Chapter 4
A Promise Given
Authors Note: Enjoy
……
Chapter Four
Harry retched for what felt like the fiftieth time that afternoon, his body protesting against the intensity of Sirius’s training. Thankfully, unlike the first day, he managed not to vomit. It was only day five of the summer holidays, but each day felt more grueling than the last. His routine was relentless: wake up, shower, eat breakfast while Remus quizzed him on passages he had read the night before. Then, they spent two hours perfecting a single spell before diving into more reading until lunch.
Afterward, through the Floo to the Greengrass’ training field, Sirius pushed him through a brutal regimen of exercises—running, push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, and more. His muscles screamed in protest, and his lungs burned with each breath, but by now, Harry could feel his body starting to adapt. He was no longer gasping for air after the first lap around the field, and the sharp pains in his limbs had dulled into a familiar, if exhausting, ache.
“You're holding up better than I thought, pup,” Sirius remarked after their grueling session, tossing Harry a bottle of water. “I half expected you to pass out.”
His exercise clothes were soaked with sweat, the already thin material clinging to him like a second skin. Before this training began, he had filled out a little, but Sirius often mentioned that he would start to see real muscle growth in just a few weeks. Harry could already imagine the amused expressions of his friends when they noticed the transformation. As ever, his godfather would jokingly reference how the girls would swoon over his new look when he returned to school.
“Thanks,” Harry had managed between breaths, though there was no denying the progress. His body was sore, but a growing resilience had replaced the sharp fatigue from the first few days. His reflexes were sharpening, too, something Sirius had pointed out while they practiced dodging spells.
The evenings were no reprieve either. Remus picked him back up again, ensuring Harry’s mind worked just as hard as his body. Complex texts on defensive magic, strategy, and counter curses awaited him before bed, leaving him exhausted in every sense. As much as Harry appreciated the intense training, he couldn't help but long for the peace of summer mornings at the Burrow.
The weekend loomed with the promise of training sessions under Dumbledore, a prospect both thrilling and daunting. While he was eager to learn from the greatest wizard of his age, the idea of even less rest made the teenage boy in him groan. Thankfully, all his mentors agreed to give him an entire day off on Sunday—his only reprieve from a grueling schedule.
“We’re proud of the effort, Harry. And you should be, too,” Sirius said, dropping down beside him on the grass and letting out a loud breath. “Though I’m sure I’m going to regret sitting down in about five minutes,” he muttered, causing Harry to chuckle weakly.
Though his body was adjusting to the training, Harry knew he was still far from ready. Sparring with Sirius made that painfully clear. As much as he loved his godfather, there was a vast gulf in their skill. Sirius had decades of experience, and even when Harry managed to land a decent spell, Sirius countered effortlessly. If this was how hard it was to face Sirius, how could he ever hope to stand against Voldemort? The thought lingered in his mind, gnawing at him even as he caught his breath.
“I still struggle to keep up with you,” Harry admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, his frustration barely hidden.
Sirius gave a wry smile, glancing over at him.
“If you think I am finding it easy against you, Harry, I should correct that. Your spells are powerful; it is draining even when I'm blocking or deflecting them. Yes, Voldemort is much stronger than me, but we are four days in; we’ve another six weeks yet, plus when you return to school.”
Harry's mind wandered to the Greengrass estate as they rested on the grass. There was something almost mystical about the land as if it held secrets that had been dormant for centuries. He recalled snippets of conversations he’d overheard about ancient ley lines crisscrossing beneath the surface, connecting various magical sites throughout the countryside. The estate felt alive, pulsing with energy invigorating him during training. Unlike the soreness that lingered for days after Quidditch, the aches in his muscles faded surprisingly fast, leaving him feeling refreshed each morning.
“Do you ever think there’s something special about this place?” Harry mused aloud. “It feels... different. Like there’s more to it than just a magical estate.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Well, most old family homes are built in naturally magical areas. It has a reputation for being enchanted, especially given the sheer amount of magical crops grown here. Old families often have ties to ancient magic. They tend to keep that sort of thing quiet, so I couldn’t say if there’s anything more to it.”
