Written in the Stars - Snatched by the Past

Snatched by the Past

It was impossible to ignore just how different Durmstrang was without Harry. There was less laughter, less teasing, and somehow less smiles, all the things that were needed to make it through the often-challenging days here.

For Lucinda, it was as though most of the happiness had been sucked out of school life, and she knew it was the same for the others.

As infuriating as Harry could be, Durmstrang simply wasn’t Durmstrang anymore.

It had been only ten days since they had departed, and already, Barkus had decided that without the seventh years here, that he would fill the role as the dominant force amongst the students.

Somehow, the boy had become even less bearable than ever, though his vying for the position had been thwarted at every turn.

Harry had not been jesting when he said that he had left things dotted around that would keep Barkus in line.

In only ten days, he had found himself in the medical bay no less than four times, sporting signs of various hexes and even a few wounds he would not forget about so easily.

Lucinda didn’t know how he had done it, or how much time he had invested in the venture, but Harry was indeed looking out for them from afar.

She was pulled from her thoughts by Professor Sidorova placing a sizable pile of letters on the table in front of the group, a knowing smile from the woman leaving no doubt as to who had sent them.

Harry had finally written.

Without preamble, she took it upon herself to hand the missives out, holding up a hand as she reached the one at the bottom of the pile.

“This one is addressed to all of us,” she informed them.

“To all of us?” Summerbee questioned as Lucinda opened the envelope, a wave of relief washing over her as she took in the familiar scrawl.

“Greetings from Great Britain,” she read, rolling her eyes. “Before I begin, Jonas, put the bloody sausage down and pay attention.”

The others laughed as Jonas paused, his mouth agape from where he was indeed about to bite into a sausage.

“How did he know?” he groaned.

A smirk tugged at Lucinda’s lips.

Harry simply knew them all too well.

“Hogwarts isn’t so bad. If you didn’t already know, Viktor was chosen as our champion. Nothing else interesting has happened. I met some of the people I will have to work with in the future, and I must say, I find myself underwhelmed by most.”

“Potter is underwhelmed by everyone he meets,” Jonas snorted.

Lucinda shot him a pointed look before continuing.

“Many of the purebloods are exactly what you’d expect, and although there are others that seem to be more tolerant of muggleborns and half-bloods, that courtesy does not seem to extend to creatures. The French champion is a veela, or part veela at least, and the way most speak about her is rather unflattering. I have the urge to have you lot brought here just to piss them off even more.”

“He would too,” Cain chuckled.

“Anyway, I have written to you all individually, but I wrote this to make sure that you’re all looking out for each other in my absence. I know how temperamental, and stubborn some of you can be.”

Lucinda rolled her eyes at the letter.

“Stay safe and be there for one another. I will see you all again soon, Harry.”

The group remained silent for several moments before Ana spoke.

“It really is different without him here, isn’t it?”

The others nodded their agreement.

“I never thought I would miss him this much,” Summerbee sighed.

“Then why don’t we do something about it?” Cain suggested.

“Like what?” Jonas pressed.

“Be more like Harry,” Cain answered with a grin. “We can do the things that he usually would.”

“You mean cause trouble,” Summerbee mused aloud. “I like that.”

Lucinda was not so sure.

Harry was a troublemaker, mischievous at best, but could they really replicate the things he did to fill the void he had left behind?

She had her doubts, but something needed to be done.

Lucinda didn’t think she could survive the rest of the drudgery of the school year as things had become.

“We could always try,” she agreed reservedly.

“Then it is settled,” Summerbee declared. “Now, where do we begin?”

The others began discussing ideas of what they could do, and Lucinda listened to the suggestions, but much of her focus was on the other letter she held, the one that bore her name alone.

Not wanting to wait any longer, she carefully opened the envelope and removed the parchment within, shuddering as his scent curled into her nose.

Even as mild as it was, her keen sense of smell lapped it up.

