Harry sighed, flopping onto his bed with a groan. This summer was shaping up to be even worse than the last. Honestly, he didn't even know what to focus on anymore. Should he start with the cleaning his oh-so-lovely relatives had assigned him, or tackle the pile of summer homework waiting on his desk? Staring at the ceiling, he decided to do neither.

His thoughts kept drifting, one memory bleeding into the next—until they landed on Sirius Black.

Not long ago, he had met and freed his godfather from the clutches of Dementors, Azkaban's terrifying guards. And yet, it felt like it had all been for nothing. Sirius wasn't here. He had to flee. Bloody Pettigrew.

Glancing at the desk, where a hastily torn envelope lay, Harry thought about Sirius's letter again.

Dear Harry,

I hope this letter finds you well, even though I know things aren't easy for you right now. I wish I could be there, but I've had to find a safe place for now. Don't worry—I've managed it, though I'd rather not write where exactly.

But listen, I won't stay away forever. I'm already working on a way to return to England—I don't like the idea of you being there alone, especially with the whispers of trouble I've been hearing. I can't stand the thought of you being stuck there on your own, and your dad wouldn't want that either. I never let James down, Harry, and I don't intend to start now.

Remember this: you're stronger than you think, Harry. Your dad always believed that about you—and he was right. You've been through more than most people your age could imagine, and you're still standing. That says a lot about who you are.

We'll see each other soon. Until then, hang in there.

Yours,

Sirius

Harry took a deep breath. Everything would be fine. Things would get better soon.

Getting up from the bed and stretching, Harry glanced at the clock. Nine in the morning. Saturday. He had to clean the living room and take care of the garden. A ton of work, and not much time to do it.

Adjusting his glasses out of habit, he stood there for a moment, debating what to do. Finally, he decided to just get on with it. Maybe, if he was lucky, the Dursleys wouldn't come up with anything else for him to do later.

Grabbing a rag from the kitchen, he headed into the living room. The place was immaculate—because of course it was. Aunt Petunia had probably scrubbed every surface twice already, but apparently, it still wasn't good enough.

"You can never trust a boy like you to keep things clean," she had said earlier that morning, handing him a list of chores long enough to make Hermione proud.

He started with the shelves, running his finger over a spotless surface. No dust, but Petunia would insist otherwise—she always did. He worked mechanically, picking up framed photos of Dudley to wipe underneath them. There were at least eight of them in this room alone, each more ridiculous than the last. One showed Dudley in a frilly sailor suit, grinning like he'd just conquered the seven seas.

Harry snorted under his breath. If only Ron could see this—he'd never let Dudley live it down.

Moving to the coffee table, he reached for the stack of magazines Uncle Vernon had left there. The top one was a business quarterly, something dry and serious. But buried underneath was… oh. Harry blinked. A glossy tabloid with some ridiculous title like Men's Monthly Secrets. He frowned at the cover, which boasted an article on "Ten Ways to Assert Dominance in the Workplace" alongside an airbrushed man flexing in a suit.

So this is Vernon's idea of light reading, Harry thought, biting back a grin.

He briefly entertained the idea of leaving it out for Aunt Petunia to find, but he didn't particularly feel like being blamed for whatever argument would follow. Shaking his head, he shoved it back into the pile.

Once the living room passed his inspection—not that it needed any—he moved on to the garden.

The sun was already high, and the heat hit him like a wall as he stepped outside. The Dursleys' garden was their pride and joy, though Harry suspected that had less to do with gardening skill and more to do with hiring the neighbor's kid to mow it every other week. Today, however, it was his job.

The lawn mower's handle was sticky—probably Dudley's fault. Grimacing, Harry dragged it out and set to work.

As the blades roared to life, drowning out the world around him, Harry's mind began to drift. He thought about the letter from Sirius—the way his godfather's words had settled something in him, like an anchor. The summer had felt suffocating so far, but now…

Now, there was something to hold onto. A promise that things might get better. That Sirius would be back soon, and Harry wouldn't have to feel so alone.

But even as he tried to focus on that thought, unease crept in at the edges.

