Chapter Text
As it turns out, trying to come up with a list of reasons beyond 'because he said so' as to why your godfather is innocent isn't as easy as it sounds.
Harry hadn't even known what a secret keeper was until Hermione had rolled her eyes and told him. Her explanation of the Fidelius Charm had gone over his head all three times she'd laid it out for him. An entire house? Vanishing, unless you know its address?
Pardon him for not getting the mechanics. He just learned magic was real approximately four months ago and in that timespan, he's discovered that he's apparently the mortal enemy of the biggest, baddest wizard of them all. Something he's not all that enthused about.
Getting people out of Azkaban is nigh unheard of. It's the kind of place you go for life, until you're pretty much nothing more than a shriveled up, hollowed-out husk of the person you once were. Not super inspiring to hear, considering his godfather has been in there for over a decade, but... uh. Him being able to respond to their letters means he's probably fine, right?
Anyway. If they want to appeal, they need to support their suspicions with facts. They need something more than a word, or they're going to be stopped in their tracks as soon as a teacher realizes what they're trying to do. They're eleven and susceptible to manipulation, apparently-- or so Hermione claims.
"I still think the godparent bond should be more than enough proof to warrant a trial. Besides, it's not like he got one of the bloody things to begin with." Harry shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, squinting against the winter chill. "If he'd actually betrayed them, the thing would've snapped! Hermione even said so herself."
"Hermione also told us not to do anything stupid while she's home visiting her family for Yule this year." Ron tugged his hat further onto his head with a scowl. "The only proof we have of that bond not being toast is locked up in some Gringotts vault on blood lineage parchment, isn't it? I wager we'd have to go all the way there and beg for a copy to get what we want."
An unfortunate point, but the Ministry of Magic was quite literally exactly that-- the Ministry of Magic. Couldn't they just wave a wand and have it pop up or something? Send an intern to go get it? Cast some spell to confirm?
"I just don't like the thought of him closed up in there during Winter, that's all. If I'm cold, he's probably halfway to being a popsicle by now." Harry's breath fogged the air, dissipating fast in the chilled wind. "Speaking of, why're we out here again?"
"Because Wood is a bloody psychopath who's insisting you need to practice in negative degree weather, and I'm too good of a friend to make you go alone?" Ron raised a brow. "If it were up to me, we'd be in the kitchens right now. George told me how to get in. All we've got to do is find this one painting of a fruit bowl and tickle the pear, mate."
"Lovely. That's not weird at all." Harry kicked up some more snow. "Do you think we could find a way to send him something other than paper? I mean, we've never tried to send food before, have we?"
It felt wrong to be enjoying Hogwarts so thoroughly, knowing the nearest approximation to a loving family member he had was locked up in a cinderblock box somewhere. While being taunted by evil, soul-sucking shadow wraiths made of pure darkness, or whatever it was Hermione had said.
Looking at what his life has become, Harry feels mildly blindsided. He went from a shrimpy nobody living in a cupboard to one of the most famous wizards in the world. Suddenly he's into sports, randomly, and has one of the most important roles on the team.
Everyone knows his name. Everyone looks his way, thinking he's something great. Harry's eleven years old and he has no idea what to do with the attention-- how to get it off of him, how to live up to it, how to fill the shoes that have been set out before him.
He's got to kill the dark lord. Like, murder him. An entire person, and they're counting on Harry to pull that trigger. That, combined with the general insanity of the schoolyear so far? Yeah, he needs a trusted adult, and stat. Even if that trusted adult has a few marbles loose and comes freshly primed from super max.
"Hmm... I don't guess it would hurt to try sending him something." Ron tilted his head back and forth consideringly. "Sounds like a journey to the kitchens really is in order! You think Wood'll kill you if you skip?"
"I'll lie and tell him I started to lose feeling in my hands and couldn't have possibly caught the snitch." Harry grinned. Ron snorted, grinning back and bumping his shoulder into his. Harry hoped Sirius liked Treacle Tart.