Dear Lucinda,

It feels strange being here, and though I cannot say that it is proving to be an unpleasant experience, I find myself missing Durmstrang already.

Other than the French champion, the Beaxubatons Headmistress, the Charms professor, and I suspect the Care of Magical Creatures professor, there are no other part-creatures.

Having spent three years with you all, it is odd to say the least.

I suppose that it isn’t that I miss creatures as such, but the ones that have become important to me; you especially.

You’re probably thinking I’ve gone soft, or even cursing me for being nice, but I find no reason to not be honest.

Anyway, I will not drone on about my own observations of my existence, not when I have little to truly complain about.

I just don’t want you to think that me being here is preferable.

It isn’t.

I will admit the differences are piquing my curiosity, and I am looking forward to what I will experience, but I already know without doubt that Durmstrang is where I belong.

Write soon,

Harry

P.S: This letter will explode and shower you with glitter when you finish reading it.

Lucinda’s eyes widened as she absorbed the final sentence, and she cursed as the parchment unleashed a loud bang.

The rest of the group laughed and Lucinda’s nostrils flared.

“I’ll kill him!” she hissed.

Although she spoke it aloud, there was no sincerity to her declaration.

Despite the annoyance and inconvenience of being covered once more in glitter, it was what she had needed to lift her spirits in a way that only Harry could.

Scowling, she removed a piece of parchment, a quill, and some ink before penning her response.

Of course, it wasn’t because she was so keen to reply, but there was no time like the present to do so.

(Break)

Upon concluding his conversation with Lucius, Barty had immediately absconded to Albania to where his father had been intercepted by Pettigrew, hoping that the snivelling coward had not yet taken leave of the area with their master.

Wormtail was a fool at best, and a hazard to the Dark Lord in his weakened state.

He had his uses, of course, but they were few and far between, and not conducive to seeing Lord Voldemort rise again.

Barty watched as the rotund man scowled at him, not welcoming his presence.

“I had heard that you were dead,” the Dark Lord wheezed, the body he was occupying not a suitable vessel for one larger than life itself.

Even to Barty, the pale infant was not easy to look upon without feeling sick, but a quick reminder of whom it was he was addressing allowed him to dismiss his reservations.

“It appears that rumours of my passing were no less true than the rumours surrounding yours, My Lord,” he replied.

The infant offered a toothless grin in response.

“Indeed,” the Dark Lord murmured. “I find myself relieved that you have found me. Does any other know of my current status?”

“Only Lucius, My Lord,” Barty assured his master who did not appear pleased by the revelation.

“I would rather him not see me like this,” he sighed.

“But Lucius is perhaps the most useful contact we have,” Barty pointed out. “He is on excellent terms with the Minister and can provide anything we need via his connections. I did not speak with him with the intent of displeasing you, but to assist you, My Lord. You have my apologies if I acted out of turn.”

The Dark Lord eyed Barty speculatively for a moment.

“As I am, my mind is not as keen as I would like,” he conceded, “but whether or not you have made the right decision, Barty, remains to be seen. With Wormtail on the run, and people believing you are dead, perhaps we will need further assistance.”

Barty nodded.

“Would you like me to send for him, My Lord?”

The infant frowned thoughtfully before answering in the affirmative.

“His input would be most useful, as will your own, but I would have you watch him closely. As trustworthy as Lucius once was, he still denounced me when I needed my most loyal to keep faith.”

“Of course, My Lord,” Barty replied, taking a moment to summon the blonde. “I apologise that my own information may not be so useful.”

“You being here will prove useful enough,” the Dark Lord replied. “Tell me, Barty, what do you believe we should do from here?”

“I would not presume to know, My Lord,” Barty answered. “I believe that providing you with a more suitable body would be best, but there is something that I thought may be of interest to you.”

“Then speak, Barty, and share what you have learned since your liberation.”

Barty removed a stack of newspapers he had accumulated since he had gained his freedom from within is robes and handed them to Wormtail.

