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Chapter Text

A cold wind from the lake struck the faces of Sirius Black and his godson, Harry Potter. They stood on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, gazing at the lit windows of Hogwarts, where the confrontation with Pettigrew had just ended. Adrenaline still pulsed in their veins, but fatigue and the bitterness of injustice were replacing it – Sirius knew he would have to hide again.

“You know, Sirius,” Harry said quietly, staring into the darkness, “before the Dursleys, before all this… people used to come to me.”

Sirius frowned. “Come to you? Who?”

“A man and a woman. He was… very much like you. Only older. With the same black hair and high cheekbones. And she… stern, dark-haired, but kind. They called me Harry. Said they knew my parents.” Harry fell silent, gathering his thoughts. “They told me about magic, real magic, not like in fairy tales. About flying brooms, potions, fantastic beasts… They gave me little magical toys that I hid under the floorboard. Picture books where dragons moved… I… I miss them terribly. They stopped coming when I was about nine. I never found out why.”

Sirius’s heart clenched. Regulus? Severin? The thought flashed like lightning. He opened his mouth to say, “Harry, I think I know…” – but at that moment, something heavy and soft landed on his shoulder.

Harry gasped. Perched on Sirius’s shoulder was a majestic owl the colour of night, with enormous eyes gleaming in the moonlight. In its beak, it held a scroll of parchment rolled into a tube, sealed with black wax bearing the Black family crest.

“The Black family owl,” Sirius whispered, recognising the bird. His hand trembled as he took the letter. He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. Harry peered over his shoulder, mesmerised.

“Dear Sirius,"

Sirius read aloud, his voice slightly shaky with emotion,

“words cannot express our relief and joy upon learning you are free. Your innocence was never in question for us. We tried… oh, how we tried to contest that monstrous sentence! But every time we were refused, citing ‘irrefutable’ evidence. Know that the house at 12 Grimmauld Place has always been and remains your home. And Harry’s too. Come. We must talk. About everything. About why we could no longer come to him. We will explain all when we see you.

Your brother, Regulus, and Severin. "

Sirius looked up from the letter, his gaze meeting Harry’s wide eyes.

“Is that… is that them? That man… he’s your brother?” Harry asked, his voice trembling with hope and disbelief.

“Yes, Harry,” Sirius put an arm around his godson’s shoulders, feeling rage at his suspicions warring with a long-forgotten warmth of family within him. “It’s them. Regulus, my brother, and his wife, Severin. Your godmother.” He gripped the letter tighter. “And they’re expecting us. Home. It’s time to learn the truth about why they left you alone with those… with the Dursleys.”

Without waiting for a reply, Sirius gave the owl a sharp nod. The bird importantly spread its wings and vanished into the night. Sirius grabbed Harry’s hand.

“Hold tight, godson. Our path leads to Grimmauld Place!”

They stepped into the darkness, leaving the castle and its secrets behind, heading towards a house where other secrets awaited – family secrets, bitter ones, but perhaps carrying long-awaited understanding and shelter. Shelter that Severin and Regulus had tried to give Harry years ago, before Albus Dumbledore cruelly severed their attempts, leaving the boy in ignorance and themselves with unhealed wounds of body and soul.

***

A cold wind whistled across the deserted square at Grimmauld Place. Sirius Black, in ragged, sea-and-prison-stained rags but with his head held high, kept a firm hand on the shoulder of his godson, Harry Potter, whose school robes were also dusty and stained from the recent fight. Before them loomed the grim, yet no longer seemingly abandoned, facade of Number 12.

“Here it is, Harry,” Sirius whispered, his voice sounding strange – a mixture of excitement and bitterness. “The house of my childhood. The house... of the family.”

Before Sirius could raise his hand, the door swung silently open. Kreacher stood on the threshold, beaming with happiness. His large eyes were full of joyful tears.

“Master Sirius! Master Harry!” he squeaked, bowing almost to the floor. “Welcome home! Kreacher serves!”

Sirius and Harry stepped over the threshold, stunned by the warmth, cleanliness, and bright light inside, so unlike their expectations. The air smelled of wax, wood, and sweet baking.

“Uncle Sirius!” Armus Black (22, black-haired, grey-eyed, with an open smile) emerged swiftly from the drawing room. He embraced Sirius firmly. “You’re here! Free!” Stepping back, he immediately turned to Harry, embracing him too: “Harry? Hello, cousin! I’m Armus. Welcome home.”

“H-hello,” Harry mumbled, embarrassed, returning the hug. “Thanks.”

“Armus,” Sirius gestured at himself and Harry, “we... um... aren’t quite presentable for the drawing room.” His rags and dirt contrasted sharply with the house’s cleanliness. Harry also brushed dust from his sleeve self-consciously.

Armus gave them a quick, assessing look, but without judgement, only practical concern. “Ah, of course! Forgive me, I’m so pleased to see you, I forgot my manners. Kreacher!”

The house-elf snapped upright. “Kreacher listens, young Master!”

“Take Master Sirius and Master Harry to the best guest rooms on the second floor. Prepare hot baths with aromatic oils. And find them suitable clothing from the family stores – clean, comfortable, warm. Immediately.”

“At once, young Master!” Kreacher nearly squealed with zeal, his ears trembling. He snapped his fingers. “Please follow Kreacher, Master Sirius, Master Harry! Kreacher will take care! Quickly-quickly!”

Sirius snorted, watching the suddenly businesslike elf: “Hardly recognise the old grump. Right, Harry, let’s clean ourselves up, it’s embarrassing to wait for my brother looking like this.”

Kreacher nimbly led them up the wide staircase, muttering about “precious Masters,” “hot water,” and “finest silks.”

Half an hour later, Sirius and Harry descended to the library, transformed. Sirius wore dark, sturdy wool trousers and a deep burgundy jumper that, judging by the cut, might have belonged to his father, Orion. He looked younger, despite the traces of hardship. Harry sported comfortable dark grey trousers and a soft blue jumper that, Kreacher had whispered, Armus himself had worn at his age. They smelled of soap, warmth, and… home.

Armus, pouring fresh tea in the library, glanced up and beamed: “Well now! Quite different men! You look splendid.”

“Thanks, Armus,” Sirius sank into an armchair by the fire with unfamiliar comfort. “And Kreacher. Feel almost human. Not an escaped convict.”

Harry also settled comfortably, stroking the jumper’s soft fabric. “Thanks. Very comfortable.”

“Not at all,” Armus replied, handing out cups. “Just in time. Mother and Father just Apparated – they’re on their way, be here in half an hour. While we wait, tell me! How was Hogwarts, Harry? Gryffindor, I assume? Like our dashing uncle?” He winked at Sirius.

Harry, feeling much more confident in clean clothes and warmth, began telling him about school, professors, friends. Armus listened intently, asked questions, laughed at the description of Slughorn. Sirius interjected with sharp but good-natured comments about his own school days.