The letters come in regular intervals now. A few days for the owl-- Hedwig, Harry had written-- to get here, a few days for her to get back, a few days for her to rest. And then all over again.
Sirius isn't sure what to do with the lifeline he's been given. The possibility that he could ever be free from this place had hardly ever crossed his mind. It felt impossible, as out of reach as the stars that occasionally peeked through the heavy clouds that continuously hovered over Azkaban and its tepid waters.
A part of him still thinks it's a hallucination. That his mind finally cracked down the middle and now all his deepest hopes were spilling out, creating this false illusion so he could cope. It's a sickening feeling, one that latches onto him in the gaps between the letters. Moments where he wishes he kept them instead of sending them back, if only so he could continue to confirm to himself that they were real.
Yet, there it happens again. A faint flutters of wings, and then a--
A... box?
Sirius uncurls from his shivering position on the floor, back cracking and matted fur pulling with every stretch. The owl outside let out a furious hoot, flapping back just so it could dart forward again and ram its head against the parcel currently stuck in his miniscule cell window.
The thing looks like its been through a warzone. The paper messily wrapped around it rips and scrapes as the bird continues to pummel the poor thing. Sirius blinks rapidly, shifting back into his human form and stumbling on shaky legs.
The box is given another bump, and then a third, and a fourth. Hedwig lets out an indignant hoot, backing up even more before she's giving it its final push. The thing flies in and hits the bars across the tiny room with a clang, landing on the floor with a resounding thud shortly thereafter. Sirius stares at it stupidly for a moment, scarcely breathing.
It's a package. An actual, real life package. A box. One that didn't implode like a pinata at a twelve year old's birthday part upon hitting Azkaban's barrier.
"I..." Sirius cleared his throat, glancing up. One of Hedwig's piercing, yellow eyes stared through the gap at him, expectant. "Thanks, Hedwig."
There was a satisfied huff before she was off, soaring to land on one of Azkaban's ledges for a rest. Sirius knew from experience that she'd be back in about an hour to collect whatever it was he wanted to send back. Sirius cleared his throat, dropping to his knees and tentatively pulling the box closer.
There was a letter taped to the top of it, half soaked in water but still fairly in-tact despite the manhandling. Sirius pulled it open, a hesitant smile stretching across his lips at the sight of Harry's messy writing.
Dear Sirius,
Merry Christmas! Or Yool Yule, I guess? Whichever one you prefer. I hope you like treacle tart, because that's the only thing I could think to send. Apparently bacon doesn't keep well, and we can't really use warming charms without it getting zapped.
Brief update, as not to bore you: Snape still sucks and also, he's mean. We think he's up to something fishy. There's a three headed dog in the school-- not sure where it came from or how they even got it inside. Did they shrink it? Can we shrink it? I'm slightly tempted to shrink it.
Pretty sure it's guarding something, but who knows what. Dumbledore told us not to look into it, but he then proceeded to wink at me, so I'm getting mixed signals there. Also, got a sick new cloak. Apparently it was my dads and it also turns me invisible, so that'll be useful. Hermione's gonna to be so pleased.
Still working on breaking you out. Hermione says we need to 'build our case' but I think we should just hard ball it and go for the win. What's your opinion? Slow and steady, or all in?
Love, your slightly confused Godson, Harry
Sirius was on the package as soon as the words processed.
He should probably worry more about the three headed dog situation. Hadn't he mentioned a troll in the school a few letters ago, too? Sirius could hardly bring himself to think about it, ripping into the box with renewed vigor. He desperately scrabbed against the lid of plastic container enclosed inside, and sure enough, there it was.
Smashed to high heaven and ice cold, it was Treacle Tart. Gooey, sugary, the smell wafting up at him like a silent taunt. Sirius' mouth watered at the scent, his hand scooping into the mess before he could stop himself. He shoveled a bite into his mouth, eyes closing and shoulders slouching as soon as the taste hit his tongue.
Creamy, caramel, nutty pecan. It was glorious. A million times better than any of the slop he'd ever eaten from this place, tinged with the faintest hint of cinnamon. The crust was the perfect blend of flaky and crumbly, practically dissolving against his tongue. It tasted fresh despite the long journey it'd made here.
