Chapter Text
They're only home for one night before departing again in the early morning. Mamma, Miss Minerva, Blaise, and Menna see them off, and then a little scrap of paper takes them to Imogen’s Hide.
Of the options available, Papa had believed it would be one of the more innocent to visit. Why he had chosen innocent of all words remains beyond their understanding, even as they stand at the end of a long country lane, staring up a hill at the ragged little house.
“Tell me again where this one comes from,” they say, leaning over slightly towards Papa.
Neither takes a step as he gives a little hum of thought.
Finally, he turns to look at them and says, “I believe this is from one of Harry Potter's adoring fans - an Elphias Doge, I believe. If memory serves, he was a member of the Order of the Phoenix.”
They make a face at that, one that Papa laughs at, and then he's moving them along.
As described by the goblins, Imogen's Hide is completely barren of furniture. It's mostly structurally sound, thankfully, though the shutters and spandrels and such are falling apart, and Papa believes the land to be good for a decent enough garden. While walking, they debate keeping the house or bequeathing it to another.
“I don't need another house.”
“It is always good to have another place to secret yourself away,” Papa retorts.
“I have an unplottable castle!”
“It is conspicuous.”
“The only way into that castle is direct apparation to the property by myself or flooing from a secure room in Gringotts.”
“Still-”
“And the land is warded with repelling wards! Even the areas leading to the Hall of Arrivals are individually warded to repel visitors when unattended by a Gryffindor.”
There's more bickering back and forth, but Papa finally relents and agrees to rent it out after some repairs.
°•°•°•
After Imogen’s Hide comes the cottage in Rhossili, the one left to Lily by James. Despite both homes having three bedrooms and two baths split across two floors, the cottage is much smaller. Considering its placement at the far edge of an idyllic Welsh town occupied solely by muggles, Harshal is fairly certain it was intended as a hideout for them to use with their mother until the war was over.
Going inside chokes them up with both emotion and dust. The cottage is furnished sparingly, but everything is damp, mothworn, and forgotten. Forgotten, of course, is inaccurate and maybe a little cruel to think of it as; After all, how could it be forgotten if no one ever knew in the first place?
They leave Papa at the front door, where he elects to wait awkwardly while they venture inside to check everything out.
There's a loveseat with a horrid floral pattern, both seats sunken in with time, and an armchair to match. The fireplace is overflowing with cobwebs, some of which cling to a lone picture frame.
Harshal picks it up carefully, shaking it free of webs and then using a hand to wipe the grime from the glass. Under it, they find a still photo of their mother holding a baby who must be them. She's laying in bed, hair clinging to her face, and Harshal looks like a scrunched up wrinkle. At the bottom, in James’ spiky handwriting, it says Lily's first time holding our son, Harshal, born 31 July 1980.
It takes a moment to realize that this must have been just after they were born.
First time.
It was her first time holding them.
They walk back to Papa, the photo clutched almost too tightly in their hands, biting back tears the few steps back to the door. They pass it over, carefully making sure it doesn't drop.
Papa gives them a look like he's about to ask if they're okay but they shake their head and return to exploring the cottage.
The lower level contains nothing else of note, just general furniture and essentials that had long since passed the point of usability - some, even, had passed the point of being salvageable, judging by the mildew present in the smaller rooms. Upstairs, though, is a small study, and here Harshal finds another picture. This one is on the desk, the sun shining behind it and doing its best to illuminate the tarnished silver. Inside the frame is a moving photo of James, Lily, and Harshal in a small yard. They're sitting on a blanket, little Harshal crawling around while their parents cheer them on. At the bottom, James had written Our family - August 1981.
They clutch it as close to their chest as they can without breaking it, sobbing out loud just once and begging their tears to stay away for now. They'd been a family.
They'd been a family.
When the tears finally pour forth and their shields falter, Tom keeps quiet. There’s a ghost of a presence behind them, and the rational side of their mind knows that they’re feeling Magic and Tom the same way they have since they were small, but a much more wistful part of them wants it to be James and Lily instead.
They spend a few minutes in the yard just staring at the house, thinking about everything and nothing before turning to look at Papa.
He raises a brow but says nothing.
Harshal blows out a breath, looking away once more.
“Do you think my mom would have liked it here?”
There's nothing but silence from Papa for a long time.
They don't interrupt it. Instead, Harshal looks at the flower beds in front of the porch and the stone pavers that make up the path leading to the main road. The plain wooden shingles that still hold onto the smallest touch of blue paint stains, the mossy roof, and the permanent condensation on the windows - all of it speaks of a home that could have been, and it leaves Harshal swimming in the perpetual world of “could have” that's beginning to take form in their mind.
