AN

I apologise to everyone who likes the Weasleys & Sirius (which includes myself). You can probably guess what our dear Harry will think of them, when he gets to meet them later in this chapter.

July to August 1995, summer before 5th year

Harry spent his holidays, as he so often had before, with Theodore.

He had gone to Little Whinging with aunt Petunia at first, but decided he didn't want to leave Theodore all alone with his father for too long and informed his aunt that he wouldn't spent time with them after all. Aunt Petunia had readily agreed to tell anyone who came to ask that he was only out for the day and indeed staying with his family otherwise. The impromptu Portkey had worked exactly as intended – getting experience first-hand with the Triwizard Cup had been an opportunity Harry could never have let slip through his fingers – and Theodore hadn't even pretended to be surprised when he turned up inside the wards of Nott Manor. Theodore's father had arched an eyebrow, asked whether Harry was sure this was a wise idea and then let the matter rest. Harry was not sure whether Mr Nott had told his master about Harry's whereabouts or not, but as the Dark Lord had yet to make an appearance on the manor grounds and cause trouble, Harry didn't really care either way.

If Dumbledore had ever noticed that Harry wasn't where he was supposed to be, he hadn't done anything about it so far, either.

The very first thing Harry and Theodore did with their free time was follow Harry's lead on the Resurrection Stone – the only of the remaining two Deathly Hallows he currently had a chance of obtaining – to Little Hangleton, where the last of the Gaunts had lived before their bloodline had finally died out.

Harry … recognized the place. And when he followed his instinct to the graveyard, he discovered why. That … did not bode well. The very graveyard the Dark Lord had dragged Harry to for his resurrection was part of the village the Gaunts had lived in. What if the Dark Lord had somehow gotten his hands on the Stone already and used it in his resurrection ritual? How would Harry get it, then? Would he have to fight the Dark Lord for it? It was bad enough that he would likely have to face off against the barmy, old headmaster one day. Harry didn't want to fight an epic duel against one of the most powerful wizards alive. It would be such a bother.

But. First things first.

The Gaunts had most definitely not lived right in the middle of all these Muggles. The Gaunts had held themselves above Muggles and Mudbloods, after all, their bloodline so impeccably pure that they had intermarried perhaps one time too often. More than one time. Too many times. Way too many times. Anyway. They would never have willingly mingled with the likes of Muggles.

The cottage they found after Harry had managed to sort through all the traces left by recent magics and found the older ones, the ones that had been here long before the night of the bloody Third Task – was not what Harry would have imagined the noble House of Gaunt would willingly have inhabited. Sure, he had read all about their fall from grace and descent into madness, but this … This was just sad. Really, really sad. Even who-knew-how-many years ago, when the cottage had not been abandoned and properly maintained by living, breathing people, it couldn't have been much better than what it currently was.

'Run-down shack' was a more fitting description than 'cottage'.

It was hard enough reaching the cottage, because everything was over-grown with trees and shrubs and weeds and what-not. The door could barely be called a door anymore – with its wooden planks rotten and full of holes and hanging nearly completely off the hinges. The inside was just as bad – cobwebs covering the walls and ceilings, grass growing between the floorboards, tree branches coming in through the windows, what was left of the furniture unrecognizable, dirt and dust and filth everywhere.

The ring was easy to find. Whoever had left it here had placed it under so many heavy wards that there was no way Harry could have not noticed them – as if someone had put up large neon signs advertising its location. There were so many spells that even Harry had to take some time to dispel them all and then there was the curse placed on the ring itself. It was an ugly thing – crude, thick, golden – absolutely horrible to look at. But it held the Stone. And what did Harry care for an ugly, cursed ring, when he could, finally, hold the Resurrection Stone in his own hands? It felt right. It made him feel just a little bit complete – more than before, at least, filling a void he hadn't noticed being there before.

The ring was more than merely cursed, Harry discovered. There was something very dark, very sinister to it that reminded Harry strongly of the little black book he had been experimenting on in his second year at Hogwarts. It also gave him quite the headache.