The nightmares had started a week ago—shadowy, shapeless terrors that lingered long after he woke. They weren't vivid enough to remember in detail, just flashes of shadowy figures, cold whispers, and an oppressive feeling of dread that clung to him long after he woke.

Harry paused, shutting off the mower. Sweat dripped down his face as he tugged off his glasses and rubbed at his forehead, fingers brushing his scar. It prickled faintly, a subtle but unwelcome reminder.

He shoved the thought aside and started the mower again, focusing on the rhythmic roar of the blades. The garden was nearly done, and after that, he'd go back inside. There was no use dwelling on things he couldn't change.

After a quick rinse in the sink, Harry collapsed onto his bed, grateful to be done for the day. He barely had time to close his eyes before frantic flapping at the window jolted him upright.

He turned to see Pigwidgeon, Ron's hyperactive owl, zooming in circles around the frame, a bundle of letters tied to his tiny leg.

"Calm down, Pig," Harry muttered, stepping closer. The owl shot inside, bouncing off a lampshade before finally landing on the bed, puffing his chest like he'd just delivered a royal proclamation.

Harry untied the letters—there were two, one in Ron's familiar scrawl, and the other unmistakably from Hermione, judging by the perfectly neat handwriting on the envelope.

"All right, calm down," Harry muttered, sitting on the bed and unfolding Ron's letter first.

Harry,

I've got brilliant news! Dad scored tickets to the Quidditch World Cup final. Actual tickets! In the best section! He said you can come with us if the Dursleys let you (and if they don't, we'll come and get you anyway, so don't worry).

I'm sure Ireland's going to win, but the twins are betting on Bulgaria because apparently they've got some incredible Seeker. I can't wait to see their faces when Ireland takes the Cup. Mum's already yelling at the twins because they're trying to "sell things" to guests at the match. Probably more of their exploding rubbish or something equally stupid.

Anyway, write back soon to let us know if you can come. Mum wants to know if she needs to pack extra food for you. And if the Dursleys are being gits, let us know—we'll send Fred and George over to sort them out.

Ron.

Harry chuckled, setting the letter aside. A trip to the Quidditch World Cup final sounded like a dream come true—especially compared to weeding the garden. All he had to do now was convince the Dursleys, which was bound to be harder than fighting a dragon.

He turned to the second letter. Hermione's neat, orderly handwriting practically shouted thoughts.

Dear Harry,

I hope everything's okay with you. Remember, if the Dursleys are unbearable, you can always write to me or Ron.

Anyway, I just wanted to remind you about our homework (yes, I know, you probably haven't started yet), but it would be a good idea to at least draft the Transfiguration essay. We can go over our notes together later if you want.

Also, Harry, I know how the Dursleys can be. Please don't hesitate to write if you need anything—Ron and I will always help.

Please take care of yourself, Harry.

Hermione.

Harry rolled his eyes but smiled as he set the letter down on the pile by his bed. Hermione never let up. Still, the thought of the Quidditch final quickly pushed everything else out of his mind.

He stared at Ron's letter, tapping it lightly against his palm. Convincing the Dursleys to let him go wasn't going to be easy—they hated magic, and they hated him. But they really hated anything that threatened their own comfort.

An idea began to form.

He didn't need them to want him to go. He just needed to make staying look like a much worse option.

The next morning, Harry came down to the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia was wiping an already spotless counter and Uncle Vernon was buried behind the day's newspaper. Dudley was poking at his bacon with a fork, likely planning how best to demand seconds.

Harry cleared his throat.

"I've got some good news," he said, making sure his voice sounded cheerful and entirely too loud for Vernon's liking.

Uncle Vernon lowered the newspaper just enough to glare at him. "What are you on about, boy?"

"Well," Harry began, smiling innocently, "I've been invited to spend the rest of the summer at a friend's house. His family's very keen on me coming along. They've even offered to take me to a sporting event."

This got their attention. Sporting events were one of the few things Vernon respected.

"I just need you to sign this form, and I'll be out of your hair. No cooking, no cleaning, no me for the rest of the summer."

