Lillith

This is where the author offers apologies for the delay in updating. Sorry, can't do it and be sincere. Reality has a way of biting one in delicate places at awkward times.

Warning: Contains minor shopping.


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Embryo

“This one,” a long finger stabbed down, tapping on the heavy cream parchment before tracing up a winding line, following it as it became thicker and thicker til it finally joined the main trunk some 15 generations below the name of the main line’s founder.

“Briarthorpe,” grunted the goblin next to him. The goblin adjusted his glasses before tapping the parchment with his own taloned finger and tracing the lines downward. He paused at a number of different names, muttering under his breath, before coming to rest on a tangled knot of vine-woven calligraphy.

“Here, Mr. Potter. Adriano and Heather Briarthorpe.” The goblin, Lorekeeper Gnarlfist by name, continued muttering as he disappeared into the stacks and stacks of leather-bound volumes of Family history. With the tweed coat and limp from a twisted leg, the ancient goblin reminded Harry of nothing so much as an Oxford professor, perhaps a scholar of ancient history or classical philosophy.

Alone for a few minutes in the deepest holdings of Gringotts, Harry contemplated the perfectly preserved parchment spread across three library tables. The scroll itself was easily 18 feet long and nearly 5 feet wide, the bulk of it covered in finely scribed writing with ornate decorations. Around each pair of names the family crests of each party were imbedded within the scrollwork.

Studied from a distance, the scroll that was the Potter Family Tree was less a tree and more a river, or maybe a thick, ropy vine, with hundreds of tendrils shooting off in all directions, Harry decided. And, contrary to popular belief, the Potter’s were no-where descended from any of the Hogwarts’ founders. The Line itself extended over a thousand years before the Founders’ time, and while a few of the tendrils blossomed with those four famous names, none of them lasted more than two or three generations. Rather, the bulk of the twining lines consisted of minor Families once known for obscure but powerful talents.

Here, the Burton line, once known for the power of their voices, said to be able to charm gold from leprechauns with only their words. There, the Sindravens, each generation a pair of twins, one a healer, the other a necromancer. On and on it went, each line shooting from the main vine, only to twine its way back into the heart of it a short time later.

The number of different lines, Light and Dark, married into the Potter Line had left the Potters with one overwhelming trait: randomness. No one had ever been able to predict which particular blood trait would manifest in a child of the main line. Until Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-Anything-But-Normal.

The “power he knows not,” that Albus Dumbledore had insisted was Harry’s ability to love, had actually been the manifestation of every single blood trait that had married into the Potter Line. He had none of them as strongly as if he’d been the child of a single line, but the unique combination of metamorphics, animagery, shadowstepping and blade mastery is what had actually lead to Voldemort’s downfall.

A knife in the back beats Avada Kedava every time.

The Briarthorpes, though, that was a name Harry didn’t know. No doubt masters of some odd bit of magic a Potter had deemed essential to the Line’s survival. Possibly the ability to charm sheep to yield extra wool; surely something like that would have been handy in the days before polyester?

Harry’s musings were interrupted by a heavy thud and a cloud of dust when Gnarlfist returned and dropped a 9-inch-thick tome on the table. Waving away the dust of literally centuries, Harry examined the exquisitely bound volume with the name Briarthorpe embossed in peeling gold leaf on the front. The leather binding was dyed a purple so dark it was nearly black, and a silver fleur-de-lys in a nest of thorny vines shone dully below the name, evidently the family crest.

Or maybe they just liked the design.

Flipping the pages carefully, Harry leafed through book, noting that the family originated in France, much like the Malfoys, and that they were careful to rotate the bloodlines; every third to fifth marriage was to a Muggleborn witch or wizard, and one in ten was to a compatible magical creature, predominately veela while the family was still in France, then branching out once they settled in Wales.

Unfortunately, Harry had no idea what the odd mish-mash of veela, nymphs, Muggleborn, vampires—and was that a hag?—that married into the line served to create.

“Sirens,” the ancient goblin croaked, reading Harry’s face with ease.

“Sirens?” Harry closed the book and set it carefully back on the table.

Gnarlfist nodded before limping his way to his desk. “Tell me, Mr. Potter, do you possess a pleasant singing voice among humans? Your appearance is, if you’ll forgive me, rather fey, for a young man of your species; has anyone ever commented on that? Do you find you attract many admirers?”

Startled, Harry shifted uncomfortably before taking a seat across from the Loremaster.

“Singing? I…suppose. I’ve not really had any call to sing before, except in the shower. And there’s always plenty of leeches willing to attach themselves to the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Off-The-Dork-Lard.”

Harry shrugged and shifted in his chair before waving the matter. “Anyways, that’s not what I’m here for. The account manager said you were the one to talk to.”

