The cool night air carried the scent of dew and distant rain as they made their way across the grounds toward Hogwarts castle. Despite the surreal circumstances—Snape's unconscious form floating behind them like some macabre parade balloon, Ron hobbling along with his injured leg supported by Hermione, and Pettigrew's bound form shuffling ahead under watchful eyes—Harry's heart felt lighter than it had in years.
"Really?" Harry asked again, his emerald eyes bright with hope he was trying not to feel too strongly. "You'd actually want me to live with you?"
Sirius Black, gaunt and hollow-cheeked from twelve years in Azkaban but with a vitality that seemed to grow stronger with each step away from that cursed prison, turned to look at his godson. Despite his emaciated frame, there was something powerfully magnetic about him, a charisma that not even a decade of soul-sucking wraiths could fully extinguish. His bark of laughter was genuinely joyful.
"Want you? Harry, you're the closest thing to family I've got left. James would hex me into next week if I didn't take proper care of his son." His eyes sparkled with mischief that reminded Harry painfully of the Marauder's Map. "Besides, someone needs to teach you the finer points of driving Authority figures absolutely mental. It's a Black family tradition."
"Oh brilliant," Hermione muttered, adjusting her grip on Ron's arm as he winced. "Because Harry needs *more* encouragement to break rules."
"Hey!" Harry protested, but he was grinning. "I don't break *that* many rules."
"Right," Ron snorted, despite the pain clearly written across his freckled face. "Says the bloke who's gotten us into mortal peril every year since we've known him."
"That's not—okay, that's partially fair," Harry admitted.
Sirius's grin widened, and for a moment he looked like the handsome, devil-may-care young man from the old photographs rather than the skeletal prisoner. "Oh, this is going to be *fun*. We could get a place with enough land for you to really stretch your wings on that Firebolt. Maybe somewhere with a Quidditch pitch. I could teach you some of the moves your father never quite mastered—"
"The moves that got you both detention approximately every other week?" Professor Lupin interjected mildly, though there was warmth in his amber eyes. The tall, prematurely graying man had been unusually quiet since leaving the Shrieking Shack, but Harry could see the genuine happiness in his weathered features.
"*Character building* detentions, Moony," Sirius corrected airily. "Very important for a young man's development."
"Character building," Snape's voice cut through the night like a blade, even though he was still unconscious and floating along beside them. Wait—
"Did anyone else hear—?" Hermione began.
"Nope," Ron said quickly. "Definitely just the wind. Spooky, evil wind that sounds exactly like our lovely Potions master."
A strangled cry cut through their banter.
They all turned to see Lupin doubled over, clutching his stomach. His tall frame was contorting, his gentle features stretching and reshaping. His robes began to tear as his body expanded, joints popping audibly in the night air.
"Oh, no," Hermione gasped, her encyclopedic mind immediately grasping the situation. "Remus, the moon!"
Above them, the clouds had parted like a theatrical curtain, revealing the full moon in all its terrible, silver glory. The sight of it seemed to hit Lupin like a physical blow.
"The Wolfsbane Potion!" Sirius shouted, his voice cracking with sudden panic. "Remus, you forgot to take it!"
"Bit... busy..." Lupin gasped out between agonized breaths, "trying to... prevent... innocent man... from being... murdered..."
His words ended in an anguished howl that echoed across the grounds as coarse, dark hair sprouted from his rapidly changing skin. His limbs lengthened grotesquely, muscles bulging beneath his transforming flesh.
"Well," Ron observed with remarkable calm considering the circumstances, "this is significantly worse than my broken leg."
"RUN!" Hermione screamed, her voice pitched high with terror.
But Sirius was already moving. His human form seemed to flow and melt, bones shortening and reshaping with disturbing ease. Within seconds, the large black dog that had terrorized the wizarding world's imagination stood where the man had been, hackles raised and teeth bared.
Padfoot leaped toward the now-fully-transformed werewolf, barking frantically. The sound was deep, commanding, trying desperately to reach whatever remained of Remus Lupin's consciousness beneath the beast's feral hunger.
"Brilliant plan, Sirius!" Harry shouted over the chaos. "Really well thought out!"
