The Package
"How many are there?" Arthur questioned as the three men he'd sent to scout the coast returned.
"Close to a thousand at least," Harold answered darkly. "We have but three hundred fighting men."
Arthur nodded darkly, his hand resting on his pommel as he considered their options.
"They cannot be allowed to pass over the cliffs," he murmured. "If they make it through, there is nothing to stop them from here until they reach the capital."
"We will be slaughtered," Harold predicted.
"Perhaps," Arthur agreed, "but we are all that lie between them and our families. We must protect them, even if it costs us our lives."
"Of course," Glyn interjected. "I will ready the men."
"Thank you," Arthur returned, watching as his brother left the command tent they had erected in the woods.
As ever, when Cymru faced hostility from another nation, it was the Peverells who would step up to defend their lands.
With the main army at the eastern border keeping an eye on the warring English, it was down to Arthur and his rather paltry force to fend off the Irish.
Earlier reports suggested only a few ships would be arriving, but only the prior day eight had come into view on the horizon, more than double what had been expected.
Nonetheless, Arthur knew they could not flee.
His wife and daughter…
No, he would not allow the Irish heathens to get to them.
Come hell or highwater, he would drive them back into the sea from whence they came.
"Come Death, come," he sighed as he stood and exited the tent.
Already, Glyn had rallied the men and begun marching them the short distance away to the clifftops.
Among them was only thirty archers who would draw and loose volley after volley of arrows upon their enemies.
There was no cavalry of which to speak, though the horses would prove to be quite useless in this terrain.
Whatever remained of the Irish forces after they had made their way through the initial onslaught would have to be eradicated with cold steel and by those that possessed magic.
Did the Irish have any witches or wizard amongst them?
Arthur knew it was likely, but it changed nothing.
The plan was the plan and he would ensure that it was the invaders that lost this day.
"That is a lot of men," Glyn whispered as Arthur reached the front.
He hummed as he raised his telescope and peered through.
There was indeed magical folk amongst them, set apart by the robes they wore in lieu of heavy armour.
A mistake on their part.
Although the mail was cumbersome at times, it could be the difference between life and death when under fire from arrows, and some spells.
Arthur certainly would not go into battle without his; a lesson he had learned from his late father.
He missed the man terribly, as did Glyn.
Often they would share an ale and reminisce about their childhood.
Their mother had died when they had both been young, and for several years, it had been just the two of them and Gawain Peverell to take care of them.
It all changed when Carys unexpectedly came along, though both Arthur and Glyn were grown men when that happened.
Their father had been rather coy with the details surrounding her birth, and although it was quite the adjustment to make, both brothers had accepted Carys as one of them. Even when she decided to leave their home with the Englishman, they had supported her.
Still, their father had been dead for a few years now and Carys had not returned.
Why would she?
She had a husband and two children to care for wherever she had decided to settle.
Arthur only wished his sister well, and in truth, he was relieved that she wasn't here for what was coming.
"Ready?" Arthur questioned Glyn when he noticed the Irish below were on the move.
Glyn nodded, wetting his dry lips before gesturing for the archers to take up their positions.
"I will take point."
Arthur nodded.
There was no one he would trust more to lead half of the men than his own brother.
"On my word," Arthur commanded, watching, and waiting for the invaders to come into range of the bowmen. "Now!"
The arrows sang as the barrage was unleashed, taking those on the coast below by surprise.
"AGAIN!" Arthur commanded as their enemies scrambled, the sounds of the wounded echoing around them.
Much to their credit, the Irish did not flee in the face of the adversity and managed to gather themselves into something that resembled a fighting force, though it certainly lacked discipline.
Regardless, they charged with swords and axes drawn, unrelenting even as more of them were felled by the archers.
"We will still be outnumbered," Arthur murmured as he drew his own sword and wand.
The Irish were quickly gaining ground, and even the hill scarcely slowed their approach.
"READY YOURSELVES!" Arthur instructed, his hand tightening around his sword.
The men followed suit, and Arthur could almost smell the nervousness in the air.
It was always the same when it came to battle.
