Chapter Text
Harry remembers his godfather in the same vague sense that he remembers his parents. He remembers booming laughter and scratchy stubble. The wiry fur of a large dog, and getting thrown in the air and caught. Mostly, he remembers emotions and brief sensations. It's not much, but it's more than most can recall from that age.
Perhaps the ability to recall even that much is a result of being a wizard, Harry theorizes as he frowns down at the Gringotts paper presented to him. He hadn't realized he had magic, but he supposed it was a far better term than freakishness was. His parents weren't drunks that died in a car crash, Hagrid had revealed to him, looking downright horrified at the mere thought.
It was only after hearing the full story of his past that Harry had hesitantly asked if seeing a family history might be possible. The half giant had rushed to oblige. A drop of blood on a piece of paper— no, on a piece of parchment— had left Harry with a spindly tree of names and accompanying photographs.
He'd stared at the pictures of his parents for a long, long time. He committed their faces to memory, tracing their features like a boy starved. Even with Hagrid's gaze burning intensely into him, Harry couldn't find it in himself to look away.
He's never seen them before now, but they're familiar in a way he can't fully put into words. Familiar like Sirius Black is. Beyond their distant blood relation, he's linked directly to Harry by a thick, braided line. It's strong and bold against the page, not faded like the other connections within the branches.
It takes Harry a moment to sus out what this means. It's only when his photograph shoots Harry a smile and a sly wink that it occurs to him. Amidst the weathered canopy of his long dead relatives, the leaves blooming out around Sirius Black's portrait are more telling than the intensity of the ink ever could be.
Alive. Somewhere out there, he's... still alive.
"Odd." Hagrid had noted when he saw it, frowning thoughtfully. "Sirius Black betrayed yer parents, and you, to You-Know-Who. But that woulda broken his vow to protect you, I'd wager. Line should be unraveled in that case... Well, I wouldn't worry about it too much, I suppose. Where he's locked up, there ain't no gettin' out."
Hagrid had shrugged it off as a mistake, but Harry couldn't seem to get his mind off of it. It plagued him, creeping into the back of his mind on the quiet nights he had nothing to himself but his own thoughts. When his bed felt too soft compared to the hard floor of his cupboard, and the gentle breaths of his dorm-mates still felt too loud to fall asleep to.
It's not until he's mindlessly flipping through his history of magic textbook that he comes across it. Professor Binns' droning had already knocked Ron out cold, and Harry was just about on the same path. Or he had been a second ago, anyway.
The chapter he'd landed on went over the importance of blood and magical family ties. And right there, smack in the chapter guide, was a section on magical godparents.
Harry feels a bit like he's underwater as he reads. As a magical godparent, Sirius Black had apparently taken an oath to protect Harry no matter what. It wasn't just a promise by word, either. He didn't understand exactly what the book meant, but evidently, failure to hold up to his role would leave him facing severe repercussions. Like, death-level repercussions.
It makes absolutely no sense. It's not like Hagrid went into great detail, but he hadn't been vague either. He'd very plainly stated that Sirius Black had handed Harry and his parents over to Voldemort. That it was because of him that they were dead.
Yet, according to this book, that's simply not possible. The bond would've severed. In giving Harry up, Sirius Black would've forfeited his role as a magical godparent and likely died as a result. The moment he caused direct danger to Harry, the moment he acted to purposefully harm him, the tether should've snapped.
It was one of the strongest, most ancient binding spells in all of magical history, hardly used anymore for how archaic it was considered. This isn't something Sirius Black would've agreed to if betraying the Potter family was even a glancing thought in his mind. But if Sirius Black wasn't the one who led Voldemort to them--
Well, that begged a question... who did?
Harry is at a crossroads.
On one hand, Sirius Black is locked up in the most secure wizarding prison in the entire world and the chances of him getting out slim to none, so it's not like it's actually going to hurt anyone if Harry does decide to send him mail. On the other, he's potentially making contact with the man who helped premeditate his parents' murder, which... also isn't great.
"So if I give this to her and tell her the name, she'll just take it?" Harry asked skeptically, eyeing Hedwig with ample concern. He couldn't imagine there were a lot of places to land on a journey out into the middle of the ocean. Not to mention the soul-sucking magical creatures that apparently guarded the prison. "Even if it's really far?"
