63.On Ashen Wings

20th of June 1994, Monday (24 days later)

Harry Potter

The garden in Potter Home was transformed into an odd union of a Muggle running track and a playground.

He tickled Estelle with the crimson feather, and she giggled louder, happily waving her chubby arms at him. Chuckling, he skilfully waved the prize just out of her reach, but eventually allowed his goddaughter’s fingers to pluck the feather from his grasp. 

Without hesitation, she put it in her mouth and started chewing.

“Phoenix feathers are not for eating,” Sirius observed from his chair, but made no move to rise. Dressed only in beach shorts and an old straw hat, his godfather was basking in the sun without a care in the world. 

If it were Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon and Dudley here instead, they would be beside themselves with worry that their Duddykins might harm himself. Such worry seemed foreign to magical parents, though. What seemed neglectful was perhaps an ironclad confidence in magic. Or perhaps it was trust in him and Dobby.

Harry let out a rueful chuckle. “Let her eat—Ms Tonks said it’s not harmful. I have more phoenix feathers than I know what to do with anyway.” 

He had thought more phoenix feathers would help him recover his magic faster, from one phoenix or another. They didn’t change a thing, not even the eight Fawkes’s feathers Sirius had purchased from Ollivander for a ridiculous sum. Another twenty had been procured from abroad, but the result was much the same. The Veela massage parlour in France was of no help either. For good or bad, it was just Fawkes’s gifted feather and his goddaughter that helped him regain his magic recovery. 

Estelle just burped, spitting out the half-chewed feather and sneezing out a gout of flame. 

The reddish flare engulfed his sleeve, but an absentminded pat of his palm saw it fizzle out. A pair of watery blue eyes looked at him with eager expectation. 

“No more,” he said, shoving Fawkes’ feather tied on a string across his neck underneath his shirt. “Only good girls receive phoenix feathers… and it’s time for training now.”

Estelle let out a whine, but when Harry dropped to the ground, palms pressing against the earth, she was quick to crawl and climb over his back. She sat on his back the way one would sit on a throne and patted between his shoulder blades.

“Up.”

Sirius’s face only soured at the sound. He tried to get her to call him Dad, but her first word was up, and the second was an adorable Hawi. 

The feather was swift to heat up, and the rush of magic began expanding again. Harry, keeping his body from the head to the feet ramrod straight, merely pushed himself off with a grunt and started another training session. Push up. Ease down.

Push up. Ease down. 

A part of him was happy spending time with Sirius and Estelle, and the carefree days away from Hogwarts and Magical Britain had been like a panacea he had never known he needed. But… he felt a terrible sense of guilt more than anything else. The increased rush of magic gave him no joy. It felt as if a small pipe were open where a great river had run before. The pipe was bigger now, but still less than a tenth of what it once was, and each last drop of that magic was poured into Nyx.

It should have caused a magical exhaustion, but it didn’t.

Perhaps if he stopped for a few days and let his power pool together, the magic in his body would be restored to the fullest. He could still cast spells as a wizard would, though his power would be slow to recover. Harry Potter did no such thing. He could not bring himself to, not when Nyx was still stuck as a tattoo underneath his skin, not responding to his thoughts or actions. Ever since the Inferno, Harry had not felt even a twitch from her. Sirius had even tried to summon her out of the tattoo, but nothing worked.

The silence of his familiar was like a shadow hanging over his head, and it made his stomach twist into knots. Nyx had trusted in him more than anything; she had helped him more than any other, and only now that she had fallen asleep did Harry feel hollow… as if a limb had been cut off from him. 

The tickle of magic did not fill the void. Playing with Estelle made him forget it for a time, but the burning guilt returned each time Harry faced the mirror and pulled up his shirt. All he could do was offer up his magic and just hope it was enough to fix whatever had gone wrong. He dared not think of worse. 

Push up. Ease down. 

He sucked in a deep breath and kept pumping. 

Push up. Ease down.

