32.Lingering Shadows

21st of August, 1992, Thursday

Harry

This was his first holiday, and Harry had to say that, almost a month in, he liked it a lot. He had never been outside Britain before, let alone on any vacation, but it was still great, even if the heat felt unbearable some days. The sun was blisteringly hot, and even the evening barely provided respite. It hadn’t rained since his friend and his cousins had arrived, but Harry suspected even the rain would be warm.

The most unbearable part was sweating like a pig, though Sirius quickly showed him a trick with a cooling charm that helped some.

Then there was the duelling— fighting for fun and training against wizards and witches from all corners of the world doing all sorts of novel spells or even tactics rather than survival proved to be the highlight of the stay in Corsica. He’d fallen in love with the exhilarating feeling of trading spells and testing his mettle against wizards and witches from around the globe.

It was the first time Harry faced his peers in skill. Eleven and twelve-year-old students could hardly give him any pause, but fifteen, sixteen or older who had practised duelling for years? They were an actual challenge.

There were no ambushes, tricks, or surprise attacks, just a clash of magic, skill, and wits in its raw form. Some didn’t take it seriously, for lethal spells or magic that would permanently maim was forbidden, but Harry did his best to fight as if every spell hitting him would be the Killing Curse.

The feeling of clenching his wand tight in victory as his heart pounded in his chest wasn’t too bad either.

He’d fought so many times that he’d associated that euphoria with the sound of his name being announced as the victor. A day facing off against new opponents saw him progress dozens of times more than a drudgingly dull day of hard work and practice.

The more he fought, the more his magic sang. He could feel it churn and thicken under his skin with each day. It felt right in a way nothing else had before; his silent spells grew in power, and the yew wand felt smoother between his fingers. Nothing could compare to this, aside from maybe duelling Juno, but their spars had been short, happening once or twice a week. Even his morning practice and study felt less cumbersome when the duelling ring awaited him.

Half the sun hid behind the western hill’s crest, the trees atop it casting a long shadow. The daylight was dwindling, though he could still see—and because he could still see, he was still duelling. Jinxes, hexes, and mild curses flew his way. His mind was focused to the limit, and the only thing that mattered was the pale wand in his hand, the coiled tension in his gut, the tingling of his skin as his magic coalesced like a viper ready to strike, and the incoming attacks.

The theory of spell deflection was easy. It required visualisation, intent, and channelling some magic in the form of a miniature shield at the tip of your wand and deflecting an incoming spell the way a beater would bat away a bludger. Too little magic and your wand could snap by putting it in the way of spells; too much, and you would tire quickly.

Of course, just like any other magical shield, it didn’t work on the Unforgivable Curses, but it was a skill too useful for Harry to miss out on. It sounded easy, but in practice, spell deflection was hard.

Not two spells had the same speed, but all were very fast and required equally swift reflexes to catch. A single error would see you struck, defeated, or even killed in an actual fight.

For that reason, only the most confident duellists deflected spells. And those who wanted to learn deflection, of course.

His ears were ringing, and his hand lunged like a viper. The tip of his wand glowed a pale blue as he batted away the yellowish spell at the skies. He was prepared, but it didn’t change the fact that he was twelve, and his power was still fledging. The spell’s strength cracked the shield, almost scattered his magic, and the backlash almost broke his focus. When the purple and reddish jinxes immediately followed, Harry struggled to channel magic quickly enough and move. The second spell was barely deflected, but he was too slow for the third, and a reddish jet struck him in the shoulder.

He began to guffaw uncontrollably. His throat began constricting as his body shook with laughter, and Harry couldn’t help but remember Quirrell’s words. All that laughter made him unable to inhale the much-needed mouthful of air, and his insides lurched as he felt his mind grow numb.

All magic can be used as a weapon.

Grimacing while he wheezed as black spots began to appear in his visions, Harry barely managed to focus for a silent Finite Incantatem on himself, dispelling the laughing jinx.

Another barrage of spells was already coming, and he dove under them. Another colourful streak followed, and he was forced to roll on the piste to avoid them, and that proved to be the moment of clarity he needed. A deep breath later, and his senses honed in.

Not even bothering to stand up, he jerked his yew wand angrily, ripping off a piece of the wooden platform to intercept the next attack. His next spell turned it into stone, making the magic splash harmlessly, giving him enough time to stand up. Elise Travers was no pushover, however, and had the advantage of already being a magical adult, giving her a significant leg-up in power that most of those under seventeen lacked. An angry Bombarda struck his stone shield, making it explode.

Harry shielded his eyes, giving his all to a silent Depulso. The Banishing Charm ejected most of the debris back at Elise, but some struck him, digging into the skin of his arm.

Thankfully for him, his opponent appeared far worse, heaving over. The throbbing pain was an old friend and easily ignored, and just as Harry brandished his wand for a quick follow-up, a loud blast interrupted him.

“Winner: Monsieur Potter!”

He sagged, and the medi-wizard rushed to check his opponent.