“The Triwizard Tournament?” the rat-like man asked.

“They are hosting it at Hogwarts,” Barty explained, “and my father is one of the organisers. We could use that to our advantage.”

The Dark Lord hummed thoughtfully.

“Perhaps,” he mused aloud.

“Mad-Eye has been appointed as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor,” Wormtail announced as he thumbed through the stack of articles.

“I suspect Dumbledore would want a man of his calibre around,” Voldemort murmured. “His presence alone would make any think twice about interfering with the tournament.”

“Quite likely,” Barty agreed. “I’m sure none of us have forgotten what he did to Rosier.”

“Amongst many others,” the Dark Lord sighed. “Moody is a problem.”

“Harry Potter returns,” Wormtail read aloud.

The Dark Lord visibly stiffened at the mention of the boy.

“Potter?” he whispered dangerously.

Wormtail nodded nervously.

“According to the article, he arrived with the Durmstrang delegation, My Lord,” he explained. “I found it rather odd that he did not attend Hogwarts when expected.”

“That is rather interesting.”

“Just say the word, My Lord, and I will have the boy killed,” Barty offered.

“NO!” the Dark Lord snapped. “Potter will meet his end at my hands only. What do we know of him?”

“Nothing, My Lord,” Barty replied frustratedly. “He shared a box with the Minister and Lucius for the Quidditch final, but I was able to gage very little of his character. He is rather brazen, but does not seem foolish, and was rather keen to win Fudge’s favour.”

Voldemort hummed to himself, frowning as a familiar man entered the room.

“Ah, Lucius, how good of you to join us,” he greeted the blond. “We were discussing what steps to take to arrange my triumphant return.”

Lucius said nothing for a moment, eying their Lord curiously, though he had the sense to prostrate himself before the infant being.

“My Lord, it swells my heart to see you once more,” he declared with his head bowed. “Had I heard even a whisper…”

“Quiet, Lucius,” the Dark Lord wheezed. “I am not interested in lies or platitudes. What I need is your assistance. I will deal with your transgressions against me later.”

“Of course, My Lord,” Lucius replied as he stood. “How may I serve you?”

Voldemort glared at him through narrowed eyes for a moment before nodding to himself.

“Barty believes that we could use the tournament to our advantage,” he explained. “What are your thoughts on the matter?”

Lucius frowned as he shook his head.

“My I be frank with you, My Lord?”

“Speak your mind, Lucius.”

The blond released a deep breath, choosing his words carefully before speaking once more.

“I do not know what your intentions are, but I do not believe we should be taking any more risks than necessary,” he began diplomatically. “The tournament should not be a focus. Too many eyes are on it and we do not wish for a single pair to fall upon you.”

The Dark Lord nodded and gestured for Lucius to continue.

“We must operate in a way that worked for us in the past, My Lord,” he said almost pleadingly. “We must gather your forces, ensure that you are strong enough once more. Patience will be key. I will do what I can to obtain information that will be useful to us and pave our way to victory. Our first priority is you, My Lord. Without you, all else would be for naught.”

“I have a plan for myself, Lucius,” the Dark Lord replied, “but I see the wisdom in your words. I have waited for thirteen years, a little longer is no burden.”

Lucius almost sagged in relief.

“What of Potter?” Voldemort asked.

“What of him?”

“You have met the boy. What did you make of him?”

“He proved to be rather arrogant,” Lucius shrugged. “He reminded me very much of his father, but he is no fool. Other than that, I do not know.”

“Then I must learn about him,” Voldemort declared. “Barty, have the boy watched as closely as possible without drawing unwanted attention.”

“Of course, My Lord” Barty complied.

“To watch only, Barty,” the Dark Lord reiterated. “He is not to be harmed.”

Barty nodded, though he was not pleased by the request.

Were it up to him, he’d have the boy throttled in his sleep.

“Why not just kill him, My Lord?” Wormtail interjected.