Another, and another, and he passed over fifty without slowing down. Numbers had lost meaning. He stopped counting after the first day, for he was not counting progress or physical power, even though it came regardless. Numbness slowly crept into his arms, but Harry did not stop. 

He kept going until his muscles screamed and started to burn, but the pain made him feel alive. It made him forget Nyx for a time. 

Push up. Ease down.

Once his arms had turned into soft noodles and his body slumped into the dirt, Estelle giggled and crawled off his back. Then she came over his head and tugged on his tangled mess of sweaty hair as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. 

Harry merely took deep breaths, and once he felt strength return to his limbs, he returned to his grind for another set. A part of him knew he ought to have taken a good, long rest, but idleness made him jumpy. Once his hands were too tired to move, he started running around the garden until he could run no longer and collapsed onto one of the benches. Just for a moment, he forgot the burning sense of guilt in his chest, he forgot the terrible Dark Lord who once again walked the world, and the corrupt Ministry. There was only the bench, his heavy breathing, and Harry Potter, who was too exhausted to dwell on all the matters that seemed terribly distant. 

Sirius clicked his tongue. “We would have won every Quidditch match back in the day if the team trained as hard as you do. Even pro players don’t put in as many hours as you do on the ground. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but perhaps you should open a book. I can find you some rare magical spellbook from Persia—fascinating stuff.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Harry wheezed out. The urge to pile up more magical knowledge never felt blander than it did right now. Deep down, he knew there was no harm in expanding his understanding of magic on a deeper level, but he had done that for the last three years and had little to show for it. 

He had mastered every school spell to a level most professors couldn’t cast… and had mastered most of the theory taught in Hogwarts and then some… and what of it? It had been of little use in Brechfa Forest, and it was of no use now. 

The tightness in his stomach eased by a fraction when Estelle came over and demanded to be lifted, only to fall asleep on his chest half a minute later. Harry didn’t mind, and the tickle of magic slowly continued to swell. His gaze turned to the sky above. Soft, fluffy clouds like cotton slowly drifted across the blue expanse, carefree. 

Those were his days now. Sometimes, he would lie down on the bench and bask in the sun for the whole day, staring blankly and letting his mind drift. Most days, he would fight with Dobby in the kitchen over who would cook the next meal, then play with Estelle, and train his body into the ground between naps until he was too tired to think. The Muggle lifting racks Ron had recommended had been of great help, at least. 

It was the most serene and carefree he had ever been. A good night’s sleep was enough to see him as fresh as a daisy the next morning. His stomach felt like an endless void, seeing him eat enough food to make a hippogriff jealous.

That Estelle was eager to play with him and even cuddle or lie on his chest or back every time was a small mercy. Perhaps Harry could hold her for a whole day to help him regain his magic, but such a cruel thought melted away the second his goddaughter’s face lit up as her chubby face spread into a wide, toothy smile. Why rush when he could let things take their course?

Dumbledore was alive, most of Voldemort’s followers were dead or scattered to the four winds, and the Ministry, as corrupt as it was, was strong, and so was the DMLE. The prophecy hanging over his head was complete, if the headmaster was to be believed, and even though the Dark Lord had once again risen, he would no longer target him. It was surreal. 

Even the Quidditch World Cup was happening in Brazil this summer—though he wasn’t sure if that change had anything to do with him.

That burden no longer rested on his shoulders, magic or not. Then why… why, when he closed his eyes, did he remember all the corpses at the Battle of Hogwarts? He remembered the bitter year that had come before that, where bands of wizards hunted their fellow wizards because they had one blood or the other. The striking deaths of this witch or wizard, assassinated in their homes at night? The desolate Diagon Alley and the frightened faces, nailed-down doors, and windows at Hogsmeade burned in his mind. The Ministry was not infallible, nor was Albus Dumbledore. But Harry tried not to think of that.