His victory was met with cheers for the first time in a while, probably because he was challenging the adults at night, even though he focused on those under 21 and lost more often than not. The gains were plentiful, and all those duels had been good for him, but after three weeks, most of the wizards and witches under seventeen no longer gave him any challenge, with a few rare exceptions. Even Fleur, who acted far more childishly than he remembered–probably because she was younger, gave up after five days and dozens of defeats.

It had been a week since familiar faces from Wizarding Britain had started to appear in the crowd, too. There were plenty of unfamiliar ones, too, but he began hearing the nostalgic British accent far more often than before. Sadly, Diana left with her parents a week ago to visit some relatives in America, and only he and the Carrow twins remained.

“Quite ruthless, boy,” a hoarse voice with a twangy accent from the crowd echoed. “How about you fight me next?”

A wizard with a swarthy complexion and a haughty face in his late thirties stepped forth.

“An international champion challenges a twelve-year-old?” Drawled a familiar cold voice from the sizeable crowd, Felix Fawley’s burly figure pushed his way to the front, clad in a red dragonhide robe. “How about you fight with someone in your category, Lucas?”

“Finally come out of the woodworks after all those years pushing papers, eh?” The foreign wizard glared at the former DMLE head but, after a few moments, nodded curtly. “Tomorrow, I will teach you a lesson.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Fawley scoffed.

“Monsieur Potter,” the Corsican warlock that served as referee tugged on his white beard and coughed. “If you will not fight more, please vacate the arena.”

“My apologies,” Harry dipped his head and dragged his feet down the wooden stairs, ignoring the stinging pain through his body where the debris had nicked him. Meanwhile, the referee announced a fifteen-minute break and started repairing the arena, muttering about délinquance juvénile‘ under his breath.

Harry blinked as he saw an older student from Hogwarts with a familiar face.

“Good showing and quite aggressive,” Roger Rosier, the Slytherin prefect, was the first to greet him as if they were old friends. “Formidable reflexes and speed, too, all done without an ounce of hesitation. I can easily believe how you slew two trolls on Samhain.”

Sleeked brown hair, an aristocratic face, and a pristine black robe with the iconic emerald Hogwarts tie, he looked the way Harry imagined a pureblood would if his haughtiness was quite subdued. Harry remembered him–and Elise too, for they were the duo of Slytherin older years that had slain the troll in the dungeons on All Hallow’s Eve, and all of the older snakes began following them like ducklings.

“Err… thanks, I guess?” Harry awkwardly scratched his head as the older boy loomed nearly a head taller than him. “I didn’t expect to meet any of my classmates here.”

“Well… don’t you know?”

Harry ignored the knot forming in his stomach and asked, “Know what?”

Rosier chortled, mirth dancing in his pale blue eyes. “We’re here because of you.”

“Rosier,” the Carrow twins finally made their way to him, looking far more aggressive than Harry ever remembered, and he had seen them plenty of aggressive as they duelled in the past three weeks. “Trying to pull our cousin into your little power plays, are you?”

Hestia looked akin to an angry hippogriff as she faced off the older boy–which was especially weird since her face was completely expressionless, and she still managed to pull off a threatening look. Flora frowned at Harry and waved her wand, muttering some spells. After a few bouts of stinging pain, his cuts that the medi-wizard had deemed too unimportant to fix no longer hurt, and the ache of his bruises lessened considerably.

After a week of awkwardness, the Carrow twins often fretted over him as if they were two mother hens despite being barely two years older and losing to him in duels, much to Sirius’ amusement. He didn’t mind much, though his heart was gladdened to have relatives who actually cared for him.

Harry wondered if that was what it felt like to have siblings.

“Calm down, you Shades,” the Slytherin boy raised his hands. “I just want to talk to Potter. No way I’ll be the only one after what he’s accomplished this summer.”

“It’s fine,” Harry placated the twins.

“Is it?” Hestia furrowed her brow, looking even more suspicious. Contrary to what he first thought, their voices weren’t monotone, but the change in tone was extremely subtle and seemed unnerving if you couldn’t catch it. His poor cousins just weren’t great at expressing themselves appropriately. “You just wrecked his fiancé in a duel whilst being five and a half years younger.”

Harry cringed while the Slytherin boy waved away the accusation as if it were an annoying fly.

“No hard feelings, truly. Elise’s a grown witch who happens to be an aspiring duellist, and if she were afraid of a little pain, she wouldn’t be fighting. Besides, it is not her first loss and will not be her last.”

“Right,” Harry mumbled out, unsure what to say. “She was pretty good. So, what brings you here?”

“Not one for beating around the bush, eh?” Rosier chuckled. “We came to see you and the duelling ring here in Corsica. It has gotten quite famous back in Britain.”

“…Famous?” His insides twisted painfully. “What for? No, wait. I thought the Prophet was banned from writing about me?”

“It is, but that doesn’t stop it from posting the French La Magique issues while seemingly avoiding your name.” He snorted, pulling out a paper from his robes and offered it to Harry. “Here, have a read.”