“Where did you go, Armus?” Harry asked, finishing his account. “If not Hogwarts?”

“Durmstrang,” Armus answered with mild pride. “Like my maternal grandfather, Demir Krum. They study nine years there. Very interesting, though harsh. Only returned last year. Mother’s family tradition.” His gaze became momentarily distant. “And… after certain events here, long ago, my parents decided it would be the better choice.”

“Events?” Sirius set his cup down, his gaze sharper. “Armus, Harry mentioned that Regulus and Severin visited him when he was little, but then… stopped. What happened? Why couldn’t they see him anymore? And what events made you leave?”

Armus sighed, his gaze shifting gently from demanding Sirius to the attentive Harry. He spoke calmly, trying to soften the weight:
“You see, Harry, when you were left with the Dursleys, my parents desperately wanted to take you in. Severin is your godmother – that gave her the right. They petitioned the court, gathered documents, enlisted our whole extended family to help…” He paused briefly, his tone growing sadder. “But then… there was great sorrow. Illness. It took many of our elder relatives – Great-grandfather Pollux, Great-grandmother Irma, Grandfather Arcturus, others… Almost everyone who could help my parents fight for you.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Illness? What kind?”

“A very rare and vicious one,” Armus said quietly. “Dragon Pox. It came suddenly and very quickly. Grandmother Walburga, Grandfather Orion, and I… we were abroad then, on a trip for Grandfather’s treatment. It didn’t touch us, but… it was a terrible blow to the family. My parents were shattered by grief.” He looked at Harry with sincere regret. “After that… their strength was sapped. They still tried to visit you when they could, but… less often. And much more cautiously.”

“But then you stopped coming altogether,” Harry said softly. “When I was nine. I remember...”

Armus nodded, his face becoming serious. “Yes. In eighty-nine… something happened. Something that made them withdraw completely. They…” – Armus glanced at the door, – “they will tell you themselves, Harry, when they arrive. It’s their story. But know this: it wasn’t their choice. They wanted to come. Every day. They missed you terribly.” His voice grew firmer. “And they never stopped caring for you, even from afar.”

At that moment, a familiar tap of a cane and footsteps sounded in the hall. Kreacher shrieked joyfully: “Master Regulus! Mistress Severin! Returned!”

Armus jumped up with a smile: “And here they are! Right on time!”

Harry’s heart beat faster. Sirius rose, his posture tense but hope shining in his eyes. In the library doorway appeared those they awaited. Regulus Black – weary, but with a warm light in his eyes at the sight of his brother. Severin Prince – leaning on a cane, but her stern gaze instantly found Harry, and in it flared such a bright mixture of pain, love, and relief that the boy understood: Armus had spoken the truth. They had missed him. Terribly.

“Sirius!” Regulus stepped forward, and the brothers embraced again – tighter, longer, wordlessly.
Severin didn’t wait. She walked towards Harry, her cane tapping softly on the floor. She said nothing. Simply opened her arms. And Harry, without thinking, stepped into them, feeling something long-frozen inside begin to thaw. Home. Family.

They were here. And now they would tell him the whole truth.

***

The library, filled with the warmth of the fire and the scent of tea, momentarily stilled. Regulus and Sirius stood, locked in a tight embrace, their silent dialogue of shoulders and backs speaking louder than words. Years of prison, suspicion, family losses – all melted in that embrace, replaced by fragile yet resilient hope.

And Harry was in Severin’s arms. He felt her slight trembling, her fingers digging into the fabric of his jumper as if afraid he’d vanish. Her cane stood forgotten nearby. She said nothing, only breathed heavily, suppressing sobs. Harry pressed closer, inhaling a familiar, barely-there scent – a mix of herbs and something cold, like snow – that he faintly remembered from childhood. The scent of safety.

“We missed you so much, Harry,” she finally whispered, her voice hoarse with unshed tears. She carefully pulled back to look into his face, holding his shoulders. Her dark eyes shone, filled with deep pain and infinite relief. “Every day. Every hour.”

Regulus patted Sirius’s back and approached them. He placed his good hand on his wife’s shoulder, and the other on Harry’s shoulder. His gaze, usually so reserved, was full of tenderness. “Welcome home, son,” he said softly. Harry felt something large and warm constrict in his chest at the word. “Your real home.”

They settled by the fire. Kreacher immediately topped up the tea. Armus sat slightly apart, watching with a quiet smile. Severin didn’t let go of Harry’s hand.

“Armus has probably told you about... about those dark years when we lost the elders,” Regulus began, his voice calm but laced with weariness. “And that even after that, we tried to be close. Visited you when we could. Wanted you to know about magic, about us... so you wouldn’t feel completely alone.”

Harry nodded. “I remember. You told me about phoenixes and hippogriffs... Gave me a magical kaleidoscope where the pictures moved...”

Severin offered a faint smile. “You loved it so. We saw.” Her smile faded. “But then... in eighty-nine... we couldn’t come anymore. And you must know why. It wasn’t because we stopped loving you or forgot. Never.”

She looked at Regulus. He took over, choosing his words carefully for the teenager:

“Imagine, Harry, there’s a very powerful... guardian. He believes he knows what’s best for you. And he placed an invisible wall around you. A very strong wall.” – Regulus gestured something circular. – “We tried to approach, to talk to you, like before. But this guardian... he saw it. And he got angry. Very angry.”

“He... attacked you?” Harry asked quietly, his gaze flicking to Severin’s cane and lingering on Regulus’s left hand lying on his knee just a little too still.

Severin nodded, her face hardening, but she spoke gently to Harry: “Yes, dear. He used magic. Strong magic. To stop us. To show he was serious. He inflicted... wounds.” – She touched her leg carefully, hidden by her dress. – “It became difficult for me to walk far without help.” – Her gaze indicated the cane. – “And your Uncle Regulus... he lost part of his arm. Magic helped create a replacement, but... it’s not the same.”

Harry swallowed. “Dumbledore?” he whispered. He didn’t want to believe it, but the puzzle pieces fit: the threats to Kreacher, the Headmaster’s suspicious behaviour, his talk of "sacrifices" and "the greater good".

Regulus sighed heavily. “Yes, Harry. Albus Dumbledore. He believes your future, the fate of the whole world, depends on you growing up precisely there, with the Dursleys, in ignorance. He sees you... as a tool in a great game. And he is willing to break anything and anyone who stands in the way of his plan. Even your family. Even your feelings.”

“He said,” Severin continued, her voice trembling, but she steadied herself, “that if we tried to approach you again, to see you, to talk... he would hurt you. Very badly. Or... or do something irreversible.” She looked at Armus, and that look held all a mother’s anxiety. “We couldn’t risk it. Not your life, Harry. Not Armus’s life. No one was safe from his wrath if we disobeyed.”