He placed the permission slip in front of Uncle Vernon, who picked it up like it might explode. His tiny eyes narrowed as he scanned the page.

"What's the catch?" Vernon growled. "There's always a catch with you."

"No catch," Harry said, shrugging. "Unless you don't sign, of course. Then I'll have to stay here."

Uncle Vernon grunted, folding the paper in half. "That's no different from any other summer."

Harry tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. "True. But I'll also have to send a letter to my friend explaining that I couldn't go because of you. He's got twin brothers, you see. Very creative types. Always inventing things."

Aunt Petunia stopped scrubbing. Dudley froze mid-bite.

Harry leaned casually against the counter, enjoying the sudden tension. "Last year, they sent their cousin an enchanted toilet seat—Fred and George's idea of a practical joke. It screamed every time someone sat down. They're very protective of me. I imagine they'd want to… express their disappointment."

Uncle Vernon turned purple.

"You wouldn't dare," he hissed.

"Wouldn't I?" Harry countered, raising his eyebrows. "You'd be amazed what they can send through the post. Anyway, if you sign the form, we won't have to find out."

For a moment, nobody spoke. Vernon's face turned purple, and Dudley froze mid-chew, his fork scraping against the plate. Then Uncle Vernon's chair screeched as he stood up.

"Where's a pen?" he barked.

Harry couldn't stop grinning as he trudged back upstairs, the signed form clutched in his hand like it might vanish if he loosened his grip.

They'd actually signed it.

The moment he was back in his room, Harry flopped onto his bed and let out a laugh that felt like it had been trapped inside him for weeks. For once, things were going his way. Not only was he escaping Privet Drive early, but he was going to the actual Quidditch World Cup.

The Quidditch World Cup!

He still couldn't quite believe it. Harry had spent so many summers watching Dudley brag about trips to theme parks or the seaside while he stayed behind scrubbing floors. And now, here he was, about to do something that any wizard would give their wand arm for.

He could already picture it: the soaring stadium, the roar of the crowd, the players darting through the air faster than lightning. Ireland versus Bulgaria—two of the best teams in the world. Harry could almost hear the roar of the crowd, feel the excitement in the air as the Seeker caught the Snitch.

"Maybe I should bet on Ireland too," Harry mused aloud, grinning to himself. He couldn't wait to see Ron again, or the rest of the Weasleys for that matter. Even if Mrs. Weasley did fuss over him a bit, it would be miles better than here.

Harry sat at his desk, writing out his reply to Ron on a scrap of parchment.

Ron,

The Dursleys signed the form. I'm free! Well, almost. They said I can leave in a week, so let me know when your dad's ready to pick me up. Thanks again for inviting me—I can't wait for the World Cup.

He glanced at Pigwidgeon, who was still flapping about the room as if the letter's contents were the most exciting thing in the world.

"Hold on, Pig," Harry muttered as he folded the note and tied it back onto the tiny owl's leg. "You can tell Ron and Hermione I'll see them soon."

Pigwidgeon gave a triumphant hoot before zooming out the window. Harry watched him vanish into the sky, feeling a strange mix of relief and excitement. He really was going to the Quidditch World Cup.

Still grinning, he reached for another piece of parchment. This letter needed a different tone entirely.

Dear Sirius,

Good news! The Dursleys signed the form, and I'm going to the Quidditch World Cup with Ron and his family. I'll be leaving here in a week, so if you were planning to visit, I wanted to let you know I won't be here. Thanks again for your last letter—it's made things a bit more bearable. I hope you're safe.

Harry

He set down his quill and looked over the letter. It wasn't much, but he wasn't sure how much he could say without risking anyone else reading it. Satisfied, he folded it carefully and turned to Hedwig, who was watching him from her perch with an air of expectation.

"Up for a delivery?" Harry asked.

Hedwig hooted softly and extended her leg, and Harry tied the letter securely in place.

"Take this to Sirius," he said. "You know where to find him."

"Harry, this book is amazing," said Hermione, leaning toward them in the cramped train compartment. Her voice was full of enthusiasm, her eyes shining as if she could already imagine Harry devouring every chapter. "Fulcrum really explains how magic works—not just in theory but how wizards can improve their spells. If you want to get better at Charms or Transfiguration, this is what you need."

