Chapter 44: Summer
I do not own Harry Potter.
Author's Notes:
1) Yes, there wasn't a 2 month gap between chapters. I'll enjoy this stretch of regularity while I can.
2) As for Harry telling Hermione - she's his best friend, and they've been through a lot together, already. She's knows something is off and Harry already feels guilty for a lot of things, so tells her and makes it up to her simultaneously, now that they have decided to involve Dumbledore ever since Albania happened (more on this later).
3) Besides, as per Canon locations, he's like 30 mins away from her. Why wouldn't they be meeting?
Enjoy!
|Black Manor | 12, Grimmauld Place | London | July 2nd 1994 |
Harry sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at the floor, hands loosely clasped together. The room was silent, save for the distant creaks of Grimmauld Place settling in the night.
Yesterday played on loop in his head. He knew he had acted poorly, and the more he tried to rationalize it, the clearer it became that there was no justification. Sirius, Ted, Andromeda—none of them had deserved his coldness. He had seen them trying. He had seen the concern in their eyes, the patience in their words. And yet, he had pushed them away, knowing it would hurt them.
And it didn't make him feel any better.
His fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into his palms as he exhaled slowly. This was his own fault. He had let himself get too comfortable, too attached, too caught up in the idea that he was part of something—belonging to a family in the way that Ron did, or Hermione. But the truth was simpler. They liked him, loved having him around... But he wasn't theirs.
He wasn't anyone's.
Manage Expectations.
He repeated the words to himself, as if saying them enough times might make them stick. If he learned to accept what he had, instead of hoping for more, then perhaps he could enjoy it without setting himself up for disappointment.
It sounded logical. It felt hollow.
Letting out another slow breath, he sat up straighter and called, "Kreacher." With a sharp crack, the elf appeared, bowing deeply. "Master calls, and Kreacher answers."
"Bring two butterbeers to Sirius' room," the boy ordered, his voice even. The decrepit elf gave him a curious glance but didn't question it. "Two butterbeers in the disappointment's room. At once, Master " And with another crack, he was gone.
The Seeker pushed himself to his feet, stretched his shoulders, and made his way to his godfather's room. He hesitated for a brief second before knocking.
"Come in," came the familiar voice from the other side.
Padfoot was sitting on the bed, one boot half-laced, his expression shifting from mild surprise to something warmer the moment he saw him. He hadn't been expecting this.
The Gryffindor lingered by the door for a second, feeling strangely out of place, before offering him a small, sheepish look—one that said, Friends again?
And just like that, the tension that had settled between them since yesterday began to ease.
Harry dropped onto the bean bag in the corner, and they slipped into easy conversation. There was nothing particularly important about what they talked about—small stories, teasing remarks, the sort of everyday conversation that had been missing between them for the past day. It wasn't forced, and it wasn't weighed down by unspoken words. It was comfortable, and Sirius, for his part, looked visibly relieved.
At one point, Sirius leaned back against the headboard, smirking. "I was thinking—since you're big enough now—I should teach you to ride a motorcycle."
The offeree blinked before a grin spread across his face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Sirius repeated, stretching his arms behind his head. "And if you're good, I might even let you crash it into something small."
Harry let out a genuine laugh. "Brilliant. Just what I need."
The Marauder clapped his hands together, eyes glinting mischievously. "Right, then. First one downstairs is the absolute king!"
Before Harry could react, Sirius bolted from the bed and darted toward the door. For half a second, Harry just sat there, caught between amusement and surprise, before pushing himself up and racing after him.
Sirius had a head start, but his godson was faster, chasing him down the staircase with laughter bubbling in his chest.
He was happy. He had fixed things.
So why did it feel like something was still missing?
A couple of days later
"Again," instructed Harry's former DADA Professor, watching him carefully from a few feet away. His stance was relaxed, but his sharp eyes were locked onto his student's every movement.
Meanwhile, Dora was perched casually on a nearby crate, twirled her own wand between her fingers. "You've got the mechanics down, kiddo," she added, tilting her head. "You're just not committing."
Harry rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply. He had managed to cast Tenebris Vinctura a few times already, but the spell's hold wasn't lasting long enough to be reliable in a duel.
Shadow magic wasn't just about force—it was about control.
He squared his stance and raised his wand. This time, he wouldn't hesitate.
"Tenebris Vinctura!"
