Sirius stared into the dregs of his empty teacup, his thumb tracing a chip in the porcelain. The fire in the grate popped, casting long, dancing shadows across the vaulted ceiling. He glanced toward the corner where Harry lay asleep on a transfigured bed. It was a grand, slightly lopsided thing Sirius had fashioned from a heavy oak table and some old tapestries; it looked utterly ridiculous—a patch of warmth and velvet that didn't fit the cold, forbidding ambiance of the stone room.
The heavy silence of the fortress was broken by the sharp clack of a latch. The door swung inward, and Esme entered. The clinical mask she'd worn in the lab was gone, replaced by a grey, bone-deep exhaustion that made her look every bit the exile she was.
"He is stable," she said before Sirius could even ask. She moved toward the fireplace, her steps heavy. "For now."
Sirius let out a long, shaky breath. "I suppose now would be the time for those answers you promised."
Esme raised her eyebrows, a silent challenge in the gesture.
"What? You said, 'questions later,' and I have a bloody list," Sirius said, leaning forward. "Starting with: is this really a Peverell estate? And if it is, how in Merlin's name is it in the hands of a Malfoy? Your family is ancient, Esme, but you lot never had a castle—historically speaking. Not to mention the Peverells... they're supposed to be a myth. A dead line."
Esme's eyes opened, glinting with a tired irony. "The Peverells did not die out, Sirius. They simply stopped producing wizards. In the eyes of our world, a Squib line is a dead line. But the magic—and the curses—do not care for Ministry records." She looked toward the transfigured bed where Harry slept. "Portia Peverell was a Squib. I met her at Beauxbatons; she was a close family friend of one of our instructors. She was studying to be a doctor, and I, a Healer. When the blood malediction took her, she had no one else. No other family who would acknowledge her. So, she willed her children—and the responsibility of this ruin—to me."
Esme sank into the chair opposite him, her head thumping back against the stone. "They are as they have been for a year. Frozen. Waiting for a cure I have yet to perfect."
Sirius looked at her with a fresh surge of respect. "So that explains the antiseptic smell in the stasis chamber. You're using Muggle methods because of her."
"I am using whatever works," she snapped, a flash of her French temper surfacing. "Wizards believe a wave of a wand and a drop of Essence of Dittany can fix the world. They ignore the biology. They ignore the way magic reacts with the blood cells. I developed those monitoring tools based on what I learned from Muggle medical research. If I am to save Nathan—and the Peverells—I cannot afford the arrogance of our kind." She paused, a smirk playing on her lips. "Besides, I also did my training with Muggles. Let's just say if my father found out I held a medical degree from a Muggle university, he would have a coronary."
Sirius snorted at that. The image of Abraxas or Lucius Malfoy finding out their kin was a "Doctor" was enough to lighten even this gloom. "Uncle Marius said you were brilliant. He didn't mention you were a revolutionary." He reached into his coat and pulled out a small flask, offering it to her. "Firewhiskey. It's not a French vintage, but it'll stop the shaking."
Esme didn't protest. She took the flask, poured a generous measure into her empty teacup, and gulped it down. She didn't even flinch at the burn, though a faint bit of color finally returned to her sallow cheeks.
Sirius looked around the vaulted room, his brow furrowed as he took in the sheer scale of the masonry. "I am surprised the estate accepted you at all, Esme. I know it's in disarray from centuries of neglect, but most ancient properties are sentient enough to bar anyone who isn't of the blood—guardianship or not."
Esme offered a weary, phantom of a smile. "This isn't the Peverell main estate, Sirius. That one is in Germany, buried deep within the Black Forest. This was one of their summer homes, apparently."
Sirius's jaw dropped. "A summer home?"
He looked at the towering ceiling and the thick, defensive walls. If this was where they went for a holiday, the Peverells of old must have been wealthy on a scale that made the Malfoys look like street urchins.
"The place had been neglected for centuries; there was no magic left to power the wards when I arrived. It was little more than a cold stone shell," Esme continued, her voice echoing slightly. "It took an agonizing amount of magic just to restart the basic functions. The only reason I chose this location was because of the leyline that passes directly beneath the cliffs. It provides the constant energy required for the stasis chambers."
Sirius nodded, the pieces fitting together. "And the main estate?"
"That is a different matter entirely," Esme said, her expression darkening. "The main estate has a much stronger connection to the leylines, but its wards are still very much alive—and they are lethal. They would have incinerated me the moment I stepped onto the grounds. Only a true heir of Peverell blood can set foot there."
Sirius looked toward the door, thinking of the two children downstairs. "And Penelope and Pietro? They can't access it?"
"They are too young, and their magic is too suppressed by the malediction," Esme sighed, staring into her teacup. "The castle would likely see their weakened state as an insult rather than a homecoming. So, we stay here. In the 'summer home,' praying the stone doesn't decide to stop breathing."
Sirius leaned back, a grim smirk on his face. "Well. At least the neighbors won't complain about the noise."
Esme chuckled, the sound dry and rasping after the Firewhiskey. "Since Portia willed this estate to me, it is mine to do with as I please. I can remodel it to my own tastes or leave it to my heirs. I am quite certain that if Lucius ever found out I was sitting on a Peverell leyline, he would be drooling with envy. He spent years trying to find a way to claim your family's seat; he has no idea what real power looks like."
Sirius grinned, a flash of his old, mischievous self-returning. "He'd probably have a stroke. I'd pay a lot of Galleons to see that look on his face."
Esme's short, bitter laugh died as quickly as it had surfaced, leaving her face pale and drawn in the firelight. She turned away from him, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her heavy robes.
"I really do not know what to do, Sirius," she whispered, and for the first time, her voice lacked its sharp, clinical edge. "I have tried everything. I have combined the best of Muggle hematology with the oldest French restorative charms. I have pushed the stasis fields to their absolute limit." She looked back at him, her eyes bright with a frustrated, helpless grief. "But science and spells are just... bandages. I do not think we can find a cure in time for them. Not like this."
"What do you mean?" Sirius asked, his voice tight.
"None of my efforts have been enough, Sirius. As much as the stasis helps, there is no guarantee these children will survive the year," Esme said, her gaze drifting back to the sleeping boy.
They both knew the truth: if Nathan died, it wouldn't just be a funeral. Because they were triplets, the magical feedback would hit Harry like a physical blow. He would be scarred, his own core potentially fracturing from the sudden void where his brother used to be. Sirius thought of the third boy—Charlus Potter—somewhere out there in the world. Charlus would feel it too, a phantom pain in his chest, though without the psychological scars of the abuse, he might just think it was a passing illness. But Harry and Nathan were intertwined in the dark; they were all each other had.
"I had found a solution," Esme continued, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous frequency. "But I need someone beside me to do it. Someone I can trust implicitly, because the solution will change their life—and the children's lives—forever. Most would not be willing to pay the price."
Sirius frowned, his protective instincts flaring. "What? Why? If it works, wouldn't any decent person help?"
Esme turned, giving Sirius a stare so cold and serious it seemed to suck the warmth from the fireplace. "Because it requires them to blood adopt the children. All of them."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush. Sirius felt the air leave his lungs. He looked at his own hands—hands he had spent a lifetime running away from his family—and then at the small, broken boy sleeping in the corner. To save them, he would have to become the one thing he had spent his life running from.
"Blood adoption," Sirius finally rasped, the words tasting like copper and ash.
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