“Go get some sleep Tipsy, and that’s an order. Don’t worry Corvus is not going anywhere.”
“Yes, Mistress.” the elf answered with a bit of disappointment before popping away.
“At this rate she’s going to kill herself to the task.” Charlus said as he read the Daily prophet sitting at the kitchen table while Dorea was cooking breakfast.
“She blamed herself for fifteen years. Now that Corvus is back… It’s not surprising.”
“What about you? Did you find some sleep?”
“A few hours.” she replied.
She turned around to place the grilled bacon onto a plate, except fate had other plans. A crow slammed against the window with the force of a rogue Bludger, startling her so badly that she let out an uncharacteristically loud yelp. The pan slipped from her grasp, launching the bacon into the air where it performed an impressive, sizzling somersault before splattering dramatically on the floor. Even Charlus flinched behind his paper, his spoon clattering against his teacup as he blinked in surprise.
“Bloody bird!” he cursed.
“No insults toward the proud emblem of my ancestral House!” Dorea declared with theatrical indignation, brandishing the wooden spatula like it was a dueling wand. Her eyes flashed with mock fury, daring Charlus to retort and risk the wrath of a woman who could duel, brew, and serve breakfast without breaking stride.
“The symbol of your house has been a blood red fleur de lys for the last thirty years.” he replied with a frown.
“You know what I mean.” Dorea replied and opened the kitchen’s window.
The crow let out a raspy, worn out caw as it slumped against the window ledge, wings drooping and feathers fluffed with fatigue. Dorea, even without her healer’s training, could instantly tell the bird was utterly spent. With a touch as gentle as a breeze, she scooped the poor creature into her hands, feeling the slight tremble in its tiny frame. She brought it inside with quiet urgency, already conjuring a mental list of care steps like a mother tending to a child caught in the rain.
“Oh, aren’t you a pretty one?” She cooed as she felt the crow’s magic and liked it.
She sat at the kitchen table, waving her wand with a flick to levitate the bacon from the floor and guide it neatly onto a plate. With a second, gentler gesture, she summoned a shallow bowl and filled it with cool, fresh water. Placing it in front of the weary crow, she watched as it dipped its beak eagerly, drinking with grateful urgency. Her fingers moved instinctively, stroking its soot dark feathers with maternal care, each touch laced with quiet reassurance and awe at the creature's resilience.
“No,” Charlus said, his gaze lingering on his wife with the weary resignation of a man who knew exactly how this conversation was going to end, and that he’d lose it anyway.
“Hm?”
“We’re not keeping it.”
“Of course we are.”
“We are not.”
“We are.”
“‘Morning.” Turning their heads, they saw their son entering the kitchen still in his sleepwear. Before they could answer and greet him back he spoke again. “Morrigan? What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you flew from Hogwarts without stopping?”
“caw”
Rick quickly sat next to his mother, scooping the crow into his hands with gentleness. His eyes scanned Morrigan’s feathers with a healer’s focus and a friend’s concern, his fingers lightly brushing across her wings to check for injuries.
Meanwhile, Dorea didn’t even try to hide the triumphant sparkle in her eye as she shot her husband the smuggest of smirks, equal parts I told you so and maternal pride. Charlus simply sighed and rolled his eyes skyward with the silent suffering of a man outvoted and outmaneuvered. The crow was clearly their son’s familiar. The matter was settled. The bird was staying, and so was the smugness.
“Morrigan, hm? Naming her after a death goddess? Not exactly subtle, is it?” she said to her son, arching a brow with equal parts amusement and curiosity.
“Not at all. Huh, that’s curious, she likes you. So far, the only person she ever liked besides me was Lily.” He continued petting Morrigan’s soot black feathers gently, offering her a crispy strip of bacon, which she accepted with a soft, appreciative caw. The fondness in his tone betrayed how much her approval mattered to him, even if she was just a crow with opinions.
“Well, I was born a Black. Our symbol is a crow. Why do you think I named you Corvus?”
“Because you don’t have any naming sense?”
His eyes never left Morrigan, but his father coughed into his fist, failing to fully stifle the snort of laughter that escaped him, a sound caught somewhere between amusement and admiration at his son's biting wit.
