It rained cats and dogs the day the funerals were done.

In ancient times, before the birth of the modern-day Wizengamot, an outpouring right after cremation was considered auspicious. Rainwater, the wizards of antiquity believed, had the magical ability to carry the spiritual essences of the dead past the trials of the afterlife. The dead would be gone, their unfulfilled aspirations satiated by the falling rain, and would never return to haunt the living world as ghosts. As such, it was commonplace for descendants to keep funeral pyres burning in everlasting flame, until the Old Gods took pity on them.

Time and progress had made such rituals obsolete, but like all things, a fix was applied.

Weather Charms.

Weather manipulation was an incredibly difficult and esoteric branch of magic, one that was only possible through the combined efforts of an entire Wizengamot sitting. Every single person that held a seat in those sanctified halls would stand up and pledge their magic in hopes of altering the very course of Nature itself.

To cause rain.

Tumultuous rain.

It was in such rain that Harry Potter stood, drenched from head to toe, his bare feet touching the lush green grass of the lawn inside the outer gates of Hogwarts. The entire staff— each of the professors, the matron, and of course, Dumbledore himself —stood with him, their robes soaked by the stormless, windless rain showering down from the clouds, flooding and furrowing through the bushes as it flowed downhill.

He peered around, then across the little cliff, before suddenly something wet and squishy hit him squarely in the face. Flinching, he slapped it off and watched as the object fell to the ground with a loud thud and let out a long, arduous croak.

A frog—?

Before he could even consider why it was raining frogs of all things, the little creature dissolved into peals of colorless rainwater and flowed away, mixing with the rest of the droplets that pelted the dreary school grounds.

Harry blinked at the sight.

"Anything wrong, Mister Potter?"

It was Professor McGonagall.

"Uh, no. Just looking around. I've never been a part of such traditions before," he murmured, avoiding the witch's gaze. He was still a bit miffed about the fact that he still hadn't gotten a wand, despite McGonagall promise to the contrary.

"Most modern, liberal families follow the Christian way, Potter. Halfbloods and muggleborns prefer to bury their dead in cemeteries."

"So this is a pureblood thing," he clarified. Talking to McGonagall was a good distraction, and distractions were exactly what he needed right now.

McGonagall shook her head. "It's a wizarding thing, Potter. Symbolism. Rainwater carries the ashes of the dead to the afterlife and beyond." She looked towards the other professors, who were now starting to march towards the school building. "The Wizengamot does not perform such rituals very lightly."

"Only when Death Eaters fall to the Boy-Who-Lived."

Crap. This was really becoming a problem. Harry wondered if casting a partial Impediment Jinx on his lips would help. Not a very bright idea, but he was beginning to get rather desperate.

McGonagall pursed her lips, making him hold back a wince.

"Out of the people that died, three of them were members of Ancient Houses that are part of the Wizengamot's creation. Part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Whenever a House from that elite group perishes, the Wizengamot performs this ritual."

"The Sacred Twenty-Eight," Harry repeated. It didn't ring any bells except…

"Professor," he ventured, "the first time I met Malfoy on the train, he told me that some families are better than the others. Is that—"

McGonagall shook her head. "I wouldn't quite put it that way, but your thinking is correct. Mr. Malfoy was referring to the Sacred Twenty-Eight. The Ancient House of Malfoy is indeed part of the set. In fact, your own family is one of them as well."

Harry blinked. "It is?"

"The Potter name goes far before the days of the Norman Conquest. They may not be nobility, but they are just as ancient as House Malfoy."

Why don't they teach this stuff at Hogwarts instead of Binns' lectures?

Harry had this not-so-nice feeling that there was a lot going on in the world that he simply didn't understand. And the one person that could possibly help him wasn't around.

Yet.

Until then, he'd have to make do with Minerva 'Mirthless' McGonagall. Merlin knew why the woman seemed so willing to help him, but he wasn't going to start looking a gift hippogriff in the mouth.

"When was the last time this… ritual happened?"

"1980," McGonagall replied. "The War hit us the worst that very year. Your grandfather, Fleamont Potter, and his wife, Euphemia, were both killed when the Dark Lord burned Potter Manor down."

