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The Homorphus Charm


Dora Potter was waiting at the edge of the property to greet her son and husband. Charlus found his face caught up in her palms and a generous amount of kisses applied across his cheeks and forehead as she desperately smothered him, as though checking to see every pore of his skin had been kissed. James quickly ducked away before she could repeat the process on him, leaving his dad to bare the brunt of her panic.

Dumbledore, true to his word, waved his wand and transfigured the Potter’s backyard into a right little celebratory party. Butterbeers and mead for the adults and an assortment of foods appeared across long picnic tables beneath glittering fairy lights. “The house elves made the food, of course,” whispered Ted Tonks, smiling and leaning in to James’s ear, holding his cup of mead, “Gamp’s Law, you know.”

James sat on the edge of the party, in an old swing his dad had strung up to a tree in the far corner of the yard during a father-son bonding experience with the Parish family years ago. James had hardly ever used it, of course, seeing as it was nowhere near as exciting to pretend at flying once you’d done the real thing. He let it move gently back and forth as he watched the happy members of the Resistance celebrating, Sirius laying on the grass nearby.

“I’m sorry,” James said quietly.

Sirius turned to look up at him, cocking his doggy head a bit so that his ears sort of flopped.

James stared down at his feet, the toes of his trainers dragging in the dirt, “Fat lot of help I was today. If it weren’t for you and my dad, I’d be a goner.” He sighed, shaking his head, “I’m not a very good wizard, I’m afraid.”

Sirius got up and walked over, putting his paw up on James’s knee.

“I’m not,” James said, argumentative, even though nothing had really been said, of course. A fat tear rolled over his cheek. “I can’t even figure out how to help you and I never think to draw my wand, it’s like I forget I’m a wizard. I’m practically a squib.”

Sirius put his chin on James’s knee with a doggy groan and a deep sigh.

James wiped his tears with his fist, frustrated. “I wish you could talk. I miss you.”

A shadow fell over them and James looked up, wiping his eyes more, and saw Dumbledore silhouetted against the fairy lights and the party. Dumbledore clutched a glass of butterbeer with vanilla ice cream plopped into it, a fat purple straw sticking up through the foam. He held it out to James. “I thought you should like a treat,” he said, “You seem rather down.”

“Thank you sir,” James said, taking the cup half-heartedly.

Dumbledore smiled and waved his wand, producing a platter filled with bits of beef. He winked and placed it on the ground before the big shaggy dog. “And here you are, Snuffles,” he said, “I apologize it’s not biscuits, but I should think you’ll find this more exciting in the end.”

Sirius wagged his tail and quickly leaped to devouring the meal set before him with loud squashy noises.

Dumbledore magicked a small chair and set himself down, leaning into it happily and watching the party, the same as James had been doing. “You did marvelously today, James,” he said.

“It’s okay to say I did lousy and that I have a lot more to learn,” James said, “I know I’m a ruddy git that let everyone else do the fighting. I didn’t even think to draw my wand until Si--Snuffles pulled it out of my pocket… And then I hid in the brush and screamed for my Dad and --”

“You defended yourself and stunned one of the most powerful wizards in the world,” Dumbledore interrupted him, “Abraxas Malfoy is a worthy opponent for a wizard far more advanced in the arts than you are, my boy, and yet here you stand. Very few wizards your age could go up against a Death Eater and a Werewolf and live to tell the tale. You should be proud of your accomplishment.”

James didn’t say anything, but he took a sip of the butterbeer. It was sweet and foamy and danced on his tongue.

Dumbledore ran a hand over his beard, smoothing it, eyes turned back to the party once again.

Sirius had finished his dinner by now and he looked up at James with expectant eyes.

James stopped sipping the butterbeer a moment and took a deep breath, thinking of how to word what he had to say. “Um… Mr. Dumbledore, sir,” he said gently, “Professor McGonagall told us how you taught her to become an animagus… is that true?”

Dumbledore nodded, “Yes it is.”

James hesitated, “Well… see… I’m writing a - an essay… as part of my summer work, you know… and I’m thinking of doing it on animagi and I was curious if you might be able to - er - to answer a question I have about it.”

Dumbledore turned to look at James through his half-moon spectacles, a smile playing on the very edge of his lips. “Oh? What sort of question did you have?

“Well, hypothetically speaking, of course, say there was a wizard who had turned into his animagus form and he couldn’t turn back on his own. Is there a spell that another wizard could use to - to sort of reverse the animagus to his human form?” James looked nervously up at Dumbledore, hoping that Sirius was busily doing his best impression of a completely normal dog.

Dumbledore nodded slowly, “Hmm… I see, that would be quite the predicament, being stuck in one’s animagus form…”

“Yeah,” James nodded, “But I mean, it’s all very hypothetical.”