Hermione gave him a look like she wanted to smack him, which was fair. This was the fourth time Harry had asked in the past forty-five minutes. She probably just wanted to finish her breakfast in peace.
"Again, Harry, she isn't a normal owl. She's a magical pet. She's more intelligent and resilient than a regular bird would be." Hermione explained slowly, as if doing so would somehow make it make more sense. "You could send her halfway across the globe and she'd be able to handle it, and far faster than any muggle post could. Not to mention that envelop looks rather light."
Hedwig let out a coo, bobbing her head as if in agreement. Harry pursed his lips with indecision. He'd never had a real reason to send a letter before, and for Hedwig's first one to be to the objectively worst place on Earth?
"She's right, you know. Our family owl is ancient and even he can make it all the way to Egypt and back when mom sends Bill post." Ron said, mouth full of half-chewed biscuit. Hermione shot him a disgusted look that only seemed to deepen when he gulped it all down, clearing his throat. "You're all good, mate. Hedwig is one of the cleverest owl's I've ever seen. I'd wager she could take your post anywhere!"
Harry felt himself smile at the way Hedwig puffed up with pride, clearly eager to prove herself. He fiddled with the envelope, borrowed from Hermione's supply. It was a muggle one, clean white paper meant more for bills than it was for letters. Not that Harry had written much. What was there to honestly say?
The letter was more him testing the waters. He was pretty sure Sirius Black couldn't reply, but it was worth a shot, right? Or is he thinking too much into it? The man is an allegedly convicted serial killer, so what does Harry know? He's got too little social experience to be all that good of a judge of character.
Taking a breath and trying not to wither under the expectant stares of his friends, he hesitantly held the letter out. Hedwig leaned forward and plucked it delicately out of his hand, looking incredibly proud to have gotten even that far. Harry winced.
"If it's too dangerous, abandon it and come back, okay? It's not worth risking your life over." His fingers danced lightly across her head. "I'm not super sure if it's possible for you to get there. I didn't see anything saying it wasn't allowed, I guess."
"Harry. She's going to handle it just fine." Hermione closed the book she'd had propped open next to her plate with a huff. "Now let her get on with it! Just watching this is starting to become painful."
Not as painful as watching Harry mourn if something happened to his owl would be. Still, Hedwig seemed to agree if the way she shook his hand off was anything to go by. People were starting to stare at them more. Not that they didn't usually stare, but it felt more pointed now, everyone teeming with curiosity.
Perhaps Harry should've done this at a later time. Breakfast was when the post came, though! Hedwig had never failed to visit him, carrying cargo or otherwise. Harry was pretty sure she was only doing it to snatch up a bite of bacon, but it raised the opportunity to check on her nonetheless.
"I guess." Harry said again, even more half-hearted than before. "Take that to Sirius Black in Azkaban then, Hedwig. If you can get there."
Hedwig gave a cheerful chirp, wings unfurling. Across the table, Ron dropped his fork with a clank.
The inmates at Azkaban don't get mail. Or at least, they don't get mail often.
The wards over the facility are so heavy it's nigh impossible for anything to come through. Parchment with the slightest traces of magic will shrivel to ash as far as a mile out from the prison, sprinkling to be lost in the turbulent waves below. People seldom ever attempt to send items along, but those tend to implode as well when they do arrive, vanishing into the wrath of the sea just as anything else would.
The flutter of wings is almost lost in the ocean's roar. Sirius is curled up in the corner when he hears it, a shadow flashing across the narrow window of his cell. It was a sliver of a thing, too thin to warrant needing bars. His head rises at the sound, eyes blearily peering across the dim space, ears perking.
His head cocks when the shadow flashes again, and then a third time. It's not a dementor— Sirius would feel the sorrowful bite of the cold, unforgiving chill they brought with them otherwise.
There's another flutter, and then an annoyed hoot. Sirius feels the fog fade from his mind slightly as something slips through the thin window and into the cell with him, his breath catching.
It takes him a moment to realize what it is. The corners are a little bent, but the pure white of it is still so stark compared to dank grey tones around him. Azkaban has been his home for the last decade now, and this is the palest thing he's seen aside from his own pallid skin. It's almost bright enough to burn his eyes.