They could have had a birth father, could have had a birth mother, could have had both and never known Papa. They could have been Harry, could have had an Uncle Moony and an Uncle Sirius, could have been a Gryffindor, could have never become a horcrux, could have been a quidditch fan, could have been so many things.
Papa finally breaks the silence with a sigh and then reaches to take their hand.
“She would have loved it.”
They think about what the house could be with just a little care and more than a few galleons. They think about Blaise and Menna visiting, about Mamma giving them tips for the garden, about Squips hanging their laundry out to dry and keeping them from getting too sucked into their books.
They can't be parted with this. They can't.
“I'm keeping it.”
Papa squeezes their hand tight.
“I would never have expected otherwise.”
They don't know it, - not yet and not for a while longer - but one day this will be home. No matter the castles and estates and all that comes with being Raven, fourfold Lord and figurehead for Britain's Grey faction, the cottage in Rhossili will be the home Harshal always comes back to, where they'll rest and recuperate, find love and solace and happiness. All of the good and all of the bad will live here in this house and Harshal will embrace this home with their arms wide and their heart tender.
That is many years from now, though, and Harshal is content with knowing that the cottage James had left for Lily will always be theirs.
°•°•°•
The last stop of the day is the sole Peverell property still in their hands.
The Glen at Death's Edge is located just outside Glenariff Forest and the small settlement of Cargan, down a road so narrow and windy it’s barely walkable. Still, the house is somewhere down it, and both Harshal and Papa feel the wards wash over them once they're about two hundred meters down the path. The vegetation remains dense for another hundred or so meters, ivy growing wildly over everything, the air heavy and damp inside the wards, but it, too, eventually gives way and shows they are in the right place.
Even Tom feels it when they get close, sliding around behind their shields in either agitation or excitement.
There's so much magic in the air, thick like thunderstorms and sparking like static. Standing on the path feels like being just a bit too close to a fire or casting a cooling charm that's a little colder than needed. Everything in them and around them feels alive in ways Harshal doesn't have the words to even begin to explain.
Looking up at Papa shows him in a similar state, though they can tell he's trying to seem less affected by it.
He scrunches his brow and clears his throat after a second.
“Well, that was certainly unexpected.”
As ineloquent as it is, all Harshal can respond with is a breathy, “Yeah.”
They stand there in the path, surrounded by greenery and more magic than Harshal has ever been face-to-face with before, for another few drawn out moments before Papa clears his throat again and gets them moving.
It takes a while, but they spot what is meant to be the coach house first, down its own drive on the right hand side, exactly as the plans had said. The thing, though, is that it's far bigger than they'd expected. None of their friends or the friends’ estates have coach houses, simply multitudes of outbuildings and many stables, and none of them are like this.
Angled towards them as it is, Harshal can see the large ‘u’ shape of it, as well as the two small first floor areas. Papa points out different sections, like the garage for their carriages, the log storage, what was likely used as a planting room, the two housing areas for the groundskeeper and the chauffeur.
Behind the building, more towards the top of a rolling hill, is a largely overgrown stable. According to Papa, most of the vegetation appears to be younger than the building, and he reasons that there were likely plentiful fields around for the horses to graze on and areas to shelter under that kept them from coming back once disrepair set in.
Harshal simply nods along, trying their best to see past the English ivy to better take in the old, dilapidated charm of stone walls and the shingles that had been left shabby with age.
There's a small trail further past the outbuilding that leads to what the goblin’s had noted should be a small two bedroom lodge. They decide without much discussion to view it on their way out in the morning, something Papa agrees to.
By the time they reach the house proper, the sky has gone orange and purple and the surrounding trees are casting everything in deep shadow. Still, they see it.
They feel it.
The magic surrounding the building is nearly dense enough to swim in, pouring off the home and its wards. The overgrowth, surprisingly, isn't so bad here, leaving them a clear view of old river rock, faded white shingles, and windows thick with water stains and condensation.
And yet, despite its outward state, Harshal knows that the house is loved. It's clearly been tended to in the absence of owners and regular visitors, which is odd.
“Did the paperwork say anything about elves or tenants?” they eventually ask, to which Papa shakes his head.
“Why?”
Harshal bites their lip and shrugs. “The house has been cared for much more recently than the other buildings, is all.”
Papa nods.
“Would you like me to enter first?”
“Please.”
And he does, one arm out to keep Harshal safely behind him while the other holds his wand directly out in front of him.