“Do you feel any different here?” Harry pressed.
“Not really, pup. Maybe it’s just the fresh air getting to you… or the better diet!” Sirius chuckled, but they soon fell into a comfortable silence, taking in the green expanse of the English countryside.
“What if he comes to me before I’m ready?” Harry asked, the weight of his thoughts returning.
“I doubt it, pup. Voldemort will only face you when he feels he cannot lose. He’s still a wizard with human emotions. You beat him as a baby, and no matter what he tells himself to justify it, he will fear defeat again.” Sirius’s voice was steady and reassuring. “So you have time. I just want to ensure that you make his fear a reality when you meet him again.”
Harry nodded, absorbing his godfather's words. He pushed himself up from the grass, feeling another burst of energy surging.
“Alright, what’s next?”
Sirius smirked, clearly pleased with Harry's determination. “Well, since you’re feeling so sprightly, let’s raise the stakes slightly. How about we work on those dodging drills again? I think it’s time you got a taste of real pressure.”
Harry groaned but quickly masked it with enthusiasm. “Fine, but can we start slow?”
“Slow? Where’s the fun in that?” Sirius teased, leaping to his feet. The grass crunched beneath him as he jogged a few paces away. “Let’s see how often you can dodge my spells before you get too tired to stand!”
With a laugh, Harry stood as well, shaking off the remnants of fatigue. He positioned himself a few paces back, heart pounding in his chest, ready to face whatever his godfather threw at him—quite literally. Sirius raised his wand, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Ready?”
“Ready!” Harry called out, steadying his breathing, his mind narrowing to the task.
“Alright, here we go!” Sirius shouted, and with a flick of his wrist, a burst of blue light shot towards Harry.
He instinctively leaped to the side, adrenaline surging as he narrowly avoided the spell. The thrill of the exercise brought a smile to his face. They quickly fell into a rhythm: spell, dodge, spell, dodge. Each time he successfully evaded one of Sirius's attacks, Harry felt more and more comfortable.
Sirius grinned as he called out encouragement, pushing Harry to his limits. “That’s it! Keep moving! Your reflexes are getting better by the day! Don’t forget to watch my movements! Predict by my wand movements; don't retract!”
As the drills continued, Harry lost himself in the moment, the world around him fading. He felt lighter, his body responding with newfound agility, some newfound energy surging within him. It was exhilarating, and in those fleeting moments, he allowed himself to forget the looming shadow of Voldemort. This was his time to train, grow stronger, and be Harry—not the Boy Who Lived, but just the boy and his godfather messing around.
Eventually, they paused, panting heavily but filled with triumph. “Not bad,” Sirius said, a proud glint in his eyes and a hint of bittersweetness. “I think we’re getting somewhere,” he added before collecting their belongings.
“Right, we best get back for dinner, then you can dive into your books with Remus, and this old dog can nap,” Sirius laughed.
“Not bad for an old dog, Sirius,” Harry replied with a smile, earning a chuckle from his godfather, who pulled him against him in a one-armed hug as they walked side by side out of the field.
…
Sirius slowly eased himself down to the living room armchair with his steaming tea, wincing as he did with the recent efforts when training Harry. He had yet to recover from his time in Azkaban fully, and his stamina was one of those that still had a long way to go. He smiled as he thought of his godson; he didn’t say it to the boy for fear he would relax a little too much, but the young wizard was very powerful for his age, and if he honed himself over the years, he would reach Dumbledore’s ability easily. His primary foe right now was time. He heard the front door open from the door that led to the hallway and soon enough heard two voices.
“Potter is not ready to fight the Dark Lord headmaster; it is foolish to put our hopes on a boy, especially a boy such as him,” a voice drawled that always set Sirus’ backup. He lowered his teacup to the coffee table and rose swiftly, ignoring the ache in his back.
“Severus, you are not surrounded by death eaters here, so the pretense of acting can stop; I have warned you about your issues with Harry,” Sirius heard Dumbledore reply in his usual soft tone, but it did not abate his anger, he stepped into the hall and saw both men standing in front of each other by the front door, his appearance drawing their attention. “Ah, Sirius, sorry we are a little early for today's meeting.”