His shadow lunged forward, stretching unnaturally across the floor, flickering for a second before latching onto Remus' own. The Marauder froze mid-step, his booted foot locked in place.
For a second—just a second—it worked.
Then, the werewolf twisted sharply, yanking himself free as the connection snapped.
Harry swore under his breath.
"That was better," the Marauder noted, rolling his ankle experimentally. "But you're still focusing too much on the binding and not enough on the anchor."
"Anchor?" Harry asked, pushing his fringe back from his slightly damp forehead.
Tonks grinned, pushing off the crate and stepping beside him. "Yeah, see—shadows are tricky little things. You're trying to grab the opponent's, but you also need to sink your own into the floor first. Otherwise, it's like trying to hold someone down while standing on ice."
"That made no sense but a lot of sense at the same time" Harry nodded slowly adjusting his grip on his wand. He could feel the weight of his own shadow now, shifting just slightly beneath him.
Anchor first. Then grab.
"Alright," the Gryffindor muttered, setting his stance, steadying his grip and tightening his focus.
And then—
"Tenebris Vinctura!"
This time, the spell snapped into place with force.
His shadow stretched forward with deliberate precision, coiling around Remus' own like a tether, and when the werewolf tried to move—he couldn't.
For a long second, the Marauder stood still, blinking down at his locked feet. Then, slowly, a small, approving smile tugged at his lips.
"There you go," Remus murmured, nodding. "That's the spell."
Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He'd done it!
The werewolf flexed his foot experimentally, as if testing whether the spell had truly worn off, before nodding in approval. "That'll serve you well in your tournament."
"You think so?"
Dora smirked. "Oh, definitely. Most duelists focus on direct attacks—stunners, disarming spells, maybe a shield charm or two, but Shadow Sneak? That's... well, sneaky. Throws people off their rhythm."
Lupin folded his arms. "Exactly. Disrupt your opponent, control the pace, and force them to fight your fight. That's how you win a duel, Harry, not just by overpowering them."
Harry nodded, his mind already running through possible strategies. "I bet it'll work even better in lower light."
"It will," the former DADA professor agreed, "but don't rely on that. Good duelists adapt." He dusted off his robes.
"Now then, what's next?" Harry straightened, eager for more, but the werewolf held up a hand. "That's enough for today."
"Alright." He gave the werewolfr a small grin. "Thanks, by the way. For the help."
Remus waved a hand dismissively. "I consider it my job, in return for the luxurious privilege of staying here and eating my meals at Grimmauld Place."
Harry frowned. "You know you're always welcome, right?"
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Remus' face before he shook his head. "I appreciate that, Harry," he said softly, "but if I'm going to be around, I'd rather be useful."
Harry wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that he didn't need to earn his place here, but he knew better.
So instead, he simply nodded. "Right. Well... guess I should shower."
Freshly showered and feeling marginally less sore, Harry sat at his desk, flipping open a thick, leather-bound book titled The Financial System: A Comprehensive Guide to Modern Economics.
Andromeda had recommended it, insisting he start educating himself on the more practical side of life.
He was only a few VERY boring pages in when a sharp tap-tap against his window caught his attention.
An owl.
His first thought was that the Weasleys must have finally given up on Errol, and that this was their new bird. But as he approached the window, he frowned.
The owl wasn't scruffy or tired-looking.
No—this owl looked pristine, sleek, and well-groomed. Its feathers had a slight sheen under the candlelight, and it held itself with the kind of regal indifference that screamed money.
He glanced at the postage, and gave an involuntary smile as he read where it came from.
Greengrass.
Shaking his head at himself, he unlatched the window, letting the bird hop onto his desk. He offered it some treats and a dish of water before untying the letter.
The owl gave him a single, measured blink before dipping its beak into the water.
Harry chuckled under his breath. "Figures," he muttered, unfolding the parchment.
Harry glanced back at The Financial System, flipping the page with forced determination.
Two sentences in, he gave up.
Dreadfully boring didn't even begin to describe it. He could almost hear Andromeda's disapproving sigh in the back of his mind, but he figured even she would have to admit there was only so much financial theory a person could take in one sitting.
With zero hesitation, he set the book aside and reached for the letter instead.
The parchment was smooth, the script elegant but not overly formal, and he could tell just from the way the ink settled that the writer had written this in one go, without overthinking every word.
