Chapter – 4 A Godfather's Determination
The Hogwarts Library.
A sudden, sharp noise disrupted Harry from his slumber, and he blinked, disoriented by the sound echoing against the hard, wooden desk. His gaze met the somewhat irritated face of Professor Snape.
Not the ideal way to wake up, he thought.
Had he dozed off during yet another Potions class? Harry pushed himself up, scanning the desk for his missing book and cauldron supplies, but found them absent. Instead, a rather hefty tome on wizarding traditions lay before him. Great, another opportunity to lose house points. Why hadn't Ron—
Harry's thoughts came to a screeching halt as he focused on the tome's title.
Wizarding Britain: An Incomplete and Unreliable Guide.
Realization dawned on him. He wasn't in Potions class; the school term had ended, and he had fallen asleep while reading some uninspiring book about wizarding traditions.
"Are you done making a spectacle of yourself, Potter?" Snape's voice snapped him back to reality.
Oh right, Snape. He had almost forgotten about the professor.
Harry's gaze shifted to the rolled-up newspaper that Snape had slammed onto his desk and then back up to the stern-looking professor.
"Potter!" Snape barked, breaking through Harry's daze.
"Uh, yes, Professor?" Harry stammered.
"I was under the impression that you were in a coma the night of the Third Task. I wasn't aware that the event had left you addled in the head."
In an instant, Harry's confusion gave way to a rebellious expression, and Snape's lips curled into a sly smile.
"Did you require something?" Harry grumbled.
"Did you require something, sir," Snape corrected.
"No need to call me sir, Professor."
Before Harry could react, the newspaper was snatched off the desk and used to smack him on the head. He glared at Snape, rubbing his sore scalp.
"The Headmaster has summoned you to his office."
"Professor Dumbledore?"
"The Headmaster remains unchanged, Potter. But it's good to see you trying to keep up."
"Well, thanks, Professor. Nice to engage in some five-year-old banter."
This was definitely becoming a problem. Harry wondered if he could cast a partial Impediment Jinx on his own lips. It wasn't the brightest idea, but desperation was setting in.
Snape's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Harry worried that the professor might know a spell to make him vanish on the spot. Snape was reputed to be highly skilled in the Dark Arts, after all. However, this meaningless back-and-forth with the professor had become a familiar and oddly comforting routine over the years. It was a dance of sorts that felt strangely normal and even cathartic.
...That, in itself, spoke volumes about the kind of life Harry had led so far.
Come to think of it, he couldn't imagine having any other kind of day. This was still far better than living with the Dursleys or hiding in abandoned classrooms to avoid Ron and Hermione.
On the other hand, he wasn't sure what he would do if he did have any other kind of day. Because, frankly, he was wired—both by experience and inclination—for chaos and mayhem. Things going wrong, and then going even more wrong. Everyone looking at him like he was a criminal. Evil cackling villains involving him in convoluted schemes and esoteric magic to mess with his life.
As his thoughts meandered from one scenario to the next, Harry found himself growing increasingly despondent.
I think... I've made some poor choices in life.
He wondered if the Wizarding World had career counselors, though he remembered that he was supposed to see one this year, just before his OWL examinations. His focus returned to Snape, who was still standing there, waiting.
"Do you wish to say something to me?" Harry asked cautiously, adding a reluctant "sir."
Snape glanced at the book's title and gave him a twisted smile. "Wizarding Traditions. Seems like you're finally catching on."
"Professor McGonagall gave me the idea," Harry admitted, "Amelia Bones also mentioned something about the Ancient House of Potter and the Sacred Twenty-Eight."
It turned out that the wizarding world was more than just pureblood politics. Fifteen Ancient Houses and thirteen Ancient and Noble ones. Together, the "Sacred Twenty-Eight" made up the Wizengamot, a group of twenty-eight individuals and others who acted as the legislative body for Wizarding Britain. House Potter was classified as "Ancient" due to its existence before the Norman Conquest. Malfoy was also part of the group, as was, surprisingly, House Weasley. Harry had never heard Ron mention anything about it or the Wizengamot seat they supposedly had.
House Black, on the other hand, was not only Ancient but also Noble, for reasons he didn't quite understand yet.