1980. So it couldn't have been the reason why his parents had decided to live in Godric's Hollow. James Potter had shifted to the cottage in 1979, shortly after being selected to play for Puddlemere United— it was a sad thing that the man had never gotten to play a single League match. Lily Potter, interestingly, was far from the 'sweet, caring housewife' Remus made her out to be. She was a spitfire who had nearly been imprisoned several times due to her… less than savory magical experiments.

Being a recluse for half the previous year had been a pain, but at least it gave him the opportunity to spend quality time with Sirius.

Still, the question remained. Why did James Potter choose to walk away from the protection of Potter Manor and settle for a cozy cottage in a muggle neighborhood instead?

…Later.

"And what good comes out of this ritual?" Harry asked, wincing as he realized he'd been a little too blunt about it.

"It is a way to remind everyone that things aren't going in the right direction. The Wizengamot is the rock upon which our society exists, Potter. The loss of one of its members weakens the institution's power. Even the Dark Lord tried to avoid killing Lords of the Wizengamot, realizing the negative attention it would draw. The death of your grandfather, among others, affected the Wizengamot's stance drastically on his rise to power."

Harry stared at her.

"You're telling me that Voldemort killed hundreds, his Death Eaters killed thousands, and it took the death of a single Lord for people to realize that he was a murdering murderous murderer?"

Really, nobody had their priorities right anymore.

The transfiguration teacher twitched. "I… understand why you feel that way, but it is the truth. The death of a single Lord can have deeper repercussions to the Wizengamot than a carnage that kills a hundred muggleborn."

"That sounds like something Draco Malfoy would say."

Harry blinked, realizing what he'd just said. He wondered if it was possible to get a Time Turner to go fix whatever was wrong with his brain. There was being blunt, and then there was being this blunt.

"Regardless," the woman replied, a stiffness entering her stance that was previously absent, "I will attempt to put in more… lay-wizard terms. Our society has two sets of laws— the laws of the people, and the laws of Magic. The former is authored, debated, authorized, and enforced by those in power. The latter is the way Magic itself behaves, and is held constant by the cumulative power of the Wizengamot."

Harry narrowed his eyes. He'd never even heard of such a thing before.

"Not all forms of magic are taught at Hogwarts, Potter. There are several, you'll find, that were banished from the curriculum, their texts burnt to dust, all to ensure that the magical society continued to thrive. Magic is a powerful tool, but a terrible master."

"And the Wizengamot keeps it in check?"

"Yes."

That, Harry decided, was surprising enough to keep his mouth shut.

"Magic warps reality. Our world is shaped by our perceptions. By our thoughts, emotions, beliefs. A single grain of sand on the beach is inconsequential, but collect enough to build the moon, and you can create tides in the ocean. We witches and wizards are like those tiny grains of sand. The Wizengamot is the collective moon."

She squarely met his eyes. "Do you understand now, Potter, why the death of three Lords is such a big deal?"

He swallowed. No mouthing off this time.

McGonagall may not have said it outright but he, the Boy-Who-Murdered, had freshly become a sink for public resentment. Their anger, their paranoia, and general fear would all be directed towards him.

Skeeter would have a field day. Or year, even.

He could see it already. It would be 'Heir of Slytherin' and 'Glory Hog' all over again, only this time, there would be actual resentment involved. He had somewhat mended his relationship with Ron, but he hadn't forgiven him yet. Hermione on the other hand, was more… complicated. Between all of that drama and Voldemort's return, it was going to be another year of deep shit.

At least this time, his mind supplied, it won't be without cause.

I didn't kill them, Harry thought back.

…

Do you really believe that?

The silence that ensued did nothing to make him feel better.

The sharp sound of something slapping against the hard wooden desk jolted him out of sleep. Harry looked up, his eyes groggy and eardrums ringing.

And found a half-irate Snape standing in front of him.

Just peachy.

Had he fallen asleep during Potions again? Harry pushed himself off the desk, rummaging around the empty desk for his book and cauldron implements, but found nothing. Instead, there was a large and unhealthy-sized tome about wizarding traditions. Great! He'd lose even more points. Why didn't Ron—

His jumbled mess of thoughts screeched to a halt as his eyes fell upon the tome once more.

Wizarding Britain. An Incomplete And Unreliable Guide.

Then it hit him. He wasn't in Potions. The school term was over, and he had dozed off while reading a book written by some uninspired sod about wizarding traditions.

"Are you done making a fool out of yourself, Potter?"

Oh, right. Snape. He'd nearly forgotten about him.

