In which Draco and Hermione spend time with the house elves, Severus knows better, and Harry hides behind Vince.

You may have noticed that already, but we don't stick to all the things Rowling added on Pottermore/Wizarding World (and so on) after publishing the books. So, Fleamont and Euphemia Potter are some foreign entities I don't particularly care about. We go with Charlus and Dorea as James Potter's parents. It's a very highly probable option, enough so there's no need to look further, and it fits like a glove to what we need in this story.

Enjoy,
A_A

Draco actually avoided Ravenclaws throughout the weekend. The reason for that was Granger and her annoyingly public announcement that they would both work in the kitchens to clean after dinners. Starting Sunday. He needed no comments concerning that. Quite honestly, he wished to keep the affair quiet. But, apparently, Granger was unable to keep her mouth shut.

It started just as they entered the kitchen. Draco had been here quite a few times before, so he wasn't surprised seeing the enormous room matching the Great Hall with the set of tables. It smelled of deliciousness, was full of the kitchen noise and little creatures busying around with flying pots, pans, plates, and plenty of other kitchen equipment.

For Draco, house elves were as natural inhabitants of magical homes as the wizards themselves. He grew up in the company of three (counting out Dodgy Dobby), and it wasn't at all surprising to him when they quickly got surrounded. A couple of little creatures with large, lively, moving ears, long, pointy noses, and large, round eyes. All of them wore pristinely white tunics and aprons sewn together from napkins and embroidered with Hogwarts crests. They weren't the same in the case of every elf. Tunics differed in length, type of sleeves (if they had any), and placement of the crest, while aprons had different shapes and sizes, some with the addition of decorative elements, such as frills.

Malfoy elves preferred modified pillowcases, mostly in green, tied with a silver curtain cord in the middle. And Malfoy elves never wore hats, which seemed to be popular in the case of Hogwarts' elves, sporting different shapes of origami made out of starched napkins. However weird elvish fashion seemed to Draco, they always cared to be neat and well taken care of. The weirdest of all were the Black family elves. Draco had little contact with them, but they tended to wear round tablecloths with a rectangular head opening cut out in the middle. After putting it on, they used holes made on the sides to loop the leather strap through and use it as a belt. It gave some sort of the spacious dress, topped with an additional short cape out of the round crested napkin, usually in green. All meticulously embroidered with the Black family crest and motto in more than one place.

"We're being happy to greet you in kitchens, Young Miss, Young Master. How can Thistlewick be helping you?"

Thistlewick, clearly the Guardian of the Hearth and Halls in Hogwarts, was the oldest of the house elves Draco had ever seen. His voice wasn't as squeaky as the younger elves and much less subservile than the youngest generations of house elves. Additionally, he had two thick tufts of hair growing out of the springy ears on both sides of the completely bald head.

"Good evening," Draco replied, knowing that the rest of his sentence wouldn't be received with any kind of thankfulness. "We were sent here to help. Madame Ravenclaw said she informed you about it."

"She did," the elf nodded in confirmation, his face visibly soured. He answered, but before he managed anything else, Granger exclaimed.

"Are those house elves?! Are you house elves?!"

Draco and the house elves looked at her with absolute bemusement over her ignorance, but where Draco felt like mocking the girl, the Thistlewick replied with patience.

"Yes, Young Miss, we are being house elves."

"I didn't know you were working at Hogwarts!" she was clearly too excited to speak normally. "I'm so sorry to not know that!"

Draco felt like sliding his hand along his face, but he refrained. It wouldn't be appropriate, after all, even if she said two worst imaginable things she could. The ears of all elves around came to life, twitching, flicking, and jerking in what Draco recognized as clearly agitated conversation.

"We are being house elves, not workers," Thistlewick announced with dignity, "And we pride ourselves in being discrete guardians of the family and the house. We are here to care for the inhabitants of this castle. You are being here to do work unsuited for a witch, Young Miss," this time, Young Miss sounded rather like a reprimand than a respectful title, and Draco knew the tone all too well. "You will be going with Zizzle, and Zizzle will show you what you can do to not be disruptive to the order of this kitchen."

