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The Starlord - Chapter - 62
🕑 Added 2025-11-07 15:41:45 +0000 UTCLife in Sweden moved quickly, like a dream Harry couldn’t quite settle into.
Days blurred together — long hours of training, of reading through obscure tomes that Remus brought back from magical bookstores, and silent meditations in the forest clearing behind the mansion.
But lately, something had changed — something that both amused and irritated him.
Sirius Black was in love.
It started innocently enough. Sirius had gone to the Swedish Ministry of Magic one morning to handle paperwork about their “ magical residence” — and returned home that evening with a grin so wide Harry thought he’d been Imperiused.
He slammed the door open, his voice echoing across the hall. “Moony! Harry! You will not believe what just happened!”
Remus, calmly marking essays for his tutoring job, looked up from the table. “You got arrested again?”
“Better,” Sirius said, dropping dramatically onto the couch. “I met an angel. A real one. Her name’s Freja Lindström — works at the Department of Magical Transportation. Blonde hair, blue eyes, brilliant laugh. She called me ‘Mr. Black’ — with that accent — and I swear, I almost proposed on the spot.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “You proposed to someone because they pronounced your name right?”
Sirius grinned, unbothered. “Details, my boy, details.”
Remus smirked. “I give it two weeks before she realizes you’re a walking disaster.”
It didn’t even take that long.
By the next weekend, Freja was visiting the mansion — bringing her best friend Ingrid, a reserved brunette witch who worked at the same office.
Harry had barely stepped into the living room before Sirius introduced him with far too much enthusiasm.
“Freja, Ingrid — this is my godson, Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The Destroyer of Dark lords. The reason you can read about me in history books as the fun uncle!”
Harry groaned. “Please don’t do that.”
Freja laughed — a soft, melodic sound that immediately softened Sirius’s grin into something gentler. Ingrid, on the other hand, seemed more interested in Remus. Their polite smiles quickly turned into quiet conversation, and within days, they were all practically inseparable.
The next few weeks became a blur of dinners, lake picnics, and what Sirius proudly called “cultural bonding.”
Harry, however, called it “emotional torture.”
He would often be dragged into double dates, acting as the third wheel or — worse — the peacekeeper.
At one café in Stockholm, Freja and Sirius were in the middle of a loud argument about the proper use of a Disillusionment Charm during missions.
Freja slammed her cup down. “You can’t just cast it and jump from a rooftop, Sirius!”
Sirius shot back, “And yet, I did, and I’m here, alive, charming, and perfectly unharmed!”
Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. “You two argue like a married couple already.”
Remus chuckled quietly from beside Ingrid. “Don’t give him ideas.”
Sirius turned toward Harry with a grin. “Oh, I’m full of ideas. You should take notes, kid — I might make you best man someday.”
Harry muttered, “If I survive the rehearsal dinner.”
Despite himself, Harry couldn’t help but feel… happy for them.
For once, Sirius looked like he had found something — someone — worth living for. And Remus too, though quieter in affection, smiled more these days. The heavy shadows that always clung to his eyes seemed lighter now.
It was strange, watching them live like normal people — laughing, arguing, even teasing him about his “mysterious loner phase.”
They deserved this peace. Maybe all of them did.
But for Harry, peace felt unnatural — like wearing a cloak that didn’t fit.
He still trained every night, deep in the forest clearing, his movements sharp and controlled. The Force crackled at his fingertips, humming through his veins. Sometimes, he could even feel Dobby’s distant presence through their bond — a flicker of energy across the stars of magic itself.
He was getting stronger. Too strong to just sit and wait.
One evening, after yet another “double date” turned into a shouting match between Sirius and Freja about Quidditch tactics, Harry stood on the balcony watching the northern lights shimmer faintly in the sky.
The laughter and music from inside the mansion spilled out through the open doors, and for a moment, he smiled faintly. Then the smile faded.
“Let the holidays end,” he murmured. “Let the world wake up again.”
By mid-August, the Swedish air had begun to cool, and so had Harry’s patience.
Peace no longer felt like rest — it felt like rot.
Every day that passed without danger, without movement, made him feel dull.
So one morning, after breakfast, Harry folded his arms and said plainly,
“I’m going back to Britain.”
Sirius nearly choked on his coffee. “You’re what?”