“Hogwarts rises again,” Harry read out loud, ignoring the dread creeping down his spine. “After a seemingly silent retirement from politics to focus on his school in his old age, Albus Dumbledore again bears his teeth through his newest protégé! Magical France is in outrage after Professor Flitwick produces yet another duelling powerhouse that beats the best the U17 international community has…“

His breath hitched as he saw himself on the bottom of the page, exchanging a flurry of spells against one of the more stubborn older French boys, Bernard, and subsequently disarming him with a silent Expelliarmus. What in the bloody hell was this load of shite?

More than half the stuff inside was overblown, and some was outright false. Being Dumbledore’s protégé? He barely spoke to the old man once… And this article wasn’t even written by Skeeter!

His outrage must have shown on his face because the older boy tapped his shoulder.

“They’re exaggerating, of course,” Rosier’s voice was laced with amusement. “But you defeated the U17 French champion and runner-up from the U17 world championship in 1991.”

“Really?” Harry blinked. “I challenged a lot, winning and losing more than I cared to count. I don’t think I did anything special to warrant such articles.”

What good was pursuing the adoration when the real reward was the skills and experience he got along the way? Victory felt good, but Harry often found himself learning and growing more as a wizard from those who bested him and those who could match him spell for spell.

He still remembered that American boy, who put up a strong shield, rushed forward and smacked him in the face like some Muggle. It was painful and humbling in equal measure and had pushed him to widen his repertoire of spells and to consider how to deal with physical attacks.

“Harry,” Hestia’s words were hesitant as she tilted her head. “Despite being barely twelve and supposedly at the beginning stage of your magic growth, you destroyed experienced wizards and witches years older with ease. Even some adults.”

“Silent casting, especially transfiguration in combat, is supposed to be impossibly hard,” Flora coughed. “It’s far too demanding on your mind and magic. It’s usually never used in fighting besides a small selection of spells unless you’re an aspiring Transfiguration Master. Of course, it proves no challenge for our cousin.”

Harry knew that Transfiguration was not easy and oft exhausted him quickly, but surely not that many people struggled with it.

Right?

“Indeed,” the Slytherin prefect nodded, his gaze filled with admiration. “Do you recall fighting one Angelo Oliveira?”

Harry scratched his head, trying to remember. After all, he had fought hundreds of wizards and witches with all sorts of weird foreign names in the last few weeks.

“Name rings a bell. I think he was a pretty strong opponent, actually,” Harry frowned, rubbing his sweaty forehead. “But if I recall correctly, he struggled to counter my Transfiguration combinations properly.”

“After a good three minutes of back and forth, you defeated him by conjuring nests of snakes at his feet, causing him to scream in a way that would embarrass even a little girl,” Flora added helpfully.

“Right, that same guy,” Harry said, stretching his hands upwards to reduce the tense knots that had formed in his shoulders. That duel had been quite heated, but it had helped him play out a few new tricks and pushed his fledging deflection to his limits.

“Potter,” Rosier’s face grew solemn, and the young Ravenclaw couldn’t help but straighten up. “This is the sixteen-year-old genius who almost became world champion in the U17 last year. His opponent only won because he had slightly more stamina, not because of superior skill.”

“…Oh.”

The Slytherin guffawed.

“Oh, he says,” the older boy wheezed, his chest shaking with laughter. “You practically humiliated him without a care in the world, not even knowing who he was. It’s no wonder his father challenged you just now.”

All Harry could do was blink. It had been just a friendly spar. Why were so many things happening while he was just trying to have fun and practice here?

Elise Travers appeared that moment, looking pristine as if she had just come out of a dressing room, not a heated duel.

“The Oliveiras are an old Brazilian family that could trace their origins to seventh-century Spain,” she supplied helpfully. “They are quite powerful, all things considered. His father, Lucas Oliveira, is a two-time world champion in duelling and the main apprentice of Grandmaster Enrico, who lost the international title to Professor Flitwick thrice forty years ago. Good duel, by the way. Fighting you feels worse than facing a storm.”

“Thanks,” Harry let out a sigh of relief. He didn’t mean to make trouble here, just to have fun and push his fighting skills and magic. He loved it when his opponents were good sports, but sore losers and trouble seemed to find him anyway. “Is this why Mr Fawley is here?”

Rosier nodded vigorously. “Oh yes, definitely. Our illustrious former DMLE director and Lucas clashed over several titles twenty years prior, but their total score ended up in a tie. Anyway, Potter. We’ve come here to say that you have our support.”

“Should I expect more trouble from the Oliveiras or that grandmaster Enrico?” Harry tensed. The last thing he needed was more problems.

“Never out in the open,” the Slytherin boy reassured. “You might not realise it, but Magical Britain is in furore. You’ve brought us so much glory and honour, both to our country and Hogwarts and probably inspired countless children to look at the usually forgotten sport of duelling. Everyone back home has your back, including the Ministry of Magic, and Dumbledore looms over all of Hogwarts’ students, casting a long shadow that deters even the more daring fools.”

