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Patria Potestas: Blood Ties	By : JBankai89 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Sirius Views: 17595 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, I gain nothing from this but a way to pass the time.

Chapter List
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A/N: The only major canon divergence is that Sirius isn't dead (obviously). The details of the courtship ritual were pulled from Roman and Victorian traditions, as well as suggestions from people on various Facebook writing groups. Please note that there will be explicit Mpreg and body modification in the followup fic to this one, and I'm saying this now so that you don't get a nasty surprise if you're not into that. You have been warned. (Also, just because I am posting this does not mean I am ignoring certain other incomplete projects—I'm always working on a bunch of things at once, so I promise nothing is being put on the back burner in order to work on this.)
Chapter One – The Curse

31^st July, 2004

Of all the ways Harry had expected to wake up on the morning of his twenty-fifth birthday, this hadn't made the list.

Laying in his bed, his body was heavy with drowsiness, and he hadn't even fully woken up when his wand had decided to go all wonky.

Fleetingly, Harry wondered if it was from mending his wand with the Elder Wand. He could come up with no other possible explanation for why his Summoning Charm for his glass of water hadn't worked at first, then on his second attempt it shot at him with the force of a short-range missile. Years of deeply ingrained Seeker skills enabled him to dodge it, and it shattered against the wall instead of his against his face.

Harry mended the glass and cleaned up the mess, but he still felt off. Was it just his wand? Was something wrong with his magic?

Harry sat up with a groan, feeling as though he'd turned eighty-five instead of twenty-five, and he shook his head in an effort to dispel the strange weariness that refused to leave him. The more he woke up and got his bearings, the more he began to suspect that it wasn't necessarily related to his magic, and more likely he'd caught something.

“Brilliant,” he mumbled as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got onto unsteady feet. “Of course I'd get ill on my birthday of all days.”

Harry traipsed to the toilet and looked in the mirror to find that he looked worse than usual. His skin was waxy, very pale, and it had a distinct oily tint to it, as though he hadn't washed in several days. Harry raked a hand through his hair, and it stood on end of its own accord. At least that hadn't changed.

Harry washed, breakfasted (as much as he could, given that he had no appetite whatsoever) and tried to do something productive around his little flat—work on his ongoing writing project, do the dishes, dust—but no matter what he did, he still felt like death. After the water glass incident that morning, he hadn't dared try to do any more magic, and he felt strangely cut off from it, which he didn't think was a good sign.

In the early afternoon, Harry reluctantly wrote a short letter to Molly extending his apologies that he couldn't come for his birthday. He sent it off with his new owl, a tiny thing called Napoleon, and then turned to his Floo.

“Flat of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger,” he said as clearly as he could, and tossed the glittering powder in. “Hermione, you there?” he called when the connection opened. “I really need you to come through.”

Hermione's head appeared in his fire grate, looking concerned.

“Harry?” she asked, brow furrowing, “what's wrong? I thought I was seeing you at the Burrow this evening.”

“I cancelled, could you come through? I think I'm getting ill or something...and something's off with my magic.”

His latter statement seemed to be the proverbial magic words, as a second later Hermione's spinning form toppled out of his fireplace. She stood up quickly and brushed ash off her robes, her face lined with worry.

“What's wrong with your magic?” Hermione asked without preamble, already brandishing her wand and looking every part Trainee Healer Hermione Granger. Harry appreciated her taking the matter so seriously—not that she wouldn't. Harry was rarely one to claim illness, and therefore she knew that if Harry said that he was ill, then he really was ill.

“I dunno,” he said, sitting down heavily upon the settee, “I woke up this morning and I felt kind of off, like I was cut off from my magic, and I tried a summoning charm, and first it didn't really work, and the second time it flew at me like a Bludger.”

“Hmm,” she stepped over to him and flicked her wand up and down his form, her brow knitted together in concentration. “And it started this morning?”

