Episode 9. Part 1

Episode 9. Part 1

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"Sirius Black is innocent!

Harry Potter resolutely took the godfather's case into his own hands."

"Peter Petitgrew, the true traitor to the Potter family, is dead again! What is the danger of stealthy people? Expert Opinion."

"Sirius Black sued Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter's magical guardian! "You had no right to become Harry's guardian!" "Dumbledore: 'Sirius was a bully back in his school days. I'm afraid he's a bad influence on Harry!" The Boy-Who-Survived custody case Black lost. Is our court so impartial?!"

"Bellatrix Lestrange, maidenly Black escaped from Azkaban! Sirius Black has confirmed under truth serum that he had nothing to do with his cousin's escape!"

"Azkaban cannot hold the Animagi! Special Edition" "Harold James Potter has been declared an emancipated adult by a magical court in Spain. The ban on the use of magic by minors has been lifted for the national hero throughout Europe and the British Isles by unanimous decision of the members of the international confederation of wizards, bypassing its president, Albus Dumbledore."

"The Boy Who Survived decided to go up against Dumbledore? Expert Opinion."

"Frank and Alice Longbottom are declared sane and discharged from Mungo after thirteen years of vain treatment! The Witchdoctors are waving their hands: the miraculous healing is not their doing."

"What's going on in magical England? Expert Opinion."

- Do you collect them, Hermione? - Harold asked the friend he and his cousin were visiting. He read the headlines of last month's Daily Prophet, piled on the girl's desk, and sighed: he couldn't figure out who had put him up to all that noise. Whether it was Aunt Susan, the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, or Grandpa Nicholas, or crazy Bella and her equally crazy aunt Walburga.

Totally inadequate in everything that didn't concern Harry, the godmother, by the way, was a woman of passion. So three days after the start of summer vacation, she was standing in front of her godson, putting in front of him an ancient book from the Black family library by... Nicholas Flamel, and pointing to a recipe for a potion from it. It was based on the healing effects of the Philosopher's Stone and several other extremely rare and hard-to-find ingredients. Bellatrix then said that only this potion would help. Harold had no doubts, giving a small shard of the Philosopher's Stone to his godmother. And how happy Flamel was about it! At last his life's work would be used for what it was meant to be used for.

In a couple of days the potion was ready, and its quality was confirmed by Nicholas himself. But a tortured Sirius reported that his mad cousin hadn't slept a wink since hearing Harold's ultimatum. After that, Potter couldn't help but give her a chance. She was a strange, wild, incomprehensible woman, but her godson liked her.

True, then Harry and Dudley had to put Sirius himself on his feet, because he had a hearing on his nose. And... it spun. All these trials in different countries, simultaneously started by people who were not the last roles in the lives of the cousins, the movement between the islands and the continent, the press conferences with the journos, without which (according to the same, not the last people) was impossible, had an impact. At some point everything merged into a single kaleidoscope of events, and Harold stopped distinguishing where and what, apathetically allowing himself to be dragged around to various events and not smiling for a long time into the cameras. He was afraid to speculate what would have happened to him if not for his faithful little brother... One day Dudley, who remained in his cousin's shadow most of the time, said something unremembered, and the next day Potter suddenly got the meaning of his words and awoke from his heavy apathy to find himself at a Wizengamot meeting, with Lord Potter's ring on his hand, voting against some bill that Dumbledore was trying to get through.

That's when he realized that things had gone badly wrong for him. And where he was, and what he had become in the past month of the school vacations, he didn't want to be. So he did what he did best: he took his cousin and ran away to a place where no one would think to look for him. There were plenty of options: from France to a villa in Spain. Though no, not ending there. After all, since he had come of age as a lord, he would have access to all the family cottages-apartments, bungalows, nests. But that's where the search would begin, and they would know where he and his brother had been hiding, from the locked access in one of the houses that had been re-consecrated for habitation. So Harold decided to accept Hermione's invitation, hiding out on the outskirts of good old London in the gnashing of wizards' teeth in the Muggle world.

***

- Where the hell is that bloody boy?! - Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was blisteringly angry. All the plans he had worked so hard to verify - went to hell with Harry Potter! Where did he miscalculate? Where? And how?

Albus knew where. He'd been overconfident and hadn't noticed that when he'd met his cousins, he hadn't managed to read their minds, or gain their trust, or cast a few extremely useful spells. He thought then that it was an accident, that he had frightened the boys, and therefore that they had closed themselves off from him by accidental magic. But no. It was as if Potter could see right through him, knew about all his plans. Didn't trust him. And twisted out of his web with ease. Dumbledore didn't understand how that was possible, but he knew it was: Potter knew.