As Sirius savored the flavor, he swore for once, he felt warm.
Hm.
"Okay. Post Christmas review." Harry cleared his throat, smoothing out his notes. Hermione and Ron stared up at him expectantly from their places on the ground. "I sent a letter to the Goblins asking for a copy of my godfather bond with Sirius and though they did reply, it was with a picture of an angry goblin. Which I'm taking as a no."
"Solid assumption." Ron agreed. Hermione was already reaching up to massage her temples, which really set the tone for this entire meeting, honestly.
"Two, the Treacle Tart successfully made it to Azkaban, which means we can presumably send food as long as no magic is used on it. Not sure why a plastic take out container was acceptable but a crayon wasn't, but maybe it's because the crayon was colorful and that's probably a no-go there." Harry scratched the back of his neck, squinting down at the page. "We can analyze later. Three, Ron and I have confirmed that there is, for sure, a hatch underneath the Three Headed dog."
Hermione massaged her temples even harder. Which was fair, given the fact that he hadn't even gotten to part about Snape threatening Quirrell in a hallway yet.
So much had happened, yet also nothing at all. Christmas had felt slow and warm and generally, aside from Oliver Wood stalking him to try and get him to practice, peaceful. It was for sure the best holiday season Harry had ever had. On top of the awesome cloak he'd received mysteriously overnight, he'd also gotten a sweater! From Mrs. Weasley!
"I'll do four, since it's the worst one." Ron rolled his shoulders in preparation, turning to look at Hermione head on. "Snape went in with Fluffy, seemingly failed to get past him, and then shortly thereafter confronted Quirrell in the hallway and threatened him. Which all together?"
"Super suspicious." Harry confirmed. Ron gestured to him with emphasis, nodding solemnly.
Hermione sighed, which again. Incredibly fair and justified. Should they talk to her about the kitchen situation? Namely, the house elves working there? She'd figured out that they were a thing that existed like, two weeks before Christmas and hadn't stopped worrying about their freedom since.
Maybe they'd put a pin in that one. They'd all seemed happy enough, and had made the treacle tart without magic at Harry's request. Totally baller of them. Harry had no idea if House Elves liked gifts or not, but add that to his list of things to buy now that he's got adult money to irresponsibly spend.
"Okay, so let me get this straight." Hermione took a deep breath, pressing her hands together. "You two continued to spy on the three-headed dog down the corridor we were explicitly banned from going down, found out its guarding something, witnessed Snape attempt to bypass said dog, witnessed Snape threaten another teacher, sent Sirius Black a Treacle tart, and it didn't blow up? Am I getting all that right?"
"Pretty much." Ron shrugged, even though Hermione was getting progressively redder. "Oh, and Harry got a magic cloak that makes him invisible. Also, we found a magic mirror that shows your greatest dream, but Dumbledore took it or something."
Hermione stared at him tiredly. Harry gave a thumbs up and his best smile. It didn't seem to reassure her, for some reason.
"...Right. I suppose I should be glad it wasn't worse, then. At least you two didn't run off to the ministry without me to ask for a trial." Hermione sighed, hands falling into her lap. "Very well. Take it from the top, if you would. What was this about Snape threatening Quirrell?"
A lot happens after that.
Having a team meeting with Hermione was helpful, up until the point that they decided sneaking past the giant, three-headed dog was a must. Harry's not sure how or why they'd come to that conclusion. It just seemed like a logical thing to do at the time, maybe?
Dumbledore had not-so-subtly hinted that they should check it out, so whatever. Harry's always down for another side quest while Hermione becomes a miniature lawyer so she can represent Sirius in court. Apparently the system works differently here-- truth potions and ancient blood rites and who knows what else.
Anyway, the Goblins apparently don't like sending copies of things. Hermione has been abusing the invisibility cloak to try and find a spell in the restricted section of the library that'll demonstrate it, which will be the core part of their case. Ancient magic this, ancient magic that-- at the end of the day, the bond is apparently 'very protected'. It's not meant to be viewed by outsiders.