Harry looked at the rolled-up newspaper that Snape had slapped against his desk.

Then he looked back up at the dour professor.

Then back at the newspaper.

"Potter!" the professor barked, jolting out of his repetitive actions.

"Uh— yes, professor?"

"I was told you were comatose the night of the Third Task. I wasn't aware the event left your mind addled."

And just like that, every ounce of confusion vanished from Harry's face, leaving behind nothing but a mutinous expression.

Snape's lips twisted into a victorious smirk.

"Did you need something?" Harry grunted.

"Did you need something, sir," Snape corrected.

"There's no need to call me sir, Professor."

Before he knew it, the newspaper had been lifted off the desk, and something large and papery slammed against Harry's head. He stared at the greasy-haired man with immense loathing, rubbing the top of his head.

"The Headmaster has summoned you to his office."

"Professor Dumbledore?"

"There has been no change in Headmasters, Potter. But I'm glad to see you're trying to keep up."

"Gee, thanks, Professor. It was nice to banter like a five-year-old."

The man's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Harry hoped he didn't know of a spell that could evaporate someone on the spot. Snape was supposed to be scarily good with the Dark Arts, after all. Even so, this meaningless antagonistic banter with the professor was something he was used to over the years. A dance of sorts that felt strangely normal and cathartic.

…That right there said a lot about the kind of life he'd been living thus far.

Come to think of it, he couldn't really think of any other kind of day. This was still far better than staying with the Dursleys, or hiding in unused classrooms when he wanted to avoid Ron and Hermione's attention.

On the other hand, he wasn't really sure what he'd even do if he had any other kind of day. Because franky, he was built— by both experience and inclination —for turmoil and mayhem. Things going south, and then some more. Having everyone stare at him like he was some sort of criminal. Evil cackling madmen involving him in overcomplicated plans and esoteric magics to screw with his life.

As his thoughts progressed from one scenario to the next, Harry found himself feeling increasingly gloomy.

I think… I've made some bad choices in life.

He wondered if the Wizarding World offered career counselors, before remembering that he was supposed to attend one this very year. The year before his OWL examinations. His eyes refocused back onto Snape, realizing that the man was still just standing there.

"…Do you wish to say something to me?" he asked cautiously, before quickly adding a 'sir'.

Snape glanced at the title of his time and shot him a not-smile. "Wizarding Traditions. Finally wising up, I see."

"It was Professor McGonagall's idea."

The potions professor ignored him. "Professor Dumbledore has asked me to inform you that you'll be having remedial potions this upcoming year, Potter. With me."

"Huh? Why?"

Snape shot him a dark stare.

"I mean—" Harry backpedaled, "I scored an EE in Potions, Professor."

"Because the Dark Lord," Snape's voice went several decibels lower, "is back, and the Headmaster assures me that you have some modicum of talent in Defense against the Dark Arts. It is his wish that I train you into becoming a passable wizard that can survive being ambushed by Death Eaters."

Harry felt a little elated at having someone— anyone —teach him something that was useful in a fight. Between Lockart's little dueling club and the random spells he'd learned practicing for the Triwizard Tournament, his own arsenal of spells was not only limited in nature, but also incredibly easy to figure out.

He was no expert duelist, but even he knew that being predictable in a fight wasn't a great idea.

"Why can't Professor Dumbledore teach me himself?"

It was a logical question. After all, Dumbledore was the one wizard Voldemort ever feared. Not that he'd say no to Snape— the best person to teach him about fighting Death Eaters would be a Death Eater.

Barty Crouch Junior had taught him that much.

"Albus Dumbledore has more important things to do than teach a fourteen-year-old how to properly hold his wand," Snape scoffed. "And I'll have you know Potter, I offered my services for this. You know of my role as a spy in the Dark Lord's camp. I'd sleep better knowing the person the Headmaster is betting everything on can actually cross the road without having his head blown off."

Oddly enough, that was probably the nicest thing Snape had ever said to him. Which said everything about their relationship—

Harry blinked. Did Snape just admit to offering him training? Of his own free will?

He rubbed his eyes.

Nope. The illusion was still intact.

"But—" Harry began, "Dumbledore would be better suited to teach—" He quickly stopped that line of thought, seeing the man's grave features. "I mean, if he wanted to—"

"The Headmaster's original idea was for me to train you in the mystic art known as Occlumency, a mechanism through which you could learn to resist psychic attacks."