Ron, seated next to Harry, rolled his eyes and set aside the Daily Prophet, which he'd been pretending to read. "I don't think Harry wants to waste his summer on something that sounds like a N.E.W.T.-level textbook."

"You know, Ron," Hermione began, giving him a sharp look, "maybe if you spent a little more time studying, your spells wouldn't keep bouncing off the walls."

"They don't—"

"In every single one of Flitwick's classes, Ron," she interrupted triumphantly.

Harry snorted. Their bickering was a familiar sound, but this time, Hermione had a point. Fulcrum sounded like someone who might help him understand magic on a deeper level—something he found himself increasingly drawn to.

"All right," he said, cutting through their argument. "I'll borrow it for the summer, Hermione. Let's see if it's as good as you say."

Hermione beamed with satisfaction and pulled a thick book out of her bag, placing it on his lap. "The Theory of Spells: The Powers of Mind and Magic," the title read in elegant gold letters.

Now, Harry lay on his bed in Privet Drive, the same book open on his lap. Two weeks had passed since Hermione had handed it to him, and though the material was more complicated than he'd expected, he couldn't put it down.

The chapter he was reading was titled: "The Three Dimensions of Magic: Visualization, Intuition, and Conviction."

"Spells are not merely the result of waving a wand and uttering the correct words. It is a complex process that involves three dimensions of magical projection: Visualization, Intuition, and Conviction. Each of these is a pillar, without which a spell cannot reach its full potential."

Harry's brow furrowed as he reread the passage. So, magic wasn't just about the spell's incantation or even the wand movement, he thought. There was something deeper—something internal—that shaped the spell.

Visualization:

"For magic to work, a wizard's mind must clearly see the result. Visualization does not merely mean 'imagining' the final effect of a spell. It is full immersion—seeing, feeling, sometimes even hearing the effects before they manifest. Visualization must be precise and vivid. It is not enough to think of light; you must see its glow, feel its warmth, and even imagine the shadows it casts."

Harry leaned back against the headboard, letting his thoughts wander. So casting a spell is like building it in your mind before it happens, he realized. He thought about Flitwick's classes, where students often struggled to master new spells. Maybe the reason some spells didn't work was that the caster didn't fully grasp what they were trying to create.

Intuition:

"While visualization provides the structure, intuition guides the spell's execution. Intuition bridges the conscious and subconscious, allowing magic to flow seamlessly through the caster. It is this instinctual element that transforms a mechanical casting into something truly powerful. Intuition cannot be forced; it develops over time through practice, reflection, and an openness to the flow of magic."

Harry frowned. If intuition develops through experience, does that mean wizards like Fred and George are actually more skilled than they let on? It made sense. The twins often acted as though they didn't take anything seriously, yet their pranks and inventions required a level of magical instinct that most students could only dream of.

Or maybe it was the way Professor Lupin had cast a Patronus so effortlessly last year. He hadn't needed time to think; the magic seemed to flow through him as naturally as breathing. That's what intuition is, Harry thought. It's not overthinking—it's trusting the magic to guide you.

Conviction:

"Of all the dimensions, conviction is the most crucial. Without true belief in the spell's success, even the most skilled wizard will fail. Conviction is not blind hope but a deep, internal certainty that the magic will work as intended. It draws on confidence in one's abilities, faith in one's wand, and trust in magic itself."

Harry leaned forward, rereading that section with interest. Conviction was something he hadn't realized he already relied on. In dangerous moments, he never stopped to second-guess himself. He simply acted, driven by instinct and determination.

It was why Expelliarmus had worked during the Shrieking Shack incident last year—he hadn't doubted for a moment that he could disarm Snape. He'd never fully appreciated that his certainty was what made the magic happen.

But perhaps it was a skill he could refine—deliberately focusing that conviction to strengthen more advanced spells. It wasn't just about courage, Harry realized; it was about channeling that inner certainty into every spell he cast.

