The air at breakfast was thick with the energy of freedom. Students buzzed around the Great Hall with the kind of joy only winter break could bring. Snow tapped gently against the tall windows, and warm steam rose from mugs of pumpkin juice and cocoa.
Ron stabbed a sausage with unnecessary force. "One goal this break: not get turned into a guinea pig by Fred and George."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Is that something they're actively trying to do?"
"They say it's for a prank calendar they're working on," Ron grumbled. "Last year it was singing sweaters. I still wake up in cold sweats when I hear O Come All Ye Hippogriffs."
Hermione shook her head fondly. "I'm going home, of course. I've been meaning to reread Encyclopaedia of Magical Theory, but I found a Muggle book on elemental symbology too. Thought I'd compare them."
Ron stared. "You're reading two encyclopedias over Christmas?"
"They're for different magical frameworks, Ronald," she said, as if explaining the concept of fire to a caveman.
Harry smiled into his cocoa. "I'll be spending the break with Sirius."
That made both of them pause.
"You will?" Hermione asked gently. "That's… brilliant."
Ron leaned in. "Where?"
"I don't know yet," Harry said honestly. "He said he'll meet me at the station and we will go from there. It's all a bit hush-hush, I guess."
Ron gave a satisfied nod. "Still. Way better than the Dursleys."
Harry's smile didn't fade. "Yeah. Way better."
The Hogwarts Express whistled sharply as students piled onto the platform in a rush of scarves, steam, and owls.
Inside their compartment, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had barely settled in when the door slid open.
"Mind if I join you?" Neville asked, already juggling Trevor and his trunk.
"Of course!" said Hermione, scooting over.
Neville plopped down, looking relieved. "Gran double-checked my packing three times this morning. Told me I'd forget my wand if it wasn't in my hand."
Ginny followed him in, dragging a bag of sweets. "Neville's trunk tried to eat his foot. I saw it."
Neville turned bright red. "It got caught on a shoe buckle!"
The compartment filled quickly with laughter and wrappers as Ron dug into a box of Cauldron Cakes. Ginny passed around fizzing sherbet balls, and Trevor croaked loudly when Ron accidentally sat on him.
After the laughter ebbed a little, Harry glanced at Neville's wand. It looked more bent than usual—still the same one, still his father's.
"Neville," he asked, "have you ever thought about getting your own wand?"
Neville blinked. "But this one's fine. Gran says it's good enough—Dad used it."
"I know," Harry said gently. "But that's kind of the thing. It chose your dad, not you."
Neville's face tensed, defensive. "I'm not trying to replace him."
"I didn't say you were," Harry replied calmly. "I just think maybe your magic would come through clearer with a wand that actually fits you. That's not failing your dad. That's being your best self."
Neville looked at the wand in his hand. His fingers curled around it slowly. "Gran wouldn't be happy."
"You can still be respectful," Harry said. "But maybe it's time to start making your own choices."
Neville didn't respond, but he didn't argue either.
Ron, having missed most of the exchange, kicked his feet up. "Alright! Exploding Snap, anyone?"
"Only if you promise not to set anything literally on fire this time," Ginny warned.
As cards and laughter flew, Harry glanced back at Neville. He was staring out the window, wand resting in his lap, but his grip was lighter now. More thoughtful.
Outside, snow streaked past, the sky growing brighter.
The train screeched to a halt at Platform 9¾, and clouds of steam hissed around the carriages as students poured out in a blur of coats and trunks.
"Mum!" Ginny shouted, dashing into Mrs. Weasley's arms. Ron followed close behind, greeted with a loud fuss from his mother and a cheerful handshake from Mr. Weasley.
Harry stepped off the train a little slower, eyes scanning the crowd until he spotted him.
Sirius stood near the edge of the platform, tall and unmistakable even in Muggle clothes, looking oddly at ease for someone still legally presumed to be on the run. He gave Harry a crooked grin the moment their eyes met.
Beside him stood Professor Lupin—Remus—still in his travel-worn robes, his patched satchel slung across one shoulder. He gave Harry a small nod and a warm smile, one that said I'm glad you're alright without needing words.
Harry walked up, trying to look casual.
"Ready for your first Christmas away from the Dursleys?" Sirius asked, pulling him into a hug before Harry could respond.
Harry stiffened for only a second, then leaned into it. "More than ready."
Remus stepped forward once they broke apart. "I'll leave you two, then," he said gently. "Enjoy the break, Harry. I'll see you in January."
"Thanks, Professor," Harry said, then added, "Happy Christmas."
"And to you."
With one last look—part teacher, part quiet guardian—Remus turned and melted into the crowd.
Sirius leaned in, lowering his voice. "Alright. Ready to go?"
"Where to?"
"You'll see." Sirius grinned and offered his arm.
Harry grasped it, and with a sharp pull and a whoosh of air, they Disapparated.
They landed with a soft crack on a quiet street in London. Snow blanketed the pavement, muffling the sounds of the city. Harry turned, taking in the narrow, grimy row of Georgian townhouses.
Sirius handed him a folded bit of parchment. "Read this. But don't say it out loud."
