Chapter Text
The first Hogwarts student Harry ever met was a girl named Cho Chang, a second-year Ravenclaw at the time. He was getting fitted for his robes at Madam Malkin’s. Cho stood on the next dais, her reflection flickering in the tall mirror as the measuring tape wound itself around her arm.
She was shy at first, asking if he was a first-year, her voice soft but careful, like she was testing the air between them. Once she started talking, though, Harry wished he had kept quiet.
Cho went on about how the school didn’t recognize other religions, the obvious favoritism toward Gryffindors, and how every single Asian student somehow ended up in Ravenclaw. Her father was a Muggle, and because of his job, they had moved to England two years ago. Cho had wanted to attend Mahoutokoro—a magical school on a Japanese island? Harry wasn’t entirely sure.
She complained about people constantly mispronouncing her name and how they’d butchered its beautiful meaning—it supposedly meant butterfly, though somehow now she had two surnames on the attendance roll. Harry tried not to shift too much as Madam Malkin adjusted his robe pins.
And as if that wasn’t enough, her friend—Marietta something—joined in, and the two began whispering about how Hogwarts wasn’t at all what they had imagined. The air grew warmer, thick with fabric dust and voices, and Harry found himself silently begging Madam Malkin to hurry.
At that point, Harry decided he could not befriend any Ravenclaw at school if they were all like Cho and her friend. Maybe that was why he couldn’t manage to get close to Draco Black—even if he wanted to, very, very much.
Harry first saw Black on the Hogwarts Express. He had only just met his dorm-mates: an Irish boy named Seamus Finnigan, whose speech carried a faint lilt, and Dean Thomas from Stratford. Seamus’ cousin, Lochlan Byrne, was a first-year like them and visibly nervous about the Sorting. Their entire family had been sorted into Gryffindor for generations, and Lochlan was convinced he was nothing like his brave, explosive cousin.
The compartment door slid open without warning, revealing a flustered Neville Longbottom and, already dressed neatly in his school robes, Hermione Granger. Now that Harry thought about it, nearly all of his friends had come into his life on the train, as if the journey itself had been a quiet beginning.
Neville had lost his frog and Hermione was asking, in her commanding way, whether anyone had seen it. Just as they were shaking their heads, a boy came running down the corridor and stopped short in the doorway.
“Oh, Longbottom, why didn’t you just ask me for it?” he said, slightly out of breath. He didn’t bother introducing himself to anyone else. After clearing his throat, he raised his wand with practiced confidence. “Accio Longbottom’s toad, Trevor!”
Within seconds, an ugly toad flew through the open doorway and landed squarely in the boy’s outstretched palm. Neville looked as though Christmas had come early. This small but precise bit of spellwork immediately captured Hermione’s attention. Introductions followed quickly, and Harry learned that the boy with platinum-blond hair—braided neatly and resting over one shoulder—was Draco Arcturus Black, a name that seemed impossible to forget.
Harry saw him again at the Sorting Ceremony.
“Black, Draco Arcturus,” Professor Minerva McGonagall called.
A noticeable hush fell over the Great Hall. Harry could feel the attention sharpening, as though everyone had been waiting for this moment. Later, he asked Ronald Weasley about it. Ron, who apparently came from a well-established wizarding family himself, frowned and said, “He’s the heir to two ancient families,” as if that alone should explain everything.
It didn’t, not really—but Harry understood one thing clearly. Much like himself, Draco Black had arrived at Hogwarts already carrying expectations. Slytherin House, in particular, seemed to be waiting for him.
Professor Snape was visibly displeased when the Sorting Hat lingered for nearly three minutes on Black’s blond head before finally announcing, “RAVENCLAW!”
Harry didn’t think much of it at the time. Lochlan stepped forward to the stool right after Susan Bones and was sorted into Ravenclaw as well. Harry felt a brief pang of disappointment at how quickly he had been separated from the lively boy he’d met on the train. At least Dean and Seamus were sorted into Gryffindor with him, just as he had hoped.
First year passed in a blur of adventures. He discovered the secret of the Stone and the three-headed dog guarding it with Seamus and Dean. He saved Marion Boulez—often mocked for her French accent—from a mountain troll with Hermione Granger at his side. He smuggled Hagrid’s dangerously illegal pet dragon, Norbert, out of the school grounds with Marion’s older sister, Élodie, a trained dragon tamer.
