So... It's been quite a few months since my last update. I have to admit, I wrote myself into a corner with the Draco plot line, and while I knew how I wanted to resolve the problem, I more and more felt like I was writing an episode of Gossip Girl, instead of a Harry Potter fanfic. So I purged it. Which is why all readers who read this story before August 10th 2015 should reread Chapters 8 and 9. There are MAJOR differences (yeah, capital letters, people).

I repeat: You read this story before August 10th 2015? You want to understand what's going on?

REREAD CHAPTERS EIGHT AND NINE

And now, without further ado:


Chapter 10

White Christmas

"Shit, I think I forgot- Oh, here it is!" Tracey grinned, holding up her History of Magic essay triumphantly.

"If you were more organised in the first place, you'd save yourself a lot of unnecessary trouble," said Theo, scrutinising the wrinkled piece of parchment with furrowed brows. Clearly, he disapproved.

"You're too sweet." Tracey linked her arm with Theo's, ignoring his suffering look. "But what would you complain about then? I can't take that from you."

"I'm not that bad! Just organised." Theo looked affronted.

"Oh yes, when it comes to school work you are." Harry laughed, and turned to Blaise. "Remember the one time he completely flipped because- What's going on here?'"

They had turned around the next corner and found their path obstructed by a crowd of suspiciously silent students. Curious, Harry and his friends pushed forward until they had a clear view of the object of fascination.

It was Umbridge and Dumbledore.

She was clearly furious – hands against her hips, her face almost the colour of her pink robes - while the Dumbledore regarded her with a serene expression.

"…where they are!" Umbridge's shrill voice rang through the corridor; out of the corner of his eyes Harry saw a suit of armour putting its iron hands over non-existent ears. Theo snorted, amused.

"As I already said," Dumbledore replied very slowly, as if talking to a child. "Mr Arthur Weasley was injured and is currently at St. Mungo's. His children left a day early to visit their father."

Umbridge looked comically short next to the imposing figure of the headmaster, but that didn't stop her from raising a stubby finger at him. "And you didn't think to consult me about this beforehand? I am the High Inquisitor!"

"Quite right, Dolores, your are. But I am the Headmaster, and it is fully within my power to excuse students from attending classes, especially so when there is an emergency in their immediate family." Dumbledore looked down at Umbridge over the rim of his half-moon spectacles.

Umbridge stared right back. "Well," she said sweetly, "we will have to see about that, won't we?"

She turned, smoothed down her robes, and walked towards the Defence Classroom, the staccato of her heeled shoes echoing in the silence of the corridor.

As they continued to the History of Magic classroom, Harry and Theo fell behind the others.

"So Weasley was injured," Theo said, tonelessly.

Harry caught his eye, and knew they were thinking the same thing. Had Weasley been hurt in a fight? Maybe in a duel between Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix? And if so, had there been injuries on the other side too?

The worry in Theo's face was all too clear. Harry laid a calming hand on his friend's shoulder. "I don't think your father is injured-"

"I wouldn't know, would I? I'm not one of Dumbledore's pet Gryffindors," Theo said bitterly.

"Yeah, but your father is friends with Lucius Malfoy, right? And there are other children of you-know-whats at Hogwarts too." Harry had lowered his voice, just in case. "So if there were anything to worry about, you'd know."

Theo exhaled deeply. "Let's hope." He didn't seem entirely convinced, but some of the tension visibly left him.

"You're going home for the holidays?"

Harry, who was lying flat on his stomach, trying to get his favourite pair of trainers out from under the bed, turned to see Blaise standing in the doorway, eying his open trunk incredulously.

"Yeah. Missing the muggles more than usual."

"Right… So, where're you really going?"

Harry hesitated for a moment. He could give Blaise the same explanation he'd given to everybody else: His uncle was sick and his aunt had asked him to come home for the holidays. (The Weasley family had been a great source of inspiration here.)

But… Blaise knew him well enough to see through this lie. He'd never voluntarily return to Privet Drive – sick uncle or not. He hadn't told anyone but Theo the truth about Sirius Black so far, but Blaise was his friend. And he really didn't need any more people mistrusting him for dodging answers.

