For the first time in his nearly fourteen years of life, Harry Potter was sitting on his bed at number 4 Privet Drive with a genuine smile on his face.
The house was as incredibly boring as ever. Aunt Petunia was still craning her neck over the garden fence to spy on the neighbors, and Uncle Vernon was still grumbling every time something "abnormal" was mentioned in the news. But for Harry, everything felt different. He felt lighter.
He looked at the calendar stuck to the wall. Only two days to go. Two days.
The agreement Dumbledore and Sirius had reached was strict, but Harry was willing to accept it without complaint. He had to spend one week—just one miserable week—each summer at his aunt and uncle's house. Dumbledore had explained something about "renewing his mother's protections," and although Harry cared little about protective magic at the moment, the price was worth it.
One week of hell in exchange for a year of freedom.
Besides, the Dursleys were terrified. They knew that his godfather, a wizard who had been in the darkest prison in the world and was now a free and powerful Lord, would come to collect him personally. Uncle Vernon hadn't dared yell at him once, and Dudley ran to hide every time Harry came downstairs. It was perfect.
"Just two more days," Harry whispered, closing his trunk.
He thought of Sirius. He had met his godfather briefly amid the chaos of the Shrieking Shack and then in the company of the headmaster, but even in those tense moments, Sirius exuded an energy that Harry desperately admired. He was rebellious, he was brave and most importantly, he loved him. He loved him, Harry, not the "Boy Who Lived."
The day he left his aunt and uncle's house was glorious. Sirius arrived in a Ministry car (so as not to scare the neighbors, he said, though he winked at Harry) and took him far away from the perfectly trimmed hedges of Surrey.
Harry's new life at 12 Grimmauld Place was different.
The house was... peculiar. It was old, dark, and full of objects that seemed to want to bite you if you got too close. There was a portrait in the hallway of an old woman who shouted obscenities whenever anyone made a noise, and a house elf named Kreacher who muttered insults at Harry's knees whenever he walked by.
Harry didn't care.
For the first time, he had a room of his own that he could decorate however he wanted. Dinner was a time when he laughed until his stomach hurt. He had someone who told him stories about his parents, not as unattainable heroes, but as real people who made jokes and got into trouble.
Sirius was funny. He had a sharp sense of humor that was sometimes a little dark, but he always treated Harry like someone who understood what he was talking about, not like a child who needed to be protected from the truth.
"This house is a mausoleum, I know," Sirius had said one night, as they ate fish and chips they had bought from a nearby Muggle shop. "But in time we'll fix it up. We'll get rid of the 'old witch' smell and make it a home."
Sirius didn't know it, but for Harry, it already was. It was his home. His family.
Two weeks after moving in, the relaxed routine at Grimmauld Place was disrupted during breakfast.
Harry was spreading jam on toast while Kreacher served him pumpkin juice with a sour look on his face when Sirius entered the kitchen. He wore a mischievous smile that took ten years off his face and held a thick envelope of official parchment in his hand.
"Good morning, puppy," Sirius greeted him, sitting down and putting his feet up on the table, which made Kreacher let out a grunt of disapproval before disappearing into the pantry.
"Good morning, Sirius," Harry replied. "Good news? You seem... suspiciously happy."
Sirius let out a loud laugh.
"Suspicious? You offend me, Harry. I am the picture of innocence." He tossed the envelope onto the table, sliding it toward Harry. "Open it. It's for us."
Harry put down his toast, wiped his hands, and picked up the envelope. It had the golden seal of the Ministry of Magic. When he opened it, two rectangles of golden parchment fell onto his plate.
Harry picked them up and read the shiny letters.
QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP—UPPER DECK
Harry's eyes widened. His jaw dropped.
"No way!" Harry shouted, jumping to his feet. "The Cup! We're going to the World Cup! But tickets sold out months ago! Ron wrote to me saying his dad had to do a thousand favors to get seats in the upper tier."
"Well, we won't be in the upper tier," said Sirius smugly, biting into a green apple. "We'll be in the Upper Box. The best seats in the stadium. Right next to the Minister."
"How...?" Harry stared at his godfather, stunned. "How did you get this? They cost a fortune."
Sirius shrugged, though his gray eyes sparkled with amusement.
"Let's just say it's an 'apology gift.' Cornelius Fudge came to see me yesterday. He was sweating and stammering. He knows the Ministry owes me much more than gold for the twelve years they stole from me. If he hadn't given it to me, I have enough gold to get it, so no problem."
Sirius nodded toward the tickets.
"Fudge wants to look good. He wants the press to see us together in the VIP box: the benevolent Minister and the innocent Lord who was wrongfully accused, alongside the famous Harry Potter. It's a cheap political ploy."
Harry looked at the tickets again, feeling a bubbling excitement in his chest.
"And you don't mind that it's a political ploy?"
"Me?" Sirius laughed. "Not at all. If that idiot Fudge wants to buy my sympathy with the best seats, I'll let him try. Get your things ready, Harry. We're going to the World Cup."
The next few days at Grimmauld Place flew by, filled with a freedom Harry had never experienced before. However, the house felt truly complete when Hermione Granger arrived to spend the rest of the holidays with them and accompany them to the World Cup.
Having his best friend there made the dark hallways seem less oppressive. The only downside was that the Black house was not known for its hospitality towards Muggle-borns.