Remus looked up from the newspaper. “Harry, are you sure that’s wise? The Ministry’s still tense after—”
Harry cut him off. “I’m not a child. I’ve been hiding long enough. I have things to finish there.”
Sirius leaned back in his chair, trying to mask the frown forming on his face. “You sound like me when I was your age. Stubborn, restless, and far too confident for your own good.”
Harry smirked faintly. “And you turned out just fine.”
Remus snorted. “That’s debatable.”
Sirius glared. “Not helping, Moony.” Then, turning back to Harry, his tone softened. “It’s not that we don’t trust you, kid. We just… like having you here. You make the house feel alive.”
“I’ll visit,” Harry promised. “But I can take care of myself.”
He said it so calmly that Sirius couldn’t argue. He knew it was true. Harry wasn’t a boy anymore. There was something in his eyes — a quiet steel, old and unbending.
After a long pause, Sirius sighed and reached into his robes. “Fine. If you’re going to be stubborn, at least do it properly.”
He placed a small silver key on the table — etched with ancient runes and the crest of the Black family.
“This gives you control of the wards at Grimmauld Place. You’ll be able to come and go, modify the protections, even reset them if you need to. It’s your home now, too.”
Harry picked it up, feeling the faint hum of ancient enchantments through the metal.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“Just don’t blow up the kitchen again,” Sirius muttered.
Remus added dryly, “Or animate the furniture. Last time the sofa tried to eat me.”
Harry smirked. “No promises.”
That afternoon, the preparations began.
Sirius had to make good on his end of the bargain — moving Kreacher back to the Black Family Island Mansion, a sprawling ancestral estate surrounded by cliffs and sea mist.
The old house-elf appeared with his usual croaking voice, bowing stiffly before Harry. “Master, Kreacher will obey.”
Harry looked down at him. “Good. Keep the mansion in shape. Sirius may want to live there again someday.”
Kreacher nodded, muttering something about “bloodline restored” before vanishing with a soft pop.
Sirius clasped Harry’s shoulder. “You’re sure you don’t want to stay just a few more days? Freja’s making dinner tonight — roast lamb, your favorite.”
Harry smiled faintly. “You enjoy it. I’ve got enough food for the journey.”
Remus gave him a long look. “Be careful. Britain hasn’t changed much since we left. That’s not always a good thing.”
“I know,” Harry replied, his tone calm but firm. “But quiet is just the calm before something worse. And I’d rather face it head-on.”
That night, under the pale Nordic moon, Harry stood at the edge of the forest clearing one last time. The air was cold, heavy with pine and frost. Sirius and Remus stood beside him — the last time, perhaps, that all three would share peace together.
“You’ve grown up too fast,” Sirius muttered, shaking his head. “You’re supposed to be relaxing, not plotting interstellar escape plans.”
Harry gave a dry chuckle. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what I’m plotting next.”
“Try me.”
Harry only smirked, pulling his cloak tighter around him. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
With a flick of his hand, the air around him shimmered — space folding, bending — and in a burst of displaced wind, he vanished from the clearing.
When Harry appeared again, he was standing in the narrow, dim hallway of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.
The old house creaked like it was alive. Dust motes drifted through the stale air, and the faint scent of magic hung heavy — dark, ancient, powerful.
He took a deep breath.
Home.
Not the kind he’d wanted. But the kind he needed.
There was much to do — the wards to renew, rooms to cleanse, and the shadows of the past to strip away. But he smiled faintly all the same.
Grimmauld Place was dark, quiet, and familiar in all the wrong ways. Dust lingered in the air, the walls hummed with ancient enchantments, and the faint smell of old parchment and potion fumes clung to every hallway.
But for Harry, it was home — at least, for now.
He had just begun inspecting the first-floor corridor, mentally cataloguing which rooms to cleanse and which to seal, when a sharp crack echoed through the drawing room.
Then another.
And before Harry could react, Dobby and Winky appeared — both looking like they hadn’t slept in days.
“Master Harry!” Dobby cried, launching himself forward, his long ears flapping. “Dobby knew you would come back! Dobby felt it in the Force!”
Harry caught him mid-jump and managed a small smile. “Good to see you too, Dobby. Winky.”
Winky bowed shyly, her large eyes glowing with warmth. “Winky is so happy, Master Harry is home. Dobby talks about Master all day… and all night… and Winky cannot get a moment of peace!”