In all the confusion—Hermione pulling at Ron's arm, trying to help him move faster on his injured leg; Padfoot circling the snarling werewolf; Snape's unconscious form bobbing gently in mid-air like a particularly morose balloon—no one noticed the fat man's bindings slipping away.
Peter Pettigrew scrambled toward Lupin's dropped wand with surprising agility for someone built like a particularly nervous bowling ball. His small, watery eyes darted frantically as his pudgy fingers closed around the magical wood.
"Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me," Ron snarled, spotting him. "Seriously? Right now?"
"He's getting away!" Harry yelled.
The three friends lunged for Pettigrew simultaneously. The rat-faced man squealed—actually *squealed*—and lashed out wildly with the wand, sending showers of sparks flying in all directions.
"Give it up, Pettigrew!" Harry grabbed for his arm. "You're surrounded!"
"No, no, no, no, NO!" Pettigrew's voice was high and panicked. "I won't go back to Azkaban! I WON'T!"
He began to shrink even as Harry's fingers closed around his wrist, but the partial transformation made him slippery, unstable. His skin seemed to ripple and shift, neither fully human nor fully rat.
"Got him!" Ron yelled triumphantly, despite being unable to put weight on his injured leg. "Hermione, grab his—"
But Pettigrew wrenched free with a strength born of desperation, now a disturbing half-rat, half-man creature scuttling toward the Forbidden Forest on all fours.
"Oh, come ON!" Harry exploded with frustration. "Are you KIDDING me right now?!"
Without thinking, he sprinted after the escaping Animagus, leaving his friends behind. Pettigrew might be the key to Sirius's freedom, but more than that—Harry couldn't let him get away. Not when they'd come so close.
"Harry, NO!" Hermione's voice faded behind him as he plunged into the forest.
The chase led them in a wide, chaotic circle through the undergrowth. Pettigrew's panicked squeaking echoed through the trees, a sound so pathetic it was almost comical. Harry was gaining ground, his long legs eating up the distance between them, when a bone-chilling howl split the night.
Closer. Much, much closer.
"Oh, brilliant," Harry muttered, glancing over his shoulder. "Just absolutely brilliant."
The werewolf burst from the undergrowth like a nightmare given form, Padfoot snapping desperately at its heels. Lupin's transformed state was even more terrifying up close—all yellow eyes, snapping jaws, and barely controlled violence.
The creature's crazed gaze locked onto Harry, and every instinct the boy had developed over three years of mortal peril started screaming.
It lunged.
Harry dove sideways, but he wasn't quite fast enough. Massive claws raked across his shoulder and arm, shredding his robes and drawing blood. Fire shot through his veins as razor-sharp teeth found purchase in his bicep.
The bite went deep—deeper than any normal wound should. It felt like the curse itself was boring into his very bones, rewriting something fundamental in his magical signature.
"REMUS!" he screamed, hoping to reach whatever humanity remained in the beast.
He hit the ground hard, rolling away as Padfoot collided with the werewolf like a furry cannonball, driving it back into the trees. The sound of their battle—snarling, snapping, the crash of breaking branches—faded as they disappeared deeper into the forest.
Harry clutched his bleeding arm, the wounds burning like acid had been poured into them. Something was very, very wrong. The pain wasn't just physical; it was *changing* him, rewriting his very essence.
Pettigrew was gone. The forest fell ominously silent except for Harry's ragged breathing.
Then he heard it—a sound that made his blood turn to ice and his soul shrivel in his chest.
The rattling, soul-freezing breath of Dementors.
*Lots* of them.
"Oh, you have GOT to be bloody JOKING!" Harry snarled, staggering to his feet. "What is this, National 'Let's Torture Harry Potter Day'?!"
He ran toward the lake, following the sound of Padfoot's increasingly desperate barking. Branches tore at his already shredded robes, and his werewolf bite sent jolts of agony through his entire arm with every step.
He burst from the treeline and froze.
Dozens of Dementors surrounded a figure collapsed on the shore—Sirius, back in human form, defenseless and barely conscious. The hooded wraiths glided closer with predatory grace, and Harry watched in horror as one began to lower its hood.
