Chapter Text
Harry’s summer was proceeding as unpleasantly as he expected. On top of the dull ache of Cedric’s death, and the worry over Voldemort’s next move, he had come down with a terrible fever. All three together meant that Harry didn’t want to move from his bed, but Aunt Petunia was having none of it.
Today she had sent him to clean the attic. The place was stifling and coated in dust. The only light came from a tiny window, and stacks of boxes were everywhere. His aunt wanted them sorted into different stacks for no reason Harry could imagine.
Harry leaned against the end wall to rest for a moment. In the dark corner next to him was an old suitcase, out of place amid all the cardboard; curious, he tried the latch and it opened easily. Inside were some things that must have belonged to his grandmother, Hyacinth Evans. No jewellery, of course; Petunia would have taken that. Some postcards, letters, a faded silk scarf and a teacup with a picture of the Queen on it. And – an envelope, unopened, with ‘to Lily’ written on it. Whatever his grandmother had wanted to say, his mother had never received it. Harry hid the letter under his shirt and went back to shifting boxes.
***
That evening, after he was shut in his room for the night, Harry carefully opened the envelope. The letter was written on mundane note paper in a looping, feminine hand.
‘Dearest Lily,’ it read. ‘I hoped to tell you this in person one day, but if you’re reading this I never got the chance. I hardly know where to start, so I suppose the beginning is best. When Petunia was small, my Henry was working long hours to make ends meet and I was at home with no company but a baby. I must have gone a bit barmy. When Henry went off on a business trip, I couldn’t take it anymore. I left Petunia with her gran and went to London for a night.
‘I think you can guess what happened next. He was tall, dark, handsome and quite a good dancer. I won’t go into details, but we had a wonderful evening together and a few weeks later I discovered I was in the family way again. I never mentioned what I did, and you took enough after me that there was no proof either way, but I knew in my heart what had happened. I hope you won’t think badly of me, though I suppose it doesn’t matter now, or hold it against Henry that he likely isn’t your birth father.
‘I don’t know much about that man; he said his name was Renato Sinclair and he was Italian, but I don’t know if either of those is true. It could be that some of your special talents come from him.’ Harry blinked. His mother’s biological father might have been a wizard? That … he wasn’t sure if that meant anything. The rest of the letter was hopes and well-wishes, and he set it aside. He sneezed. Rummaging in the attic hadn’t done his cold any good. Once he felt better, he would think about sending Hedwig to find this Sinclair fellow. If that was his name. If he was still alive.
***
“Kill the spare.”
Flames erupted in the space between Harry and Voldemort as their magic clashed. Voldemort hissed as he took a step closer. Harry stood his ground, terrified but determined not to die here …
He woke up with a gasp, those same flames flickering across his skin. He had been randomly bursting into flames ever since the encounter in the graveyard, and while they didn’t burn anything, it was rather alarming. He took a breath and willed them to subside. Maybe this was an after-effect of the phoenix tears from his second year. Or maybe a magical disease. Should he owl Madam Pomfrey?
He felt for his grandmother’s letter under his pillow. Would his grandfather think Harry was evil for talking to snakes? Or for getting Cerdic killed? Harry sneezed and rolled over. So much for getting a good night’s sleep. Again.
***
Harry finally had enough of feeling miserable, and decided to go to the charity clinic beside the Little Whinging Public Library. It was a slow day; he shared the waiting room with a boy who had fallen from a tree, and an old lady with a cough. He was shown to an examination room and waited a little longer until he heard the doctors talking in the hall.
“…I’m telling you I don’t treat males.”
“This clinic has a non-discrimination policy, so deal with it.”
“Fine, fine.” The tone was so much like Sirius that Harry teared up for a moment. The doctor came in, looking at his clipboard. “Good afternoon, Mr Potter, My name is Shamal and I’ll be your doc … tor …” He trailed off as he looked up at Harry’s face. For a heart-stopping moment Harry thought he had run into a wizard. But a wizard would have reacted to his name first, wouldn’t he?
“I’m sorry,” said the doctor. “You look remarkably like a mentor of mine; I was surprised.”
Because his life had no coincidences, Harry said, “Would your mentor happen to be named Renato Sinclair?”
The doctor went pale. “How do you know that name?”
“Apparently he’s my biological maternal grandfather. Um, you’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you?”
Doctor Shamal held up his hands. “I take patient confidentiality very seriously. Besides, your grandpa would skin me if I did anything to upset you.”
Did that mean he was still alive? Aloud Harry said, “Will he really want to know about me? I mean, what sort of person is he?”
“Ah. Despite his scary reputation, he takes family very seriously. If he had any idea you existed, you’d have met him long ago.” While he spoke, Shamal picked up an ear-light and started examining Harry.
“The only reason I know is because of a letter my grandmother wrote to my mother. Though I think my aunt knows; it would explain why she hated my mother so much.” He decided to ignore the bit about reputation; just look at his godfather!
“Hmm. I’ll have to check how much I can tell you about Mr Sinclair. There are some, ah, privacy concerns …”
Could it be? “Doctor, this may be a strange question, but are you a wizard?”
Shamal grinned. “No, but I know of them – wait, are you that Harry Potter?”
Harry sighed and nodded; so much for his brief time of normal treatment.
Shamal threw up his hands. “Damnit, Reborn, you’re causing chaos and you’re not even here!”
Harry couldn’t begin to guess what that meant. “Er, since you know about magic, can I show you my other symptoms?” At Shamal’s nod, Harry called up the strange orange fire which had appeared since the end of the Tournament. The doctor gaped.
“Fuck.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Alright, first, that’s not a symptom, it’s an ability.” He held out his hand, and a ball of indigo flame appeared in it.
“I thought you didn’t have magic?”
“This isn’t strictly speaking magic. It doesn’t need a wand or … look, this is going to take some time to explain. My shift’s over at six, I could take you to dinner?”
Harry eyed him suspiciously. That was an odd offer for a grown man to make to a teenage boy; however, he did want to know more about the strange flames. “All right, as long as you’re buying.”
***
Harry agreed to meet Shamal at a café off Little Whinging’s high street. Since he was ill, Petunia had banned him from cooking; instead, the Dursleys were going out for dinner and a movie, and Harry was supposed to make do with tinned soup. Not bloody likely.
Shamal recommended, and then paid for, a chicken Caesar salad and rice pudding with fruit. “Doctor’s orders,” he said cheerfully when Harry tried to protest. He had a curry bowl for himself, and did something with his indigo fire to ensure their privacy.
“Civilians can’t even see Flames most of the time,” he explained. “It still pays to be careful, though. The Flame Mafia keeps secrets just like the Wizarding World.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. He knew what the Mafia was, thanks to Dudley’s television shows; some of the boys in Dudley’s gang liked to brag that they were going to be real gangsters. “The Mafia? Really?”
“It’s a good way to hide. The mundanes might spot that something hidden is going on, then they find olive oil bootlegging or some such and think that’s all.”
Harry grumbled. “They’re not about to give me a choice about joining, are they?”
Shamal grinned lazily. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.” Harry threw a crouton at him.
Could it be fun, though? He had only met the doctor so far, and he seemed all right. And as far as Harry knew, nobody in the Mafia wanted him dead. “So, tell me how these flames work? What do the different colors mean? And how does my grandfather fit into it?”