"What exactly is this Wizengamot, anyway?" He couldn't help but express his frustration. "It's like these people enjoy making things needlessly complicated. Just calling it the Ministry would have sufficed."
Snape smirked at him. "Our society operates under two sets of laws, Potter. The laws of the people, created, debated, authorized, and enforced by those in power. And the laws of Magic itself, which are immutable and upheld by the Wizengamot."
Harry narrowed his eyes. He had never heard of such a thing before.
"Not all forms of magic are taught at Hogwarts, Potter. There are several, you'll find, that were removed from the curriculum, their texts destroyed to ensure the stability of society. Magic is a potent tool, but a terrible master."
Images of lifeless bodies decaying to husks flashed through his mind.
"And the Wizengamot keeps it in check?"
"Yes."
Harry frowned but kept quiet.
"Magic shapes reality, Potter. Our world is influenced by our perceptions, thoughts, emotions, and beliefs. Individual witches and wizards are like grains of sand on a beach. The Wizengamot, and by extension, the collective Magical Britain, is the moon."
Snape locked eyes with Harry. "Two of the twelve purebloods killed were Lords of Ancient Houses, and one belonged to an Ancient and Noble House. The rest held minor seats in the Wizengamot. Do you now understand why these deaths are significant?"
Harry swallowed hard. No smart remarks this time.
Snape may not have said it outright, but Harry, the Boy-Who-Defeated, had become a lightning rod for public resentment. And he had a feeling it would be more significant than his role in the Heir of Slytherin incident.
"I'm surprised, though," Snape said, "one would have thought you knew all of this, Potter, given how proud you are of your father."
"You'd think," Harry replied, "but all I knew was that my dad was a Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team and that he was a…" He paused, realizing who he was talking to. "A... what?"
"Marauder," Harry quickly corrected. "A Marauder."
The inquisitive expression on Snape's face instantly turned into a scowl. Harry was almost disappointed to see his one decent conversation with the Potions Professor coming to an end.
"That may be," Snape huffed, "The Headmaster has asked me to inform you that you'll be receiving remedial Potions lessons from me next year. With me."
"Huh? Why?"
Snape shot him a dark look.
"I mean," Harry backtracked, "I got an EE in Potions, Professor."
"Because the Dark Lord," Snape's voice dropped to a menacing whisper, "is back, and the Headmaster believes you have some potential in Defense Against the Dark Arts. He wants me to train you to become a wizard who can at least survive an encounter with Death Eaters."
A glimmer of hope washed over Harry. Finally, someone—anyone—was going to teach him something useful in a fight. Between Lockhart's ill-fated dueling club and the random spells he had picked up while preparing for the Triwizard Tournament, his repertoire of spells was not only limited but also predictably easy to anticipate.
He might not be an expert duelist, but even he knew that being predictable in a fight was a terrible idea.
"Why can't Professor Dumbledore teach me himself?"
It was a reasonable question. After all, Dumbledore was the wizard whom Voldemort had feared the most. Not that he would turn down Snape's tutelage—the man was reputed to have extensive knowledge in the field.
"Albus Dumbledore has more pressing matters to attend to than teaching a fourteen-year-old how to hold a wand properly," Snape scoffed. "It's time for you to gain a solid foundation in the Dark Arts, specifically counter-curses."
"Counter-curses..." Harry trailed off. He understood the concept—spells designed to reverse the effects of dark charms, hexes, and curses.
Snape retrieved a battered copy of Extreme Incantations and placed it on Harry's desk.
"Sir?"
"You may have the uncanny ability to escape the Dark Lord repeatedly, but nothing stops his followers from casting nasty spells at you. That," he pointed at the book, "is my own copy of the fifth-year Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook. You'll find spells and techniques scribbled in the margins."
Harry stared at the book, then at Snape, and then back at the book.
Did Snape just...
He blinked.
Nope, the illusion was still intact.
"During the summer, you will study these spells, and in the upcoming term, we will review them one by one. I would feel more comfortable knowing that the person the Headmaster is placing his faith in can cross the street without getting their head blown off."
Harry decided that this was probably the nicest thing Snape had ever said or done for him. Which said everything about their relationship.
