The Hogwarts Express, hissing with steam like a giant red steel serpent, rested at Hogsmeade Station, ready to carry the students away for the long summer holiday.
The platform was crowded, filled with noise and energy.
Suitcase wheels rattled over the rough ground, owls hooted impatiently in their cages, and students gathered in small groups, loudly discussing their summer plans, exchanging addresses, or hugging one another before the brief separation.
Exam results had already been forgotten. The air was filled with a long-awaited sense of freedom.
"Your dad can get the tickets, right, Ron?"
"Probably… he said this one's bigger than ever before!"
"Brilliant! Ireland against Bulgaria! Krum's playing too!"
Even Hermione, though not as obsessed with Quidditch as they were, smiled. "It really is a grand event. The Ministry of Magic's Department of Magical Games and Sports says it will be the largest attendance in history."
Fred and George Weasley walked arm in arm, their faces bright with irrepressible satisfaction. Though their O.W.L. results might not have been impressive, they had passed the required subjects.
That alone was enough for them to declare a "great success" and to begin planning their joke shop with renewed enthusiasm.
"Just a bit of creativity," Fred said, winking at a curious Lee Jordan. "The examiners clearly appreciated our practical approach."
"Especially our Portable Swamp," George added. "Though they did make us clear it up afterward."
In sharp contrast stood their older brother, Percy.
He stood upright, his expression full of pride and seriousness.
He had passed all his N.E.W.T.s with excellent results.
Naturally, this was exactly what he had expected, but it did not stop him from announcing it.
"I have already received an official offer from the Ministry of Magic," he declared to anyone who would listen, and even to those who would not. "The Department of International Magical Cooperation, Mr. Crouch's office. A most promising position, and I am confident I will make a proper contribution to the Ministry."
"Yes, Mr. Crouch personally wrote to confirm my N.E.W.T. results. He mentioned that the Department of International Magical Cooperation requires capable young witches and wizards with a strong academic background. I believe this is an excellent beginning…"
Not far away, Fred and George had already begun imitating Percy's stiff posture and pompous manner of speaking, exaggerating every detail to comic effect.
"I believe, I solemnly and formally declare," Fred squeaked, pretending to adjust an invisible badge, "that I shall write a detailed report for the Ministry of Magic on how to polish badges more effectively!"
George immediately followed, equally serious. "It is my duty, my dear brother, to ensure the parchment for this report is thick enough to match the unparalleled weight of its contents!"
A group of Gryffindor students nearby burst into laughter.
Ron's face turned slightly red, half amused, half embarrassed for his brother.
Ginny, meanwhile, laughed without restraint, clutching her stomach.
It was Professor McGonagall who finally put an end to the scene.
She was, as always, dressed in emerald-green robes, her hair impeccably neat. Her sharp gaze swept across the platform as she occasionally nodded to a student or gave brief instructions.
"Potter, I hope you will at least look over your Transfiguration notes during the holidays…"
"Messrs. Weasley, I trust your experiments will not disturb the entire village of Ottery St Catchpole…"
"Do not forget to practice your spells. And take proper care of your wands."
The most noticeable presence was Hagrid.
He stood near the entrance, his massive frame nearly blocking it as he called out, "Goodbye, Harry! Goodbye, Ron! Hermione! Remember to write to me!"
He grew emotional, blowing his nose loudly into a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth, his voice thick with feeling. "Another year gone… you've all grown up…"
When he spotted Percy, he called out just as loudly, "Congratulations, Percy! Excellent results! Your mum must be so proud of you!"
Percy accepted the congratulations somewhat stiffly. He seemed to find Hagrid's booming voice lacking in dignity, though his own was hardly quiet.
The whistle sounded, long and clear, and the train slowly began to move. The outline of Hogwarts Castle grew distant, gradually fading until it disappeared behind the mountains.
The school year had come to an end.
…
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, the old House of Black.
This ancient residence seemed forever steeped in a dim twilight, and a lingering musty scent filled the air.
Dust drifted slowly in the dim light that filtered through the gaps in the heavy curtains. Apart from Harry's room, the rest of the house was always coated in dust.
Even so, Harry and Sirius found a strange kind of happiness there, a long-lost sense of family born from freedom and companionship.
Except for…
"Filthy blood traitor! Bringing that whelp to defile the noble House of Black!"
Kreacher's malicious curses echoed from the corners, and whenever he saw Harry and Sirius, his bulging eyes filled with hatred.
"Shut up, Kreacher!"
Sirius would roar, but the house-elf only shot back an even more venomous glare before slamming a door and disappearing.
Kreacher never openly disobeyed Sirius, yet his hateful eyes constantly followed them, muttering the foulest insults under his breath.
Lunchtime was usually the start of a minor confrontation.
"Kreacher!"