Granger looked a little astonished and out of words, and Draco suddenly felt giddy. Tongue-tied Know-It-All Granger. Precious!

"Zizzle is showing the way to Young Miss and Young Master," announced the much younger house elf. His origami napkin was dyed a light shade of pink and contrasted awfully with bright orange eyes. If it was a fashion choice, it was awful.

"What do you mean?" Granger regained her speech. "Working in the kitchens is not below me!"

"Thanks, Zizzle," Draco said quickly and grabbed Granger's elbow to steer her in the direction of the younger elf. "Are you intentionally trying to insult them, or is it just another expression of your ignorance?" he hissed to the girl. Although it came out a little softer than intended because Merlin... she smelled pretty.

Granger ripped her arm out of his grip without any problem.

"Stop manhandling me," she demanded. "And don't you dare call me ignorant! It's normal to work in the kitchen. But you've never washed anything in your life, haven't you, you soft-handed lordling? Were you at least allowed to butter your own toasts?"

Draco clenched his teeth, actively trying to prevent himself from snapping at her. He took a deep breath before saying, "I may not know what the airplate or other stupid thing is, like a roaster, but you know nothing about house elves, so shut up and listen, ask questions or read before talking. Or we're in trouble, you get it?"

"Of course I do! But how could I read ahead, not knowing about it in advance? You should have told me!"

"I should have told you?! I thought you knew!" Draco whisper-shouted back. "Everybody knows about house-elves in Hogwarts, it's just impolite to talk about it! They don't want you to talk about it!"

Granger snorted and fastened her pace to catch up with Zizzle.

"Excuse me," she said to the elf, "you're Zizzle, right?"

"Yes, Young Miss, I'm being Zizzle," the elf replied, looking at her warily. And he wasn't the only one. The majority of elves looked at her with clear distaste.

"Could I ask you a question?" she inquired, sending Draco a pointed look, saying 'see?'

"You could, Young Miss, if you is needing."

"I am, in fact," Granger declared. "Why do you think working in the kitchen is below me? I'm perfectly capable of working in the kitchen, and my parents always assigned me chores. As much as I prefer to read, it's reasonable to help in the house."

The elf's eyes shot to the sides, his ears moving rapidly in agitation. No more than a heartbeat later, Thislewick materialized next to the younger creature.

"Young Miss," he said again in a disapproving tone. "Witches and Wizards are having better things to do than to be working in the kitchens. Under the care of house elves Witches and Wizards are free to be doing those things. House elves are being capable of doing everything that is being necessary for the house and around it. You are being here, in Hogwarts, to be learning. You are not doing good work, Young Miss, and so you are to be cutting the onions for tomorrow's French Onion's Soup, Young Miss. You are sitting here and working in silence, Young Miss," the gnarled finger of the old house elf pointed at the wooden stool. "You are thinking of behaving better to be doing your own job."

Draco held back a laugh with the expertise of a pureblood heir and approached one of the stools.

"Thank you, Guardian of the Hearth and Halls," he said as politely as he possibly could without letting out the amusement. It was worth the stench of an onion on his hands to hear someone tell that to Granger.

"You are being welcomed, Young Master. Will you be having raspberry meringue cake and some mint tea before your work?"

Draco's eyes glistened despite perfectly poised expression.

"Yes, please," he said, with a little too much enthusiasm for his own taste.

"You is being welcomed, Young Master," the old elf replied kindly, snapping his fingers. A little plate with a huge portion of the cake and a silver fork appeared on the table next to the porcelain cup smelling of mint. Raspberries, mint, and sugar smelled like home, and Draco swallowed immediately sliding on the tabletop and reaching for a plate.