There were those that thrived in it, those that fought simply to live, and there were those that were merely destined to die on the field.
As it was now, it would always be.
"Come Death, come," Arthur whispered a final time as the first of the invaders broke through a short distance away.
He received a sword in his guts for his troubles, but his pleas for help were lost in the chaos that quickly ensured.
Steel clashed with steel, and the magicals among them wielded their wands, making the fighting only more dangerous and intense as fire and all manner of spells spouted from them.
The Irish quickly proved to be a ferocious lot, and Arthur had his work cut out for him as he ducked below a swinging axe and batted aside a blasting curse sent his way.
Such magic in close proximity was foolish, but the enemy did not seem to care, not even for their own kind.
Arthur turned as a scream drew ever closer, parrying the sword of his attacker before almost cutting him in half with the follow up swing.
There was no fear in his victim's eyes, just the madness and bloodlust only battle could bring.
Arthur abhorred such violent tendencies.
He and Glyn had been trained as boys to fight as well as any. It was something their father insisted upon and had never let up until he could no longer lift his sword.
Still, neither of the brothers relished in taking a life and they had no ambition beyond their own borders. They would, however, defend their own lands with lives, just as they were doing now.
Another man charged at him and Arthur rammed the plated heel of his boot into his chest, sending him crashing to the ground. Jamming the sword into his chest, he cast a banishing charm at another who vanished over the side of the cliff.
They were indeed still outnumbered, but Arthur and his men would not relent.
The Irish soon realised this and began fighting on the backfoot, attempting to retreat.
Arthur could not allow that.
They would only return with greater numbers if any were to make it offshore.
"ARCHERS!" he commanded again when the Irish began to flee.
Once more, arrows were loosed and the projectiles claimed several more victims.
By now, the sand on the beach below was red with the blood of the enemy, and what remained would not be enough to man all of their ships.
Nonetheless, Arthur and his men had not escaped without their share of losses.
Their surprise attack had worked, but they had their own casualties to contend with.
"AGAIN!" Arthur commanded.
Arrows continued to rain down on the retreating Irish until none remained on their feet.
It was then that Arthur led the defenders onto the beach to finish what the arrows had not.
They put the rest of the Irish to the sword before he allowed his men to rest.
"I want all the wounded helped," he instructed tiredly. "The dead are to be counted and returned to their families."
"We did it," Harold declared simply, offering Arthur a skin of water.
He drank deeply before nodding.
"That was just a test for them," he murmured. "They wished to see how well defended we are."
"How will they know?"
Arthur smirked maliciously.
"Without anyone returning, they will assume that we are stronger. I do not think they will try again."
Harold nodded, frowning as one of the others sprinted towards him.
"Arthur! It's Glyn!"
"What about him?" Arthur asked as he stood, he stomach filling with dread.
"I-I don't know, he won't get up."
"Show me!"
Arthur sprinted after the man until they came upon a small group surrounding a prone figure.
Even through the crimson mask of blood, Glyn's visage was unmistakeable.
"Brother," he croaked as Arthur kneeled next to him.
"What happened?"
Glyn shook his head.
"I don't know. I can't move, Arthur."
"Was it a weapon or a curse?"
"Both, I think. I'm cold, Arthur."
The small amount of visible flesh was blackening rapidly, and the wound would not seal even with magic.
Whatever curse Glyn had been hit with was a particularly vicious one.
Arthur cursed under his breath as he did all he could for his brother, but it was no good.
He could only watch helplessly as the life left Glyn's eyes, his final gesture being a weak smile and an incoherent murmuring about Death.
Arthur didn't know how long he sat by the body of his brother, but the sun had gone down by the time Harold all but pulled him away so that Glyn could be cleaned up and made presentable for his return.
It was not often that Arthur wept, but for his brother as he had his mother and father, he shed his mournful tears, allowing none to be the bearers of Glyn's body.
He alone would carry him home where he would be buried with the rest of the Peverells.
There never had been many of them, and with all that had come to pass over the last three generations, the name would vanish from history in only a few short years.