The Headmaster of Hogwarts had conducted a thorough investigation into the castle and was now convinced that Quirrell had been killed by a boy. And the Philosopher's Stone had most likely been taken by him. The Headmaster even knew where Harry had hidden it - in his school backpack, with relief and dimensionless spells and blood protection. These bags were traded secretly and for a lot of money by a shopkeeper in Slanted Alley, knowing full well that any goods with a blood tie to the owner (except for generic ones) were forbidden by the Ministry of Magic. And it was necessary for his cousins to buy just such backpacks! Now even he was unable to bypass the protection of the bags, even having Potter's blood, even controlling him himself. Albus couldn't even steal a backpack! It was a shame!

Now, after the third year of Boy-Who-Didn't-Submit-Great, the Headmaster was also certain that Harry had gotten Ginevra Weasley out of the Chamber of Secrets. Oh, he realized that the boy had somehow affected her memory. And the Chamber of Secrets he had indeed found. Myrtle's ghost didn't confess to it, suddenly siding with the living, but at least she said no one killed the Basilisk who lived in the Room. Why, then, did Godric Gryffindor's sword recognize Potter as master? That, too, must have been kept in a miracle backpack after he disappeared from the Headmaster's office. Though it might be in the Gringotts vault, Harold certainly had it. Little did anyone know, but the founders of Hogwarts had a little book with a list of their personal artifacts, which listed, in succession, the names of the rightful owners. And Dumbledore was very upset when instead of his name, opposite the sword, he saw the boy's name.

- Son! - BellaTrice Black whimpered, looming before the eyes of her cousin and her aunt's portrait, for she had been walking from wall to wall for the past three days, occasionally as if calling for Harold, unable to find room for her son. She wouldn't eat, drink, or sleep..." Shut up, Bella! - Sirius snapped at her, suffering from a sudden onset of migraines. He was, of course, badly set up by his godson when he dumped the unhinged mother in his care. After all, a fugitive criminal and just a crazy woman. You don't leave her like that unattended. Where does she belong? Home, that's right, in Black Manor, in his house. And it was a good thing Dudley had suggested to the new Lord Black that he divorce his cousin from her husband by breaking the marriage contract over the family stone. It suddenly helped, and Bella began to respond at least somewhat adequately to the attention to herself. But it didn't save her from generic madness.

- It's gone, it's gone," she whimpered, swaying from side to side with sincere grief. - Do you understand? - I turned sharply to my cousin, asking almost harshly.

- Bella! - exclaimed Walburga from the portrait, also suffering from a migraine. The disease was as hereditary in their family as madness. - Even I have already realized that nothing will happen to your godson!

- It's your fault, Mother! - growled a completely pissed off Sirius. - Harry can't stand to have anything forced on him. "Lord Potter this, Lord Potter that, you'll be Lord this, you'll be Lord that, Lord must do this, Lord must do that. - The woman in the portrait snorted smugly and mockingly, as condescendingly as only she could:

- Pfft! He is quite capable of becoming a fine Lord, unlike you, oh my foolish son! Harold is corrupted by his cousin's influence," she added later. Bella instantly cocked her head: "Dudley's good," the black eyes flashed stubbornly, and her hand clenched dangerously on the wand that Harold had, contrary to her fears, obtained for her godmother. Either he'd stolen it from someone like Bella in mind and ability, or he'd bought it at the Black Market. But the wand fit perfectly, which made Sirius' life very difficult. Why did the godson hate him so much?

- What are you talking about, my girl? Are you out of your mind? - his mother pretended to be surprised. - Good, pfft. He's a half-breed! - Valburga Black spat out, glaring at her niece. Bella, on the other hand, suddenly straightened her shoulders and assumed a proud, independent, haughty look. Harry had made his godparents clean up after the prison, so that, washed, combed, fattened, and dressed as befitted a man of their blood status, he and his sister looked rather imposing. Especially when they striked what had once been considered a true Black-hearted pose. It was the pose Bella took when she heard her aunt speak of her son's beloved brother. Bellatrix in Azkaban had become abruptly indifferent to the status of blood. And she was only saved from the influence of the Dementors by the relatively neutral thought of her godson turning into her son over time. So both Dudley and the Weasley twins, renegades of a family of blood traitors, she accepted quite favorably. She didn't care about them, by and large. But they were important to her Harry, which meant they were important to her. And she was Black, and she wouldn't allow even a respected aunt to dare speak out on the matter. "My son knows who can be trusted and who cannot," Bellatrix said in a shrill, icy voice. - Even if it's a mudblood, they can be useful to my son. And I ask you, Aunt Walburga, not to insult my Harold and me! - For a moment the woman in the portrait and her living son even froze: so adequate did Bella seem at that moment. She whimpered again, though, and the obsession vanished.

