The next morning, Harry woke up feeling a bit groggy.
It was as if he'd spent the night wrestling with a legendary succubus—and what a succubus she was...
Thankfully, said succubus had taken pity on his youth and hadn't done much to him, but it was still enough to wear him out.
Yawning, Harry's mind drifted to the enigmatic smile Veratia Grindelwald had flashed at him before leaving last night.
What exactly was she expecting?
Harry scratched his head. Oh, forget it—if he couldn't figure it out, there was no point dwelling on it.
He rolled out of bed and shuffled into the living room.
"Hey, good morning!" Sirius, clad in a long Gryffindor bathrobe, raised a coffee pot in greeting.
"Morning," Harry mumbled, lacking his usual spark.
"You look knackered, mate," Ron remarked from the sofa, clutching a book on wizard chess strategies. "Like you didn't sleep a wink."
"Do I?" Harry ran a hand through his hair.
Was it that obvious?
He grumbled inwardly. It was just one sleepless night, wasn't it?
"Absolutely," Sirius said, pouring Harry a cup of coffee. "Here, drink this. It'll perk you up. No sugar, though."
Harry took the cup and downed it in one go.
It was bitter, but it did the trick—he felt a spark of energy return, chasing away some of the drowsiness.
"Not bad," Harry said with a grin. "Tastes pretty good."
He turned his head. "Where's Professor Dumbledore? And Professor Snape?"
"You think I'd let Snivellus stay here?" Sirius said with a smug chuckle. "Last night, Dumbledore took old Snivellus back. I reckon he knows there's a bit of… let's say, minor bad blood between us."
Ron set his book down and shot Sirius a look.
Minor bad blood? Really?
He bit his tongue. Best not to call it out.
"Let Kreacher handle breakfast," Sirius continued. "I already felt bad enough asking Miss Grindelwald to cook last night. House-elves recover quickly, and I reckon Kreacher's fit as a fiddle."
Setting down his coffee mug, Sirius turned to Harry. "Once we bring Regulus back, we'll have a bit of a breather. Oh, by the way, next year's Quidditch World Cup is coming up. We've got to go! It's a once-in-four-years event, after all."
"Quidditch World Cup?" Hermione raised an eyebrow, her forehead creasing. "Is it like the Muggle football World Cup? Just as big?"
"The Quidditch World Cup, also called the World Championship," Ron began, seizing his chance to play the expert in front of Hermione, "has been held every four years since 1473. Teams from different countries compete to win the Cup. The number of nations signing up varies each time, but they've got twelve months after the last final to register their teams."
"It's pretty much like the Muggle World Cup," Harry added. "You know, group stages, knockouts, that sort of thing."
"Sounds like fun," Hermione said with a smile. "Is it really that big a deal?"
"A big deal?" Ron exclaimed, his voice dripping with exaggeration. "Merlin's moldiest socks, Hermione, you have no idea what the Quidditch World Cup is! It's the most popular, most electrifying event in the wizarding world—bar none! I bet the final would draw tens of thousands, maybe even a hundred thousand wizards!"
"That is popular," Hermione nodded, realizing that tens of thousands in the wizarding world was like millions in the Muggle one.
"The knockout rounds next year are in England," Sirius said with a grin. "Don't worry, I've got ways to snag tickets for all of us."
"I hope one of the British teams makes the final!" Ron said dreamily. "Though, let's be honest, England's not exactly a powerhouse, Scotland's no better, and Wales… well, they're hopeless. But Bulgaria's got a shot—Viktor Krum's their Seeker, my favorite!"
Realizing he might've gone too far, Ron quickly backtracked, turning to Harry. "Er, no offense, mate. I like you too…"
"Clearly, you're Krum's biggest fan," Hermione teased, her eyes glinting with pity. "I seem to recall your bedroom plastered with his posters—oh, dear, oh, dear…"
"What? No way! It's the Chudley Cannons!" Ron protested.
Just then, Dumbledore arrived at Grimmauld Place.
No Snape in tow this time—there was no need for potions, so Snape had bluntly declined Dumbledore's invitation to join.
For Snape, seeing Sirius in person was far worse than seeing James's face (Harry's).
"Looks like Snivellus stayed behind. Good news," Sirius said with a cheeky grin. "If he'd come, he might've slipped something into our drinks…"
"Severus isn't like that, Sirius," Dumbledore said, ever the peacemaker.
But Sirius wasn't having it. "He might not poison you, but me? Oh, he'd jump at the chance."
It was hard to argue with that—Snape's loathing for Sirius was unmatched.
Soon, Kreacher popped in to announce breakfast was ready.
The spread was decent; Kreacher had clearly put in effort.
Harry grabbed a slice of pie and slid it toward Ron.
Ron, without thinking, speared a piece with his fork and popped it into his mouth.
"Well?" Harry asked.
Ron struggled to swallow, then chugged his milk to wash it down.