"Oh, and get yourself a wand. One that isn't broken."
And just like that, any hope of mutual cooperation and a non-antagonistic relationship between them vanished.
"I will," Harry replied with a hint of annoyance.
Snape flashed him another half-smile. "Good to know. And for your information, Potter, the Headmaster doesn't like to be kept waiting."
"Whatever you say, Professor."
The Headmaster's office.
"I must say," Sirius Black began, "this isn't what I expected. No frantic rush to prove Pettigrew's innocence, no embarking on a relentless quest to expose the truth before those stubborn, purple-robed officials. Just a simple conversation with Amelia, and suddenly I'm a free man."
A faint smile tugged at Dumbledore's lips. "Just that?"
"Well," Sirius continued, "there may have been a beef sandwich and some firewhiskey involved. They also compensated me, paid my back wages, and offered me a trip to the Bahamas. Not exactly an epic tale of heroism, love, and loss, but those veela massage parlors must count for something, right?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Have you thought about your plans for the future?"
Sirius's grin faded. A part of him wanted to take Harry with him on that Bahamas trip, show him the good things in life—pranks, dates, girls. He had thirteen years to make up for. But that would be too Gryffindor-like.
His duty was to protect Harry, and to do that, he needed to start thinking and stop running away. There was a nagging thought in the back of his mind to leave Britain, perhaps travel the continent, and seek healing.
That thought held him in its grip for a long moment.
"Leaving would mean departing from Britain, and consequently, leaving Harry behind. Why would he choose to do that? After all, he was Harry's godfather.
The instant he felt this newfound determination, his inclination to depart from Britain abruptly vanished. Sirius realized that he had broken free from a compulsion spell, and with this realization came a startling revelation about the origin of the compulsion.
His hands clenched into fists.
His years in Azkaban had left him a mere shadow of a man, but they had also compelled him to retreat into his animagus form for a grueling twelve years. Somewhere amidst that torment, Azkaban had fortified his mind into an astonishing psychic barrier that had endured twelve years of relentless exposure to dementors while preserving his sanity.
This raised questions. Why was Dumbledore compelling him to leave? Was he concerned about Sirius becoming too close to Harry? Sirius had already witnessed how poorly Harry had been treated by the Dursleys, yet Albus persistently sent him back to those detestable Muggles. Why? Because he believed the Muggles could offer a safer environment than Sirius?
Or was it because Dumbledore didn't trust him?
The latter seemed more probable, considering Dumbledore's historical difficulty in seeing past the Black family name that Sirius carried.
Wasn't this the reason why he hadn't even received a visit from the leader of the Order of the Phoenix while imprisoned? Everyone seemed to get a second chance with Dumbledore except Sirius. Sirius couldn't help but wonder if Dumbledore would have stood by and allowed him to be kissed. It appeared that the children had somehow gained the Headmaster's approval to save him, but why had it been necessary for the children to save him? Why couldn't Dumbledore ensure a fair trial for him? After all, he was the Chief Warlock. Sirius knew that the elderly wizard preferred not to wield the power bestowed upon him by the wizarding world too frequently, but he possessed it.
Power was something that the Potter and Black families had once wielded extensively; not just magical power, but also financial and political influence. That was the kind of power Sirius truly needed if he were to protect Harry from the Death Eaters, from Peter, and from Voldemort. It was that very power that would shield Harry from Fudge's attempts to make him a scapegoat and ensure that his godson received everything he deserved—love, happiness, enjoyment, and security.
And it seemed he needed that same power to ensure that Albus Dumbledore couldn't prevent Sirius from being with Harry, if that was indeed Dumbledore's plan.
"Sirius?"
The animagus in canine form raised his head and met Dumbledore's penetrating gaze.
"Yes?"
"I was wondering... what are your intentions going forward?"
"Obviously, I plan to gain custody of Harry," Sirius replied, forcing a false sense of cheer onto his face. "I am, after all, his godfather."
"I had hoped you might consider allowing him to return to the Dursleys."
"Why would I do that?"
"For several reasons," Albus hedged, helping himself to a lemon drop, "but primarily for his safety. The blood wards surrounding that place offer protection equivalent to Hogwarts itself."
"Come on, Albus," Sirius scoffed.