Harry slowed down his sharp retort and couldn’t help but lament the irony.

“After fifteen years of disappointments, Hogwarts is once again a name on the stage of international duelling,” Elise gave him a sharp, predatory smile that made his spine tingle. “Let us know if you go for another international duelling shtick, and we’ll have your back. The twin Shades are good… for fledgling fourth years but far from enough.”

The older Slytherins gave them one final nod and left while the Carrow twins bristled angrily by his side, yet his mind felt as if it was dunked into a cold swamp.

Later that evening, Harry finally returned to his hotel room after a nice hot shower.

“You look worried,” Nyx slithered to his side as he sprawled on the velvet couch. “Should I catch some more food for you?”

“My stomach is full,” Harry declined absentmindedly as his familiar coiled around his neck. However, she had grown rapidly not only in size but in weight, too. The small horns crowning her triangular head had grown, her scales were still as dark as ink and at eleven feet, she was over thirty pounds, and his young body struggled to carry her anymore.

Still, the heavy weight on his shoulder was almost comforting, as much as it was cumbersome.

“Did those two-legs from earlier upset you?” Her hiss was laced with displeasure. “I’ll go bite them!”

“No need to bite anyone on my behalf,” Harry chuckled, not even trying to figure out who the ‘two legs’ were; his hand was already gliding over the smooth scales, the mere action soothing his mind. The life of a snake was wonderfully simple. “I’m just tired. A lot of people know my name, and I can feel that it will be troublesome.”

“I see no problem here, Harry. Only weaklings fear trouble, and you’re plenty strong. Perhaps it’s because you have yet to grow fully?” Nyx’s scaly snout gently nudged his nose. “You two legs remain small for too long.”

That was indeed one way of looking at it. Only weaklings feared trouble… but Harry was still far from strong. And he was intimately familiar with the sort of trouble that could squash you like a bug.

Yet he remained conflicted on the inside. His desire for normalcy still lingered, but it clashed with his goals of becoming powerful in his own right: to grasp his fate with his own two hands, which was the antithesis of being mundane and unnoticeable. Even after all these years, he knew that Harry Potter would forever be a staple name in the Wizarding World, but he had stubbornly hoped for some semblance of peace.

The door creaked open, revealing his exhausted godfather.

“Sirius,” he greeted. “Busy farewell?”

It was the only reason his godfather had not accompanied him for the night, compared to every other night.

“Somewhat,” his godfather nodded amiably. “Béatrice and I broke up, of course.”

Harry frowned. “I thought you two were a thing?”

Truth be told, Sirius’ Veela girlfriend, former girlfriend, didn’t like him much. Somehow, she managed to be colder and haughtier than Fleur–perhaps it was a Veela thing. Harry would almost be offended, but she seemed to have an aversion towards children by how she glanced at Diana and the Carrow twins, even if she tried to be subtle about it. She also incessantly tried to hog his godfather’s attention, though with minor success at most.

“We were a thing indeed, but no more,” Sirius said. “It was just a bit of harmless summer fun that would never last; we both knew it. She wanted to focus on her coming apprenticeship under a Herbology Master while my godson comes first for me.”

“So cheesy,” Harry coughed, trying to bury the fuzzy warmth creeping into his insides.

“Godfathers are supposed to be cheesy,” was the shameless response before his face grew serious. “Now, what’s with the long face? Spill.”

Harry wordlessly placed Rosier’s Daily Prophet edition on the table.

“This?” Sirius frowned, taking a short glance at the newspaper. “I knew about this trivial shite for a week. What’s the problem here?”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” Harry confessed. “It was supposed to be a nice holiday and some training.”

“I mean, it was a nice holiday with some training. But I get what you mean. Sometimes, plans just go awry,” his godfather chuckled. “I suppose you also have an aversion to the spotlight…”

Harry’s fingers balled into fists, and he could feel his nails dig into his skin, but he didn’t care. Nyx’s tail, however, painfully smacked him in the ribs, forcing him to exhale and eased his grip.

“I hate it, you know? The whole “Boy-Who-Lived” crap and how everyone reveres me for it. Babies don’t just survive Killing Curses,” his voice turned hoarse. “Everyone knows my name for something I never did, and my Mum and Dad, who probably set the whole thing up–who I am confident had planned a trap for Voldemort. Yet they are completely forgotten and dismissed.”

“Planned a trap for Voldemort?” His gaze grew heavy as he sighed, running a shaky hand through his dark hair. “Your parents were smart, cunning, and powerful. I daresay they would have lived if a proper trap had been set up. Or even escaped. You-Know-Who’s demise was definitely their doing, but probably something out of desperation rather than anything else.”

After a pregnant pause, Sirius gave him a wan smile and continued, “The world isn’t fair, you know. I was like you once, so I should know.”