Harry tried to separate the ring and the stone, tried destroying the ring with all kinds of magics – but he had to admit defeat, in the end. The only spell he knew would be successful was the Fiendfyre Curse and he couldn't risk that, couldn't risk the Stone being harmed, he couldn't – ah, but this was a Deathly Hallow, was it not? The Resurrection Stone, created by Death of all beings, would surely not be harmed by some Fiendfyre, would it? A Deathly Hallow would surely be nigh indestructible?

The ring let out some high-pitched, incoherent screeching that had Harry press his hands over his ears and Theodore flee outside – but then it stopped and Harry let the fire die down and there it was, unharmed, a smooth and black stone, and of the golden ring nothing was left behind.

A successful endeavour, if Harry was to describe their little adventure.

He tried using the Stone, out of curiosity.

Just like the story said, Harry turned the Stone thrice and then he looked up and – there was no one there.

He frowned, looked back down at the black stone in his palm. He could feel the magic, faintly, as if it was out of reach – but it was there, it was ancient, it was powerful. Why hadn't it worked? He thought back on the Tale of the Three Brothers, turned it over in his head. The Stone summoned the dead loved ones of its user and Harry – Harry only loved two people in his life and they were both still very much alive. And they would stay alive for a long time if he could help it.

It did not matter.

Harry had the Stone. Now he only needed for the right opportunity to present itself so he could take the Wand from the old man. But Harry could wait. Harry would patient. He could do that, when it mattered.

o

Sirius Black was an enigma to Harry – and that encompassed every aspect of the man Harry was aware of.

Perhaps it was better this way – perhaps it was a good thing Harry wasn't going to live with the man, after all. He still wrote. He had even invited Harry to come and stay with him for a week or so, hinting at something Harry didn't care to be curious about. But, well, Harry and Petunia – mostly Petunia, really – had been working hard to help Sirius forge a fake identity and get an official adoption going and everything. And then the man had just suddenly backed out and henceforth avoided the topic like the plague. All that effort for nothing. Nothing.

Harry was, understandably, rather miffed about the whole thing. Not that it mattered anymore, at this point. He could just move into Nott Manor permanently and be done with it. Aunt Petunia certainly wouldn't mind.

"It wouldn't hurt to go and see what it is all about," Theodore said, after Harry had shown him the latest letter from his godfather.

Harry narrowed his eyes.

"The way he is phrasing his words is rather curious," Theodore continued and then barely stopped his lips from quirking upwards, "and he is currently living in the very house the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black resided in during their prime time."

"Library," Harry murmured under his breath and this time Theodore didn't manage to stop the small smile overtaking his lips. Harry sighed. "I gather it wouldn't be a good idea to take you with me, would it? I thought so." He grumbled. "I suppose I might as well check it out. See what he wants, take a close look at the library. I can always leave if it's not entertaining enough."

Theodore nodded. "Precisely."

Harry leaned over and right into Theodore's personal space. "Will you be fine without me?"

Theodore, predictably, stiffened. "Father has not behaved in any way differently so far."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And how much of that is due to my presence, do you think?"

This close, he could almost count Theodore's eyelashes. This close, he didn't miss the way Theodore's eyes flickered to the side, the way he couldn't bring himself to focus on Harry's face.

"I don't know, Harry," Theodore said quietly. "But I will manage for a few days. And you can always avenge me later."

Harry leaned back, noticing the way Theodore exhaled softly, and narrowed his eyes. "I don't want to have to avenge you, Theo. I want you to be perfectly fine."

Theodore smiled, but it was a weak smile. "Because vengeance is too bothersome?"

Harry's lips twitched. "Perhaps. But seriously, stay safe. Write to me the moment something feels amiss. Maybe I should work on some kind of phone that works around magic. Or a magical alternative to phones. Yes, I think that might be easier."

"Write to your godfather, Harry. You can come up with a new invention in no time at all at a later point."

"Are there any magical devices that allow instant communication on the market already?"

Theodore tilted his head and hummed. "It is possible. I shall look into it while you're gone." He glanced at Harry. "Yes, while you are gone. I will be fine, Harry. Don't worry. He is still my father, in the end."

"That doesn't have to mean anything."

"I trust you, Harry. Can you trust me?"