Harry,
I hope this finds you in better condition than when we last met. You looked about two spells away from keeling over, and I'm assuming you didn't take my advice to actually rest. Do tell me I'm wrong.
How are you doing? How's training for the tournament coming along? You'll be pleased to know that I haven't been slacking either—I'd hate to let all your efforts in training me go to waste. And yes, before you try to contest it, our 'sessions' before the dueling club were just that.
Speaking of which, I hope you're still up for our dueling sessions. It's been a while since we've practiced together properly, and I'd rather not have to re-audition for the Dueling Club next year. That was already humiliating enough once.
Looking forward to hearing from you,
-Daphne
Harry read the letter twice.
He wasn't sure why.
Maybe it was because he liked talking to her.
Either way, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch slightly as he folded the letter neatly, setting it aside with more care than was necessary. His hand had already reached for a fresh piece of parchment when he finally noticed the owl was still there, perched comfortably on the desk with its feathers fluffed, watching him with an air of quiet expectation.
He raised an eyebrow. "She told you to wait, didn't she?"
The owl, in response, merely blinked, as if the question wasn't worth dignifying with a reaction.
Harry huffed out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Right. Guess I'd better write back then."
Harry sat at his desk, quill poised over the parchment.
Nothing.
The tip of the quill remained pressed against the paper, ink pooling into a dark, spreading blot. With a frustrated sigh, he crumpled the ruined sheet and grabbed a fresh one.
This time, he managed to write a few words before second-guessing his tone, scratching them out so forcefully that the parchment tore.
Another wasted attempt.
Scowling, he shoved that one aside too, inhaling slowly before reaching for yet another blank sheet.
It's just a letter. Stop overthinking it.
Finally, after a moment's pause, he set his quill to the page once more and began.
Daphne,
First off, thanks for the letter You're right—I wasn't exactly in top form when we last met, but I'm doing much better now.
And no, I haven't been resting. At all. In fact, I've been training hard for the tournament, and since I'll be dueling in the NEWT tier, not under-OWLs, I need all the practice I can get. So I suppose that means I haven't been taking your advice. Try to act surprised.
I'll make sure we keep up our dueling practice once term starts, though. Can't have you losing your touch.
Also, I'm learning how to ride a motorcycle. Turns out my dad was pretty good at it, and so I've decided I will be too. Not sure if that's how genetics works, but I'll let you know if I crash into a tree.
Are you learning anything new this summer? Or is that beneath the great Daphne Greengrass?
Looking forward to your response.
—Harry
With a final glance over the letter, he nodded in satisfaction, sealing it up and offering it to the owl, which took it with a rather dignified air.
As the bird soared out the window, Harry leaned back in his chair, strangely content.
Harry,
I should've guessed you'd ignore perfectly sound advice. You do have a track record of making reckless decisions, after all. Still, I suppose I can't fault you for training hard—if you're competing at the NEWT level, you'll need all the help you can get. Try not to embarrass yourself.
Good to know dueling practice is still on the table. I'd hate to start losing to lesser opponents just because you decided to slack off over the summer.
A motorcycle, though? I can't decide whether that's ridiculous or exactly what I should have expected from you. I'll admit, it does suit you—reckless, and destined for injury. If you do crash into a tree, at least have the decency to make it spectacular. Bonus points if the Prophet writes about it.
As for picking up something new—no, I haven't, at least not yet. But I do like drawing. I just haven't had much time for it lately. Hopefully, I'll get back to it this summer.
I'll be in Spain in a few days—family trip, nothing too exciting, but at least it'll be warm. Are you planning on going anywhere, or are you too busy trying to become Hogwarts' next dueling champion?
Looking forward to your response.
—Daphne
Daphne,
Didn't know you were an artist. You'll have to show me some of your work sometime—I promise I won't criticize too harshly. Unless it's a drawing of Malfoy, in which case, I might have to make an exception.
Spain sounds nice. Never been, but I hear the food's good. I haven't thought about a vacation, actually, but I'll bring it up with Andi. Not sure where I'd go, though. Any recommendations?
Motorcycling is going decently, thanks for asking. Haven't crashed yet, but I'm sure you're secretly waiting for it to happen so we can laugh about it. I'll be sure to inform you when I inevitably wipe out.