"I'm going to stay with my godfather."

Blaise gaped at him. "Um, isn't your godfather Sirius Black? Mass murderer and prison escapee extraordinaire?"

"Slight misunderstanding between him and the Ministry. Never killed anybody, but it's hard to prove when the actual killer is thought to be dead."

"What the hell?"

"Yeah, he's been framed. Peter Pettigrew was the real killer."

And so Harry told Blaise about Black and Pettigrew, how he'd found out about all of it at the end of third year and had spent the last summer at Black's house.

Sometime during his tale, Blaise sat down on Harry's bed. His expression was wavering between disbelief, outrage and fury.

"Merlin's saggy balls," he breathed when Harry was finished. "So you would have grown up with Sirius Black if Pettigrew hadn't framed him?"

"Yeah." Peter Pettigrew had taken not only one but two chances of a happy childhood from him. A heavy knot of anger unfurled in his gut and crawled up his throat, leaving an acidic taste on his tongue.

"And Black never got a trial."

"Yes, they thought he was a Death Eater, so they didn't bother."

"Sometimes the Ministry's really unbelievable." Blaise paused, then added a tad too casually, "No wonder the Dark Lord had so many followers in the first war."

Harry's heart skipped a beat.

"No wonder?" he prodded.

"Yeah, I mean he was kind of a revolutionary when he first appeared on the scene, wasn't he? I think anti-ministerial was the word my mother used. Anyway, I'll let you return to your packing, the train leaves in an hour."

Harry watched the door fall shut, a small smile on his lips. Sometimes he just loved Slytherin. Here it wasn't about grand gestures or teary hugs, but simple acts like this.

"Accio trainers."

With their trunks floating behind them, Harry, Theo and Blaise ran down Hogsmeade station.

"Next time," Theo panted as they hurried onto the train, "start packing earlier."

"I will. I will," Harry promised, quite out of breath himself.

Blaise led the way, marching them through several carriages before he finally stopped to open one of the compartment doors. "Daphne, Tracey, you have room for a few charming fellows, don't you?"

Daphne raised an eyebrow at them. "Sure. Theo and Harry are always welcome."

"She has a thing for me, I just know it," Blaise whispered in Harry's ear before he walked inside and took the free seat next to Daphne.

Harry followed after him, but not without rolling his eyes.

...

"Potter!"

Harry looked around the crowded King's Cross station for the source of the unfamiliar voice. It wasn't Sirius', who for obvious reasons couldn't come to pick him up, but the voice didn't belong to any of the Weasleys either. Maybe they weren't at Grimmauld Place after all. One could certainly hope.

"Over here!"

He followed the sound, and soon caught sight of a small wizard in dirty, worn out robes. Mundungus Fletcher. He'd seen him at Number 12 a few times last summer. He seemed to be one of the Order's more unsavoury members.

"Mr Fletcher," said Harry, putting his suitcase down besides the elder wizard.

"Just call me Dung. All the kids do," the man replied, and held up a delicate looking teacup. "Portkey," he explained. He lowered his voice. "With that bitch Umbridge snooping around Dumbledore doesn't want to risk us being followed. It'll activate in a minute. Hold on tight."

Harry eyed the cup mistrustfully. He had never used a Portkey before, and that thing, with its pink floral pattern, looked suspiciously innocent. That it reminded him of Umbridge's office didn't much help.

Hesitantly, he grabbed the cup with three fingers - there simply wasn't room for more - and a moment later felt a jerking sensation behind his navel. Fletcher's instruction to hold on tight seemed ridiculous in retrospect. His fingers were practically glued to the cup; it wasn't as if he had an option.

The station vanished and he was pulled forward through a swirl of colours. Wind was rustling in his ears, disorienting him. Then suddenly, it stopped. Harry fell down hard.

Fletcher landed on his feet, and laughed when he saw Harry sprawled out on the floor. With as much dignity as possible, Harry picked himself up. They were in one of the drawing rooms, thankfully alone.