Not the point. None of that is the point. The point is, Harry has side-quested a little too close to the sun, has a magic rock in his pocket, and now Voldemort is on the back of his Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher's head.
"This explains the headaches during class." Harry's nose wrinkled as another throb went through his forehead, like a hot iron pressing into his skin. "Speaking of which, ew. Have you seriously been there the whole time? Is that why Snape threatened you in the hallway, or does he just hate garlic that much?"
"Silence!" Voldemort proclaimed. Is that Voldemort, or is it just a shade of him? His face, or whatever? Is there a distinction? Harry would prefer to be politically correct given the severity of the situation. "Hand over the stone, Harry Potter."
Right, that. Preface: Harry had come down in this dungeon and the Mirror of Erised had shown him his deepest desire, which was apparently him with Sirius standing over his shoulder. The mirror version of him had then held up a weird rock, and then... given it to the real Harry. He was pretty sure.
He was scared to check. He'd felt the weight of it drop into his pocket as soon as he met his reflection's eyes, so he's just assuming. Why? Harry's not sure. He wishes fake, mirror-him had kept it. It probably would've been safer.
But right, double whatever. Not important right now! Harry's supposed to be... killing dark lords? Wow, he really should've made a bullet list of ideas and methods. He hadn't thought the time would come so soon. He should be panicking more, right? Is he in shock?
"Dude, how far do you have to fall before you realize there's no coming back? You're transplanted onto the scalp of a paranoid man named Quirinius." Harry frowned, taking the slightest of steps back. When Voldemort bared his teeth, Harry grimaced. "Also, can you stop with the headache thing? Are you psychically sending me like, nemesis signals right now? Seriously, what is that?"
"It's your doom." Voldemort declared in a rather grave tone of voice, before then proceeding to lunge at him.
Harry did what any eleven year old boy would do in this situation, which is to say he immediately leapt backwards and started screaming. This made Quirrell start screaming too which was just as awful as it sounds. Harry's pretty sure the pitch of their shrieking harmonized at some point, which is insanely embarrassing given that Quirrell is a grown man and Harry decidedly... isn't.
Yadda yadda this, yadda yadda that. Voldemort says something about bringing his parents back from the dead, which sounds about as legit as a suspicious white van with 'puppies' in the back does. There's not many places Harry can run to trapped in a room like this, so Quirreldemort eventually gets his hands on him.
It's more anticlimactic than he thought it'd be. It hurts, but it could've definitely been worse all things considered. Voldemort lunges in an awkward backwards stumble-- being on the back of Quirrell's head and all-- and Harry can't help but reflexively reach up to catch him before they can collide.
The feeling of clammy human skin turning to dust beneath his fingertips is incredibly disconcerting. Voldemort shrieks like a vampire bat caught in a bug zapper before he's pretty much crumbling into nothingness, easy as that.
Harry can't do much more than stare in horror. He thinks Snape arrives at some point, maybe? Or Dumbledore? Possibly both of them. He's a bit too busy staring down at his hands and rethinking the entire depth of his existence to process much.
"If I ever have kids, my dad lore is going to be so, so deep." Harry muttered, flexing his fingers in and out of fists. From the infirmary bed next to him, Ron let out a faint wheeze. "So does that mean I did it? Vanquished the Dark Lord, or whatever I'm supposed to do? I was expecting it to be more epic."
"Just because he turned to ash doesn't mean he's gone forever, Harry." Hermione said. Harry squinted, muttering her words to himself slowly. She rolled her eyes. "Think about it! He was defeated before, but still found his way back. Obviously he can do it again!"
"Obviously." Ron murmured. Hermione looked prime to reach over and smack him.
Okay, so he might come back. Should they find a way to prevent that? Is there a way? Ugh, probably not and he's just going to have to deal with it. That's hardly important right now-- side quests and crazy nights aside, Harry has one goal.