Looking back at the page, Harry realized how these principles worked together. Visualization was the blueprint, intuition was the guide, and conviction was the power that brought it all to life.

He grabbed a scrap of parchment from his desk and jotted down his thoughts:

Build the spell in your mind—see it, feel it, know it.Trust your instincts—don't overthink it.Believe in the magic—doubt weakens the spell.

Harry set the parchment aside and closed the book, staring out the window. He didn't have his wand to practice these ideas directly, but that didn't mean he couldn't start applying them.

He leaned back, imagining himself casting a spell with perfect precision. He visualized the outcome—the light, the sound, the effect it would have. For now, he could only prepare himself for the next chance he'd have to put it into practice.

It was two days after Harry sent his letter to Sirius. The Dursleys had been in their usual foul moods, with Uncle Vernon grumbling about a faulty boiler and Aunt Petunia hovering behind Harry's shoulder as he cleaned the kitchen. Dudley, meanwhile, lounged on the couch, tossing snacks at the television like it was some sort of sport.

The doorbell rang.

Dudley didn't even flinch, though his mother popped her head out from the living room to glare. "Harry, get that!"

Harry set down the mop, muttering under his breath, and headed for the door. When he opened it, a tall, disheveled man in a weathered brown coat stood on the doorstep. His face was unshaven, his hair streaked with gray, and his hands stuffed casually into his pockets. But his sharp gray eyes glinted with familiarity.

"Your father would've told her to mind her own business," the man said softly, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Harry froze. Only one person could make a comment like that.

"Sirius?" he asked under his breath, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching.

"Got it in one," Sirius replied, stepping over the threshold as if he owned the place.

But before Harry could close the door, Aunt Petunia swept into the hallway like a vulture descending on prey.

"Who is this?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing as she scanned Sirius from head to toe. "And why on earth are you letting some dirty stranger into my house?"

Sirius arched an eyebrow, his mouth twitching with barely suppressed amusement.

Harry stepped in quickly. "This is… uh, a friend," he said, his brain scrambling for something plausible. "He lives in Manchester. I met him a long time ago—you know where." He emphasized the last part, hoping Petunia's aversion to all things magical would make her stop asking questions.

Her lips thinned, and her gaze darted between Sirius and Harry suspiciously. "Well, he's not staying here," she said sharply. "I won't have the neighbors seeing someone like that walking in and out of our house."

Sirius took a slow step forward, deliberately brushing imaginary lint off his coat. "Good thing I don't plan on staying long," he said smoothly. "I just came to see how Harry's holding up."

Petunia's jaw tightened. "Well, see that you don't stay too long." She turned on her heel with a huff, muttering about "bringing filth into the house," and disappeared into the kitchen.

Sirius let out a low chuckle once she was out of earshot. "Lovely woman, your aunt," he said dryly.

"You have no idea," Harry muttered, shutting the door.

They went upstairs to Harry room, Sirius sat on the edge of Harry's bed, reaching into his coat. From the inside pocket, he pulled out a small, silver-framed mirror. The surface shimmered faintly, like it was caught between reflecting the room and showing something else entirely.

"This," Sirius said, holding it out for Harry to take, "used to belong to your dad. We made these together in our sixth year—got the idea after James got caught sneaking around after curfew. We figured there had to be an easier way to talk to each other without lugging around a map or risking Peeves overhearing us."

Harry turned the mirror over in his hands. His reflection rippled slightly, distorting as if the glass were water.

"They're a pair," Sirius explained. "Yours is connected to mine. Just say my name into it, and I'll hear you. It works anywhere, so if you ever need me—anything at all—you don't have to wait for Hedwig to find me."

Harry looked up at Sirius, his grip tightening on the mirror. "I—thanks. I mean it. This is… brilliant."

Sirius's grin softened. "It's the least I can do."

For a moment, silence hung between them, warm and comfortable. Then Sirius glanced around the room, his nose wrinkling slightly.

"So," he said, breaking the quiet. "When was the last time you had a proper meal?"

Harry shrugged. "Depends on what you count as 'proper.' Aunt Petunia's idea of feeding me is mostly toast and cold leftovers."