"What sort of psychic attacks?" Harry questioned. He'd come across Veela allure and broken through both Voldemort's and fake-Moody's Imperius curses. Was that—

"The kind that tells me you are confusing compulsion magics with psychic attacks."

Harry's eyes widened. "You read my mind?"

Snape's lips curled. "The mind is a complex, many-layered thing, Potter. Or, at least, the rest of our minds are. One does not simply open it like a book and read at their leisure. That said, the intrusive psychic art known as Legilimency does allow one to… slip past the victim's consciousness and shift through memory associations."

Harry took a moment to process all that, though it still just sounded like mind-reading to him.

He took another to realize that he and Snape were actually having a civilized conversation.

Was this what growing up felt like?

"So…" Harry trailed off, "what does this Occlude thing involve?"

Snape's eyebrows dangerously twitched. "More than what I can explain in a single conversation. But given the connection between your curse-scar and the Dark Lord, the Headmaster believes it is of the utmost importance that you are trained in Occlumency as quickly as possible."

"And you're going to teach it to me?"

"No, Potter. The Headmaster will."

His eyes brightened. Getting trained by Albus Dumbledore? Even though he had no clue what this Occlumens-thing was about, it felt great.

And that left DADA. And remedial potions.

With Snape.

…Bugger.

"Uhm, when will my remedial potions classes start then?"

The man's face twisted into a sneer. That, or it was his go-to expression for anything related to scholastic pursuits for non-Slytherins.

"I'll inform you of the details once the next term begins. Till then, I expect you to perform some light-reading on the subject and…" he paused, "avail yourself of a wand. Preferably one that isn't dead."

And just like that, all hope for mutual cooperation and a non-antagonistic relationship between them withered away.

"I will," Harry threw back.

The man shot him another not-smile "Good to know. And for your information, Potter, the Headmaster doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Whatever you say, Professor."

For someone who'd spent the better part of two decades trying to attain his freedom, Sirius Black wasn't all that sure about how to go about things once said freedom actually entered his life.

It probably had something to do with the fact that this freedom was a byproduct of his godson's trial. There had been no mad rush to prove Pettigrew as the real betrayer. No going to the ends of the world and back to see justice prevail and prove his own innocence in front of a body of hard-hearted people wearing purple robes and seated in shadows. Instead, it had been a neat little trial involving a warm beef sandwich and a butterbeer, followed with a couple of formal affidavits sworn in person while Madam Bones, in her official capacity as the Head of the DMLE, stood as Witness to the event.

As a bonus, he'd also been offered back pay all the way since 1981. And if he had read things right, there was a paid trip to a psychiatrist session in the Bahamas as well.

Not exactly a tale of gallantry, love, and loss, but those veela massage parlors had to count for something, right?

Naturally, his very first job as godfather to Harry Potter had been to fill-up the form for one more passenger— his godson —for the trip.

The only thing left was convincing the wily Headmaster.

"Dumbledore, Harry's my godson and it's my job to teach him about all the nice things in life. I've missed thirteen years of having him in my life— no thanks to all of you —so I'll thank you not to get in my way now."

"Sirius," he heard the old headmaster sigh. It was almost magical how the man managed to express more disappointment with a mere sigh than Mum could after shouting her lungs out for an hour.

No, there was definitely something to be said about the Greatest Wizard of the Century. And then some.

"You know with Voldemort being back, Harry's protection is of paramount importance. He needs to be kept under protection and, as much as it hurts me to say this, trained enough to resist Voldemort when he comes— and he will —for him again."

"And where, pray tell, would he feel protected?" Sirius retorted. "With the Dursleys?"

"Merlin, no," Dumbledore's mustache quivered. "I wasn't born yesterday, Sirius. With Voldemort back, the wards around the Dursley home are nowhere near powerful enough."

Sirius narrowed his eyes. Dumbledore had just agreed with him. Dumbledore! When something like that happened, as rare as it was, it was a telltale sign to expect the unexpected.

"Which is why I prefer to keep him at Hogwarts. Under my direct supervision."

And there it was.

"Hogwarts? Harry just went through all that trauma, and you know how the Daily Prophet is polarizing everything against him. The last thing he needs is to be alone."

"I have often found that solitude is a balm to my sufferings, Sirius."

"And you don't look a year older than a hundred and five. Harry's fifteen."