Barely five minutes after her arrival, while Sirius was helping Hermione carry her trunk up the main staircase, disaster struck. Hermione tripped over the troll-foot umbrella stand, making a loud thud that woke the sleeping beast in the hall.
The moth-eaten velvet curtains flew open.
"FILTH!" howled Walburga Black, her eyes spinning wildly until they fixed on Hermione. "A stain on my house! Impure blood desecrating the Black home! Get out, you filthy mudblood! All of you, get out!"
Hermione froze on the step, pale as a sheet, clutching her wand tightly.
"SHUT UP, YOU OLD WITCH!" Sirius roared, rushing toward the portrait and struggling with the curtains. "She's welcome here! You're the one who's not wanted!"
"Bastard! Disgrace! Half-breeds and filthy blood in the noble house of Black!" Walburga continued to scream until Sirius managed to close the curtains with a magical blow, silencing the screams into a muffled murmur.
Sirius turned to Hermione, breathing heavily with an expression of genuine shame.
"Hermione, I'm so sorry," Sirius said, running a hand through his hair. "She... well, you can see why I left home at sixteen. Don't listen to a word she said."
Hermione nodded, trying to regain her composure, though her hands were shaking slightly.
"It's okay, Sirius. Don't worry about it."
Despite the difficult start, Hermione adapted quickly. However, something had been gnawing at her since she arrived. Being in the ancestral home of one of Britain's oldest and darkest families, her academic curiosity was ablaze.
"Harry," Hermione whispered one afternoon, grabbing his arm as they descended the stairs. "We have to go to the library."
"Library?" asked Harry, who would rather play wizard chess or simply fly around on his broomstick in the small backyard. "We're on vacation, Hermione."
"It's the Black House, Harry!" she insisted, her eyes sparkling. "Imagine the knowledge that must be here! Books that aren't at Hogwarts, forgotten stories, ancient spells, counter-curses... well, everything. Come on!"
Harry, infected by his friend's enthusiasm (or perhaps simply unable to say no to Hermione), allowed himself to be dragged downstairs to the imposing double oak doors that Sirius had pointed out to him days ago but which had never been opened.
"I hope they don't bite," Harry joked, pushing the heavy doors open.
They both entered, expecting to see shelves full of dragon-skin bound tomes, ancient scrolls, or forbidden grimoires.
But what they found was dust. Lots of dust.
The enormous mahogany bookshelves that covered the walls from floor to ceiling were empty. Desolately empty. All that remained were the rectangular marks in the dust where thousands of books had once rested. There was not a single scroll, not a map, not even a forgotten piece of paper.
"But..." stammered Hermione, entering and looking around in horror, as if she had walked into a crime scene. "Where is everything?"
"I'm afraid you won't find anything there."
Sirius appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his hands in his pockets and an indecipherable expression on his face.
"Sirius," Hermione said, turning around. "What happened to the library? Did the Ministry confiscate it?"
Sirius sighed, entered the room, and ran a finger along an empty bookshelf, looking at the dust on his fingertip.
"No, the Ministry has no idea what was here. If they knew, they would have tried to burn the house down." He smiled and shrugged. "I made a... deal. My freedom didn't come for free. I had help getting out, help from someone who could pull the strings I couldn't touch."
Harry felt a sudden chill in his stomach. He knew where this was going.
"Help from whom?" Hermione asked.
"From Aurelian Gaunt," Sirius replied. The name floated out of the room. "This was his price. He orchestrated everything, and in return, he asked for the Blacks' knowledge. Everything. Books, maps, artifacts, whatever he wanted. He took it all a few weeks ago."
Hermione gasped, putting her hand to her mouth in horror.
"Sirius!" she exclaimed. "How could you?! That's your family's legacy! It's priceless magical history! You can't just hand over centuries of knowledge! It's irresponsible! Aurelian is brilliant, but he's dangerous! Who knows what kind of dangerous magic was in those books, and now they're in his hands!"
"It was either that or let Harry continue living with those Muggles and me being a fugitive," Sirius defended himself, although his voice sounded a little tired. "Besides, I prefer that dark trash to be far away from Harry. If Gaunt wants to rot his brain with necromancy, that's his problem."
Hermione continued to argue, talking about historical preservation and the dangers of concentrating such knowledge in one person, but Harry was no longer listening.
Harry stood still in the middle of the empty library. In his mind, he saw Aurelian's face. That arrogant smile, that look of superiority. His hands clenched into fists so tight that his knuckles turned white.
It wasn't enough to be the best in school. It wasn't enough to humiliate him and steal his limelight. It wasn't enough to turn Neville against him. Now Aurelian had taken his godfather's legacy too.
Harry looked at the empty shelves and saw theft. He saw how Aurelian had taken advantage of Sirius's desperation to enrich himself, to become even more powerful.
He clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw hurt.
"Damn you, Gaunt," Harry thought, and his hatred, which had been a flame, became a forest fire. "You think you own everything. You think you're untouchable with your perfect magic. You're just a leech. But one day... I'll wipe that smile off your face."
"It's just reckless, Sirius, reckless!" Hermione kept saying in the background.
Harry turned on his heel and stormed out of the library without saying a word, trembling with rage, vowing to himself that he would not let Aurelian Gaunt take anything else from him.
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