Sirius's face darkened briefly, but he masked it with a quick smile. "Right. Let's fix that."

Without warning, he stood and called out in a firm voice, "Kreacher!"

There was a loud crack as a house-elf appeared in the corner of the room, hunched and muttering to himself. His bat-like ears twitched as he took in the small, plain space around him, his eyes narrowing when they landed on Harry.

"Kreacher," Sirius said in a steady tone, crouching slightly to meet the elf's gaze. "This is Harry. You'll treat him with respect, understood?"

Kreacher grumbled something unintelligible, his lips curling, but after a moment, he gave a grudging bow. "Master's orders," he muttered, barely audible.

"Good." Sirius straightened. "Now, could you bring us dinner? Something proper. None of that stuff you keep hiding in the cupboards."

Kreacher shot him a sour look but disappeared with another crack.

"Who's that?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Our family's house-elf," Sirius explained, rubbing the back of his neck. "Kreacher and I… well, let's just say we're working on things. He's stubborn, but I'm trying to make it clear that things are different now."

"Does he listen to you?"

"More or less," Sirius said with a shrug. "Old habits die hard, though. For both of us, I suppose."

Another crack interrupted them, and Kreacher reappeared, balancing a tray laden with roasted chicken, potatoes, steamed vegetables, and a loaf of bread. A jug of pumpkin juice rested on one corner, along with two glasses.

"Dinner," the elf announced sourly, setting the tray on Harry's desk. "For the Master and his… guest."

"Thank you, Kreacher," Sirius said firmly, his tone making it clear he meant it.

The elf's ears twitched, and he disappeared with one last grumble.

Harry sat on the bed while Sirius dragged the chair from the desk closer to the small table. The tray Kreacher had brought held more food than Harry had seen in weeks: roasted chicken, golden potatoes, vegetables glistening with butter, and warm, crusty bread.

"This," Harry said around a mouthful of chicken, "is the best thing I've eaten all summer."

Sirius chuckled softly, pouring pumpkin juice into their glasses. "Well, I'd say it's the least Kreacher could do, but that might be optimistic."

Harry snorted, watching as Sirius cut into his chicken with deliberate precision. There was something calm about the way his godfather moved, even as lines of weariness etched his face. For a while, they ate in silence, the soft clink of utensils the only sound in the room.

Harry found himself stealing glances at Sirius. His godfather's face, though worn, held an ease that hadn't been there during their last meeting. But there was still a tension in his shoulders, a heaviness in his gaze when he thought Harry wasn't looking.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Sirius looked up, startled, then gave a small smile. "Better now," he said. "It's good to see you, Harry. I've missed this—being able to sit down and talk without worrying about… everything else."

Harry nodded, the warmth in Sirius's voice settling something in him. They continued eating, the silence companionable, until Sirius leaned back in his chair with a sigh, cradling his glass of pumpkin juice.

"So," Sirius began, his tone lighter, "tell me, have you been keeping up with Quidditch news? I hear the Cannons have managed not to lose every match this year."

Harry laughed. "That's because they only had one game before the season break. Ron's convinced they're going to turn it all around this year."

"That boy's loyalty is admirable," Sirius said with a grin. "Misplaced, maybe, but admirable."

They fell into easy conversation, talking about teams, players, and upcoming matches. Sirius shared stories from his school days, describing a particularly chaotic match where James's obsession with perfecting the Wronski Feint nearly cost Gryffindor the Cup.

"Your dad was fearless on a broom," Sirius said, his gaze distant for a moment. "But he wasn't reckless. There was always a purpose behind his moves, even if it didn't seem like it at first."

Harry filed that away, his thoughts drifting to his own flying skills.

As the food dwindled and the plates were pushed aside, Sirius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What about you, Harry? How are you holding up?"

Harry hesitated, unsure how to answer. "I'm fine," he said eventually, though the words felt hollow even to him.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Fine?"

"Well, as fine as I can be here," Harry admitted, gesturing vaguely around the room. "The Dursleys aren't exactly great company. But it's nothing I can't handle."