“Anything you’d like to say, dear?” Dorea asked, her tone dipped in honey but sharpened like a blade. The sugary lilt did little to mask the warning behind her words, and even Rick, who had become rather fluent in reading subtext, could practically hear the unsaid threat coiled beneath her smile.
“N no. Not at all.”
“Whipped.” Rick whispered.
“That he is. But again, I’m me. It was to be expected. Your father knew exactly what kind of beautifully complicated woman he was courting.” Dorea’s voice danced with mischief, a proud smirk curving her lips. Rick caught the glint of amusement in her eyes and didn’t miss the theatrical groan from Charlus, who muttered something about being doomed from the start.
"caw" Morrigan picked another piece of bacon and flew a little bit to land on Dorea’s shoulder.
“What do you want to do today?” his father asked.
“... I don’t know. After broadening some present people’s horizons I mean.” he challenged his mother indirectly. “I think I need to write to Professor McGonagall. She’s my head of house and the Deputy Headmistress. Since I don’t need her to be my magical guardian anymore I don’t need to meet with her on the first of August so she can give me money from my scholarship to pay for my supplies. The problem with that is… she will know who I am.” he said then after thinking about it for a bit revised his judgment. “It doesn’t really matter in the end, she wouldn’t treat me differently and would respect my wish to keep it secret.”
“Treat you differently? Does she discriminate stu .”
“No!” Rick quickly interjected, cutting off his mother. “She’s the fairest teacher in the school, despite me being her favorite. That is unless quidditch is involved. In that case…”
“In that case?” his father asked.
“She bought me a Nimbus 1000 when I made the team. She had seen me drooling over it at Diagon alley a couple months before. At the time its price was still high. 300 Galleons!”
Charlus barely held back a snort, hiding his smirk behind the edge of his paper. For a member of House Potter, 300 galleons was barely enough to warrant a note in the ledger, pocket change in the grand scheme of their finances. That Rick regarded it as a significant sum was both endearing and mildly entertaining. It was a reminder of how different his son's upbringing had been, and how unaware he still was of the privileges that now awaited him.
“She’s the one who’s been taking care of me most of the time. A bit like a distant aunt. Even if I wasn’t the reason why Gryffindor kept winning the quidditch cup, she’d still like me because I’m her best student.”
“You sound like you know her well.”
“I stay in the castle during the holidays. I got to know her quite a bit.” Rick replied to his father.
“Why don’t you invite her here to talk about… your new situation?” His mother suggested and his father raised an eyebrow wondering what his wife was playing at.
“Is that alright with you?”
“Why not? She took care of you as your magical guardian for four years, the least we could do is invite her for tea. That way I can also ask her questions about your schooling.”
‘So that’s your angle. I should have known.’ Charlus thought.
“I’d have to write to Lily, Marlene and Ame, oh shit.” he said in realization and in panic. It wasn’t missed by his parents.
“What is it?” they inquired.
“Hm… Hypothetically speaking… How deep in trouble would I be if I’m partly responsible for breaking a betrothal contract between two noble houses?”
Dorea and Charlus exchanged a glance, hers sharp with maternal dread, his tight lipped and bracing for impact. With a deliberate exhale, Charlus folded the Daily Prophet in half and set it down on the table, as if steeling himself for the kind of conversation that might require a strong drink afterward.
“We need to know more than this. It could go from nothing to a blood feud.” the older man said.
“Well… Hypothetically still… Let’s say the daughter of a noble and ancient House who is the third child of the lord, was entered into a betrothal contract she didn’t want to a noble house’s heir who’s fourteen years her senior?”
“How did you help with the exit cl ”
“You took her virginity.” his mother stated sure of herself.
“More like… she gave it to me? Still hypothetically.”
“What’s her house and what’s the heir’s house?” his father questioned further.
“Bones and Blishwick respectively.”
“We’re good,” Charlus said with palpable relief, the tension melting from his shoulders. He let out a low, calming exhale and picked up his journal again with all the nonchalance of a man pretending the last five minutes hadn’t just aged him a year.
Seeing the confusion on his face, Dorea softened her tone, leaning forward slightly as if bridging a gap too long left untouched. She met his eyes with calm certainty, ready to share the knowledge that came not just from her upbringing, but from a lifetime steeped in the nuance of magical politics and family history.
