CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Azkaban

Over the next few days, Harry settled into a disciplined routine. Each morning, he rose early to complete his exercises—push-ups, sit-ups, jogging in place, and stretches. Combined with his new diet of nutritious, balanced meals he had carefully stocked in his enchanted trunk, Harry began to notice changes in his body. Though his growing strength and muscle definition weren't fully visible yet, he could feel his body transforming. His movements were becoming more fluid, more powerful. His new clothes, tailored to fit his frame perfectly, made him appear more like a confident young man than the scruffy boy the Dursleys had always kept him as.

The Dursleys, naturally, noticed the change. Harry caught their confused glances; the way they watched him with a mix of wariness and disbelief. They didn't dare confront him, though. Perhaps it was fear—fear of the "freakish" magic they knew he could wield. Harry smirked at the thought. While he wouldn't risk cursing them—he was fully aware of the Ministry's monitoring spells for underage magic—their fear suited him just fine. Let them think he was untouchable.

But amidst his progress, a troubling mystery gnawed at Harry. None of his friends had written back. He'd sent letters to Daphne, Ron, and Hermione over a week ago, yet there was no reply. It didn't sit right with him. Ron and Hermione might have been prevented from responding—maybe their parents had restricted their contact, or perhaps Dumbledore had interfered—but Daphne was different. She wouldn't ignore him without reason. They'd grown close during their time at Hogwarts, and he trusted her implicitly. The silence was unsettling.

As dawn broke on the day of his planned visit to Azkaban, Harry moved with quiet precision. He dressed carefully, donning a sharp black suit with green accents that hinted at his Slytherin heritage. The tailored outfit gave him an air of maturity, far removed from the scruffy image the Dursleys had forced upon him. He made sure not to wake his relatives as he slipped out of the house, moving silently through the shadows like a wraith.

By the time he reached the Leaky Cauldron, the early morning bustle of London had begun. Harry passed through the pub with practiced ease, nodding politely at Tom, the barman, before stepping into Diagon Alley. The cobblestone street was still relatively quiet, with only a few shopkeepers opening their doors and arranging displays. Harry headed directly to Gringotts, its white marble facade gleaming in the sunlight.

Inside the imposing goblin bank, Thornmark was already waiting for him. The goblin's sharp eyes glinted with approval as he greeted Harry and gestured for him to follow. "This way, Mr. Potter. We've arranged for someone to assist you in your journey."

In one of the private meeting rooms, Harry was introduced to a young woman named Victoria Steward. She was a curse breaker, newly hired by Gringotts, and clearly eager to prove herself. She extended her hand to Harry, her expression bright and enthusiastic.

"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Potter," she said warmly, her voice carrying a distinct American accent.

Harry shook her hand, though her exuberance made him slightly uncomfortable. He wasn't used to people treating him like a celebrity, and her open admiration reminded him of the unwanted attention he often received at Hogwarts.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Steward," he replied politely, studying her. Victoria was in her early twenties, with caramel-toned skin, dark curly hair pinned back into a practical bun, and a sharp, professional air. Despite her youthful enthusiasm, her sharp eyes suggested she was no stranger to responsibility.

Harry couldn't help but wonder what had brought her to Britain. "You're American," he observed.

Victoria smiled, a touch of pride in her voice as she explained. "Yes, I just graduated from Livermorny. Gringotts recruited me straight out of school. They needed curse breakers who could handle dangerous assignments, and I was more than up for the challenge."

Harry nodded, impressed despite himself. This woman had chosen a perilous and demanding career, and she radiated confidence in her abilities. Still, he made a mental note to remain cautious. He wasn't ready to trust anyone fully—not yet. As Victoria began discussing the preparations for their visit to Azkaban, Harry's focus shifted back to the task ahead. His godfather needed him, and he was determined not to fail.

Thornmark's tone was firm yet polite as he explained the arrangements. Victoria Steward, the young curse breaker, would act as Harry's legal guardian and protector for his visit to Azkaban. Harry met the goblin's gaze and gave a small nod of understanding. "Thank you," he said, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation.

After a brief exchange of formalities, Harry and Victoria exited Gringotts. As they stepped into the bustling street of Diagon Alley, Victoria turned to him and extended her hand. "We'll be Apparating to Azkaban," she said, her tone practical but tinged with anticipation. "Have you ever Side-Along Apparated before?"