"I have to get going," Fletcher said. "But the others are in the kitchen. I think Molly should be serving dinner soon."

Harry grimaced - so much for a Weasley-free holiday.

When he walked into the kitchen, Harry immediately noticed a change in atmosphere.

The Weasley children were huddled together in a corner of the room, talking quietly, while Mrs Weasley was preparing tea, adding a generous amount of – Harry took a step closer to make sure he'd read the label correctly– but yes, she was adding two spoonfuls of salt to each cup.

"Um… hello," he said cautiously, not really sure how to handle this situation. Only Mrs Weasley looked up, smiling tiredly.

"Hello, dear. Do you want a cup of tea?" she asked, already floating one in his direction without waiting for an answer.

Harry tried to ignore the cup, but when it smacked against his hand for the third time, hot tea spilling onto his skin with each bump, he decided he was better off accepting it.

Not daring to take a sip, Harry stood in the kitchen forlornly, wondering where the hell Sirius was.

Thankfully, the man in question soon walked through the door.

His face was more lined than Harry remembered, and his stubbly beard gave him rugged appearance. When he caught sight of Harry, he smiled; it took years off his face.

He embraced Harry warmly, and to his surprise Harry didn't mind the gesture as much as he used to.

"Good to see you," Sirius said when they parted. "Let's go outside for a moment, alright?"

Harry was glad to flee from the gloomy mood in the kitchen and followed his godfather into the sparsely lit hallway.

Sirius' smile dropped. "Mr Weasley was attacked a few days ago. He'll make it, but it was a close call and he's still in the hospital. Molly, understandably, is in a complete tizzy, and the children aren't doing much better. They'll stay here for the remainder of the holiday. Grimmauld Place is much closer to St. Mungo's than the Burrow…" he trailed off, and when he resumed speaking he sounded reluctant. "I know you and Ron don't see eye to eye, but cut him some slack over the next few days."

Harry nodded, thoughts spinning. If there hadn't been a fight, then why had Mr Weasley been attacked? He was a low-level Ministry employee, a nobody. There was no reason for him to be targeted.

"Why was he attacked?"

Sirius looked down uncomfortably. "Sorry Harry, I can't tell you. That's Order business, and you're neither a member nor an adult…"

So he'd have to find out himself. "I understand. So, how have you been?"

"Bored, mostly. Went for a walk as Padfoot a few times, and once this really crazy bulldog tried to jump me." He shuddered. "Tell me about your time, it must have been more exciting."

And so Harry went on to recount his last few months. As it turned out, Sirius already knew about the DA, and so Harry concentrated on stories about the time he had shared with the Gryffindors.

As Harry had forgone dinner the night before to avoid the uncomfortable atmosphere in the kitchen, he woke up early the next morning to the sound of his loudly rumbling stomach.

He had once again been given Regulus' old room, and didn't particularly fancy leaving the comfortable warmth of his bed, but the memory of Mrs Weasley's delicious breakfast lured him downstairs.

Surprisingly enough, Sirius sat alone at the table.

"Morning," his godfather said, looking up from the newspaper he was reading. "What do you want for breakfast? I think we still have bacon and eggs… and toast, of course."

"I'll get it," said Harry when Sirius prepared to stand.

"Where are Weasley, anyway?" Harry asked, while breaking several eggs into the pan. The smell of it filled the room, making his mouth water.

"They left for St. Mungo's early this morning. Arthur's finally well enough to receive visitors."

"Oh, well, that's great."

Was it exceptionally selfish of him, Harry thought, while carrying his rather poor looking bacon and eggs to the table, to wish that Arthur's good news had waited long enough for Mrs Weasley to prepare breakfast?

On the other hand… remembering yesterday's tea, it was probably for the better.

Harry sat down opposite Sirius, digging in hungrily, listening to Sirius' story about a hydrophobic, tap-dancing cauldron that Dung had been trying to sell him.

"What do you think about preparing the house for Christmas?" Sirius asked once Harry had cleaned his plate down to the last crumb.

"Christmas?" Harry asked, thrown for a moment. "I thought we'd celebrate the Winter Solstice."