“Not a problem, but a word in here. Harry is studying in the kitchen right now,” Sirius replied, nodding his head into the room he just came from. Albus entered first, followed by Snape, who met his gaze with cold disdain, which Sirius returned in kind. He might have been a bit of a prat at school, but at least he never joined a death cult. Before either man could speak, Sirius fixed his eyes on Snape.
“You will not speak ill of Harry in this house or my presence again, am I clear?” His voice was calm, but the barely concealed hatred beneath the surface was unmistakable.
Snape gave a slow, cruel smile, folding his arms across his chest. His black eyes glittered with malice.
“How noble of you, Black, playing the protective godfather while your godson gallivants around like his father, ignoring rules and putting others in danger. But perhaps that’s what you admire most about him—recklessness runs in the family, after all.”
“That is enough—” Dumbledore began, stepping forward.
“Please give us the room, Albus,” Sirius cut in, his voice quieter now but laced with menace. He hadn’t reached for his wand yet, but Merlin knew he would happily blast Snape through the wall.
“I do not think that is wise, Sirius,” the elder wizard said cautiously.
“I am still the master of this house, Albus. I kindly request you adhere to my request,” Sirius replied, firmer this time, his jaw tight. Dumbledore paused, sighed, and cast a look of disappointment toward Snape before turning to leave the room. Sirius and Snape stood there as the door clicked shut, staring each other down. Neither man made the first move.
“Come now, Black. At school, you wouldn’t have delayed so long in hexing me. Perhaps it’s because you’re alone or my back isn’t turned?” Snape sneered, his voice dripping with its usual mockery.
Sirius’ grip tightened, but he had a different approach in mind. His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward just slightly. “How do you think she would feel if she saw you?”
Snape froze for a moment, caught off guard by the unexpected turn. A flicker of shock and pain crossed his face before it was quickly replaced by simmering anger.
“What on earth are you—”
“Lily,” Sirius interrupted, his tone almost too casual. “I know you loved her. I know what you begged Dumbledore to do when you learned about the prophecy.”
Snape’s face twisted with rage and grief, but anger won. “You dare—”
“No, you dare!” Sirius bellowed, and to Snape’s credit, he didn’t flinch. “You dare think you loved her when all the while you treat the most precious thing in her life, the boy she died for, like a piece of filth!” Fury rolled off Sirius in waves, his voice cracking with raw emotion.
Snape stood speechless momentarily, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for a response, but none came.
Sirius let out a slow breath and collapsed into the armchair nearest the fireplace, rubbing a hand over his face. His voice softened. “I won’t pretend James and I weren’t saints. We weren’t. And neither were you. At least James changed in the end and became a better man because Lily expected nothing less, whereas you’ve become more bitter and spiteful” His eyes met Snape’s, but there was a sadness behind them now. “You’ve taken your hatred of James and turned it on an innocent boy—her boy. If you looked beyond his father’s face, you’d see Lily in his eyes.”
There was a long, heavy silence. Snape’s face was ashen, his black eyes burning with a mixture of emotions he refused to reveal. His lips curled, but no biting retort came. Instead, he turned sharply, his robes sweeping behind him as he moved toward the door.
“I meant what I said, Severus.” Sirius’ voice cut through the tension, causing Snape to pause, though he did not turn. “You will not speak ill of him in this house or my presence again. And I would advise you to think long and hard about your treatment of him. Don’t be just another adult in his life who has failed him.”
Snape’s shoulders stiffened. “I have not failed.” His voice was low, almost a mutter, but laced with the bitter insistence of someone who refuses to believe the truth.
Sirius’ gaze was unwavering, his tone firm but quieter now, as if the weight of his own words settled heavily on him. “You failed the moment you met him. But don’t worry—you’re not alone. A long list of people has already let him down.”
For a moment, it seemed as if Snape might speak again, but he didn’t. Without another word, he left the room, the door closing with a quiet thud, leaving Sirius alone with the memory of his friends—and the boy they both loved.