“You’re still foolish,” Harry let out a wet chuckle; he felt lighter after voicing his displeasure.

His godfather offered him a handkerchief.

“Oh, the young me was plenty of foolish. But no, I mean young, stubborn, and inexperienced. I can understand your reluctance, but… why do you care about other people’s opinions, especially strangers?”

Harry gazed blankly at his godfather’s soft smile. Why… why did he care about the others? Did he want their recognition? Their friendship? A few years ago, he would have said yes.

But now… “I don’t know.”

Time had shown Harry that recognition and friendship could be as fleeting as the wind.

“Well, it’s good that you live for yourself, not for others,” Sirius wisely nodded. “They will do what they want regardless of your needs and wants, and you can hardly control that. Focus on the things you can control. Besides… none of this fame is connected to Voldemort or your parents.” He stabbed a finger at the paper. “This is all you. Your own doing. You earned it with your wand and skills. If you want to become the next Dumbledore–or even more powerful–people will surely notice unless they are blind or deaf. My crotchety grandfather always said power is a magnet; It attracts all sorts of attention, good and bad. No matter how much I loathe him, I must admit he is right.”

“It does sound wise,” Harry admitted hoarsely.

His godfather snorted.

“You know what they say, even a broken clock is right twice a day, and that applies to that git of a family, too. Anyway, he also said that the populace will never be happy or satisfied, so why bother with them? Something about fear and power keeping the unashamed masses at bay… or the like.”

“Careful, any more words of wisdom and House Black might just take you back,” Harry warned jokingly. However, Nyx’s weight had gotten too cumbersome, and his back groaned in protest.

“They can’t force me back,” Sirius stubbornly shook his head. “Even if your little friend Juno seems better than our usual lot, I have no desire to return.”

“Right,” Harry sighed and tickled Nyx’s belly to grab her attention. “Get off, Nyx. You’re crushing my shoulders now.”

“This is not fair,” the serpent protested while untangling her burdensome body from him. “I want to be carried like you did when I was a hatchling!”

“Maybe we should go back to Britain,” Sirius proposed, watching with amusement as Nyx sulkily slithered to the silken bedding in the corner. “We have yet to shop for your school supplies. Or perhaps you want to stay some more and duel?”

“Nah, I think I’ve had enough,” Harry sighed; it had slipped his mind that school was in ten days. “Let’s go back.”

1st of September, 1992, Tuesday

If anything, Roger Rosier had understated things. Usually, it was the older witches and wizards who wanted to shake his hand for Vanquishing Voldemort, while the younger ones were just content to observe or point fingers.

Now, things were reversed. The old folks watched from the side with approval while the younger people had gone crazy. When Harry stepped into Diagon Alley, he was beset by a horde of clamouring children asking him questions about duelling or how to become the next Merlin.

And the autographs—his damned wrist was stiff from signing because he just couldn’t refuse the expectant gazes of young, hopeful children.

“Next time, I’m not going to Diagon without a disguise,” Harry muttered sourly as he gobbled up his second portion of bacon and eggs. “How did an hour of shopping turn into a four-hour meet and greet?”

At least he had avoided Lockhart this time around. And god, wasn’t having a useless Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher again a bloody disaster. Maybe he would be competent this time; even a third of Quirrell’s teaching skills would be good. But those were lies told, trying to assuage himself. Harry had already taken a peek at the books, and it had been the same made-up drivel that had nothing to do with Defense and everything to do with Gilderoy Lockhart, just like the last time.

Sadly, chances were that he was a fraud.

“You should’ve taken your twin cousins with you,” Sirius chuckled. “Their soulless expression can freeze Dark Lords in their steps.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “They aren’t that terrible. Hestia and Flora are pretty nice once you get to know them.”

“So you say.” Sirius shuddered. “I admit they’re good kids, but Merlin, they give me the creeps with their doll-like faces. Anyway, are you sure you want to be on the train so early–you’ll have to wait nearly an hour before everyone arrives.”

“I promised to meet Juno early to talk about our… project,” Harry finished lamely. He disliked lying but didn’t want to drag Sirius into the whole Voldemort is alive, and I’m-not-really-from-around-here thing, so the technical truth was a nice compromise.

“Project?” His godfather wiggled his eyebrows. “Is this how they call it now?”

“What? No!” The boy groaned in defeat; such stuff was the last of his worries.

“Fine, then,” Sirius smirked knowingly, irritating Harry even further. “I suppose I should tell you I found a little job while you’re at school.”

“So that’s why I caught you reading. You’ve even bought actual robes instead of muggle clothes,” Harry sighed. “So, what noble calling has finally grabbed the attention of the great Padfoot?”

“That’s a secret,” came the all-too-amused response. “Anyway, chop-chop, off you go. We don’t want you to be late for your date with little Lady Black, do we?”

“It’s not a bloody date!”

“Come now. When a boy and a girl agreed to meet in private back in my day, it was called a date. Oh god, they grow up so young,” Sirius teased, wiping away an imaginary tear from his cheek. “But perhaps things changed when I was in Azkaban.”