"I've been to the Dursley residence. The wards are powerful based on intent, but as well as I do, they can be broken easily. Prongs and I could have bypassed them within a week."
"It's the best protection available—"
"Nonsense!" He slammed his hand on the table. "Harry has endured unimaginable hardships. Do you honestly believe it's wise to leave him with that group of dullards?"
"I have often found solitude to be a remedy for my own afflictions, Sirius."
"And you don't look a day over a hundred and five, while Harry is just fifteen."
"He's a grieving student who has suffered far too much," Dumbledore countered. "He's not the kind of young man you can lure into a carefree Bahamas trip, as you've been suggesting. He's not James, Sirius."
Sirius paused for a moment, his facade of excitement fading. A dark, vacant stare replaced it. Nevertheless, it was still an improvement. Revealing his true self—the betrayed, paranoid, and distrustful man behind the cheerful mask—was simply not in his best interest.
But on occasion, he found himself unable to restrain his impulses.
"I'm well aware of who he is, thank you," he responded.
"Are you truly?" Dumbledore inquired. "Because right now, Harry needs time to mourn."
"No," Sirius nearly snarled. "What he truly needs is a familiar presence. His godfather. His only family. I understand your concern for his safety, and that's commendable, but it's not everything. He deserves happiness as well."
"I don't disagree with your perspective," Albus conceded, "but you've just regained your freedom. You need to rebuild your life. Find a home. Reconnect with old acquaintances. Once you've settled somewhere, I'm certain young Harry would be delighted to join you."
"I already possess a residence, Dumbledore, in case you've forgotten. The Black Townhouse."
"The one located in..." Albus's forehead creased. "I... can't seem to recall the exact location, which is..."
Sirius observed him with amusement. It was always entertaining to witness someone struggling to remember the precise whereabouts of the House of Black. The fact that it remained uncharted by the Fidelius Charm only added to the amusement.
"I... I can't remember it. I know it's in..."
Sirius smirked. "Are you still going to argue about protective wards? The House of Black can offer him unparalleled protection."
For once, the Headmaster appeared to genuinely consider the proposal.
This was his decisive moment.
He pressed on. "Come on, Albus. You know it's a solid plan. Maybe we can even designate the House as the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix."
That piqued the man's interest. "You'd be willing to do that?"
Sirius shrugged. "I was part of the Order, remember? Besides, Harry can invite his friends to stay with him. For the sake of James and Lily, Albus, let the boy experience some freedom."
"And let me guess," the man sighed. "A trip to a foreign beach is part of the deal?"
Sirius's mischievous grin did nothing to alleviate the old wizard's concerns.
"Listen, Albus," he began, but an abrupt knock on the door diverted his attention.
"Enter, Harry," Dumbledore called.
The sturdy oak door swung open automatically, and Harry Potter, his godson, stepped into the room.
Sirius wasted no time. Rising from his chair, he rushed toward Harry, enveloping him in a warm, tight hug. He tried to ignore the way Harry flinched upon sudden contact and instead ruffled the boy's hair affectionately, wearing a broad smile.
"Sirius!" exclaimed Harry, "you're—"
"Free!" Sirius sang, "I'm a free man now, all thanks to you. In fact, Albus and I were just discussing my next steps."
The fleeting shadow of disappointment that crossed his godson's face tore at Sirius's heart. It was evidence enough of how mistaken Albus was.
"I... I see," Harry said, attempting not to sound disheartened, "well, I'm happy for you."
"Well, Prongslet," Sirius beamed, "what do you think about spending the summer with me?"
Harry's spirits lifted at that. "Live... with you?"
Sirius did his utmost to disregard the incredulity in the boy's voice. Protective measures, indeed! He knew the kind of wretched Muggles Dumbledore had entrusted his godson to. Harry needed to escape that environment. Nothing was more crucial than his godson's happiness—certainly not the blood of Petunia Dursley, nor the presence of Arabella Figg, and most definitely not Albus Dumbledore's well-meaning intentions.
"Why, yes!" he declared. "We talked about this, remember? Now that I'm free, we can live together, just as I promised. So... what do you say?"
The smile that blossomed on his godson's face could rival a thousand Patronuses.
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