The next few days passed in a blur as Harry spent his winter break with Sirius. It wasn't perfect—there were the usual hiccups—but overall, it was… good. It was refreshing for Harry, and probably the thing he needed right now.
As promised, Sirius had started teaching him how to Apparate—at least within the bounds of Grimmauld Place. He'd temporarily lowered the anti-Apparition wards around the house, muttering about how the Ministry could shove its training timeline as long as Harry didn't splinch himself.
They started with the basics—the so-called "Three D's" of Apparition: Destination, Determination, and Deliberation.
Sirius had paced the old drawing room as he explained it, "You've got to picture where you want to go," he'd said. "Not just vaguely. You need to see it in your mind—every detail, as clear as a memory. That's your Destination."
Then he tapped Harry lightly on the forehead. "You need to want it. Not hope. Not maybe. Want. That's Determination."
And finally, he'd folded his arms. "And you've got to mean it. No second-guessing mid-jump. No hesitation. Be deliberate, Harry. That's the last D."
The first few tries went about as well as expected—meaning not great. Harry managed to splinch himself more than once. First time, he lost an eyebrow. Second time, a toenail. Sirius winced more than Harry did, muttering about "classic beginner mishaps" and tossing him a salve.
But with time, things started to click.
Harry finally managed to Apparate cleanly from the drawing room to his bedroom and back again without leaving any bits behind. He practiced it a few more times until the disorientation faded and the transitions became smooth, even instinctive. He wouldn't call himself good, exactly—but he could do it.
--Apparation(Novice) raised by 7 levels--
--Apparation(Novice): 0 -> 7--
On the other hand, his study of dark magic had progressed by leaps and bounds. Who would've thought that staying in the Black family home would be great for learning the Dark Arts?
Some of the books he'd found tucked away in the darker corners of Regulus's room made his stomach churn. Not the flashy stuff—the Unforgivables or showy ritual magic banned because it left a corpse—but the quiet, insidious kinds of spells that didn't look evil until you understood what they actually did.
There were potions designed to erode a person's sense of self over time, slipping under their skin like poison in the bloodstream. Magic that rewired memory so subtly the victim wouldn't even realize they were being reshaped, their thoughts and choices no longer their own. Blood rituals woven into legal documents—inheritance traps that didn't just steal wealth, but lineage and identity. One spell, scribbled in the margins in what looked like a teenager's tidy hand, described how to tether a person's loyalty to a family line using their own heartbeat as the anchor.
It was disturbing. Not in the "evil laugh and flashy green light" way, but in the this was probably used by actual people with families way. The kind of magic that left no scars on the outside but hollowed something out inside.
These weren't battlefield spells. These were tools used at weddings, at christenings, in courtrooms and vaults. Magic passed down like silverware. He'd flipped a page and found a diagram explaining how to bind a squib to a magical heir, siphoning ambient magic over years like a slow bleed.
He'd snapped the book shut and stared at the Black crest embossed on the cover, its silver lines gleaming like a mockery.
Harry had always known that Dark Magic was… well, dark. But this was something else. This was systemic. Cold. Clinical. Not just about power—but about ownership, about control, about breaking someone so cleanly that they didn't even realize they'd been broken.
It made him feel sick. But also… awake.
There was a reason Dumbledore kept warning people that the Dark Arts changed you. Not always in a big, flashy way. Sometimes, it just wore you down. Made you stop flinching at the things that should horrify you. Made you start asking how instead of why.
Harry didn't want to be that person.
But he couldn't pretend it wasn't useful.
It helped him understand how Dark wizards thought—what made them tick, what drove them. It wasn't pleasant, but it felt like a necessary evil. He was going to have to fight one of the strongest, most vile Dark wizards in history, after all.
Occlumency, thankfully, helped. It dulled the edge, kept him steady when some of the things he read started to sink in a little too deep. It gave him distance—enough to remind himself why he was learning all this in the first place.
So when the Tonkses came over for New Year's, it felt like someone had cracked open a window and let in fresh air.
