The rhythmic clatter of the Hogwarts Express was a familiar, hypnotic sound, one that had always signaled the start of a new adventure or the close of another. But this time, as the Scottish Highlands gave way to the rolling green hills of the English countryside, the sound was just noise. It did nothing to fill the crushing silence in the compartment.
Ron and Hermione were there, but they weren't. They sat on the opposite bench, a reminder of unspoken words and unresolved hurt between them. Hermione had a book open in her lap, but her eyes hadn't moved from the same page in over an hour. Ron was staring out the window, his reflection a pale, sullen mask. The air was thick with the memories of their easy laughter and arguments, a painful reminder of what had been lost.
Harry looked away, his own reflection staring back at him from the glass. He saw a boy with tired, determined eyes. The confrontation in the infirmary, the exams, the feast—it all felt like a lifetime ago. The anger had cooled, leaving behind a cold, hard resolve. He had made his choice on the Astronomy Tower. He would walk his path, even if it meant walking it alone. The silence in this compartment was just the first step.
He didn't regret it. Not really. But a part of him, the part that still remembered the warmth of their friendship, ached with a dull, persistent grief.
When the train finally shuddered to a halt at King's Cross Station, the relief was a physical thing. The chaos of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was a welcome distraction. Families hugged, owls hooted, and the air was filled with the happy shouts of reunion. Harry navigated the crowd, a solitary island in a sea of joy.
He saw the Weasleys, a boisterous, red-headed beacon in the steam. Mrs. Weasley was enveloping Ginny in a bone-crushing hug, while Mr. Weasley tried to wrangle the twins. Ron joined them, and for a moment, he looked back, his eyes finding Harry's across the platform. There was a flicker of something—regret, maybe, or just sadness—before he was swept away into the family fold.
Hermione was with her parents, a quiet, contained unit. She gave Harry a small, sad wave, a silent apology for a friendship that had fractured under a weight she still didn't understand. Harry nodded back, the gesture feeling stiff and inadequate.
He pushed his trolley toward a quieter section of the platform, as he scanned the thinning crowd, looking for the familiar figure he knew would be waiting.
A figure detached itself from the shadow of a pillar near the back of the platform. He was tall, dressed in worn Muggle jeans and a leather jacket, with dark sunglasses shielding his eyes. He leaned against the pillar with a casual, almost arrogant grace, but his head was tilted, scanning the crowd.
A grin touched the man's lips as his eyes found Harry.
"Thought you might need a ride, kid."
"Sirius."
Sirius Black pushed off the pillar and strode toward him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "The one and only. Come on. Let's get you out of here before your adoring fans spot you."
They walked out of the station and into a grimy side alley. The noise of London faded, replaced by the damp quiet of brick and shadow.
"Ready?" Sirius asked, his grin widening.
Harry nodded, gripping his trolley.
With a sharp crack, the world twisted in on itself. The familiar, nauseating pull of Apparition was over in a blink, and they were standing on the top step of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The gloomy, imposing facade of the house.
Sirius unlocked the door, and the familiar scent of dust, dark magic, and old secrets washed over them. It wasn't cheerful. It wasn't bright. But it was the closest thing he had to home after Hogwarts.
Sirius levitated Harry's trunk up the stairs with a flick of his wand while Kreacher appeared with a pop to grudgingly take Hedwig's cage. The house was still gloomy, but it felt less oppressive, as if a window had been opened somewhere, letting in a sliver of fresh air.
"Right then," Sirius said, rubbing his hands together as they walked into the kitchen. "Drop your stuff. We leave for France in two days."
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the sudden timeline. "Two days? That's… soon."
Sirius grinned, his eyes alight with excitement. "No time to waste. The International Junior Dueling Circuit waits for no one, especially not its star participant. I've already got our international Portkey sorted. Flitwick is meeting us there. You're going to blow them all away, Harry. I've been reading up on the other champions. A few stuffy pure-bloods from Durmstrang, some fancy Charms-worker from Beauxbâtons… they won't know what hit them."