Glyn had fathered two daughters and Arthur, only one of his own.
Iolanthe was a beautiful young woman who would garner the attention of many suitors, and with any marriage and Arthur's inevitable passing, the name Peverell would cease to be.
"Bloody hell," Harry choked as he was pulled from the memory, trembling from the ebbing adrenaline of the battle he had witnessed, and the overwhelming sense of loss at the death of Glyn Peverell. "Come Death, come," he whispered sadly.
He took a few moments to compose himself, remembering that was he saw was just a vision, even if it felt like he had lived it himself.
War was a brutal art, and Harry had felt every emotion of Arthur Peverell, from the thrill of the fight to the devastation at the loss of his brother.
Knowing that he would likely face it himself in the years to come only worsened his already down-trodden demeanour.
With the break in on Halloween still playing on his mind, he knew he was fortunate that he was still going to be allowed to visit Hogsmeade, but it was difficult to get into the festive spirit knowing how close he had come to being faced with Sirius Black.
The man couldn't have been in his right mind to not only enter the castle, but to attempt to murder a student in their bed was something else entirely.
Ever since, Harry had not slept well, remaining vigilant in case Black returned.
Of course, his godfather had managed to escape, and despite the best efforts of the staff, there was no sign of him.
The days that followed had been full of the students speculating just how Black had gotten in and out of the castle with none the wiser, and the ideas only became more ludicrous.
Still, it seemed to distract the students from talking about Harry and the altercation with the Dementors, so something good had come of it.
Not that knowing his life was in mortal peril was any better as an alternative.
Regardless, the trip to Hogsmeade today was the one thing Harry had been looking forward to these past weeks and knowing the village would be full of aurors and the Hogwarts professor assuaged his nerves, somewhat.
With a shake of his head, Harry readied himself for the day and placed the cloak in his pocket.
It would be useful if Black did make an unlikely appearance.
Christmas was only a few days away and Harry still needed to buy gifts, so he would not be deterred from going.
"What are you doing in here?" Ron suddenly yelped.
Harry pulled back his curtains with his wand drawn, only to frown at the sight of the already dressed Hermione.
"Making sure you're ready," she answered.
"This is the boys' dormitory!" Neville squeaked as he entered from the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around him.
"I'm sorry!" Hermione replied embarrassedly, blushing at the sight of the boy.
"Bloody hell, get out, Hermione!" Ron ordered.
She all but fled from the room and Harry laughed amusedly at the sight of a shirtless Ron and sputtering Neville.
"How did she even get in here?" the former asked, his ears having turned red. "We can't get into the girl's rooms."
"And how would you know that?" Dean asked as he opened his curtains. "Been trying to make a late-night visit to someone?" he added, waggling his eyebrows.
"No!" Ron denied hotly.
Harry laughed again as he left the others to get ready, finding Hermione pacing in front of the fire.
"Don't say anything, Harry," she warned.
He held his hands up as a gesture of peace.
"I wasn't going to. Why you thought it would be a good idea…"
"Just shut up," Hermione groaned.
"Maybe next time you won't sneak into our room."
"I didn't sneak!"
"What's this?" Fred or George asked curiously. "Has our resident bookworm got a fetish for voyeurism?"
"No, I have not!" Hermione denied. "I only went in to see if they were dressed."
"Wait, you can go in there?" Angelina asked.
"See, now look what you have done," the other twin huffed. "We won't be granted a peaceful night of sleep now with all the girls coming to our room."
"Yeah right," Angelina snorted. "Harry should probably watch out though. When Alicia…"
"Do not finish that sentence!" Alicia interjected irritably.
Angelina offered the girl a smirk and Harry did his best not to look at either of them.
Ever since the night Angelina had made the comment across the common room, he had been teased for it relentlessly.
"Breakfast!" he declared as Ron finally arrived, only to be all but dragged from the room by Harry, the laughter of the others ringing in his ears. "Why can't they just leave me alone?" he groaned.
"Because of the way you react to it," Hermione answered, doing her best not to grin at him. "If you didn't get so mortified, they wouldn't do it."