“Forget it,” Harry gave up, realising that his godfather was just ribbing him. “Let’s just go.” Sighing, he picked up his trunk, where everything he had was stuffed in, and grabbed his broom. Hedwig was already flying to Hogwarts, and-

“Wait,” Nyx’s sizeable form slithered out hastily from her place under the window. “What about me?”

“Eh, she wants to come?” Sirius groaned.

“Yes. I want her to come too. My familiar belongs with me.”

His godfather rubbed his face tiredly.

“Right, of course. Dunno what exact breed of snake Nyx is, but she broke the damned portkey, forcing us to return by a damned muggle boat.” Both of them shared a grimace. This hadn’t happened on their way to Corsica, though Nyx had been half the size, and the portkey had indeed exploded when they arrived–which was chalked off as a mishap. “The nearest public floo is in Diagon, and if we get there, we’ll already be at Platform Nine and Three Quarters.”

“I can try to slither all the way there,” the serpent proposed eagerly. “Nobody will ever spot me!”

“How about you apparate me first and try with Nyx separately later,” Harry proposed hesitantly, ignoring her wild suggestion. Her high resistance to magic and increased size had made her incredibly troublesome to transport.

“Alright,” Sirius instantly agreed, reaching out a hand. “That’ll definitely be easier than apparating three at once–including the scaly princess.”

“Wait here, Nyx.” His familiar nodded reluctantly with a hiss, and Harry reached out to grab his godfather.

A moment later, the world spun, and they landed on an empty Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Harry didn’t roll, fall, or stagger this time, which was a pleasant surprise, though he still felt queasy.

“I’ll be back with Nyxie in a jiffy,” Sirius said, disappearing with a pop.

The red Hogwarts Express was already here, but the place felt desolate without the hurried rush of parents and children crowding the train. The early morning chill forced him to pull his jacket tighter. The silence stretched painfully as the seconds ticked on, and Harry began growing anxious when one of the archaic fireplaces near the stand flared with a bright burst of green.

Juno and Cassiopeia emerged gracefully, dressed in their usual black robes.

“Ah, greetings, Mr Potter,” the older witch gave him an appraising smile. “You’ve been quite busy this summer, it seems.”

“It was just a bit of practice, but the Prophet blew it out of proportion,” Harry waved dismissively.

Cassiopeia Black tipped her hat slightly.

“Humble, too. Truly, the world belongs to the young.” She turned to Juno. “I’ll pick you up on the Third in the morning. Everything has already been arranged with Flitwick, so be prepared.”

Juno nodded, but for once, her gesture was stiff and uncertain, though there was an air of dignity to her that was not there before. After whispering something inaudible in her ear, the old witch disappeared with a barely audible pop.

“What was that about?” Harry asked, trying to ignore his rising worry.

“Family business,” was the curt response. “I will have to be out of school the coming Tuesday–possibly Friday and the weekend too.”

“Wait, isn’t that your birthday?”

“Duty comes first,” Juno smiled thinly. “We should probably go talk in the privacy of the train.”

Well, there went the birthday party he and Diana had been planning. Something was off with his friend, but he couldn’t pinpoint what.

“One moment,” Harry coughed. “Waiting for Sirius to come with Nyx. She’s having some problems with magical methods of transportation.”

“Very well.”

The silence grew awkward as the two of them measured each other carefully. As usual, Juno was reserved, and her skin had grown paler than he remembered, a stark contrast to his bronze tan gained under the sweltering Corsican sun. He no longer had to crane his neck to look her in the eyes; the difference in height had almost halved in the last two months.

A swift glance around told him that Sirius had yet to arrive.

“No baggage?” Harry idly asked, trying to lighten the heavy mood.

“My elf, Wally, already sent it to Hogwarts.”

The reply was short, yet there was something about Juno, a sort of apprehension he had not seen in her before. Was his friend in trouble?

“So, how was your summer?”

“Busy,” she said curtly. “Difficult, but successful, so I can’t complain. You?”

Her piercing gaze stabbed into him as if her blue eyes were trying to read him like he was an open book. Harry’s mind was blank–not because of Occlumency, but because he didn’t know what to think.

It was as if he was meeting a stranger, not that prideful but friendly girl who helped him during the Malfoy Gala. True, Juno was never one for small talk, but he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened over the summer.

Had she found out about the Horcruxes? Or was it some other problem?

CRACK!

The thunderclap deafened them, and Harry could swear he felt the ground shake underneath his feet and almost lost his balance as a wall of wind slammed into his body. Juno lost her footing, and Harry lunged, catching her forearm at the last moment.

Yet she winced and jerked away as his fingers clasped around her limb. Harry frowned but filed that for later as Sirius crashed on the ground, creating a spiderweb of cracks with him at the centre. Nyx was lazily coiled around his shoulders.

“It worked!” The serpent shook itself as if trying to fight off the dizziness and rushed at Harry.