Harry's expression softened. "Of course, Theo." He sighed. "Well, then. What should I write to my dear godfather, whom I am still angry with for dropping the adoption without giving us any reason whatsoever?"

o

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place, was located in London. Muggle London. If Harry had been surprised at the Gaunts' shack, it was nothing compared to seeing the Black's residence for the first time.

The house had been placed under the Fidelius Charm and Harry itched to explore that one further, but he doubted he could do so without dismantling the spell and he did not wish to face whatever consequences that might bring. Not quite yet, anyway.

The house was generally full of magic and magical objects and it became instantly clear to Harry that he would find more than enough entertainment here to last him for weeks, months, perhaps even a year or two depending on the actual magics he might find. He should have brought Theodore with him, after all. Then again, the house was full of a gaggle of red-heads and other people that Harry knew he, himself, would never get along with – some faces even seemed familiar, he must have seen them at Hogwarts at some point – and they would, in turn, most likely not approve of Theodore.

Harry had to share a room with one of the red-heads. Neither of them was happy with that arrangement.

They spent the first evening in awkward silence until whatever meeting the adults had been holding was over.

"We're eating down in the kitchen," said the red-headed woman who had introduced herself as Molly Weasley. "Harry, dear, if you'll just tiptoe across the hall it's through this door here –"

There was a loud crash and Mrs Weasley cried out, "Tonks!"

Harry turned around and saw a young woman with violet hair lying on the floor, apologizing profusely. Her words were soon drowned by a terribly loud screech that came from a painting Harry hadn't noticed before – probably, because velvet curtains had covered it until this moment.

Harry stared in fascination as an old woman with yellowing skin began to yell incoherently, waking up all the other portraits along the wall, who all joined in.

"Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half-breeds, mutants, freaks, begone from this place! How dare you befoul the house of my fathers –"

This – was – marvellous!

Harry made no attempt to move or cover his ears as, only stared with unmasked glee as the young woman was still apologizing, dragging what looked like a troll's leg – an umbrella stand, Harry realized – off the floor, Mrs Weasley was stunning all the other portraits to shut them up, and a man with long, shaggy, black hair came out of one of the doors to yell at the old woman in the painting.

"Shut up, you horrible old hag, shut up!"

"Yoooou!" the old woman howled. "Blood traitor, abomination, shame of my flesh!"

"I said – shut – up!" the man roared and, finally, with the help of a man Harry thought looked vaguely familiar, he forced the curtains closed.

The silence that followed was almost painful to the ears.

The man with the shaggy hair turned to Harry and Harry quickly wiped the grin off his face.

"Hello, Harry," the man said grimly. "I see you've met my mother."

"Sirius?" Harry asked.

The man grinned. "The one and only." He eyed the velvet curtains with disdain. "We've been trying to get my dear old mum down for a month, but we think she put a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of the canvas. Let's get downstairs, quick, before they all wake up again."

Harry's eyes lingered on the curtains, but he followed Sirius down a flight of stairs into the basement kitchen. Something to explore at a later point.

Dinner was rather awkward for Harry, surrounded by all these people he didn't know, all of them probably Gryffindors at one point or another in their life and he the sole Slytherin among them. He did recognize Professor Lupin, eventually – the Defence Professor in Harry's third year, yes – though it took someone calling the man 'Lupin' to spur Harry's memory. The others introduced themselves or were introduced by others, but Harry barely paid them any attention. He didn't deem them important enough to be remembered.

"Ah, Harry," Sirius said as he pulled Harry into a crushing hug. "I've been waiting for this day for – so long! Let me look at you! The spitting image of James, aren't you?"

Harry scowled. "We could have met much sooner, had you put more effort into the adoption process."

A shadow passed over Sirius' face. "I'm sorry, Harry. I don't think the whole thing is a good idea, after all."

Harry decided then and there to drop the topic entirely and never bring it up again. He spent the rest of the dinner ignoring Sirius making puppy eyes at him. Useless. His godfather was utterly useless.

They spent the meal discussing the cleaning that had to be done around the house. There were also some vague allusions about 'including Harry' and 'Harry was still only a boy' and the like coming from the adults, but Harry took an educated guess and surmised that they were all on the old man's side, believing in the Dark Lord's return, and Harry-the-child-saviour might or might not be helpful for their cause. Or whatever. Harry did not bother listening in, nor did he try to argue against Mrs Weasely's final decision.