Evening slowly came, and Harry Potter dragged his weary feet to the kitchen. Estelle was already snoozing in his grasp, but the moment he sat down, she jolted awake, babbling happily at the table full of steaming dinner. 

“No mutton for you, young lady,” he said lightly, pulling over a small bowl with mashed fish watered down with unicorn milk. 

Before long, Estelle surrendered and ravenously attacked the spoonful of food.

“How can she be so obedient to you?” his godfather let out a long sigh, but there was no bite in his voice. “It’s like she’s a small angel in your hands.”

Harry upturned his nose, a smile creeping into his face. “My goddaughter adores me.”

As soon as Estelle was fed, she dozed off again, and Harry handed her over to Dobby for sleep.

Sirius cleared his throat as he watched the house elf hobble up the stairs with his daughter. “How about we go to Pandora? She’s well-versed in magical research and—” 

“I don’t want to,” said Harry, pulling over a double serving of roast mutton. “I’m fine as I am.”

“Truly?” His godfather quirked a brow. “I know you figured out how to fix what was broken, but who knows how long it will take. Letting someone skilled take a look won’t hurt. The Daily Prophet already calls you the Boy Who Squibbed. I passed through Diagon last week, and the folks there shook their head in regret, but their eyes were full of mocking and gloating—”

“Let them gloat, then. But I doubt their amusement will last long when Voldemort comes knocking.”

He had not spared a glance at the news articles for once. It wasn’t the first time his name was dragged through the mud, and probably wouldn’t be the last. Though this time, he had been ‘exposed’ when they had left the Isles for a short trip to France. Every official Portkey required travellers to log wand and their magical signature of a Lumos. Harry, who had poured all of his magic into Nyx, could not produce even a flicker of light with his wand. 

The Ministry man on duty had allowed him to travel easily enough, but rumours had soon begun to spread, and his early and mysterious ‘withdrawal’ from Hogwarts had not helped one bit. 

Sirius let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “All the more reason we should leave, Harry. We can pack our things tomorrow and make it to the States. There are no wild packs of werewolves, and there is no resurgence of dark wizards. You heard Dumbledore—it’s not your fight. You owe Magical Britain nothing. If James and Lily had just left—” 

“Don’t,” Harry bit out, ignoring the cool dread pooling in his belly. “Don’t make it sound like I’m going to follow in their footsteps. Wizarding Britain is all I’ve known, and I just… don’t want to leave.”

“Then what do you want?” his godfather pressed, face turning all serious for once. “You don’t want to go to Muggle school, you don’t want to go to Hogwarts, you don’t want to move somewhere else, and you don’t even care for tickets for the Quidditch World Cup!”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, but he couldn’t summon any response.

Sirius rubbed his brow. “I know what you’re thinking, Harry. It’s easy to stand up for a righteous cause when you’re young and full of passion—I did it myself. So did many of my friends and classmates. And look what happened to me: a decade in Azkaban as an innocent man. And I’m lucky compared to most. Molly Weasley’s brothers had their whole lives ahead of them, and they died young, fighting the good fight. Wizarding Britain can burn and crash, and I wouldn’t blink an eye… so long as Estelle and you are safe and far away from it.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but no words came out. What was there to say? Sirius was not wrong. He knew the cost of war all too well, and he knew the cost of defeat. The regret in his voice was too raw for Harry to ignore, making him swallow the pity his godfather failed to hide.

It would be easy just to turn tail and run. Nobody would say it’s an escape, not after he had ‘lost’ his magic. Then why… why did the thought make him feel so miserable? The rest of the dinner was spent in silence, and Sirius did not push further. There was sorrow and disappointment in his gaze, and that hurt Harry deeper than he would dare admit.

He climbed into his room. It was a room twice as big as the one Dudley enjoyed. Laden bookshelves graced the walls, and the bed, chair, and desk looked like something out of Malfoy Manor. His eyes flickered to the messy desk. Letters lay strewn about, covering the stacks of parchments underneath. Luna had written, and so had Ron, Astoria, Diana, Draco, Padma, and the Carrow twins. Even Hannah and Susan had sent word, filled with concern. ‘We hope you get well soon, Harry.’