Harry gave a slight smile. "I haven't done it before, but I know what it entails."

"Good," she replied, flashing an approving grin. "Makes my job easier, now, hold on to my hand."

Without further ado, she took his hand firmly, and the world spun into a blur of crushing darkness and disorienting pressure. A moment later, they landed on the desolate shores of Azkaban Island.

Harry's breath caught as he took in the fortress before him. Towering black walls of obsidian loomed against a perpetually gray sky. The air was thick with damp mist, clinging to his skin and chilling him to the bone. The sea roared relentlessly, its waves crashing against jagged rocks that seemed to cut through the murky water like blackened teeth.

Victoria broke the silence. "Welcome to Azkaban," she said, her voice attempting lightness. "Kinda gives off that haunted Alcatraz vibe, doesn't it?" Her attempt at humor fell flat, but Harry gave a slight nod, appreciating the effort.

They started up the steep path toward the main entrance. Victoria, perhaps unnerved by the oppressive atmosphere, filled the silence with idle chatter. She spoke of her excitement about living in Britain and how her entire family had recently relocated. Harry listened with half an ear, his attention split between her words and the ominous fortress ahead. He recognized her nervousness for what it was, the creeping unease the Dementors stirred in everyone.

The temperature seemed to drop further as they drew closer. Victoria's hand tightened around her wand, and she stopped abruptly. "So, since you're just a first-year, I'm guessing you can't cast a Patronus yet," she said, glancing at him. "Don't worry—I'll handle it. My Patronus will keep us both safe from the dementors."

Harry could feel them now. The foul chill of the Dementors seeped into his skin, accompanied by a growing sense of dread. The creatures were closing in, drawn like predators to his pain and fear. Harry tightened his grip on his wand, a decision crystallizing in his mind. He had never cast a Patronus before—not in practice—but he knew the theory inside out, thanks to his new memories. Voldemort had deemed the charm "unworthy" of his attention, but Harry had made sure to familiarize himself with it.

It was now or never.

Taking a deep breath, Harry closed his eyes and called forth his happiest memory—meeting his parents in the ethereal calm of Limbo, their love and pride filling him with a warmth he had never known. He focused on that feeling, the overwhelming joy, and raised his wand.

"Expecto Patronum!" he mentally shouted.

A blinding light erupted from his wand, driving back the encroaching darkness. At first, the glow was amorphous, but then it coalesced into the form of a massive tiger. The spectral predator stood tall, its gleaming eyes fierce, exuding a quiet strength.

Harry's chest swelled with a mix of awe and triumph. The silent hunter, fitting., he thought, his lips curving into a faint smile.

Victoria let out a startled gasp, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Whoa! You just cast a Patronus—a full corporeal one, at that! Non-verbally! How is that even possible? You're just a first-year—you shouldn't be able to do that!"

Harry shrugged, downplaying his feat. "I practiced at school," he said, the lie rolling off his tongue effortlessly. He wasn't about to reveal the true origins of his knowledge.

Victoria stared at him, shaking her head in amazement. "What on earth is going on with this generation. First, my kid brother Alex shows me up with his talent, and now Harry Potter himself turns out to be a prodigy. Unbelievable." She muttered the last part under her breath before raising her own wand. "Well, let's not leave it all to you, then."

With a graceful flick of her wand, she cast her own Patronus—a magnificent eagle that soared ahead, its wings spread wide, keeping the Dementors at bay. Together, the tiger and eagle cleared the path as they advanced toward the grim gates of Azkaban.

Once inside, Harry stated his purpose firmly, explaining that Sirius Black was his godfather and technically family. After a brief deliberation, they were granted passage. The cold deepened as they moved through the labyrinthine corridors of the prison. The walls dripped with moisture, and the air was heavy with the sounds of despair. Harry shivered, his breath misting in front of him. He couldn't fathom how anyone could endure this place. Between the relentless damp and the soul-crushing presence of the Dementors, it was a living nightmare.

Finally, they reached Sirius's cell. Harry stopped in his tracks, his heart twisting painfully at the sight before him. His godfather sat slumped on the cold stone floor, his frame gaunt and frail.

The stench of unwashed flesh and decay hung thick in the air. Sirius's once-handsome face was hollowed, his cheeks sunken and his eyes dull with exhaustion.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Harry stepped closer to the iron bars. "Hello, Godfather," he said softly, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions churning within him.