…
Dumbledore stood quietly in the kitchen doorway, his half, moon spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose, as his gaze fell upon the boy who had borne far too much for far too long. Harry sat at the wooden table, books of defensive magic spread out before him like a battlefield, his brow furrowed in concentration. Across from him sat Remus Lupin, calm and steady as always, offering quiet guidance. Harry listened intently, nodding occasionally, his quill scratching against parchment as he took meticulous notes.
The boy, no, not a boy anymore, was pouring over advanced texts far beyond his years, yet utterly necessary for what lay ahead. Dumbledore felt a surge of pride well up within him. Harry was preparing himself, not because anyone had asked him to, but because he understood the stakes. Despite the weight of the prophecy that hovered over him like a storm cloud, Harry pushed forward, determined to face the darkness. There was courage in his gaze, determination, and quiet exhaustion that Dumbledore wished he could alleviate with all his heart. His training was brutal, to say the least. It had only been a week, but Albus could see the signs of improvement in his body already.
For a moment, Dumbledore allowed himself to imagine a different life for Harry. One where he hadn’t been burdened with destiny’s cruel hand. One where he had known safety, love, and the simple joys of youth, untainted by the shadow of Voldemort. But it was a brief indulgence. Reality had other plans.
Still, the young man before him had grown into someone remarkable despite the burdens, not because of them. Dumbledore’s eyes softened with pride. Harry was the best of his parents, James' fiery bravery and Lily's boundless compassion—but he was also more than that. He had become someone wholly his own, someone forged in the fire of adversity, yet still so kind, still so hopeful.
And yet, pride was not the only emotion that lingered in Dumbledore’s heart as he watched. Beneath it lay a bitter undercurrent of regret, an aching guilt that he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge fully. There were things he had chosen not to see. He ignored these things because believing in the grand design was more manageable than looking at the small, painful truths.
The Dursleys. He had known, hadn’t he? From the very beginning. The signs had been there: whispers of Harry’s mistreatment, the way the boy had arrived at Hogwarts so small for his age, skittish and wary, his eyes searching for approval as if he expected it to be snatched away. But Dumbledore had chosen to look past it. He had convinced himself that Harry was safe there, protected by the blood wards. Safe from the more significant threat of Voldemort, but safe from everything? No. He had been unwilling to confront the possibility that Harry’s relatives had been anything but indifferent. The reality had been much worse.
For years, he had seen the signs and turned away. The oversized clothes, the quiet hesitations, the unspoken fear behind Harry's eyes when someone raised their voice. Dumbledore had told himself that it was all necessary—Harry needed to be hidden and protected, and sacrifices had to be made. However, those sacrifices should not have included Harry’s childhood. And yet they had.
It had been easier to believe that the wards, the magic, and the protection of the blood tie were enough. More straightforward to focus on the larger war, the grand plan. More straightforward to turn a blind eye to the boy who had needed more than protection from the Dark Lord; he had needed love, and Dumbledore had failed to ensure it.
He clasped his hands together, fingers tightening as he stared at Harry, still deep in his studies, unaware of Dumbledore’s gaze. How many times had he failed the boy? The prophecy had dictated so much of Harry’s life, yet Dumbledore had allowed its weight to crush him from the shadows. He had kept too much from him, believed too much in shielding Harry from the truth, even as the truth loomed.
Dumbledore had failed in more ways than one. He had become so focused on the endgame that he had forgotten about the journey—the pain, the loneliness Harry must have felt, the betrayals and manipulations he had experienced along the way. He thought of all the times he had withheld information, trying to keep Harry on the path he believed was right. But now, seeing him there, studying diligently, Dumbledore wondered whether he had underestimated him. Harry had grown stronger with each trial, but the trials themselves had been relentless. Perhaps too relentless.
He thought of Lily and James. Of their trust, their belief in him. He wondered what they would say if they knew how Harry had been treated—how he had been lied to, abandoned to the Dursleys, and left to suffer in silence when he should have been nurtured.