To his surprise, the proud Narcissa had written a letter, inquiring about his health even after the article that claimed him a squib. 

They had all reached out, asking fretfully about his well-being. It warmed his heart, but all Harry had dared to write was that he had suffered an accident and was recovering. It was true in a sense—it was quite the accident. But it was best they didn’t know; it was best to stay away from this whole mess. Yet his short, clipped letters felt like he was slapping a smiling face.

Just as he had changed to pyjamas and eased into his bed, an insistent tapping came from his window. Groaning, Harry slid out, only to see a pair of golden eyes glare at him through the glass—Hedwig. And there was a letter strung to her leg.

Sighing, Harry opened the window and let the owl in. She immediately rushed in, landing on his shoulder and pecking at his ear.

Finally placating the irritated owl by running a hand through her snowy feathers, Harry finally managed to get the letter. It was from Juno, and somehow, he was not surprised she had managed to convince Hedwig to carry it for her—or to visit her in Black Manor. Hedwig was the only owl who could fly in Potter Home, and all other owl posts arrived by a box set up in Diagon Alley’s post office that Dobby checked every morning.

His fingers tore through the envelope with surprising eagerness—this had been the first letter he had received from his betrothed in well over a month. But what greeted him was not the neat, elegant handwriting Juno was so proud of, but a messy scribble that could have only been inked down in haste. 

I think I found a proper solution. Come quickly—cannot miss the Summer Equinox. Password is phoenix.

Harry stared at the golden phoenix-shaped pin in the letter. The summer equinox was… on the twenty-first of June. Tomorrow.

The hurry in the words should have sent alarms in his mind. He reached out his hand, but his fingers paused just an inch shy of the phoenix pin. ‘This is Voldemort’s daughter,’ a deep, dark voice that sounded suspiciously like his older self whispered in his mind. ‘Now that her father has returned… perhaps her loyalty has shifted. She has not written you a word in a month. Suspicious.’

Betrayal? A scoff escaped from his mouth. His exhaustion was forgotten as his hand closed around the golden pin and plucked it from the letter. Harry patiently waited until he heard Sirius go to sleep. He waited another half an hour for good measure as the darkness of the night gathered.

A part of him felt guilty, but it was better to ask forgiveness than permission. His godfather would not understand. He cared little for Wizarding Britain, but he did not want Sirius’s pity or regret. It was a matter of having the power to decide his own fate. 

After putting on a quick t-shirt and summer shorts and writing down a quick note for Sirius, he shut down the lights, slipped out of the window, and jumped down to the grass. Within a few moments, he was at the brick wall, slipping out through the postern door.

“Phoenix.”

Harry had braced himself, but the sudden yank and the wind roaring in his ears were no less pleasant. 

His knees folded beneath him as he landed on the grassy lawn before Black Manor. The starry sky was clear, and the waxing moon cast pale light all across, pushing away the darkness of the night.

As he stood up and shook off the dizziness, a pair of cool hands took his face, and his mouth was sealed by an eager set of lips. A pair of familiar blue eyes drank him in as Juno’s mouth mercilessly snogged him senseless.

Harry fought back, but the dizziness of the Portkey saw him lose that particular battle—not that he minded.

When they finally parted, both panting, Harry cleared his throat. “What about distance?” he asked breathlessly. “We agreed about this—now is not the time.”

The edge of Juno’s lips curved, but her hands did not leave his shoulders. “I’m merely greeting my betrothed. You did not seem to mind.” 

It was then that Harry finally got a good look at the witch. The sleeves of her robes were caked with something dark, and the hems seemed to be singed from something. Her hair was knotted and tangled, a stark contrast to her usually silky locks that she meticulously brushed every morning. 

“…What happened to you?” he asked.