Harry opened it and read the single line:
The home of Sirius Black is located at 12 Grimmauld Place, London.
As soon as he finished reading, a house materialized between numbers 11 and 13, pushing the others apart as if it had been hidden in plain sight. Number 12 stood there now — dark stone, sooty windows, and a black door with no knocker.
Sirius tucked the parchment away. "Welcome to the ancestral home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Try not to gag."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"
"You'll see."
They stepped up the stairs, and as Sirius unlocked the door with a flick of his wand, it creaked open with a groan of protest. The inside smelled of dust, old wood, and something faintly rotten — like a house that hadn't been lived in for years.
The entrance hall was dimly lit by a flickering gas lamp. Heavy curtains covered the windows. An umbrella stand shaped like a troll's leg stood in the corner.
"Don't touch anything without checking with me first," Sirius muttered. "Some of it bites. Literally."
Harry followed him in, his eyes scanning the ancient wallpaper, the threadbare carpet, and the large, covered portraits that lined the hall. Something skittered in the shadows.
"You live here?" Harry asked, incredulous.
Sirius laughed, dry and humorless. "No. Not if I can help it. But it's the only place I have for now. Figured it was better than bunking in a cave somewhere."
Harry didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He'd slept in a cupboard for eleven years. At least Sirius was here.
"Come on," Sirius said. "Let's find you a room that doesn't scream pure-blood supremacy and maybe some sheets that don't smell like mothballs."
The door groaned shut behind them, sealing the world away.
As Harry followed Sirius deeper into the gloomy halls of Grimmauld Place, the silence was shattered by a sudden, earsplitting shriek.
"BLOOD TRAITOR! DISGRACE! FILTH IN MY HOUSE!"
Harry flinched back, wand slipping onto his hand. On the wall beside the staircase, a large, moth-eaten curtain had been ripped aside, revealing a portrait of a regal, hook-nosed woman with a face twisted in rage.
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Mother dearest."
The portrait of Walburga Black continued to shriek insults in a high, furious voice until Sirius silenced her with a flick of his wand and a practiced curse. The curtain drew back over her frame with a snap.
Before Harry could recover from the noise, a low, croaky voice piped up from behind him.
"Master returns to the house of his fathers… bringing filth and half-bloods and—"
A withered house-elf in a stained tea towel stood glowering at them from the shadows. His bat-like ears drooped, and his bloodshot eyes glared at Sirius with a mix of contempt and misplaced loyalty.
"Kreacher," Sirius said coldly. "Do us all a favour and disappear."
Kreacher bowed low, muttering something about disgraces to the Noble House of Black, and shuffled off down the corridor, still whispering darkly.
Harry glanced at Sirius, who looked ready to snap but didn't. "You okay?"
"Don't waste energy on him," Sirius muttered. "He's half-senile and fully unpleasant. Come on — I'll show you your room."
They climbed another flight of creaking stairs to the third floor. Sirius pushed open a door to the right.
"This used to be Regulus's. My younger brother," he said, voice unreadable.
The room was... immaculate. Clean floors, dust-free shelves, and a carefully made bed. Silver and green lined the walls, but it was subdued — tasteful, not loud. Books sat neatly on the shelves, some on potion theory, others on magical history. A shelf of Quidditch magazines surprised Harry.
"I've never touched it," Sirius said quietly. "But someone's been keeping it up. Probably Kreacher. He was always loyal to Regulus."
Harry stepped in, half expecting the cold of Slytherin pride, but instead he felt a strange stillness. The room didn't feel unfriendly — just frozen in time.
After dropping off his trunk, he joined Sirius back in the main hall.
There, a heap of objects lay spread across a threadbare rug: a cracked music box, dusty framed photographs, grimy jewelry, a tarnished silver goblet, and—
A locket.
Harry's eyes narrowed. Something about it tugged at his memory. It was heavy-looking, ornate, with a snake-like S engraved into the metal — an unmistakable sign of Slytherin.
"Where'd this come from?" he asked, pointing at it.
"Dunno," Sirius said, poking at a blackened spoon. "Found it in the drawing room cabinet behind a bunch of family heirlooms. Most of this stuff is cursed or useless. Planning to chuck it all."
There was something… wrong about it.
His hand moved toward it before he could stop himself. The moment his fingers brushed the cold metal, a sensation surged through him—like ice water in his veins, or a scream muffled underwater. He jerked his hand back, heart thudding.
Harry crouched, staring at the locket.
That feeling—he knew it. Or rather… something in him did. A memory not entirely his own whispered warnings. This wasn't just cursed. It wasn't just dark magic.
It was fractured. Hollow. Hungry.
A Horcrux.
"Sirius," he said slowly, "are you really going to throw all this away?"
Sirius glanced over his shoulder. "Why? Want to save any of it? Be my guest. I was just going to have Kreacher burn the lot."
Harry nodded absently. "Maybe I'll take this one." He held up the locket.
Sirius shrugged. "If you want a bit of Pureblood junk, sure."
He slipped the locket into his pocket and felt its weight press against his leg like a burden.