—Harry
Harry,
I was happy to see you respond that quickly, especially since I didn't instruct Myles (yes, the owl's name is Myles) to wait this time. Your owl is beautiful, by the way, though a tad bit intimidating, if poor Myles' demeanour was any clue.
Also, since you asked about it before, here's the long answer—when I was about four, my parents gave me the option of learning an instrument, taking voice lessons, or drawing. I picked drawing… and singing. So yes, before you ask, I can do both. I just never had much patience for formal lessons, so I learned in my own way. I draw whatever I feel like—portraits, landscapes, objects, sometimes things from memory. I have to get the details right though, or it annoys me endlessly.
Now, since we're on the topic of vacations—what's been your favorite? You never answered that last time, and I doubt it's because you were too busy being a responsible student.
I'll be leaving for Spain tomorrow, so I've been busy with packing and shopping for the trip.
When I get back, we're meeting up. Preferably with you on that bike. I've never been on one before, and I expect you to provide the full experience. If you don't have a fake license ready, I'll pretend to be shocked.
Try not to get yourself killed before I return.
—Daphne
Daphne,
By the time you read this, you'll probably be lounging on some Spanish beach, not writing me back while you enjoy your holiday. So, hope you're having a great time and all that. Do try not to get scammed at street markets selling you 'ancient Spanish Empire relics'.
Also, I feel the need to point out that you can both sing and draw. Some of us barely got a chance to figure out if we had a single useful talent, and here you are, casually collecting them. I'm starting to think this is unfair. I, meanwhile, am working with the skill set of:
1) Passable at dueling
2) Half-decent at flying
3) Apparently very good at not dying when people expect me to
I don't know what my secret hidden talent is, but if I ever discover it, you'll be the first to know.
And to answer your question about vacations… well, I don't have one. Never been on a proper trip anywhere. My aunt and uncle didn't like having me around, so whenever they went anywhere, I got left behind. No beaches, no sightseeing, nothing.
…That got a bit grim, huh?
On a brighter note—tournament prep is going well. I'm officially registered as a Champion's Nomination from the British Council of Duelists, which means I get to skip some of the early rounds. I'm taking this as proof that I'm either getting really good or that someone made a clerical error. Either way, I'll take it.
Let me know how Spain is, and if you find any interesting "cursed" objects in the markets, feel free to bring one back. I could use something ominous to put on my shelf.
Oh, and for the love of Merlin, please spare the poor Spaniards.
—Harry
Harry,
Surprise!
I know you were expecting me to write once I got back, but I figured since I had some time (and you're probably off doing something reckless), I'd check in.
You're lucky I like you, otherwise, I might be offended that you assume I spend my vacations tormenting tourists. I'll have you know, I'm very well-behaved. (Unless they deserve it.)
Spain is hot, but it's beautiful. We're in Barcelona right now, and I think you'd like it here. The food is amazing, the beaches are packed, and there's this massive street market we walked through earlier where you could probably find anything if you looked hard enough. There were even some old magical relics for sale—some real, some obvious scams. Astoria almost convinced my mother to buy her a "cursed" bracelet just to see what would happen. She is now officially banned from making any market purchases without supervision.
I've also been sketching more, which has been nice. I'll show you some when we're back at school, though no guarantees they'll be up to your standards, O Great Art Critic.
Now, let's talk about something actually important.
You mean to tell me that for eleven years, those absolute dipshits (yes, I said it, don't look so shocked) never once took you on a single trip? Never let you see anything outside of their miserable house?
I'm angry. No, scratch that, I'm furious. I don't even know how you're so... you when you were raised by people who clearly had the emotional depth of a teaspoon.
Listen to me, Potter—forget about them. Forget every stupid way they tried to make you feel like you weren't worth taking along. They don't matter.
You know what does? You taking a proper vacation for the first time in your life.
So here's what's going to happen. You're going to ask Andromeda to take you somewhere, and the next time you write to me, you'll be writing from your very first vacation.
And if you don't, I will be very displeased.
(And trust me, you don't want that.)
Oh, and congratulations on the Champion's Nomination. I'd say I'm impressed, but honestly? I'd be disappointed if you weren't already ahead of the pack. I'll be expecting a full report on how your training's going when I return.
Write back soon, preferably while sitting on a beach somewhere.
—Daphne
Daphne,
Alright, alright—before you hex me through the parchment, let me start by saying I listened to you. Consider your order received, processed, and acted upon.