Harry sat, digesting what he’d heard. Anger, fear, disbelief warred within him. But strongest was resentment. Resentment for the stolen years, for the fear that forced his godparents to retreat, for Dumbledore’s lies.

“But now... now it’s different?” he asked, looking at Sirius, who was grimly watching the conversation, fists clenched.

“Now it’s different,” Regulus stated firmly. “Sirius is free. He is your legal guardian. You are here, in your real home. And Dumbledore...” – a steely resolve flashed in Regulus’s eyes, – “he no longer has the right to dictate to us how to live and how to love our boy. His wall has fallen.”

Severin squeezed Harry’s hand tighter. “You are not alone anymore, Harry. Never again. We are here. All your family. And we will protect you. From everything.”

At that moment, Armus stood up, his face shining. “And while the heavy talks are over,” he announced with light theatricality, easing the tension, “Harry! Fancy exploring your new residence? The house is big, dark, full of surprises! There’s even a room Aunt Cassiopeia wanted as a silver museum, but we made it a duelling practice room! And the library has a forbidden section... albeit small. Come on, I’ll show you!”

Harry hesitated, glancing at the adults. Severin gave him a gentle nudge. “Go on, dear. Settle in. This is your home too. Your Uncle Sirius, Regulus, and I... we need to discuss some adult matters. Dull papers and such.” She winked, trying to look carefree, but deep weariness showed in her eyes.

Sirius nodded to Harry, his gaze promising he’d explain more later. “Go on, godson. Stretch your legs. Armus knows all the secret passages here.”

Harry let his cousin lead him from the library. Armus was already chattering animatedly about Great-grandmother’s ghost in the east wing as they left.

***

The heavy oak library door clicked softly shut behind Armus and Harry. The cousins’ cheerful voices and footsteps quickly faded in the corridors of the old house. The sudden silence in the library felt resonant, thick with the unspoken. Only the crackle of logs in the fireplace disturbed it.

Sirius stood with his back to the fire, his silhouette wavering in the orange light. He slowly turned. His face, softened moments before with joy for Harry, was now like dark hewn stone – hard, with sharp shadows, but his grey eyes stormed with pain and fury. He looked at his brother and Severin.

“I understand why you told him… the softened version,” Sirius began, his voice low, raspy with restrained emotion. “He’s a child. He doesn’t need to carry all that horror. Not now. You made him understand the main thing – that you love him, that you retreated against your will, that Dumbledore is the enemy. That’s right.”

He took a step forward, towards the table where Regulus and Severin sat. Severin didn’t try to keep her back straight anymore. She slumped, elbows on her knees, her fingers gripping the head of her cane so tightly her knuckles were white. Her gaze was fixed on the carpet patterns, but Sirius saw her shoulders tremble. Regulus sat beside her, his good hand resting over her clenched fingers, trying to still the tremor. His face was ashen, the mask of composure cracked, revealing profound weariness and silent agony. His left arm, in its splendid sleeve, lay on the table – perfect, but deathly still.

“But me, brother,” Sirius continued, his voice breaking, “me you must tell everything. Every blow. Every threat. Every drop of despair. I must know. I rotted in his prison while he broke my family. While he maimed you. While he stole my godson’s childhood!” Sirius’s voice rose to a hoarse cry on the last words. He slammed a fist on the table, making the cups rattle. “Tell me! Now! Without sugarcoating!”

Regulus flinched at the blow. He raised his head, meeting his brother’s gaze. There was no reproach in his eyes, only infinite bitterness and understanding. He took a deep breath.

“The thirty-first of July. Nineteen eighty-nine,” he began quietly, monotonously, as if reading a sentence. “His ninth birthday. We… we couldn’t not come. Even after everything. After the Pox… after the threats. We brought a book. The one he’d asked for…”

Severin drew a sharp breath, as if struck. Her body curled in on itself. “A History of Magic by Bagshot… Signed…” she whispered, tears trembling in her voice. “He wanted it so badly…”

“We entered the garden. Were careful. Thought the Dursleys were at work…” Regulus fell silent, swallowing a lump in his throat. His fingers tightened on Severin’s hand. “He was standing there. Under the old oak. As if waiting. Albus Dumbledore. Not angry. Not threatening. Calm. Like a teacher disappointed by pupils’ mischief.”

“‘Regulus, Severin,’” Regulus quoted Dumbledore’s voice, and Sirius felt the room grow colder. “‘Your persistence would be better applied elsewhere. But you have crossed all boundaries. It is time to put an end to these… visits.’”

“I told him…” Severin’s voice broke on a sob. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to compose herself. “I told him I was his godmother… that we had the right… that Lily…” She couldn’t continue. Tears streamed down her cheeks silently.

“He didn’t let her finish,” Regulus continued, his own voice growing hoarse. “Just… flicked his wand. So fast. I barely had time to shove her… push her out of the line of fire…” He looked at his prosthetic arm lying on the table. “Diffindo. But not the blade that cuts flesh. The one that cleaves space itself, sunders substance. My arm... below the elbow... just.. vanished. No blood. No pain at first. Just… emptiness. And shock.”

Sirius groaned, low, like a wounded animal. He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking. “No… Oh, no, Reg…”

“I fell…” Severin spoke through tears, her words fragmented. “From the shove… and from… Regulus’s cry. And Dumbledore… he turned to me. He looked... with that ice-cold stare. Then he said...‘You walk too much, my dear. Time to rest.’ And… struck. In the back. With some… bone-shattering curse… of incredible power…” She gasped convulsively, clutching her side. “As if… all the bones inside… shattered into splinters… I heard them… breaking…”

“She screamed…” Regulus whispered, tears filling his own eyes. “And he… he walked over. Picked up the book she’d dropped. Brushed off the dirt. Looked at the house… where Harry was probably hiding…” Regulus swallowed, trying to suppress a sob. “Threw the book at our feet. Said… ‘A final gift. A final warning. Your next step towards the boy will be his last step. Or your son’s. Choose.’ And… vanished.”

The silence that followed these words was deafening. Severin wept silently, her body wracked by spasms, her face hidden in her hands. Regulus sat hunched, tears streaming down his cheeks, his good hand lying helplessly on her back, trying to soothe.

Sirius couldn’t bear it. He rushed forward, not to his brother, but to Severin. He knelt before her chair, carefully but firmly grasping her trembling shoulders.

“Severin… I’m sorry… Sorry I wasn’t there… I'm sorry I failed to protect you… ” – his voice was rough with tears. He pulled her towards him, letting her bury her face in his shoulder, and held her tightly, ignoring the cane that clattered to the carpet. Her sobs grew louder, more desperate – tears held back for years of fear, pain, and helplessness.

Regulus stood, swaying. He came over, placed a hand on Sirius’s shoulder, and with the other arm embraced his wife from behind, creating a protective circle. He didn’t cry loudly, but his body also shook, and tears dripped onto Sirius’s shoulder. The brothers knelt before Severin’s chair, three broken yet unbroken people, united by grief and rage, finally allowing themselves to mourn the stolen years and the wounds inflicted.