"Forget about that hogwash, Christmas is much more fun." Sirius was smiling brightly. "We could charm the Christmas tree bells to sing carols, and dress Kreacher like one of Santa's elves. He'd hate it."

"But shouldn't we maintain our own traditions?"

Sirius face clouded, and Harry felt a twinge of guilt for having crushed his godfather's uncharacteristically high spirits.

"Is that what your Slytherin friends told you?" He sounded weary. "They just repeat what their parents forced into their heads. They want to live in the past, but modernisation, progress… that's what we need."

"I wouldn't call it progress to throw away all the knowledge our ancestors left us."

"Just because some traditions contain knowledge doesn't mean they're right," said Sirius earnestly. "There were people, like my great-cousin Araminta for example, who used these exact traditions you want us to maintain to justify the legalisation of muggle hunting."

"And Christians justified the witch burnings with their religion, how is that any different?"

"The difference," Sirius said, "is that while we can be dangerous to them, there were hardly any magical victims during the witch hunts. They only succeeded in killing each other."

So," Harry said slowly, "you're basically saying that because they are inferior to us, we shouldn't take them seriously?"

"Merlin," moaned Sirius. "Of course I don't think they are inferior-"

Harry snorted.

"What?" Sirius asked, a catch in his voice.

"Well, they are."

"Who tol- why would you think that?"

"Well, obviously they don't have magic. But besides that… Have you actually met any muggles?"

"Sure, I've been to muggle London loads of times. "

"So you talked to them, lived amongst them, got to know them for some time? Or-" a thought crossed Harry's mind, and given Sirius' reputation as a student, this wasn't too unlikely "-did you just play pranks on them? Safe in the knowledge that they are too ignorant to catch on?"

A guilty look crossed his godfather's face, but then he raised his chin stubbornly. "I knew your mother very well. She was one of the brightest, kindest and most talented witches I've met – and a muggleborn."

"Yeah, and her sister, the muggle, is a narrow-minded, magic hating moron."

"I'll give you that. But you can't judge all muggles by your aunt."

"I don't. Unlike you, I grew up in the muggle world, lived there for ten years and return every summer since. I know plenty of muggles, believe me."

"But then you should know that there are good ones and bad ones, just like there are good and bad wizards. Yes, they don't have magic, but they are still human, and worth of our consideration and protection."

Harry balled his hands to fists. He hated the hypocrisy of it all. Neither Sirius, nor any of the Weasleys, and surely not Dumbledore either, had actually lived amongst muggles. Yet they were standing on their pedestals, claiming moral superiority, while in reality they weren't any better than other witches or wizards. One just had to take a look at Mr Weasley, who regarded muggles like some kind of circus attraction.

"Harry?" Sirius pressed on.

"Yes, yes, you're right, of course."

Sirius didn't look like he quite believed him, and rightfully so.

"So, um, no Winter Solstice, I take it?" Harry said, switching back to the less explosive topic.

Sirius exhaled audibly. "Yeah. I'm sorry it's not what you expected, but living in this house- I just- Celebrating the Winter Solstice would take me back to my childhood, while Christmas… Christmas is about family. About giving back to each other, and with everything that happened, over the last year and now with Arthur, I think that's exactly what we need."

Harry nodded, carefully keeping his disappointment off his face. He'd never liked Christmas, all of his memories about that celebration either were about being ignored by the Dursleys or sitting alone in front of a huge Christmas tree in the Slytherin common room. He'd really been looking forward to seeing how wizards traditionally celebrate the turning of the sun.

Christmas went by without much fanfare. Mr Weasley was better, but still confined at the hospital, and so after exchanging gifts, and a delicious Christmas lunch the Weasley family left Grimmauld Place to visit Arthur.

Sirius and Harry were still seated at the kitchen table, the latter feeling painfully full. He had somewhat overeaten, but damn… while there was a lot one could say against the Weasleys, Molly's cooking skills were impeccable.

"We could visit Godric's Hollow," Sirius said out of the blue. "Everybody's with their families today, celebrating, so there's less of a chance I'll be noticed."