"Thank you," he said, forgetting about the rest of his perfect composure and grinning at the elf. Thistlewick nodded with a little smile and popped out, leaving Draco with a heavenly dessert. He savored it shamelessly, once in a while reaching for the porcelain cup, swinging his legs, and observing the house elves. They always amazed him. The amount of wandless magic practiced nonchalantly to stir, chop, knead, season, turn, gather, wash, dry, arrange, and do basically everything in the kitchens. Only younger elves more often used their hands to prepare food or clean, but even with their input, it looked majestic to observe the dance of magic, food, water, and kitchen utensils.

It was so... homey. Of course, three elves never did so much in a moment; it wasn't as impressive as a hundred of Hogwarts' elves working in perfect synchronization, but Draco was used to sitting on a table in the Malfoy Mannor's kitchen, observing the Malfoy elves, and eating the exact same cake with the exact same tea. He played with elves, asked his questions to the elves, observed the elves, was comforted by the elves, and... well, he spent the majority of his childhood with the elves. After all, his parents were often busy, the play-dates with other children could be arranged only that often, and the dozens of rooms of Malfoy Manor were usually empty.

"Oh my god!" Granger's exclamation brutally ripped him out of reminiscing. Her stool landed on the floor with a loud clutter. When Draco looked in her direction, she was already at the side of one of the elves, standing with a hot oven-pan in his hands. She grabbed the closest kitchen cloth and abruptly took the dish out of the surprised elf's hands.

"Are you hurt?" she asked nervously, placing the hot oven pan on the wooden table. Some other elf immediately lifted it up to prevent burning the tabletop, and Thistlewick appeared again.

"Young Miss," he said, now irritated. "We are not being hurt by the warm objects as you are being hurt by them. We are having magic and good skin to protect us. You is to be going back on your stool. When Young Master is finished with his dessert, you is to be given your work."

"B-but Dobby was hurt by iron, he said he was ironing his hands as a punishment in his," she pointed an accusatory finger at Draco, "house. Harry said he had bandaged hands and..."

"He was being hurt by iron, not the heat, Young Mistress," the elf said. "And I is not discussing the matters of Dobby or any other house elf..."

"Dobby is being called?"

To Draco's utter surprise, Dobby the Daft showed up wearing actual clothes, however mismatched and weird. Only the tea cozy on his head was somehow akin to what house elves tended to wear. It was still better than the rags he wore in Malfoy Manor, refusing to wash his own pillowcase.

"And what are you doing here, Dirty Dobby?" Draco asked, snorting.

"Dobby is working here!" The elf replied proudly. "Dobby is happy here!"

Draco raised his eyebrows.

"Working?" he repeated.

"Dobby is being a disgrace, Young Master. He is accepting payment for his work," the old elf said with clear contempt. And then he switched the language. The elvish of house elves was significantly different from the elvish of high elves. It consisted of short words sounding like singular syllables with almost imperceptible pauses. Right now, the old elf was barking them out while Dobby simultaneously shrank and lifted his head proudly. Other elves looked at him with condemnation. But it didn't last long before both elves disappeared from sight.

Hermione seemed outraged, but Draco said or did nothing besides finishing his dessert. Almost immediately, Draco's empty dishes disappeared to be replaced by baskets of onions, a couple of bowls, a little trash can, two chopping boards, and a set of knives. Draco slipped from the tabletop to sit on the stool. Not certain if he was allowed, but not willing to cry his eyes out, he quickly and discreetly cast impervious on his eyes... and after a moment added a second on his hands, although he had severe doubts if anything could hold off the disgusting stench of onions off his palms.

He did it before. It happened that if he disrespected a tutor or failed to prepare for his lessons, elves would give him something menial to do. Just so he felt how privileged he was to be a wizard and have an elf use magic to cook his meals, or could - in the dreadful event of not having an elf - use magic to prepare his meals. How privileged he was to save his time for less mundane things, great things. Maybe that's why it felt so humiliating to do it in Hogwarts. Because of the little voice in the back of his head telling him he had failed as a wizard. But he was not about to argue; he just started to peel the stupid onion, trying not to think about Granger. He'd really prefer to bear that humiliation alone.