He finds himself morphing back into himself before he even realizes what he's doing, eyes locked on it. It's... it's an envelope. It's a letter. In all Sirius' time here, he's never once received mail. In all honesty, he hadn't thought it was possible to in a place like this.
There's another flutter outside the window. Sirius' head pops up, his shaky hands reaching out to scoop the envelope up with as much care as he can manage. There's another faint hoot, a yellow eye flashing across his vision. The bird is magnificent, just as brilliantly white as the envelope is, if not more.
Its gaze catches on the mail in his hands. The satisfied trill it lets out is too peppy for a place like this. Sirius' dry throat works as the bird bobs its head, beating its wings furiously. Sirius watched, astonished as the bird vanished up towards the hazy grey that always seemed to hang over Azkaban.
Sirius stared after it for... he's not sure how long. Time is strange here, and Sirius spends too much of it as a dog to know for sure. All he knows is that the room is colder by the time he finally remembers to look down. His chest squeezes.
It's not Remus' handwriting like a small part of him had hoped. It's a messy scrawl he doesn't recognize, his name penned out in careful ink. It's blotted in some places, as if the writer wasn't quite used to a quill yet.
Shakily, Sirius flips it over. His dirty hands leave streaks on the paper, and he tries to ignore the way that makes something in him twist. He works a finger under the flap, trembling so hard it hurts. His teeth and bones ache, his stomach gnawing with hunger. Maybe it's a mistake. Sirius is old news, discarded, forgotten--
There's another flutter by his window, and a questioning hoot. The owl. It was... still here. Waiting for him to read it, maybe? Waiting for a reply?
He unfolds the paper. Immediately, he feels his breath catch.
Dear Sirius,
I've never written a letter before, so let me just cut to the chase I guess. Were you framed? I went to Gringotts for the first time and saw my family tree, and your godfather oath is still on it. Hagrid said it was probably just an outdated coincidence, but shouldn't it have broke? Should I be petitioning for a fair trial or something? Or are you actually evil? If you could find a way to let me know, that'd be ace. I don't have much family left so I'd like to take my wins where I can get them, seeing as I've got to off Voldemort and all.
Hogwarts is brilliant, by the way. Absolutely magnificent. I've never seen anything like it. You went here with my dad, didn't you? I don't know much about him. Nobody will tell me anything about him or mum other than I look like him and have her eyes.
Sincerely, your godson Harry Potter
Sirius' heart thunders in his ears. A part of him wants to laugh hysterically at the blunt absurdity of the letter, but a larger part wants to bury his face in his hands and weep. Harry. Harry knows about him. Harry sent him a letter.
Sirius had failed him, but he was still his godfather? This place was so draining he could never tell. He'd thought for certain their vow had snapped that night, the pain so bad he could hardly stand it. The knowledge that James and Lily lay dead in their home had been too much, the realization that Pettigrew was the one to blame only serving to make it worse.
Harry was at Hogwarts now, and he'd... he'd noticed. Against all odds, he'd somehow noticed his bond to Sirius and he hadn't just brushed it off. He'd actually tried to contact him. No, not tried— he'd succeeded. He'd gotten a letter into Azkaban.
For the first time in a long time, Sirius feels his lips twitch up. Outside, there's another hoot, this one more impatient than the last. Sirius sucks in a sharp breath of air.
"O-One--" His voice cracks, rough with disuse. "One m-moment. One... Just..."
His hands scramble across the damp stone floor, searching for a loose rock or pebble he can use to etch something out. Tremors rack up and down his limbs, his body still not immune to the chill despite how long he's been here.
Harry reached out to him, and Sirius has to reply. If Sirius owes him anything in this life, it's at least that much.
Hedwig returns in one piece, which is a relief. She also brings back with her the letter, which is covered in dirt and clearly opened. Harry can only stare in dismay as she proudly drops it right into the center of his breakfast plate, which had only just been filled, leaning down to happily snatch Ron's bacon.
"Hey!" Ron cried out, though he didn't dare bat her away. He just leaned back, looking displeased. "That's mine, you know. You could stand to ask."
"Nevermind that, Ron!" Hermione was staring at the letter like she was about to snatch it up herself. "Are you just going to ignore the fact that she actually came back? And with the envelope! Opened!"