The enthusiasm was infectious, and despite the heavy weight in his own chest, Harry felt a small smile touch his lips. "You seem excited."
"Excited?" Sirius scoffed, pulling two butterbeers from a charmed cupboard. "I'm bloody ecstatic. My godson, taking on the best in Europe. James would be insufferable. He'd have already commissioned commemorative plates."
He handed a bottle to Harry, his grin softening slightly. "I'm proud of you, kid. Really."
"Thanks, Sirius," Harry said, the words feeling more meaningful than he'd expected. He took a sip of the butterbeer, the sweet, fizzy taste a welcome comfort. "So, what have you been up to? Besides planning my international debut."
Sirius leaned back against the counter, taking a long drink from his own bottle. A flicker of something more serious, more calculating, passed through his eyes. "Oh, you know. Stirring up trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued.
"The political kind," Sirius said, a sharp edge to his voice. "I've taken my seat."
Harry frowned. "Your seat?"
"On the Wizengamot," Sirius clarified, watching Harry's reaction. "As Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black."
Harry stared at him, completely stunned. "But… you hate all that. The pure-blood politics, the family legacy… everything."
"I do," Sirius agreed, his expression turning grim. "I despise every self-important, bigoted tradition my family ever stood for. But that name, Harry… it still has power. And in that room, power is the only thing men like Lucius Malfoy understand. If I'm not there to use it, he will." His voice dropped, the humor gone, replaced by a cold certainty. "The war isn't over just because Voldemort is a ghost. He'll be back. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but he will. And I'm not letting them win."
Harry nodded, the weight of Tom's return never far from his mind.
"I'm going to study a bit for the tournament," he said, finishing the last of his butterbeer. With a quiet word of parting, he left Sirius alone in the kitchen.
He made his way up the creaking stairs to Regulus's old room. The air was still and cool, the Black family tapestry on the wall a silent, judging presence. Harry reached into the magically expanded pocket of his robes and pulled out a small, velvet pouch. From it, he tipped out the mangled, blackened remains of Slytherin's locket. It was inert now, the piece of soul that had inhabited it long since destroyed, but it still felt like a stain on the world.
A soft crack echoed behind him.
Kreacher stood there, his large, bloodshot eyes immediately locking onto the ruined locket in Harry's hand. A low, guttural growl rumbled in the old house-elf's chest.
"I promised I would destroy it," Harry said quietly, holding it out. "I did."
Kreacher stared, his expression a maelstrom of disbelief, rage, and a dawning, fragile hope. He took a hesitant step forward and reached out a trembling, gnarled hand, his fingers brushing against the twisted metal.
The moment he touched it, a great, shuddering sob tore through him. He snatched the locket, clutching it to his chest as if it were the most precious treasure in the world. The hate that had defined him for so long seemed to crumble, replaced by a wave of raw, overwhelming grief and relief.
He fell to his knees at Harry's feet, his small body wracked with sobs, tears streaming down his wrinkled face and into his filthy tunic. "Master Regulus's task..." he wailed. "Kreacher could not... but the new Master... he has finished it! He has honored my Master!"
Harry felt a surge of discomfort. He took a step back. "Get up, Kreacher," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "You don't need to do that."
Kreacher looked up, his eyes shining with a fierce, newfound loyalty. "Kreacher will serve the new Master of the House of Black. Kreacher will serve him gladly!"
"Just... go," Harry said, gesturing vaguely. "Go do whatever it is you do."
With a final, watery sob and a low bow, Kreacher vanished with another crack.
Harry stood alone in the quiet room, letting himself relax. But then, his thoughts shifted to the bright, sunlit arenas of France. To the thrill of the duel, the clash of magic, the challenge of facing the best in Europe.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. The war could wait. For now, there was a tournament to win.