Harry stayed at the Potter family home until nightfall.
Euphemia returned.
Grandfather and grandmother spent the evening chatting about many things left unsaid last year.
They talked about friends they hadn't dared to mention before.
They spoke of Peter, who had bravely sacrificed himself. Though he seemed far too timid to belong in Gryffindor, in his final moments, he became a true Gryffindor.
And Lupin, a pitiable young man and a werewolf, who had lived a hard and wandering life.
Euphemia had often suggested that he stay at the Potter home. At least it would give him a proper place to live, sparing him the burden of constant travel.
But he had declined.
He was a werewolf with a great deal of pride.
It wasn't until a slightly tipsy Flitwick, worried about Harry, came looking for him that the two left together under the moonlight.
The following days began to resemble Harry's first summer after entering Hogwarts.
The only difference was that practical training sessions were now once a week.
Flitwick eventually broke down and complained to Harry. His old bones could barely keep up anymore.
A week into the second month.
An owl arrived right on time, dropping the Daily Prophet onto the table and perching on Harry's shoulder.
Flitwick waved his wand, and five Knuts fell into the owl's small pouch. Satisfied, the bird grabbed the bread Harry handed it and flew off.
Harry reached out, about to pick up the paper.
With a loud slap, Flitwick pinned the newspaper under his hand. "Harry, I feel great today. How about some practical training right now?"
"Professor, your acting skills are worse than Lockhart's," Harry said, his expression blank. "Is there something in the paper you don't want me to see?"
Flitwick averted his eyes, visibly uneasy.
"Is it people criticizing me because of my eyes? If that's the case, you don't need to worry. I'm not that fragile."
Flitwick pressed the paper down even harder.
"So it's not about me?" Harry asked, surprised. "Then why are you so nervous?"
Harry waved his wand.
The table twisted and sank, and a plate transformed into a small hand that slid the paper over to him.
Flitwick pulled out his wand, nearly casting a Blasting Curse in panic.
The headline on the front page caught Harry's eye.
A large photograph of a man with a haggard face and long, wild hair stared back at him, accompanied by a shocking headline:
"Still on the Run: The Most Dangerous Criminal Escapes Azkaban!"
Flitwick lowered his head, unable to look at Harry.
Harry's breath caught, and his heart raced, though his tone remained eerily calm. "He escaped?"
"He's very dangerous," Flitwick said, waving his wand to restore the table. "Promise me you won't…"
"Professor, you know my abilities," Harry said, setting the newspaper down. The article was full of Fudge's grandstanding and contained no useful information.
Where was Sirius Black?
How had he escaped?
The article said nothing.
There was no point in reading further.
Flitwick opened his mouth, unsure what to say. He knew Harry's skill level all too well. Harry was already an exceptional wizard, more than capable of avenging his parents.
"So, let me think," Harry murmured, twirling his wand in his fingers. "Why would he escape now?"
He paused, then looked at Flitwick. "Professor, can prisoners in Azkaban access outside information?"
"Some guards might bring them old issues of the Daily Prophet," Flitwick replied. "There aren't many restrictions in that regard. After all, most prisoners go mad within six months."
"And Sirius has been there for nearly twelve years."
The Daily Prophet?
Harry rifled through his memories.
It didn't take long for him to recall a particular issue from before summer vacation. One article had reported on a Dark Wizard attack at Hogwarts and speculated that the Malfoy family might possess certain dark magical artifacts.
Was it that article?
As Voldemort's former follower, Sirius might have known that the Malfoys held a Horcrux. He could have deduced that the disturbances at Hogwarts were caused by one.
Upon realizing that his former master was stirring again, he might have been desperate to escape and prove his loyalty.
But where would Sirius go?
One answer came to Harry's mind: the Malfoy Manor.
"Professor, I'm heading out for a bit," Harry said, standing.
Flitwick waved his wand, opening the door. "If you're going to find Black, I'm coming with you."
"I'm just going to Ragnok's workshop," Harry replied, "to check on my sword."
Flitwick sat back down, though he still seemed uneasy. "If you decide to look for Black, don't act alone. You can trust your professors."
"You know me, Professor," Harry said with a nod as he walked out.
Flitwick hesitated, then sighed.
That's exactly why I'm worried.
At the workshop, Hawk was still closely supervising Ragnok, nitpicking every step of the crafting process to ensure he didn't pocket any materials.
There was movement at the door.
Hawk glanced over and immediately greeted Harry warmly. "Mr. Potter, what brings you here today? Are you worried about Ragnok? Don't worry—I'm keeping a close eye on him for you."
As the most famous young wizard in the magical world and Ragnok's best customer, Harry received an enthusiastic welcome.
"I wanted to check on the progress of my equipment," Harry said.
Hawk grew anxious on his behalf. "Yes, Mr. Potter, you really do need these items. I've been urging him to hurry."
"The bone sword is just finished."
"The armor will take a little longer, but I promise it'll be ready before the term starts."
Harry gestured. "Where's the sword?"
Hawk snapped his fingers, and a wooden box floated over from the workshop, landing in Harry's hands.
He snapped his fingers again.
The box opened, revealing the sword inside.
The bone sword was a pristine white, with a blood groove running down its length.
"This sword is enchanted with Dust-Repelling, Strengthening, and Sharpening Charms," Hawk explained. "It also retains the venom of the basilisk, making it a poisoned blade. However, due to material limitations, it doesn't have the Gryffindor sword's ability to absorb magical properties."
Harry picked it up and gave it a couple of experimental swings.
The balance was perfect.
"How does it feel?" Hawk asked eagerly. "If there's anything off, we can make adjustments."
Ragnok snorted.
"Excellent craftsmanship," Harry said, tapping the box with his wand to transform it into a scabbard. He strapped it to his body and slid the sword inside. "I'm very satisfied."
Ragnok let out a proud huff.
As if a goblin like Hawk, willing to be a wizard's lapdog, could ever appreciate my skills.
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Powerstones?
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