Harry reached out, pinching said envelope between two fingers and lifting it. It didn't smell great. Grungy and a bit like two week old fish and chips. His nose wrinkled as he carefully extracted the paper, squinting as he cautiously unfolded it. It was somewhat cleaner than the envelope, though not by much.
It was indeed his letter. There were splotch marks on the ink, and Harry couldn't tell if they were from water or from tears. The thought of them being the latter made him frown. He carefully smoothed out the creases, eyes searching for anything different.
He didn't find anything, just his own words staring back at him. Hermione didn't seem to either, slouching slightly with disappointment. Harry let out a breath of air, not sure what this meant. It meant Sirius had read it, right? Was it a rejection if it was sent back? He guessed Sirius didn't exactly have the parchment to send a letter back, if the man even wanted to.
"Uh." Ron cleared his throat a bit, leaning to the side to peer around Hedwig. "Harry, you should... look at the back."
Harry blinked, carefully turning the paper over. He paused.
Smeared crudely in what looked like dirt, something had been written there. It was splotchy, almost hard to make out, but nowhere near impossible. Harry mentally counted to ten, trying to keep himself calm. Next to him, Hermione frowned.
"Not evil Peter secret." She recited, head tilted with thought. "What's that mean?"
Harry has a sneaking suspicion.
"I think it means the only family I have in the whole world who might actually love me a little definitely got framed for something he didn't do." Harry said. "And Hagrid gave me a photo album of my parents. There was a Peter in there."
Ron sucked in a sharp breath of air, looking as though he'd just sucked a lemon. Hermione got that glint in her eye she always did when faced with the prospect of a mystery to crack. From the head table, Harry could feel Dumbledore's eyes boring into the side of his head. Imploring him to look over.
Harry folded up the letter instead, mind racing as he shoved it into the pocket of his robe. He was going to need to put a pin in vanquishing the Dark Lord and foiling whatever Snape's evil plan is. He's got a godfather to save.
A step-by-step guide on what to do when your godfather's been wrongly incarcerated in a famously impenetrable prison for a murder he didn't commit would sure be handy right about now.
It's not like Sirius has any writing utensils, but Harry sure wishes he'd be more specific. All they have going for them now is a jumble of words, a faint theory and a dream. Assuming they're not being totally had by a madman right now, it means Harry has someone out there who cares about him.
Harry would kind of like the privilege of getting to at least meet the guy. A man who'd been best friends with his father, who his parents had trusted Harry to. Magical godparents aren't just a cool title. They're next in line to take a child in. They're nearly a third parent themselves, both legally, emotionally, and in name.
A deep trust had to have existed between Harry's father and Sirius for them to even pull a bond like this off. The more Hermione read about it and parroted the details back to him, the more heinous the idea of his godfather's guilt seemed. Sirius had literally bound himself to Harry for life. He'd dedicated himself to him, had agreed to support him in everything, to love him, to care for him.
It was a serious deal. The biggest of deals. And Harry doesn't want to trick himself into hoping he has family out there who might actually like him, but he can't help but crave it at the same time. The Dursley's never asked for him, but Sirius— Sirius had wanted him.
How would Harry's dad feel to see his best friend locked away like this? Relation aside, it wasn't right. Something was clearly going on here. They just had to figure out what.
"Alright. The closest theory we have is this one, which he checked off himself." Hermione said, peering down at the papers all scattered between them. "Peter Pettigrew was actually the secret keeper, and he's the one who sold out the Potters. They switched it to him knowing You-Know-Who would likely suspect and come after Sirius first if he got desperate."
It had gone horribly wrong, if that's what had truly happened. Harry wondered who'd suggested it. If it had been Sirius, and if he'd been drowning in guilt since. If it had been Harry's dad, who'd trusted his friend completely. Looking at Sirius' faint messages, smudged on with whatever mess of dust he could collect, there was no telling.
"A cowardly lion. Kind of changes my view on Slytherins, if you can believe it." Ron looked genuinely disgruntled by this fact. "What good does knowing this information even do us, anyway? The newspapers we found said Pettigrew's already dead."
All that was left of him was his fingers. Harry couldn't claim to be mad.
"The newspapers also said that Sirius never got a trial." Harry pointed out, frowning. "Isn't that against the law? Could we try to get him one? There has to be some kind of truth potion that can--"
"Veritaserum! Yes, of course!" Hermione gasped out, yanking a blank sheet of paper towards her. She dipped her quill in ink, bushy hair falling around her face. "We can use that in our pitch!"
