honest, Lucius wasn’t the only one who felt this way. Even Harry himself sometimes found it utterly bizarre, especially when Lucius, with an almost comical display of deference, half-knelt before him and addressed him as “my lord.”
Harry had tried, more than once, to pull Lucius to his feet and tell him to cut it out, but Lucius—having mastered the art of self-preservation—refused with a stubbornness that bordered on defiance. His loyalty was practically oozing from every pore.
So, Harry let it go. As they grew more accustomed to each other, he continued calling Lucius “Uncle,” while Lucius, in private, persisted with “my lord.” It worked out fine for both of them.
After sipping a cup of hot tea and nibbling on a piece of chocolate, Lucius closed his eyes and rested for a while. Only then did he feel he’d finally shaken off the shadow cast by Azkaban… especially the memory of Bellatrix’s final glance at him. Every time he recalled that look, a chill ran down his spine.
Terrifying. Insane. That madwoman…
Though Bellatrix was his wife Narcissa’s sister, Lucius was convinced she had lost her mind long ago. After years locked away in Azkaban, whatever shred of warmth or humanity Bellatrix once had was surely ground to dust and twisted beyond recognition.
Honestly, Lucius wouldn’t be surprised if Bellatrix could kill him without a moment’s hesitation.
His thoughts drifted to the task Harry had entrusted to him. Truthfully, Lucius’s feigned shock in front of Harry about Voldemort still being alive was just that—feigned. For a Death Eater like him, the fact that the Dark Lord was not only alive but thriving was hardly a secret.
The proof was right there on their arms: the Dark Mark, a serpent slithering from the mouth of a skull, like a tongue. Twelve years ago, when Voldemort vanished, the mark had faded to a barely perceptible shadow, yet it never disappeared entirely.
More tellingly, as time passed, the mark grew clearer, sharper, more vivid—a sign that Voldemort’s condition was steadily improving, that he was returning.
That’s why Lucius wasn’t surprised by Harry’s claim that Voldemort wasn’t dead. No, what truly shocked him was the revelation that Voldemort had split his soul into fragments to achieve immortality.
Soul fragments—Merlin’s trousers! Even for the Dark Lord, that was a bit too sinister, too deranged.
As one of the oldest wizarding families, and among the most traditional and darkest, the Malfoys naturally possessed a collection of rare books, many of which dealt with dark magic. These tomes were kept for prestige, to showcase the family’s ancient legacy, not for the heirs to study. Every old wizarding family knew to tread carefully with dark magic—it had a way of twisting both mind and body.
For aristocratic wizards like the Malfoys, who had no shortage of wealth and plenty of pleasures to enjoy, why risk becoming some grotesque, half-human thing? Why let dark magic rob them of life’s finer things?
Lucius had been raised on his father’s warnings about such matters and had always adhered to them, intending to pass the same wisdom to his son. But now, Lucius realized he might have to dig into those unsettling, ancient books after all.
Souls… soul fragments…
He thought about the task Harry had given him: gather allies, lure out Voldemort’s soul fragments, and seek out objects that might house them. Truthfully, Lucius had some ideas.
In the secret vaults of Malfoy Manor, there were indeed items Voldemort had once gifted to him. But honestly, Lucius doubted the Dark Lord would entrust something as precious as a soul fragment to him. After all, the Malfoys’ reputation for duplicity was well-known.
Lucius didn’t believe Voldemort trusted him that much. Trust? The word was almost laughable when applied to the Malfoys. Everyone knew they bent the knee only to power, siding with whoever was stronger, whoever was winning.
Handing a soul fragment to a Malfoy… what, so they could turn around and deliver it to Dumbledore? Impossible. Utterly impossible.
Shaking his head, Lucius dismissed the absurd thought.
He had initially assumed he’d have to fully align with Dumbledore, cutting ties with his old “friends” for good. But then Harry had given him this task.
It had to be done, but where to even begin? He was at a loss. For now, he decided to focus on something closer to home—those Weasleys.
The thought of Arthur Weasley and his crew rummaging through Malfoy Manor without a care, that smug redhead gleefully carting off valuable heirlooms, and the humiliation of being forced to sell prized possessions to Borgin and Burkes at a pittance—it made Lucius’s blood boil.
His chest ached with rage.
Gritting his teeth in his study, Lucius resolved to teach the Weasleys a lesson—as long as it didn’t violate Harry’s orders, of course.
That night, sleep eluded Lucius.
Another morning dawned, and Harry had been in high spirits lately. After all, there was little to trouble him—no pressing worries, no insurmountable problems.
Well, unless you counted the overly enthusiastic invitations.
Ron’s letter had invited him to stay, and from its contents, Harry gathered that Mrs. Weasley was in full-on mothering mode, her heart practically bursting with affection.
Tap tap tap. As Harry was lost in thought, an owl rapped on the window. Alfred let it in, and it dropped a copy of the Daily Prophet on the tea table before flying off without so much as pecking at a nut—dedicated to its job.
This was the Daily Prophet’s delivery owl. Harry had to admit, Mrs. Weasley’s overwhelming affection might not stem from anything Ron said but rather from the articles in the paper.
Harry could hardly bear to look at what Rita Skeeter was churning out in the Prophet these days. She wrote whatever suited her fancy, much of it pure fiction. Yet, because she’d built a reputation as a “truth-telling” journalist, people ate it up.
Quidditch held significant sway in wizarding society, and riding the wave of Harry’s first match, Rita had penned a slew of articles. In the process, she’d earned Harry a legion of fans like Mrs. Weasley—maternal supporters galore.