"Really?" Harry hadn't thought Sirius would remember. He'd asked him about going there at the end of the summer holidays, eager to see if the Potters had left behind any journals, like Sirius' ancestors had, but his godfather hadn't been too fond of the idea back then.

Harry jumped from his seat, ignoring the angry rumbling in his stomach. "I'll go grab my coat, you'll go as Padfoot, right?"

Sirius eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "I don't think I've ever seen you this… exuberant," he finished, after searching for the right word for a moment.

Harry stuck out his tongue, and turned to run up the stairs, grab his coat, and, on second thought, his school bag too.

Of course he was in a better mood than usual, he would get to see his parents' house for the first time. How they had lived, and what they had left him.

But what if everything was destroyed? What if nothing was left?

At that thought, Harry nearly missed a step on the way down.

He shook his head, clearing his mind of these negative thoughts. He'd see the reality soon enough. No use worrying about it now.

Sirius – in the form of a big, black dog - was waiting for him next to the door, tail wagging.

"Good boy," Harry said, patting him on the head. Sirius growled.

It was only afternoon, but the sky was so dark and cloudy that the street lamps had been turned on early. A harsh wind blew through the streets, and Harry pulled his coat tighter around himself to keep out the cold.

Sirius didn't seem bothered as skipped down the street, leaving prints on the fresh snow.

White Christmas. Petunia was surely delighted.

Once they were a reasonable distance away, Harry grabbed his wand and held his hand skywards.

Out of thin air the triple-decker-bus arrived with a pang. Harry jumped back, nearly tripping over his own feet. He'd never get used to this. Sirius was running around him in circles, barking loudly, the sound suspiciously similar to laughter.

"I'm Stan Shunpike, your conductor. Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded- Oh, I know yer and that dog. Don' I?" A familiar pickle faced man gestured them to come on board.

"Yeah, we've taken the bus before. How much to Godric's Hollow?"

"Fifteen sickles. For sev'nteen you get 'ot chocolate. The dog's free, unless it wants some 'hot chocolate? That'd be 'free sickles then."

"Nah, we're fine-"

Sirius yowled.

"We just had lunch, how are you not sick at the thought of hot chocolate?"

Sirius, it seemed, tried for his best puppy dog face.

"Fine." Harry turned to Stan, who was eying them curiously. "One hot chocolate for him."

"Wiv whipped cream?"

"Regular will do-"

Sirius whined. Harry narrowed his eyes at him. The prat was doing this on purpose.

"Almost like 'e can understand us, ain't it?" said Stan.

"Yeah, almost." Harry sighed. "One hot chocolate with whipped cream for the dog," he said defeated.

"Awright. Take 'er away, Ern!"

With another pang the bus took off.

Godric's Hollow was a picturesque village, especially in winter. Harry felt like he'd stepped right into a postcard as he followed Sirius down a narrow road, snow-capped little cottages to each side.

They crossed the village square, and just after passing by the church and the little graveyard he knew from their last visit, they entered a street to their left.

Harry walked slowly, listening to the snow crunch under his boots. It felt right somehow that his presence disturbed the almost sanctimonious silence of the street, that his steps left a trace in the blanket of white.

Sirius stopped in front of an overgrown hedge. It was higher than Harry was tall, and shielded the property behind it completely from view; even the gate was covered in ivy.

Harry's hand was shaking as he wrapped it around the doorknob.

This was where he had spent the first year of his life. Where is parents had lived and ultimately died. He stared at the iron wrought gate – what little of it was visible - trying to find something familiar in its intrinsic design, but… nothing. It could just as well have been any other gate in any other street.

He swallowed hard against the disappointment swelling in his chest. He was being stupid. It was only logical that he didn't remember.

About to turn the knob, Harry let go in surprise as the gate fell open at the slightest touch, slowly revealing the cottage on the other side.

Stepping over the threshold, Harry felt anger burning up his throat, choking him.

It was a mess.

Tree trunks were sprayed with graffiti, and although the fresh snow had started covering it up, broken bottles, empty food containers, used tissues and other waste was still clearly visible. It looked like the garden was regularly used for parties.