He worked in silence, squinting his nose over the smell and wondering how is it possible that French onion soup smelled and tasted like heaven while the onion itself stunk worse than pickled potion ingredients. And there was so much to peel and cut. But he carefully cut every stinking bulb in half, removed the root, and sliced it thinly with the grain. Just as Hobbin did that. However, Hobbin did that with magic, skipping the part with smelly hands. And way faster.

"Why are you cutting it this way? It should be the other way around, in slices," Granger said, and Draco - reluctantly - let her remind him about her presence.

"Because it's going to be French Onion Soup, and French Onion Soup needs delicious, crunchy onions, not a mush, so you use a julienne cut not to cut through too many fibers, so it doesn't lose water."

Granger rolled her eyes. Read and teary eyes. Good. She deserved it.

"And you know that how?" she snorted.

"Because it's the basics of potions," he snapped back.

"It's cooking!"

"But you can apply the knowledge," he replied much too defensively.

"Still cooking."

"Fine. It's still cooking. But you can still apply the knowledge if you know how to cook a certain dish and what you want!"

"And you know that how?" her tone was mocking.

"Because I had house elves, and I actually know how to talk with them! But you must know everything better, right? And about everything?! I told you you're offending them, but you couldn't listen and had to be smarter even if taking the advice, haven't you? Now look at them! Not even one would talk with us or even come close! Merlin, if you'd just shut up when I told you, they'd probably cut the onions for us and give us cookies!"

Hermione sucked on air. She forcefully dropped her knife and onion on the cutting board.

"You're a spoiled-rotten, pampered, presumptuous arse!" She exclaimed. "You can't even cut the onions for the punishment?! You need others to do your job?!"

"I'm cutting the onions!"

"Oh, but it would be so much better if those poor creatures did it for you, wouldn't it? How does it feel to exploit others throughout your life?!"

"I'm not exploiting them! That's what house elves do! What they want to do!"

"Oh yes, because every intelligent magical creature just dreams about serving pompous wizards like you!"

Draco was about to shout back, but the knife he was holding and the onion he was about to cut disappeared from his hands along with everything else.

"Your time is being finished, Young Master," said Thistlewick calmly. "You is being free to go back to your room."

"Thank you, Thistlewick," Draco replied all too sharply and stood up, muttering angrily, 'And here went my cookies' before leaving the kitchens and Granger behind. Merlin, she was infuriating!

And he was correct. His hands bore a stench of onions till the next evening, no matter how hard he scrubbed them. The nasty little veggies were more stubborn than the repelling spell.

Since the meeting with Hallowey and his parents Severus saw no sight of Godric Gryffindor. The castle was clear of his annoying presence probably everywhere except from Severus' mind. It was clear as a bell, that the man was up to something. For one, Gryffindors always were up to something, and it was usually amusing for everyone... save the victim. Severus was on the receiving end often enough to know when the Gryffindors were planning mischief. Godric Gryffindor was no different.

Seemingly, Gryffindor might have acted in Severus' best interest. In theory, he might have appreciated him as Hogwarts' teacher and the Potions Master. One might have also argued that he sat in the back of the classroom, observed, and didn't intervene to reach objective conclusions.

But Severus wasn't one of the dunderheads he had to teach to believe any of that. Whatever Gryffindor had in the empty bowl he called a head, it wasn't anything that could benefit Severus Snape in the end.

It looked rather like a plot to gain Severus' trust and then ridicule him in some sort of cruel and oh-so-amusing joke played for other founders or teachers or maneuver him into doing something idiotic for the so-called greater good.

Severus decided to gain some time by playing it carefully, and so he prepared a series of long and boring lectures for the whole week. No Gryffindor would willingly come back to listen!

The week started plain boring with a two-hour long lecture said by Snape in a drawling, monotonous manner. In Harry's opinion, Snape could seriously compete with Binns. And he'd lose only because every time someone seemed to close their eyes for more than a blink the man raised his voice, accenting heavily one word in a sentence. Not wanting to risk losing points or getting detention (as Dean did, for daring to ask isn't that all in a book somewhere).