“All in good time, Wormtail,” Voldemort said firmly. “For now, I wish to know my enemy. He will die when the time is right. Our meeting is written in the stars.”

Barty shared a look of confusion with Lucius and Pettigrew, but before any could question their master, he spoke once more.

“You urge caution, Lucius, and I am inclined to agree,” he conceded. “I would have you fill your former role but do so carefully. I would have my return occur from a position of strength with Britain ready to fall to its knees. Can you do this for me?”

Lucius bowed deeply.

“It shall be done, My Lord.”

“What would you have me do, My Lord?” Barty questioned.

“You have already made our position difficult by placing your father under the Imperius Curse,” Voldemort grumbled. “However, it is something I can use to my advantage. I will have need of a strong wizard. Ensure he remains healthy, and continue to gather what information you can, but take no risks. We do not wish to draw attention to him.”

“It will be done, My Lord,” Barty assured the man.

Voldemort nodded.

“Wormtail will remain by my side and provide the care I will need until I can fashion a body for myself. I would rather it be done sooner rather than later, but it must wait for now. I hope to use the summer solstice to my advantage. I will need some ingredients fetched for me closer to the time. Wormtail will be responsible for that.”

“And then?” Barty pressed.

“Then we gather our allies, Barty,” the Dark Lord declared. “When I make my return, it will be triumphant, and in a way that does not arouse suspicion until it is too late for our enemies to act. Now, however, I must rest. Leave me and do as I have asked of you.”

“Of course, My Lord,” Barty and Lucius replied, offering a final bow before exiting the shack Voldemort currently resided in.

“Some would think you are stalling, Lucius,” the former commented.

“Nonsense,” he replied dismissively, “I merely wish for there to be no mistakes. He is our Lord, Barty, but he made an error of judgement the night he went after the Potters. If we are to be successful, we must be strong once more.”

Reluctantly, Barty agreed with the man.

“And we will be, won’t we?”

“Only if we are careful and meticulous,” Lucius said firmly. “We cannot afford to make mistakes, and we cannot rush. To do so would be foolish, and forgiveness is not something we can expect if we fail.”

With his parting words given, Lucius activated a portkey, and Barty stared at the spot the man had been standing in.

Perhaps Lucius was right.

Were it Barty’s plan that was being followed, they would indeed use the tournament to their advantage, and Potter would be killed at the earliest convenience.

However, the Dark Lord was adamant the boy be left alone for the time being so that he may learn more about him.

It was a clever strategy, though one that would not yield the results he desired so quickly.

Perhaps Barty was impatient after so long as nothing but a prisoner, and for the first time since they had been reacquainted, he was grateful for Lucius’s guile.

It would certainly serve their Lord better than a bold plan that could draw attention to them.

Still, all remained to be seen, but Barty had no doubt that life was once more becoming rather interesting.

Soon enough, the Dark Lord would rise once again, and Britain would be gripped by fear, and the filth of society would not rest peacefully, knowing that the threat that once hung over them was back with a vengeance.

(Break)

Having spent much of his first weekend here exploring the castle, Harry had decided that he had taken enough of a break from his education. Although Professor Karkaroff had held classes on the ship, he was no substitute for experts in the fields of study Harry had opted to take.

He was looking forward to sampling the schooling Hogwarts had to offer, and first on his list was a fourth year Transfiguration class under the tutelage of Minerva McGonagall.

The woman was as respected as they came in her area of expertise, her contributions to the subject being held in high regard.

Even Harry’s own professor at Durmstrang had mentioned the woman many times over the past few years, so Harry was quite keen to see for himself her revered brilliance.

Arriving at the classroom, he found that it was already full of students in black robes trimmed in either the red of Gryffindor, or the green and silver of Slytherin, his presence being noted immediately by all.

“Might I assume that you wish to join my lesson, Mr Potter?” an aged witch questioned.

She had a stern appearance about her, the green eyes behind her spectacles as hard as her voice, and greying hair held in a tight bun.

