Godfather.
Like Halloween, Christmas, and Easter, this term originated from religion, referring to theologians with authority in formulating or explaining doctrine.
Later, it gradually transford to an soone who gives a Christian na during infant or child baptism and guarantees to undertake their religious education.
However, as ti continued to pass, even this function began to gradually weaken.
It can be said that by today, the concept of godfather has long transcended the religious frawork, becoming a deep bond beyond bloodlines, even carrying the color of a community of shared destiny.
Anyone who can be chosen as a godfather for one's child is undoubtedly a true close friend.
Simply put, if it weren't for Sirius Black's betrayal leading to his imprisonnt in Azkaban, he would be Harry's undisputed legal guardian.
To so extent, his priority would even co before Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon.
As Hagrid said, under such circumstances, on that night twelve years ago, his handing baby Harry Potter over to Black was the most natural thing in the world.
Absolutely no one would bla him for it. But it was precisely such a person who betrayed the friend who trusted him most.
Not only did he cause them to be killed by Voldemort, but even twelve years later, after escaping from prison, he still refuses to let their child go.
Simply deranged!
Harry looked at Sherlock, his eyes overflowing with gratitude.
It was precisely because Sherlock was here that he could learn about this before the school term started, thereby having so degree of psychological preparation.
If this were the first ti hearing this news—
Harry involuntarily shuddered.
Just thinking about it, he felt it would be unacceptable.
"Sherlock, I—"
"No need for words of thanks, Harry."
Looking at Harry with reddening eyes, Sherlock directly voiced his friend's thoughts.
This made Harry feel even more embarrassed.
But Sherlock smiled slightly at this mont. "My suggestion is, why don't you take out the birthday gift Hagrid gave you in first year."
Hearing Sherlock's words, Harry's eyes imdiately lit up.
He imdiately walked to his bedside table, pushed aside the books, and found that photo album.
He had looked through this album many tis, but had never paid attention to people other than his parents.
This ti, he specifically found the photo of his parents' wedding.
His father was beaming and waving at him, his ssy black hair sticking up.
His red-haired mother was beaming, happily arm-in-arm with his father.
And—
Standing beside his father, serving as best man, was Sirius Black.
Harry's eyes widened in surprise. He had seen photos of Sirius Black more than once.
When he saw the wanted poster in the newspaper earlier, he had already keenly discerned the core of the handso face beneath that waxy surface.
But at this mont, he had no way to connect the person in this photo with that fugitive on the wanted poster.
Harry's father, Jas Potter, was six feet tall.
Black was actually slightly taller than Jas—a head of black hair hung before his eyes, and neither Jas's hair nor Harry's hair had ever had such elegance.
Gray eyes like Sherlock's looked particularly striking, possessing the sa sharpness as Sherlock's, yet with several degrees more pride.
Just from this photo, his entire being radiated a free and wanton temperant, making him appear exceptionally handso and dashing.
If he didn't know they were the sa person, he would never guess that the person in this old photo was Black.
Without exaggeration, his current appearance surpassed even Gilderoy Lockhart and the young Tom Riddle.
At this mont, Harry could confirm that Sirius Black was the ceiling of attractiveness among everyone he had ever seen, even surpassing his mother Lily, who was female.
All three people in this photo had light in their eyes.
Harry looked at the handso, smiling Sirius Black, his thoughts inevitably scattering.
When this photo was taken, was this person already serving Voldemort?
Was he already plotting the death date of his best friend and his wife?
And did he realize that this behavior would face a full twelve years of imprisonnt, and that this disaster would make him unrecognizable?
Just as Harry was lost in wild thoughts, Sherlock's hand pressed on his shoulder.
"Harry, I suggest you needn't think so much."
Harry turned around and looked at Sherlock.
Green eyes and gray eyes t each other, allowing Harry to understand Sherlock's aning.
Before going to the headmaster's office to find Dumbledore, Harry had been troubled by the professors finding excuses to accompany him through the corridors and Percy following him at all tis.
But after knowing the ins and outs of the matter, he understood these people's actions.
After three years with Sherlock, Harry had thoroughly developed his brain.
Sirius Black.
He was his father's best friend, his nominal godfather. His betrayal led to his parents being brutally killed by Voldemort, making him an orphan.
Twelve years later today, he still refuses to let him go, escaping from Azkaban and coming all this way to hunt him down.
Harry had personally experienced the terror of Dentors, that kind of fear and despair that made it almost impossible for him to muster any thought of resistance.
Yet Black had escaped from under their very noses.
Facing such a person, no amount of caution was excessive.
Not to ntion that Black had already co to Hogwarts Castle once.
However, what surprised even Harry himself was that even facing this criminal who could be called cruel and perverted throughout magical history, his heart actually held little fear.
After much thought, he felt it was still Sherlock who gave him strength.
Probably due to path dependence and habit becoming natural, Harry always felt that before long, Sherlock would surely find clues and catch Black!