The following Defence Against the Dark Arts was again taught by Salazar, who was a completely different teacher to Gryffindor. He didn't change anything in the lesson plan. He told them approximately the same things Gryffindor would, and what he said was extremely interesting. Yet where Godric was a pleasant change after two hours of potions, joking a lot and allowing slight digressions from time to time, Salazar... well, Harry never held his back so rigid for two hours straight.

There were no digressions, no laughing (although Harry supposed many jokes went over their heads because he caught a couple), but the first period was always precisely divided into three parts: first of discussion-lecture-discussion, while second included three intervals of ten minutes of practice, and the five minutes of discussing and correcting the mistakes. In every minute, Salazar demanded their full attention and dedication, and he seemed to hold high expectations towards Harry's performance in every aspect. Though, Ron had it even worse, from what Harry heard during lunch that day.

Fortunately, it was still Godric who graded their homework, or Harry expected to be forced to spend hours correcting his handwriting. And he got enough of that already because of the parsel lessons. Of course, it was easier to write after the elixir of life corrected the thing in his hand. However, it didn't change the fact that he wrote a particular way for his whole life, and correcting that was significantly more time-consuming than swallowing a dose of the potion.

As difficult as it all seemed from Harry's perspective, on Tuesday, he'd gladly change his next two weeks to full-time lessons with Salazar and Snape from dawn to dusk.

On a Tuesday morning, he was welcomed in the Great Hall with stares, whispers, and gossip. Under the lifted eyebrows of Slytherins glistened calculation and evaluation, Gryffindors seemed to be curious and opinionated, while Hufflepuffs looked at him with compassion. He didn't need more to know what happened.

The article was out.

Not thinking much about it, he changed his direction to the Ravenclaw table, which seemed to be the most inert to the emotional drama. But he didn't stop by Hermione, who looked at him with pity and a sad smile. He just said a quick 'hi' in passing and sat across from Malfoy. Vince and Greg, apparently impervious to the general atmosphere, settled on his side, immediately loading their plates with food. After all, it was the same at any table.

"Good morning," Malfoy said with a studious courtesy, passing Harry a paper. "Slept well, Potter?"

"Great, and you?"

"Someone," Draco glanced towards Terry Boot, "Read the book to the late hours and woke me up every time he went to the bathroom or for another cup of tea."

"Work on your silencing spells," Terry replied dispassionately.

"Rude," Harry commented, opening the paper, but he leaned towards Draco. "Rowena froze the floor in the Badger's Keep once so Hermione wouldn't wander for the books in the middle of the night. I may ask for a spell."

"Greatly appreciated," Draco grinned, a little too broadly for it to be practiced. "I may be grateful enough to give you one to manage your hair."

"The same one you've been overdoing for years? Or is it supposed to work this way?" Harry raised his eyebrows, causing Malfoy to snort indignantly.

"It's not the spell he's overdoing but the fancy self-smoothing serum he imports from France," Theo explained.

"Every morning hair and face routine," added Walter.

"Stands before the mirror for around an hour," confirmed Terry. But as much as Theo and Walter were stating facts as a bit of friendly banter, Terry's comment was clearly biting.

"You could ask for some tips," Harry said to him off-handedly, to Malfoy's visible satisfaction.

"You're mean for a Hufflepuff," Terry decided.

"You should listen to Helga sometimes," Harry only said before focusing on the article. He read undisturbed, as Ravenclaws clearly already knew the contents judging by the messy copies of the Prophet spread on the table. Each of them featured a big picture of Harry and Sirius. Sirius was beaming, holding Harry close to his side, with one hand resting on Harry's arm. Harry looked different than normal, dressed in what Augusta Longbottom deemed appropriate (some size-adjusted Neville's robes), and he felt absolutely uncomfortable posing for the picture. But it wasn't how it looked. Harry rather seemed as if he waited for Sirius to give him permission to leave, and was too scared to do so on his own. It wasn't a picture Harry liked. At all. However, it was still better than the one with Lockhart two years ago.