“Yes, you mentioned that,” Dumbledore said. James flushed. “Well,” Dumbledore continued, “I suppose that if one were to be stuck in one’s animagus form, then one’s friends might be able to help him -- but it takes two to do the trick of it. You see, it’s called the Homorphus Charm. You simply --” Dumbledore swished his wand in a very specific Z-like pattern in the general direction of Snuffles, “And say homorphus.”

For a moment, James was terrified that Snuffles was about to become Sirius. There was a palpable rush of magical energy that flew forth from Dumbledore’s wand - accompanied by white sparks that bounced off Sirius’s wet nose and ruffled the fur on his neck - but nothing happened. “As you see, only one wizard’s spell has no effect with the Homorphus,” he said. Then he chuckled, “Well, of course, it wouldn’t work on Snuffles, seeing as he is but a dog and not an animagus.” Dumbledore smiled.

James swallowed back his nerves.

“Does that answer your question, my boy?”

“Yes,” James answered quickly. “Perfectly. Thank you.”

Dumbledore stood up, nodding. He waved his wand and Sirius’s empty plate disappeared as well as the small stool. James’s cup also instantly refilled. “I am quite glad to have been of assistance,” he said, smiling. “Anyway. I shall stop boring you with my old self.” He bowed by way of bidding them farewell, and ducked back toward the party.

“Bye,” James said, watching him go and mingle with the other members of the Resistance. When he was out of earshot, James looked down at Sirius with urgent eyes. “We need to get Peter to come back.”




Meanwhile, miles away, in London, at Grimmauld Place, there was a crack on the doorstep of Number 12, followed by a knock on the door. Kreacher the house elf opened the door slowly, peering up at the pale-haired man before him. “Kreacher welcomes Mister Malfoy to the Noble House of Bl--” but Abraxas had already shoved through the doorway, brushing the elf aside in his stride, causing Kreacher to tumble into the stairs.

Walburga looked down the stairs from her library doorway. “Abraxas,” she said in surprise. She watched as Abraxas Malfoy hastened to climb the stairs. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to stay with you, for just a small bit of time,” he said lowly, “I’ve - I’ve made an error.”

“An error?” Walburga asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, Walburga, an error. The Dark Lord sent me to collect the blood traitor Potter’s son and bring him back to Headquarters to be used as a bait for his filthy muggle-lover father. Fenrir and I were in the field near the ruins of that muggle home - we know the Potter house is there but unplottable, of course - and and we found the boy, we had him - I had him! - and his wretched dog --” Abraxas stopped mid-sentence. “And Dumbledore was there. Him and half the ruddy Resistance! Saw me, identified me, identified Fenrir… and now they’ve told the Aurors and they’re after me. We need to move Headquarters from the manor. They could be raiding it at any moment, once the red tape for a warrant is passed.”

Walburga stared at Abraxas down her nose in disdain. “You fear the Ministry?” she asked.

“Yes,” Abraxas replied.

“Fool,” Walburga hissed. “What you should fear is the Dark Lord’s wrath.”

“I do,” Abraxas replied. “Greatly.”

“The Dark Lord does nothing without good reason,” Walburga said, “If he kills you, then he kills you -- you must have somehow deserved it. Go to him and beg your mercies.” She started to turn into her library.

“Walburga, wait,” Abraxas said, rushing to take a couple of the stairs, one hand extended to stop her. “Just for the night. I shall apparate to him first thing in the morning.”

She stared at him with a sour pucker to her mouth for a long moment before she sighed and turned back to the library, “You’ll sleep in the parlor on the bottom floor. Kreacher, set bedding on the little couch in the parlor.”

“Yes, mistress,” Kreacher disapparated with a crack.

“Thank you, Walburga,” Malfoy murmured, bowing low, “Truly this is a noble house for the generosity and mercy you have shown are most brilliant.”

“Enough of that,” Walburga replied, and she turned and disappeared into the library, slamming the door shut behind herself.

On the stairs, high above, Regulus watched as Abraxas turned and moved back down the stairs toward the parlor. He leaned back from the bannister, turning to go back to his room, when he heard a cry and a shout from the parlor. He recognized the squeaky shouts - it was Kreacher. Hurriedly, Regulus flung himself down the stairs, bounding down multiple steps at a time. “Kreacher is sorrrrryyy!” wailed the elf, “He is sorry, he is only trying to -- he is sorry!! - He is trying to do as mistress says!” The elf’s sobs wrenched at the guts of Regulus as he thundered past Walburga’s library and slid the rest of the way down the bannister to hurry himself along.

“WHAT is all this noise?!” Walburga screamed, coming out of her library and hurrying down the stairs, livid.