- Madwoman! - Valburga muttered angrily. No, she liked Harold. Of course, he had not been brought up in the manner befitting his kind, and it was felt. But it was also felt that the young man was trying his best to compensate for the gaps in his knowledge, upbringing, and education. And yet he allowed himself to disregard the opinion of older, no doubt more experienced and competent people. This trait of character can also be appreciated as a virtue, because with it he did not succumb to the influence of others. And yet, his... his family's feverishness could have had many bad consequences from which she, Walburga Black, could have spared him if he had listened to her even once in a while. In the meantime, he only listened in silence and still did things his own way.

But Walburga did not like the fact that both her eldest son, Sirius, and her eldest niece, Bellatrix, hoped to make the boy heir to the Blacks. Unthinkable! Unheard of! Impossible! How could one man become Lord of two of the oldest bloodlines at once?! Of course, there was Black blood in Harold, thanks to his grandmother, Dora Potter, who had been a Black. There was Black magic in the young man, too, thanks to the proper baptismal ritual that James Potter had chosen for his childless cousin. And yet he was a Potter to the core! If Walburga's son and niece had known as many Potters as she had, there would be no doubt that Harold had inherited all their positive aspects as well as their bad character traits from their ancestors. Well, nothing. The son was still young and still stupid, something even Azkaban hadn't changed. So the woman hoped that one day he would come to his senses. Or someone would make him come to his senses, Harold, for example. And then the Black family would have a chance to be reborn. In the meantime, she had to wait for the cause of her and her son's migraine to return.

***

- What are they writing? - Dudley asked his cousin with interest as he and Hermione entered the living room, where they found Harry with a stack of letters. Which Ardo was taking from the owls, checking for tracers and portals, then handing them to his master. - Arthur Weasley got the family tickets to the finals of the Quidditch World Cup," Potter shrugged, rereading Fred's message. - So the twins are going there with their parents. The Slytherins will definitely all be there. And anyway... everyone is going to be there. Everyone's calling us. - Harold sighed: this was the first time he'd had such a boring summer, unless you counted the first month. All they were doing at Hermione's was either studying, or dragging themselves to the nearest park for walks, or shopping, or to the gym to keep in shape. As a new Lord, he still had to do his business correspondence, but at the same time he had to learn how to run the family business: he hadn't realized when, but his grandfather Nicholas had managed to train him. It didn't take much time, though, and it wasn't interesting. It wasn't much fun to study Animagic only in theory, either. Harry's mood was dampened by the fact that he and his cousin, as emancipated adults, could do magic, but Hermione could not. And if they did, the Ministry would either think Granger was witching and punish her, or figure out where Potter and his brother were hanging around. All in all, it was boring.

- Are you going to the match? - Hermione asked with interest. - No," Dudley shook his head. - This quidditch is ridiculous. Sport is sport. The time, nerves and money spent on it could be used on something more useful.

- Well, at least someone with sense! - She exclaimed, sighing. - Well, I'm going to go to the store. I'll get some groceries. Can I buy you anything? - The cousins shook their heads in unison in denial: -We'll meet you there, Herm, so you don't have to carry the bags. We'll meet you there, so you don't have to carry any bags.

-Hermione smiled appreciatively, thinking that her friends were surprisingly decent guys. And if at first her parents hadn't been very fond of their beloved daughter's company, they'd had a dramatic change of heart after living with them. And indeed, the cousins lived cleanly, cleaned up after themselves, helped wash the dishes for everyone, and even they cooked, one at a time or together. They did their own laundry and ironed their own clothes, and fixed them if they needed it. They didn't go grocery shopping, but both Hermione and her mother would meet them to carry their purchases home. Weird.

She took her purse and left the house, leaving her friends alone. Harold instantly turned serious: -What did you see? - Dursle sat down tiredly next to his brother on the sofa, massaging his temples and recalling: "Something is going to happen at the championship that will affect our school year. Dumbledore is mad at you. A black mark in the sky. A snake. An abandoned house. A murdered Muggle. Some kind of ugly dwarf, some kind of baby. It's probably Voldemort, and he wants to be reborn. It's the same thing I saw in my dream three days ago," Harold sighed. Dudley nodded, taking the mug of tea from his brother and taking a large sip.

- Yeah. The clouds seem to be gathering. Maybe we should get back to Salem before it's too late. - The hope of magical Britain suggested. Dursle gave him a skeptical look and grinned. "Aren't you tired of organizing grand escapes?

- No. It's not even a habit anymore, it's a principle of life," the cousins laughed a little tensely, but merrily.

- Then we have nothing to worry about, because we can always escape...

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