Sirius's gaunt figure wavered as he rose to his feet, his movements shaky, like a man caught in a fever dream. His hollow, sunken eyes widened as they locked onto Harry, and his expression twisted into one of anguish. "James… James," he rasped, his voice raw with emotion. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I failed you. I failed to protect you and Lily from Voldemort. I failed to avenge you. Will you… will you ever forgive me, my brother?"

Harry's stomach tightened, the weight of Sirius's grief pressing down on him like a physical force. His godfather's broken voice carried years of regret and torment, and it struck Harry deeply, stirring a mix of sympathy and sorrow.

Victoria, who had been standing silently beside him, scoffed suddenly, her voice sharp and disapproving. "Please," she said. "I grew up in America, and even I know what you did, you snake."

But Sirius didn't react. He stood there as if her words hadn't even registered, his haunted gaze still fixed on Harry. Before Victoria could say more, Harry turned to her, his tone calm but firm. "Victoria, mind giving me a moment alone with him?"

Victoria froze, hesitation flashing across her face. "Harry, he's dangerous. If anything happened—"

"I'll be fine," Harry interrupted gently but insistently. "He's in a cell, and he won't hurt me."

Sirius's gaze flicked briefly to Victoria, then back to Harry, his brow furrowing. "Harry? Harry… is that really you?"

"Yes," Harry replied simply, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions in the room. Then, glancing at Victoria again, he repeated, "Please, just give us a minute."

Reluctantly, Victoria relented. "Fine," she muttered, though her concern lingered in her expression. She stepped back, her eagle Patronus hovering nearby as she gave them space.

Once they were alone, Sirius sagged slightly, his weight leaning against the iron bars of his cell. "I know you must hate me, Harry," he said, his voice trembling. "But you have to believe me. I never sold your parents out. It—"

"I know," Harry interrupted, his voice calm but resolute. "It was Pettigrew. He told Voldemort where my parents were hiding, and you tried to avenge them." He took a step closer, his emerald eyes meeting Sirius's watery gaze. "I don't hate you, Sirius. I believe you're innocent. And I promise, I'll do everything in my power to get you out of here."

Sirius stared at him, his gray eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The raw emotion etched across his face was almost too much to bear. For years, he had feared this moment—feared the judgment of James's son. Now, to hear Harry's words of forgiveness and determination was overwhelming. It was as though a flame had been reignited in Sirius's chest, chasing away the darkness that had consumed him for so long.

Sirius's voice was rough as he finally spoke. "I didn't kill Pettigrew. He… he blew himself up. He took out an entire street of Muggles. That's how he framed me."

Harry frowned, his sharp mind processing the explanation. Something didn't sit right. Drawing on memories he'd absorbed from Voldemort, he pieced together a troubling inconsistency. "Sirius," Harry began, his tone thoughtful, "doesn't it seem strange? Pettigrew, the sniveling coward who was always looking for ways to keep himself alive, suddenly blows himself up and takes a few muggles with him, all to frame you and escape your wrath? That doesn't seem a bit off to you?"

Sirius straightened slightly, the weight of realization dawning on him. "You are right," he said, his voice growing colder, "that little coward used it as a diversion. He must have transformed into his rat form and slipped away… Damn it. How did I miss that. He's still alive."

Harry's lips thinned in grim agreement. "Exactly. And speaking of Animagi," he added, a touch of incredulity slipping into his voice, "why, in Merlin's name, would you and my dad trust someone whose Animagus form was a rat?"

Sirius let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "It's a long story," he admitted, running a hand through his matted hair. "Peter… Peter was always hanging around us like some kind of mascot. We never thought he'd… betray us like this."

Over the next hour, Sirius recounted tales of his friendship with James, Lupin, and even Pettigrew, sharing stories of their mischief, their Animagus transformations to help Lupin during his werewolf transformations, and the creation of the Marauder's Map. As Sirius spoke, Harry reached into his trunk and pulled out food, offering it to his godfather. Sirius devoured it hungrily, his gratitude evident in his quiet murmurs of thanks.

When Sirius revealed that James's Animagus form had been a stag, Harry's eyes lit up with excitement. "Prongs," Sirius said with a faint, nostalgic smile. "That was his name. And I was Padfoot, the dog." He paused, his expression darkening as he added, "And Peter was Wormtail. Fitting, don't you think?"