The Dementor's Kiss. The fate worse than death.
"NO!"
The word tore from Harry's throat with inhuman force, carrying with it all his rage, his desperation, his absolute refusal to lose the only family he had left.
The emotion exploded through him like a bomb going off in his chest. But this wasn't just teenage fury—the werewolf curse was racing through his bloodstream, mixing with something else, something that had been dormant in his system for over a year.
The basilisk venom that had nearly killed him in the Chamber of Secrets, neutralized but never fully purged by Fawkes's healing tears, suddenly roared back to life. Phoenix fire met werewolf fury met serpent venom in a collision of magical forces that Harry's body was never meant to contain.
It should have killed him instantly.
Instead, it *changed* him.
His bones began to crack and reshape with sounds like gunshots. Muscles bulged and twisted as his human form stretched beyond all recognition, growing upward and outward with impossible speed.
"Oh," he managed to gasp as his voice dropped several octaves, "this is going to hurt—"
Coarse black fur erupted from his skin like a time-lapse film of plant growth, but it was interwoven with patches of emerald scales that gleamed like armor in the moonlight. His veins blazed crimson-gold beneath the surface, visible through both fur and scale, pulsing with phoenix fire that made his entire body glow like a living ember.
His hands elongated into claws—long, curved, and wickedly sharp with a faint green sheen that spoke of deadly venom. His jaw extended, teeth becoming slightly hooked fangs designed for both tearing and injecting poison.
When the transformation finished, Harry stood nearly eight feet tall, a creature that belonged in no bestiary ever written. He was magnificent and terrifying in equal measure—part wolf, part serpent, part phoenix, and entirely *pissed off*.
The Dementors turned toward this new threat, their rattling breath creating clouds of frost in the suddenly frigid air.
Harry—or the thing Harry had become—threw back his massive head and *roared*.
The sound was part wolf howl, part phoenix song, part basilisk hiss, and it shook the very ground. Several windows in Hogwarts castle, nearly a mile away, cracked from the vibration.
"Alright, you soul-sucking pieces of garbage," he snarled, his voice now a deep, multi-toned rumble that seemed to come from everywhere at once. "Let's dance."
The nearest Dementor glided forward, reaching out with skeletal fingers wreathed in frost.
Harry's maw opened wide and *fire* poured out—not ordinary flame, but phoenix fire refined by serpent venom and wolf fury. The golden-crimson blaze was so bright it turned night into day for a brief, glorious moment.
The fire struck the Dementor center mass and it *screamed*—a sound like tearing metal, like reality itself being wounded. Its robes ignited and its form began to dissolve, not just repelled but actually *dying*.
"NEXT!" Harry roared, and there was savage joy in his voice.
The other Dementors recoiled, but Harry was already moving. Despite his size, he moved with impossible fluid grace, covering ground in great leaping bounds. His claws raked through another Dementor's form while continuous streams of phoenix fire poured from his throat.
Each touch of flame, each slash of his venomous claws, destroyed what should have been indestructible. The Dementors' death-screams echoed across the lake like a symphony of terror.
"This is for every nightmare you gave me!" he snarled, backhanding a Dementor into the lake where it dissolved like sugar in water. "This is for every happy memory you stole!"
Another stream of fire reduced three more wraiths to nothing.
"And THIS—" He leaped impossibly high, coming down with both clawed hands extended, "—is for trying to Kiss my godfather!"
The impact sent shockwaves across the water. When the spray settled, nothing remained of the Dementor but empty robes floating on the surface.
The remaining wraiths—perhaps a dozen of the original horde—fled into the night, their rattling cries fading into the distance like the world's most depressing wind chimes.
Harry stood over Sirius's unconscious form, his massive chest heaving. Steam rose from his overheated body, and his glowing veins pulsed like a heartbeat made of light.
"Yeah!" he roared at the retreating Dementors. "You better run! Don't let me catch you around here again, or I'll—"
The rage was fading now, and with it, his strength. The transformation had demanded everything from him—more than his human body could possibly sustain. It felt like every drop of magic he'd ever possessed was being squeezed out of him at once.