“Yeah, when I woke up,” Harry replied just as Hermione flicked her wand once more, and a small scroll materialized in front of her. She unrolled it quickly, and her eyes zipped across the paper, taking in the information quickly.

“Well, your diagnostic says that your magic is unstable...some sort of familial charm or curse woven into your blood...” she said, trailing off as she continued to study the parchment.

“Does it say what kind of charm or curse or whatever is doing this?” Harry asked, feeling his chest tighten at the mere thought that it was thanks to his family that he felt like death.

“No, I'll have to look into it,” Hermione said while she rolled up the scroll and pocketed it. “Harry I'm going to let Ron know that you're ill, so if it gets worse just send your owl to him or call him by Floo, whatever is easier. I'll try to get an answer for you soon, all right?”

Before Harry could nod, she was already jumping back into his fireplace.

Harry made himself a tea, then transported it back to bed with him. His head was spinning far too much to even entertain the idea of trying to be productive, and as he lay there, alternating between dozing and drinking the tea, he was vaguely surprised that Sirius hadn't come to see him. He could mother hen as badly as Mrs Weasley could at the best of times, and his absence wasn't exactly worrying, but it was curious.

The sun had begun to sink on the horizon before Hermione came back, and she tapped his bedroom door twice before slipping inside, her expression troubled as she forced a small smile.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, and the false pleasantness in her voice told Harry that whatever she found out, it wasn't good.

“Same as before,” he mumbled groggily as he sat up. “What'd you find out?”

“Well, I ran your symptoms by my supervisor,” she began, her voice carrying a strange tremor, “and he knew at once what it was, and this was backed up by—er, another, um, patient that was admitted to hospital this morning.”

“Hermione,” Harry said wearily, cutting her nervous rambling short, “just get to the point.”

“Erm, it's a bloodline charm called Patria Potestas. Roughly translated, it means Will of the Father. It's a charm that many old pureblooded families used to ensure that their bloodlines continued,” she said in a rush, “er, my supervisor told me some things about it, but they didn't have all the details. Basically, it only comes into effect if there's only one living person connected to the bloodline left, and no heir. It will activate on the day of that person's twenty-fifth birthday, but only if they are unattached—not seeing anyone, that is—and if there is an eligible partner around.”

“Oh, spectacular,” Harry grumbled, “I come out, break it off with Ginny, and now I'll have to get back together with her to knock her up with a kid or two, this is—”

“—It-it's not Ginny,” Hermione said, cutting him off with a nervous mumble. “Um, in the wizarding world orientation is considered by the spell, since it doesn't take much to er...temporarily alter the male body in order to bear children, but, Harry, maybe this is wrong maybe—”

“—Hermione,” Harry said, cutting her off. “Who is it? Malfoy?” He asked, and laughed, but when her expression didn't change his face fell. “Oh God, it isn't Malfoy, is it?”

“Well, no...”

“Then who?” Harry asked, and again Hermione clammed up, looking positively horrified. Harry gave her a hard look, and she bowed her head, mumbling something so softly that he couldn't make heads or tails of it.

“Hermione, for the love of God, spit it out already,” Harry snapped, and she flushed a little.

“It's—it's—Harry, it's Sirius. Potestas is trying to force you to marry your godfather,” Hermione said, her eyes filling with tears.

Whomever Harry had been expecting Hermione to name, Sirius hadn't even crossed his mind.

Not that he would—Harry had always seen Sirius like an uncle, or a second father figure, nothing more. Hermione's anguished words struck him dumb, and Harry stared at her blankly, certain that she'd made some sort of horrible mistake.

“Sirius came in to St Mungo's this morning with similar symptoms to yours,” she continued with a small sniffle, “m-my supervisor said likely the spell doesn't recognize godparents as a familial link, because it's such a new concept to wizarding culture. And they said that until you two initiate a courtship rite, the symptoms will get steadily worse until your magic basically burns out of you both, and you'll wind up like a squib.”

Harry raked a shaking hand through his hair as he stared at Hermione. Marry his godfather? This couldn't possibly be right.

