It was tradition for the Potters to serve the crown, a statement Harry had heard countless times. For generations the noble family had paid fealty to Lord Voldemort; they had been an extension of the King’s sword, had acted on his words with unfaltering loyalty, and Harry would be no different. It was his job now, too.
His fingers traced the heavy chainmail and the tight, interlocked hooks. He’d practised for years with it — or rather, something akin to it — with a leather training vest clumsily thrown over the top, but he wore a dark blue tunic now instead, dyed with gallnuts and iron, with the Potter family crest embroidered in: a rearing stag intertwined with white blackthorn flowers.
Around his neck, his mother fixed the clasp of his cape. Her eyes flickered up to his and she smiled weakly.
“You look so much your father,” she said.
Harry gave his own weak smile, too nervous to speak. It was true — he knew he had inherited little of his mother’s supernatural beauty: her red hair, bushy and wild, intertwined with leaves and sticks; her skin, almost golden, and perfect like it had been carved from wood. Her dryad nature was largely unnoticed in him, save for his eyes which shined and flickered with an atypical green that sung of an ancient forest in the dark.
“He’d be proud of you,” Lily continued. She fiddled with the clasp again, trying to secure it properly. “So proud.”
“Thanks, Ma,” Harry murmured.
His gut was twisting uncomfortably, churning with anticipation of what was to happen. He’d never seen one of the Dark Lord’s knighting ceremonies, but he’d been told by his grandmother that he was to kneel, to not make eye contact. He was to offer a gift and then to drink from a cup of the wine proffered in return.
Harry had never had wine before. Godric’s Hollow produced ciders and meads instead, imported beers and malts, but wine was ceremonious, wine was holy. It was the drink of ceremonies and rituals. He worried about the taste, but his grandmother — who had drunk it in her youth at a similar initiation in service of Dark Lord — had told him it was sweeter than beer or cider, and more rich than mead.
“Do not get drunk on it,” she had warned as Harry had kneeled before her, and a servant had rearranged the blankets over her withered legs. “Moderation, moderation, moderation. We must restore the family’s honour.”
“Ástin mín,” Lily said. She pulled Harry’s forehead down and pressed it against her own. “You will be wondrous.”
Her warm breath puffed against Harry’s chin and he pressed closer, wrapping his arms around her and hugging. He buried his face, bowing slightly, into her neck and breathed in — that woody, earthy smell that was so familiar filled his nose and settled the twisting thing in his stomach.
“You promise?” Harry asked, voice trembling a little.
“By the Lord, I promise.” She lifted his head from her shoulder and cupped his cheeks, brushing the tears from his eyes. “And you ever have any troubles, you find some earth and sink your fingers into the dirt and call. The forests will listen to you, Harry. They run through you.”
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