“We… we couldn’t risk it…” Severin exhaled, her voice barely audible against Sirius’s jumper. “Not him… Not Armus… Never…”

“I know,” Sirius held her tighter. “I know, Severin. You did the only thing you could. You saved them by retreating. But now… now it’s different.” He carefully pulled back, lifted her tear-streaked face. His own cheeks were wet. “Now I am here. And we are together. And that old manipulator will pay dearly for every tear you shed. For every moment of your pain. For every day stolenу Harry. By the blood of the Blacks, I swear».

He rose, helping Severin up. Picked up her cane, placed it in her hand. Regulus wiped his face on his sleeve, trying to regain control. In his eyes, besides the pain, now burned a responsive fire – the fire of vengeance and hope, ignited by his brother’s words.

“We start a war,” Sirius declared firmly. “A quiet one. A clever one. But a war. For our family.”

“Yes,” Regulus answered hoarsely. He straightened, looking at Sirius. And suddenly, through the veil of grief, something new appeared on his face – a faint ray of light. “And you know, Sirius… Today, while we were in the Bohemia… The healers said something incredible.” He paused, gathering strength. “Father’s condition… It’s stabilised. Significantly. He… he’s almost recovered. His strength has returned. Clarity of mind…”

Severin looked up at him, startled, momentarily forgetting her tears. Sirius froze.

“Mother…” Regulus allowed himself a weak, but genuine smile. “Mother couldn’t believe it. She wept with happiness. And… they want to return. Home. To England. As soon as they can pack. They want to be here. With us. With you. With Harry.”

Silence hung, but now it was different. The weight hadn’t vanished, but a crack had appeared. A crack filled with warmth and unexpected hope. The return of Orion and Walburga… It was a sign. A sign that the House of Black, battered but not broken, was beginning to rise from the ashes.

Sirius nodded slowly. Tears still glistened on his lashes, but his eyes burned now not only with rage, but with resolve, bolstered by this news.

“Good,” he said quietly, but with renewed strength. “All the better. Let them return. The more of us gathered under this roof, the stronger our fortress. And the louder our voice will be when the time comes.”

He held out his hands. Regulus took one, Severin, still leaning on her cane, placed hers over theirs. The three stood by the hearth, their silhouettes merging into one against the fire – Sirius, Regulus, Severin. Family. Shield. And future sword.

The war was only beginning. But for the first time in many years, they felt: they were not alone.

***

Armus led Harry down a long, dimly lit second-floor corridor, chattering animatedly about the portrait of eccentric Aunt Druella who demanded everyone bow before her.

“...and if you don’t bow, she starts shrieking in this piercing whistle that…” – Armus suddenly stopped, putting a finger to his lips. They were passing tall, carved oak library doors. A muted light seeped from underneath, and… voices. Not just conversation – strained, choked, filled with such pain and fury that Harry instinctively halted.

Armus frowned, his cheerful mood evaporating instantly. He cautiously moved closer to the door without touching it. Harry followed suit, holding his breath. Through the thick wood, words came in fragments, but the tones were more eloquent than any speech.

First, they heard Sirius’s voice – hoarse, broken, yet terribly firm:
“...for every tear you shed... for every moment of your pain... for every day stolen from Harry... I swear it by Black blood!”

Harry shuddered. Stolen days... The words struck straight to his heart. He felt goosebumps prickle his spine.

Then Regulus’s voice, quieter but with new strength:
“...start a war... Quiet... Clever... For our family.”

War? Harry’s eyes widened. Against whom? Dumbledore? His heart hammered wildly.

And Sirius again, like a blade cutting air:
“All the better... The more of us... the stronger the fortress... the louder our voice when the time comes.”

A heavy, leaden silence fell behind the door. Then came a choked sob – clearly female, Severin’s. And another sound – a dull thud, like something wooden falling onto carpet. The cane?

Armus grabbed Harry’s arm sharply. His face was pale and very serious. He didn’t speak a word, just shook his head decisively – No. Not here. Not now. – and pulled his cousin away from the door.

Harry allowed himself to be led away. His mind raced feverishly, piecing together the fragments: pain, stolen days, war, fortress, Dumbledore... He glanced back at the receding library doors.

***

Armus almost pushed Harry around a corner, into a narrow passage where shadows from snake-headed sconces danced on the walls like living things. The pressure from the library – that heavy mix of rage, tears, and oaths – retreated, cornered by thick walls, but the echoes still rang in Harry’s ears:
Stolen days... Your pain... Swear by blood... War... Fortress... Dumbledore...
He leaned against the cool wall, trying to breathe deeper, dislodging the lump in his throat. His heart battered his ribs like a trapped bird. War. Against the Headmaster. Who maimed people... Threatened to kill him or Armus? Cold horror intertwined with resentment and burning guilt. Because of me... Because of the book...

Armus stood opposite, leaning his shoulder against the wall. The tour guide’s cheer was gone, leaving pale seriousness. He saw Harry’s turmoil.
“Harry...” he began, his voice catching. He ran a hand over his face, brushing away invisible dust. “Blast. They... didn’t want you to hear that. Not like that. Not now.”

“But I heard!” burst from Harry, louder than necessary in the corridor’s quiet. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. “War? Against Dumbledore? He... he really... the hand... the cane...?” Harry’s wide, frightened eyes sought confirmation of the nightmare in his cousin’s grey ones.

Armus closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering strength. Opening them, he looked straight at Harry, with sympathy and undeniable truth in their depths.
“Yes, Harry,” he said quietly, clearly. “Him. In eighty-nine. On your birthday. For a present. For... for daring to love you and show it.” His voice trembled. “He believes in his ‘greater good’. It matters more to him than people. More than... anything.”

Goosebumps ran down Harry’s back. Birthday... Muffled shouts in the garden... Frightened Aunt Petunia at the window... He’d thought it was Vernon. But that... that was his family? Hurt because of him? Guilt, sharp and nauseating, rose in his throat. 'So... it was because of me?' he whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from the dusty carpet.

A strong hand landed on his shoulder, making him jump. Armus crouched, bringing himself almost level with Harry.
“No,” his voice became firm as steel, like Sirius’s in anger. “Never think that. It was because of him. His arrogance and need for control. They came out of love. He struck out of fear. Fear that someone would take his ‘golden boy’, his weapon.” Armus squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “You are not to blame. You are a victim. Like my parents. Like... all of us.”

The words didn’t dissolve the guilt entirely, but they were an anchor in the churning sea. Harry nodded, swallowing hard. “And... their plan? The war? Is it dangerous? For them? For... you?”