The mother of all the red-heads, a red-head herself, was as warm and open-hearted as Susan's parents, but in an overbearing kind of way that Harry could stand even less. Mr and Mrs Bones were fine, Harry could even hold an enjoyable conversation with Susan's aunt. Mrs Weasley was … Well, Harry tried to spend as little time in her vicinity as possible. He tried to spend as little time in anyone's vicinity as possible. They tried roping him into their house cleaning mania once, but Harry refused. And then locked himself in the library no one had been able to get into until now. It was a nice library. Harry did not feel guilty slipping a few books into the endless void of his bag, even less so when he watched the many magical objects (all reeking of sinister magic, mind you) that were being disposed of during the house cleaning.

He did take down the painting at one point, though, to the relief of literally everyone in the entire house safe for the mad house-elf. He then let the mad house-elf take the blame for stealing and hiding the damned thing, while he locked himself in the library again. The painting of Walburga Black was fun. Harry liked it. Harry did not put it into his bag, because he really had no use for a magical painting of an insane old hag, but he spent a lot of time talking with said old hag, taking a closer look at the magic contained within and eventually taking the whole thing apart.

Harry spent most of his time at Grimmauld Place avoiding people – especially Sirius – while simultaneously listening in and observing and drawing his own conclusions and taking what little information he could get – as well as all the magical items he managed to secretly grab, ward, and put in his magical bag right next to the numerous books he had already pilfered from the library.

So apparently, Dumbledore had contacted Sirius – and Harry found it rather suspicious how Sirius, himself, was not suspicious of the old man at all. From what Harry understood, Dumbledore was aware of the Secret Keeper Switch – ergo, Sirius' innocence in the Potter's deaths – and had certainly known before getting in contact with Sirius. To Harry it did not make sense that the old man received that knowledge only recently – how would he have without Sirius telling him? Peter Pettigrew certainly hadn't done it, the man was dead – personally killed by Sirius – and no one else alive should have been aware of the whole issue. Harry suspected Dumbledore had known all along. Therefore, Dumbledore had let an innocent man be sentenced to Azkaban without a trial. Harry knew Dumbledore had already been Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot back then, so calling for a trial – and a fair and thorough one at that – should not have posed any problem at all to the old man.

Everything about this was suspicious, yet Sirius did not seem concerned in the slightest.

Aside from that, the Ministry of Magic had decided to openly stand against Dumbledore, who had publicly announced Lord Voldemort's return to power, despite having no proof. No one wanted to believe the Dark Lord was back and without definite proof they never would. The Death Eaters, or at least Theodore's father, were rather delighted with this turn of events. They certainly enjoyed the fallout between Dumbledore and the Ministry.

Harry still wondered how Dumbledore knew in the first place – or how he had managed to convince his little – what was it again? – Order of the Something. Harry certainly had never proclaimed anything of the sort, neither in public nor in private. The only people he had told were Theodore and Susan and he could trust them to keep this information a secret. The most likely explanation was a spy. Someone among the Death Eaters was feeding information to the old man. But the old man was also aware of Harry's presence at the graveyard, or at least suspected it, yet only the Dark Lord and the fake Moody had been present for that and Harry highly doubted that not-Moody was a spy. It was, all in all, a very curious affair.

While the Ministry and Dumbledore were openly antagonizing each other, the Dark Lord had so far been lying low. Mr Nott went out frequently to what Harry and Theodore gathered where Death Eater meetings, yet nothing – nothing at all – ever appeared in the news about suspicious activities. No rallying of Death Eaters, no incidents like the one at the Quidditch World Cup, no Dark Mark in the sky, no murders or kidnappings or anything.

On his birthday, Harry received a communication mirror from Theodore that connected to the one Theodore had kept to himself, which was the only nice thing Harry had to say about his birthday. The whole event at Grimmauld Place was so dreadful he would rather forget all about it.

And then Harry requested to go home, please, and let himself be apparated to Privet Drive, before returning to Nott Manor on his own.