His legs buckled. The hybrid form began to shrink and shift back toward human, though the process was slow and agonizing. Bones cracked back into their proper places, muscles deflated, scales and fur receded into normal skin.
By the time he collapsed beside Sirius, Harry was himself again—a thirteen-year-old boy, unconscious and bleeding from wounds both old and new, his torn robes smoking slightly from residual phoenix fire.
The lake was still and silent once more, reflecting the moon that had started it all.
Somewhere in the distance, voices called their names—Hermione's frantic "Harry!" and Ron's slightly wheezy "Where are you?" echoing across the grounds.
But Harry heard none of it. He had saved Sirius, had destroyed creatures that were supposed to be immortal, had transformed into something that shouldn't exist.
Everything else could wait.
In his unconscious state, he didn't notice the faint smile that crossed Sirius's lips, or the way his godfather's hand twitched slightly toward him, even in sleep.
---
Harry's consciousness returned slowly, like swimming up through thick honey. The first thing he noticed wasn't sight or sound—it was *smell*. The sterile scent of the Hospital Wing hit him like a physical blow, but underneath it he could detect dozens of other odors: the lingering traces of potions ingredients, the soap Madam Pomfrey used, the distinct scent of parchment and ink from the visitor's chair, even the faint aroma of what someone had eaten for breakfast three beds over.
His eyes snapped open, and immediately he knew something was very, very wrong.
The world was crystal clear—sharper and more detailed than it had ever been, even with his glasses. Speaking of which... Harry reached up instinctively to adjust his glasses and found nothing there. His vision was perfect. Better than perfect, actually. He could see individual dust motes floating in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows.
"Harry!" Hermione's relieved voice cut through his sensory overload. "Thank Merlin, you're awake!"
Harry turned toward her voice and froze. Hermione was sitting in the chair beside his bed, but he could *smell* her emotions—relief, worry, fear, and something else, something that made his enhanced senses tingle with warning. Ron was in the bed next to his, his injured leg elevated, and the redhead's freckled face was pale with concern.
"How long have I been out?" Harry asked, then stopped. His voice was different—deeper, rougher around the edges.
"About six hours," Ron said. "Mate, you look... different."
Harry sat up, and immediately noticed several things that made his stomach drop. First, the simple gray t-shirt and sweatpants he was wearing—definitely not his clothes—were stretched tight across a frame that was decidedly not the short, scrawny body he'd gone to sleep with. His arms had actual muscle definition, and when he looked down, he could see the outline of abs beneath the shirt.
"What the hell?" he muttered, flexing his hands experimentally. They were larger, and when he concentrated, he could feel something just beneath his fingernails—not quite claws, but close.
"Harry," Hermione said urgently, glancing toward the Hospital Wing doors, "we need to talk, and we don't have much time."
"Time for what? And why do I feel like I could bench press a troll?" Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, startled to find that his feet actually touched the floor properly now. He had to be at least four inches taller.
"Look in the mirror," Ron suggested grimly.
Harry walked to the small mirror mounted on the wall between the beds, and his reflection made him take an involuntary step backward.
The person staring back at him was recognizably Harry Potter, but... more. Taller, broader, with the lean muscle of a natural athlete. His perpetually messy black hair looked the same, but his face had lost some of its boyish roundness. And his eyes...
His eyes were still emerald green, but now they held flecks of gold that seemed to swirl and shift in the light. More disturbing, his pupils had changed from round to vertical slits—like a snake's eyes.
"My scar," Harry whispered, touching his forehead. The lightning bolt that had marked him since infancy was completely gone, leaving only smooth skin.
"The transformation changed you," Hermione said quietly. "Physically, I mean. The magical overload when the phoenix fire, basilisk venom, and werewolf curse combined... it rewrote your entire magical signature."
"Am I...?" Harry turned to face them, suddenly terrified. "Am I a werewolf now?"
"We don't know," Ron admitted. "You haven't transformed back since that night, and it's been daylight the whole time. But Harry, there are other problems."
"Such as?" Harry asked, though from the expressions on his friends' faces, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Hermione glanced nervously at the doors again. "About ten minutes ago, Dumbledore, Fudge, and Snape were here checking on you. We pretended to be asleep, but we heard everything."
