With a sharp crack of displaced air, Dobby and Harry materialized in Harry's bedroom at the Dursleys'.
Harry collapsed to his knees, gulping for breath. Apparition always felt like being squeezed through a rubber hose—every inch of him compressed and wrung out before snapping back into place.
Per Douglas's instructions, Dobby vanished the instant Harry arrived, lest he slip into his old habit of self-punishment when faced with awkward scenes.
At that moment, Harry's bedroom door flew open. Vernon Dursley flicked on the lights, taking in Harry's disheveled state with a sneer.
"Well, well, I thought your uncle would pamper you. Looks like he's just as keen to torment you as the rest of that lot. Proves my point—they're all mad…"
Harry caught his breath, staring silently at Vernon before quietly making his bed.
Vernon's voice dropped to a harsh whisper.
"Since you don't need doors to get in or out, I'll just keep this one locked. I don't want to see you around the house these next few days. I've told Marge we've sent you back to St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys… so you—"
Harry cut in,
"I promise I won't make a sound, so no one will know I'm here. But you have to sign my permission slip, otherwise—"
Vernon gave a mocking laugh.
"Otherwise what? If you step out of line, I'll tell your professor-uncle. Don't forget, we're family too.
No matter how odd he is, I'm sure he knows how to deal with disobedient brats…
And why not just have your professor-uncle sign it for you? Heh."
With another sneer, Vernon locked the door from the outside.
He'd finally figured it out—having a Hogwarts professor living nearby wasn't so bad. If Harry caused trouble at home, at least there was someone to complain to. If he couldn't discipline Harry, someone else could.
So, Harry came and went with Dobby's Apparition. After a few trips, he even started getting used to the bizarre, gut-churning sensation.
On the third night, after dropping off Harry, Dobby stayed out to patrol the neighborhood from the shadows.
Thanks to Dobby's vigilance, stray dogs had become a rare sight in the area—so much so that any new arrival was instantly noticeable.
As he crept along the low wall of Magnolia Crescent, Dobby caught a glint of bright eyes in the bushes—watching him, then slowly retreating.
He squinted. It was a huge black dog, its fur wild and filthy.
Aha, another catch for the day.
The magical binding rope coiled around Dobby's arm shot out like a serpent, aiming straight for the dog. The black beast spun and bolted.
He couldn't fathom why a house-elf—especially a neatly dressed one—would appear in a Muggle neighborhood. And to try catching him on sight? Had he been recognized?
But without his wand, all he could do was run for his life. If he got caught, he'd be dragged straight back to Azkaban.
Given his current state, he doubted he could swim the freezing North Sea again and survive. (Azkaban Prison, after all, was marooned on a remote island in the North Sea.)
But he barely made it a few paces before the magical rope lashed around him, binding his limbs as tightly as a trussed pig. Worst of all, it gagged him too.
Just as the black dog prepared to drop his Animagus form and try escaping as a human, Dobby approached, whispering,
"Don't be afraid, big black dog. My boss just wants a dog—he won't hurt you."
Before the dog could react, Dobby grabbed its leg.
In a blink, they materialized inside Douglas's house. Dobby eyed the black dog in surprise—this was the first one to show no reaction at all to Apparition. Most dogs either fainted or thrashed in panic; this one seemed completely unfazed.
Dobby hurried to fetch Douglas. The moment Douglas laid eyes on the dog, he knew—this was the Sirius Black he'd been searching for.
Despite all efforts to look like an ordinary stray, there was no real fear in those eyes.
Douglas had seen Sirius's Animagus form in Peter Pettigrew's memories. Though there were a few differences, the resemblance was unmistakable.
Animagi could only transform into one animal, and any physical defect would manifest in that form, too (like Peter's missing finger, mirrored by a missing toe in his rat form). Clothes and accessories, however, would melt into the transformation—glasses or jewelry becoming fur, scales, or claws.
So Douglas hadn't asked Dobby to find a dog identical to one from over a decade ago.
He recalled the magical rope, then casually transfigured two items from the storage room into chairs.
He smiled at the growling but motionless black dog.
"Mr. Black, I trust you don't need me to help you change back from Animagus form?"
The black dog suddenly bared its teeth and lunged at Douglas.
Startled, Dobby jabbed his finger—bang!—and the dog was blasted across the room, smashing into a wall and shattering a shelf.
Dobby immediately set to work repairing the shelf with magic.
Douglas regarded Dobby with exasperation.
"Dobby, next time, think before you cast a spell—this is our own house, remember?"
Then he addressed the whimpering black dog on the floor.
"Mr. Black, allow me to introduce myself. I'm Douglas Holmes, Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts—and Harry Potter's uncle.
And I know why you escaped from Azkaban. After all, it's hard not to be suspicious of a rat that's lived for over a decade…"
To everyone's astonishment, the black dog abruptly transformed into a man.
He stepped from the shadows—hair filthy and tangled down to his elbows. If not for the wild light in his sunken eyes, Douglas might have mistaken him for a corpse.
His waxy skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones, making him look almost skeletal. This was the wizarding world's most wanted fugitive—Sirius Orion Black.
Black flashed a yellow-toothed grin, breathing raggedly, his voice hoarse from disuse.
"Who the hell are you? James and Lily never mentioned a cousin. And how do you know where that traitor is?"
Douglas wrinkled his nose.
"Mr. Black, we have plenty of time to talk. I suggest you start with a hot shower and a change of clothes—then we'll eat and chat.
I doubt you'll run off, seeing as Harry comes here every day to do his homework."
But Black's nerves were frayed—he lunged forward, grabbing Douglas's collar and shouting with wild fury,
"Tell me—how do you know about that traitor?!"
Douglas waved Dobby back, then calmly pried Black's fingers from his shirt, one by one, with a cold smirk.
"Mr. Black, I know far more than you think. Trust me, the traitor won't escape. What you need now is rest—then you can get your revenge."
Black realized, to his shock, that Douglas's grip was iron-strong. The man's left hand pinned his arm, holding him fast.
And—talk about unfair—Douglas's right hand still held a wand, pressing the tip to Black's chest.
It wasn't fear of death that calmed him, but the grim realization: if he died now, that traitor would still be free.
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