The article itself was presented in the form of a narrated interview, and while reading, Harry was certain that most (if not all) his replies were edited to sound more eloquent and polite, and they certainly lacked all the filler noises he made. The questions were in messed up order, the general sense often reverted, and Harry felt sick reading it.

As every attentive reader noticed in the span of the last two weeks, Sirius Black, the current Lord Black of the prominent British family, recently received an official apology on the pages of this very paper. The Daily Prophet editorial office, however, wondered if the financial retribution and public apology were enough to recompense everything lost during the long twelve years of imprisonment.

We reached out to Lord Black with the question, and he kindly agreed to provide us with a couple of answers that we're proud to provide to our readers in the inclusive interview with Lord Sirius Black and his godson, Harry Potter. Yes, dear readers, Lord Sirius Black is - in fact - Harry Potter's godfather.

Harry, if you could tell us how you felt knowing that your godfather was imprisoned in Azkaban for all those years?

I wasn't aware. I was never told that I had a godfather, and nobody even mentioned Sirius in my presence. In fact, the first time I saw him was on TV (Author's Note: TV is a muggle device allowing muggles to watch previous events). They showed his picture and introduced him as a dangerous fugitive convicted of murder.

And that is how you got to know about your godfather?

I found it out by accident when Minister Fudge and Hogwarts teachers were discussing the matter loudly in the Three Broomsticks during Hogsmeade weekend. I suppose that is how everybody present in the pub could hear the story of Sirius' friendship with my parents and his alleged treason.

That's awful! And when did you find out it wasn't - in fact - the truth, but the horrific mistake of the Head of the Department of Law Enforcement then, Barthemius Crouch?

A couple of months later. We properly met only this summer, when with the help of Helga (Author's Note: that's Helga Hufflepuff, the progenitor of Harry Potter) and Lady Longbottom, we managed to contact the current Head of the Department of Law Enforcement, Madame Bones, who took care of arranging a proper trial for Sirius.

A proper trial. We were all shocked to hear that you were never tried for the crimes you have been accused of, Lord Black. Please tell us, what was it like for you?

I was devastated! My whole life ended in a matter of hours. James was my closest friend for years; he and I were closer than I ever was with my brother, Regulus. When things at home were difficult, you know how teenagers are (Author's Note: Lord Black laughs, visibly abashed by his teenage antics) James' parents accepted me to their home with open arms.

That was your great-aunt Dorea Potter nee Black and Charlus Potter, is that correct?

Yes, precisely. Aunt Dorea was always the nicest of my aunts, although Druella comes as the close second without a doubt. Unfortunately, my mother was rather... firmly set in her extreme views of blood purity, and I had less contact with the rest of the family than I'd like to. Thanks to James, I regained a lot of family connections and gained new family members in Lily (Author's Note: Lily Potter, nee Evans, the brilliant muggleborn charms prodigy) and little Harry. He was adorable when he was born!

Author's Note: Lord Black looks at Harry with amazement in his eyes, and I cannot help but feel moved.

And suddenly, they took all of that from you... Do you recall where you were when you found out about their deaths?

I tried to Floo-call Pettigrew (Author's Note: the recently convicted murderer, previously thought to be one of the Sirius Black victims), as I did every night, to pass him some news and ask how he was doing. But he wasn't anywhere near the fireplace, and it allowed only communication. Knowing where to find him, I went to check if everything was fine. Pettigrew was always the weakest of our four; we always took care of him because of that. And that's why we picked him as a secret keeper for Fidelius (Author's Note: the highly advanced warding charm which allows to hide a secret, in this case, the place of residence of the Potters), because before anybody would come looking for answers with Pettigrew, they'd come for me first, and later for Remus (Author's Note: Remus Lupin, the lycanthrope and former teacher in Hogwarts, son of Lyall Lupin a world-renowned authority on Non-Human Spirituous Apparitions). That would give Peter enough time to reinforce his hiding.