Armus stood up, his shadow lengthening on the wall. “Dangerous? Utterly. Dumbledore isn’t just an old man with a wand. He’s a spider at the centre of a web of power. But...” – a familiar resolve flared in his eyes, – “...they’re not charging blindly. Father sees steps ahead. Mother knows things Dumbledoor wouldn’t dream of. And Sirius...” – a faint shadow of a smile touched Armus’s lips, – “...Sirius is fury and adrenaline, but now he has a compass: you. Family.” He nodded towards the library. “The fortress isn’t a metaphor. The house will become unassailable. That’s their shield. Then... they’ll seek swords. Allies. Weaknesses in his armour.”

He looked at Harry again, his gaze direct and demanding. “Our job, cousin, is to survive. To learn. To grow stronger. And... to be ready. When it’s our time to stand beside them. And pay our price.” No fear, no bravado – just calm acceptance of the inevitable future.

Harry felt the tightness in his chest ease, replaced by a strange calm and the same iron resolve. He wasn’t alone. He had a fortress. And he would be its worthy defender. He nodded to Armus. “I understand.”

Armus gave a weak smile, as if shedding some weight. “Brilliant. Now then...” – he straightened, trying to reclaim levity, – “...how about that portrait of Aunt Druella? Ready for an assault by dried flora?”

He didn’t get to finish.

“UNWORTHY!” – a piercing, shrieking cry, more like an overheated kettle whistle, tore through the corridor’s silence. From a dark alcove ahead, where hung a large, dusty portrait of a lady in a stiff dress and impossibly high-piled hair, a small, time-darkened boutonniere flew out. It arced and struck the wall just above Harry’s head with a resonant thwack, scattering brown dust and dried petals.

Harry instinctively ducked, while Armus laughed – shortly, nervously, but genuinely.

“See?” Armus waved a hand towards the portrait, where Lady Druella Black glared down at them with icy disdain, holding a tiny vial of smelling salts to her nose. “Told you! It’s boutonniere day! Accept greetings from the ancestors, cousin!”

Harry, still slightly stunned, couldn’t help but laugh back. It was a nervous, adrenaline-laced laugh, but it diffused the last remnants of horror. He brushed dust from his hair, looking at the ruins of the “gift”. “She... she always says hello like that?”

“Only to those she deems ‘unworthy’ of her magnificence or who forget to bow,” Armus explained, already moving away from the wall and winking at Harry. “You, as a new Black by blood, automatically make the blacklist. Welcome to the club!”

They walked on, stepping around the boutonniere debris. The absurdity of the portrait’s attack after the horrors overheard was like a breath of fresh air. Harry felt the tension in his shoulders loosen slightly.

“Kitchen,” Armus announced, turning into another corridor where the smell of dust was replaced by delicious aromas of roast chicken, fresh bread, and something spicy. “Kreacher works culinary magic. And then...” – he turned, and that “secret” glint was back in his eyes, – “...I’ll show you the Real Black Secret. Not just a room with a tatty tapestry. But something... breathing. And potentially... hissing.”

“Hissing?” Harry asked warily, but with curiosity.

“O-o-oh,” Armus drawled mysteriously, pushing open a heavy oak door beyond which came Kreacher’s muttering and a tantalising sizzling sound. “Better to see it once. And possibly hide.”

They stepped into the warm, light-filled, aroma-rich chaos of Kreacher’s kitchen. Step by step, dodging portraits throwing boutonnières and carrying the echo of war from the library, they were building their bridge to normality. To home. Where somewhere in the Bohemia, a grandfather was recovering, and a grandmother was packing suitcases. Where the fortress was just beginning to grow its ancient stones of protection. And Harry, breathing in the smell of food and listening to the promise of a “hissing” secret, felt he was part of something vast, old, and incredibly important. Family. And he was ready to fight for it. When the time came. For now... for now, he could just have dinner.

Chapter Text

Kreacher, spotting Armus and Harry entering the kitchen, squealed with delight and immediately began setting plates of roast chicken, crusty bread, vegetables, and something incredibly appetising resembling cheesy potato bake onto the vast table. Armus settled Harry and started filling plates, chattering about how Kreacher once laid on a feast for a hundred ghosts, and it all went splendidly rotten as ghosts don’t eat.

They’d only just begun eating when the kitchen door opened. Sirius and Regulus stood on the threshold. Severina wasn’t with them. Both looked utterly drained, as if they’d just been through a battle, but were trying to hold themselves together. Shadows seemed etched deeper under their eyes, shoulders slightly slumped under an invisible weight. However, seeing the boys at the table, their faces softened, and something warm sparked in their eyes – relief, hope, simple joy at the sight of a domestic scene.

"Smells divine, Kreacher," said Regulus, his voice quieter than usual but steady. He approached the table, carefully pulling out a chair. "Severin… she’s gone to lie down. Utterly spent."

Sirius nodded, already pouring himself something cool from a pitcher. "Aye, gave her a Calming Draught. She… needs time." He looked at Harry, trying to gauge his state. "Alright, godson? Armus show you anything interesting while we… dealt with paperwork?" His question held careful concern, an attempt to return to a lighter tone.

Harry met his gaze. In the depths of Sirius’s grey eyes, he still saw the embers of the recent storm – smouldering anger, bitterness – but now banked beneath layers of exhaustion and… protection. Protection for him. Harry nodded, striving to keep his voice calm: "Yeah, godfather. Just the kitchen and Kreacher in action so far. But Armus promised to show me something… hissy later." He even attempted a smile.

Armus slid a plate towards Regulus. "Eat, Father. Uncle Sirius. Kreacher’s outdone himself. You look… like Dragon Pox made a brief comeback."

Regulus gave a faint smile, picking up a spoon. "Ta, son. Just… a long day. A very long day." He took a piece of bread, but more mechanically than with appetite.

Sirius flopped into the chair beside Harry, his movements slightly jerky, betraying residual tension. He homed in on the chicken. "Hissy, you say? Hope it’s not a portrait in a foul mood."

"I promise, it’s far more interesting," assured Armus, winking at Harry. "And less hazardous to one’s hairstyle."

Kreacher, bustling joyfully around the table, topping up juice, adjusting plates, muttering about "hungry masters" and "need for strength," created a strange yet cosy dissonance against the backdrop of the adults' weariness. The light from the lamp overhead, the aroma of food, the quiet clink of spoons – all of it slowly, surely began to knit together the wounds inflicted in the library. Sirius and Regulus ate in silence, lost in their thoughts, but their presence here, at the same table as the boys, spoke louder than words. It was a respite. A point of anchorage. Their small but sturdy fortress began right here – with a shared supper in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place.

***

...The quiet clink of spoons and low dinner conversation gradually gave way to weary silence. Even Armus, usually indefatigable, yawned and pushed his plate away. Sirius drained his drink and stretched, his bones cracking.

"Bloody hell, forgot what it feels like to be properly knackered, not just starved or terrified," he grumbled, but there was no anger in his voice, only deep fatigue. "Time to call it a night. Harry, you too, back to school tomorrow."

