Grimmauld Place Final
Chapter 5: Grimmauld Place Final
Sirius told him everything. There was a prophecy, and suddenly, everything made so much sense. That was why a Dark Lord, who had been so successful in his campaign for domination, became obsessed with killing a one-year-old child. All this time, Harry had assumed Voldemort was after his parents. But in retrospect, that didn’t add up—especially when Harry considered his Dementor-induced memories of the night of the attack.
“Stand aside.”
The words echoed in his head. Sure, of course, kill the child, but not me? What was Voldemort expecting? On a side note, didn’t any loving parent instinctively try to shield their child from an attacker? Not that Harry was ungrateful for what his mum had done—Lily had given her life for him. But, if he were being brutally honest, wasn’t that what any parent would do? There was nothing extraordinary about it, no "magical blood-bonding experience" or "power of love," as Dumbledore liked to phrase it. Did the old man really expect him to believe that in all Voldemort’s years of killing and destruction, he’d never encountered someone throwing themselves in front of a loved one to protect them?
Harry paced the room, muttering to himself. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, and of course, there was a reason everyone had been so desperate to keep him in the dark. A prophecy.
Something that, for some reason, had convinced Voldemort that Harry, specifically, needed to die. It wasn’t just the grudge of a grown man who had been rendered incorporeal after attacking a baby. It wasn’t even the humiliation of being bested not once, but twice, in front of his followers—the second time in the graveyard. No, it all came down to a bloody prophecy.
Sirius didn’t know the exact wording of the prophecy, and at first, Harry felt a flicker of anger. He wanted to analyse it, to break it apart and brainstorm with his friends, searching for loopholes and theories. But then he reminded himself—he was done playing the perfect champion. Done being the obedient child who swallowed every word just because he had grown up away from the magical world, so desperate to fit in that he discarded all doubts and second thoughts without hesitation. Not anymore.
Why did he even need the exact words? Was he supposed to follow the prophecy like some kind of guide? No way. Not anymore. Anyone with common sense could see that believing in a prophecy is what usually makes it come true. Voldy-sport had already messed himself up because he was obsessed with it. And Dumbledore? Harry was pretty sure the old man had been planning everything around this prophecy for years. It was all so stupid.
But Harry had his own plans now. He wasn’t going to be what everyone wanted him to be. He wasn’t their chosen hero or anyone’s puppet. He’d decided he’d do things his way, not what people expected. He just needed to be ready. He just needed to be strong.
Hermione came through, and Harry couldn’t have been happier. She had disappeared for days after their last conversation, and though the thought of her siding with the Order—or deciding not to speak to him again after his ultimatum—had crossed his mind, he hadn’t had time to dwell on it. His thoughts were too consumed with the prophecy and the Order’s various, albeit ineffective, plans to slow Voldy’s advance.
But that night, Hermione knocked on his door while he and Ron were deep in discussion. Harry had just finished explaining everything he’d learned when she entered, an unmistakably smug smile on her face, and began unloading an armful of parchment and Muggle paper, scattering them all over the floor.
“Oh, this is going to be good,” Ron said, grinning, and for once, Harry didn’t even feel annoyed.
“I’ve been doing some research,” Hermione began, and both boys stared at her, unimpressed. “And I’m not going to bore you with all the details.”
Ron looked relieved, but for the first time, Harry realized he wouldn’t have minded hearing every little detail. He felt a twinge of guilt for how unappreciative they’d often been of her relentless effort. It was clear she’d raided the Black family library and practically written her own book in the process, all of which was now spread across his bedroom floor.
“Go on,” Harry prompted, genuinely curious.
“Wizards and witches use parchment—not just because it’s durable or because they’re stuck in the past like I used to think. Professor McGonagall explained to me that Muggle paper can’t be enchanted to last longer. You can’t use complicated charms on it, like spell-check or translation spells, and you can’t use special inks like invisible ink. At first, I thought we could invent some secret language that couldn’t be revealed by magic or one that could bypass wards, but it turns out the solution was ridiculously simple. It’s so absurd I can’t stop laughing—but it works!”
She looked slightly manic, but Harry didn’t care. A secret language. A way to communicate that could outwit powerful magic and cunning wizards. It was exactly what he needed, and he couldn’t believe the smartest witch he knew was firmly on his side.
“Muggle invisible ink!” Hermione declared, holding up a very ordinary-looking purple pen. She uncapped it and began writing on a Muggle notebook. “I had to owl my parents and wait for this to arrive, but look!”
Whatever she had written disappeared almost instantly. Ron’s jaw dropped, clearly amazed that something so clever existed in the Muggle world. Harry hadn’t known about it either. This was incredible. But there was one problem.
“How do you read the message if you can’t use magic on it? Hold it up to the light?” Harry asked.
Hermione shook her head. “Well, some brands work that way, or you have to reveal the message with a candle flame—but those aren’t safe enough, obviously. So, I thought about something wizards don’t have access to, like electricity. Then I realized ultraviolet light was the answer.”
She flipped the pen, uncapping the other end to reveal a tiny built-in torch. “It’s battery-powered.”
Switching it on, she shone the faint purple beam over the notebook. The words our secret sort of magic appeared on the page, glowing faintly before fading again. It was brilliant.
“Wait—battery-powered things work around magic? I didn’t know that,” Harry said, taking the pen from Hermione to inspect it.
“Most electronics stop working eventually, especially anything with complicated functions. But simpler devices, like this one, work fine. This pen’s only job is to shine a tiny light, so magic doesn’t interfere with it.”
Harry flicked the ultraviolet beam across some of the parchments scattered on the floor. “So, what about all of this?” Ron asked, clearing a spot for himself on the floor.
“I tested it on all kinds of paper,” Hermione explained, “and I even had the twins help without telling them what it was for. They thought I was experimenting with a new type of invisible ink and tried everything they could to reveal the messages—spells, charms, you name it. None of it worked.”
“Brilliant,” Harry and Ron said in unison, grinning.
This was a game-changer. A real one.
Harry had everything packed and ready for the Hogwarts Express. The Order members pulled all kinds of security shenanigans to get them to the platform, but Harry chose to tune it all out—especially the funny-looking woman with the body-changing magic. She seriously needed a reality check.
He spent most of the car ride trying not to think about Sirius in his dog form or the curious looks the other Weasleys kept throwing his way. Instead, his thoughts drifted to something far more pressing: the need to practice duelling. Real duelling. Not the rubbish with all the bowing and pointless formalities. He needed lessons that didn’t hold back, no mercy. He needed to find someone willing to teach him properly.
They didn’t teach that at Hogwarts.
It couldn’t be anyone Order-related. No one who’d go running to Dumbledore. That meant no professors, not even Flitwick. Maybe a student? Thinking back to his only formal duel in second year, Harry recalled how well-trained the Slytherins had looked. They clearly had private tutors—probably Snape himself.
Harry realized he might have to tone down his hatred and distrust toward the Slytherins if he was serious about this. He needed someone like Dudley: Someone he hated, and hated him back. Someone he could use to train him in exchange for the glorious offer to beat The-Boy-Who-Lived up. No repercussions, no questions asked. It had to keep quiet to avoid attention.
Malfoy would jump at the idea, but he also would carry on jumping towards his father to snitch on him. No, it had to be someone neutral. Someone without a close family connection to Voldy-Sport’s inner circle.
As the train pulled away and everyone waved goodbye, with the dog running alongside the platform, Harry stayed lost in thought.
Stronger. He needed to be stronger.