Harry nodded grimly, a sense of determination building within him. After Sirius shared more memories of James and Lily, Harry stood, his resolve unshaken. "I'll get you out of here, Sirius," he promised, his voice steady. "I just need time to figure out how."

Sirius's eyes shone with pride. "Good luck, Harry," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "And always know… I'm proud of you."

A small, genuine smile broke across Harry's face. "Thanks, Sirius."

As he turned to leave, Harry rejoined Victoria, who was waiting near the entrance. Together, they left the bleak halls of Azkaban behind, the oppressive chill fading with every step.

As Harry and Victoria walked out of the looming prison gates, their shimmering Patronuses flanking them like silent guardians, the haunting wails of the prisoners echoed faintly through the damp, oppressive air. The mournful cries reverberated against the stone walls, a chilling reminder of the misery they were leaving behind. Harry's mind, however, was far from the prison's sorrow. He was lost in thought, the gears in his brain turning as he tried to devise a plan to free Sirius Black.

Peter Pettigrew, he mused grimly. The coward had faked his death and vanished into obscurity, leaving Sirius to rot for crimes he didn't commit. If Harry could find Pettigrew and expose the truth, it would be the simplest and most definitive way to secure Sirius's freedom. Yet, it was anything but simple. Pettigrew was a master of hiding and deception; tracking him down would be a monumental task. Harry frowned, considering other possibilities. Maybe Daphne would have an idea, he thought, briefly entertaining the notion of seeking her counsel.

Before his thoughts could deepen, Victoria's voice broke through his reverie. "Harry," she said, her tone measured but pointed. "You know Sirius is the reason your parents are dead, it was all people would talk about after he was arrested at school, the brit who sold out his best friend to a dark lord. You should be careful how close you get to him. He's a Death Eater, after all."

Harry halted for a moment, her words striking a nerve. His jaw clenched, but he didn't have the energy to argue with her—not here, not now. Instead, he opted to shift the conversation. "So," he said, his tone deliberately neutral, "why move to Britain?"

The question had the desired effect. Victoria's demeanor lightened, and she launched into an explanation. "My mother," she began, "recently discovered that she was left a massive inheritance by her grandmother, who passed away a few years back. Turns out, we've inherited a few million Galleons and a huge estate that belonged to the Steward family."

Harry nodded; his curiosity piqued. "That's quite the fortune," he remarked, though his tone remained casual.

Victoria continued eagerly, her words spilling out in a rush. "Yeah, it is. But here's the thing—our family doesn't have any political clout in Britain. Back in the States, though, we're still considered pretty influential."

Harry nodded again, throwing in a few polite questions as she spoke. He wasn't particularly interested in wizarding politics or familial power, but it was better than dwelling on her earlier comment about Sirius. Victoria didn't seem to notice his distraction, and she carried on, a spark of pride in her voice as she mentioned her siblings.

"There's Alex," she said, her face brightening, "he's about your age, socially awkward, but a talented kid. And then there's Isolde, who's a year younger than him."

Harry filed away the names, though he didn't comment further. He was still wrestling with his thoughts about Sirius, Pettigrew, and the complexities of proving innocence in a world that clung so tightly to assumptions.

They reached the designated point for Disapparating back to Diagon Alley, and Victoria gave her wand a small wave. Her eagle Patronus dissolved into a wisp of silvery mist, and Harry followed suit, dismissing his tiger Patronus with a flick of his wrist.

Victoria chuckled softly, shaking her head as she glanced at Harry. "I still can't get over that," she said, her tone half-amused, half-admiring. "A first-year pulling off advanced magic like it's nothing. Not even Alex is that advanced."

She grinned at him, a teasing glint in her eye. "You two are going to be the best of friends, I can just tell."

Harry tilted his head slightly, curious about this Alex she seemed so certain he'd bond with. What's he like? Harry wondered, though he didn't voice the question aloud. Instead, he let her comment linger in the air as they both turned on their heels and vanished with a soft pop, reappearing in the bustling heart of Diagon Alley moments later.

Victoria bid Harry farewell with a promise to report back to Thornmark on his behalf. With their goodbyes exchanged, they parted ways. Harry exited the bustling streets of Diagon Alley and made his way back to Surrey. By the time he arrived at Number Four, Privet Drive, the afternoon sun was casting long shadows across the neatly trimmed lawns.