You were willing to die to protect your friends, not even being the secret keeper?

Of course! I loved them both! I would die now to bring them back!

I'm so sorry for your loss. What happened after you went to check on Peter Pettigrew?

He wasn't there, but there was no sign of anybody breaking him out. I thought that he got bored or maybe went to visit Lily and James. But I had to check... (Author's Note: Lord Black's voice breaks, and he brings little Harry closer) I found the house half-ruined, and I knew what happened. I found James first, and then Lily. I wasn't the only one who came. Bathilda (Author's Note: Bathilda Bagshot, the prominent historian) was already on the site; she was friends with Lily and lived two houses away. She was with James downstairs when I came. There was also... the other friend of Lily's. He was watching out for her, and that's how he was there even faster than I was. I found him upstairs, along with her and Harry. Harry... he was just sitting there in his baby cot, so quiet, with the cut bleeding on his forehead... Hagrid (Author's Note: Rubeus Hagrid, teacher as well as Keeper of Keys and Grounds of Hogwarts) arrived just a few minutes later and took him from my arms. He was there on Dumbledore's orders (Author's Note: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock of Wizengamot, and Supreme Mugwump of the ICW). Dumbledore ordered him to take Harry to his aunt, Lily's sister. I gave him my bike so Hagrid would reach the destination safely, and I left just as the Aurors showed up to investigate the scene.

Where did you go then?

To find Pettigrew, of course. And I have found him, but before I could catch him, he accused me of betraying Lily and James, faked his death, and killed twelve muggles in the vicinity... I've seen precisely what he'd done. I've seen how he cut off his finger and changed, but I haven't managed to stop him. And... I admit I lost it. At that moment, I couldn't even think clearly, not to mention answering questions because it was all my fault. I suggested Pettigrew as the secret keeper; it was my plan and my fault...

(Author's Note: we made a pause here when Lord Black couldn't continue talking, and Harry comforted him, assuring it wasn't truly his godfather's fault. We resumed after some time.)

If you wouldn't mind, Lord Black, what happened when you were escorted to Azkaban?

I don't remember much from the first days. Only after a while, I managed to adjust to the constant presence of dementors and my grief to start thinking. Actually thinking, not relieving the events of that night... And then I realized that I chose the wrong thing to do. I should have realized that Lily would never want Harry to stay with her sister. I started asking for a trial, for a lawyer, for a visit from Remus. But I wasn't granted any of those things. I never had any visitors during the twelve years in Azkaban. When I learned anything about the outside world, it was from the other prisoners, but it was never enough. I had no chance to legally get out or prove my innocence, and I knew I had to. I had to get out and get Harry out from his aunt.

You're saying Lily would never agree for her sister to raise Harry. Why is that?

She's a dreadful, vile woman! Hated Lily with a passion for being a witch. Their parents were lovely people, very welcoming and kind, but not her. I only hoped that maybe the grandparents took Harry in from his aunt. But I learned later that they died not long after.

How was living with your aunt, Harry?

I'd rather not talk about it. (Author's Note: Yes, readers, that answer was very much telling; you must believe me, as I was there to see the expression on his face.)

From what I hear, you would clearly benefit from being raised with your godfather.

I would.

What would be different, what do you think?

Everything would be different.

Like what? Could you think of an example?

I would know I was a wizard from the very beginning.

You weren't told about that?

No, I wasn't.

What else were you not told about?

Everything.

(Author's Note: due to Harry's clear discomfort, we decided to change the subject)

Lord Black, and what about your partner? I hear that you were in a relationship before the happenings of that night.

Yes, I was in a relationship. Unfortunately, he chose to believe I was guilty, and we saw each other only once since my escape.

It must be hard to forgive a loved one for assigning such a crime to you.

I'm not blaming him. He didn't know who the real secret keeper was. He had all the reason to think I did it. For some time, I hoped he'd take care of Harry in my name. Unfortunately, the Ministry doesn't allow lycanthropes to adopt children, and that hasn't changed during my stay in Azkaban. Although we all hoped it would.

