Chapter 190: The Black Family, Terrifying Indeed

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An hour remained before dawn, but away from the city, beneath the vast wilderness sky, countless stars formed a glimmering Milky Way.

The crackling campfire cast its warm glow, melting the snowflakes swirling in the air. Over the fire, a sizzling Rhea bull—around 300 to 500 kilograms—was being roasted. This magical creature, native to North America and the Far East, was a rarity in England. Its golden fur shimmered like sunlight, and its blood was said to enhance physical strength, making it an excellent source of nourishment.

This particular bull, however, was only a calf about two or three months old, not yet weaned. But that was precisely when its meat was most tender. The treasures stored by MACUSA (Magical Congress of the United States of America) were many, and since they'd already chosen the path of banditry, there was no reason to hold back.

Perhaps it was the aroma of the roasting meat, or maybe the warmth of the fire, that stirred a man lying on a mat nearby. Slowly, he opened his bleary eyes and saw the black-robed figure turning the spit over the flames.

"Die!"

The boning knife embedded in a nearby tree stump was snatched up in an instant. Sirius Black, fueled by a surprising burst of strength, lunged at the black-robed figure. The blade's sharp edge reflected the flickering orange flames, and the cold gleam seemed to carry the heat of his boiling blood.

"Compared to Snape, godfather, you're really lacking," the man remarked calmly.

A large hand descended on Sirius's head. Standing over 190 centimeters tall, Harry's reach easily outmatched Sirius's 180-something frame. With a single flick of Harry's finger, the blade snapped, the broken tip grazing Sirius's cheek before vanishing into the dark wilderness beyond.

"Perhaps you should calm down. How about a cup of tea?"

Harry gestured toward a smaller fire nearby, where a kettle rested, its contents bubbling and steaming.

But as Harry tilted his head to look at Sirius, the man's grip on the knife weakened. Sirius's eyes widened in disbelief as he gazed into Harry's clear, emerald-green eyes—eyes he could never forget, even after ten years.

"Harry?" Sirius asked cautiously, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"Of course," Harry replied with a wry smile. "Unless you'd prefer I turn into Voldemort to give you a fright—that's doable too."

He waved a small vial in front of Sirius. The thick, viscous liquid inside was unmistakably Polyjuice Potion.

Sirius, whose knowledge of potions was far from lacking, froze for a moment before his expression grew complicated. Relief, fear, excitement, and guilt all flickered across his face in quick succession, impossible to sort out.

"What, don't believe me?" Harry tore a leg off the roasted bull, sat down, and began eating with abandon. Between bites, he spoke through a full mouth: "Once we're back in England, Professor Dumbledore will explain everything. At the very least, you trust him, don't you?"

"I… I'm not… I…" Sirius stammered, his mind overloaded with too much information all at once, leaving him at a loss for words.

"I believe you," he finally said, his voice steadying. "I believe those eyes—they don't lie."

"And yet, you're still far too careless."

The black-robed figure chewing on the bull's leg spoke in a dark, foreboding tone. "Did no one ever tell you not to trust strangers so easily?"

The second half of the sentence came from behind Sirius. A cold, chilling voice blew across the back of his neck like an icy wind.

"Congratulations. You've just died again—fooled to death."

A hard object pressed against Sirius's back. There was no need to guess—it was the barrel of a gun.

A bead of cold sweat slid down Sirius's forehead as his body froze in response to the sudden reversal.

"Just kidding."

The pressure disappeared, and the black-robed man returned to his seat by the fire, gnawing on the bull's leg as if nothing had happened. But the sweat-soaked back of Sirius's shirt confirmed the experience was all too real.

"Still, it's true—you shouldn't trust strangers while traveling. After all, this is the first time we've met, Sirius."

"Allow me to formally introduce myself."

Harry tossed the remaining bull's hoof into the fire, where it crackled and popped. He stood, towering over Sirius, his broad, powerful frame exuding a palpable sense of intimidation.

"Harry Potter. Hogwarts second-year student, age twelve, and strong enough to punch Voldemort to death."

Sirius, stunned, shook Harry's hand in silence, swallowing nervously.

"Well, since this is our first meeting, it's normal if we don't have much to talk about. Why don't you start by telling me why you're here? It might help break the ice."

Encouraged by Harry's words, Sirius opened up. Whether Harry was truly who he claimed to be seemed less important than the fact that he was entirely at Harry's mercy. In this situation, truth and lies mattered little—resistance wasn't an option.

And besides, Sirius trusted his instincts, even just a little. Those eyes, identical to Lily's, were unmatched in this world.

"I actually…"

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Sirius began his story. His purpose for coming here was simple: he had always wanted to prepare a gift for Harry—something that might compensate, even slightly, for the guilt he carried. Sirius knew the true cause of James and Lily's deaths and understood his deep connection to it. If it hadn't been for his misplaced trust in Peter Pettigrew and his decision to pass the Fidelius Charm's secret-keeping role to him, the tragedy of that fateful year might never have happened.

Sirius also knew Harry loved Quidditch. Dumbledore had told him about Harry's remarkable achievements in the sport—even forming what Sirius misunderstood to be a "war battalion" (in reality, a Quidditch team). Harry had even purchased a professional Quidditch team, planning to dominate the European Cup and secure a spot in the World Cup.

"When the Nimbus company refused to sell, I decided to come here instead. Jericho Rockets, a prominent up-and-coming missile company in North America, seemed like a good alternative. I planned to buy it and give it to you. But, who could have guessed…"

Sirius then detailed how his curiosity had dragged him into this whirlwind of events. Truly, it was a stroke of terrible luck—something no ordinary person would encounter without losing decades off their life expectancy.

After listening to Sirius's explanation, Harry stared at his godfather with an expression filled with intrigue. To be honest, he was stunned by the sheer ambition behind Sirius's planned gift.

"Buying a rocket company?" Harry asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

"You don't like it?" Sirius hesitated before adding nervously, "I mean, I—"

"No, no, that's not what I meant, godfather," Harry interjected smoothly, switching from "Sirius" to "godfather" with remarkable ease, like a dog rolling over for a treat. "I'm just curious—how much does it cost to buy a rocket company?"

"It's not expensive at all," Sirius replied with a grin, his spirits visibly lifting at Harry's lack of rejection. "Only 23 million Galleons for 40% of the shares. Quite a bargain, really."

"Ah, yes, very affordable," Harry muttered, his lips twitching slightly. He was beginning to grasp just how terrifyingly wealthy the Black family truly was.

(End of Chapter)