"And a grieving student who has gone through too much," Dumbledore countered. "He's not James, Sirius. He's not the type of young man you can tempt into gallivanting away on this Bahamas trip you've been going on about."

Just like that, Sirius's excitement vanished, replaced by a dark, blank stare that overtook his countenance.

"I'm perfectly aware of who he is, thank you."

"Are you?" Dumbledore questioned. "Because what Harry needs right now is time to grieve, and once he has, then time to train. To learn how to survive. To be brought into confidence over the true state of affairs of our world."

"He's also just a boy, Dumbledore, one who really needs to take a break and see the nice things in life. You want him protected, but I want to give him a life." Sirius's tone became louder, his voice cracking and rumbling. "Don't take me for a fool, Albus. I've poked around. Learned about his home life. I know what kind of deranged muggle Petunia Dursley can be."

His entire body began to shake.

Maybe Bones had been onto something when she'd added the psychiatry session to the deal.

"You think," the Headmaster's voice lowered, and the temperature in the room drastically dropped, "that I don't know that?"

The air was starting to feel heavy, as an immense pressure began to press down on him.

"Every single day, every single moment that boy spent in that place, I cursed myself for doing it to him. Every single time the baby suffered, I forcibly restrained myself from taking action. From snatching him away from those vile, despicable muggles."

"Then why didn't you?" Sirius asked, crossing his hands across his chest and suppressing his urge to quiver. "For your vaunted Greater Good?"

Albus Dumbledore sat ramrod straight, both palms flat against his desk. To a neutral observer, it might have seemed like an interesting stance, but the slight wrinkles on his face and the way his aura stood, poised around him— it was like a vicious cobra, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

The world inside the office room froze.

Sirius wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd take an angry Dumbledore, wand blazing and lashing out, than this cold blizzard that was building up a silent, corrosive fury.

"Because," Dumbledore's tone became feather-soft, "there was no other option."

The sudden change in his demeanor took Sirius aback. "Explain."

The old headmaster sighed, and just like that, the air felt lighter once more. The world inside the office room unfroze. The large grandfather clock sitting on the extreme right began to move once again.

Sirius exhaled, feeling like he'd taken his first breath after running a marathon.

"You are a scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Sirius. You, more than anyone else, know about the stipulations and clauses put forth by the Ancient Houses during the Founding of the Wizengamot. More specifically, about the laws and rites to succession."

Sirius rolled his eyes. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, he was the prodigal son of the House of Black. And yet, it was him who had been named Heir by his grandfather, Arcturus Sirius Black, mere days before his sudden demise. Sirius's father Orion had been overstepped in that decision— something that made Walburga hate her wayward son just that much more.

As Heir to the successorship of the Black name and magic, Sirius, like all purebloods, had been taught the proper traditions and customs since he was a babe.

Customs he remembered to this day.

"After the death of his father Fleamont Potter in 1980, James was in no shape to take over the Lordship, and he… passed away before taking on the mantle himself. The Annexure of 1261 is very clear on this matter. As the child of an heir and not a Lord, baby Harry had about as many rights as a non-heir child of a pureblood family. Which is to say, none."

Dumbledore stood up, his gaunt features only accentuating his age and emotional baggage. "In that context, baby Harry— the son of pureblood James Potter and muggleborn Lily Evans-Potter, was supposed to be sent to his blood relatives, or be raised by a foster family, or worse, placed in an orphanage under Ministry custody."

Sirius paled at that prospect. "Harry's the Boy-Who-Lived. I doubt even Millicent Bagnold would have gotten away with that."

Dumbledore chortled. "The old hag would have cut off her own limbs for a chance to raise the baby. Amos Diggory volunteered. Richard Bones volunteered. As did several other families across all factions. The Ministry decided to put the matter to a general vote to decide on the question of ownership."

Dumbledore paused, gazing at Sirius.

"Then we found out that James and Lily made you his godfather."

And Sirius felt an irrepressible urge to groan.

The Godparent Ritual was a magical pact steeped deep in wizarding history. In the days of old, only the mother of a newborn child had the power to name her child, since she was the one that brought them into this world. Once that was done, the mother would choose a suitable person to act in her stead— provide home and hearth to the child in the mother's absence. For Ancient Houses, this person was usually the sitting Lord— an action that ensured the safety and well-being of the child while protecting him from inappropriate advances made by other members of the family over any familial disputes.