(Author's Note: Harry is clearly surprised to hear that his godfather was in a romantic relationship with Remus Lupin. Yes, dear readers, Remus Lupin, the third friend of his father, so I decided to ask him a question about that.)

Harry, Remus Lupin was your professor last year. You must have had plenty of questions about your parents when you met him.

I had plenty of questions.

Have you got along well?

Professor Lupin taught me a lot and helped me to deal with dementors. I react rather strongly to their presence, and thanks to Professor Lupin I know how to cast the Patronus and defend myself.

The Patronus Charm? You must have your mother's talent for charms to achieve that at your age!

I was motivated.

(Author's note: Lord Black laughs and says that Harry is very humble.)

Harry can produce a corporeal Patronus. The most powerful I've ever seen. Show us, Harry!

(Author's Note: Harry seemed reluctant and very humble, indeed, about this amazing feat, but the proud godfather managed to convince him to produce a magnificent Patronus in the shape of a stag, and then continued.)

It's because of James. James was an animagus, a stag just like this one. They are just so alike, Harry and James...

Harry stopped reading at this point, folded a paper, and stood up.

"I think I'm full," he said, despite barely drinking half a cup of juice, "How about we go outside already, guys? We can wait for care on the grounds..."

Vince and Greg didn't reply but stocked their pockets on food while standing up.

"Thanks for the paper," Harry said to Malfoy before leaving the Great Hall. He ignored Hermione with her compassionate eyes, but she ran after him anyway.

"Oh, Harry," she said softly, after catching up, "I'm so sorry. Why haven't you told us anything about the interview? It must have been so hard for you..."

"I'm fine, Hermione," he replied, stepping aside.

"You clearly aren't..."

"I clearly don't want to talk about it!" He snapped. "Don't you have runes or something to go to?"

"Arithmancy," she corrected automatically. "But Harry, you should talk about it. Really, you..." she hushed her voice, stepping a little closer. "You're going through a lot. You should talk about it."

"I don't want to talk about it," Harry said again, stubbornly.

"Maybe after dinner, we could take a walk?"

Harry sucked on air, but it was Vince who spoke up.

"He told you he doesn't want to talk," the boy said sharply. Much sharper than necessary. "When someone doesn't want to talk, they don't have to talk. So get lost."

Both Harry and Hermione looked at him with surprise. Hermione, because she never heard Crabbe speaking. While Harry, because when Vince spoke, his words were usually polite. It was the first time Harry saw him in some way... angry. And he doubted it was only on his, Harry's behalf. But Harry wasn't going to ask anytime in the future about this situation. Maybe someday, when Vince would be in a good, talkative mood. Or better else, if he'd decide to talk about it himself.

But now, Vince actually growled at Hermione when she opened her mouth to say anything else. In response, she snorted, raised her chin, and walked away.

Harry felt bad for the whole thing as they walked out of the castle without a single word. He was grateful to Vince for helping. And to Hermione for caring. But he felt bad that both Vince and him snapped at her when she only had good intentions.

On the other hand, it would be torture to talk, to answer her questions, to drag out... everything. He didn't even know what precisely he was feeling about the whole thing. It was... dimensional. The matter of Sirius and their relationship was one thing. The article was the second. He knew that the article in this form was beneficial, as Salazar explained it in detail, and Harry understood why it was important. But the people were the third. The people who just read about very private matters and they'll talk about it for as long as something takes their attention away.

People caught up with them quickly, and Harry expected more questions to come. And this time, not intrusive but caring Hermione-type questions. But nosy from strangers. However, they never did. Because Vince was glaring at anyone approaching, with his fists clenched tight, successfully deterring any curious classmates... and everybody else. Even Ron stayed with Zabini after a second of consideration.

And Harry was really, very grateful.

"I owe you," he said quietly to the boy, who somehow became his friend in the meantime.

Vince only shrugged in response, but Harry was quite certain he saw a little smile there.