That belief ford in first year hadn't faded with ti but had beco even firr—as long as I follow Sherlock, I have nothing to fear!
Next, Harry put this matter aside and devoted all his thoughts to training for the Quidditch match.
Like last year, since entering winter, the weather beca increasingly harsh.
However, the brave and fearless Gryffindor team trained even harder through wind and rain.
Every ti the Gryffindor team trained, Madam Hooch would be present.
The official explanation was to supervise team training, but the real reason was to protect Harry.
Besides Madam Hooch, even Professor McGonagall, the Gryffindor Head of House, appeared at the Quidditch pitch from ti to ti.
In her own words. "For heaven's sake, I'd also like to see us finally win the Cup."
However, she also forbade Harry from following Sherlock's morning training.
The reason was simple. in the early morning on the outdoor field, only Sherlock and Neville were beside Harry, which was too exposed and she couldn't always accompany them.
As a result, once again, only Neville remained beside Sherlock.
Under Sherlock's guidance, Neville's progress was rapid, and his talent in swordsmanship gradually erged.
"I feel like Harry encounters trouble every year."
After yet another morning training session ended, Neville said weakly. "It was like this last year too. He's always training and then goes off to deal with other things."
"This is to be expected. The savior of the wizarding world, the Boy Who Lived, the vanquisher of the Dark Lord—his special status ans he's always at the center of the vortex."
Sherlock chuckled lightly and handed the long, straight stick in his hand to Neville. "Neville, please help take it back."
"That's no problem, of course," Neville took the stick readily, asking sowhat curiously, "But Sherlock, aren't you returning to the dormitory?"
"Soone's here to see ."
Following Sherlock's gaze, Neville was surprised to see the forr Slytherin prefect, current Head Girl, seventh-year witch Gemma Farley walking toward Sherlock.
She was beautiful, her figure was like an elegant swan, the silver badge on her chest was glinting in the light and shadow, attracting the gazes of many young wizards nearby.
"F-Farley, Head Girl!"
When he saw Gemma, Neville couldn't even speak properly.
"Mr. Longbottom, hello."
When Gemma saw Sherlock, her blue eyes turned into moons.
Her gaze swept over Neville holding the long sticks, finding it amusing. "Sherlock, you've been training again?"
"Obviously."
Gemma tilted her head slightly, looking through the corridor's windows toward outside the castle.
Hray clouds were churning toward the spires, damp wind carrying fallen leaves beating against the windows with rustling sounds.
"The weather's not good today. I think there'll be another rainstorm soon."
"This belongs to the transitional type between temperate oceanic climate and mountain climate. This season is precisely when there's much rain and wind."
"Are you showing off to ? If I weren't still studying Muggle Studies, I really wouldn't know what you're talking about!"
"This is common knowledge, my friend."
"I don't consider this common knowledge, dear Sherlock."
Gemma blinked playfully, the smile at the corner of her mouth teasing.
"I'd bet you that fewer than one-third of people can accurately describe the climate characteristics of their region."
Standing to the side, Neville watched Sherlock and Gemma chat about the weather back and forth, suddenly feeling he shouldn't be there.
His eyes wandered frantically between the two. "Well, um, Sherlock, Head Girl Farley, you chat first. I have sothing to do, so I'll go!"
"Good luck, Mr. Longbottom," Gemma said warmly.
As soon as she finished speaking, Neville stumbled.
He frantically steadied himself, his round face flushing red, and disappeared around the corner in a flash.
This Head Girl was not only beautiful but had such a unique temperant.
Just standing with her created imnse pressure, so such matters should be left to Sherlock!
Gemma looked around; those young wizards who had been secretly watching hastily averted their gazes.
She frowned slightly with a flash of displeasure in her eyes.
"Let's go. Let's find another place to talk."
"The classroom on the fourth floor again?"
Gemma paused slightly, then smiled. "Alright, that place again this ti. Next ti—I'll give you a gift."
"What gift?"
"We'll talk about it next ti." Gemma blinked slyly and turned to walk away.
The two walked up the spiral staircase, the portraits on the walls watching them curiously.
Once again arriving at that classroom on the fourth floor, Gemma efficiently closed the door.
Her wand slid out from under her robes like a spirit snake, drawing an elegant arc in the air. "Anti-Alohomora!"
The already-closed door lock emitted a crisp "click."
"Anti-unlocking charm?"
Sherlock leaned against a desk, his expression calm but eyes slightly narrowed, revealing so inquiry.
"Precisely so."
Gemma put away her wand, elegantly smoothing her skirt, indicating Sherlock should sit.
After both Sherlock and she had taken their seats, a helpless yet teasing smile curved her lips.
"Penelope told that last year when she was kissing Weasley in an empty classroom, Harry very unfortunately saw them."
At this point, Gemma paused, her blue eyes gazing into Sherlock's gray ones.
"I don't want to be like her, seen by others."
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