After Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry felt like he'd been hit with a Revealing Charm. No matter where he went, he couldn't escape the stares.
Students passing in the corridors slowed down, sneaking glances and whispering like a swarm of persistent flies.
"That's him—his Boggart turned into You-Know-Who…"
"Do you think he's actually seen him?"
Some bold younger students even chased after him, craning their necks. "Potter, does You-Know-Who really have no nose? What's his voice like?"
Harry's head throbbed. He quickened his pace, frowning, but the looks and murmurs followed him relentlessly.
He even started missing Potions class—at least Snape's lessons were free of gossip.
But the buzz only lasted a day.
By the next morning, the attention shifted like it had been hit with a Switching Spell, all eyes turning to Slytherin.
The cause? Malfoy's Boggart.
Though the shadowy figure hadn't fully formed into that girl's likeness, it was enough to set the students abuzz.
Compared to the distant, legendary You-Know-Who, Malfoy's fear was far juicier gossip. The haughty pure-blood prince, pale as a ghost over a girl? That was prime Hogwarts chatter.
"Heard Malfoy was scared stiff!"
"Didn't think little Malfoy would be so terrified of big Malfoy. Think he got punished at home?"
"Red hair, pure-blood… the only girl in school who fits that description is…"
The whispers grew louder, and sharp-eyed students pieced together clues.
Soon, some started glancing slyly toward Gryffindor, their eyes lingering on a few pure-blood girls before settling thoughtfully on one figure in particular.
Harry sat on a bench, sipping orange juice, relieved that the stares once glued to him now stuck to Malfoy and that direction.
He took a big gulp, muttering to himself, Looks like Malfoy's the one in trouble now.
---
In the Slytherin common room, Draco sank into a sofa, clutching a parchment stamped with the Malfoy crest.
Lucius's sharp handwriting cut like a blade, each word dripping with ice: "You've disgraced the Malfoy name… If not for Miss Parkinson, when were you planning to tell me about this? And who is this red-haired girl?"
Draco's face paled, only softening slightly at the gentle postscript in his mother's hand: "Don't mind your father, my little dragon… Is she pure-blood?"
But that fleeting warmth was swallowed by fury.
Draco snapped his head up, his gaze piercing Pansy, who sat nearby. His voice was cold, barely containing his rage. "Who gave you permission to tell my father? That's betrayal!"
Pansy flinched at his outburst, her face going ashen. Her shoulders hunched, her voice trembling like leaves in an autumn wind. "I… I just thought… you and that girl could never work. The Malfoy family wouldn't—"
"Shut up!" Draco shot up from his chair, his voice sharp. "I told you already—that wasn't what I'm afraid of!"
Pansy's eyes reddened, but she bit back, "Then why won't you tell me who she is?"
"I don't know!" Draco's voice spiked, laced with frantic defensiveness. "How am I supposed to know why that stupid Boggart showed that? For all I know, it's some prank by that broke Lupin—he's a Gryffindor!"
His chest heaved, his eyes swirling with anger, embarrassment, disgust, and a flicker of panic he wouldn't admit to himself.
---
Back in the Great Hall, Hermione watched Harry quietly shovel food, then set down her spoon. "Still thinking about the Boggart? Everyone's just curious. They'll forget in a couple of days."
Harry looked up, giving her a small smile as he stuffed the last bite of bread in his mouth. "I'm fine, don't worry."
He took a sip of pumpkin juice, his tone lighter. "Besides, you'd better get moving. Don't be late again."
Hermione hesitated, seeing he wasn't putting on a front, then nodded. "Alright, I'll see you in Herbology this afternoon."
She quickly gathered her things and hurried out of the Great Hall. Harry knew she was off to use the Time-Turner hidden under her clothes.
As soon as she was gone, a snowy owl swooped down, landing on the table's edge with a tightly rolled note in its beak.
Harry unfurled it, recognizing the elegant handwriting: Harry, please come to my office. —Albus Dumbledore
He stood, tucked the note in his pocket, and headed for the spiral staircase to the Headmaster's office.
---
Dumbledore's office smelled of old books and lemon drops. He sat in his grand phoenix-feather armchair, his gentle gaze settling on Harry as he asked about the Boggart's impact.
Harry shook his head honestly. "It startled me, sir, but I'm okay now."
Dumbledore smiled, nodding, then shifted to Harry's progress with Fiendfyre and Legilimency.
"Both spells require extensive practice to master," he said, his eyes encouraging. "How are you coming along?"
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, his ears reddening. "Legilimency… I practiced on birds in the Dursleys' garden. I can just about sense their emotions."
He paused, his tone turning wry. "But Fiendfyre's trickier. I can't fully control the flames, and there's nowhere to practice. If I lose control…"
He trailed off, then admitted, "I wouldn't mind burning down Aunt Petunia's house, but Hermione would flip. She's always saying we can't use magic to hurt Muggles, even them."
Dumbledore stroked his chin, a thoughtful glint in his blue eyes before he chuckled softly. "My oversight. I haven't provided you a proper place to practice."
He stood, gesturing to Harry. "Bring your trunk. I'll modify its space to create a safe training area."
As Harry reached for the door, Dumbledore's voice, gentle but heavy, stopped him. "Harry, one moment."