In the end, five of them went after the Stone to protect it from Professor Snape—or so they believed at the time. Dean played the flute to lull the beast to sleep. Seamus conjured flames to burn away the Devil’s Snare. Harry flew to catch the correct key. Marion played the chess match, sacrificing pieces with chaotic precision. Hermione identified the correct potion so Harry could pass through the flames.
It was a busy year—no one could question that. With so much constantly unfolding around him, Harry never really had the chance to learn much more about the heir of Black. They shared a few classes, nothing more. Black usually sat with his Ravenclaw dorm-mates and, occasionally, Neville.
Still, Black quickly became well known throughout the school for his skill in Potions. Neville often complained about not sharing the subject with the Ravenclaws. If he had partnered with Black, maybe Professor Snape wouldn’t have singled him out so relentlessly. Hermione shared the sentiment, though for a very different reason—she considered Black a rival and preferred to keep her competition close.
In their second year, they both attended Quidditch tryouts. Gryffindor had been desperate for a capable Seeker and Harry had been born for the role. Professor McGonagall was so impressed that she secretly gifted him a Nimbus 2001.
Black, meanwhile, tried out for the vacant Chaser position on the Ravenclaw team. He was taller and broader-shouldered than Harry, whose scrawny build was the result of years of neglect at the Dursleys’. Black stood nearly as tall as Silvio Weiss, the Slytherin Keeper—a remarkable height for a twelve-year-old. Harry still remembered watching him fly.
There was an elegance to it, that stole the breath straight from Harry’s lungs. Black had tied his long, pristine hair back with a black ribbon, though it came loose mid-flight, trailing behind him like starlight. The dark blue jumper he wore made his grey, clouded eyes appear almost blue in the open air.
Harry was starstruck.
They had Herbology together that year, and Professor Sprout insisted they work in groups of six. To Harry’s surprise, he found himself paired with the Patil twins, Neville, Hermione—and Black. Everyone else in the group seemed to know Black well, speaking to him as though they’d done so a thousand times before.
Everyone except Harry.
It was awkward. Without Seamus or Dean there to bridge the gap, Harry found himself quietly pushed to the side, listening more than speaking. At the neighbouring table, Seamus had already managed to set fire to the herb shelf, while Dean desperately attempted—and failed—to extinguish it with an Aguamenti charm. Lochlan was laughing himself breathless at his cousin’s expense, Marion was crying in the corner, and Ron Weasley appeared to be hissing something sharp at Terry Boot.
Black rolled up his sleeves and stepped in to help the unfortunate Seamus without hesitation. Hermione had already hurried over, attempting to repair the scorched shelves with a hurried Reparo before Professor Sprout could notice.
Back at their table, Black proved himself polite, clever and charming. After the fire incident, he helped the Patil twins with their mandrakes, asked Neville’s opinion on the cleanest way to extract the leaves and adjusted Hermione’s earmuffs so they fit more securely over her ears. When he finally turned to Harry and asked if he needed any help with the coursework, Harry muttered something along the lines of, “No, thanks,” his cheeks dusted faintly pink.
After that, Harry found himself noticing things he probably shouldn’t have. The way Black listened intently during lectures. The slight curve of his mouth when he concentrated. The fact that he was Hermione’s regular study partner—the only one who could truly keep up with her. In several subjects, he even outperformed her, a fact Harry found both puzzling and impressive.
When Hermione was petrified by the Basilisk, Black was said to be devastated. Harry hadn’t witnessed it himself, but the story eventually reached him. Black had been the first to reach her bedside—the one who noticed the crumpled piece of paper clenched tightly in her fist. After a moment of hesitation, he handed it to Marion, suggesting that researching Basilisks might prove useful.
Apparently, he and Hermione had already been consulting various sources in an attempt to identify the monster and had discovered that spiders avoided creatures like Basilisks. He hadn’t even looked at Harry—he spoke only to Marion before leaving, tears of regret shining in his eyes. Perhaps he thought it wrong to linger, not after uncovering something so dangerous while his friend lay frozen in stone.