“I went to see Sirius,” Hermione continued, her voice weak, “h-he figured it out straightaway, growing up in a pureblooded household and all, um...” she paused, and fished a slightly creased scroll from her pocket. “He wanted me to give this to you, and told me that he'll come to talk to you when you're ready.”

Harry hesitated, and stared at the little scroll in Hermione's hand as though it had teeth. Heaving a despondent sigh, he took it from her and set it aside. He was still working through the shock, and reading anything from Sirius right now made him feel slightly ill. Hermione watched him with sad, sympathetic eyes, then leant in and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry,” she said sadly, and when she pulled back her eyes were shining with unshed tears, “it's just so unfair...everything seems to happen to you, doesn't it?”

Harry laughed weakly, remembering when Hagrid had once uttered those same words to him, and he hated how they still rang true. Yes, everything did seem to happen to him, and he was so numbed by the shock of it that he felt like he could do little more than stare blankly at his bedroom wall. Marry his godfather? It was beyond shocking—it was positively ludicrous.

Full dark came on around them as they sat there, not really speaking, his friend merely keeping him company as he tried to ride out the shock over what she had told him. Hermione made him another tea before she headed home for the night, and she set it down pointedly next to the untouched scroll, then leant in to hug him again.

“Contact me by the Floo or send me an owl if you need anything, all right?”

“'Course,” Harry replied as he returned the hug. “I'll be all right, Hermione, don't worry about me.”

As she pulled back, she offered him one last watery smile before she slipped out of the bedroom door, and he listened to his Floo flare to life as she left.

Harry stared at the little scroll on his night table for a long time after Hermione had left. The mere sight of it made him feel distinctly uneasy, and he felt as though he'd rather take a dozen Blast-Ended Skrewts on a walk than look at the letter. He didn't want this—any of this. But like at least half a dozen other instances in his life, he had no choice.

With a defeated sigh, Harry picked up the scroll and broke the seal, then reluctantly unrolled the letter.

Harry,

I know this came as a shock to you, as much as it did to me. I passed the Potestas age while I was still in Azkaban, and since nothing happened at that time, I assumed that it wouldn't affect me. Clearly, I was wrong.

As I am sure Hermione explained to you, until we initiate (or more particularly, I will initiate) a courtship ritual, the curse will continue to mess around with our magic.

I grew up learning about these rites, so I'm fairly familiar with what would need to happen. We don't exactly have a choice here, Harry, and I am as thrilled about this as you are, believe me. But, I am just trying to explain things here as clinically as I can without my feelings on the matter getting in the way.

Because I am the older one of the two of us, I would be considered the Suitor, and you, the Intended. This means absolutely nothing is expected of you whatsoever. I am the one who begins the rite, who organizes the outings, all of that. It is a two-month long courtship, which upon announcement of the engagement at the end of the two months, we have a further six months to actually wed, and then five years before we need to concern ourselves with the latter expectations of Potestas (producing heirs).

The first step (that will also clear up our illness) is the Rite of Intent. It has to be performed by me at the new moon, but I will not do that until you feel ready to start this. Once it begins, there will be no going back. We can sit and discuss it if you like, but since the curse is already affecting us, it would be best for Hermione to join us at our meetings. You and I will both be required to choose a chaperone in order to protect your 'virtue' during the courtship. I know it sounds ridiculous, but Victorian wizards were incredibly prim and proper.

I don't want to overwhelm you with too much information, but as I said, send me an owl when you're ready to talk.

Sirius

Harry stared at the letter, unable to believe what he was seeing. Marriage? Heirs? It was too much.

Harry jumped from his bed, staggered to the toilet, and promptly lost the contents of his stomach.

4^th August, 2004

“Harry!” Hermione called, and Harry groaned. “I'm coming in, I hope you're decent!”

Her shrill voice echoed through the silent flat, and she let herself into the bedroom, where Harry was seated in a chair by the window, cradling another cup of tea in his hands, and trying to not look over to the crumpled wad of parchment in the corner of his bedroom, where he'd thrown the letter after realizing that he couldn't bear to look at it a second time.