“The Bones are old friends of the Potters. Blishwick is a minor and insignificant house. Since your friend is the third child there won’t be much problem or any accusation of line theft. At best we owed the Bones some galleons but that’s it.”
“Oh, okay.” Rick said in relief.
“No, it’s not okay. You should have thought about the consequences more.”
“I did but remember I believed I was a muggle born. If there had been some problems I would have just hid in the muggle world.”
“...Clever. They wouldn’t have found you. Still ”
“I’m in a relationship already and I’m not the type to sleep around or chase skirts. I helped Amelia because… well she’s my friend and because she’s like the big sister I never had. After everything she did for me, I couldn’t say no to her when she asked for my help. Yes, I thought about her using me but one: she’s a Hufflepuff, two she warned me of the possible consequences.”
"caw"
“See, Morrigan agrees.”
His mother dropped the subject and the family ate in thoughtful silence, the weight of the conversation still lingering like morning fog. When he was done, Rick gently lifted Morrigan from his mother’s shoulder, the crow too tired to protest as she nestled deeper into his hands. He carried her upstairs with the care of someone transporting something precious and placed her on the plushest corner of his bed, watching her eyes flutter shut the moment her feathers touched the blanket. Sighing softly, he stepped into the bathroom for a quick shower to clear his head, the hot water grounding him. Soon after, towel dried and focused, he crouched by his trunk, rifling through its contents with purpose.
Downstairs his parents were talking.
“I know I said it yesterday but I’m amazed at the way he’s…. Taking things so well. It’s like he’s been part of the family for years. I mean… Well, you know what I mean.” said Charlus.
“I do. Yet he’s not calling me mom or you dad.” she replied with a frown.
“... That’s true now that I think about it. Give it time. That’s a big step and we’ve been in his life for less than a day. When he’ll feel like we’re not his guardians or some adults taking care of him, he’ll call us that.”
Dorea reluctantly agreed, though every fiber of her being resisted. It wasn’t just disappointment that weighed on her, it was longing. A raw, aching need to hear her son call her 'Mom', not out of obligation, not by slip of the tongue, but by choice. That one word had become a symbol of everything she had lost, and everything she was desperate to regain.
“Ready to be humbled?”
Turning her head, she spotted Rick stepping in, properly dressed for the day, but in Dorea’s eyes, it was an affront to all fashion and bloodline decency. Horrid second hand Muggle garments hung awkwardly on him, clashing with every sensibility she'd ever been raised with. Mentally, she began crafting a shopping list with the precision of a general planning a campaign: bespoke robes, tailored cloaks, dragonhide boots, and at least one monogrammed waistcoat. Her son would dress like a Potter if it killed her, and possibly him.
“Was that a statement to yourself?” she asked, rising to the challenge with a gleam in her eye. She moved with purpose, ready to prove a lesson to her brilliant but insufferably smug son. Rule one: experience trumps youthful arrogance. Rule two: Muggle science might look clever in books, but in her world, potions, precision, and centuries of magical tradition reigned supreme.
“If that helps you feel better about yourself, sure, why not.”
Dorea’s eye gave the slightest, most aristocratically offended twitch, and Charlus, recognizing the danger like a seasoned duelist, wisely schooled his face into neutrality. He trailed behind his wife and son as they headed for her potion room, where the battleground of pride and methodology would be drawn. The challenge was clear: both would brew a simple sleeping draught, a potion that typically took half an hour to prepare. The twist? Rick wouldn’t be doing it the traditional way. His brewing would involve a more intricate, modernized process, one that, while slower at the start, promised results that could outclass even decades of experience.
From his quiet corner, Charlus watched with a growing sense of admiration. He’d never been much of a brewer himself, certainly not like his cousin Fleamont or the long line of Potters who prided themselves on their potioneering prowess, but even his untrained eye could see that Rick had real talent. The boy moved with a quiet confidence, his technique precise and focused. Still, Dorea was on another level. Her motions were effortless, almost elegant in their economy. Every chop, stir, and swirl bore the weight of decades of experience. There was no shame in admitting she was better, there was simply no contest. But watching his son hold his own? That was something special.
