Harry Potter: Returning from Hogwarts Legacy

After a brief conversation about Anne’s condition, Harry hung Ominis’s portrait in the hallway. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

The placement was conspicuous, right beside Walburga’s portrait.

Walburga, of course, recognized this Gaunt ancestor—not because his face was etched with stories, but because she had grown up hearing tales of Ominis.

She had no objections, naturally, and Ominis, unaware of Walburga’s temperament, had none either.

"I must still offer you my congratulations, Harry," Ominis suddenly spoke as Harry finished hanging the portrait and prepared to head to bed.

"What for?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"For Miss Malfoy and Miss Grindelwald both finding their way to you, of course—and, naturally, Poppy, the girl who must never be forgotten."

Ominis paused briefly here.

"But I suspect you’ll have your hands full from now on. Aside from Poppy, those two women are no easy matter—especially... Grindelwald."

When he said Veratia’s name, Ominis’s voice dropped to a near whisper.

Harry stretched out his hand.

"Don’t worry, little German," Harry said with a cheerful grin. "I’ve got it handled."

Ominis said nothing, only giving Harry a long, meaningful look.

With Kreacher under the weather and feeling unwell, Veratia had bravely volunteered to take charge of dinner tonight.

Thankfully, it wasn’t Cassandra, Harry thought to himself, or they’d all be in for a rough time.

"Poor Kreacher..." Hermione’s saintly tendencies hadn’t fully subsided, and her mind was still on the house-elf. "They’re truly pitiful, aren’t they? Day after day, year after year, exploited by wizards... and some even take pride in it..."

"Maybe they like it that way?" Ron said carelessly. "More importantly, I think we should talk about Harry’s situation—blimey, who’d have thought he’s that Harry Potter from a hundred years ago? Back in first year, when he said that, we thought he was joking."

"And what else would he be?" Hermione replied, finally letting go of the house-elf matter. "Tell me, Ron, if I said I was Rowena Ravenclaw, would you believe me?"

"I would," Ron nodded eagerly. "I’d absolutely believe it. Honestly, you’re more Ravenclaw than Gryffindor—and I’ve no doubt you’re even wiser than Rowena herself..."

"Do you really think so?" Hermione asked, a beaming smile spreading across her face, clearly delighted by Ron’s praise.

"Of course," Ron said with a nod. "You’re the brightest witch I’ve ever met. It’s like there are stars in your eyes..."

Hermione was thrilled, though she couldn’t shake the feeling that Ron was holding something back.

Am I imagining things? Hermione shook her head, dismissing the thought.

"Oh, right!" Hermione suddenly reached into her pocket and pulled out the small purse Veratia had given her a few days ago, retrieving Jack from inside.

Jack looked lively, showing no signs of lethargy despite being cooped up for a while.

Upon seeing sunlight, he swayed happily from side to side, like a cheerful garlic sprout chicken.

"Jack!" Hermione scooped him up, burying her face in the parrot’s chest and taking a deep sniff.

Then, she set Jack aside and began coughing violently.

"Cough, cough, cough—I forgot how much feather dust he has..." Hermione wheezed. "It’s like I just inhaled a bowl of flour..."

"I told you so," Ron said with a shrug, picking up the sunflower parrot from the table and giving it a playful wink.

To his surprise, Jack mimicked him, blowing a kiss back at Ron.

"Oi, you little rascal!" Ron laughed, reaching out to stroke the parrot’s beak. "He’s flirting with me!"

"Oh, he’s an Aussie, not a Brit—no questionable inclinations there," Hermione said quickly.

Her words didn’t faze Ron, though. Despite being British, his preferences were perfectly normal—he liked Hermione, not any odd nonsense.

"Careful what you say," Ron whispered, leaning close to Hermione’s ear. "Professor Dumbledore’s around, remember? He’s... well, you know..."

Hermione suddenly recalled that there was indeed someone in the room whose inclinations were less than conventional.

The wizarding world was remarkably progressive, she thought. If someone like Dumbledore had lived in the Muggle world of yesteryear, he’d have been subjected to at least five years of electroshock therapy and chemical castration.

The magical world had saved him, really!

"What’re we talking about?" Sirius strolled over and sat next to Ron.

He noticed Jack the parrot and reached out to tap its beak.

Jack was good-natured—large parrots generally were, unlike smaller breeds like cockatiels, which could be like flying vice grips, indiscriminately nipping at anyone.

Seeing that Jack didn’t bite, Sirius ran his hand over the garlic-sprout-like feathers on the parrot’s head.

"This parrot’s quite handsome. Is this Jack?" Sirius asked with enthusiasm.

"Yep, we were just talking about him," Ron said with a shrug. "Also, Hermione was subtly throwing shade at the Headmaster."

"I wasn’t! I didn’t! Stop making things up!" Hermione rapid-fired her denials, desperate to shut Ron up before he said something that might draw Dumbledore’s attention.

Who knew if Dumbledore would take offense? Everyone knew the Headmaster was good-natured and didn’t deduct points, but what if he got upset? What if he docked Gryffindor points?

Even though they were outside school, Dumbledore, as Headmaster, wielded limitless authority.

"You lot really respect Dumbledore, don’t you?" Sirius, sensing Hermione’s reluctance to continue, tactfully dropped the subject and asked instead, "So, what does Jack usually eat? We should get him some parrot-friendly food, not just feed him what we eat..."

"Fruit, seeds, nuts, that sort of thing," Hermione replied after a moment’s thought. "You can also give him some chili peppers—the small, spicy ones."