"Snape convinced Fudge that Sirius used a Confundus Charm on all of us," Ron continued, his voice tight with anger. "Fudge believed every word. They've locked Sirius in the Astronomy Tower, and they're calling in Dementors to... to give him the Kiss. Tonight."
Harry felt something dangerous stir in his chest—a heat that made his new golden eye-flecks flicker like real flames. "What?"
"It gets worse," Hermione said miserably. "Snape told them about your bite. Fudge looked ready to have you arrested and sent to Azkaban the moment you woke up, just for being a potential werewolf."
"That slimy, greasy-haired—" Harry's hands clenched into fists, and he swore he could feel claws trying to extend from his fingertips.
"Harry, calm down," Ron said urgently. "Your eyes are literally glowing right now."
Harry took a deep breath, forcing the rage back down. When he opened his eyes again, Ron nodded with relief.
"There's still a chance to save Sirius," Hermione said, standing up with sudden determination. She reached into her robes and pulled out a long, delicate chain with what looked like a tiny hourglass pendant. "Before Dumbledore left, he gave me a hint. He said that more than one innocent life could be saved tonight, and that we might find that time has more power than we know."
"Hermione, what is that thing?" Harry asked, staring at the hourglass.
"A Time-Turner," she said simply. "I've been using it all year to attend multiple classes. We can go back, change what happened, save both Sirius and Buckbeak."
"Time travel?" Ron squeaked. "You've been time traveling all year and didn't tell us?"
"Ron, you can't come," Hermione said apologetically. "Your leg isn't healed enough, and besides, Time-Turners have weight limits."
"Brilliant," Ron muttered. "First I get knocked out by a homicidal plant, then I break my leg, now I miss the time travel adventure. This year just keeps getting better."
Hermione approached Harry with the Time-Turner. "Do you trust me?"
Harry looked at his reflection one more time—at his snake-like eyes, his changed body, the missing scar. Everything familiar about himself seemed to be disappearing. But Hermione and Ron were still here, still his friends despite everything that had happened.
"With my life," he said simply.
Hermione smiled and looped the chain around both their necks, pulling them close together. "Hold on tight. We're going back three hours, and Harry... try not to be seen. With how different you look now, you might cause some serious paradox problems."
"How different do I—" Harry began, but Hermione was already turning the hourglass.
The world began to spin.
—
Three Hours Later
The Black Lake shimmered in the pre-dawn light as Harry, Hermione, and Sirius caught their breath beside the water's edge. Buckbeak preened his feathers nearby, occasionally fixing them with one large orange eye as if to say he'd done quite enough flying for one night, thank you very much.
"Well," Sirius panted, running a hand through his matted hair, "that was significantly more exciting than I'd hoped for when I woke up this morning."
"You mean when you woke up in a prison cell waiting for your soul to be sucked out?" Harry asked dryly, his enhanced hearing picking up the sound of search parties still combing the castle grounds in the distance.
"Point taken." Sirius studied Harry's transformed features in the dim light, taking in the golden flecks in his eyes, the broader shoulders, the way he moved with predatory grace even while sitting still. "You know, you look remarkably like James did at seventeen. Well, except for the snake eyes. And the fact that you could probably bench press a Hungarian Horntail now."
"About that," Harry said, his voice dropping to something more serious. "Sirius, I want to come with you."
Hermione's head snapped toward him. "Harry, you can't be serious—"
"Actually, I can," Sirius interrupted with a weak grin. "It's literally my name."
"This isn't a joke!" Hermione said sharply, then immediately looked apologetic. "I mean, I know you're trying to lighten the mood, but Harry, you can't just run away from school!"
"Can't I?" Harry turned to face her fully, and she took an involuntary step back at the intensity in his serpentine gaze. "Hermione, did you see Fudge's face when Snape told him I'd been bitten? He looked ready to throw me in Azkaban on the spot, just for existing as a potential werewolf. You think I'm going to be welcome back at Hogwarts? You think the Ministry won't find some excuse to have me arrested the moment I show my face?"