Sirius's expression softened. "You're stronger than most people give you credit for, Harry. But you don't always have to 'handle' everything on your own. That's why I gave you the mirror. Use it if you need to."

Harry nodded, clutching the mirror a little tighter. "I will. Thanks."

For a moment, Sirius watched him carefully, as though weighing his next words. Then he said, "You know, there's more to strength than just getting through things. It's about knowing yourself—understanding what drives you and what holds you back. That's what makes a wizard powerful, not just the spells he can cast."

Harry blinked, surprised by the depth of Sirius's words. "I've been reading about that, actually," he said, and he explained the principles of visualization, intuition, and conviction from Fulcrum's book.

Sirius listened intently, nodding occasionally. "That's good stuff," he said when Harry finished. "Your mother believed in that kind of magic. She always said magic is as much about what's in here"—he tapped his temple—"as it is about the wand. Sounds like you're starting to figure that out too."

He paused, his gaze drifting toward the window. "I didn't always get that. When I was younger, I thought strength was about action—doing the bold thing, charging ahead. James and I lived by that, and we were lucky enough that it worked more often than not. But then…"

Sirius trailed off, his voice growing quieter. "Then Azkaban happened."

Harry said nothing, letting the words settle.

"When you're in Azkaban," Sirius continued, "there's nothing to do but think. And the Dementors… they take everything, all the good memories, all the light. But the one thing they can't take is the stuff buried deep. The things you don't want to think about, the truths you don't want to face. Those are the ones they leave with you, like they enjoy watching you tear yourself apart."

Sirius sighed, his fingers tracing the edge of his glass. "I had to confront a lot of things in that place—things about myself, about my choices. About my family. It wasn't pretty, but it taught me something. Real strength isn't just pushing forward blindly. It's stopping to understand why you're pushing forward in the first place. Otherwise, you're just running in circles."

Harry shifted in his seat, the weight of Sirius's words sinking in. "Did it… help? Thinking about all that?"

Sirius gave a small, humorless laugh. "Not at first. At first, it felt like it was killing me. But eventually, I started to see it differently. The things I hated about myself, about my past—they didn't have to define me. They were part of me, sure, but I could choose what to do with them. That's what kept me sane."

He looked at Harry, his expression steady but tired. "You've been through more than most adults I know, and you've come out stronger for it. But if there's one thing I want you to remember, it's this: don't ignore what's inside you. The anger, the fear, even the hope—it all has a place. You just have to figure out how to use it."

For a moment, Harry couldn't speak. He hadn't expected this kind of honesty from Sirius, but it made him feel… connected, in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.

"I'll try," Harry said finally.

Sirius nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Good. Because I've got no doubt you'll be one hell of a wizard, Harry. And not just because of what you can do with a wand."

They sat in silence for a while, the room filled with a sense of peace Harry hadn't felt in weeks. Sirius sipped his pumpkin juice, his gaze distant but content, while Harry turned the mirror over in his hands.

"Do you miss it?" Harry asked suddenly.

"Miss what?" Sirius replied, though his voice carried a hint of knowing.

"Freedom. Not having to hide all the time."

Sirius smiled faintly. "I do," he admitted. "But being here, being with you—it makes it worth it. That's all that matters."

Harry looked down, a lump forming in his throat. He didn't know what to say, so he simply nodded.

The conversation meandered after that, drifting back to Quidditch and school. Sirius told Harry about his favorite professors, his least favorite subjects, and how he'd barely passed Herbology thanks to James setting fire to a Venomous Tentacula during their final.

Harry laughed, feeling lighter than he had in months.

Hours passed before Sirius finally stood, stretching with a groan. "I should go before your aunt accuses me of stealing the silverware," he joked, though his eyes gleamed with affection.

Harry smiled. "Thanks for coming. And for dinner."

Sirius clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Anytime, kiddo. Remember, you're not alone. Call me if you need me."

With a final grin, he cast the Glamour Charm, transforming back into the scruffy stranger who had arrived hours earlier.

"Take care of yourself, Harry," he said, and then he was gone, leaving the room a little quieter but far warmer than it had been before.