“If I would not be intruding, Professor,” Harry replied respectfully.

The woman eyed him speculatively for a moment, seemingly searching for something before she nodded.

“You are most welcome,” she replied. “There is a seat available next to Miss Granger,” she added, gesturing towards a bushy-haired girl seated at the front.

“Thank you,” Harry returned, taking the offered seat next to the girl who made some space for him.

“Today, we will be continuing with our work in animate to inanimate transfigurations,” McGonagall explained. “During our last lesson, I had you changing a hedgehog into a pin cushion. This time, we will be attempting to change a chicken into a belt, like so.”

With a wave of her wand, she transfigured one of a dozen or so chickens in a crate on her desk into a belt seemingly with no effort on her part.

It was not an easy transfiguration to complete, and yet, the woman had done it with ease.

“Can anyone explain why this transfiguration is considerably more challenging than the last?” McGonagall questioned.

The girl seated next to Harry immediately raised her hand, and Harry followed suit.

No other seemed to be willing to offer their thoughts, and the Professor nodded towards Harry.

“Because when transfiguring a hedgehog into a pin cushion the focus is solely on the organic changes of the material you are working with,” he explained. “A pincushion is rather subjective when it comes to size, and the shape is not dissimilar to that of the original project. Changing a chicken into a belt means that you have to focus on both aspects of the transfiguration simultaneously or your attempt will fail.”

McGonagall nodded approvingly.

“Take five points for Gryff…”

She broke off suddenly and shook her head.

“My apologies,” she offered. “An articulate answer, Mr Potter. You are correct. When attempting this transfiguration, you must remember to focus on all components of it. You will have the rest of the lesson to practice, and if you do need any further assistance, I will be at hand. Come up and fetch your chickens.”

Harry followed the rest of the students, pausing as one of the boys in Gryffindor robes reached out a hand to unlatch the catch.

As expected, the chickens burst out of the door, sending the boy sprawling before spreading throughout the room.

“I should have known better,” McGonagall sighed, shaking her head. “Get up, Mr Finnegan.”

Harry snorted amusedly as he drew his wand and waved it in a sweeping motion.

The scattered chickens fell still, collapsing to the ground as though they were puppets that had their strings cut.

“Thank you, Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall said gratefully as the other students began whispering amongst themselves.

Harry merely offered the woman a smile before picking up one of the birds and returning to his desk.

“What was the spell you used?” the bushy-haired girl asked as she joined him.

“Just a localised freezing charm,” Harry explained. “I didn’t cast it strong enough to affect the people in the room, but chickens have no magical defence against it.”

“That is impressive,” the girl mused aloud.

Harry shrugged.

“We had a similar incident in one of our lessons,” he chuckled. “Instead of chickens, we had doves flying around the room. It seemed like a handy charm to know.”

The girl nodded.

“That was brilliant!” a redhead seated behind them commented. “Nice one, Harry.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I know your name.”

“Ron Weasley,” the boy introduced himself, offering his hand.

Harry accepted it and offered the boy a polite nod.

“This is Dean Thomas,” Ron continued, pointing to a dark-skinned boy, “Seamus Finnegan, and Neville Longbottom,” he finished, gesturing to the other Gryffindor boys.

Harry knew the Longbottom name, and Neville could only be the son of Frank and Alice, the aurors that had been severely tortured by Bellatrix, her husband, and his brother.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” he said politely. “What about you?” he added to the girl.

“Hermione Granger,” she answered.

Granger was not a magical name as far as Harry was aware, and judging by the tweed scarf she sported, she was in fact a muggleborn.

Harry had met so few of them throughout his life, not that her blood status mattered to him, but it did to others in the room.

His gaze flickered to Malfoy and his ilk, most looking at him disapprovingly.

The blond and his cohorts would look to cause trouble soon enough, and Harry was waiting for the moment they did.

“Well, it is nice to meet you as well, Hermione.”

The girl offered him a brilliant smile.