“I was busy,” was the cool reply. The smile she gave him was stiffer than before. Her eyes narrowed at him, glowing with dark purple as she studied him from head to toe. “Oh… your magic is indeed back.”

Harry was taken aback.

“I already told you about it. It will take some time, but I’ll eventually be as good as before.”

“It’s rather stunted,” she murmured, a deep frown settling over her face. “I thought even Dumbledore was stumped with this. How’d he figure it out?”

Harry snorted. “Dumbledore hasn’t said a word of this. It’s just Estelle and the phoenix feather Fawkes gifted me. When the feather is on me, and I’m holding my goddaughter… my ability to gather magic slowly returns.”

Juno murmured something underneath her nose as her eyes returned to cool blue. “Must be an odd combination of genuine love and compassion.”

Harry blinked. “Love?”

“Estelle is barely one, and her love is as raw and pure as it could get. There is no understanding or underlying motive… just pure affection for her dear godfather. As young as she is, Estelle is a veela, a creature of fire whose magic runs hotter than most, and passion is in her blood, and the willingly gifted phoenix feather is merely the catalyst, no doubt resonating with your Animagus form. Anyway, I have a better way that will not force you to wait for months. Something that will see you not only fixed before the next day is over, but even better than before.”

“You have a way to fix the affliction that rendered Albus Dumbledore powerless?”

Juno cleared her throat, and redness rushed up her cheeks. 

“…I might have apprenticed under an old ritual master. It took me seven days to design a ritual that will see you fixed, and twice as long to gather the ingredients—”

“A master?”

“He’s trustworthy,” she said quickly. “The very same man who designed the rituals for my thirteenth birthday. Now’s not a good time to talk of that. Come, I have prepared the guest bedroom for you.”

Exhaustion hit Harry like a bludger, and he just nodded through a yawn.

21st of June 1994, Tuesday (1 day later)

By the time Harry woke up, it was past eleven. He was surprisingly rested, having slept far longer than usual.

Yawning, he made his way to the dining room to find the table heavy with a freshly cooked breakfast. “Thanks, Wally,” he murmured.

As he was munching on a mouthful of bacon, he wondered… who was this elusive ritual master that Juno had found? But if she trusted him, that was enough. A ritual master would certainly be most suited to untangle the convergence of unlikely circumstances that had happened to him.

Harry didn’t worry much about it. His eyes wandered across the walls and froze as he saw the silver paper framed on the wall with BETROTHAL AGREEMENT written in golden cursive. Heat rushed to his cheeks.

Suddenly, staying over at Juno’s felt far more awkward. Facing his best friend was easy enough… but how was he supposed to face his betrothed?

Juno emerged from her quarters with immaculate flowing hair, a tiara of silver, robes in flowing black silk, and a ring of pure emerald on her left ring finger. Dark bags had settled under her eyes, but her composure had returned—she gave him a soft, “Good Morning.”

“Morning,” Harry said, rubbing his neck awkwardly, suddenly all too aware that he was now betrothed to Juno, and this was the first time they had properly spoken in person since—last night didn’t count. She had reached a similar realisation, judging by the shifting of her weight from one foot to the other and the uncertainty creeping in her gait. Green eyes met blue for a moment, and both hastily looked away. “So… what’s the plan?”

Juno smiled as colour crept into her cheeks. “For you, it’s rather simple—”

When the sun slowly approached its zenith, Harry Potter found himself butt naked walking into a small marble-tiled courtyard he had not seen before. She had allowed him enough dignity not to look, and now, he felt the kiss of the summer sun on every inch of his skin.

The pale marble was stained by broken lines and circles, stars and triangles drawn in a seemingly random fashion. But upon a closer look, Harry recognised some rather obscure runes that were only touched upon in the sixth year textbooks. The greatest circle had three prongs, on which raw, bloodied hearts the size of a ten-year-old child lay, each one beating with a slow, but powerful thrum. The greenish one belonged to a Ukrainian Ironbelly, the black one to a Hungarian Horntail, and the final, largest, purple-tinted one had been taken from a Hebridean Black.