Harry chuckled, setting Dobby down. “That sounds about right.”
Dobby straightened up proudly, his small chest puffed out. “Dobby has news! Great and powerful news!”
Harry folded his arms, amused. “I’m listening.”
Dobby’s eyes gleamed with pride. “Dobby has learned a new Force ability! Master Slytherin himself showed Dobby — it is called Astral Projection!”
Harry’s brow arched. “Astral Projection?”
“Yes, Master!” Dobby nodded eagerly, waving his arms as he explained. “It lets Dobby send his spirit anywhere — even across oceans — while his body stays safe! Dobby can see, can speak, and can even touch other Force spirits! It is most useful! Dobby even frightened a curse-spirit that tried to enter the old chamber!”
Harry felt a flicker of genuine curiosity. “That’s… impressive, Dobby. So you can move your consciousness outside your body?”
Dobby nodded vigorously, his ears bouncing. “Yes! And now Dobby will be the teacher! Dobby will teach Master Harry how to do it!”
Winky smiled proudly. “Dobby practiced so much, Winky thought he was dead once. He lay on the floor for two hours, whispering to the ceiling.”
Harry smirked. “You’ve been busy, then.”
“Busy and strong!” Dobby said, bouncing in excitement. “Dobby can show Master how to do it tonight! It will make you stronger in the Force than ever before!”
Harry reached down and rested a hand on Dobby’s shoulder. “Later, Dobby. I have something to take care of first.”
The next morning, Diagon Alley buzzed with its usual chaos — merchants calling out from their stalls, children darting between shopfronts, and the smell of roasted nuts and spell-oil drifting through the air.
Harry moved through the crowd like a shadow, his hood up, his senses wide open. It had been months since he last walked this street.
Everything looked the same. Yet he felt completely detached from it all.
He stopped near Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, waiting.
A few minutes later, two familiar figures emerged from the crowd — Hermione, clutching a book bag even during the holidays, and Neville, who looked nervous enough to be hiding a dragon egg under his coat.
“Harry!” Hermione called, her face lighting up when she spotted him. “You didn’t even write that you were coming back!”
Harry smiled faintly. “Wanted to see who’d notice first.”
Neville gave a shaky laugh. “You haven’t changed.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “Well, we were worried. You disappear to Sweden, and the Prophet’s been—”
“—printing rubbish again, I know,” Harry interrupted. “I stopped caring about that a long time ago.”
But Neville wasn’t smiling. His hands were clenched tight around a folded parchment, and his eyes darted nervously around them.
“Let’s not talk here,” he said quietly. “Too many people.”
Harry nodded, sensing the weight behind Neville’s tone. “Follow me.”
They slipped through the side street behind Ollivander’s, where the noise of the Alley faded into the hum of the wind. Hermione cast a quick Muffliato charm, sealing them in silence.
Neville took a deep breath. “Harry… there’s something I need to tell you. It’s about what the Ministry found at the Little Hangleton ritual site.”
Harry’s expression sharpened. “The cemetery?”
Neville nodded. “My uncle works in the Auror Department now. He was one of the people sent to catalog what they found after… after the explosion.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “I thought they recovered cursed objects — relics of the Founders?”
“They did,” Neville said. “But that’s not all.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a crumpled page from a report. The top corner bore the faded insignia of the Department of Mysteries.
“According to this, one of the items they recovered was a ring — black stone, gold band, old magic. The Unspeakables examined it, and they said it’s one of the Deathly Hallows.”
Harry frowned. “The what?”
Neville swallowed. “The Deathly Hallows. I didn’t know much either until my uncle told me what little he’d overheard. He said they’re— they’re supposed to be mythical. Artifacts made by Death himself.”
Hermione hesitated, frowning. “Neville, that’s just a fairy tale. The Tale of the Three Brothers — the Invisibility Cloak, the Resurrection Stone, and the Elder Wand. They’re just symbols of—”
“They’re real,” Neville interrupted. His voice trembled, but his conviction didn’t. “The Unspeakables are terrified of the ring. They say it resonates with ancient death magic, the kind that can’t be undone.”
He could already feel the Force shifting around the thought — faint, cold, and strange. The Hallows. Death’s relics. Resurrection.