Intrigued but refusing to show it, Gnarlfist clasped his hands together on the desk and leaned forward. “And how is that, Mr. Potter?”

Harry smirked. “A distant relative of mine is coming to visit, and I need copies of all of her papers and records: birth, naming, wand certification, OWLs, NEWTs, Muggle identification, the works.”

“Most of that your…cousin…can get herself, or you can request for her through the Ministry offices.”

“I know,” Harry nodded, “but I understand for a…fee…Gringott’s can do it for me.”

Gnarlfist sighed; really, wizards were just getting lazier and lazier. He pulled open a drawer on the side of his desk and rummaged for a minute before producing a packet of parchment forms. Picking up his quill, he dipped it and looked up at his client.

“Who’s records are we requesting, Mr. Potter.”

Harry had thought this over, perhaps not as carefully as he could have, but he didn’t want to be saddled with a name he disliked in the heat of the moment. Not to mention, while he’d love to honor his mother’s memory, the name Lily might be too obvious if someone Harry knew met his new persona.

“Lillith Adrienne Maylen Briarthorpe.”

In the startled silence, the only sound was the splatter of ink falling from Gnarlfist’s quill to the blotter below. Finally, with a twitch of his eyebrows and the tiniest quirk of what might be a goblinesque smile, Gnarlfist gave a sharp nod and filled in the first line of the form.

“And what would be Miss Briarthorpe’s birthday, Mr. Potter?”

“I believe that would be August 2nd, 1982”

“Which would make her 22 years old, I believe.”

Harry smirked. “You believe correctly, I believe.”

The ancient goblin held Harry’s gaze before going back to his paperwork. A litany of questions followed: height, weight, hair and eye color. Parents names, occupations, schooling?

“Home schooled,” Harry replied firmly.

“Ah, thus the need for her OWL and NEWT scores, should she seek employment in Great Britain.” Gnarlfist nodded. “Was she a good student? That would weigh heavily if she needed additional education for any position.”

“A bit above average, I understand; mostly EE’s and A’s with a couple of O’s.”

It was a good thirty minutes later that Gnarlfist pronounced himself satisfied he had enough to begin searching for Lillith Briarthorpe’s elusive background records.

Harry rose from his seat along with Gnarlfist. “Loremaster, I hope you are able to find those missing records. Such a pity the ministry’s record keeping has proven to be so shoddy.”

The Loremaster nodded his head before bowing slightly. “A pleasure doing business with the House of Potter, as always.”

Harry returned the bow. “I assure you, it is the House of Potter that is honored that Gringotts would take the time to assist us in this task.”

Gnarlfist gave Harry what passed for an approving look. “You’re learning, Mr. Potter. Now, I believe Speargnash is waiting for you in the new accounts office?”

Harry gave the old goblin who’d helped him so much over the years a crooked smile, careful not to display his teeth, before following him out of the archives and back up to the main floor.

Bidding Loremaster Gnarlfist farewell, Harry chatted about the state of the economy with his accounts manager Speargnash while he, “opened a trust account for my long lost little cousin. I’m just so excited to finally have real blood family.”

That the account in question held enough to last the average magical family for several generations was beside the point.

So it was that with a new vault key and the promise of paperwork being owled to him before the close of business that day, Harry Potter finally left Gringotts to do some important shopping.

Harry set off down the length of the alley, nodding and smiling cheerfully to those who called out to him, the occasional witch or wizard dropping their business to dart out into the street and shake his hand or fawn over him up close and personally. Really, it had been years since Voldy had plowed his final farm, one would think the vast majority would be over it, considering most inhabitants of the wizarding world hadn’t been impacted by the Dark Lord beyond what they read in the papers, or a quiet word of commiseration with a neighbor over tea about the, ‘horrible goings on.’

Slipping out through the Leaky Cauldron into muggle London, he checked the address on the list and hailed a cab. Sliding across the seat he gave the address to the cabbie and leaned back, enjoying the changing views and swirling masses. In his heart of hearts, Harry realized he’d always felt the outsider—held apart by first the Dursleys and then his fame, a problem compounded when he finally triumphed over the Dark Lord and exemplified by the lengths he was going to just to have some vestige of a life.

The cab dropped him off just outside the West End. A couple of discrete ‘Point Me’ spells later and Harry found himself climbing a narrow set of stairs to a second floor shop, the faded sign on the door announcing it as Madame Blanco’s Masquerade. Taking a deep breath, Harry pushed the door open carefully, the chime of a bell alerting anyone inside to his entry.

His first impression of the dimly lit shop was a blur of color and fabric, glitter and dust. Slowly, his eyes became adjusted to the low light, letting him pick out details, and he began to move cautiously through the racks.