Harry could imagine them vividly. Stupid muggles, like Dudley and his friends, coming here to blow off steam, showing no respect for other people's property or for the sad history of this place.

Next to him, Sirius transformed back. "The muggle repellent charm must have lost its touch. Don't worry, it was always stronger closer to the house."

Harry didn't reply, his eyes still roaming over the state of his parents' garden.

"Come on. Let's take a look inside." Sirius put a hand on the small of his back, pushing him towards the house.

They stopped in front of a wooden door, a large lion head doorknocker at its centre.

Harry turned the doorknob. The door remained shut. He tried again. And again.

Finally he turned to Sirius. "Can you unlock it?"

"Try knocking."

"But, um…" there's nobody there.

"Trust me, just try."

Tentatively Harry raised his hand. The moment his fingers closed around the bronze ring, the little lion came to life.

It shook its mane and yawned, as if it had been woken after a long slumber; then it wrinkled its muzzle, and, baring its fangs, bent down to sniff at Harry's fingers. Its nose was surprisingly soft and warm to the touch, the sensation familiar.

The lion leaned back, grunting content, and with a soft klick the door swung open.

"He recognised me," said Harry, his voice full of wonder.

"I thought he might," Sirius said softly. "James did the charms."

They walked in slowly, but didn't get all that far. A huge… thing of wood and stone bared their way.

"That's- that's the stairs," said Sirius disbelievingly.

Harry followed his gaze and looked up. Where one would expect a ceiling, there was only a huge gap, as if a giant had punched through it. He squinted. In the dim light it was hard to make out, but Harry thought he could see a hallway, with doors to each side, leading away from the hole on the first floor.

"Can you, I don't know, levitate it? Or vanish?" He looked at the construct doubtfully. It was enormous.

"Afraid not." Sirius shook his head. "If I use a spell your Trace will pick up on it. Best case they send you a warning for underage use of magic, worst case they come to investigate and find me here."

Harry could hardly argue with that.

"Let's go around the house. There's a terrace in the back. It's there that they… that it happened."

Swallowing heavily, Harry followed Sirius outside and down a narrow path on the left side of the house. The hedge had grown so wildly that it had become almost impassable.

A branch whipped Harry's face, and he tasted blood on his lips; another one narrowly missed his eye.

"Watch ou-" Sirius said just before a pile of snow slid off the hedge, raining down on them in a cloud of icy crystals. Harry cursed as a handful of it went straight down his collar.

His godfather laughed, shaking his head in a fashion eerily similar to a dog's to get rid of the snow stuck in his hair.

As they turned around the corner, the smile melted off Sirius' face, a mask of pain taking its place.

Parts of the house were simply blown away. Chunks of the wall, a broken window, a door… it all was strewn across the terrace, rank with dark green weeds and partly covered in snow.

At least the Muggle Repelling Charm was still strong here; no empty bottles or any other sign of disturbance was visible.

"I never saw… I never thought… When I ran after Peter all of this was still standing, they were fighting, still alive. We were sitting right here-" Sirius pointed to the what must have been the centre of the terrace "-when they attacked - your parents, a few friends, Order members and I.

"Lily put these fairly lights that change colour up in the trees, and James opened an expensive bottle of Firewhiskey – not that any of us could tell the difference. It just seemed appropriate, we were celebrating our victory, after all." His voice broke.

Harry looked down, not knowing how to handle the tears threatening to escape his godfather's eyes.

Sirius breathing evened out. "Let's go inside."

They climbed over the rabble, carefully stepping around the broken window and other potentially dangerous pieces. There were several big holes in the wall – more holes than wall actually – and they walked through the biggest, which seemed to lead to the-

"The living room," said Sirius, confirming Harry's hunch.

Nature had claimed big parts of the room. Dark green ivy leaves covered chunks of the still standing walls, had even grown up the curtains, and around the rail. A blue couch, placed in the centre of the room, was overgrown with moss, and the wooden shelf at the back end of the room looked half rotten, the books inside covered in mould.