“What’s it like at Durmstrang?” she asked curiously.

“Different,” Harry answered simply. “I’m sorry, but the school is very protective of almost everything and there is very little I can tell you.”

“What can you tell us?” Neville broke in.

“It’s cold,” Harry replied amusedly. “Very cold.”

Neville grinned, but the others seemed to be disappointed with the answer.

Still, it was the only one they would be getting.

“Well, you obviously study Transfiguration,” Hermione deduced.

“Among many other subjects,” Harry confirmed.

“What about the Dark Arts?” Ron questioned.

“I can neither deny nor confirm it,” Harry answered, “in the same way I cannot deny or confirm that we have an amazing ice-cream making class.”

“Do you really?” Seamus asked excitedly.

“We might do,” Harry returned with a wink.

His rather ridiculous answer served to momentarily distract the others from asking questions, and he took the opportunity to shift his focus to the task at hand.

After a moment of eying the chicken, he took aim with his wand and transfigured it into a replica of the very belt he was wearing.

“How did you do that?” Ron gasped.

“Transfiguration is one of my better subjects,” Harry replied.

Hermione made the next attempt, almost replicating Harry’s feat, though her belt still had a beak at one end and a few feathers.

“Try it again,” Harry urged.

She managed the transfiguration this time and beamed proudly.

“Not bad at all,” Harry praised. “That’s a tricky one to get.”

“You did it first time,” Hermione pointed out.

“I’ve been able to do that one for a while,” Harry admitted quietly.

Hermione eyed him curiously, but any further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Professor McGonagall who nodded, impressed by their efforts.

“Excellent work,” she praised. “That will be five points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger. Do you have a reward system, Mr Potter?”

“Not as such,” Harry answered cryptically. “If we do well enough in class, we don’t have to be beaten in the evenings.”

McGonagall gasped and Harry chuckled.

“Does Durmstrang really have that bad a reputation that you would believe that, Professor?”

The woman shook her head.

“When a place is shrouded in such mystery and rumours are spoken, it is difficult to know what is real and what isn’t. From what little is known about the school, it would not surprise many to learn that students are beaten there.”

Harry snorted as he shook his head.

“Well, I’m sure Professor Karkaroff will not mind me confirming that we are not beaten, not by the Professors, at least.”

“I am glad to hear it,” McGonagall replied, her already thick Scottish accent only becoming more so. “That will do for today,” she declared, her gaze shifting towards the clock. “For those of you that didn’t quite manage the transfiguration today, we will work on it again next lesson. Off you go.”

“Are you coming to Herbology, Harry?” Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head.

“No, I don’t study it,” he explained, “and I was hoping to speak with Professor McGonagall.”

Hermione nodded her understanding and left with the others, the Slytherins once more eying Harry speculatively as they took their leave.

He knew they hadn’t the most pleasant of meetings when he’d arrived, but he had not set out to offend any of them.

Still, he had not expected to make many friends amongst the snakes given his own past.

“Is there something I can help you with, Mr Potter?” Professor McGonagall questioned, pulling Harry from his thoughts.

“Actually, there is,” he replied carefully. “I was hoping to discuss something with you, and maybe get some advice.”

“Of course,” the woman replied as she took her seat behind the desk and gestured for Harry to take the one opposite.

“Well, I know that you are a registered Animagus…”

“Is that something you are interested in pursuing?”

Harry nodded, his eyes sweeping around the room to ensure they were not being eavesdropped on.

“I began the process almost two years ago, but I am stuck.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows rose significantly at the revelation.

“Who has been supervising you?”

“I may have started doing it on my own.”

McGonagall shook her head.

“It is a very dangerous undertaking, Mr Potter,” she said sternly, “and pursuing it alone is something that I wouldn’t advise even the most accomplished of practitioners. You are fortunate that you have not cause yourself irreparable harm.”

“I’ve been careful,” Harry assured the irate woman. “That is why I haven’t pushed too far and am discussing it with you.”