The wooden door creaks loudly as it opens, giving way to a heavily cobwebbed room.
Papa takes a step in, and then another, Harshal still close behind.
There are no signs of life either of them can make out and they share a sigh of relief, finally relaxing.
Harshal starts to turn to take everything in only to be met with a wild-eyed elf holding a frying pan aloft like a weapon.
“What the f-”
The elf swings and Harshal ducks.
“No trespassing!” The elf screeches, advancing further on Harshal who ducks back towards Papa.
They hold their hands up, clearly empty, and open their mouth to explain that they are not trespassing as they own the property, but Papa uses a sharp expelliarmus to disarm the elf before they can get the words out. The frying pan goes flying off to the side, crashing into a sheet-covered cupboard and then clattering to the floor. The elf looks between them and the pan once, then twice, then breaks down into tears, throwing itself on the floor and pounding its fists against its head.
“Shame! Shame! Picadillian be bringing shame!” it cries out. “Picadillian being bad elf! Cannot even protect great house!”
Harshal looks behind them to find Papa staring at the elf, equally dumbfounded. They raise an eyebrow, wordlessly asking if he knows what's going on, and Papa shakes his head in response.
Damn.
Well.
If anything, The Glen at Death's Edge is the Peverell seat, so the elf should be tied to the property and thus be responsive to Harshal. Theoretically, at least.
They sigh and approach the elf, wary of its flailing limbs as it continues its tantrum.
“Uhm, your name is Picadillian, right?”
The elf offers no response except a loud wail.
“Are you a Peverell elf?”
Again, the elf simply cries out, degrading itself near continuously.
“Excuse me?”
They're ignored once more.
Harshal huffs and turns back towards Papa.
“I have never seen an elf act in such a way, little raven. Unfortunately, I have no suggestions for you,” he says.
“Boo you,” they snark back and Papa gives them half a smile.
It's with a put-upon sigh that they look back towards the elf.
“As Lord Peverell, I demand you stop this castigation at once!” Harshal shouts, putting on airs just in case, and finally, finally, something gets through to the elf.
The tantrum ends almost instantaneously and the elf clambers to its feet, dusting itself off and roughly wiping at its face. It keeps its eyes on them, like it thinks they’ll disappear if they blink or look away.
They give the poor thing some time to get a hold of itself before it finally clears its throat.
“Is it really being true? Picadillian is having a master? Truly?”
Harshal smiles softly and nods.
“Yes, Picadillian. My name is Harshal and I took the title of Lord Peverell just under a year ago,” they say.
The elf’s tears start up again as it flings itself at Harshal, hugging their legs tight.
“Oh, Picadillian was thinking she'd never see the day! Picadillian's family is being alone so long!”
Awkwardly, they reach down and pet the elf's head, trying to soothe her.
“There, there. You have a Lord now.”
Just as before, the elf stops crying in an instant. She hops back a step, looking around with wide eyes.
“Oh no! Oh no, Master Harshal cannot be being here!”
They stand, still in reach of the door, watching as the elf runs this way and that, clutching her ears at everything.
“Oh no! Picadillian is bad elf! The house is not being clean or ready! Where will Master Harshal be sleeping? And the big man! Oh no, oh no!”
Behind them, Papa clears his throat.
Picadillian snaps her head around, looking at him.
“We were merely checking on the state of the house, Picadillian,” Papa tells her. “There is no need to deep clean for us. If you can clean a room or two for us to sleep, we plan to leave again in the morning.”
Harshal knows as soon as Papa's said the words that Picadillian is going to start crying again and they're right.
Her lip wobbles for only a second before she bursts into tears, tugging aggressively at her ears.
“Master Harshal and the big man is not being staying with Picadillian! Picadillian is still being alone, all alone! Cannot even keep Master in house!” She throws herself to the ground, still sobbing, and Harshal has to dive for her when she starts smacking her head on the floorboards.
They grab her by the shoulders, trying to pull her back as she strains forward.
“Shameful, bad elf! Shame! Shame!”
They manage to get an arm around her shoulders and pull her back long enough for Papa to stun her.
Finally, the elf falls quiet, slumping over to the side once Harshal lets her go.
They look between Papa and Picadillian a few times before asking, “What the fuck was that?”
Harshal has seen elves left unattended for centuries - kept alive and tethered to their homes by a curse, granted, but still - and neither of them were quite so bad as this one.
Still by the door, Papa sighs.
“A mess, I fear. One which we shall have to deal with in the morning,” he says.