What grabbed Harry's attention the most though, were the picture frames next to it. A few still hung on the wall, others had fallen down, their frames shattered.

He slipped two of them into his bag, one of his parents dancing in the backyard, the other of the three of them together, seated on the blue couch.

And if the stepped on the one with Pettigrew in it, it was purely accidental.

"Show me around?" Harry asked, determinedly ignoring the pity in the other man's eyes.

As it turned out, there wasn't much to see. Only the kitchen and study were reachable from the living room, the rest of the house was inaccessible due to the fallen staircase.

The former wasn't really that interesting. The kitchen looked just like any other might, and though Harry knew he should feel something, because well, that was were his mother and father had surely spent lots of their time, had come to breakfast every morning and shared their days over dinner, the feeling just wasn't there.

In a way it was a repeat of their visit at the graveyard. While Harry mourned the life they could have had, only Sirius knew enough to mourn the lives that had ended here.

"The study's back here." Sirius opened the door situated next to the bookshelf. "If James owned any Potter journals, that's where they are."

It was a nice room. A desk of dark wood right in front of a big window that oversaw the garden, various bookshelves and cupboards left and right. It was like a (way smaller) version of the Black library.

"The old school books," Sirius said fondly, running his hand over a row of familiar looking tomes. "Lily insisted on saving them all."

They searched the room for well over half an hour, and while the Potters owned a few interesting books they just weren't what he was looking for.

Frustrated he opened the desk drawer. It held a collection of random knick-knacks - pencils, quills, empty inkwells, rolls of parchment… definitely no journals.

Hidden beneath all the rubbish though, was a small wooden box that captured Harry's attention. The lid was smooth and cold, like marble, and coloured in a wide range of red shades swirling and flowing into each other. Even though it looked rather fragile and old – ancient, really -, it wouldn't open, no matter how hard Harry tried.

"Let me take a look." Sirius turned the box around in his hands, humming quietly as he inspected each side closely. Harry looked up startled when he gave out a bellowing laugh.

"What?"

Sirius shook his head. "And I always thought the Blacks were the most paranoid bastards around… You have to put a drop of your blood on the lid to unlock it."

"Seriously?" Harry gaped at the innocent looking box. The various shades of red appeared to him in a different light now.

"Yes. Locks like that were pretty popular a few centuries back. Not many of them around anymore though. At least not were the public can see."

"All right." Harry took a quill out of the drawer and winced as he pricked his left index finger with its tip. He took the box and hesitated for only a moment before he smeared his blood across the lid.

At first Harry thought that nothing was happening, but then he realised that the box was vibrating, only gently in the beginning, but soon with increasing strength. His blood glowed brightly for a moment, before it was integrated seamlessly into the existing pattern. The box stilled, and a series of locks clicked and unlocked.

Inside were three keys. One big and rusty, one tiny and gold, and the third silver and rather new looking.

"Try the gold one over there," said Sirius, pointing at the cupboard to their right, to the only locked door in the room.

It fit.

There, standing in an orderly row, were several journals. A box of jewellery was in there too, but Harry pushed it to the side, discarding it as unimportant.

"I can take them with me, right?" he said, slightly in awe. He had certainly hoped to find something like this, but not quite dared believing.

"They are all yours."

Upon their return to Grimmauld Place, Sirius retired to his room, a pensive and kind of sad look on his face.

Harry didn't mind. He had a bag full of journals to read.

The house was dark, and Harry had thought nobody but them was here, but when he ascended the stairs, a sliver of light coming through a cracked door down the hall caught his attention.

That room had been uninhabited the night before. Someone new must have arrived.

Curiosity winning over, Harry left his book bag at the stairs and crept down the dark hallway. As he got closer, distinctive voices became clear.

Granger. Weasley. A third voice, talking quietly. Logically it had to be Longbottom.

"Don't you remember my first year? The diary?" a fourth voice said. "I know what possession is like. I wasn't in control of my own body, I blacked out, couldn't remember where I'd been and what I'd done… You don't have these symptoms, so no possession."