"It's hard not to when they're together," Harry defended.
Hermione said nothing, and Harry cursed the very existence of the Quidditch team he was a part of.
The twins could be a nightmare, but the Chasers were a force to be reckoned with when they chose to be.
Alicia had already clarified what had happened, but Angelina would not let it go, and even Alicia got a kick out of seeing Harry squirm, despite her also being the butt of the teasing.
"Where are we going first?" Ron asked as he helped himself to half a dozen sausages.
Harry shrugged and looked towards Hermione.
"Dervish and Banges," she decided. "I'd like to get something to send for my parents."
Harry nodded his understanding.
With Mr and Mrs Weasley away for the holidays, Harry had opted to remain at Hogwarts with Ron and the others. Even Hermione had decided to stay, citing she needed access to the library for the mountain of homework she had to complete.
How she managed to attend all of her lessons was still a mystery yet to be revealed, but Harry could see she was not better for it.
Most of the time, Hermione was exhausted.
When anyone had made a point to mention it, the girl became rather snappy with them, so both Harry and Ron had learned to not do so.
Hermione, it turned out, had quite the temper when pushed enough.
Harry had not dared mention that he was now doing additional assignments in three of their subjects.
He had no doubt it would only worsen Hermione's mood.
"Come on, we should get moving before all the carriages are taken," Harry urged. "Besides, we don't want to keep Filch waiting. I bet he's been itching to jam his scanner into students all morning."
Hermione tutted at his choice of words and Ron laughed as they made their way out of the hall.
Despite what he'd endured this morning and the worry hanging over him, Harry was determined to enjoy some time away from the castle.
"Watch it!" Ron groaned as Filch prodded him a little too harshly.
The caretaker shot all three of them a look of suspicion before reluctantly allowing them to leave.
"I don't know what I'd prefer," Ron muttered. "Being faced with Filch, or Trelawney talking about my inner-eye."
"What a load of rubbish," Hermione snorted irritably.
Although she had quite quickly quit Divination, something she evidently did not thrive in, her workload was still taking its toll on her.
Harry thought she only felt such a way about the rather odd branch of magic because she had no aptitude for it, but again, it was not something he would mention.
It seemed as though if something could not be learned from a book or was a precise enough art, Hermione was unable to grasp it, something she did not take well.
"Dervish and Banges, then?" Harry asked.
Hermione's expression brightened and Ron rolled his eyes.
His friends were so different in their ways, and Harry often wondered how they would get along if he was not there.
Probably poorly, he decided.
Both could be quite stubborn, and Ron was not particularly mindful of other's feelings at times.
No. Without Harry acting as a buffer of sorts, he expected the two would spend much of their time disagreeing with one another.
Even more so than they did now.
(Break)
Sirius looked on forlornly as the village below filled with students making their way through the snowy streets.
He had blown it.
The anniversary of Wormtail's betrayal of James and Lily had gotten to him, and he had been reckless. With no thought-out plan, he had allowed his blind rage to consume him, and he had acted foolishly, almost getting caught in the process.
The wizarding world already thought him a maniacal killer, and their opinion would only have worsened.
What must Harry think of him?
For the days after, Sirius had merely wallowed in his own disappointment in himself.
It had been a stupid thing to do, and now, there was little chance of getting to Pettigrew whilst he was within the castle.
Sirius had considered using today as an opportunity, but there was no guarantee that Peter would even be with the boy he was hiding with, who, worryingly, was a close friend of Harry's.
No, it wouldn't do to be attempt something so foolish again.
For now, Sirius could only wait and hope that Harry came to no harm, unless there was something else he could do…
Learning that Remus was now teaching at the castle had come as something of a surprise, but perhaps the werewolf being there could be used as an advantage?
Sirius hummed as he pondered his options.
He may have to concede that it would not be him that finally managed to kill Peter, but the rat spending the remainder of his days with the Dementors was as satisfying as his vengeance would get.
Sirius had always loathed that his family were underhanded with their dealings but being a product of his namesake could well be the thing that serves him best now.