Magically, it raised the baby's position to Heir to the sitting Lord. It didn't matter to the scheme if an Heir Apparent was already in place, but should anything untoward happen to the Heir Apparent, the godchild could serve as an appropriate substitute. It was a neat little hole in the law, one that allowed godchildren to assassinate Heir Apparents and take their place as Heir Presumptives until a new clause was added to the archaic law in 1592, prohibiting any married Lord from becoming Godparent to a pureblood child.

Fortunately— or unfortunately —the circumstances fit Sirius Black to the tee. Single, Heir Apparent to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, even though he had believed himself banished from the family at that time.

So when Lily Potter had suggested the Godparent Ritual, Sirius had readily agreed, not really understanding the implications of what he was agreeing to. After all, Harry was James and Lily's son. For all he knew, he was honoring a Christian tradition to the child of a muggleborn witch.

The Black Family Magic hadn't seen it that way.

The moment he had agreed to become Godfather, he had assured one Harry James Potter of family, hearth and home. He had invited the baby in with open arms to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

"...Bugger!"

Dumbledore glared at him, and Sirius had a sneaking suspicion it wasn't because of his sudden and unexpected use of profanity.

"Imagine my displeasure when I find out that Lily Potter's son is to be sent to his closest magical relative, Narcissa Malfoy."

Sirius swallowed. It didn't take a genius to see what came next.

"You should be thanking your lucky stars, Sirius Orion Black," Dumbledore exclaimed, drawing himself to his fullest height, "that the Dark Lord had just been defeated and Lucius Malfoy's credibility was comparably low. Using my position as the so-called," he grimaced, "Leader of the Light, I spun Harry's situation to that of a muggleborn. With Bagnold's aid and public sympathy, Lily Potter's last wishes were made public, which listed Petunia Dursley as the next recipient right after you."

"But the Dursleys are—"

"Muggles, I know," Albus exhaled, moving towards the open window. "Muggles whom I had no trust in. Muggles who weren't fit to even be seen near a magical child. Petunia's thoughts about her sister were out in the open for anyone with eyes to see."

Sirius ignored the casual tone in which the vaunted Headmaster of Hogwarts had all but admitted use of Legilimency on a muggle.

"And yet," the venerated wizard continued with a grimace, "she was a muggle that shared Lily's blood. Blood that held power. Protection. Love for her child. The power of that sacrifice, of her blood flowing through both Harry and Petunia's veins, powered by Harry's own magic, was more than enough to keep him safe at the Dursleys."

"As long as Petunia was alive," Sirius pointed out.

"Which is why I planted Arabella Figg in the neighborhood. To keep track of Harry over the years and let me know if anything significant happened."

Sirius stared at the old man. There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but none escaped his throat. Every thought had a counter ready. Every accusation had its own shortcomings. All he could do was stare at the man who'd spent years doing his best for the child he had broken out from Azkaban to protect.

The child that was his godson.

Albus Dumbledore, worshipped as Merlin incarnate, the Leader of the Light, the Defeater of Grindelwald, the only wizard that Voldemort ever feared… Dumbledore was many things, but in that moment, only one word flitted across Sirius's mind as he stared at the old man.

Fallible.

Dumbledore was human. He made mistakes, no matter how well his intentions were. And even when he didn't, his best was not tantamount to a perfect solution.

"For years," the Headmaster spoke, his tone broken, "I have wished to get Harry out of the Dursley home. To have him kept at Hogwarts, or at least one of the safer wizarding families where he could live among magicals, his own kind. But with Cornelius as Minister and Lucius Malfoy behind the proverbial wheel, I had to keep him where he was. Yes, Sirius, I knew I was condemning him to ten dark and difficult years, but my priority was to keep him alive. Keep him pure. Away from Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy."

"And after he came to Hogwarts?"

"Five years ago, when Harry came to Hogwarts, he was neither happy nor as well-nourished as I'd like. But he was alive, and healthy. Lucius Malfoy sent his son to befriend him, but in a stroke of Fate, young Harry chose to befriend a young Ronald Weasley instead. The events with Quirrell showed me I couldn't leave Harry in the Wizarding World, and instead had him sent home once more."

"And then Harry proved me innocent last year," Sirius mumbled.