I'll have you know that as of Friday, I will officially be on my first vacation.
Where, you ask? Italy.
That's right. You were so insistent that I go somewhere, so I figured I might as well pick somewhere worth the trouble. Ted was already looking up places before I even finished the conversation.
So, there you have it. You win. I will, in fact, be sitting on a beach somewhere, probably wondering why people enjoy vacations so much, and questioning whether or not you actually have some kind of influence over my life now. A deeply concerning thought, really.
Also, I think this is the first time I've ever seen you properly angry about something, and I have to admit, it's a little terrifying. Not that I don't appreciate it—I do. But I was fully expecting some kind of polished, composed outrage, not you calling them dipshits in ink. That was unexpected. And hilarious.
Still, thanks. It means something.
Now, about this sketchbook of yours—at this point, I'm expecting a full display. Don't think I won't hold you to it. Since I can't draw to save my life, I figure I should at least get to judge the skills of those who can. And then there's the singing. I am officially adding that to my list of things you need to prove exist. I'll be expecting a performance at some point—whether that's in person or me tricking you into singing in a crowded common room remains to be seen.
Oh, and one last thing—I'll be seeing Hermione today. Andi invited her family to dinner. I was thinking of taking her for a ride, but I've decided against it. You're going to be my first passenger.
Anyway, I'll let you get back to whatever dramatic sunset painting you're working on in Spain. Enjoy the rest of your trip.
Write back soon.
—Harry
Harry folded the letter neatly, rolling it up and tying it securely. Hedwig hooted softly from the windowsill, her sharp amber eyes fixed on him expectantly.
"Alright, girl, this one's for Daphne," he said, stroking the soft feathers at her side before holding out the parchment.
The owl clicked her beak, extending a leg so he could fasten the letter before giving him a knowing look—because of course she knew exactly who he'd been writing to over the past few days.
"Don't judge me," he muttered as he stood, stretching his arms above his head. "I'll see you when you're back."
With a final hoot, the snowy owl spread her wings and took off into the evening sky, disappearing beyond the rooftops of Grimmauld Place.
He dressed quickly—not formal, but presentable, pulling on a simple dark blue shirt and jeans before running a hand through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it.
By the time he stepped outside to wait, the summer air was warm but not unbearable. The street was quiet, the occasional car humming past, but Harry paid little attention. He was only standing there for a couple of minutes before a familiar voice called out.
"Harry!"
He turned to see Hermione walking toward him, her parents following close behind. She looked rested, her hair less frizzy than it tended to be during exam season. Mr. and Mrs. Granger were dressed neatly, Mr. Granger in a light button-down and Mrs. Granger in a smart blouse, both wearing polite smiles as they approached.
"Right on time," Harry said, returning Hermione's smile before nodding toward her parents. "Mr. and Mrs. Granger, good to see you again."
"You too, Harry," Mrs. Granger replied warmly, while her husband gave him a firm, approving nod.
"It's nice of Andromeda to invite us," Mr. Granger added as they fell into step beside him.
"Yeah, she's big on hospitality," Harry replied, leading them down the quiet London street. "Figured it was about time we all got together."
Hermione gave him a curious glance at his choice of words but didn't press.
They walked for only a short while before stopping in front of what appeared to be a completely unremarkable row of townhouses. Number 11 on one side, Number 13 on the other. Nothing in between.
Mr. and Mrs. Granger exchanged puzzled glances as Harry discreetly drew his wand.
Three sharp taps.
A deep, unnatural rumbling filled the air.
Before their very eyes, the brick and stone began to twist and shift, pulling apart like something being unzipped from reality itself. From the narrow void between Number 11 and Number 13, a massive, darkened townhouse surged forward, forcing the neighboring buildings to stretch and make room for its presence. A black door, engraved with a tarnished silver knocker in the shape of a serpent, settled into view.
Number 12, Grimmauld Place, had revealed itself.
Hermione's eyes went comically wide.
Her parents? They stood frozen, completely baffled.
"Wha—?" Stephen started, only for Viola to instinctively grab his arm, staring at the house with clear disbelief.
Harry fought the urge to grin. "Welcome to Grimmauld Place," he said casually, as if their family home hadn't just forced itself into existence in front of them.
Hermione's head snapped toward him. "That was—! You—you didn't even say anything! There was no incantation, no—how did it—?"