It was no wonder Juno had been gone for so long or that her clothes had been signed—each dragon heart was freshly taken, illegally procured from a Norwegian Dragon Reserve by her own hand. Juno couldn’t have possibly fought and killed those on her own… he had not asked about the details, but it couldn’t have been easy, judging by her grimace.

“Three hearts of fire to mend what was burned,” he murmured, glancing at the sun above. Or so Juno had said.

He settled in the centre of the ritual circle, and his eyes settled on the clock hung on the arched wall. Once the hand crossed three minutes to one, the absolute zenith of the summer solstice, Harry pushed a sliver of magic into his wand and stabbed at the activation rune.

He twisted and writhed as his skin prickled, and soon, a pained gasp tore from his mouth. He clenched his teeth, unwilling to scream. It felt like a thousand red-hot knives were sinking into his flesh. His blood began to boil as pain swallowed his world before quickly turning to darkness, and he remembered no more.

Harry blinked, finding himself in a soft bed, wrapped beneath comfortable black sheets. His hands flew to his chest, finding a brand-new shirt… in black. Had Juno been the one to dress him up? He tried to ignore the heat rising on his neck and focused on his body. The pain was gone, replaced by an odd sense of fullness.

Power crackled under his skin… far thicker than it had been before. The quantity had not changed, but his magic was not only back and had ripened as Juno promised. He could feel a slow pulse of power in the air, and it felt… damp and old, like the stilted air of an old dungeon.  

With a thought, the yew wand shot out from the nearby stand, eagerly leaping into his fingers. The warm handle vibrated, as if excited to be back in his grasp.

“Expecto Patronum.” A great serpent twisted out of the tip, its translucent scales shimmering as it twisted around the room. 

Exhilaration rushed through his veins. He felt as if he could fight the whole world and win, then. It finally sank in. He had recovered. His magic was back, stronger and thicker than before, even. An improvement in quality, but not quantity. Reluctantly, Harry let go of the false sense of power. Arrogance would not serve him. With a thought, his Patronus bled into soft lines of starlight, fading away as pale light lingered in the room.

Though the change was not significant, and magic would ripen and thicken on its own with time, this had saved him years of practice. Before, he had been relying on his solid theoretical knowledge and the sheer amount of practise that could elevate spells to a high level to bridge the gap with those older than him. Now, the intensity of his magic alone could match most adult wizards, and still had room for further growth. 

‘Harry,’ a drowsy but familiar voice hissed in his head, bringing him more relief than the presence of his power. ‘I feel hungry.’

Harry almost broke down and cried at the sound of Nyx’s voice.

‘I… are you well?’

‘I’m hungry,’ Nyx hissed. ‘I’m going to hunt until I’m full.’

Without waiting for an answer, a shadow twisted out of his covers, and Nyx slithered behind the curtains.

Harry didn’t know whether to cry or to laugh. He felt foolish for worrying so much, but deep down, he was glad his familiar was well enough. That was what mattered.

The only clothes on the sofa nearby were… a posh set of pants in silver silk and a black button vest trimmed with bronze on the collar, fancier than anything he had ever worn before. And he had dressed up quite well for the Malfoy Gala.

Sighing, Harry took in the silk pants and found them uncomfortably tight.

What did Juno mean by this?

He was almost tempted to go down in sleepwear. He pushed aside the curtains and was greeted with the darkness of the night outside, and Harry glanced at the old Victorian-style watch on the wall. Half past nine. The rumbling of his stomach dispelled any notion he had about returning to bed. 

He found Juno in the dining room, engrossed in an international newspaper. 

MAGICAL INFERNO RAVAGES VILLAGE IN NORTHERN ITALY, EMBERWICK CLAIMS CREDIT

International Confederation scrambles as flames defy Muggle fire brigades—

She placed the paper down the moment he approached and smiled at him, as if she had sensed his approach.