When both finished their potion, Dorea placed a stasis charm on hers and turned to observe her son. Rick had conjured an elaborate array of oddly shaped glass contraptions that looked more like an alchemist’s dream, or a mad scientist’s lab, than anything seen in a traditional potions room. With a practiced flick of his wand, he clicked the pieces into place like clockwork, each tube and chamber snapping together with precision. Then came a series of charms, quiet and purposeful, whose effects neither Dorea nor Charlus could decipher. Rick poured his potion into the first chamber of the contraption and watched intently as the liquid began to travel. It flowed, shimmered, filtered, and condensed through the maze of glass, losing opacity and dark tones until it emerged at the other end, crystal clear. With a nod of satisfaction, Rick collected the end result in a vial, holding it up to show them a fine powder, light brown with streaks of green, catching the light like powdered gemstones.
“The simple sleeping draught acts within five to ten minutes depending on how well it was brewed. Since you’re a healer I believe five minutes is a good estimate for yours.”
“Not a good estimate. A perfect estimate.” corrected his mother.
“I can do fifteen to thirty seconds tops.”
Dorea scoffed, not believing that for a second.
“Now we just need to test it.” Rick said and looked at Charlus. So did Dorea.
“Oh, no. No, no, no. I’m not your guinea pig!”
““Drink.”” mother and son said as the former handed her husband a cup of her sleeping draught.
Understanding that resistance was futile, Charlus took the cup with the grim determination of a condemned man. He drank it all in one go, immediately wincing as the potion assaulted his taste buds like a venomous slug. Gagging, he stumbled to the conjured seat Dorea had prepared, slumping into it with theatrical resignation. Exactly five minutes and a few groans later, he was out like a light. Dorea wasted no time, efficiently uncorking a second vial and feeding him the wake up potion like it was just another Tuesday.
“So?”
“As expected.” his wife said proudly.
“My turn. Here.”
Rick handed his father a pill and a glass of water. Charlus looked at the pill like it had offended him.
“You’re going to be fine. Isn’t your wife a healer?”
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Swallow it. The water is here to make it easier if you have difficulties.”
His father examined the pill like it might insult him in Latin, then shrugged with theatrical resignation. He plucked it from Rick’s hand, popped it into his mouth, and chased it down with a splash of water. Exactly twenty seconds later, Charlus slumped over, knocked out cold. He missed the way Rick smirked victoriously at his mother, who looked like she'd just bitten into a lemon labeled "defeat." Still, Dorea sighed, muttering under her breath as she pulled out her wand and began casting diagnostic charms with the efficiency of a seasoned healer, each flick more irritable than the last, but thorough nonetheless.
“Want me to teach you?”
That wasn’t what she had expected. Dorea had braced for smugness, for the kind of arrogant glee teenage boys wield like a sword after besting their parents. Instead, Rick extended a quiet, sincere olive branch, an invitation to bridge the growing chasm between them with shared knowledge. It wasn't just about easing the sting of her loss; it was about connection. And Dorea, caught between pride and maternal hope, wasn’t about to let that opportunity slip through her fingers. She seized it with grace, and just a touch of mischief.
“I’d love to.”
“We’ll need to go to the muggle world, I don’t have the books to teach you. It’s long and relatively difficult but fun to learn.” he said as he gave his father a dose of the potion to wake him up.
“So who ?”
Charlus' question died in his throat when he saw the expression on each face. His jaw reached the ground when he understood that his wife, the best potion mistress he knew, had lost to their teenage son.
“I guess, he is his mother’s son.” he tried to cheer her up and took her in his arms.
It worked, if only a little, because Dorea softened, sinking into his arms like a weight finally allowed to rest. Meanwhile, Rick, efficient and unfazed, began packing up his equipment with the same methodical calm he brought to brewing. It wasn’t until Dorea stepped away from Charlus, her eyes drifting absently across the table, that she froze. Something among the clutter of her son’s ingredients caught her attention, a glint, a shape, a weight of magic too familiar to ignore.
“Where did you get a basilisk fang?” she asked with wide eyes.
“A what, now?!”
“Oh, this? From the basilisk inside the Chamber of secrets.” Rick replied nonchalantly, not stopping what he was doing.
Both his parents let out reflexive snorts, certain their son was making an outlandish joke. Dorea, however, leaned in with suspicion sharpening her gaze. Basilisk ingredients weren’t just rare, they were legendary. Highly restricted, fantastically expensive, and monitored by both the Ministry and Goblins, they were the sort of thing even seasoned potion masters rarely laid eyes on. For a boy raised in an orphanage with limited means, the idea was beyond implausible. But Rick wasn’t laughing. And that was what made her uneasy.