Harry turned to see the Headmaster leaning forward, fingers tapping the armchair as if choosing his words carefully.
A few seconds of silence stretched before Dumbledore spoke. "You've heard about Sirius Black, I presume?"
Harry blinked, nodding uncertainly. "You mean… that stuff about him?"
In Harry's mind, Sirius was his father's old friend who later turned to Voldemort.
"What do you know?" Dumbledore asked, his gaze steady.
"Just that he was my dad's best friend," Harry said truthfully, a faint unease stirring in his chest.
Dumbledore sighed softly, his blue eyes flickering with regret and sorrow before delivering a clear, brutal truth. "Harry, Sirius Black is the one who betrayed your parents, leading to their deaths at Voldemort's hands."
The words hit like a boulder, leaving Harry speechless, his mind reeling.
Images of his parents' deaths flickered hazily in his head, now tied to the words Black's betrayal.
Silence engulfed him like a tidal wave.
After a long moment, Harry looked up, his voice tight, sidestepping the harsh reality. "If that's true… you won't let me go to Hogsmeade, will you?"
Dumbledore studied Harry's tense profile, nodding slowly, his tone heavy with guilt. "Yes, Harry. For now, I can't let you leave the castle's protection."
Harry strode out of the office without a goodbye.
Back in the Gryffindor common room, he yanked his scuffed trunk from under his bed.
When he knocked on Dumbledore's door again, the Headmaster was gazing out at the Forbidden Forest.
Harry set the trunk on the carpet, about to leave, when Dumbledore's voice stopped him again. "Harry, wait."
He turned to see Dumbledore pull a stack of yellowed papers from his desk drawer. "You should see these," he said, his fingers brushing the topmost newspaper.
Harry took them, his eyes landing on a Daily Prophet headline: Mass Murderer Captured. The photo showed Sirius Black at his arrest, gaunt and wild-haired, his eyes blazing with madness and despair as he laughed hysterically.
Beneath it were photos: one of James and Black, arms around each other in Gryffindor uniforms, grinning broadly in front of Hogwarts; another of them with Lupin and a wizard Harry didn't recognize, gathered around a birthday cake, candlelight casting a soft glow in the black-and-white image.
Harry's fingers traced the overlapped shoulders of his young father and Black, his heart tightening as if squeezed by an invisible hand.
The newspaper's accusations clashed with the warmth of the photos, creating a suffocating dissonance.
"These may help you understand the past," Dumbledore said, his voice tinged with weight. "But remember, the truth is sometimes more complex than it seems."
Harry didn't speak, carefully folding the papers and photos and slipping them into his pocket before leaving.
---
That evening in the Gryffindor common room, the fireplace crackled, casting a warm glow on Hermione's curls.
Harry recounted his talk with Dumbledore, from Black's betrayal to the Hogsmeade ban, and showed her the faded newspapers and photos.
Hermione studied the image of James and Black arm-in-arm, then the twisted face in the arrest photo, her brow furrowing with worry. "That's awful… I'm not going to Hogsmeade either. I'll stay with you."
Harry shook his head, repeating Dumbledore's words: "The truth is sometimes more complex than it seems."
"Don't you think it's odd?" he said. "If Black was pure evil, why would Dumbledore say that? Showing me these papers and photos… maybe he's hinting at something."
He picked up the group photo, his thumb brushing the small, stout figure in the corner. "There's got to be more to this."
Hermione's eyes lit up, catching his drift. "Exactly! The official story says Black killed thirteen people, including Pettigrew, but the reports never detail the scene."
She stood, excitement sparking in her eyes. "Let's check the library. They've got old Daily Prophet issues. We'll find something."
Harry stood too, carefully tucking away the papers and photos. "Thanks, Hermione."
---
In the library, a pile of old newspapers lay before them.
Harry's fingers skimmed a 1974 Daily Prophet, the dense print making his eyes ache.
He ruffled his hair, frustrated. "What if… Dumbledore's comment didn't mean anything? Just him trying to comfort me?"
Just then, Hermione let out a sharp gasp, crumpling the paper she held. "Harry, look at this!" She shoved it toward him, jabbing at a paragraph, her voice trembling with excitement.
"It says Sirius Black publicly called Death Eaters 'a bunch of cowards hiding behind masks' and said 'pure-blood supremacy is a joke.' That's why the Black family disowned him!"
Seeing Harry's blank look, she pushed the paper closer, her words tumbling out. "Think about it! Someone who openly rejected pure-blood ideals and broke with his family—how could he suddenly join Voldemort? It doesn't add up!"
"Doesn't add up…" Harry echoed, a spark igniting in his mind.
He dove into the scattered papers, fingers flying over yellowed pages. With a rustle, he pulled out a curled-edge issue, its headline blaring the Black family crest: Regulus Arcturus Black, Suspected Death Eater, Missing.
"Look at this!" Harry's voice carried a quiet thrill as he pointed to the date. "Regulus Black went missing in 1979, and then Sirius Black was accused of blowing up a Muggle street in 1980!"
"If Sirius joined Voldemort to reclaim the Black family, he wouldn't publicly kill people! It makes no sense!"
The library fell silent. The "ironclad" reports now seemed riddled with holes, like a torn net revealing glimpses of a hidden truth.