(Break)
Ron's patience had quickly worn thin as Hermione browsed the various goods on offer and he had left to go to Zonko's a few minutes after entering Dervish and Banges.
Harry was quite content to look for himself and even found a gift he knew that Perenelle would enjoy.
It was a flower within a glass case that was enchanted to grow from a seedling, and when it died after blooming, the process would start again.
He also took an interest in a rather strange assortment of silverware used in brewing Potions he thought Nicholas might enjoy until Harry heard a familiar voice coming from the next isle.
"All alone, mudblood?"
Malfoy.
Immediately, Harry felt his irritation grow at the use of the slur, and only more so when he heard Hermione's reply.
"Just go away, Draco," she almost pleaded.
"I don't think I will," Malfoy teased. "I don't like spending time around the filth, but for you, I'll make an exception."
"Is that right?" Harry asked darkly as he rounded the corner to find the blond with his usual lackeys surrounding Hermione.
Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson were never too far away, especially when Draco was showing enough grit to openly mock someone.
"Of course you are here, Potter!" Draco sneered.
"I am," Harry agreed. "Now, why don't you and your little gang of arse-kissers piss off."
Malfoy eyed the wand Harry drew warily before smirking.
"You think you can take all of us on?" he scoffed.
"Harry, please don't," Hermione urged.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
"I think the question you should be asking is if any of you have the guts to risk facing me," he returned, "or are you all as cowardly as dragon here?"
Malfoy's cheeks reddened.
"Do not call me that!"
"Why not?" Harry asked. "Is it what your mother used to call you? Ah, she did. Are you mummy's little dragon, Malfoy?"
"Do not talk about my mother!" Draco hissed as he finally drew his wand only for Harry to take a step closer towards him.
"Do it," Harry goaded. "I would love nothing more than for you to attempt to curse me."
Malfoy suddenly became nervous as he looked towards the other Slytherins.
"What is going on over here?" the voice of the shopkeeper interrupted the standoff. "Put your wands away! I will not have it in my shop!"
Harry did so, and Draco seized the opportunity.
However, before he finished uttering the first syllable of his chosen spell, Harry grabbed him tightly by the throat.
Shoving him towards the exit, he threw him out of the door and Draco skidded across the icy pavement.
"Don't even think about it," he warned the other Slytherins who rushed out of the shop after him. "This is between me and Draco."
The blond remained on the ground, looking up in shock at how he had just been manhandled.
"My father will hear of this!" he declared as he stood, trembling.
"Isn't your father too busy fighting your other battles?" Harry chuckled. "I would think that a little scratch like the one Buckbeak gave you would have healed quickly considering you are a powerful pureblood. I guess you're not as powerful as you thought, Draco."
The boy simply glared at Harry.
"I won't tell you again, Malfoy," Harry warned. "If I hear another bigoted comment leave your mouth, I will not even give you the opportunity to fight back. I will make it my mission to make your life as miserable as possible, and you can tell your father that for all I care."
Draco said nothing else as he stormed off, followed by his housemates.
"Harry, you're going to get yourself in trouble!"
Harry merely shrugged in response as he put his wand away.
"Draco's father is really good friends with the Minister of Magic."
"Is he?"
Hermione nodded worriedly and Harry laughed.
"Draco is an arse, and you need to learn to stick up for yourself against idiots like him. Bloody hell, Hermione, he's a coward. Fight back."
Hermione shook her head.
"I'll only get into trouble. None of the Professors do anything about him, and if his father gets involved…"
Harry could only shake his head.
He hated bullies, and that's all Malfoy was, but he would only get worse if nothing was done about him.
Most in the castle were terrified of offending Lucius Malfoy, but Harry didn't care.
Compared to Voldemort, Malfoy was nothing, so if it was down to him to remedy the problems Draco constantly caused, then he would, before it was too late.
"Is that Angelina with one of the twins?" he asked as he spotted the familiar crop of red hair and the dark skin of one of the Chasers.
"I heard they are on a date," Hermione explained. "A lot of the students use the Hogsmeade weekends to go out with each other."
"Do they?"