Ernie Macmillan had told Neville, who told Dean, who eventually told Harry, that Black later helped Professor Sprout tend to the mandrakes himself.
This year, Harry thought, I’ll befriend the Ravenclaw.
The truth was, Harry didn’t really make friends at school—not on his own. He had been lucky with Dean. They’d met back on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, where Dean’s mum had helped them find their way through. Seamus had wandered into their compartment by chance, searching for somewhere to sit with his cousin.
Hermione… Hermione had been different. Harry had overheard her crying about Marion being alone in the girls’ bathroom while a troll was on the loose, and he’d run to help without thinking. After standing together against a troll, their bond had solidified instantly.
He had dorm-mates he chatted with in passing, classmates he played Gobstones and Exploding Snap with during free periods. He knew Ron Weasley and, by extension, his entire family. Ron could be a bit snobbish at times, but he was harmless enough. He usually stuck close to his brothers and talked easily with boys from other Houses. Harry got on well enough with Neville Longbottom, though they weren’t particularly close. Neville mostly spent time with the girls—and, somewhat surprisingly, with Draco Black.
But Harry? Harry had no friends outside his own House.
Before Hogwarts, he hadn’t had a single friend at all. Dudley had made sure of that. His schoolmates hadn’t liked him; they’d found him strange, quiet in the wrong way. His teachers, armed with carefully worded notes from the Dursleys, had already decided he was a problem child before he ever opened his mouth. That judgment spread quickly, seeping through the classroom like damp through old walls.
Long story short, Harry didn’t know how to make friends. He didn’t know how he would manage without the ones he had—how unbearably loud the world might become without them there to fill the silences for him.
Black seemed… ideal to try.
They both liked Quidditch; that alone felt like a solid enough bridge to start from. Harry could talk about brooms and matches and practice drills—things that came easily to him. They’d see each other often, circling the pitch in the sharp autumn air during practice hours. Black was easygoing, cool without trying, effortlessly charming. He was intelligent and confident in a way that didn’t feel forced. Harry thought he could learn a great deal from him.
And most importantly, Black cared about his friends.
Even when they weren’t in his House—like Hermione and Neville. Harry had even seen Black chatting easily with Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott from Slytherin, speaking in low, measured voices near the windows of the common areas. Those two barely spoke to anyone, not even their own Housemates. Yet Black had laughed softly at something Nott had said, his posture relaxed, shoulders loose.
“Harry, can you stop staring at the Ravenclaw table for a second?”
Hermione’s voice cut through his thoughts. She was frowning at him over the rim of her goblet, pumpkin juice catching the candlelight as she tilted it.
“It’s getting creepy, you know,” Marion tutted.
Harry blinked, as though only just realising where his gaze had been fixed. Heat rushed up his neck. He dropped his eyes to his plate, suddenly far too interested in the texture of his mashed potatoes, and muttered something indistinct, embarrassed.
The Great Hall was more crowded than usual. The noise alone pressed in on him—layers of voices overlapping, benches scraping against the stone floor, laughter echoing off the enchanted ceiling. First and second-years nearly tripled the number of third years, filling every bench and spilling into the aisles, robes brushing against one another as people squeezed past.
After the Second Wizarding War, apparently, the wizarding world had experienced an all-time high birth rate. The Sorting Hat hadn’t even bothered with a song this year and had gone straight to work, and even that hadn’t prevented the ceremony from dragging on for a full two hours. By the end of it, Harry’s ears rang, his shoulders ached from the press of the crowd, and the candles above flickered slightly, as though exhausted themselves.
Some Gryffindors had given up trying to squeeze together and were sitting with the Ravenclaws instead. Despite the din, Ravenclaw still had the smallest intake that year, which meant more space along their tables. Harry could have said—truthfully—that he’d been looking for Ginerva. The youngest Weasley was laughing quietly with Luna Lovegood, her head bent close as they whispered to one another.
After last year’s events, it would have been an excuse. But his friends already knew that Harry’s viridescent gaze had settled on a single point of pale gold amid the sea of blue.
Weeks had passed since the school year began, and Harry still hadn’t made a single move toward the blond. He was getting cold feet, cursing the Dursleys every night before sleep. If he’d had one friend—just one—before Hogwarts, maybe he could have done this already.