“I’m not joking. I found it on Winter break during my second year. Amelia was with me.”
Dorea and Charlus looked at each other then back at their son.
“Show us.”
“Karkass.” His father said and an elf popped in the room.
“Master, called Karkass?”
“Bring me the pensive.”
“Yes, master.” the elf answered and snapped his finger, making a pensieve appear.
“So that’s what it looks like.”
“You know what a pensive is?” asked Dorea.
“Yes. Professor McGonagall talked about it when she said she showed her memory of my… Nevermind. How do I show you my memories?”
“Put your wand on your temple, think of the memory and pull it from your head.” his father said as he put the pensive on a round table he had conjured.
Rick did as instructed and a silvery blue filament was extracted from his head, It was as if it was glued to the tip of his wand. Not wasting time he let it drop into the pensive.
“Do you want to see the memories of when we found Salazar’s scriptorium too?”
“The what now?”
“Salazar Slytherin had one at Hogwarts?!” Dorea, as a good Slytherin, knew about the founder of her house way more than her Gryffindor husband.
“Yes. It was hidden too. Not far away from the Chamber’s entrance.”
“I’d love to see it too, please.”
Rick nodded and pulled out another filament of memories from his head which he also put in the pensive. Both adults leaned forward and put their heads in the magical bowl. Thirty minutes later, they leaned back. They were stuck in silence.
They learned more about what kind of person their son was in half an hour than they did the whole previous evening. They learned that he was smart beyond belief but also quite reckless. Adventurous and loyal, preferring suffering than hurt his friends. They may not have raised him but they were proud of who he was. Especially Charlus who saw in his son a true Gryffindor. Dorea wasn’t thinking exactly the same thing. Turning around she yelled at Rick.
“Morgana’s bloody tits, are you bloody mad?! What kind of deranged individual uses an Unforgivable on himself?!”
“Dear, that was calculated and very brave.”
“Brave?! Brave?! That was Gryffindor stupid, that was!” she shouted at her husband then turned back to her son. “You’re grounded!”
“Wha— ”
“For the rest of your life! You’re not leaving the manor! Ever! I’m not letting you go back to Hogwarts where you’re going to get yourself killed because— ”
“Dorea!”
“No, Charlus! I lost him once! I refuse to lose him again! He’s staying here! I’ll tutor him and—”
Dorea was struck squarely in the chest by a stunning spell, her body going limp before collapsing to the floor in a heap of velvet robes and disbelief. Charlus stood frozen in place, his jaw slack, staring at his son, his wand still raised as the shocking reality settled in. Rick had just stunned his mother. Without so much as a flinch.
“I know, I’m going to get wacked for this but… I think that was necessary.”
“... You stunned your mother.” Charlus said with a frown.
“Yeah. Well… I don’t quite see her or you as my parents yet so I don’t feel as bad as I probably should. Anyway, let’s make things clear, as far as I’m concerned Hogwarts is my home until further notice. While I don't mind and quite want for us to be a family, don't expect to order me around when I’m used to being independent. I will have no qualms going back to my previous situation if you unreasonably try to deprive me of my freedom. I’ll make an effort to play by your rules and to… integrate myself with the both of you but if your rules cross what’s important to me, don’t be surprised if I do what I want. Like now. I don’t like conflict. I don’t like yelling and I don’t like unreasonable people trying to force themselves on me in any way.”
Packing the rest of his potion supplies with cool efficiency, Rick announced, without a hint of apology, that he’d be flying outside. His voice was casual, as if he hadn’t just stunned his mother and delivered a speech worthy of a rebellious prince. Charlus remained silent, Dorea’s unconscious form still cradled in his arms, the tension in the room thick enough to bottle. Only after the door clicked shut behind their son did he finally move. With a heavy sigh and a subtle grimace, he drew his wand, placed it gently against her chest, and murmured the revival spell.
“Enervate.” he said, putting his wand on Dorea’s chest. The effect was immediate and the woman opened her eyes.
“What happened?” she asked, confused.
“Corvus proved he took after you the most.”