McGonagall pursed her lips.

“How far into the process are you?”

Harry held up his right hand, and with a little effort on his part, it transformed into a large paw coated with thick, dark fur.

Once more, Professor McGonagall was taken aback and stood to inspect his work.

“The fact that you have already achieved this is rather astounding,” she whispered. “Might I assume that you know what your form is?”

Harry nodded.

“I do,” he confirmed, “but I find it difficult overcoming the barrier of allowing it to consume me. I’m afraid that I may harm someone if I cannot seize control of the animal.”

Minerva nodded her understanding.

“What does it feel like?”

Harry swallowed deeply as he cast his mind back to the many times he had felt the presence of the other side of himself.

“Angry,” he whispered. “It wants to protect those I care for and has no reluctance to do so by any means necessary. It wants the blood of my enemies, and to tear them apart.”

“A predator then,” McGonagall replied, swallowing deeply. “Well, Mr Potter, I cannot say that I am pleased you chose to pursue this in such a way, but as an educator and seeing that you have handled this somewhat responsibly, I am willing to assist you.”

“Really?”

McGonagall nodded firmly.

“On the condition that you follow my guidance, and only attempt any sort of transformation under my supervision. I expect that by the end of your time here, you will be able to manage it.”

“Agreed,” Harry replied immediately.

“Excellent,” McGonagall declared. “We will meet twice a week in the evenings. I will inform you of the times when I have had time to arrange my diary.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said gratefully as he stood and made his way towards the door.

He paused as the woman spoke again.

“You really do remind me of your father,” she said wistfully. “He was perhaps the most brilliant and frustrating student I had the pleasure of teaching. You look just like him, but you have your mother’s eyes, Mr Potter. I cannot express how saddened I was to hear of what happened to them, but I have no doubt that they would be very proud of you.”

Harry turned to look at the woman and was surprised to see a tear rolling down her cheek.

“Maybe we can find some time and you can tell me all about them,” Harry suggested. “I don’t know much, and it would be nice to hear more.”

Professor McGonagall nodded.

“I would be honoured to share what I know with you, Harry.”

He offered the woman a sincere smile before leaving the room, pleased that he would be getting the help that he needed, and equally so that he would learn more of his parents.

It wasn’t as though Cassiopeia had refused to discuss them with him, the woman simply knew nothing about James and Lily Potter.

(Break)

It was a rather confused Sirius that made his way back towards the cave in Hogsmeade he had spent much of the previous year residing in.

Having received a note from Remus at the beginning of the summer break informing him that he had failed to capture Pettigrew, but that he believed Sirius was telling the truth, the former Azkaban inmate had seen no reason to stay so far north.

Instead, he had made is way to London in the hopes of overhearing something about Pettigrew’s whereabouts, or news of Harry.

He had not heard even a whisper of his godson since his escape, something that concerned him deeply.

This did not change during the weeks in the capital, and nothing was mentioned about Wormtail, not even in the dreariest and disgusting of establishments in Knockturn Alley.

Wherever the rat was hiding, he was seemingly doing so without assistance.

Still, Sirius’s journey had not been for nothing.

He had at least managed to take a wand from a drunk that had passed out, and though it was a terrible match for him, it worked well enough that he had been able to feed himself and even acquire some other much-needed essentials from the muggle world.

Nonetheless, he remained at a loss as to what he would do next.

He had considered returning to his hated childhood home, but the mere thought of doing so made him shudder.

No, Sirius would sooner be on the streets than at Grimmauld Place.

Seeing no reason to remain in London where auror patrols were most prevalent, he had drifted from place to place, staying for no more than a few days at a time whilst he pondered what his life had become and where it was going.

Not well in either regard, he decided.

He had been a young man when he had been locked up, and though he was not old, he felt it.

The cold that had seeped into him from his years in Azkaban had stayed with him, and Sirius suspected he would never feel warmth again, something that proved to be false.

Harry Potter Returns!