He’d asked Seamus and Dean how they’d become so close in the first place, and to his dismay, his friends had laughed right in his face.
“You can’t force a friendship, mate,” Seamus had said, grinning.
Hermione hadn’t been much help either. Like Harry, she hadn’t had many friends before Hogwarts, and even now she hadn’t truly grown close to some of her dorm-mates. Lavender and Parvati were inseparable, and while they were never unkind to Hermione, they didn’t invite her into their tight little circle either.
Thankfully, she had Marion. They had started talking because Hermione was the only girl in their year who knew French. What began as careful, halting conversations soon became something steadier—shared notes, whispered translations, and the quiet comfort of being understood without having to explain everything aloud.
“How did you manage to get to Black?” Harry whined to Hermione.
“He actually found me,” Hermione said, a touch of pride in her voice. “Honestly, just come to our study group. He already asked for you to join us. Why are you making this harder on yourself?”
“I don’t want to spend hours in the library, working on essays in silence,” Harry protested. “That’s not going to help me.”
“Mate,” Seamus muttered, nudging Harry’s shoulder, “you either stop looking at Black like that, or you go over there and actually talk to him. Think Lochlan could help you?”
“Ugh,” Harry groaned, resting his chin in his hand. He and Lochlan had never really talked properly. Whatever conversation they’d shared on the train was still the last real one Harry could remember. He spotted Lochlan now and then—in the courtyard, laughing with Seamus in the corridors, or during Quidditch practice. Like Draco Black, Lochlan had joined the team as a Chaser. The two of them were close; Harry knew that much.
But he couldn’t exactly march up to someone he barely knew and say, Hey, would you mind helping me get closer to Draco Black?
His eyes drifted tot the raven head— Lochlan was sitting opposite Black, lazily eating his dinner, one hand running through his dark hair as he listened to him.
Maybe—just maybe—he could try talking to Black after their first match. The thought had been circling his mind for days now, never quite settling, never quite leaving.
He clearly didn’t have permission to go to Hogsmeade—and likely wouldn’t get it any time soon. Uncle Vernon would never sign a permission slip that benefited Harry in any way, not under any circumstances. That summer, he hadn’t been allowed to visit Dean’s house, despite how close it was. That left Quidditch as his best chance.
After a match, conversations came easily. People talked about plays and brooms, about near misses and stupid mistakes made in the air. Harry might stumble through small talk and fumble when it came to schoolwork, but when it came to Quidditch, he was confident. It was one of the few places where he felt like himself—steady, certain, unafraid to speak.
A striking golden owl swooped gracefully through the Hall and dropped a dark blue envelope straight into Black’s hands. Luna Lovegood clapped in delight and leaned closer to say something, her words swallowed by the surrounding noise. Harry felt a sharp, unwelcome twist of jealousy tighten in his chest.
Why was it so effortless for everyone else to get close to Black and never for him?
They looked vaguely related, Harry thought absently. Pale hair, distant eyes. Maybe they’re cousins or something, he reasoned, and that’s why they’re so familiar with each other. He made a mental note to ask Ginerva Weasley later.
Though, when it came to Ginerva Weasley, Harry felt even more adrift.
A sudden crash snapped him back to the present.
Black was on the floor.
He looked pale—ashen, almost—and something flickered across his face that Harry had never seen before. He scrambled to his feet so abruptly that several Ravenclaws flinched. Lochlan dropped his fork and stood at once, instinctively reaching out to help his friend as the benches scraped harshly against the stone floor. Black clutched his satchel to his chest while saying something to his friends and hurried toward the doors, head down, shoulders tense.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted Pansy Parkinson and Gregory Goyle shifting as well, rising from their seats a moment later. Some Slytherins loved cruel jokes—especially on people they didn’t like. Unfortunately, Draco Black was very much on that list.
Harry only realised he was on his feet when the bench tipped beneath him, rattling loudly. His heart was pounding. His Invisibility Cloak was in his satchel, thank Merlin.
“Harry, where are you going?” Dean called, his voice cutting through the din of the Great Hall.