A familiar ache settled in Dumbledore’s chest, a reminder that even the most well-intentioned plans can leave ruin in their wake. He had gambled with Harry’s life, with the lives of so many, believing it was for the greater good. But had it been? And at what cost?
Harry momentarily glanced up from his books and noticed him standing in the doorway. There was something in the boy’s eyes, no, the young man’s eyes, that startled him. It was a quiet understanding, a knowing that Dumbledore hadn’t expected. Harry offered him a small, tired smile as if to say, It’s all right. I’m ready. But that could’ve been Albus’ crushing guilt that imagined it.
And that was what hurt most of all. Harry had been forced to become ready and carry a burden that was never his to bear alone.
“Albus,” Remus said softly, rising from his seat to give the older wizard a nod of greeting. In return, Dumbledore gave a faint smile, but his eyes lingered on Harry.
“I see you’re doing well, Harry,” Dumbledore finally said, his voice gentle but tinged with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. Pride, yes. But also sorrow. “I look forward to seeing what you have learned tomorrow when we begin our lessons.
Harry blinked, surprised by the praise, but nodded. “Thanks, Professor. I’m looking forward to those lessons.”
Dumbledore took one last look at Harry, who had been shaped by the choices of others, both for good and ill. He only hoped that, in the end, he hadn’t failed him too deeply.
“Just try not to give this old man too hard a time?” Albus chuckled softly, earning a bright smile from the younger wizard.
“I’m sure you’ll manage just fine, Professor,” Harry replied, laughing lightly.
“I’d watch out, Headmaster,” Remus interjected with a fond grin. “Young Harry here is coming on quickly. I believe he disarmed Sirius several times today.”
Harry’s grin widened at the praise, and Albus’ heart swelled with pride and guilt, though he kept his expression light, not letting it show.
“Ah, well,” Dumbledore replied, eyes twinkling mischievously, “I look forward to a hearty duel then, Harry.”
…
Somewhere in the silence of the Gryffindor Common Room, the flickering fire cast soft shadows across the empty chairs and stone walls. The castle was unusually quiet, as it always was during the summer, the usual hum of student life absent. Only the faint rustling of the occasional breeze that slipped in through the cracks in the old windows.
Tucked away on a forgotten shelf in a dusty corner of the room, a plain, worn book sat untouched, its cover faded and edges frayed from years of neglect. Its yellowed and fragile pages had remained undisturbed for decades, if not longer. But tonight, something stirred.
A faint blue glow shimmered along the spine of the book. At first, the light flickered briefly, as though testing its strength, before pulsing steadily. The glow grew brighter, casting a soft, ethereal light across the shelf, illuminating the surrounding books with an eerie radiance. The blue light pulsed like a heartbeat for just a moment, a quiet but powerful force radiating from within. And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the light faded, leaving the room once more in darkness, save for the dimming fire. Only a faint hum lingered in the air, a whisper of magic that quickly settled back into the stillness of the night.
Whilst far below, beneath the ancient stone foundations of Hogwarts, the earth seemed to stir.
Deep within the rock and root layers, where the Forbidden Forest's roots had long ago woven themselves into the bedrock of the castle, something ancient shifted. The underground chambers, hidden for over a century, lay untouched. The stone walls of the undercroft, cold and dark, seemed to hum with faint, invisible energy as though awakening from a long slumber.
The air in the hidden depths was thick as if saturated with magic too old to understand fully. Faint symbols, etched into the stone long ago, flickered briefly, meaning lost to time. There was a ripple—a tremor so slight it barely disturbed the dust that had settled over centuries.
Yet, something had been disturbed.
A low, resonant hum echoed through the chamber, almost imperceptible but there, as though the magic that had lain dormant for ages had sensed a shift. The ancient energy, once sealed and forgotten, stirred faintly. It moved through the very bedrock, brushing against the roots of the trees above, slipping past the stone walls of the castle’s deepest places. It was as though a distant call had been made, reaching down into the hidden corners of the castle.
And just as quickly as it began, the tremor faded. The chamber stilled once more, its secrets buried once again in the silence of the earth.
But the magic had been touched. Something had awakened.
……
Let me know what you think.