Chapter Twelve: Thoughts on Dogs

Harry sat in the Ravenclaw common room, late Sunday evening, quill in hand but parchment untouched. Instead of taking notes, he was thinking about a man locked away on an island surrounded by despair; his godfather.

The realisation had truly settled in over the course of the past week: he couldn't let things play out the way they had last time - consequences be damned. Sirius deserved freedom, not two more years in Azkaban waiting for justice that would never come. He'd work on it though; he'd try and keep this timeline as similar to his past as possible. But the plan would need care.

The invisibility cloak would help. If Dumbledore gave it to him at Christmas again, as he had before, it would be the key. The perfect cover.

New Year's Eve. That was the night. He'd have the cloak, and a week with it to practice.

He had time, for now.

He knew that breaking Sirius out would lead to widespread panic and an enormous butterfly effect on his knowledge of the future. Pettigrew might scarper early, dementors might be posted at Hogwarts again, the Ministry would make sure to keep an eye on him, all things that he desperately wanted to avoid.

So, the plan.

In simple terms, he would make the wizarding world believe that Sirius had died in Azkaban. He would kidnap Scabbers, as another possibility would be that if society believed Sirius to be dead, Pettigrew might decide he no longer had to hide in his animagus form, and escape off into the sunset. That couldn't be allowed to happen; hence, kidnapping a rat. The hardest part would be making them believe Sirius was dead.

Which meant learning how to transfigure a corpse.

Not animate one, not summon one, transfigure one - realistically enough to pass for Sirius Black, even in death.

It wasn't 'dark' magic, but it was precise, subtle, dangerous work. It would have to withstand magical scrutiny. He'd need it to be perfect.

Harry leaned back in his chair, mind already shifting into compartments: one for research, one for spells, one for logistics.

I'll do it right this time.

~OvO~

Wednesday morning found Harry walking the corridor outside the Great Hall, planning his study schedule, when a familiar voice called out from behind him.

"Hey! Harry!"

He turned to see Ron jogging to catch up, a sandwich in his hands. He looked like he'd just come from a late breakfast.

"Morning," Harry said.

Ron fell into step beside him, chewing. "You heading to the library or something?"

"Probably," Harry said. "Lot of reading lately."

Ron winced. "Ugh. I've been dodging Binns' essay since Monday."

They walked in silence for a beat, the kind that didn't need to be filled.

Then Ron gestured vaguely toward his chest. "Hey, you want to meet Scabbers?"

Harry blinked. "Scabbers?"

"Yeah, my rat. He's been sleeping in my pocket all morning." Ron fished around and, with some effort, produced the familiar lump of fur. "He's a bit old, but Mum says he's been in the family for years. Used to be Percy's until they got him that stupid owl, Hermes."

Harry stared at Scabbers.

Peter Pettigrew blinked up at him.

"I... didn't realise he was so small," Harry said carefully.

"Yeah, well, he's lazy. Never moves unless he smells food." Ron chuckled, clearly fond. "Bit useless, honestly, but I like having him around."

Harry gave a non-committal smile and forced himself to walk away at a calm pace.

That night, lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling long after curfew.

I could take him, he thought. Now. Tonight.

But it was risky. No, he'd wait. He'd stick to his plan, and take him when Ron was alone in the Gryffindor dorms over the Christmas holidays.

~OvO~

Thursday morning, Harry arrived at breakfast early and found Hermione already seated, nose in a book.

"Morning," he said, setting down his bag and sitting beside her.

She smiled. "Good morning."

Harry pulled a wrapped parcel from his satchel and placed it beside her plate.

Her eyebrows lifted. "What's this?"

"Happy birthday."

Hermione looked startled. "How did you-"

"I have a good memory for dates," he said quickly.

She unwrapped it carefully, and her eyes widened as she took in the sleek, updated edition of Protection Charm Your Mind: A Practical Guide to Counter Legilimency.

"Oh thank you! This is... I don't know what this is."

He laughed. "It's called Occlumency. It's helped me focus loads. It can stop people from reading your mind". Hermione blanched, mouth agape. "But it isn't just about keeping people out, it helps organise your thoughts. You don't have to study it now, of course, but I thought you might find it interesting."

"People can read my mind?"

"It's called Legilimency. Very few people can do it so it's not something you need to worry about really, but I'd bet a lot of money the headmaster can".

Hermione turned the book over in her hands like it was a rare treasure.

"This is brilliant," she said softly. "No one's ever… thank you, Harry."

Her voice had gone a bit wobbly, and Harry noticed how tightly she held the book to her chest. He didn't press her, just returned to his eggs with a quiet smile.

"I'll start reading it tonight," she added quickly. "And tell you what I think."

"I'm looking forward to it."

~OvO~

That weekend, Harry stood in the middle of the Quidditch pitch with a school broom gripped in one hand.

Madam Hooch watched from the sidelines, arms folded.

"Remember Mr Potter, these brooms aren't built for speed. You fall, you get hurt."

"Understood."

She nodded once. "Off you go, then."

He kicked off the ground and rose into the morning air, letting the cool wind press against his face.

And then he flew.

Not to show off. Not for a crowd.

Just to fly.

He circled the pitch lazily, tilted into a sharp turn, coasted through the uprights and dove low enough to skim the grass before pulling up into a gentle arc.

For an hour, he let his mind drift with the clouds. Thoughts of Sirius, of Scabbers, of Quirrell, of Hermione's smile as she unwrapped her book, each passed through him and moved on, like trees below a Seeker in motion.

When he finally landed, legs shaky and heart light, Madam Hooch gave him a small, approving smile.

"Nice flying," she said simply.

Harry nodded. "Thanks."

And then, broom slung over one shoulder, he walked off the pitch with the feeling, just for a moment, that everything might, somehow, be alright.