"Parrots can eat chili peppers?" Sirius asked, intrigued. "They don’t mind the heat?"

"Of course not. Birds don’t have the receptors for spiciness," Hermione said, stroking Jack’s sprout-like feathers.

It was a bit of a fun fact: humans and most mammals feel the burning sensation of chili peppers because capsaicin, the compound responsible, interacts with specific taste receptors in the mouth. This triggers a cascade of neural signals that the brain interprets as "spicy," a unique kind of pain that makes eating peppers uncomfortable for most mammals, deterring them from consuming the plant.

Birds, however, have a vastly different taste system. Over the course of evolution, their tongues never developed receptors that bind specifically to capsaicin. So, when birds eat peppers, the compound doesn’t trigger the "taste storm" it does in mammals, and they feel no burning sensation.

"That’s pretty cool," Sirius said with a grin. "So, what do you all want to eat for Christmas? I’m working on the Christmas dinner menu, and we can’t leave it all to Kreacher—I don’t entirely trust him."

"What, you think Kreacher’s going to poison us?" Hermione retorted, bristling at Sirius’s suspicion.

This was Kreacher, the Black family’s most loyal house-elf. How could Sirius doubt him?

"Not us," Sirius said with a shrug. "But you, Hermione? That’s another story."

Hermione was stunned by the response. "Why me?" she demanded.

"Because to him, you’re... well, that," Sirius said, choosing his words carefully. "Most house-elves have a bit of a blood purity obsession, probably drilled into them by the pure-blood families they serve. Who knows the truth? Just know they don’t exactly appreciate your efforts."

Hermione sighed and nodded reluctantly.

She knew changing the mindset of house-elves was a long and arduous task.

"You’re a kind girl, Hermione," Sirius said, affirming her with a nod as he handed Jack back to her. "Go do what you believe in. I’ll support you."

"Thank you, Sirius!" Hermione beamed, thrilled to have someone—especially an adult wizard—validate her.

She didn’t catch the subtext in Sirius’s words, though.

As everyone knew, the British could be just as roundabout in their speech as anyone from the Far East—sometimes even more so.

At that moment, Harry poked his head in from outside.

"Dinner’s ready," he said. "Veratia’s finished cooking—I highly recommend you come try it. She’s a brilliant cook..."

"Poor Germans," Sirius muttered sarcastically under his breath. "What do they even have to eat? Just pork knuckles and sausages..."

"But that’s still better than British food," Ron said firmly. "At least we won’t see a dead fish staring at us from the table or moldy cheese."

"Even we British don’t eat that stuff normally!" Hermione corrected. "At least my family doesn’t, Ron!"

"So what does your family eat?" Ron asked curiously.

Hermione hemmed and hawed before finally mumbling, "French food."

At that, Sirius slapped his thigh and burst into laughter.

"Yes, yes, Hermione," he said, still chuckling. "Besides French food, we might occasionally have some Italian—anything’s better than British cuisine, right? Especially my mother’s cooking. That’s got to be the worst in the world."

Ron shivered as he recalled the first time he saw Walburga’s portrait, nodding with lingering dread. "You’re right, Sirius. Absolutely right."

As Sirius had predicted, the table indeed featured roasted pork knuckle and sausages.

But that was just one part of a lavish spread, dominated by authentic Viennese dishes, prepared to perfection.

"Not bad for a house-elf," Cassandra said, craning her neck to inspect the food and nodding approvingly at Veratia. "Hmm, quite decent, actually."

"Thank you for the compliment," Veratia replied with a radiant smile, "but even if I were a house-elf, I’d be a Potter house-elf."

She turned and brushed her cheek against Harry’s.

Cassandra, who had thought she’d gotten the upper hand, suddenly felt deflated. How... how can someone be so shameless?! In front of everyone, no less, cozying up to Potter like that!

As the man of the house, Sirius took the head of the table.

The others seated themselves according to Western dining etiquette.

Western table manners were, in fact, quite intricate, with clear distinctions between guest and host seating.

In the eyes of some people, these customs were seen as elegant traditions

Sirius retrieved two bottles of aged wine from the family cellar and had Kreacher pour them into everyone’s glasses.

Of course, Hermione and Ron, being underage, weren’t allowed to drink.

"You know," Dumbledore said with a chuckle, picking up the decanter and pouring a small amount for the eagerly watching Ron, "in Italy, even children are allowed a sip of wine with dinner."

He didn’t forget Hermione, pouring her a bit as well.

"But don’t overdo it. Today’s a special occasion, isn’t it?" Dumbledore said, winking at Hermione and Ron as he put the decanter away.

Ron was ecstatic—his parents never let him drink at home.

But now... the Headmaster himself had given permission.

"Wizard’s vintage," Sirius said, swirling his glass and admiring the wine’s legs on the sides. "The family always held off on drinking this—but things are different now. I’m the head of the house, the sole heir of the Blacks."

"I approve! I approve!" Walburga’s voice echoed from the hallway.

She had to approve—after all, this wasn’t for just anyone. This was for Harry Potter, Miss Grindelwald, and Miss Malfoy.

No waste at all.

"Even as the heir, don’t squander the family fortune, Sirius," Dumbledore said earnestly. "I recall you bought Harry a Firebolt, didn’t you? That’s not what a responsible head of house does. You need to be more mature."

Sirius, however, waved it off. "Just a Firebolt. If Harry likes it, that’s all that matters. Unlike some people who claim to care but are actually stingy and harsh, eh, Headmaster?"

A sharp clatter came from Snape’s direction. Everyone turned to see him expressionlessly lifting his knife from the plate and table.

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