“Let him go, Dean,” Marion said with a grin. She caught a loose strand of her brown hair and placed it above her lip like a moustache, deepening her voice theatrically. “He’s planning on being the saviour again. This time our the troll is Goyle.”
Harry only muttered, “Shut it, Rion,” over his shoulder and lifted a hand in a vague, dismissive wave. He was already moving, heart thudding as he followed after Black.He slowed near the doors, then reached into his satchel and pulled out the Invisibility Cloak. As he slipped it over himself, he hesitated. Black had gone outside. The Slytherins, on the other hand, had turned toward the staircases.
If they weren’t planning to corner Black—weren’t about to trap him or trick him—then there was no real reason for Harry to follow. No reason at all. But he couldn’t be sure. There’s no harm in just following, he told himself, even as his feet carried him forward.
The air outside was cool and sharp, a change after the stifling warmth of the Great Hall. The castle grounds stretched out before him, scattered with fallen leaves in deep amber and burnished copper. The sun was casting long shadows across the grass. Near the edge of the grounds stood Hagrid’s hut, smoke coming out from its chimney.
Harry followed at a careful distance. Black had stopped near the hut. Up close, Harry could see the flush staining Black’s pale cheeks, the way his hands trembled slightly as he crouched. He casted a Lumos to see better. Then, behind the hut, something else came into view.
A creature. An enormous black dog.
It was far larger than any ordinary dog Harry had ever seen—its head nearly level with Black’s chest even on all fours. Its sheer size sent a cold prickle up Harry’s spine. For a fleeting moment, his mind jumped to the Grim, the dreadful omen Professor Trelawney predicted for him—but the creature before him seemed too solid, too real, to be a spectre of death. Perhaps it was a magical breed. Something like a Crup?
“Are you mad?” Black shouted, panic cutting sharply through his words. “I told you not to come!”
Harry had never heard Draco Black raise his voice before. He had never seen him lose his composure on the pitch or snap at a teammate. Black was usually calm and gentle in the way he spoke.
The dog flinched—actually shrank back—which startled Harry more than the shouting itself. Its red eyes were wide and wet, pleading rather than threatening.
“Stop it,” Black snarled. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re complicating this!”
Harry’s mind came into a halt, trying to connect the envelope, the golden owl, and this enormous creature. The way Black spoke to the dog was… strange. Not strange in itself—people talked to animals all the time—but strange in the way one spoke to something that understood.
Harry knew he couldn’t judge. He was a Parselmouth himself.
Still, it was different. When Harry spoke to snakes, he had to bend his words, simplify them—use odd phrasing to make himself understood. Once, he’d had to refer to another person as the two-legged one. Black on the other hand, spoke as though the dog grasped every word. As though it thought like a human.
“What if someone sees you?” Black continued, pacing now, running a hand through his hair. “I have to tell Profess—no. I have to. Don’t argue with me about this.”
With a frustrated huff, he dropped his satchel and rummaged through it, movements sharp and agitated. A few strands of his hair slipped loose, falling into his face.
Hogwarts had its fair share of boys with long hair, but in Harry’s entirely unbiased opinion, Black’s was the best—by far. He couldn’t imagine him with short hair, at all. Each strand caught the light, pale and fine, almost like unicorn hair. Delicate tot ouch.
Without thinking, Harry stepped closer. Leaves crunched beneath his foot. The sound was small—but it might as well have been a shout for the creature in front of him.
The dog’s head snapped up, red eyes locking instantly onto Harry’s position. Even though Harry knew the creature couldn’t see through the Cloak, the intensity of its gaze sent a jolt of fear straight through him. His breath hitched. He stepped back at once, heart pounding so loudly he was certain it could be heard.
The dog’s posture changed in a heartbeat—from uncertain to dangerous—as it took several deliberate steps forward.
Black reacted immediately, grabbing the dog firmly by the scruff and tail.
“Please,” he said, voice strained. “Don’t. Don’t go anywhere near the castle.”
The dog froze.
“Wait here,” Black added, softer now, though urgency still threaded his words. “I’ll talk to Hagrid. Maybe you can stay with him for a while.”
The dog obeyed and waited. Harry didn’t.