"But surely Dumbledore—"
"Dumbledore." Harry's voice carried a bitter edge that made both Hermione and Sirius flinch. "The same Dumbledore who's been making decisions about my life without consulting me since I was a baby? Who left me with the Dursleys for thirteen years?"
"Harry..." Hermione said softly, and he could smell the sudden spike of concern from her, mixed with something that might have been guilt.
"No, let me finish." Harry stood up, his new height making him tower over both of them. "I'm tired of other people deciding what's best for Harry Potter. Tired of being shuffled around like a chess piece for the 'greater good.' For once in my life, I want to make my own choice about where I belong."
Sirius was watching him carefully. "Harry, are you absolutely sure about this? Life on the run isn't easy. We'd be looking over our shoulders constantly, never staying in one place too long..."
"Sounds better than going back to Privet Drive for the summer," Harry said flatly.
"The Dursleys can't be that—" Hermione began, then stopped at the look on Harry's face.
"Can't be that what, Hermione?" Harry's voice was dangerously quiet. "Can't be that bad? Let me tell you about my relatives, since apparently the 'brightest witch of our generation' couldn't figure it out in three years of friendship."
Hermione flinched as if he'd slapped her, but Harry pressed on, the words pouring out like poison from a wound.
"I sleep in a cupboard under the stairs. Well, I did until I got my Hogwarts letter—then they moved me to Dudley's second bedroom, and even that was like a gift from the gods compared to what I was used to. I do all the cooking, all the cleaning, all the yard work. If I burn the bacon or the garden isn't perfect, I don't eat. Sometimes I don't eat anyway, just because they feel like reminding me how much they hate having me around."
Sirius had gone very, very still, and there was something building behind his gray eyes that looked like murder.
"Vernon Dursley hits me," Harry continued, his voice becoming more matter-of-fact, which somehow made it worse. "Not often, and not where it would show—he's not stupid. But often enough. Petunia prefers psychological torture. Making sure I know how much they despise everything about me, everything about my parents, everything about the world I belong to."
"Harry..." Hermione's voice was barely a whisper, and he could smell tears on her even before he saw them rolling down her cheeks.
"The bars on my windows in second year weren't to keep me safe, Hermione. They were to keep me *in*. A prisoner in what everyone keeps calling my 'home.'" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Do you know what my greatest fear is? What I see when I look at a Boggart?"
She shook her head, unable to speak.
"A Dementor. Because for a few seconds, I actually thought I might rather have my soul sucked out than go back to that house. That's how much my 'family' loves me."
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the sounds of the search parties seemed muted, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
"Those bastards," Sirius whispered, and his voice carried a promise of violence that made Buckbeak shift nervously. "Those absolute bastards. James and Lily died to protect you, and they—" He couldn't finish the sentence.
Hermione was crying openly now, her shoulders shaking. "I should have known," she sobbed. "I should have *seen* it. All those times you were so thin at the start of term, the way you never talked about your summers, how you never wanted to go home for holidays... How could I not have realized?"
"Because I didn't want you to," Harry said gently, the anger leaving his voice as quickly as it had come. "Because I was ashamed. Because I thought maybe I deserved it."
"You NEVER deserved it," Sirius snarled, and Harry was reminded that his godfather had spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit. If anyone understood injustice, it was Sirius Black. "Harry, if you want to come with me, then that's exactly what we're going to do. But first..."
"First?"
"First, we're going to Gringotts." Sirius's grin was sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. "You're a Potter, and the Potters have been one of the wealthiest families in wizarding Britain for centuries. It's time you learned exactly what that means."
"I have money," Harry said, confused. "I saw the vault when Hagrid took me to Diagon Alley—"
"That was your trust vault," Sirius interrupted. "Your pocket money. Harry, your parents left you *everything*. Properties, investments, enough gold to buy a small country. And more importantly, enough influence to make Minister Fudge think twice about trying to arrest you."
Harry stared at him. "You're joking."
"I never joke about money," Sirius said solemnly, then immediately ruined it by grinning. "All right, I frequently joke about money. But not this time. The Potter family vault hasn't been opened since the night your parents died. It's all still there, waiting for you."