"Ancient enchantments," answered her friend "I don't fully get it either."
Hermione let out a breath. "That is some incredibly complex magic."
"Yep." Harry pushed open the heavy door, gesturing for them to step inside. "Come on, before the neighbors think we're insane."
Waiting for them in the entrance hall stood Andromeda and Ted Tonks, both dressed neatly, warm smiles on their faces.
"Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Granger," Andromeda greeted, stepping forward. "And, of course, Hermione. It's lovely to finally meet you all properly."
Hermione returned the smile. "Thank you for having us, Mrs. Tonks. Harry mentions you a lot, actually—I feel like I already know you."
Andromeda arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Oh? I hope all good things, at least?"
Before Harry could answer, Viola chimed in with a teasing smile. "Well, I do recall a time when Hermione was very curious about who you were. Back when Harry first started showing up in the Daily Prophet last summer."
Hermione's eyes widened in horror. "Mum!"
"What?" the bookworm's mother said innocently. "You were quite insistent on looking into his mysterious connections at the time."
Hermione groaned, turning slightly red.
Harry, highly entertained, gave her a slow smirk. "So, I was a research project, then?"
"Absolutely not!" Hermione insisted, looking scandalized.
"Uh-huh."
Ted chuckled, stepping forward to save her. "Before your mother completely mortifies you, Hermione, I should introduce myself properly—Ted Tonks. I hear you're both dentists?"
"That's right," Mr. Granger said, shaking his hand. "Stephen Granger. And this is my wife, Viola."
"Pleasure to meet you," Ted said cheerfully. "I'm a Healer—essentially, the wizarding equivalent of a doctor."
At that, the Grangers seemed genuinely interested.
"You know, Hermione's mentioned magical medicine before," Stephen noted as they followed Harry inside, "but I can't say we've ever spoken to a proper magical doctor. How different is it from what we do?"
"Oh, wildly different," Ted said. "For starters, we don't use drills, which I'm told makes us much more popular than dentists."
Viola laughed. "I think I already like you."
Harry snorted, shaking his head as they entered the dining area.
Inside, Remus Lupin was setting a tray down onto the already-prepared table. He looked up as they entered, his warm but tired expression lighting up slightly.
"Ah, the guests of honor," Remus greeted, giving them a small nod. "Hermione. Lovely to see you again."
Hermione, however, blinked at him in surprise.
"Professor Lupin?"
Harry internally winced. Right. He hadn't told her about that either.
"You live here?" she asked, clearly thrown off.
"Not officially," Remus answered lightly. "But I probably should start paying rent."
Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh… probably should have mentioned that."
Hermione crossed her arms, leveling him with a pointed look.
"You think?"
"Look, I had a lot going on," Harry said, holding up his hands. "I must've forgotten to mention it."
She's REALLY not going to like what else I've been hiding.
Her gaze narrowed. "Is this what you meant earlier? When you said, 'Figured it was about time we all got together'?"
Harry exhaled, then shook his head. "Not exactly."
The words hung in the air just long enough for her to realize there was more to this than a casual introduction.
Once everyone was seated, Harry straightened, knowing he had to explain.
"Hermione already knows that Pettigrew was the traitor," he began, looking at her, "and that Sirius was innocent. But what she doesn't know…"
Before he could finish, a voice interrupted from the doorway.
"…is that she's about to meet the most wanted man in Britain."
Harry groaned as Sirius Black stepped into the room, his hands spread in mock grandeur.
Andi and Lupin both let out identical exasperated sighs. "Sirius," the proxy sighed, rubbing her temples. "Do you have to introduce yourself like that?"
"Of course I do," Sirius said cheerfully. "For am I not, the most-"
"You certainly don't need to say it twice" interjected the werewolf.
Harry rolled his eyes and turned back to the Grangers, who all looked varying degrees of startled. Hermione, especially, looked like she was having a mental breakdown in real-time.
There was a brief but tense silence before Harry exhaled, glancing between Hermione and her parents. It wasn't just her that needed an explanation—the Grangers had no idea who Sirius Black was, beyond the vague knowledge that he was some infamous wizard.
He turned toward them, choosing his words carefully.