“Help you find something, deary?”

Harry quickly turned and jumped, feeling his heart leap when he came nose-to spectacles with a miniature version of Sybil Trelawney. The tiny, bent old woman’s grey hair was covered with a purple gypsy scarf, tiny gold coins dangling from the edges. A red, sequined vest covered a worn white blouse, both ending in a skirt made less from a bolt of fabric and more from a bale of scarves. Pink ballet pointe shoes, the burlap visible through a worn spot, peeked out from below her skirt.

“Ummm, yes, please. Thank you,” Harry stuttered before he managed to control his surprise. “I’m supposed to go to a costume party, and I’ve been assigned to come as…well, a-a witch.”

When Harry had first come up with the idea of hiding in plain sight, the first stumbling block had been establishing a paper trail. Something that, with the discrete help of his goblin allies, was surprisingly easy. What he hadn’t considered was how he was going to manage to shop for clothing without seeming out of place. It wasn’t like Harry Potter could simply waltz into Madam Malkin’s and order a half-dozen pairs of ladies knickers for himself without attracting all kinds of unwanted attention. A few moments thought and access to a telephone directory had given him a list of addresses of muggle shops where asking for female clothing suitable to blend into the wizarding world wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.

*Or at least not Madame Blanco’s eyebrow,* Harry said to himself. Indeed, the ancient gypsy was studying him intently, pale eyes behind coke-bottle lens never blinking.

“Well,” Madame Blanco finally said, “on most other young men that might be more of a challenge, but I think old Blanche won’t have much of a problem fitting you out, young sir. Up you get, and we’ll see what’s what. Up you get, up…up….”

The old woman flapped her hands at him, herding Harry to a pedestal for easy fitting. For the next few minutes she busied herself with bustling around him and taking measurements, all the while muttering something that sounded like nursery rhymes.

Finally, Madame Blanco disappeared into the racks and piles of material and finery, the only sign of her the movement of cloth in her wake. In less that five minutes she returned with a pile of clothing nearly as big as she was tall draped over her arms.

“Here, dearie, go try this on. If you don’t know what it is, I’ll be glad to give you a hand…or two!”

Madame Blanco’s laugh followed a blushing Harry into a small, converted storage room, a hand-lettered sign announcing it as the fitting room.

Harry dumped the pile of clothing on a bench and began sorting it out. Half of it resolved into long, laced-bodice gowns with patches of embroidery, while the other half was a pair of deeply hooded cloaks, a (much, much) shorter skirted gown, an assortment of stockings and two pair of moderately heeled boots.

He quickly stripped out of his clothing, glad now he’d gone for briefs instead of boxers, and worked a pair of stockings up over his knees, grateful they weren’t panty hose or required a garter belt, the mysteries of which he’d had to have Hermione explain to him that long-ago Halloween (and hadn’t that been a nightmare in itself). A long, long sleeved dark purple gown went on much easier, the sewn in black velvet bodice conveniently lacing up the front. A pair of the boots—a little large, but good enough—were easily slipped on, and low enough he wasn’t too awkward to walk in them.

Harry studied his reflection in the mirror tacked to the back of the door, and smiled.

Changing back he mentally settled on the purple gown and another one in a slightly heavier, silvery grey, the boots he had tried on, and both cloaks. Underthings he would order by owl from Glissande, a specialty shop he’d bought from before when looking for gifts for Hermione, once his papers from Gringotts’ arrived. Either of the gowns from Madame Blanco would do for a day or so, once he started shopping for a wardrobe.

He sighed; so much to do, and so little of it could be done before he disappeared as Harry and reappeared as Lillith. A place to stay could be arranged through Gringotts’, or maybe he should just sub-let his flat for now.

Yes, he decided, stepping back out, he would sublet the flat to himself. Furnished, but without the knick-knacks, that would take care of storing his bulkier belongings also.

Harry paid for his purchases and slid out as quickly as possible before finding another cab and directing it to Harrod’s. Two hours of browsing later and he had a good selection of random items to fill out his new persona.

Lillith would be something he had never been: young, and he made purchases to reflect that. Fantastical fantasy figurines, a half-dozen mugs with cute pictures or sarcastic sayings, some prints he liked of famous artists, and several dozen CDs that he’d have to charm later to work around magic.

Discretely shrinking his purchases, he apparated back to his flat and stored everything away, before getting ready to spend his evening with Ron and Hermione; Ron had become addicted to muggle cinema once he’d experienced it. Movie night had become a chance for the three of them to reconnect. It would also be a chance for him to broach the opening steps of his plan, and begin smoothing over the long absence he was planning.

Harry knew intimately that no plan survived the first contact with the other side, but hopefully the other side wasn’t going to know that there was a plan happening.