"It's… salty, sweet, bitter, and sour all at once. Otherwise, fine," he critiqued.
Harry wisely avoided the pie, opting for something else.
Meanwhile, Sirius was devouring the same pie with gusto, as if it were a delicacy.
"That's my mother's recipe," Sirius said between bites. "Awful, but distinctly awful." He turned to Kreacher. "Good job, but let's skip Mother's recipes next time, alright?"
"Of course, esteemed heir of the family's glory," Kreacher croaked in his bullfrog-like voice.
"But this pudding cake is quite to my taste," Dumbledore said, forking a piece. "Truly delicious, Kreacher."
Harry's hand, halfway to the pudding cake, froze and retreated.
No way. If Dumbledore thought it was good, it was probably sweeter than a sugar coma.
"You're not eating?" Ron asked, fork dangling from his mouth. "You were about to grab that cake."
"Changed my mind," Harry said honestly, leaning toward Ron. "Think about it, Ron. Dumbledore loves sweets. If he says a cake's good, how sugary do you reckon it is?"
Ron pictured a cake laced with lethal amounts of sugar and shuddered, abandoning any thought of trying it.
Why tempt fate?
Just then, Veratia strolled in lazily, sauntering up behind Harry and planting a kiss on his cheek.
"Mmm," she sighed contentedly, settling beside him and shooting a smug glance at Cassandra.
But Cassandra, engrossed in nibbling her food, didn't notice.
Bored by the lack of reaction, Veratia dropped her antics and calmly ate her breakfast.
Sirius's eyebrow twitched. He'd clocked his godson getting a morning kiss from the Slytherin "bad girl."
Sure, Brits didn't fuss over young love, but Sirius couldn't shake the feeling that his godson—this innocent little piglet—had been swept up by a cunning cabbage.
What kind of topsy-turvy world was this?
After a few bites, Ron suddenly remembered something crucial. "Hang on, do you lot know where that cave is?"
"Of course," Sirius said with a grin. "Kreacher's been there. He can point us in the right direction—or better yet, take us straight to it."
"Yes, old Kreacher knows the place," Kreacher muttered, sounding reluctant and a touch snide. "Kreacher hopes the young master, who's recently won the mistress's favor, will honor his promise and rescue Master Regulus soon."
Despite Mrs. Black forgiving her wayward son, Kreacher still held a grudge. Taking Harry as a godson didn't erase Sirius's past sins in his eyes.
"No need for Kreacher," Dumbledore interjected, looking up. "I've figured out where the cave is and have some strategies in mind."
With Dumbledore's word final, everyone returned to their meal.
After breakfast and about an hour's rest, Dumbledore rallied the group to head to the cave.
He kept the party small—just Harry and Sirius. The others were to stay behind.
"Really, Professor, you don't need me?" Veratia asked, tilting her head.
"No need, Miss Grindelwald. It's not a dangerous place," Dumbledore said with a twinkling smile. "But if you'd like to come, I've no objections."
Though the cave wasn't a horcrux hideout or Voldemort's lair, Dumbledore figured an extra pair of hands—especially Veratia's—couldn't hurt.
With that, Dumbledore grasped Sirius and Harry.
Veratia, quick to act, grabbed Harry's arm.
Cassandra's lips twitched, but she said nothing.
As the group vanished, her gaze dimmed.
"Miss Malfoy?" Hermione ventured cautiously.
Cassandra looked down at her imperiously.
"If you wanted to go, why didn't you?" Hermione asked, curiosity overriding her caution.
"I don't want to tag along with Potter!" Cassandra snapped, storming upstairs to her room with a clatter of heels.
"She's mad," Poppy Sweeting said, drifting lazily in the air. "See that? Classic case of saying one thing and meaning another. She's dying to go but too proud to admit it. Bet she's up there now, sulking under her blankets."
"No way," Hermione said, unable to picture the haughty heiress acting so… human.
"Oh, I know her type," Poppy said smugly. "Wanna bet she's crying little pearls into her pillow right now?"
"No chance," Hermione said, folding her arms skeptically.
Poppy, smirking, floated off.
"You going to check on her?" Hermione called. "Or maybe I should comfort her…"
"Nope," Poppy shot back. "I'm not risking an Avada Kedavra to the face. Trust me, she's capable."
"Slytherins are just evil," Ron whispered to Hermione. "Especially a Malfoy. A hundred-year-old witch, no less—who knows if she's a cold-blooded dark wizard?"
"That's a bit prejudiced, Ron," Hermione countered. "Look at Veratia. She's kind, isn't she? You can't say she's not gentle just because she's Slytherin."
"Her gentleness is only because we're Harry's friends," Ron said, clear-eyed. "Ugh, no point arguing with you. I'm off to study chess moves. If you're brave enough, go cheer up Miss Malfoy upstairs."
"No way!" Hermione said quickly, opting for self-preservation.
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