Harry nodded, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. The day's adrenaline was finally surrendering.

Regulus, who had eaten almost silently, raised his eyes. He looked slightly more composed after eating, but the shadows beneath his eyes remained.
"Sirius is right, Harry. You need to return to Hogwarts," he said softly, but firmly. "The end of term is just around the corner, a week. Your sudden, prolonged absence would raise far too many questions… especially from him."

Harry frowned: "But… I only just got here…"

"And this is your home," Regulus added quickly, his gaze warm and understanding. "You’ll return here the moment your last exam finishes. I promise. Someone will meet you on the platform. If I cannot…" – he glanced at Sirius, who was scowling darkly, likely picturing Azkaban or a chase – "...then Armus. Or…" – Regulus’s voice softened, a note of hope entering it – "...your grandmother Walburga or grandfather Orion. They’ll certainly be here by then."

The thought of meeting grandparents he’d never known stirred a strange excitement in Harry – a mix of fear and curiosity. "They… they will be?"

"Yes," Regulus said confidently. "They’re very eager to meet you. They’re much improved. Significantly. So – one week, Harry. One last push. And then – summer here, at Grimmauld. And no more Dursleys. Never again."

Harry felt a weight lift from his chest. He nodded. "Alright. I’ll go back."

"Good," Sirius stood up and ruffled Harry’s hair. "Now – off to bed. Kreacher, show Master Harry to his room, make sure it’s ready."

Kreacher, dozing by the stove, instantly sprang to life. "At once, Master Sirius! Right away, Master Harry! Finest pillows! Silken sheets! Kreacher will see to it!" He snatched up a candlestick and scurried towards the door, waiting for Harry.

Armus rose too. "Goodnight, Harry. I’ll show you the entrance to that hissing room tomorrow morning before you leave. Promise." He winked and headed towards his part of the house.

Harry followed Kreacher, glancing back at the adults. Sirius and Regulus stood side by side by the table, two dark silhouettes against the fading kitchen light. Weariness was evident in their posture, but so was a new, quiet resolve. They nodded to him in farewell.

***

Regulus quietly closed the door to their spacious, moonlit bedroom. Severin lay on the vast bed, covered by a light silk coverlet. The Calming Draught had done its work – her breathing was even, deep, her features relaxed without the usual tight mask of pain or anxiety. Yet even in sleep, her fingers faintly clenched the edge of the coverlet, and her brows were slightly drawn, as if shadows of the ordeal still lingered over her.

Regulus removed his frock coat, carefully hung it up, unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, and rolled up his sleeves. He walked to the bed, sat on the edge, and gazed at his sleeping wife for a long time. Moonlight silvered the few grey strands in her black hair, spread across the pillow. He gently traced his fingertips over the furrow of worry between her brows, trying to smooth it. She sighed more deeply but didn’t wake.

"Sleep well, my dear," he whispered so quietly the words barely disturbed the silence. "You’ve earned this rest."

He stood and retrieved a small vial of oil from the dresser – not magical, just plain lavender, with a mild cooling effect she found soothing for aching muscles. He poured a little onto his palms, warming it by rubbing them together. Then, carefully, he folded the coverlet back to just below her waist, revealing her back beneath the thin, soft nightdress.

His hands, strong and accustomed to precise movements though his left was a skilful magical replacement, settled on her shoulders. At first, just light, soothing touches, his palms sliding over the fabric of the nightdress, spreading the warmth of the oil. Then his fingers found the familiar points of tension – the hard knots at the base of her neck, the clenched muscles along her spine, especially in the small of her back where the echoes of an old injury flared. He began working on them methodically, with measured pressure: thumbs kneading the tight spots in small circles, palms smoothing the larger muscles of her back. His movements were not amorous, but caring, therapeutic – a familiar ritual against physical pain and accumulated stress, honed over years.

Severin groaned softly in her sleep, her body shuddered slightly, but didn’t wake. On the contrary, under his skilled touch, her muscles began gradually releasing their iron grip. Her breathing grew a little deeper, her drawn brows relaxing fractionally.

"That’s it…" Regulus murmured, more to himself, focused on the task. "Let go… It’s over… He’s home. Sirius is home. Father and Mother are coming here…" His fingers found an especially hard knot beneath her right shoulder blade – the remnant of an old curse. He lingered there, patiently and persistently kneading it until it began to yield under the pressure. Severina let out a quiet, almost relieved sigh, and her body sank a little deeper into the mattress. "...We’re all together now. Under one roof. Our fortress."

He massaged for a long time, until the muscles beneath his hands felt noticeably softer and Severin’s breathing was utterly even and peaceful. Only when he was sure she had slipped into deep, truly restorative sleep did he carefully draw the coverlet back up to her shoulders. He sat beside her for a few minutes more, simply watching her, her tranquil face, and in his weary eyes shone tenderness and a quiet, unwavering resolve to protect this fragile peace. Then he rose, extinguished the last lamp, and quietly settled beside her, ready to face the new day and whatever challenges it brought, shoulder to shoulder with his family.

***

The moonlight in the bedroom gave way to grey pre-dawn. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place awoke quietly but palpably. From the kitchen came Kreacher’s muttering and divine smells of coffee, bacon, and fresh baking. Harry, despite the excitement and sadness at his imminent departure, had slept unusually soundly in his new, luxurious and quiet room. Silk sheets, no snoring cousin – it was bliss.

Breakfast held a subdued but warm atmosphere. Severin, though pale with her cane beside her chair, looked more composed. Her dark eyes, still holding traces of yesterday’s upheaval, rested on Harry with tenderness. She spoke little, but her presence was significant. Armus animatedly recounted the nocturnal antics of the house flobberworm (which, he claimed, was kept in the cupboard under the stairs). Sirius gloomily prodded his eggs, clearly not thrilled about letting his godson return to "Dumbledore’s web," but silently accepting his brother’s decision.

Regulus sipped his coffee and set the cup down with a decisive clink.
"Time, Harry. The sooner you’re back at Hogwarts, the fewer questions there’ll be about your absence last night and this morning." His voice was businesslike, but there was an encouraging spark in his eyes. "We’ll go to Hogsmeade. You know the way to the castle from there?"

Harry nodded, swallowing his last bite of toast. "Yeah. Through the tunnel from Honeydukes." He remembered last year’s adventures with Ron.

"Good. That’ll be the most discreet route," Regulus approved. "Kreacher packed your bag? School things?"

"Yes, Master Regulus!" squeaked the house-elf, popping up from under the table. "All clean, pressed! Books! Quills! And… and a little pasty from Kreacher! For Master Harry! For the journey!" He thrust a neatly wrapped parcel at Harry, beaming.