"Alright," he exhaled, rubbing his temple. "I know this is probably confusing, so let me explain properly. Fourteen years ago, during the war against Voldemort, my parents knew they were being hunted. So, they went into hiding using a spell called the Fidelius Charm—it basically makes one person, the Secret-Keeper, the only one who can reveal their location. That meant that as long as their Secret-Keeper never spoke, Voldemort would never find them."
He let that sink in for a moment before continuing.
"They chose Sirius," he said, nodding toward his godfather, "but at the last minute, he had the idea to swap with someone else—someone Voldemort would never suspect. That someone was Peter Pettigrew, another one of my dad's best friends."
The ex-convict leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, face carefully neutral. "Yeah. He told Voldemort where they were. That's how he found them. That's why they died."
His godson nodded, taking a moment before resuming the story.
"Sirius realized what Peter had done and went after him," he added, his voice tightening slightly. "But Peter had planned ahead. He cut off his own finger, blew up a street full of Muggles, and transformed into a rat before escaping into the sewers. When the dust cleared, all that was left was wreckage, bodies, and Sirius standing there—laughing."
Stephen's eyes widened in understanding. "Because he had been set up."
"Exactly," confirmed the Seeker. "But that wasn't what it looked like to the Ministry. To them, it looked like Sirius had gone mad—he had just lost his best friends, and then suddenly, he was in the middle of a massacre, laughing. So, they arrested him. And since this was the height of the war, they didn't bother with a trial."
Viola looked horrified. "No trial?"
Harry shook his head. "They threw him straight into Azkaban, which is basically our version of—"
"The worst prison imaginable," Remus finished grimly. "And unlike Muggle prisons, Azkaban is guarded by creatures that feed on your happiness. Your worst memories haunt you every day until you're nothing but a hollowed-out shell."
At that, a heavy silence fell over the table.
Harry glanced toward his godfather. "He was in there for twelve years," he said, his voice quieter now. "Everyone thought he was guilty. Even I did, at first."
He let out a breath, then straightened his back. "But last year, I found out the truth. I found out that Peter was alive—that he had spent the last twelve years pretending to be a rat and living with Ron's family."
Viola blinked. "A rat?" she repeated faintly.
Ted snorted. "Yes, that part is true, bizarre as it sounds."
"He was an Animagus," Hermione murmured, half to herself, still absorbing everything. "We saw him, mum, dad."
"Yeah," seconded her friend. "And that's why we know the truth. Because we caught him, me, Ron, Hermione,… we had him. He confessed. But he managed to escape before we could bring him in."
"And Sirius…" Viola trailed off, looking at the man in question, "is still considered a criminal because of it."
The Marauder nodded once, his expression unreadable. "Officially, I'm still guilty. Unofficially, I'm still guilty. There's no proof beyond our word, and the Ministry would rather leave things as they are than admit they locked up an innocent man."
"And all this time, you've been on the run?" asked Stephen, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Oh, hell no," Sirius scoffed, smirking slightly. "I've been here, at Grimmauld Place. A fairly well-hidden place, as you might have noticed. Can't go outdoors too much, but at least I'm not rotting in a cell anymore."
Harry turned back to Hermione, who hadn't said a word throughout the entire explanation. Her expression was carefully neutral, but he could see it.
The way her jaw was set just a little too tightly. The way she was avoiding his eyes—not in anger, but in something else.
Something close to hurt.
Because she wasn't just reacting to the story, she was reacting to the fact that she hadn't known.
Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Hermione—"
She shook her head once, letting out a small, short breath, eyes flickering down to her plate. "Right," she muttered. "Of course."
Harry exhaled slowly, running a hand through his already messy hair. He could still feel Hermione's steady gaze on him, the weight of her silence pressing heavier than any argument she could have thrown his way.
"I didn't tell you," the black-haired boy began carefully, "because I had to keep it quiet. Not just from you—but from everyone."
The bushy-haired girl's lips pressed together into a thin line, but she remained silent, waiting for him to continue.
"Look… Dumbledore, usually through Snape, is rumored to use Legilimency on students. It's a form of magic that lets someone slip into your thoughts. It's not mind-reading exactly, but it's close enough. If the Headmaster ever suspected that you and Ron were hiding something from him, he would have known. And if he knew you were actively keeping a secret, he would have found a way to make you talk. Like he did about Peter."
Hermione's brows knitted together, her fingers tightening around the napkin in her lap. "That's… invasive," she murmured.
The Gryffindor scoffed lightly. "Yeah, well. It's Snape."