“She has grown quite big,” Juno noted neutrally, though a sliver of awe leaked from her voice.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed awkwardly as he heaved to put Nyx on his shoulders, but not before giving his friend a suspicious look. “She’s gotten heavy, too.”

Nyx, however, twisted her triangular head, and her forked tongue flicked in the air.

“This two-legs is wounded,” she declared. Harry had to swallow a retort lest he gave out his ability to speak Parseltongue while Juno stiffened even further.

Shaking his head, he rushed to his godfather, who stood up though his legs visibly shook.

“I’m fine,” he waved away, his voice strained.

“You don’t sound fine, Sirius,” Harry looked at him pointedly.

His godfather frowned, looking at Nyx.

“It just took a lot out of me. It feels like someone bludgeoned my mind, and I’ve had easier side-by-side apparations dragging three more wizards. This took over three bloody quarters of my magic, and I daresay I’m not exactly weak.”

With a sigh, he fished out a pepper-up potion from his robes and gulped it in one go, and colour returned to his face as whistling streams of steam erupted from his ears.

“Don’t worry about me,” Sirius shooed him away as if he were an annoying fly. “I’ll be fine. Go now and have fun.”

“Right,” Harry sighed. He had almost forgotten his godfather was as stubborn as they came. “I’ll write every week. And don’t get into trouble at your new job.”

“Me? Trouble?” A wide grin crept up his godfather’s smile. “Never.”

Harry made for the train, shaking his head, while Juno trailed behind him akin to a silent spectre. He quickly went out of breath; Nyx’s weight was heavy on his back while sitting, let alone walking. Now, the joints and muscles of his legs suffered all the strain.

The Hogwarts Express was just as empty as the platform; it felt unnaturally silent and even eerie as their heavy steps disturbed the quiet. By the time they arrived at one of the private compartments at the end of the train, Harry was gasping for breath, and beads of sweat dripped down his face.

“I have to figure out another way to carry Nyx,” Harry heaved, plopping down as the serpent in question lazily curled on the leather-bound seat beside him, already beginning to snooze. “If she grows any bigger, I won’t be able to lift her.”

“Perhaps a Magizoology suitcase?” Juno lightly proposed.

“What’s that? I haven’t heard of such a thing before.”

“Some wizards use a specially expanded suitcase with weather charms and other enchantments to carry their collection of magical beasts. Something similar to an enormous enchanted garden-sized vivarium stuffed in a briefcase.”

“That does sound mighty useful—but expensive,” he noted absentmindedly, but his gaze did not leave Juno’s arm–the one that was probably wounded. “You’re injured.”

“Yes,” Juno admitted after a pregnant pause. “My aunt took me to hunt Wampus Cats in the Former Colonies.”

“Hunting a class four magical beast?” Harry was aghast. No wonder his friend was hurt–those were quite dangerous. He remembered reading about the magical felines of Tennessee; they were faster and stronger than humans, had bloody Legilimency, and could attack your mind while trying to tear your throat out.

“It’s a class five beast since ’83, actually,” she corrected with a wince.

It was no wonder she was wounded. Five X beasts were known wizard killers. A twelve-year-old hunting one voluntarily?

“That doesn’t make it any bloody better!” Harry felt his magic inside churn, coiling itself into a taut string. Even Nyx hissed out with a challenge by his side. A part of him was very impressed by Juno, who had won the engagement or at least escaped alive, but another, far larger part, was furious. “Has your grandaunt gone barmy?”

“It was my choice,” her voice grew frigid. “I had assistance in hunting it down. Besides, why do you care? This is a House Black matter.”

Juno looked as rigid as the statue on the seat across him, almost as tense as the day she had duelled Longbottom.

“I care… because you’re my friend, and I don’t want to see you hurt, let alone dead!” Harry growled, taking a deep breath to centre his mind. Confrontation and anger would just see them quarrel, and he hated fighting with his friends. “Fine, I don’t understand your pureblood cr…stuff. Let’s put aside the reason. Why not go get yourself healed?”

“I promised not to tell,” came the emotionless response. Harry stilled for a moment, his mind blank, while the heavy feeling of annoyance mixed with something sour rose reared its ugly head in his chest. No, it wouldn’t do to inquire further, especially when Juno had agreed to keep his own secret.

Sighing, Harry sagged on the backseat, feeling defeated. He felt mentally and physically tired, yet the day was just starting.

Seeing that, Juno clasped her hands and looked at him expectantly as if nothing had happened. “So… Horcruxes.”

“Horcruxes,” Harry echoed, the word feeling bitter on his tongue. He wanted to trust Juno, but right now, he regretted telling her at the Malfoy Gala. She was supposed to be level-headed and cautious of the two, not recklessly rushing into danger–he had already taken that particular role.