“I thought you’d be happier,” she said, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Your ritual did more than you said it would,” he said quietly, sitting across her on the velvet-backed chair. “I… I’m happy. I truly am to have all of my magic back… I just don’t think it has sunk in yet.”

Juno cocked her head. “We can finally tell everyone. I can make a case of slander in the Daily Prophet, and clear your good name—” 

“Let’s not.” Harry grimaced as she looked at him like he had grown a second head. “Perhaps it’s better if Wizarding Britain thinks me a cripple.”

“Why?” she demanded. “If you feel angry at the Ministry or Wizarding Britain… we can just… leave.”

“Leave?” Harry mouthed, tasting the words in his mouth. They were like ash on his tongue. “You would leave all the power House Black has accumulated for centuries and your desire to restore it to its former glory for me?”

“I would,” she said, voice raw as she held his gaze without flinching. “Power could be grown elsewhere, and reputation could be rebuilt. Languages can be learned. Any magical school or academy would trip over itself to get students half our skill. If you feel that other children our age have grown insufferable, we have the gold for private tutors and premium examinations. There’s nothing left holding us in Wizarding Britain but scorn and danger. Voldemort is not our problem.”

Her carefully tailored mask cracked then, as a faint frown settled over her lips at the mention of her father.

Harry was flattered, but the words did not make the tangle of emotions in his chest go away. First Sirius, and now his fiancée. While his godfather truly no longer cared, he could tell Juno was only saying those words for his sake.

“I… don’t want to leave. You’re wrong that there’s nothing here for us. What about our friends? Even if we have the gold to take them with us, what about their families and their loved ones?” 

But that was just a surface truth. The words he whispered to himself to pretend he was only here to fight the good fight. Why was it so hard to just… turn away?

He looked deeper than the noble lies he had told himself before. Deeper than the platitudes he had fed others or the things he thought the world had expected of him. 

“I want to fight,” he said. It sounded right. His voice lost its hesitation as he peered deeper into himself. “I do not trust Albus Dumbledore to succeed any more than I trust the Ministry to deal with the Dark Lord. Perhaps he is far away for now, plotting and scheming something else, but he will come back to Wizarding Britain to finish what he started. I know it in my bones.”

He took a deep breath and gave her an apologetic smile. “I don’t want to leave my parents’ murderer to go free and kill others, just because they did not bow. Just because they were not convenient. It’s not even a matter of justice for me. Not wholly. I want to look Tom Riddle in the eye as life drains away from him, knowing he can’t escape death. I want to be strong enough that I don’t feel compelled to run or to hide.”

A delicate palm settled over his balled fist and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Very well then,” she said softly, but her gaze was so intense as she drank him in that it sent shivers down his spine. “We shall defeat Tom Riddle and all those foolish enough to follow him together.”

“Even if he’s your…” Harry trailed off, grimacing at the thought.

Her lips twisted into a sneer. “Even if he’s my father, yes. Why should I care about a vile man who never cared about me when you’re here?” 

Before Harry could blink, Juno wheeled around the table and settled in his lap as if she owned it. And then, he was being snogged senseless again. Were girls supposed to be so aggressive and insatiable? The intensity would have frightened him once, as would the lengths she was willing to go for him. But it only made him trust her more. It made him feel as if he were on top of the world.

Only, she was a tad too intense.

Thankfully, even Juno needed to breathe, and she peeled her lips away from his mouth.

Reluctantly, he placed a hand on her shoulder to prevent another lunge. “Later,” he said. “We have time—let’s talk business now.”

Juno smacked her lips and reluctantly nodded, but made no move to stand up from his lap. “Pretending you’re a squib or near crippled might paint a greater target on your back.”

Harry snorted. “Target greater than being the next Merlin in training?”