Hermione grinned as she nodded, though it fell when Harry spoke once more.
"Won't people think we are on a date?"
"They might," she murmured, her gaze shifting to their surroundings.
Harry smirked as he took her by the hand.
"Come on, let's go to Honeydukes," he suggested.
"Harry, what are you doing?" Hermione demanded to know.
"Taking my date to buy some sweets. Isn't that how it works?"
"We are not on a date!" the girl returned, her cheeks reddening considerably as their interaction was noticed by several nearby students.
"Not with that attitude," Harry replied merrily, taking no small amount of glee in her embarrassment.
"I'm going to kill you!" Hermione hissed.
Harry finally relented and let go of her hand.
"That's the thanks I get? I don't think this dating thing is really working out."
Hermione glared at him as she shook her head, her cheeks still a brilliant shade of red.
"You're such a prat," she sighed after a moment.
"I know, but it managed to cheer you up, didn't it?"
Hermione hummed and began walking towards Honeydukes.
"Thank you, Harry," she said gratefully. "For sticking up for me."
"Anytime," Harry replied sincerely.
He meant it.
He had no real desire to take Hermione on a date. The girl would drive him insane, of that, he had no doubt, but he cared for her deeply and would not see the likes of Malfoy upset her.
No, she was a good friend and that was all they would ever be.
(Break)
Peter was breathing heavily as he cowered underneath one of the cabinets in the Gryffindor common room. The blasted cat had chased him under here, its paws swiping dangerously close as he pressed himself against the wall.
It was bad enough having to contend with the ginger beast, and yet, it was the least of his concerns.
Sirius knew he was here.
How, Peter did not know, but he was convinced that his former friend had not made a mistake on Halloween as the rest of the castle believed.
No, Sirius would not do something so foolish.
How wizarding Britain had been convinced that the ever-loyal man had turned on the Potters was beyond him.
Anyone who knew how close James and Sirius had been would know better, except for Remus who evidently chose to live in ignorance.
Peter winced as one of the sharp claws grazed his nose.
The cat would kill him in his rat form, but Sirius would kill him when he caught up with him regardless of what Peter was at the time.
He needed to get away from Hogwarts, but where could he go?
With everyone believing him to be dead, he had nowhere to go, and suddenly resurfacing was not an option.
Unanswerable questions would be asked.
Besides, with the weather as cold as it was, it would make for a miserable several months before spring arrived.
For now, he would need to make his escape and find somewhere within the castle to lie low, at least until the weather improved.
Then he could flee.
Perhaps Lucius could help him?
The very thought of approaching the man was not one Peter relished.
Lucius would likely kill him merely for the inconvenience of his presence.
Peter needed to think.
He had weeks to do so, if only he could get away from the damned cat that continued to stalk him.
"CROOKSHANKS!"
Peter breathed a sigh of relief as the girl picked up her cat, and he took his chance.
Sprinting across the common room and through the open portrait hole, he ignored the calls of the redhead that had been taking care of him.
Peter was no longer safe with the Weasleys, so there was no need to allow himself to be treated as a pet any longer.
No, he would find somewhere nice and warm, somewhere he may learn something worth knowing, and he knew just the place.
Dumbledore's office would be rather cosy until the time was right to move on.
(Break)
Harry smiled as the cushion levitated in front of him and he guided it towards the next table along before gently lowering it.
Non-verbal casting was a difficult skill to grasp, but after months of fruitless practice, he was beginning to see results with basic charms and spells.
To ensure it had not been a fluke, he did it again, nodding satisfactorily to himself.
"Accio cushion," he whispered, ducking as it flew towards his head much quicker than he'd intended.
Over the past weeks since he'd been undertaking additional assignments in Charms, Transfiguration, and Defence Against the Dark Arts, Harry had become acutely aware of just how much more challenging advanced magic was.
Still, he knew facing adversity was a good thing, but it could often be frustrating when he struggled to overcome it.
There were undeniable levels to casting magic, and Harry was definitely pushing the boundaries of his limits.
Some types of magic seemed to come easier to him.