As he stepped through the front door, he came face-to-face with Aunt Petunia, who took one look at his attire and froze, her sharp eyes narrowing in disapproval. Her lips thinned into a tight line, and she demanded, "Where have you been all morning? And what on earth are you wearing? Who got that for you? I do not remember giving you that. Take it off, this instant!"

Had this confrontation happened a year ago, Harry might have bowed his head, retreated to his cupboard, and obeyed her commands in silence. But not anymore. Voldemort's memories had taught him resilience and a new understanding of his own capabilities. If the Dursleys ever threw him out, he knew now that he could survive just fine on his own.

He stood tall, meeting Petunia's glare without a hint of fear. "No, I won't," he said firmly.

Petunia's face flushed with fury, and she let out a sharp call for her husband. "Vernon!" she barked.

Uncle Vernon appeared in the hallway, clutching a newspaper in one hand. His small eyes landed on Harry's new clothes, and his face turned a splotchy shade of red. "What the ruddy hell are you wearing, boy?" he growled.

Harry didn't flinch. His tone was calm, but his words were calculated to hit where it hurt. "I bought myself some new clothes," he replied evenly. "And I went to see my godfather. He's in prison, convicted of murdering a dozen people. But don't worry—he'll be getting out soon. He might even come over to visit me, to see how I'm doing. Did I mention he is very protective of me and has a short fuse?"

The effect was immediate. Uncle Vernon's face went from red to ghostly pale, his mustache twitching as though he were choking on air. Harry resisted the urge to smirk and pressed on, feigning innocent nonchalance. "Come to think of it, he'll definitely want to come here when he's released. I mean, he'll wonder why I never sent him any letters. I was going to, but you know... you won't let me use my owl."

The gears in Vernon's head turned as he tried to process the implications. He glanced nervously at Petunia, who looked equally unsettled. Harry casually turned toward the staircase, fully intending to leave them stewing in their fear. But before he could take the first step, Vernon's voice broke the silence.

"Fine, boy," he croaked, the usual bluster in his tone replaced with strained resignation. "You can... send messages to your godfather. Tell him you're fine. Tell him there's no need for him to come here when he gets out."

Harry turned back to face his uncle, a small, triumphant smile curling on his lips. "Excellent," he said, his voice dripping with mock politeness. "Now, I'm going to my room. Enjoy your day."

Without another word, he ascended the stairs, leaving the Dursleys in stunned silence behind him. Once inside his room, he closed the door and flopped onto his bed, his mind already turning toward the next thing on his agenda. He had letters to write to his friends—and with his birthday just a few days away, the summer wasn't shaping up to be so terrible after all.

Days passed, and Harry's birthday arrived, yet the silence from his friends was deafening. No letters, no well-wishes, nothing. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had begrudgingly allowed him to send messages via Hedwig, mostly out of fear of Sirius. What they didn't know, however, was that Azkaban prisoners couldn't receive mail. Harry had seized the opportunity to reach out to his friends instead, but Hedwig returned one day looking ruffled and upset, clutching no replies. Her feathers were askew, and there was a faint, ominous tension in the way she perched on his arm. Someone—or something—had attacked her, cutting off his communication. Troubled by the thought, Harry decided not to risk her safety and stopped sending her out entirely.

One morning, Harry found himself at the breakfast table with the Dursleys. He didn't particularly enjoy their company, but keeping up appearances was useful. They were less likely to question where he was getting his meals if he joined them occasionally.

The table was laden with breakfast foods, and as they were nearing the end of the meal, Dudley, as usual, demanded more. "I'm still Hungry. I want more bacon," he grunted, pointing at the pan like a king issuing a royal decree.

Aunt Petunia turned to Harry; her thin lips pursed. "There's more bacon in the pan. Harry, get up and serve Dudley some bacon."

Harry, emboldened by his lie about Sirius and the fact that the Dursleys were visibly walking on eggshells around him, couldn't resist poking at them. He leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You forgot to say the magic word," he quipped lightly.

The reaction was immediate and explosive. Aunt Petunia gasped, dropping the dishcloth she had been holding as if it had suddenly burned her hands. Uncle Vernon's face turned an alarming shade of red that quickly deepened to purple, and his voice bellowed through the house. "How many times have I told you not to use the M word in this house?!"

In the past, Harry might have muttered an apology and hurried off to his cupboard, but not anymore. Sirius's shadow loomed large in their minds, giving Harry a kind of leverage he'd never had before. He raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. "Oops, sorry," he said, his tone deliberately casual.