While Black was focused on calming the creature, Harry took advantage of the moment. He turned and ran, feet barely touching the ground as he raced back toward the castle. He shrugged off the Invisibility Cloak just before reaching the doors, stuffing it into his satchel with shaking hands.
He nearly collided with his friend.
Dean stood just inside the entrance, eyes wide in alarm. Seamus was beside him, half a step behind, already reaching out as if to catch Harry should he stumble. Marion lingered a little further back, perched casually against a pillar, her messy bun coming loose at the edges.
Marion pushed herself upright, studying his face with a sharp, curious look. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said lightly. Then, after a beat, “Or worse. Something with teeth.”
“I—” Harry swallowed. “I just— I had to—”
“Alright,” Dean said, arms folded tightly across his chest. “We’ll interrogate him after he remembers how to breathe.”
Without waiting for a response, he caught Harry by the sleeve and steered him away from the doorway, turning them toward the inner corridors. The others followed for a short while before the sound of their footsteps dissolved into the low, familiar hum of the castle settling in for the day.
They moved through a stretch of stone corridor where the torches burned lower than usual, their unsteady light pulling long, warped shadows across the floor. Harry’s footsteps sounded far too loud in the quiet, and without thinking, he adjusted his pace to match Dean’s, letting himself be guided.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said at last, though the words felt hollow even to him. He rubbed the back of his neck as they began the climb toward Gryffindor Tower. “He just—he got up so fast. And Parkinson took Goyle with her. I thought— You know how Black is. He’s usually so collected. Nothing ever seems to get under his skin. I thought they were going to pull a prank on him.”
Dean slowed as they neared the Fat Lady’s portrait, resting his hand briefly against the stone wall. “I saw them too,” he said. “But they didn’t go outside. I grabbed Seamus and Marion to make sure they weren’t dragging you into trouble. All we saw was Black tearing across the grounds—and you, probably, under your Cloak.”
The Fat Lady sniffed. “If you’re done loitering, passwords would be lovely.”
“Fortuna Major,” Hermione said crisply from behind them.
The portrait swung open with a sigh, and they stepped through.
Harry’s eyes stayed fixed on the worn stone steps beneath his feet as they entered. “He went to Hagrid’s hut.”
“And?” Marion asked.
“And he was talking,” Harry added, the words spilling out now that he’d started. “With a dog.”
She turned slowly. “A dog?”
“It was massive,” Harry said. “Imagine Fang, but three times the size. Bigger than anything I’ve ever seen—it can’t be a normal dog. It was black as ink, with ruby-red eyes. I know I sound mad, but there was something wrong about it. I mean—I can talk to snakes. That’s already strange enough. Can you talk to any other animal? Or… something else?”
“Not really,” Marion said after a moment, shaking her head. “Though I do talk to Braise sometimes.”
Braise—Marion’s fire-breathing cat—was small enough to curl into one palm. According to Hermione, she had already singed a tapestry outside the girls’ dormitory once.
The fire burned low in the Gryffindor common room, casting a warm, flickering glow over mismatched armchairs and scattered tables. A handful of students lingered near the hearth, their voices hushed, but most had already gone upstairs. Hermione settled by the window, posture straight. Seamus and Dean dropped onto the rug near her feet, their satchels thudding softly to the floor. Hermione shot them a look; she hated mess, even familiar mess.
“I think he was scared,” Harry said slowly. “Angry, too. He kept saying the dog shouldn’t be there. That it wasn’t meant to come. I keep calling it a dog, but it wasn’t normal. It can’t be. It had to be something else.”
Hermione frowned, her brows drawing together as she considered this. “And what exactly did he say to it?”
Harry swallowed. “He said—I told you to trust me.”
Dean blinked. “Right,” he said after a moment. “Still sounds like a pet to me. Maybe an over-attached one.”
“It didn’t feel like that,” Harry insisted. “It sounded like… a conversation.” And it really had. Black had cut himself off mid-sentence, as though answering a question Harry couldn’t hear. The dog hadn’t barked once—not at him, not at anything—only made low, distressed sounds now and then. When Harry spoke to snakes, he at least had to hiss.
Marion returned with her cat, having changed quickly into a nightgown, Braise cradled carefully against her chest. She settled back into her chair, visibly relieved, and began stroking the tiny creature with lazy affection.