Curses often worked for him, as did certain charms that required emotional input.
Others alluded him and Harry found he was having to adopt different approaches to succeed.
Much to his surprise, Transfiguration seemed to be the thing he was most consistent with.
Although the techniques often varied, the approach of them was most similar, meaning he only had to make minor adjustments to manipulate his creations into being what he wanted.
Nonetheless, he knew that his work in the Mind Arts was very much attributable to his results.
Transfiguration required unwavering focus and the ability to precisely envision the desired outcome.
Without his skill in Occlumency, Harry had no doubt he would be struggling much more with the complex branch of magic.
Releasing a deep breath, he focused on the cushion once more.
"Accio cushion," he murmured, focusing on not wanting it to rocket towards him.
Instead of doing what he wished, the cushion merely flopped to the ground.
"Bloody hell," Harry cursed, fighting the urge to immolate it.
Deciding to take a break, he placed his wand in the holder and took a seat on the edge of the desk where his mind inevitably wandered to the past several days.
The trip to Hogsmeade had been great, but upon their return to the castle, everything had taken a sudden turn.
Walking in on Crookshanks attempting to murder Scabbers had infuriated Ron, even more so as the rat had fled and not been seen since.
As ever, Hermione defended her cat resulting in the two of them having a blazing row in the middle of the common room, something Harry refused to get involved with.
He could understand the point of view of both of his friends, but in his eyes, neither were right.
Hermione should have kept a tighter rein on Crookshanks, but Ron had always allowed Scabbers too much freedom.
Of course there was going to be trouble.
If it wasn't Hermione's cat, it would have eventually been something else.
Regardless, the two had not spoken since, ruining any aspirations of an enjoyable Christmas.
The entire day had been awkward, and in truth, Harry didn't want to be around either of them.
Much to his relief, Hermione seemed to be busying herself with helping Hagrid prepare his appeal against the decision of the Ministry to execute Buckbeak, and Ron was simply too stubborn to attempt to make amends.
Harry feared things would only get worse before they got better, if ever.
They wouldn't find any common ground, so for the foreseeable future, things would remain as they were.
The only benefit was that Harry could get away as he pleased to practice his magic, and with Wood and the Chasers having gone home for the holidays, he was granted a reprieve from the endless amounts of training the captain insisted on holding.
Even so, Christmas had still been ruined, and Harry felt he was very much in the middle of his warring friends.
With a shake of his head, he drew his wand and aimed it at the cushion, unleashing his frustration in the form of a searing curse he had learned from one of the books Nicholas had given him.
He watched in fascination as the fabric smouldered slowly, turning black and crispy as the magic spread throughout it.
When all that remained was a charcoaled lump, Harry relented, shuddering at the use of the Dark Magic.
"Expecto Patronum," he whispered, revelling in the warmth of the opposite.
It was a strange sensation to be relieved of the taint of the other magic as his Thestral cantered around the room, shaking its head in an equine way.
It was as though the use of one magic cancelled out the effects of the other, and as he allowed his spell to dissipate, he felt neither the lingering warmth of it, nor the taint of the curse.
Was that how magic worked?
It was something Harry would have to look into, but thus far, he found that if he switched between them regularly enough, there was no lasting, negative connotations to using either.
Oddly, he found that even using spells like the Patronus Charm left him feeling artificially lifted in spirits, again, the opposite to the effects of darker magic which often left him feeling rather maudlin.
It was quite the revelation, but one that seemed to ensure he remained balanced in using both.
Shaking his head of his thoughts, he pointed his wand once more towards the cushion.
"Accio cushion!"
This time, he was able to snatch it out of the air and Harry nodded satisfactorily.
For the spell to work, he needed a clear mind, unburdened by the pressure of performing the spell.
It relied purely on intent, something he had struggled with but now seemed to have finally achieved a breakthrough on.
Successfully repeating the process a few more times, he attempted to cast the spell non-verbally, only for the cushion to hit him square in the face, leaving behind a sooty reminder not to push his luck.
"Bloody hell!" Harry cursed once again, kicking the cushion across the room.