As Hermione stepped inside, a hand went up to cover her nose and mouth as she choked. “Merlin's tit, Harry!” she cried as she took out her wand and began casting spells to clear the air of the stink. “What have you been doing? It smells like something crawled in here and died!”

“Nothing,” Harry mumbled, ignoring the very Ron-like exclamation, while not bothering to look up from his cup. “Just...sitting.”

“And when have you last showered or eaten?” She asked in a stern, almost maternal tone. He shrugged, and she grumbled in frustration.

Out of nowhere, Harry yelped as Hermione's thumb and forefinger latched on to the upper part of his ear, dug in her nails just enough for it to pinch, and she proceeded to drag him up from his seat, causing him to drop his mug, staining the front of his pyjamas with cold tea while the ceramic cracked in half against the hardwood foor. “Up you get, you stupid man, enough wallowing. You and I are going to work this out like proper adults, I don't care how damn uncomfortable you are about it!”

“Ow, ow! Hermione, let go!” Harry yelped as she dragged him from his room. Hermione escorted him to the lavatory, shoved him into the shower stall fully clothed, and flicked her wand to turn on the hot water. Harry yelped as it scorched his skin, and he quickly adjusted the temperature.

“Shower, Harry,” she said sternly from the other side of the frosted glass, “I'm not moving until I see suds.”

“Slave driver,” he grumbled while he peeled off his sodden pyjamas and lobbed them over the top of the shower stall, smirking in satisfaction as they landed on Hermione with a satisfying splat! and yelp from her. Served her right for ambushing him, as far as Harry was concerned, as he begrudgingly grabbed the shampoo bottle off the shelf. As soon as he began washing she stepped outside, though Harry doubted that she had gone very far.

Fifteen minutes later, Harry stepped out of the shower to see that Hermione had laid out a towel and some fresh clothes for him. He quickly dried off (not daring to risk a drying spell, with his magic still being so unpredictable) before he donned the jeans and T-shirt that she had left out.

Harry would rather be doing anything than discuss the situation at hand, but he had a feeling that Hermione would be quite content to stick around until they talked about it. He took a breath to steady himself, then opened the door to head out to the main area of his flat.

He found Hermione seated at his small dining table, a stack of parchment and two ancient-looking books stacked in front of her, and a styrofoam box that looked like muggle takeaway and unopened soft drink sat on the table across from her.

“Shut up and eat,” she said and Harry didn't dare argue with her as he popped open the container to find a steaming pork pie. He tucked in straightaway, and Hermione stayed silent until he'd finished. She banished both pieces of litter as he pushed them away, then finally looked over her stack of research as she focused on him.

“I've been doing my best to look into this—and talking to Sirius, since you won't,” she said pointedly. At the mention of his godfather, Harry squirmed in his seat uneasily. “It looks like any attempt to break this spell might make things worse, at least according to the records I've found on this Potestas thing,” she continued with a grimace. “The new moon is in a week, and we need to discuss what needs to happen next. You two need to go forward with this, like it or not. Your ancestors saw to that, and now you're stuck.”

“It just...” Harry began, and winced at how feeble his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again. “It just feels so wrong, Hermione. Sirius he—I mean, he's my godfather for fuck's sake,” Harry said in a panic, and his friend looked on with a sympathetic look in her eye.

“I know Harry,” she said gently, “but it could be worse.”

“How could it possibly be worse?”

“At least it's not Malfoy,” she said, and Harry snorted.

“That's true,” Harry replied, smiling weakly.

“Harry,” Hermione began again, “I—I know it's not ideal, and it's a little...um, incestuous, almost. But...Sirius is a good man, isn't he?”

“He is,” Harry agreed, sighing heavily as he dropped his gaze to the table. “I mean, if this had to happen with someone twice my age I'm glad it was him, but...it still feels wrong.” Harry grimaced, and Hermione nodded a little in understanding. He sighed again, and refocused his gaze on her. “Okay, talk. What's my life gonna look like for the next two months?”