Hermione tapped her fingers against the edge of the table, torn between concern and caution. “Some old wizarding families keep familiars,” she said at last. “Intelligent creatures bound to a household. Not unlike house-elves.”
“Right,” Marion said, nodding. “The Black family’s ancient. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. It wouldn’t surprise me if they had some creature that followed its owner halfway across the country.”
Harry frowned. “The Noble and Most Ancient?”
Marion looked at him oddly. “Oui. The Black family.”
When Harry only stared back, she let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right. Of course. You wouldn’t know.”
Irritation flared in Harry, quick and sharp. Of course he wouldn’t. He hadn’t even known magic existed a few years ago. Somehow, Marion seemed to rediscover that fact every week.
Hermione leaned forward slightly, interest clearly piqued. “I’ve read about them,” she said. “Only briefly, though. Most of the information is… sanitised. Most of the names were redacted.”
Marion laughed softly. “That figures.” She shifted in her chair, shoulders squaring a little—the way she always did when repeating something she’d grown up hearing. “Maman says there are old wizarding families in Britain,” she went on, glancing briefly at Hermione, “and then there are Most Ancient and Most Noble ones. That’s a completely different league.” She shrugged. “Names that go back to before Hogwarts was even built. Papa says the Blacks are one of the biggest.”
Harry found himself leaning closer without realising.
“They care about bloodlines here,” Rion went on, her voice steady but edged with something older than her years. She sat cross-legged near the fire, Braise warm and drowsy in her lap, fingers absently combing through the cat’s singed whiskers. “Purity. Appearances. Power. France isn’t like that. Maman says that sort of thinking sticks around in families like that—it gets passed down whether you like it or not.” She hesitated, lowering her voice slightly. “Papa says a lot of them had a… tolerance for the Dark Arts. Not always openly. But it was allowed. Sometimes even… encouraged.”
Harry’s stomach twisted. His gaze drifted to the fire, watching the flames curl and collapse in on themselves. He thought of Draco Black—measured, gentle with his words, careful in the way he treated people. None of it fit with what Rion was saying.
“They’re all like that?” Harry asked quietly.
Marion shifted where she sat, one knee drawn up, lips pressing together. “I mean… not all of them,” she said after a moment. “But—yeah. Enough of them.”
Seamus, sprawled on the rug with his back against an armchair, tilted his head as something clicked into place. “Oh! I know one,” he said. His brow furrowed. “Sirius Black?”
Marion nodded once. “Oui. Him.”
Harry waited. When nothing else followed, he looked at her. Marion frowned right back at him.
“You—you do know who he is, right?”
Harry’s patience snapped. He straightened where he stood near the hearth, heat flaring sharp in his chest. “I am going to strangle you if you do that again in the same conversation, Rion,” he said. “I very clearly do not know. Hermione and Dean probably don’t either.”
Hermione, seated by the window with her knees pulled in, shook her head. Dean sat on the floor beside her, shoulder leaning lightly against the wall, his satchel abandoned near his feet.
“I know the name,” Hermione said slowly. “But only in passing. It’s always been… well. Controversial.”
Marion stared at both of them for a long second, then let out a disbelieving huff. Braise stirred and let out a small, indignant meow.
“Morgane’s sake,” Marion muttered. “I keep forgetting how much you all missed before Hogwarts.”
“No one’s ever mentioned him to me,” Dean said from the floor, shrugging as if it hardly mattered, though his eyes stayed fixed on the fire.
Marion blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand through her hair, loosening the messy knot further. “Yeah. Figures.” She shifted her weight, glancing briefly toward the flames before looking back at Harry. “Sirius Black was… well. He was bad news, Dark wizard and all that.”
“Related to Draco Black?” Harry pressed.
“Yeah—yeah, somehow,” Marion said quickly. “Their family tree’s a mess. Cousins, I think. Or—no, wait—maybe an uncle? I know more about his father’s side—Malfoys are French too—but…” She waved a hand, dismissive. “Doesn’t really matter. Point is, same lot.”
“So this Sirius Black,” Harry said, his throat tightening despite himself, “famous how?”
Marion hesitated.