Andromeda arrived first—elegant, composed, and sharp-eyed in a way that reminded Harry a bit of Professor McGonagall if she'd grown up in a Pureblood manor with nicer robes. She gave Sirius a long, exasperated look that somehow communicated both affection and years of family drama in a single glance.
Ted Tonks followed, lugging in a box of what turned out to be Muggle fireworks and laughing like he was sneaking sweets into a restricted section. And then there was Tonks herself—hair neon blue today, jacket half-zipped, and already mid-stumble over the umbrella stand.
"Happy almost New Year, wotcher!" she grinned, picking herself up and giving Harry a hug that smelled like peppermint and mischief.
Sirius was grinning from the moment they stepped inside. Grimmauld Place didn't feel so heavy with them around. The dust and old portraits were still there, but for once, they didn't seem to matter.
They played Exploding Snap and a few rounds of some weird Muggle board game Ted brought, which had way too many rules and ended with someone charming the pieces to duel each other. Tonks, true to form, turned every mistake into a dramatic spectacle. At one point, she tried to toast with butterbeer and tripped into a side table, setting off half the fireworks early in the kitchen.
By the time midnight rolled around, they were outside in the tiny back garden, bundled in cloaks and scarves, watching Ted's fireworks explode in the sky. Andromeda had conjured floating lanterns, soft gold and swaying gently overhead, while Sirius and Tonks competed over who could light the loudest one.
Harry stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, cold nipping at his nose—and for the first time in a long while, he felt... okay. Not fixed. Not safe. But okay.
He didn't know what the rest of the year would bring. But for now, there were people laughing around him, and that was enough.
But every good thing had to come to an end, and so did the winter break.
Harry was nearly finished packing when he decided to head downstairs—this time by Apparition. He'd practiced enough to risk it, and it felt oddly satisfying to pop into the hallway like Sirius always did, instead of trudging down the creaky stairs.
Sirius was already waiting in the sitting room, leaning against the mantelpiece with a mug of tea and a look that was just a little too casual to be natural.
"You're getting good at that," he said, eyeing Harry's arrival. "Didn't even leave an ear behind."
"Thanks," Harry said, grinning. "Figured I should show off before heading back to school. Got to keep expectations unrealistically high."
Sirius smiled, though it was tinged with something faintly sad. "Wish you could stay longer. This place… it's less of a tomb when you're around."
Harry shrugged, trying to keep it light. "I'll be back after the term ends. Try not to blow anything up till then."
"No promises."
They shared a look—half teasing, half unspoken—and then, without much fuss, Sirius asked.
"You ready for a long-distance jump?"
Harry hesitated only a second before agreeing. "Born ready."
With a crack, they vanished.
Apparating all the way to King's Cross was intense—loud in his skull, cold in his bones, and heavy like swimming through fog—but Harry managed to land upright. Wobbly, yes, but upright. He staggered once before Sirius caught his shoulder, steadying him with a low chuckle.
"Not bad. You didn't splinch, you didn't pass out, and the Ministry didn't show up to scold us. Honestly, I'm proud."
Apparating from the exact same place and within Sirius's magical signature had masked Harry's spell—just another blip in Sirius Black's magical trail. To the Ministry, it looked like he'd apparated side along with Sirius.
The station bustled around them, all steam and metal and echoing voices. The scarlet engine was waiting, and students were beginning to gather.
"Well," Sirius said, giving Harry's shoulder one last squeeze, "don't get expelled."
"No promises," Harry grinned.
They lingered for a few seconds longer, neither quite wanting to let go of the moment. There was something easier now in the silence between them—something solid. They hadn't just spent a holiday together. They'd shared stories, arguments, laughter, and late nights poring over old books and terrible magical theories.
They'd grown closer—not just godfather and godson, but something warmer, more complicated, and more real.
Harry finally turned toward the barrier, pushing his trolley forward. As he passed through the wall and onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, he felt it—something quiet but sure inside him. A shift. A connection that hadn't been there before, or maybe one that had just finally had time to grow.