"Thanks, Kreacher," Harry smiled, genuinely touched. The care of this once-hated creature now felt part of the strange new home. "And… thanks everyone for… for everything." He looked around the table: at Severina, nodding with a quiet smile; Armus, winking; Sirius, growling "Look after yourself, godson"; Regulus, already rising.

"Till the holidays, cousin," said Armus. "The hissing secret isn’t going anywhere. Promise."

The farewells were brief but laden with unspoken promises and hope. Severina lightly squeezed Harry’s hand in parting. Sirius clapped him on the shoulder. Armus waved.

Regulus led Harry into the hall. "Hold onto my arm. Tightly. We won’t Apparate – too noticeable. Using a family artefact." He drew from the folds of his cloak a small, tarnished silver sugar tongs, strangely warm to the touch. "An old portable portal key. No flash, no bang. Targeted to the alley behind the Three Broomsticks. Ready?"

Harry gripped Regulus’s sleeve firmly. "Ready."

The world compressed, twisted, but without the usual Apparition-tube squeeze. Like stepping through a thick, warm curtain. Then they were standing in a narrow Hogsmeade alley smelling of beer and rain. It was still early, the streets deserted, only a distant door creaking.

"That’s it," Regulus said quietly, pocketing the tongs. He scanned the area, his gaze becoming cautious, sweeping over rooftops and windows. "Know the way? And remember – one week. Someone will meet you on the platform." He placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. "Be careful. Don’t go looking for trouble. But if anything happens… if he…"

"I know, " Harry met his serious gaze. "I’ll find a way to get word. And… thanks. For the home."

Regulus nodded, a faint shadow of a smile touching his lips. "This is your home, Harry. Now and always. Go on. And good luck."

Harry took a deep breath of the damp Hogsmeade morning air, turned, and walked briskly towards Honeydukes. He felt Regulus’s gaze on his back until he rounded the corner. His heart clenched with the sadness of parting, but a new fire burned within him – the fire of home, family, and the anticipation of summer at Grimmauld. He found the right barrel, glanced around (the street was empty), pressed the hidden spot, and tumbled into the familiar, cool, earth-smelling tunnel. The path to the castle lay before him, but now he knew that at the end of it lay not just the end of term, but a reunion with the family waiting for him.

Regulus stood in the alley a moment longer after Harry vanished, his face an impassive mask. Then he drew a tiny, almost invisible pebble from his pocket and whispered into it: "He’s on his way. Tunnel. All clear." The pebble glowed faintly warm for an instant. Satisfied the message was sent, Regulus turned, his cloak swirling. Another moment – and the alley was empty.

***

Harry took a deep breath of the damp Hogsmeade morning air. His heart clenched with the sadness of parting, but a small new warmth glowed within him – the warmth of home, family, and the anticipation of summer at Grimmauld. He found the right barrel by Honeydukes, glanced around, pressed the hidden mark, and dropped into the familiar, cool, earthy-smelling tunnel. The path to the castle lay before him, but now he knew that at the end of this journey lay not only exams, but the family who awaited him.

The return went surprisingly smoothly. He emerged from the tunnel in the pub unseen and blended with the crowd of students hurrying to breakfast in the Great Hall. No one, it seemed, had noticed his absence overnight and that morning. Even Ron and Hermione, meeting him at the Gryffindor table, just mumbled through porridge:

"Where’d you get to? Oversleep?" asked Ron, not looking up from his Standard Book of Spells.

"Nearly overslept, you mean?" added Hermione, nervously flipping through her immaculately organised revision cards. "Flitwick said today’s shield charm practical will be particularly tricky!"

"Yeah, something like that," Harry mumbled, piling eggs onto his plate. Relief mixed with a pang of guilt at the deception. Regulus had been right – extra questions weren’t needed now. He focused on eating, trying not to think of the warm Grimmauld kitchen and Kreacher’s caring fuss.

However, the illusion of complete secrecy shattered right after lunch. No sooner had Harry stepped out of the Gryffindor common room, heading for the library, than he was grabbed unexpectedly by the sleeve and practically dragged into an empty classroom on the second floor. Fred and George Weasley stood before him, their usually cheerful faces uncharacteristically serious.

"Hey, what the—" Harry started.

"Quiet, Harry. Not here," George interrupted, finger to his lips. "Follow us."

The twins led him through familiar but seldom-used corridors until they stopped at an unremarkable door near the room with flying keys. Fred snapped his fingers – the door opened, revealing a small room cluttered with blueprints, odd contraptions, and bright boxes of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. The air smelled of gunpowder, parchment, and something sickly-sweet.

"Our humble bolt-hole," Fred explained, locking the door with a click and swiftly running his wand over the frame – Harry felt the faint shimmer of a Silencing Charm. "No one hears us in here. Not even the Headmaster."

"What’s going on?" Harry asked, feeling anxiety prickle.

The twins exchanged a look. George pulled a worn piece of parchment from his robe’s inner pocket and unfolded it with a flourish.

"This, Harry-me-lad," he said, tapping the blank surface. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." Ink lines instantly bloomed across the parchment, forming a detailed map of Hogwarts castle with tiny, moving dots.

"We know you weren’t in the castle last night or this morning," Fred continued, his gaze unusually sharp. "At all. Your dot just… vanished. Only reappeared this morning near the Three Broomsticks. And I’m sure you weren’t just strolling the village middle of the night. Not with your current reputation as adventure-prone. Something happened?"

Harry froze, staring at the familiar outlines of the Marauder’s Map. He’d completely forgotten about it! Of course the twins saw everything.

"I…" Harry hesitated. How to explain Grimmauld, the Blacks, Sirius, Regulus, Severina, Armus? How to talk about the home without revealing too much or putting them in danger?

"Listen, Harry," Fred’s voice lost its last vestige of jollity. "We’re not Ron. We see that the parents and Dumbledore sometimes… well, let’s say, don’t act in your best interests. Especially after all that business with your godfather."

"We’re on your side," George added simply, folding the Map. "But we need to know what’s happening. You vanished – and we were worried. The Map showed you came back via Hogsmeade, but from *where*? What happened?"

Harry looked at their genuinely concerned faces. He trusted Fred and George. They’d helped Sirius last spring. They’d understand. But telling everything here and now… It was too dangerous.

"I… I can’t tell you everything," Harry started cautiously. "Not here. And not without… safeguards. There’s very serious magic involved and… people who can’t just be mentioned." He paused, looking them straight in the eye.

"If I tell you, it’s only under an Unbreakable Vow. That you will not pass on what you learn from me to anyone without my express permission. Not your parents, not Dumbledore, not… anyone. Not even Ron and Hermione. Until I say it’s safe. Otherwise, I can’t."

Chapter Text

«Agreed,» the Twins chorused.

 «Seriously?» Harry asked, a bit stunned by their readiness.

«Dead serious,» Fred confirmed, already pulling out his wand. George nodded, his expression resolute. «We know what an Unbreakable Vow entails. And we’re ready to make it. Right now.»

