Chapter 209: The Invisibility Cloak
"Remus Lupin?"
A flicker of surprise crossed Albus Dumbledore's face.
It had been a long time since he'd heard that name.
"That should be it," Russell nodded.
"But I'm not entirely convinced by Sirius's description," he added, frowning slightly. "He doesn't really look like a wizard. More like… someone else."
"Like a drifter?" Dumbledore finished calmly.
"Exactly. A drifter."
Russell felt the word fit perfectly.
Dumbledore's smile faded, replaced by something quieter—heavier.
"He has his reasons," he said softly.
"I once extended him an invitation… but he declined."
After a brief pause, Dumbledore looked at Russell again.
"Would you do something for me?"
"Of course, Professor," Russell replied with a shrug. "Happy to help."
In the next moment, something appeared at Dumbledore's fingertips—
a piece of fabric shimmering with soft, silvery light.
Under the moon, it rippled like water, as if strands of starlight had been woven into its threads.
He folded it carefully and placed it into Russell's hands.
The moment it touched his skin, it felt like the chill of first snow—cool, smooth, and strangely alive.
"Leave it at the foot of Harry's bed."
"No problem."
Russell didn't show even a trace of greed.
Yes, this was one of the Deathly Hallows—the legendary Invisibility Cloak.
But to him?
It wasn't all that impressive.
Compared to a well-cast Disillusionment Charm, its practical advantage wasn't overwhelming.
As for its supposed ability to "hide from Death"—
Russell wasn't convinced.
Unless you wore it every second of your life, the moment you took it off… Death would still find you.
Among the three Hallows, this one might very well be the least extraordinary.
Just as he was about to leave, Dumbledore added one last reminder:
"And Russell—don't forget to tell Sirius… that Regulus Black will be coming home soon."
By the time they returned, it was already deep into the night.
Yet the Black family residence remained brightly lit—
as if no one inside had even considered going to sleep.
When they stepped inside, they found everyone gathered around the table.
A spread of desserts—brought back by Hermione—sat untouched in the center. It was obvious they'd been waiting, saving everything until Russell and Wednesday returned.
"Oh, you went to that shop too?" Russell said, pulling out the pastries they'd brought back and placing them alongside the others.
"Why are you two so late?"
Sirius shot him a teasing look, then glanced at Wednesday with a crooked grin.
"Couldn't bear to come back, huh?"
"…Not even close."
Russell shook his head.
"Wednesday and I just saved the world."
He paused, then amended casually,
"Alright, maybe that's a bit exaggerated. But saving Britain? That's about right."
Judging by their expressions—no one believed a word of it.
So Russell simply told them everything that had happened.
After all, it would be all over the Daily Prophet in a few days anyway.
"You're saying dark wizards tried to use fireworks as a cover for an attack?" Sirius's expression darkened, a trace of unease flashing through his eyes.
"You two are insane… that was far too dangerous."
"Grindelwald? Who's that?"
Harry and the others looked confused. They were too young to fully grasp the name.
Even for Sirius and Remus, that era felt distant—but at least they knew enough.
"Grindelwald," Sirius said slowly, "was the Dark Lord before You-Know-Who."
"He was defeated by Dumbledore decades ago."
He stopped there.
There was no point telling them more.
Then Russell smiled, as if remembering something.
"Oh—and one more piece of good news."
"Regulus is alive. He'll probably be back tomorrow."
For a heartbeat, Sirius froze.
Then—
"That's… that's incredible!"
The joy on his face was unmistakable, almost overwhelming.
Lupin, on the other hand, looked completely stunned.
"Regulus? But… he's been dead for years."
Once Russell explained the truth, Lupin fell silent—then nodded slowly, a trace of admiration in his eyes.
That night, Harry dreamed.
It had been a long time since he last did.
The dream began softly—
with cornflowers on the kitchen windowsill, their blue-violet petals swaying gently to the lullaby sung by Lily Potter.
Sunlight filtered through enchanted curtains, casting shifting golden patterns across the wooden table.
James Potter sat there, wand in hand, sketching smiling faces onto slices of toast. Melted butter seeped into the bread, forming perfect, curved grins.
Three-year-old Harry sat in a high chair, his small feet kicking against the rail decorated with tiny Golden Snitches.
A scarf Lily had sewn hung around his neck as he poked curiously at a floating glass of orange juice.
When Lily turned, her red hair brushed the stove, and the self-stirring spoon quickened, blending the pea soup into a smooth swirl.
Outside, diapers danced along the clothesline.
James ran through the garden with a handmade child's broom, scattering crows that had been pecking at strawberries.
"Hold on tight!"
He lifted Harry onto the front of the broomstick, sitting behind him on a padded seat. The oak-wood handle still smelled faintly of fresh resin.
"Let's try flying."
They glided forward—just a little faster than walking—over a field of daisies.
At bedtime, Harry curled up in James's Quidditch robes while his parents took turns telling stories of the magical world.
At midnight, vines grew up the crib posts, blooming into moonlit flowers that carried a gentle, sleep-inducing scent.
The dream shifted.
Eight-year-old Harry, attempting Floo Powder for the first time—mispronouncing "The Burrow" as something entirely wrong.
He tumbled out covered in soot, crashing into a pile of blankets in the Weasley attic—and startling a ghoul banging on pipes.
Both screamed.
"Harry? What are you doing here?"
Ron popped his head out, wide-eyed.
"Mum made biscuits!"
Ron dragged him downstairs. In the garden, Molly Weasley was roasting sweet pastries over the fire.
Arthur Weasley proudly showed Harry his modified car—
"Look at this!"
At the flick of a switch, extra hands appeared on the windshield, scrubbing it energetically.
Later, while Molly scolded the twins for adding swelling solution to pumpkin juice, Harry and Ron built a miniature Hogwarts castle in the chicken coop.
Another shift.
Harry's tenth birthday.
Sirius used a biting Portkey—a Black family ring—to bring him to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.
Kreacher clutched a moldy cake and burst into tears.
"Young Master's hair… just like Master Regulus's curls!"
Despite the cold reception from Sirius's mother, it had still been a wonderful day.
Christmas Eve before his eleventh birthday—
Lily took him to Hogsmeade for the "Holly and Mistletoe Market."
Outside Zonko's Joke Shop, Rubeus Hagrid handed out slugs that transformed into Santa hats.
On the way home, James turned a broomstick into a sleigh, diving from the roof of the Shrieking Shack with Harry laughing in front of him.
Everything in the dream was warm.
Bright.
Perfect.
And impossibly distant.