Ron squinted. Harry copied the expression.
"Pitch for what?" Harry asked. "Or to who? The dementors? I don't think they can read."
"No, not the dementors. To the Ministry, Harry! If we can get this in the right hands, maybe we'll have a shot!" Hermione beamed. "And if they tell us no, we can just keep trying over and over and over again until they finally listen! It's foolproof!"
It didn't sound foolproof, but with both Harry and Ron involved, Harry supposes they'll find out.
The letters he's exchanged with Sirius so far have been few and far between, and all of it was a guessing game. Attempts to send a quill or pen or even a pencil over had all been thwarted. Not even something as innocent as an unwrapped crayon made it past Azkaban's wards, shriveling up the moment they hit the barrier and forcing Hedwig to turn around instead.
That meant the information Sirius could give them was limited, and that wasn't even considering his mental state. Hermione had been doing some serious research on the long term effects of dementor exposure, and let Harry just say-- if they can prove Sirius' innocence, the resulting lawsuit is going to set him for life.
Not that that's the point. The point is, Sirius may or may not be in his right mind. And if he's not in his right mind, there's no telling how discombobulated the clues they have are.
"Okay, okay. Let's go over this again just so I have it all right in my head." Ron pressed his hands together, taking a deep breath. "So we've gotten three letters back from him so far, right?"
"Four, if you count the one full of theories that he check marked." Hermione waved the paper in the air without looking up from her scribbling. "Well, that he smudged, anyway. I'm assuming it's a confirmation, right?"
Or he'd sneezed and brushed his thumb over the box by mistake and they were super off mark, but whatever. That, combined with the whole not evil Peter secret thing had to mean something. Peter having been the secret keeper seemed adjacent enough.
"Okay, so four letters. We have the not evil one, the one where Harry went on a four page-long rant about how Snape is a total twat of a teacher and he dragged a giant smiley face across the back, and--" Ron frowned, squinting. "And this one where he tried to draw... a..."
"Raccoon?" Harry suggested, tilting his head as he gazed at it. This one was their most recent letter, and by far the most confusing.
It was definitely an animal of some kind. Sirius seemed to have tried using mud or something to draw it, though folding it back up had clearly compromised it to an extent. The greyish silt was dry and crumbling, having smudged all over the place. It warped the paper, making it prone to tears.
He'd gone to great lengths to draw an angry face on the mystery animal. Downturned eyebrow and a jagged, sharp mouth. Maybe. If Harry's reading this right and it's not something else entirely, like a-- a wizard rune, or something crazy.
"An evil raccoon." Ron nodded smartly, only to pause right after. "Wait, but there's no stripes. It's got to be a magical creature, doesn't it?"
"Nothing about this screams magic to me, Ron." Harry admitted. "Maybe art just isn't his strong suit. It's probably dark in Azkaban, right? And cold? I bet his motor control is down the gutter."
"You have a point. I guess the face markings of a raccoon would definitely mess up the angry face part." Ron scratched the back of his neck. "It kind of looks like he tried to write something at the bottom, too. I'm thinking the rain got to it."
Understatement of the century. If there had been a word there, it was sure gone now. Harry and Ron both hummed contemplatively, squinting. There was remnants of an arrow, sorta? Pointing towards the evil raccoon? Or whatever animal it was that Sirius was trying to express was angry.
"Maybe it's a representation of himself." Hermione suggested absent-mindedly, still scribbling away. A proposal for the ministry, Harry supposed. "I'd be quite angry if I was wrongly imprisoned. You should write to him again, let him know we're working on getting him the trial he deserves."
Yeah... that was a good idea. Harry had written about it before, but more in a questioning sense. A should we do this kind of sense. Surely it'll bring Sirius some peace of mind to know his godson is a man of action and not planning to let him rot like a six month old sack of potatoes in an uninsulated shed.
Harry nodded more firmly, dragging a piece of parchment over to himself. He clicked one of Hermione's muggle pens-- because quill ink seemed to set the wards off at Azkaban more often than not-- and rolled his shoulders. One letter of reassurance, coming right up. And he could tell Sirius about how weird their teacher Quirrell is to boot.