Hermione filled the silence, her voice quieter now, careful. “He murdered twelve Muggles in one go. That’s what I’ve read.” The fire popped softly as she spoke, sparks briefly lifting into the air. “Blew apart an entire street. Witnesses said his friend tried to stop him but failed. Sirius Black killed his own friend with the Blasting Curse. Only a finger was found after the blast.”
Seamus nodded slowly, jaw set. “Yeah, mum used to threaten me and my brothers with him when we were little. Told us Sirius Black would come and get us if we didn’t behave.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Everyone reckoned he was the one who sold your parents out to You-Know-Who.”
Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth. “Seamus—!”
“Someone betrayed my parents?” Harry asked faintly.
“I’m just saying what people believed,” Seamus said quickly, lowering his voice. “I’m not even from here, alright? It was all gossip. He was arrested straight away. No trial or anything. Everyone said it was obvious that Black did it. Case closed.”
“I heard he was a shape-shifter,” she said quietly. “Maman says he was a bloodhound—that he used to track You-Know-Who’s enemies by scent alone. After he was sent to Azkaban, he was found dead in his cell two years later. They say his body was still in the form of a bloodhound.”
She lowered her voice slightly.
“You know… if you die while in Animagus form, they can’t change you back. There’s a rumour that the Minister for Magic at the time—Cornelius Fudge—didn’t even order a burial. Supposedly, they threw him into the waters off Bermuda, just like that.”
The fire shifted, logs settling with a dull crack.
“Sirius Black—” Marion began, again then caught herself. Her eyes flicked around the common room, suddenly sharp.
Nearby, a handful of Gryffindors had gone very quiet. Fred and George Weasley paused mid-conversation, exchanging a sidelong look. By the fireplace, two first-years stared at them with wide eyes before scrambling up the stairs, their footsteps echoing louder than necessary. One of the prefects glanced over from the notice board, brow creasing with faint suspicion.
“We shouldn’t be saying that name out loud,” Marion whispered. “People listen when it comes up.”
Hermione straightened at once, pulling her robes a little closer around herself. Her expression tightened—not frightened, but cautious. Harry hadn’t noticed the attention until Marion pointed it out.
Dean glanced around, hands tucked into his sleeves, unease written plainly across his face. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “We should probably head up,” he said. “It’s late—and we’re drawing a bit of attention.”
Seamus followed his gaze and grimaced. “Yeah. Good call.”
They gathered their things from the floor, movements quieter now. Seamus held a hand out to Harry, but Harry shook his head. He wanted to stay a little longer—closer to the fire, as if the warmth might anchor him.
Hermione had already stacked her books neatly. She hesitated only a moment before standing. “See you tomorrow,” she said softly.
She and Marion headed toward the girls’ staircase, Marion casting one last glance back before disappearing around the curve.
Harry nodded after them, though his thoughts were tangled—caught somewhere between the crackle of the fire, the weight of a name he didn’t fully understand, and the unsettling image of a black dog with red eyes waiting in the dark beyond the grounds.
Eventually, he rose. Behind him, the fire still burned, but the warmth no longer seemed to reach him. He paused, staring into the hearth, watching the flames curl and collapse in on themselves—bright, restless, consuming.
He had always thought he understood how his parents had died.
Voldemort had found them—somehow—and that had been that. A spell, perhaps. Dark magic he couldn’t yet grasp. Growing up, Harry had believed it was simply one of those terrible things powerful wizards could do—another cruel fact of a war he had been born into but never taught about.
He was new to magic, after all.
For years, he’d assumed Voldemort had simply known where they were. That Dark wizards had ways of seeing, tracking, finding people no matter how well they hid.
But this felt different. This was a person, someone who had known them. Someone who had followed them. Someone who had made a choice. The thought settled uneasily in Harry’s chest.
Killing people shouldn’t be that easy, he thought.
And yet, everything he’d learned since coming to Hogwarts suggested that, for some, it was. Voldemort had made murder seem effortless. Almost casual. A flick of a wand. A word spoken without pause. A life ended. Boom, there.
Harry sank down onto his bed. Harry wasn’t sure what he felt. Anger, perhaps. Or something close to it. All he knew was that the idea of someone walking free after doing something like that made his stomach twist—and he was glad Sirius Black died as he did.