He had been in Liverpool when he had taken the edition of The Daily Prophet, and had immediately made his way back north, his emotions flitting between sheer joy and worry at learning something of Harry.

Sirius was pleased that the boy was seemingly doing well, but aghast that he was attending Durmstrang, just as James and Lily would be if they were here.

No, something was not right, but with no other information to hand, Sirius could only wonder what had transpired for Harry to not be at Hogwarts.

That was why he had returned to Hogsmeade, the little village much more pleasant without the presence of the Dementors.

Arriving at the hidden cave that had become something of a home, he placed his bag in the corner, only to stiffen as he heard a familiar voice.

“Kreacher has been looking for you, nasty master.”

It was then that Sirius had not stiffened from fear or shock, but because the elf he despised had cast a spell on him.

“There is someone who wishes to speak with you,” Kreacher continued, the disdain he felt for Sirius evident in his voice.

Whoever it was would not likely be happy to see him, but as Sirius wracked his brains for a clue on who it might be, Kreacher took hold of his arm and the two of them vanished from the cave with Sirius cursing himself for his laxity.

His next lungful of air was musty but was as familiar to him as the intricately decorated floor he found himself lying face down on, and his heart sunk into the pit of his stomach.

Whomever had brought him here did not do so with his best intentions in mind, and as Sirius rolled onto his back, his thoughts were only confirmed as he spotted an older woman looking down on him in a mixture of anger and disappointment.

“Aunt Cassie?” Sirius gasped in disbelief.

Much to what had once been his relief, he had only met the woman on two occasions when he was growing up, her mere presence having left him with no doubt that her reputation would precede her.

Sirius remembered Bellatrix’s wedding to Rodolphus and how even the most ardent of purebloods in attendance avoided Cassiopeia Black.

The other time had been a family Christmas, and even then, the most outspoken members of the family had kept their mouths firmly shut.

Sirius expected that his grandfather had invited her to the occasions just for the effect she had on others, the very same Sirius felt washing over him.

“If I wanted you dead, you would not be breathing now,” the woman said in barely above a whisper.

She was furious; of that, Sirius had no doubt.

“What do you want?” he managed to question.

“From you, I want nothing,” Cassiopeia hissed, “but there is a boy out there who deserves more people in his life that care about him.”

Sirius frowned confusedly.

“Harry,” he whispered.

Cassiopeia nodded.

“Mind, I do not expect he will be as welcoming as I have been,” she mused aloud. “Now, get up. You will not be setting eyes on my boy in that state.”

“Your boy?” Sirius pressed as he did as he was bid.

Cassiopeia’s nostrils flared as her gaze bore into his.

“What did you think would happen to him?” she snapped. “When you decided to be a reckless fool, did you not consider what would become of Harry?”

Sirius shook his head.

He had not been thinking clearly then and had not for many years after.

“No, you didn’t,” Cassiopeia hissed. “I have raised him, taught him everything he knows, so yes, Sirius, he is my boy.”

“You?” Sirius snorted unwittingly. “Why would you raise him?”

Cassiopeia laughed as she stared at his clueless expression.

“And I thought that you may have intentionally done something quite brilliant,” she eventually replied. “Not to worry. You did what you did, and Harry is all the better for it.”

“What did I do?”

Cassiopeia’s amused expression formed into a frown.

“Well, it seems as though we both have some explaining to do, doesn’t it?” she sighed, “but first, you will have a bath. Your stench is offensive, and I will not have you in my presence in such a state. Kreacher!”

“Kreacher has already prepared a bath for filthy master,” the elf explained as he arrived.

“Excellent,” Cassiopeia declared. “Now, off you go, and if you even consider making a run for it, I will ensure that you will never meet your godson, do you understand?”

Sirius could only nod as a bundle of robes was shoved into his arms by Kreacher, wondering just how the day had taken such a turn, but more so, what twisted series of events had seen Harry raised by one of the most notorious women in recent history?