Regulus had already gotten to the parlor to find Abraxas with his wand fixed on the elf, the cruciatus curse making the wrinkled old elf shake and quiver and convulse on the floor. “You nasty, horrible elf,” Abraxas snapped, “Do you frequently make haste in following your mistress’s orders?? Crucio!”

“STOP IT!” screamed Regulus, “STOP IT!” and he jumped at Abraxas, shoving him in the hip as hard as he could, “You stop that right now, you wicked old man!” he shrieked.

Abraxas’s face was fury-filled as Walburga entered the room to see Kreacher crawling on his tiny hands and knees to Regulus’s feet, where he collapsed, hugging onto his master’s ankles and sobbing, “Thank you Master Regulus, thank you,” the elf squealed.

“What is the meaning of this?” Walburga demanded, looking from Abraxas to the elf, crying at her son’s feet.

Abraxas waved his palm to the still unfinished guest bed that Kreacher had been assigned to set on the couch in the parlor. “Your elf was dawdling in fulfilling his duties,” he said. “I was teaching him a lesson in speed and proper elf behavior.”

“Kreacher was trying,” he sobbed into Regulus’s ankles, “Kreacher had to get the linens, Kreacher had to get them before he could make the bed for Mister Malfoy. Kreacher was trying to!”

Regulus knelt down, putting a hand reassuringly on Kreacher’s head. “I know you were, Kreacher, it’s alright.” He looked up at his mother. “He was doing it mum, he wasn’t disobeying.”

“Seems your elf may be too old to be efficient,” Abraxas said, “It may be time to add him to your collection.” He drew a finger across his throat.

Regulus looked up at the elves heads on their plaques about the room. “NO!” he bellowed, “MOTHER NO!”

Walburga held her chin high. “My elf is not yours to reprimand, Abraxas. I should prefer if you left the duty to myself.” She looked at Regulus. “To your room, Regulus.”

Kreacher sobbed harder, clutching to Regulus’s knees. “Please, Master Regulus, don’t let them do away with poor Kreacher!”

“Mother, don’t do away with Kreacher, please,” sobbed Regulus, “He’s my friend.”

“To your room, Regulus,” she repeated.

“Mother, please you musn’t,” Regulus begged, fat tears rolling across his cheeks. “Please. He’s mine. He’s my friend.”

“House elves ain’t friends of wizards,” spat Abraxas, “They’re meant to be slaves.”

Regulus looked at her with wide, pleading eyes, “Mother.”

“GO TO YOUR ROOM, REGULUS!” she bellowed.

Regulus ran up the stairs, leaving the elf behind, sobbing as he heard the cries that echoed through the house from behind him. He dove into his bed, drawing a pillow over his head and shivering in the dark, keen not to hear it when the cries of the elf ceased.




It was many hours later when Walburga came into the room and sat on the edge of Regulus’s bed. She touched his shoulder and he pulled away with a jerk. Gently, Walburga pulled the pillow from Regulus’s head. He blinked up at her, hiccupping, his face red with tears and anger. “Is he… is he dead?” Regulus asked.

Walburga hesitated, then, rather than answering him, she said, “You need to learn the place of things in this world, Regulus. You need to learn of hierarchy and power.” She reached down and brushed the hair from her son’s forehead with the back of her hand softly. “You’re a wizard, Regulus, a pureblood wizard, of the Noble House of Black. You are royalty. You are powerful. Do not ever - ever - forget that.” Walburga drew a deep breath, “There is nothing in this world that can rule over you.”

Regulus didn’t know what this had to do with Kreacher and whether or not he was alive. He looked away from her, his stomach quite ill from the idea of Kreacher being gone. His eyes landed on the gobstones set on the table and he felt even sicker.

“House Elves, when in their proper place, are meant to be servants of wizards, not friends,” Walburga said. “They’re no different from one another. Do you understand?”

Regulus hesitated, “But… that doesn’t mean we need to be cruel, does it?”

“Sometimes, when a servant steps out of line, cruelty is the only way for their lessons to be learned,” Walburga said slowly, evenly. “Sometimes, they must be punished in order to learn their place.”

Regulus blinked up at her, unsure what to say to respond.

Walburga stood up. “Goodnight, Regulus,” she said and she swiftly crossed the bedroom, magicking the light on his nightstand off.

“Mother?” Regulus called to her just before she left the room.

“Yes?”

“Is Kreacher dead?” Regulus asked.

Walburga took a deep breath, “No. He’s in his place.”

Regulus said quietly, “His place is usually here. At the foot of my bed, though.” There was a ratty old blanket there which the elf had curled up with to sleep upon for over two years.

Walburga’s voice was firm. “Kreacher will sleep in the cupboard in the kitchen from now on, where he belongs.” And with that, she closed the door, ending the conversation.

Regulus, however, laid in bed, staring up at the pale glow of the moon on the ceiling, unable to sleep until the wee early hours of the morning.