"But why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Because certain people wanted to keep you dependent," Hermione said quietly, wiping her eyes. Her voice was thick with shame and anger—at herself, Harry realized, not at him. "Keep you grateful for whatever scraps they threw you."
"Well, no more," Sirius declared, standing up and brushing dirt off his tattered prison robes. "We're going to collect what's rightfully yours, set up proper legal protections, and then find somewhere safe for both of us to figure out what comes next."
Harry felt something ease in his chest—a tension he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying for years. "You really want me with you?"
"Harry," Sirius said, his voice becoming serious, "you're all I have left of James and Lily. You're my godson, which means you're as good as my own child in every way that matters. If you want to come with me, then wild hippogriffs couldn't keep you away."
Buckbeak chose that moment to let out an indignant squawk, as if to say he was perfectly tame, thank you very much.
"Present company excepted," Sirius amended with a grin.
Harry turned to Hermione, who was still crying silently. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "For what I said about not figuring it out. That wasn't fair."
"No, it was," she replied, scrubbing at her eyes. "I pride myself on being observant, on caring about my friends, and I completely failed you. I was so busy thinking about grades and rules and... and I missed what was right in front of me."
"You couldn't have known because I worked very hard to make sure you didn't," Harry said firmly. "That's not your fault, Hermione. That's mine."
"It's not your fault either," she said fiercely. "None of it is your fault. Not the Dursleys, not being bitten, not having to run away. None of it."
Harry felt his enhanced senses pick up the approach of footsteps—still distant, but getting closer. "We need to go," he said. "They're expanding the search pattern."
Sirius nodded, then pointed his borrowed wand toward Gryffindor Tower. "Accio Harry's belongings!"
"Sirius, you can't just—" Hermione began, but she was cut off as the air filled with the sound of objects flying through the night sky. Harry's trunk came first, followed by his Firebolt, his invisibility cloak, several books, his photo album, and what looked like every single possession he owned, all soaring through the darkness to land in a neat pile beside them.
"How did you know which things were mine?" Harry asked, impressed despite himself.
"Magic recognizes ownership," Sirius explained, shrinking the pile with a few quick spells and stuffing everything into Harry's now pocket-sized trunk. "Plus, I may have been a bit... enthusiastic with the summoning. Pretty sure I just grabbed everything that had your magical signature on it."
"Brilliant," Harry grinned. "I hope that includes the Marauder's Map."
"It better, because that map has sentimental value," Sirius said, helping Harry climb onto Buckbeak's back. "I helped create the bloody thing."
Harry settled himself behind Sirius, then looked down at Hermione. She seemed very small suddenly, standing alone by the lake with tears still drying on her cheeks.
"Will I see you again?" she asked quietly.
"Of course you will," Harry said firmly. "This isn't goodbye forever, Hermione. This is just... goodbye for now."
"You'd better write," she said, trying to smile. "Both of you. I want to know you're safe."
"We will," Sirius promised. "And Hermione... thank you. For everything. For believing Harry, for helping us escape, for being the kind of friend who risks time travel to save people she cares about."
"Just... take care of him," she whispered. "He's been through enough."
"I will," Sirius said solemnly, and there was a weight to the words that made them feel like a sacred vow.
Buckbeak spread his massive wings, sensing it was time to go. Harry looked back at Hogwarts one last time—at the castle that had been the first place he'd ever felt at home, at the towers and turrets that held three years' worth of memories both wonderful and terrible.
"Ready?" Sirius asked.
Harry thought about everything he was leaving behind, and everything he was flying toward. An uncertain future, but one where he would finally have someone who wanted him around. Where he could make his own choices about his life.
His serpentine eyes caught the first rays of dawn breaking over the Forbidden Forest, and he smiled.
"I'm ready."
Buckbeak launched himself into the sky with a powerful thrust of his wings, carrying them up and away from Hogwarts, toward whatever came next. Below them, Hermione watched until they disappeared into the morning mist, then wiped her eyes and began the long walk back to the castle.
She had a feeling that when Harry Potter returned to the wizarding world, things were going to be very, very different.
And maybe, she thought as she watched the sun rise over the lake, that wasn't such a bad thing after all.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!