"He did," Dumbledore nodded, "and now that you're finally free, I can allow Harry to stay wherever he likes, so long as he has his rightful guardian's permission."

"And you want him to stay in Hogwarts," Sirius concluded.

"I do," Albus affirmed. "I may not like it, but I do. It is the best course of action available to me at this moment. You are a free man, but you need to get your life back. Buy a house. Reconnect with old friends. As soon as you are settled somewhere, I'm certain young Harry would be very happy to join you."

"I already have a house, Dumbledore, in case you forgot. The Black Townhouse."

The old man's brows furrowed. "The one in London?"

"Got it in one, Remus and I are trying to make it habitable. Harry liked him as a Defense professor. He'd like it there."

For once, the Headmaster seemed to actually be considering the idea.

This was his make-or-break moment.

He pushed forward. "You know my family home can provide more protection for Harry than Hogwarts ever can. Harry gets to stay with his family, and Remus and I can even train him in DADA. With Voldemort back, things are going to get hairy, but for James and Lily's sake, let the boy enjoy some freedom for once."

"And let me guess," the man sighed. "A trip to a foreign beach is part of that package?"

Sirius's devious grin did nothing to satiate the old wizard's fears.

The concept of expandable space was a household concept in wizarding life. The very first applications of such spaces dated back during the Viking Invasion, when the natives would seek graveyards and ward them to prevent invaders from entering unless invited in. The method was so effective that new lattices of spellwork were added to the existing lands and powered by ley lines to increase the land space inside the graveyard, allowing more natives to seek shelter within.

Today, expandable space was everywhere. From teabags to pouches to potion belts to travel trunks, the concept had exploded to everyday use, no matter the size. Even the Ministry of Magic was at least five times larger on the inside than the outside, and the very edifice was larger than half of London to begin with.

Except Hogwarts.

Unlike most ancient manors, Hogwarts wasn't built using expandable space. In fact, the insides of Hogwarts were much, much smaller than the outside. Even after including the enormous number of classrooms and corridors and secret chambers and pipelines that went deep into the Black Lake, it accounted for barely a third of the space the structure occupied in the real world. Where all that extra space went to is one of the existing mysteries of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

It was something Harry Potter would think about every time he took off on his broom to fly around the school grounds.

Any other day, he'd have walked his way out of the library, traversed through three corridors, taken the stairs, and then walked all the way till the end of the second-floor corridor, up to the gargoyle statue. But not today. Instead, he'd pulled out his Firebolt from his pouch and pierced through the afternoon sky, before taking a sharp dive towards the West Tower, where the Headmaster's office was located.

Slipping through the window, Harry found himself standing in front of the stone gargoyle. Hogwarts: A History stated that the gargoyle— alongside many others that sat perched atop the roof-tops of the other towers —were actual magical creatures cast to stone by Salazar Slytherin.

Knowing what he knew about Slytherin and his fabled Chamber of Secrets, the fact took an entirely different meaning.

"Goo-goo clusters," he intoned, with as much seriousness as the phrase deserved.

The gargoyle groaned as it slid aside, allowing the path behind it to become accessible. Harry sidestepped the statue and walked through the spiral staircase that moved upwards to the upper half of the Tower, where a gleaming oak door with a brass griffin-shaped door knocker stood.

The Headmaster's office.

"Come in, Harry," came Dumbledore's voice.

The oak door automatically swung open, making Harry frown.

Every single time he'd come face-to-face with this door, the Headmaster called him in before he got a chance to knock. Really, what good was a shiny knocker if you were going to use a proximity ward instead? His best guess was that it was a way for the Headmaster to subtly assert his dominance, on top of the whole inviting people into his office.

That, or the old man was simply too fond of the knocker, and didn't want others to touch it.

Harry could sympathize. He himself had a long, antagonistic relationship with stains. Allow one to gain an inch of a foothold into the house— let it grease one measly inch —and the next thing you know, it's everywhere.

The worst part was that Aunt Petunia had no problems believing it was all his fault.

Harry shuddered at the memory.

Without waiting any longer, he strode ahead and twisted the knocker intentionally, before stepping into the circular room and—

"SIRIUS!" he yelled, his annoyance immediately transforming into elation. The man in question widened his eyes in mirth and leaped at him, embracing him in a bear-hug. Harry felt the older man— his godfather —caress his locks fondly before pulling back, a beaming smile on his face.

"Sorry, kiddo. It took me a while."