Uncle Vernon's mustache bristled; his fists clenched tightly on the table. His face contorted with barely restrained rage, but Harry knew he wouldn't dare lay a finger on him. Not now, not with the ever-present threat of a convicted murderer who might come knocking on their door.

Unfazed, Harry calmly returned to his toast. The Dursleys shifted their attention back to their own conversation, talking in low voices about the evening ahead. Uncle Vernon had invited an important client for dinner, a potential boon for his business. They went over the details with meticulous precision—what to serve, how to impress him, and, of course, how to keep Harry out of sight.

"You'll stay in your room tonight," Vernon growled, shooting Harry a pointed glare. "I don't want you ruining this evening for us, with luck, ill close the biggest deal of my career."

Harry didn't argue. He didn't care about their dinner plans and was perfectly fine keeping out of their way. He smiled faintly and said, "Don't worry, I won't ruin your night. I've got a letter to write to my godfather."

At the mention of Sirius, all three Dursleys flinched visibly, Petunia's eyes darting toward the window as if she expected Sirius to apparate into the room right then and there. Harry stifled a grin, finishing his toast as they exchanged uneasy glances. The power shift in their household was palpable, and for once, Harry wasn't the one cowering.

Harry wasn't in the mood to play house elf today. It was his birthday, after all. Normally, the Dursleys would have saddled him with a laundry list of chores while Dudley lazed about, basking in his undeserved leisure. But Harry had his secret weapon now—Sirius. A well-timed mention of his godfather had the desired effect, and Harry found himself conveniently excused from the day's usual drudgery.

After breakfast, he stepped outside, relishing the freedom that his godfather's reputation afforded him. The Dursleys, wary of the "escaped convict" they believed was poised to protect Harry, didn't even protest when he ventured beyond the yard. This newfound leniency was almost intoxicating, but it also reinforced Harry's determination to free Sirius from Azkaban.

He wandered the streets of Little Whinging, eventually finding himself at a small neighborhood park. With no real plans for the day, Harry passed the hours strolling along the gravel paths, occasionally sitting on a bench to people-watch. The summer sun bathed the park in warmth, and for once, Harry didn't feel out of place. His new clothes fit well, and he looked far more presentable than the scruffy, oversized hand-me-downs the Dursleys usually forced him to wear.

For the first time in years, people didn't eye him like he was some street urchin loitering where he didn't belong.

As he walked past a small food stall, the enticing aroma of fried snacks wafted through the air. Harry decided to treat himself, using some of the Muggle money he had converted from galleons earlier in the summer. He was just handing over his money when he caught sight of something unusual out of the corner of his eye. A pair of large, green, orb-like eyes peered at him through the hedges. The sight was so fleeting that Harry blinked in confusion, shaking his head. It looked suspiciously like a house-elf, but that couldn't be right—could it? He scanned the hedge again, but the eyes were gone.

Shrugging it off, Harry continued his aimless exploration of the park until the late afternoon sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the playground. Deciding he had avoided the Dursleys long enough, he made his way back to Number Four, Privet Drive. As he approached the house, his stomach churned with a mix of dread and annoyance.

The moment he stepped through the door, Aunt Petunia appeared out of nowhere, her bony hands gripping his arm like a vice. "Into the kitchen, now!" she hissed, her voice low but urgent. "The Masons will be here any minute, and I want you out of sight!"

Harry was shoved toward the kitchen table, where his so-called "supper" awaited him: a pitiful block of cheese and a few slices of unevenly cut bread. He stared at the plate, incredulous. It was hard to fathom how anyone could consider this a meal, but Harry wasn't about to give his aunt the satisfaction of complaining. He scarfed down the meager offering, all the while consoling himself with the knowledge that he had a stash of far better food hidden in his room.

As soon as he finished, Harry retreated upstairs, escaping the oppressive atmosphere of the Dursley household just as the doorbell rang. From his window, he could hear the exaggeratedly warm greetings Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia offered their guests. Harry smirked to himself, imagining how their polished facade would crumble if Sirius ever decided to pay a visit. That thought alone was enough to lift his spirits as he settled into his room, ready to let the Dursleys' charade play out without him.