Ginny Weasley's resolute, insistent tone stood in stark contrast to Longbottom's timid mumblings.

"I don't know… Who said it's the same for everybody?"

"Then how would you have gotten to London?" Granger said soothingly.

"I- I don't know. Maybe I Apparated-"

"Out of Hogwarts? Not possible, mate, not even for you," Weasley said, a teasing undertone in his voice.

It seemed the humour was lost on Longbottom. "I know that," he snapped.

Harry had never heard the boy so angry before.

"I know that," he repeated, calmer. "But then how did I know Mr Weasley was injured? I was there- It was me who attacked him, for Merlin's sake. I was the snake!"

Harry took a step back.

Longbottom had attacked Arthur Weasley? Or at least thought it possible he had? And possession?!

Had he gone completely around the bend?

"Did you hear that?" Granger's question startled him. He didn't think he'd made any noise, but…

"What?" Longbottom asked, sounding nervous.

"Not sure," Granger said. "Probably just Kreacher. I'll check."

Shit. As quietly as possible, Harry hurried down the corridor. He wouldn't make it to the end of it, not in time.

The door clicked.

At the last moment Harry turned right and hid himself in the shadows of the nearest doorframe. He held his breath, not daring to make even the slightest noise. What he had overheard… he was still confused by it, but certain that the conversation had not been intended for his ears.

"All clear." Granger's voice cut through the silence, far louder than before, then she closed the door. Firmly, this time. Harry tried listening in again, but even when he was standing right before the door, all he could make out were unintelligibly whispers.

Harry walked up to his room, his mind buzzing. He was tired, but there was no point even thinking about going to sleep.

Longbottom and Granger had only stayed for one day, and so for most of the holidays Sirius, Harry and the Weasleys were the sole inhabitants of Grimmauld Place.

Lupin dropped by from time to time, as did other Order members, but of course then Harry and the rest of the 'children' were sent upstairs.

Harry often spent these hours in the library, but sometimes he joined the Weasleys in their various – and when Fred and George were involved often quite funny – exploits.

The only downside was that Ginny seemed to have developed a crush on him. Yes, she was pretty and even fun to be around, but her brothers, Ron in particular, were overprotective and more trouble than she was worth.

Not that Harry returned her feelings, he was quite happy exchanging letters with Padma.

So even though not every part of the holidays had been enjoyable, they had gone by surprisingly quickly.

"We're leaving in five minutes!"

Mrs Weasley's amplified voice made Harry jump. It sounded like she was standing right beside him.

He had finished packing yesterday night. The only thing still missing was the Potter journal he was currently reading.

Where the hell had he put it?

Fed up, Harry made sure that his door was closed and grabbed his wand.

"Accio journal."

About a dozen of them flew at him, and with a swish of his wand he directed them to land on his bed, stacked neatly.

"Where is everybody? We're leaving! Now!" Mrs Weasley shouted.

Hurriedly Harry grabbed the journal he'd been looking for – it was, of course, at the bottom of the pile – and a dark green, linen-bound one that looked so different from the others that he was sure he hadn't read it yet.

For a moment he thought about taking the box with the keys with him too, but no… This wasn't Privet Drive. His possessions were safe here.

Suitcase in hand he rushed down the stairs, nearly colliding with Ginny.

"Sorry," he said, ignoring the way she blushed at his attention.

Sirius was waiting in the hallway, ready to envelope him in one last bone-crushing hug.

"Be good. Do your homework, study, and annoy Snape whenever the opportunity arises."

"Will do," Harry murmured in the crook of his godfather's neck. "And you don't go stir crazy. Just write me, and I'll come to take you out for a walk."

Sirius pushed him away, scowling as Harry grinned cheekily.

"Harry!" The Weasleys were standing by the door, ready to go.

"Coming!" He headed for the street, smiling. Hogwarts awaited him.


I promise the next chapter won't take this long to publish.

Any thoughts? As always, I value your feedback highly.

And, a bit of self-promotion in the end, if you're interested in realistic portrayal (well, the attempt at one) of a sociopath/psychopath!Harry check out my other story "Heartless Harry".