She didn't argue.
"I've been learning Occlumency in secret," he went on, "so a surface-level scan wouldn't show that I'm hiding things. But you and Ron haven't. You wouldn't have even known to shield your thoughts if someone tried to poke around."
His friend swallowed, looking more unsettled than before.
"So what changed?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
The orphan hesitated, but only for a second.
"It's time to tell him," the raven-haired boy admitted. "Because of recent events."
Her warm brown eyes sharpened. "What recent events?"
"I'll tell you," the teenager promised. Hermione let out a slow breath, clearly not satisfied, but she didn't press.
Across the table, Viola Granger, who had been listening with a deepening frown, finally spoke up.
I'm sorry," Hermione's mother interjected, her voice tinged with confusion. "But I don't understand. Dumbledore—he's supposed to be the leader of the good side, isn't he? Why wasn't he told?"
Padfoot, who had been lounging back in his chair, huffed a short, humorless laugh.
"Because we've been doing something that Dumbledore wouldn't have approved of," the Animagus explained, tapping his fingers against the table. "Or at the very least, he would've scrutinized us at every turn. He guards his knowledge of Voldemort very closely—but we've uncovered secrets about the Dark Lord that we weren't supposed to. If the Headmaster knew what we were doing, he would've tried to stop us. Swear us to secrecy and not act on it until he said so."
The Grangers exchanged a wary look.
"What kind of secrets?" Stephen questioned, narrowing his eyes.
The former prisoner shook his head. "Not something we can discuss over lunch."
Harry glanced at his bushy-haired friend, who looked like she was on the verge of exploding with questions, but was holding herself back with visible effort.
"And as for keeping my whereabouts secret," Sirius added, giving a careless shrug, "that was my own choice. If Dumbledore knew where I was, he'd be compelling me to stay hidden. To stay locked up somewhere, unable to do anything—especially to get to know my godson."
His stormy gray eyes flicked toward the boy in question, unreadable.
"So yeah. Secrets." The Marauder smirked slightly. "We're not exactly model citizens in Dumbledore's army."
Remus folded his hands on the table, his expression calm but serious. "We're planning to tell the Weasleys and other confidantes most of what's going on."
Hermione's eyes flickered between the werewolf and the black-haired boy beside her. "But not everything?"
Harry exhaled, rubbing his thumb against the grain of the wooden table. "No. Not everything." He met her gaze. "But… I wanted to tell you a little more than we'll be telling him."
The young witch stilled slightly.
"Why?" she asked, voice careful.
The Gryffindor gave a small shrug. "Because I trust you." A beat passed before he added, more quietly, "And because I felt bad about keeping you in the dark for so long."
The words hung in the air, weighty, unspoken things passing between them.
"I know you're upset," the orphan admitted, his fingers curling slightly on the table. "And I get it. But I hope you understand that I didn't have much of a choice in this."
Hermione was silent for a long moment, her brown eyes searching his.
Then, she nodded.
"I understand," she said softly. "I don't like it, but I understand."
A small, almost relieved breath escaped Harry.
"And… thank you," she continued. "For trusting me with this." Her lips quirked upward just slightly. "I won't break that trust, Harry. You have my word—I won't tell anyone anything. Not even Dumbledore."
The tension that had been hanging over the table like a storm cloud finally began to ease.
Slowly, conversation began to shift away from the heavy topics, the weight of secrets and war melting into lighter things.
And just in time, because with a sudden, loud crash, the fireplace burst into green flames—and out tumbled Tonks, landing flat on her face.
The room burst into laughter.
The pink-haired Auror groaned dramatically, her face still pressed into the rug. "I meant to do that," she mumbled into the floor.
"Sure you did," Ted said, shaking his head with amusement.
Harry chuckled as Hermione let out a giggle, and for the first time since she arrived, she looked genuinely at ease.
Kreacher chose that moment to make dishes appear on the table, a variety of delicious-smelling meals settling onto their plates with a faint pop.
"Looks like lunch is served."
Harry vaguely noted that the elf was probably listening in on everything. But since the elf wasn't allowed to report to anyone else beyond his orders, Harry figured it might actually be useful to have him quietly keeping track of everything said in the dining room.
And with that, they dug in, the conversation flowing easily, the air between the two Gryffindors feeling lighter than it had in a long time.
That's all for now, see you all next time!