As Harry gently shut his bedroom door behind him, muffling the sounds of the Dursleys exchanging overly polite greetings with the Masons downstairs, he turned toward his bed and froze. Sitting atop the neatly made blankets was a creature he instantly recognized, thanks to the vivid fragments of Voldemort's memories still lurking in his mind—a house-elf. His sharp green eyes narrowed as he identified the elf as Dobby, one of Lucius Malfoy's servants. The clarity of the memory surprised him; it was almost amusing that Voldemort, who considered all magical creatures beneath him, had actually remembered this elf by name.

Suppressing a smirk, Harry stepped closer, his movements deliberate but calm. The house-elf bowed low, his bat-like ears drooping slightly as if awaiting judgment. Harry, however, had no intention of behaving as Voldemort or most wizards would. From the Dark Lord's memories, he knew how elves were treated—subjugated, punished, and dismissed—and he found the practice abhorrent.

Before Dobby could speak, Harry raised a hand and said firmly but quietly, "Shhh, Quiet."

Dobby's wide green eyes blinked in surprise, his expression a mixture of hurt and confusion. Harry softened his tone, crouching slightly to meet the elf's gaze. "I'm sorry about that, but if you speak, make sure you whisper. Got it?"

Dobby nodded eagerly, his floppy ears bouncing as he did.

"Good," Harry said, straightening. "So, Dobby, how can I help you?"

Dobby's tennis-ball-sized eyes grew impossibly wider, shimmering with what looked like awe. "Harry Potter knows Dobby!" he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.

Harry pressed a finger to his lips in a hushing motion. "Yes, I know who you are. Now, how can I help you?"

"Oh, yes, sir," Dobby replied earnestly, clasping his hands together as if preparing to deliver grave news. "Dobby has come to tell you, sir . . . it is difficult, sir . . . Dobby wonders where to begin. . . ."

Harry tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. "Does this have something to do with your master, Lucius?"

Dobby froze, his expression turning to shock. "Harry Potter knows Dobby's master?"

Harry couldn't help but let out a wry chuckle. "Not personally," he said, "but I've heard enough to know he's a foul person."

To Harry's surprise, Dobby nodded in agreement. But before Harry could react further, the elf suddenly sprinted toward the nearest heavy object—a lamp perched on the desk. Quick as a flash, Harry intercepted him, grasping the elf gently but firmly around the middle and setting him back on the floor.

"No, you don't," Harry said, his voice tinged with both exasperation and sympathy.

Dobby looked up at him, his small face scrunched in anguish. "Dobby must punish himself, sir. Dobby spoke ill of Master."

"You don't have to do that," Harry replied, his tone firm but kind. "Now, please—just tell me what's going on."

Dobby hesitated, wringing his hands, but Harry's patience and kindness seemed to steady him. "Harry Potter is as kind and humble as they say," Dobby whispered, his voice filled with reverence. "Dobby did not expect this from one who defeated the Dark Lord as an infant."

Harry sighed, feeling uncomfortable, and ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't actually defeat him, but thank you, Dobby. Now, what is it you came to tell me?"

The elf straightened, his small frame trembling with urgency. "Dobby came to warn you, sir. Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts!"

Harry blinked, taken aback. "Wait—what? Why shouldn't I go back?"

Dobby's ears drooped slightly, but his voice remained insistent. "There is a plot, sir—a plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts this year. Harry Potter must stay here, where it is safe. Harry Potter is too important to risk!"

Harry's mind raced as he stared at the trembling elf. A plot? At Hogwarts? His brow furrowed as he tried to piece the information together. It was obvious this had Lucius Malfoy's fingerprints all over it, but what could he be planning? The question hung in the air until, suddenly, it hit Harry like a rogue Bludger.

The Chamber of Secrets.

His breath caught as Voldemort's memories surged forward, vivid and sharp. He remembered the Dark Lord entrusting Lucius Malfoy with the cursed diary—a Horcrux containing a fragment of Voldemort's soul. It had been part of a sinister plan during the first wizarding war: smuggle the diary into Hogwarts, reopen the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the basilisk, and wreak havoc on the school. Muggle-born students would die, and the ensuing chaos would distract Dumbledore while Voldemort consolidated his power. The plan had never been enacted because Voldemort had fallen at Harry's hands before he could set it in motion.

Now, it seemed, Lucius Malfoy intended to resurrect that plan.

Harry stared at Dobby, his mind swirling with possibilities and a growing sense of dread. If the Chamber was opened, innocent lives would be in danger—and Harry couldn't let that happen. But how could he stop it?