Sirius would shout impatiently down the corridor. "Bring some food. No spitting, no undercooking, no deliberately making it inedible. And none of that stew that's as tough as dragon hide."
Moments later, with a soft pop, Kreacher would appear, carrying a silver tray with a few poorly sliced pieces of cold meat and some dry bread, none of it particularly appetizing.
He would slam the tray down on the table, sending dust into the air.
"The blood traitor and his whelp deserve nothing better," Kreacher muttered toward the wall. "The stores of the noble House of Black are not meant for feeding…"
"Enough! Either cook properly, or I'll lock you and that madwoman's portrait in the cellar!"
Sirius snapped, flicking his wand to soften the bread and warm the meat.
Harry tried to say thank you, but Kreacher only glared at him with even greater disgust before vanishing with another pop, usually muttering, "Hypocritical whelp, trying to deceive noble Kreacher with false politeness…"
"Don't pay attention to him, Harry," Sirius said, pushing the plate over with visible annoyance. "He's always been like this. My mother made him that way. Eat up. This afternoon I'll teach you that spell that makes Flobberworms explode. It'll be far more interesting than this."
Cleaning was even worse.
Sirius was fairly skilled with cleaning spells, but he lacked patience.
More often than not, a spell meant to clean a rug would leave half the furniture in the sitting room covered in a strange pink fluff.
"Blast it!"
Sirius muttered, trying to undo the spell.
At that moment, Kreacher would appear out of nowhere, frantically polishing the nearest piece of silver with a rag so filthy its original colour was unrecognisable, all while wailing, "Oh, my poor Mistress, look at what has become of your home! The blood traitor defiles the glory of Black with his filthy hands and clumsy magic!"
"I'm trying to clean, you idiot!"
"Kreacher does not need to clean! Kreacher must guard! Guard Mistress's house from defilement!"
The house-elf shrieked, polishing the silver with even greater force, nearly bending it out of shape.
Caught in the middle, Harry often felt completely out of place.
He tried to help. For instance, he once attempted to clear the cobwebs from the mantelpiece with "Whirlwind Sweep," only to send decades' worth of dust flying straight into his and Sirius's faces, leaving them coughing violently.
Kreacher would then let out a choked, triumphant cackle.
Despite all this, Harry felt a sense of satisfaction he had never experienced before.
He could use his wand freely, practising spells under Sirius's guidance without worrying about the Dursleys' shouting or Dudley's mockery.
The sitting room was often lit with flashes of magic.
Harry devoted particular attention to the Patronus Charm, the powerful spell Professor Lupin had taught him to repel Dementors.
"Expecto Patronum!"
He focused all his thoughts, recalling the feeling of his first flight on a broom, the moment he won the Quidditch Cup, and the unwavering support of his friends.
A bright, silvery mist burst from the tip of his wand, like a warm lamp dispelling the gloom of the room and bringing a strong sense of security.
But it still failed to take on a definite shape.
"That's very good, Harry," Sirius said, leaning against the doorframe, a proud yet slightly wistful smile on his face. "Much better than I was at your age. Wait a moment…"
That afternoon, Sirius brought out an old trunk filled with photographs and various items from his school days.
Most of the photographs moved, showing four spirited young men—James, Sirius, Lupin, and the traitor, Peter Pettigrew.
The four stood arm in arm, pulling faces at the camera, while James showed off his new broom.
Harry traced his father's youthful, lively face in the photo, a complicated mix of emotions rising in his chest: longing, pride, and a deep sense of loss.
In the corner of one picture, he even spotted a red-haired girl with a stern expression throwing a book at James.
"Your dad would be incredibly proud if he could see you now."
Sirius's voice was slightly hoarse. He picked up a group photo of the four of them, his gaze lingering on it for a long time.
That night, Harry lay in bed, the laughter of his father and godfather from the photographs echoing in his mind. He thought of Sirius finally being free, and of himself finally having a place he could truly call home, despite the presence of the hostile house-elf.
A steady, comforting warmth gathered in his chest, different from the thrill of victory on the Quidditch pitch. This was deeper, lasting.
Almost unconsciously, he reached for his wand.
"Expecto Patronum."
He did not shout, only whispered the words.
This time, it was no longer a formless mist.
Light burst forth, bright and radiant, rapidly gathering and stretching before his eyes until it took shape—a graceful, majestic silver doe.
It radiated a pure and powerful energy, moving lightly through the room, its glow illuminating every corner. Even the gloomy faces in the portraits of the Black family seemed stunned into silence by the light.
The doe lowered its head, as if standing guard over Harry, then dissolved into countless shimmering silver sparks that slowly faded away.
Harry drew in a sharp breath, staring at the tip of his wand in disbelief, his heart filled with a deep sense of accomplishment and an indescribable wonder.
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