“I have not found a single in-depth explanation for it yet,” Juno confessed slowly. “I’ve combed through records and grimoires of Dark Magic that will make your toes curl and your blood curdle, but there’s scarcely even a word on Horcruxes. Even Magick Moste Evile, the compendium that delves into dark cruses and blood potions, there’s only one line on the matter–Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction. Everyone else also refuses to mention what a Horcrux is. It must be something unimaginably vile, yet the Dark Lord made some, and you want them. Why?”

Concise and on point, just like everything else about Juno.

Harry could see a desire to know more in her gaze so palpable that it pained him. He had run a thousand versions of this talk in his mind, yet none accounted for Juno being so cold and closed off.

“We can talk about such dangerous things later,” Harry decided after a long silence. “Heal up and focus on your family matters first. This can wait.”

He failed to hide the bitterness in his voice, and Juno’s face instantly curdled, and he knew he had wounded her pride. Deep inside, he knew Bellatrix’s daughter was proud and headstrong, but seeing it aimed at him for the first time had been surprising.

“Very well, then,” she drawled, tone cold. Juno looked quite tired, and a few moments later, she closed her eyes, whether out of exhaustion or desire not to look at him. “We shall postpone this discussion for later.”

Once the pair of impossibly blue orbs no longer demanded his attention, his gaze finally settled on her face, which looked gaunter, and the large bags under her eyes as if Juno had not slept properly for days.

He felt like a coward and a fool, then. Despite everything, Juno was just a girl of almost thirteen and didn’t deserve to be burdened with the enormous problems facing him. Today had shown him a new, reckless side to his friend, and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he dragged her to an early grave. Even now, she fell asleep before noon–probably out of exhaustion, and her pale face had lost its hardness, looking impossibly peaceful.

Ignoring the lump forming at the back of his throat, Harry dug out Harmon’s Big Magical Game Hunting Guide and began listing through the pages. He had already steeled himself to walk this road alone, and the basilisk would not slay itself.

It wasn’t long before the silence was broken, and the commotion outside the window heralded the arrival of the students and their parents. Before long, the compartment door opened, and Harry lifted his gaze from the book to see the Carrow twins. Flora sat beside Juno while Hestia, puffing red with exertion, managed to push sleeping Nyx aside and joined him. Both girls retained the same tan he had, contrasting strangely with Juno’s pale skin.

The noise awoke Juno, who squinted at the new arrivals before rubbing her eyes and plucking out a sinister-looking book with no title from what was probably a mokeskin pouch under her robes.

Five minutes later, Diana was next, hopping into the compartment with excitement.

“Why are you all so silent?” She frowned. Then her gaze glanced over his head—something she always did. It was odd, but it didn’t bother Harry as she wasn’t inspecting his incredibly faint scar, but his hair, for some reason, as if she was looking for something. Coughing with embarrassment as she realised Harry had caught her staring, Diana gave him an apologetic glance and hastily turned away. “Aren’t you excited about the coming year?”

“This Lockhart guy looks pretty dodgy if you ask me,” Anthony Goldstein, who had somehow wormed his way into their group at the end of last year, appeared just behind her. “We’ll have to suffer his pompous antics for a year.”

“Can’t bear to be with someone more pompous than you, Goldstein?” Padma was next, earning herself a lazy shrug from the boy. “I say that Lockhart looks quite competent–and dashing, though not as much as Quirrell.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” MacDougal also entered but then halted. “Damn, there’s eight of us now, and–wait, Potter, your pet snake has ballooned in size. What did you feed this beast?”

Nyx, now finally awake, preened at the praise and gave them a jaunty wave with her tail.

“Doxies, squirrels, gnomes, and other vermin,” Harry clicked his tongue. He would never admit it out loud, but Nyx was cuter and less of a handful when she was smaller. Things would become troublesome if she doubled in size twice in five months again. “She found most of it herself, though.”

“Smarter than before, too. We can still fit in, but it will be cramped,” the Indian witch pointed. “If Nyx makes some space for us to sit.”

His familiar hissed in protest, but Harry’s warning look silenced Nyx, and she grumpily slithered underneath his seat.

“Smart? I’ve seen wizards dumber than this snake,” Goldstein snickered, seating himself on Harry’s other side. “Like Flint or Crabbe and Goyle. I swear to god that Malfoy’s goons have troll blood.”

“So… Flora, Hestia, I’m glad to see you here,” Diana coughed. “But don’t you want to find your yearmates?” Both twins looked at her blankly, not saying a thing. “Ugh, fine.”

MacDougal sat beside the tall, blue-eyed girl who silently observed the commotion just like him.

“Hey, Juno, what did you and my father talk about-“

Harry sighed, suppressing his curiosity and the desire to join their banter. It felt childish, soothing, innocent, bereft of the woes that troubled him–perhaps for the better. He absentmindedly waved away the congratulations on his supposedly ‘glorious duelling victory’ and tried to focus on the hunting treatise again.

He ignored the ice in his veins that still chilled him after the tense talk with Juno—mostly, anyway. The nine hours between Platform Nine and Three Quarters and Hogsmeade Station were too valuable not to be put to good use.