As Harry pushed himself upright on his bed, his green eyes locked onto the nervous house-elf. "Dobby," he began, his voice calm but filled with a quiet intensity, "your master, Lucius—he's planning to open the Chamber of Secrets, isn't he?"

Dobby's tennis-ball eyes widened in panic, but before he could stammer a response, Harry raised a hand to stop him. "It's okay, you don't have to answer. I already know he does. And if that's his plan, I have to stop it. I'm the only one who can. Do you understand?"

Dobby nodded slowly, his expression a mix of awe and trepidation. "Dobby understands, sir," he said earnestly. "But Harry Potter would be putting himself in terrible danger, sir."

Harry's jaw tightened, determination flashing in his eyes. "I know, Dobby, but I also know where the Chamber of Secrets is. I'm a Slytherin; I can get in. If I don't stop this, my friends could die. I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen. Do you understand?"

Dobby tilted his head, his floppy ears twitching as he processed Harry's words. Then, with a hint of confusion, he asked, "Save your friends, sir? Friends who do not write to Harry Potter?"

Harry opened his mouth to retort but stopped, the words catching in his throat. Something about Dobby's phrasing struck a nerve. His brows furrowed, and a flash of realization darkened his face. "Wait... How do you know that?"

Dobby shrank back, visibly trembling as Harry's anger ignited like a match. Harry's fists clenched, and his voice was low and sharp. "Dobby," he growled, "did you attack Hedwig? Did you stop my owl from delivering my letters?"

The house-elf whimpered, his small hands twisting the hem of his ragged pillowcase tunic. "Dobby did, sir," he confessed, his voice trembling with guilt. "Dobby only wanted Harry Potter to think his friends had forgotten him... so Harry Potter would not go back to Hogwarts!"

Harry's expression twisted with frustration, his voice rising despite himself. "How was that supposed to stop me from going back? That's the worst plan I've ever heard, Dobby! Nothing was going to stop me from returning!"

Dobby flinched at the rebuke but quickly reached into his pillowcase and withdrew a bundle of letters, holding them out like a peace offering. "Dobby has them, sir—your friends' letters. But Harry Potter must promise not to go back to Hogwarts, and Dobby will give them to you."

Harry's anger simmered just below the surface, but he forced himself to think clearly. Stunning Dobby would trigger the Trace, which was currently monitoring the Dudley's place of residence, as Harry lived with them, and that would land him in serious trouble with the Ministry. He needed another way to handle this—and fast. Voldemort's memories offered a solution.

Taking a deep breath, Harry spoke with measured calm. "Dobby, what if I promised to have your master set you free? If I stop whatever Lucius has planned for Hogwarts and catch him in the act, I can force him to free you. Wouldn't you like that? To be free? To never have to punish yourself again?"

The house-elf gasped, his eyes shimmering with hope. "Harry Potter would do this for Dobby?"

"Yes," Harry said firmly. "But only if you give me the letters and let me go back to Hogwarts to stop whatever Malfoy is planning."

Dobby's knees wobbled, and he collapsed onto the floor, his small form quivering with indecision. He clutched at his pillowcase, his face scrunched in deep thought. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dobby looked up and nodded solemnly. "Dobby will allow Harry Potter to go to Hogwarts... to face the master's plot, sir."

Harry extended his hand. "Deal?"

Dobby hesitated briefly before reaching out with his tiny, calloused fingers and shaking Harry's hand. "Deal," he whispered.

With a final bow, Dobby said his goodbyes and disappeared with a soft pop, leaving Harry alone in the room.

Harry exhaled deeply, sinking back onto his bed as the enormity of what lay ahead began to weigh on him. His thoughts churned with plans and contingencies. The Chamber of Secrets—it all hinged on reaching the basilisk first. Either he would have to move it or kill it, a thought that filled him with annoyance. Perhaps it was time to involve Dumbledore, but trust him completely? No. That wasn't an option.

Then there was Lucius Malfoy. Harry knew he needed undeniable proof to link him to the plot. If he could catch Malfoy red-handed, he could force his hand—not just to free Dobby but to stop whatever dark plan he had in store.

As Harry sifted through the stack of letters from his friends, another thought struck him: house-elf magic. If he could somehow learn their unique magic—like Apparition—it could be incredibly useful. The idea lingered as Harry lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind teeming with possibilities and the looming danger ahead.