Then there were those who’d badmouthed Harry before the match. Perhaps out of guilt, many had sent apology letters after he proved himself. Some even flipped to become staunch supporters.
“Another gift, Master Harry!” Alfred said softly from the dining table. As Harry’s butler, he screened all incoming mail to the Potter residence to ensure nothing dangerous slipped through.
Not just curses, mind you. Two weeks ago, Alfred had intercepted a prank parcel—a dungbomb rigged to explode in the face of whoever opened it, laced with black dye that was a nightmare to clean. Pure malice.
Since then, Alfred had made screening the mail his top priority, handling it with utmost care.
“What is it?” Harry asked.
“Chocolate Frogs. A whole box of them,” Alfred replied, closing the lid.
“Just store it away,” Harry said with a sigh. “I’ve got enough sweets to last me until I graduate from Hogwarts.”
“Oh, more than that, Master Harry,” Alfred said cheerfully. “I’d say enough to last until the little master is born! With how popular you are, the gifts will keep coming, and the little master will have plenty to munch on!”
Little master—the phrase made Harry’s hand tremble, nearly dropping his spoon. The idea hit him like a Bludger. He’d never even considered children.
Alfred was thinking a bit too far ahead.
Even counting his time in Azeroth, Harry was only in his thirties—a young man in the prime of life. His golden years were just beginning.
Then again, given everything he’d been through… maybe those golden years had started long ago.
But children? That was a topic Harry had never entertained.
“…Ahem, Alfred, let’s not talk about kids,” Harry said, his expression complicated. “Just store the gifts. Is there still room?”
Harry had turned the old nursery in the Potter house into a gift storage room. By now, the back was stuffed to the brim.
“Of course there’s room!” Alfred replied briskly. “I don’t know why Master Harry doesn’t like me mentioning kids, but no matter—you’re still young!”
“Yeah, I’m young,” Harry said, his expression growing even more complex. “I’m only twelve…”
Since his body had been restored to youth, Harry felt his mindset had shifted too—become younger, in a way. Not childish, but more energetic, impulsive, vibrant, with a youthful outlook.
In Azeroth, constant dangers and complex circumstances had left him no time to dwell on such things. But this world was different—no imminent threats, no insurmountable barriers. The only thing missing was… someone to share it with.
What if he could never return to Azeroth?
Ten years, twenty, thirty, forty… what if he was stuck here forever?
Would he—
“Master Harry? Master Harry!”
Alfred’s voice snapped Harry out of his reverie.
“So, Master Harry, you won’t be returning to the Potter house after this trip?” Alfred asked, eyes wide.
“That’s the plan,” Harry said, downing his cream of mushroom soup. “According to Ron, Mrs. Weasley isn’t comfortable with me staying here alone, so I’ll likely stay at the Weasleys’ until term starts.”
“Maybe I’ll visit Neville’s place too? I’m not sure,” Harry added after a moment. “Either way, Hermione will join us later. We’ve agreed to head to King’s Cross together for the Hogwarts Express.”
“Perfect plan, Master Harry,” Alfred said approvingly. “Will you take me along?”
“Of course. I need my trunk with me, and it wouldn’t survive without your care,” Harry said with a sigh. “I’m starting to understand why Newt never lets his case out of sight. It’s unsettling to lose track of it.”
“Quite reasonable, Master Harry,” Alfred said with a peculiar smile. “After all, that trunk holds your entire estate—perhaps the Potter family’s greatest secret.”
A dragon. A dragon that, if discovered, would land Harry in Azkaban, sitting side by side with his godfather.
“So I’ve got to keep it close,” Harry joked.
“Very well, Master Harry. I’ll keep it safe from below,” Alfred said, chuckling.
The dutiful butler then began muttering about how to manage the Potter house during Harry’s long absence. He’d be at Hogwarts until the next holiday, so Alfred had to ensure no magical pests or other oddities infested the enchanted property.
Watching Alfred pace about, muttering plans, Harry couldn’t help but smile. Compared to their first meeting—when Alfred was a tattered, nervous wreck barely able to string a sentence together—the elf now carried himself with the air of a professional butler.
It was clear Alfred had diligently studied the books Harry had given him, soaking up knowledge and thriving in his role.
After breakfast, Harry dressed and prepared to leave. He had no luggage to pack—everything he needed was in his trunk’s magical world, and Alfred had already tidied the Potter house.
He was, without question, an exceptionally capable butler. Harry often thought that hiring such a loyal and efficient helper for just eleven Galleons a month was an absolute steal.
Even the nobles of the human kingdoms in Azeroth—or King Varian’s royal stewards—couldn’t match Alfred’s dedication.
At the agreed time, Harry stepped out of the Potter house, trunk in hand. The front garden was still bare—he hadn’t decided what to plant—but that was a problem for another day.
“No need for me to Apparate you, Master Harry?” Alfred asked quietly.
“No, based on Ron’s letter, I’m guessing he’s got some big toy he wants to show off, so he insisted on picking me up,” Harry said, scanning for anything unusual. “Eight o’clock, right? It’s time. Keep an eye out—huh?”
Beep beep!
A sudden noise made Harry jump, cutting off his words. He stared at the air in front of the Potter house’s garden. It was as if a hole had opened in the atmosphere, revealing a window.
A car window, perhaps? Harry spotted interior details unique to a vehicle. A red-haired boy was waving enthusiastically from the lowered window, while another redhead gripped the steering wheel with one hand, waving with the other, a mischievous grin plastered across his face.
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T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
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