«Alright.»

***

Harry took a deep breath. The golden thread of the Vow vanished, leaving only a faint tingling on his wrist. He could speak now. But where to even begin? The story was long and deeply personal.

«You know I grew up with the Dursleys,» he began quietly, his gaze drifting past the twins, into the past. «It was… awful. But… not everything was awful.» He met their surprised looks. «For as long as I can remember, two people… used to visit me. A man and a woman. Dark-haired. Handsome. Very stern-looking, but… kind to me. They always turned up unexpectedly when Uncle Vernon was away on business, and Aunt Petunia… well, she never stopped them. As soon as they arrived, she’d take Dudley and leave for London.»

«Visited? You? In a Muggle house?» Fred asked disbelievingly.

«Yes,» Harry nodded. «They’d bring me little presents – strange pebbles that glowed in the dark, sweets I’d never tasted. Sometimes they’d take me out – to the park, or just sit with me on the porch steps. They told me about magic. About my parents. Said they’d been their… friends.» He fell silent, swallowing hard. «They never gave their names. And I… I never asked. I just felt… safe with them. Good. Like a little piece of my world had come to me in that nightmare.»

«And… they stopped coming?» George asked softly, catching the sadness in his voice.

«In 1989. Just before my ninth birthday,» Harry’s voice trembled. «They just… vanished. Never came again. I waited… waited for ages. But they never returned.» He clenched his fists. «I missed them terribly.» The twins stayed silent, letting him continue. «Yesterday…» Harry took a breath, returning to the events by the Forbidden Forest. «...when Sirius and I were talking… I told him about them. About those people. And suddenly… I remembered the man’s face. It looked so much like Sirius’s. But… older. Grimmer. And right at that moment…» He paused for dramatic effect, seeing the twins freeze. «…a huge owl landed on Sirius’s shoulder. With a letter. Sirius opened it… and read it aloud. It was… from his brother. Regulus. And from Regulus’s wife – Severin...» Harry looked at them, seeing the dawning comprehension in their eyes. «Sirius was gobsmacked. And in the letter… they wrote that they knew he’d escaped, and invited him… home. To Grimmauld Place. And me too.» Harry paused, letting them digest it. The air in the room felt thick.

«And…?» Fred burst out, unable to wait. «What next? Did you realise?»

«Yes,» Harry whispered. His heart was pounding. «It was them. Those very people who visited me all through my childhood. Regulus and Severin. And Severin…» – he swallowed the lump in his throat, – «…she’s my godmother. Sirius confirmed it. She was my mum’s close friend.»

«Godmother?!» George gasped. «But then… why did they leave you with the Dursleys? Why did they stop coming? Why only show up now?» His voice held not accusation, but burning confusion.

«They didn’t abandon me!» Harry cut in sharply, a note of fierce defence entering his tone for the first time. «They fought for me! Petitioned for custody! But… they were refused. The Ministry, the Wizengamot… Dumbledore.» Bitterness crept into his voice. «And then… in 1982… there was a tragedy at the House of Black. An outbreak of Dragon Pox. Suspiciously convenient. It wiped out almost all the senior Blacks. Only Walburga and Orion – Regulus and Sirius’s parents – survived because they were travelling. And then… the hidden threats started coming.» Harry paused, gathering strength for the hardest part. «The final threat… came in 1989. On my birthday. A direct warning: if they didn’t stop trying to get close to me… their son would be killed. And I’d be killed too.» His voice turned flat. «That day… they were attacked. On their way to see me…»

«Harry…» George whispered, his face paling.

«I didn’t see the attack,» Harry said quickly, not wanting them to think he’d witnessed it. «But I saw… the aftermath. Yesterday. Saw what it did to them. It… it was dreadful.» He closed his eyes for a second, remembering the shadow of pain on their faces. «Regulus lost his arm. His real one. He has… a magical replacement now. And Severin…» – he opened his eyes, – «…she had to learn to walk again. She still uses a cane. And the pain… it’s always with her.» The twins stared at him in stunned silence. All traces of humour had vanished from their faces. «After that… they couldn’t risk it,» Harry continued more quietly. «Couldn’t approach me, couldn’t fight for custody openly. They went underground. Guarded me… from a distance. As best they could. Until Sirius escaped and found me. Until… until everything changed yesterday.» He took a breath, trying to move to something less grim.

«At Grimmauld Place, I met their son. Armus. He’s 22. He’s… he’s decent. Looks after his parents, the house… me.» A faint smile touched Harry’s lips. «He didn’t go to Hogwarts. Because of that Pox outbreak in ’82 and the threats. They sent him away – to Durmstrang. For safety. Like our cousin, Draco – he’s at Beauxbatons. Armus said his parents and Draco’s decided that after the tragedy. Not to risk Hogwarts.» Harry paused. «Armus also mentioned his maternal grandfather, Demir Krum, went to Durmstrang too. Reckon he just sort of… followed in his footsteps…» Harry fell silent, drained by the long telling. He waited for a reaction. Any reaction. George was the first to stir. He shook his head slowly, eyes wide.

«Demir… Krum?» he breathed. «You mean… the Demir Krum? The legendary snake wrangler? Basilisk hunter? His portrait in the Bulgarian Ministry – covered in scars and trophies!»

Harry frowned, confused. «Er… yeah? Armus said he was his maternal grandfather. But he died ages ago, before Arcturus was born. Why? Was he famous?»

«FAMOUS?!» Fred exploded, jumping up. «Harry! Demir Krum was… was Arslan Krum’s brother!»

«And Arslan Krum,» George picked up, also rising, his eyes alight with excitement, «is Victor Krum’s grandfather! You know, the Bulgarian Seeker?! The star player!»

Harry gaped at them. He’d heard Victor Krum’s name – Ron banged on about Quidditch. But the connection was staggering. «So… Armus… and Victor…?»

«Cousins!» the twins chorused. «Your new cousin Armus is cousin to Victor Krum himself!»

Harry just shook his head, dumbfounded by this twist. All he’d known about Demir Krum was that he was Armus’s grandfather and went to Durmstrang. Now it turned out he was a legend, and his cousin was a Quidditch superstar. It was too much. Against the backdrop of everything else he’d just shared – the tragedy, the fight, the pain – this news felt almost absurd.

«Blimey,» was all he could manage to breathe out. His head was spinning. He’d told them everything. Almost everything. And now his secret wasn’t just his. But bound by the Vow. He looked at Fred and George, saw in their eyes not just curiosity, but understanding, solidarity, and even… respect for the weight of what they’d heard.

«What a family you’ve landed in, Harry,» Fred said finally, clapping a hand on his shoulder. His voice was uncharacteristically grave.

«Yeah,» Harry whispered, feeling exhaustion wash over him in a wave. But a small flame burned in his chest – the flame of home. Grimmauld. Family. And now – two accomplices who knew the truth.