That was enough practice for today.
Cleaning up after himself, he exited the room on the third floor, only to trip on something that had been left outside.
Harry frowned at the package with the letter attached to it that bore his name in an unfamiliar scrawl.
Picking it up, he re-entered the room he had exited and placed it on the table.
The shape of the package was unmistakeable, yet, when he tore it open, Harry's eyes widened.
Running his fingers along the length of the broom, he paused as he reached the gilded lettering in the side of the handle.
Firebolt
Who would send him one of these?
Having enquired about the cost himself, Harry knew it could only have been someone of extreme wealth.
With a frown, he opened the accompanying letter, his expression darkening and anger becoming quite palpable as he read it.
Dear Harry,
I do not know where to begin.
An apology in writing could never convey the sorrow I feel for what happened to James and Lily, but you will have it anyway.
I am sorry.
I am not writing to receive your forgiveness, but to warn of the danger you are in.
You may choose to ignore this letter, and for that, I would not blame you, but I implore you to listen.
Peter Pettigrew is the man responsible for what happened to your parents. He is very much alive and residing within the castle posing as the rat of your redheaded friend.
Please, I know this may sound insane but I am begging you to believe me.
He is an Animagus.
The night I found him, he killed the muggles before shifting into his rat form and fleeing. From what I have learned, all that was found of him was a missing finger.
I would bet my life that your friend's rat is also missing the same digit.
I recognised him immediately when I saw him in the paper shortly before I escaped.
I do not know why he has chosen to live with your friend, but I am 100% certain it is him.
If you do not believe me, ask Lupin. He was friends with all of us during our time at Hogwarts and ask your friend just how long that rat has been with them.
None of this relieves me of my own guilt.
I should have been there for you when you needed me instead of hunting down the rat, and for my failure, I will always regret my poor choices, but I never betrayed James and Lily.
I would have died for your parents before doing so.
Again, I am only asking you to see the truth for yourself.
The broom is a gift for all of the birthdays and Christmases I have missed out on all these years.
I watched you play in October and you fly just as well as your father.
He would be so proud of you Harry as would Lily.
You are in no danger from me and never have been.
From the moment I held you in my arms only hours after you were born, I made a vow to both of your parents that I would protect you with my life as your godfather.
In that, I know I have failed miserably and I will undoubtedly face the wrath of James and Lily for my foolishness in the next life.
All of my love,
Sirius Orion Black
Harry furiously wiped the tears that had unwittingly spilled down his cheeks, the myriad of emotions he was experiencing overwhelming him.
He did not know what to think.
A part of Harry believed what the man had written.
It was in front of Ron's bed that he had been disturbed, a mistake that could be explained by the darkness of the room, but Harry didn't think so.
Why had Professor Lupin never mentioned he was friends with Harry's parents.
So many things just did not add up and though Harry would not simply take Black's word for it, he could not help but wonder why he would take such a risk if he did not believe so wholeheartedly what he had written?
When he thought about it, Harry quickly realised that he was not interested in the circumstances, only the truth, and he was determined to find it.
Either Sirius Black was a desperate liar, or grave errors had been made twelve years ago that had seen an innocent man sent to prison.
But how?
How could the Ministry, Dumbledore, or anyone else involved in the matter make such a mistake?
Harry could not be certain, but armed with a new perspective, he would get to the bottom of it.
He would speak to Lupin, Dumbledore, and those within the Ministry, if necessary.
He would not let this lie, not when it concerned the betrayal and murder of his parents.
If Black was telling the truth, then someone had either neglected their duties or were simply corrupt. If, however, Sirius was lying, then he had done himself no favours whatsoever.
Neither outcome was something Harry was looking forward to substantiating, but he needed to know.
After all these years, he deserved the truth, and he would get it.
One way or the other, he would know without a shadow of a doubt who was to blame the fate of James and Lily Potter.
Of course, Voldemort did the deed, but he did not do it unaided, and when Harry discovered who it was who assisted the Dark Lord, in whatever capacity they had, he would make it his mission in life to exact the same misery upon them as they had him.