“Perhaps not,” she conceded with a coy smile. “Perhaps we can figure out something. Not quite a squib… but half-crippled. The Janus Thickey Ward in Saint Mungo’s is full of similar cases. But first, we should check up on your phoenix form.”

His throat tightened. “Why?” he asked. “It got me into this mess in the first place.”

“Well…” Juno averted her eyes, her voice growing quiet and fragile. “According to the ritual master, you overdid it that night. Out of desperation and anger, you burned through your magic and even your life to release enough cursed flame to burn dozens of wizards and set a whole forest ablaze. A phoenix is a creature of fire and magic, and your powers should be just enough after the ritual. Even if the flames were potent, the sheer amount of magic you used that day would exhaust even Dumbledore. The phoenix transformation should be safe enough on its own, so long as you’re fully rested beforehand and don’t use any of the phoenix abilities.”

“…My phoenix form is not as warm or kind as Fawkes,” he whispered. “I wasn’t exactly in full control that night.”

Juno frowned and reluctantly rose from his lap. “The form is too useful to be discarded. Even if you forget the phoenix’s innate abilities, the bird is frighteningly swift. The ability to shapeshift is an easy way out, and I saw those wicked claws tearing through bone and flesh as if they were butter.”

“…Very well.” 

Harry focused… and tugged onto that feeling at the very edge of his mind he had tried to ignore. Pain lanced through his very soul, as if every single bone in his body shattered and knit back together. As his mind grew groggy, the world shifted.

His body was awkward and different in an odd, queer way, and his talons sank into the chair below, shredding through padding and wood as he shifted weight. The surrounding colours had doubled and deepened. He could see a ribbon of dark purple around Juno, and a faint, murky ball intertwined into her signet ring. 

Carefully, he unfurled his wings and lost balance, tumbling down the chair.

Yeah. He was going to have to learn how to bird from scratch. The pain made his vision swim, and the world was tinted with green. Before he knew it, a single tear trickled down onto the ground, landing on the marble with a sizzling hiss. A second one followed, and Harry jerked away.

It was bright green, eating its way through the floor. The worst thing was that he felt tired from the tears, as if he had run for a whole day without stopping.

“Those tears probably won’t heal,” Juno said with wide-eyed fascination as she studied the floor. “I bet they’re as potent as basilisk venom, if not more. Can I… take a feather?”

Harry wanted to say yes, but only a soft keen tore from his beak. Groaning inwardly, he bobbed his head, trying not to lose his balance. 

A minute later, he was wheezing on the floor back in his featherless form, and Juno was frowning at a poisonous green feather between her pale fingers.

“That took more out of me than the tears,” he said breathlessly, slumping on the floor. 

Juno’s eyes shifted back to him and softened. “How much magic do you have left?”

Harry shakily stood off the floor, trying to force the world not to spin and shake. “Less than a fifth. I’m nearly squeezed dry. It will be quite a while until this form is good for anything beyond escape. And the pain is a bit too much—according to Sirius, turning into your Animagus form is supposed to be painless.” And it would be years until he grew powerful enough to put it to full use.

It was a small wonder he had lost over a decade of lifespan in Brechfa’s forest. He should have lost more… but no, the price of the transformation had been borne by all the lightning they had cast at him that night.

“Hopefully, it’ll go away with practice,” she said. Clearing her throat, she slipped his feather into her bosom. “What now? More training?” 

“Training can wait.” Harry’s mouth twisted. “I should probably return home. Sirius must be beside himself… and Estelle will wonder where her godfather is. You should come too for a day or two—she’d love you, and staying here on your own won’t do you any good.”

Juno looped a hand underneath his elbow. “Perhaps I will.”

But the moment Estelle saw Juno the next day, her usually radiant smile at the sight of Harry twisted into a terrible frown. She hurled a fireball at Juno’s face without a moment’s hesitation.

Author’s Endnote: Okay, that was longer than I thought it would be. This will be the last of summer, and the next chapter we’ll be diving into Year 4.