“It's going to be stressful, but Sirius is doing his best to make it as easy for you as he can,” Hermione began, while she shuffled through her stack of papers. “Erm, well, these wizards who came up with this spell were hyper paranoid of the Suitor taking advantage of the Intended, so you and he each need to pick a chaperone of the opposite to your interested sex—meaning someone of a gender you're not interested in, sexually.”

“So a girl then?” Harry asked, and she nodded.

“Yeah. They'll be present with you and Sirius for your, erm, outings together. As the courtship progresses, you'll be expected to get a little more physical—nothing sexual, like hand-holding and things like that.” Hermione's cheeks tinted pink in a way that told Harry it was probably more than just hand-holding. The concept of doing anything like that with Sirius, of all people, made Harry feel incredibly strange, and he quickly shook the image from his mind.

“So what's first, Hermione? Sirius mentioned something in his letter about a Rite of In-Intent,” Harry grimaced at his stammer; despite his attempt to look at everything clinically, like it didn't apply to him, it was harder than Harry expected it to be.

“Right, the Rite of Intent...” Hermione paused as she shuffled through her notes again. “Okay, here it is, Rite of Intent. Basically, it's expected to be a partially public ritual. On the night of the new moon, the Suitor will go to a Courtship Tree—the closest one that I found is on the edge of the Forbidden Forest near Hogsmeade—and they will tie a silver cord around it that has seven knots threaded through it. Then the Intended has two days to respond. If they accept the suit, they make this known by taking a red cord or ribbon and braiding it through the Suitor's, or taking a green one and tying it above it if they reject the suit.”

“Okay, then what?” Harry asked, doing his best to swallow his fear. It wasn't like he was being asked to die (again), it was just...something. Romance seemed too strong a word for whatever this was that he had to do with Sirius. Harry shivered again, and tried to focus on Hermione's words.

“After that, there's several rounds of outings and gifts given to you and your family. Each gift symbolizes something different, to show you that the Suitor will be able to meet your needs, care for you, stuff like that. At the end, there is supposed to be a celebration at the home of the Intended's family, a familial gift is given, and if the family approves of the Suitor, you'll be given an engagement ring, but that won't be for another two months.”

“Hang on,” Harry said, while he tried to work out what Hermione was saying to him, “you said that this –this curse came into effect because I'm the last of my bloodline. Then how come there's a familial gift? If I'm the last, wouldn't the curse know that I have no family?”

“You're the last Potter,” Hermione said with a note of impatience in her voice, “if your mum was still alive, you would still be expected to follow through with this courtship. It's focused on bloodlines, not just family.”

“Okay then, um, Hermione? What family?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow, “does this thing really expect me to bring Sirius to meet the Dursleys?”

“There's something here about surrogate families,” she said while she motioned to her stack of notes, “as long as you view them as your family, the spell will react to them as such—I assumed you'd ask the Weasleys.” Harry nodded; she knew him well. The Weasleys were, for all intents and purposes, his family through and through.

“Okay,” Harry said with a heavy sigh, “Rite of Intent, gifts, outings, anything else?”

“Just the Negotiations, but that's sort of a formality after the engagement is made official, sort of like a Prenuptial Agreement,” she said, still watching him sadly.

“Brilliant,” Harry muttered, dropping his gaze to the table, “just what I've always wanted, for my entire life to be planned out for me.”

“I wish I had better news Harry,” Hermione said sadly, “but the longer you draw this out, the worse your symptoms will get.”

“I know, really, I do, it's just...it's Sirius.”

“I know Harry,” Hermione said gently. “Shall I...shall I tell him to go ahead with the rite?” she asked timidly, and Harry looked up at her. Harry knew that she already knew his answer. What choice did he have, really?

“Yeah,” Harry said dully, “tell him to go ahead with it.”
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Patria Potestas: Blood Ties