"That sounds a lot like a future me problem." Harry decided, pushing himself into a sitting position. He leveled Hermione with a determined look. "My number one goal now is getting Sirius out of jail. Preferably before summer hits and we're stalled on progress, if we could. Do we have a spell that'll prove the bond exists?"
Hermione lit up excitedly, eyes shining. For the first time all evening, Harry couldn't help but smile back.
Sirius spends perhaps a bit more time reading this letter than the last several, snacking idly on the cupcake that had gotten launched through his window at mock speed by a very irritated owl not moments ago. Apparently, only baked goods could make it past the barrier-- for reasons unbeknownst to even himself.
This letter was a long one, chronicling a harrowing night during which they charmed a three-headed dog to sleep with a flute they found in an old supply closet, Harry's little buddy Ron apparently played a near deadly game of chess, and the smart one, Hermione, had solved some potion riddle that had rendered her unable to follow after Harry.
After Harry to where, you may ask? Apparently into a quote-unquote 'secret lair', where Voldemort himself-- super alive, by the way. Still prowling out there-- proceeded to monologue at him for twenty minutes in front of some magic mirror.
Finding out Voldemort was still out there was bad enough. The news that Albus was keeping something as dangerous and sought after as the Philosopher's Stone on school property? Blatantly announcing to the children where not to go, giving Harry the invisibility cloak, leaving the "magic mirror" where he could find it, and then putting the mirror behind puzzles so weak even first years were able to solve them?!
Sirius was about to rip his hair out. It screamed set up, and worse, he had no idea why. How could he, when he'd been locked in here the entirety of Harry's life?! It made no sense that Dumbledore would send Harry into danger, and yet that sounded like it was exactly what he'd done.
Harry was a blunt writer. He was to the point, light-hearted, and didn't seem to take danger seriously. He took things as they came and shrugged off the absurd as a consequence of magic. He was new to this world-- he and his friends didn't know yet what was and wasn't normal.
This, though, wasn't. This was so far beyond not normal that Sirius felt sick to his stomach. Harry had come face to face with the killer of his parents and Sirius hadn't been there for a second of it. He was a failure of a godfather, relying on his eleven year old godson to get him out of here, all because Sirius had made a mistake.
What kind of wizard has to put that weight on a child's shoulders? What kind of man? Sirius' throat tightens at the thought, his hands wrinkling the pristine pages. A little piece of Sirius feels as though it comes back with every word he reads, but in the end, the fact stands that he's still hollow.
A furious hoot outside the window draws his attention. Harry had moved on from the Voldemort thing far too fast, devolving into ramblings about all the foods he planned to send, as well as his ongoing petty rivalry with a Slytherin classmate of his, Draco Malfoy. He apparently 'hated him and everything he stood for', good lad.
"One moment." Sirius croaked, voice still coming out a mere wheeze. He flipped the pages over, jamming the rest of the cupcake in his mouth. The sugar was practically his newfound lifeblood. He'd never known something could be so sweet.
He was getting better at using the residual dirt and grime around his cell to write out faint messages. It wasn't perfect and if he wrote too small, it'd be smudged in transit, but it was better than nothing. Beyond wanting to know if Harry was truly okay after all he'd been through, there was one more thing he'd never clarified.
Peter. Peter Pettigrew was still alive out there and as many times as Sirius had tried to draw a rat, Harry seemed convinced the thing he was drawing was a raccoon. Sirius had even written rat several times over, but either Harry wasn't understanding or Sirius' luck was truly so bad that it was getting smudged beyond recognition every time.
Either way, he smeared it in again. Peter. Rat. Ani. Harry might not get it, but his friend Hermione sounded like she might. The bigger his words, the less likely they were to be warped beyond recognition.
"Keep an eye out for rats would you, pretty girl?" Sirius grinned weakly at the owl, standing on his toes to shove the paper through. Hedwig took them with care, giving a rolling hoot in response. "They're bad news, all types. Don't trust a single one of them."
Hedwig didn't respond beyond a sharp look and a decisive flap of her wings, but Sirius got the impression she understood nonetheless.