"Sirius," Harry breathed, "you're here." He glanced at the Headmaster, then back to Sirius before it finally clicked. "The Ministry gave you a trial?"

It was only after saying those words out loud that he realized how stressed he'd been feeling about it all.

"They did," Sirius nodded happily. "As of one hour ago, I'm a free man."

"That's—" Harry faltered, "that's great. I'm happy for you, Sirius."

There went that dark thought twisting through his mind all over again. The one that kept questioning whether Sirius would still be willing to take him in.

The dog animagus barked out a laugh. "Me and Dumbledore were just talking about you."

"About...me?" He glanced towards Dumbledore, a hundred different thoughts flooding through his mind like colors of a kaleidoscope. Was this where he'd be rejected by his godfather? Was Dumbledore going to send him back to the Dursleys like he did every year? Would he—

"Harry," Dumbledore interrupted. "I presume Professor Snape told you about your training?"

He bobbed his head. "Snape didn't really expand on it. Just that you'd be teaching me Occlumency and he'd—"

"Wait a minute," Sirius interrupted, staring at Dumbledore. "Occlumency? Why is Harry getting trained in Occlumency?"

Harry twisted his neck so sharply he feared he'd get whiplash. Why was Sirius trying to get him to back down from training? Was he going to be like Mrs. Weasley and say he was too young? He couldn't imagine Sirius sending him a howler, warning him about stepping another toe out of the line.

Harry grimaced. And now, he had an image of Sirius— dressed in Mrs. Weasley's robes, holding a frying pan in one hand and a wand in another— yelling at him.

He couldn't help it. He chuckled.

Out loud.

Sirius blinked.

And then Dumbledore blinked.

"Uh— sorry, you were saying?"

"Dumbledore, you know more than I do what Occlumency can do to the mind. I refuse to allow my godson to butcher his mindscape in fear of psychic assaults."

"Sirius," Dumbledore's voice was grave, "I don't need to tell you how important it is for young Harry here to learn it. Lord Voldemort is possibly the greatest Legilimencer the Wizarding World has known in centuries."

"My great grandfather Sirius Arcturus Black II might have something to say about it, Headmaster. You know, the person Gellert Grindelwald regarded as his guru in the dark arts? I am his descendant, after all. And not to underestimate the Dark Lord's prowess, but he can't know more about the subject than the very House infamous for developing it in the first place."

Harry stared wide-eyed at the person in front of him. Sirius wasn't being the goofy, emotional, impulsive man he'd come to know over the past year, but rather someone who was exerting his own power, flexing a strange aura around him like any other muscle. It almost made him want to bow down, realize his place among the clearly superior beings in the room.

And then, it was gone.

As if it hadn't ever been there.

Odd, he mused. A moment later, his godfather's words finally registered in his mind. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Sirius cut him off.

"I've personally seen Bella turn into a crackpot because of poor Occlumency technique, and I will not allow the same to happen to my godson. Not while I live and breathe."

"Sirius, I appreciate your concern. But Voldemort—"

"Is not my concern," Sirius raised his voice. "You say Occlumency will help him shield his thoughts from him. I say if Harry faces him, shielding his thoughts is the last thing he needs to think about."

Harry felt a surge of pride and affection rise through him.

Dumbledore exhaled, somehow looking even older than he was. "It's not that simple, Sirius. His scar... it connects him to Voldemort. I'm afraid Tom won't shy away from trying to influence him from afar."

"I don't buy that," Sirius fought back. "No curse remnant, no matter how dark, can weave passages across powerful wards. As long as Harry lives inside the House of Black, he will be safe."

"But Sirius—" Harry began, inwardly wanting to say something before things got out of hand.

"Harry," Sirius held his shoulders. "Please. I've spent twelve years in prison, waiting to do right by you. By Merlin, I'm a free man now. I have a house, I'm rich, and I have twelve years to make up for. Let me be there for you."

"But Voldemort—"

"Isn't your job to take care of!" his godfather proclaimed. "He is a wizard with over seventy years of experience. It's the adults' job to take care of him," he glared at Dumbledore, as if daring to say otherwise, "not a child's."

His features grew softer as he looked back at his godson. "I came here today to ask the Headmaster permission to let you come live with me. The only question left is," his voice trembled, "do you want to?"

Harry couldn't help it. He laughed.

And damn, it felt good.