# England - The Shrieking Shack, Hogsmeade
The floorboards of the Shrieking Shack groaned under Sirius Black's pacing, each step a sharp creak in the silence that cut through the stale air like a blade through parchment. The sound had become his metronome over these weeks of hiding—a rhythmic reminder that he was still alive, still moving, still dangerous despite what the world believed about him. Each boot fall was deliberate, measured, the stride of a predator marking territory in a cage too small to contain him.
Maybe it was the weight of his dragon-hide boots, worn thin but still solid—the only decent thing he'd managed to steal in his escape. Maybe it was just this godforsaken place trying to remind him that it was as broken and forgotten as he was supposed to be. Either way, he kept moving. Movement meant purpose. Movement meant he hadn't given up. And if he stopped too long, the ghosts in his head got louder—James's laugh echoing in empty corridors, Lily's fierce green eyes blazing with protective fury, and beneath it all, the soul-crushing whisper of dementors that still haunted his dreams.
Twelve years of Azkaban had stripped him to the bone and rebuilt him into something harder. His frame was all wire and steel now, carved into dangerous angles by starvation and survival instincts honed to a razor's edge. Where once there had been the easy confidence of youth and privilege, now there was something leaner, hungrier—the physique of a man who'd learned to live on scraps and willpower. His shoulders were broader than they'd been in his twenties, corded with muscle earned through endless push-ups against cold stone walls and the desperate need to stay strong enough to escape.
His hair, black as a raven's wing and twice as wild, hung past his shoulders now in waves that caught what little light filtered through the boarded windows. It was the kind of hair that belonged in old portraits of Black family patriarchs—dramatic, untamed, aristocratic even in its disorder. He'd catch glimpses of himself in broken mirrors and see his father's features staring back, but sharper now, weathered by pain into something that commanded attention rather than merely expecting it.
The once-charming grin that had gotten him through half of Hogwarts and most of London's more disreputable establishments was gone, replaced by something altogether more dangerous. His smile now was the smile of a man who'd learned that charm could be a weapon, that magnetism could be armor, and that sometimes the only way to survive was to make yourself too interesting to ignore and too dangerous to underestimate.
But his eyes—Christ, his eyes were what gave him away every time. Steel-gray, burning with an intensity that promised violence to anyone stupid enough to cross him, but also holding depths that spoke of love so fierce it had kept him sane in hell itself. They were James Potter's eyes in their loyalty, Lily's in their fire, and entirely his own in their wild, reckless promise that whatever came next was going to be spectacular.
"Twelve bloody years," he rasped to the empty room, his voice a low growl that still carried traces of the cultured Black accent despite everything prison had tried to strip from him. The words came out rough, unused to being spoken aloud after weeks of silence broken only by the occasional conversation with his canine alter-ego. "Twelve years rotting in that ice-cold cage while that sniveling little bastard Pettigrew was out there..."
His fist connected with the wall before he'd consciously decided to throw the punch, plaster crumbling and drifting down like snow from the impact. The sting was immediate and grounding—pain meant he was real, meant this wasn't another fever dream brought on by too many nights sleeping rough and eating scraps.
"Fat, safe, curled up in a Weasley bed like a pampered house cat," he continued, rolling his shoulders as the familiar rage settled into his bones like an old friend. "My godson under the same roof as that murdering piece of filth, and none of them knowing. None of them even suspecting."
The thought of Harry—brilliant, brave Harry with James's hair and Lily's eyes and a heart big enough to forgive even him—was what had kept Sirius breathing when the dementors whispered that death would be easier. Somewhere out there was a boy who deserved to know he wasn't alone, who deserved to understand that he'd been loved from the moment he drew breath and would be loved until Sirius drew his last.
Sirius stopped pacing, chest heaving with the effort of containing fury that had been building for over a decade. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, remembering the weight of a wand, the satisfaction of magic flowing through him like lightning through copper wire. Soon, he promised himself. Soon he'd have his wand back, his name back, his life back. And then...
"Harry," he whispered, and the name was a prayer, a promise, a battle cry all rolled into one.
But first, he had work to do. Information to gather. Plans to make. And perhaps most importantly, he needed to remind himself that he was still Sirius Black—not the broken prisoner they'd locked away, but the man who'd once been legendary for his ability to charm his way into or out of any situation.
The transformation was second nature now, as natural as breathing. A shudder that began in his bones and rippled outward, reshaping bone and sinew with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent years perfecting the art. His body collapsed and reformed, dark robes becoming midnight-black fur, steel-gray eyes remaining the same piercing intelligence in a canine face.
As Padfoot, he was invisible—just another stray dog in a world full of them. Too thin, perhaps, ribs pressing against his hide in a way that spoke of hard living, but his gait was confident, predatory. This was freedom of a sort, the ability to move through the world unrecognized, to gather information without triggering the manhunt that would surely follow if Sirius Black were spotted.
The trek to Hogsmeade was muscle memory mapped in moonlight and mischief from his school days. Every hidden path, every concealed shortcut, every shadow deep enough to hide a rule-breaking teenager was catalogued in his mind like a treasured map. His paws found purchase on familiar stones, ears swiveling to catch every sound that might signal danger.
Aurors? None that he could detect, though he'd learned not to trust easy victories. The Ministry had gone quiet lately, their searches becoming more perfunctory, as though they'd convinced themselves he was either dead or halfway to Albania by now. Let them think it. The irony was almost amusing—Sirius Black, public enemy number one, had been living practically in their backyard for weeks, and they hadn't the faintest clue.
And tonight, he had a very specific destination in mind.
The Three Broomsticks rose before him like a beacon of warmth in the cool evening air, exactly as it had been in his youth—golden light spilling from mullioned windows, the cheerful sounds of conversation and clinking glasses carrying promises of human connection he'd been denied for far too long. The building itself seemed to pulse with life, with community, with all the things Azkaban had tried to make him forget existed.
For a moment, standing there in the shadows with his nose twitching at scents of roasted meat and fresh bread and the distinctive foam of butterbeer, Sirius felt seventeen again. Cocky and dangerous and ready to take on the world with James and Remus at his side, certain that their friendship could weather any storm and their combined brilliance could solve any problem.
The memory twisted in his chest like a blade between ribs, because James was dead and Remus thought he was a murderer and Peter—Peter was the reason for all of it.
Padfoot slunk toward the alley behind the inn, where he knew discarded copies of the Daily Prophet were piled up like yesterday's secrets. Information was power in this new world he was navigating, and even the Prophet's biased reporting might contain useful intelligence. But before he could investigate the newspapers, his attention was caught by something far more immediately appealing.
The back door of the Three Broomsticks creaked open right on schedule—because Rosmerta had always been a creature of habit, bless her—and warm golden light spilled into the alley like liquid sunshine. And there she was, framed in the doorway like something from a Renaissance painting dedicated to the concept of temptation itself.
Rosmerta.
Even twelve years of hell couldn't have prepared him for the sight of her. She'd been stunning at twenty-five; at thirty-seven, she was nothing short of devastating. Her figure was lush and generous in all the ways that made strong men weak and weak men weep, curves that could stop traffic and frequently did. The serving outfit she wore—low-cut bodice that displayed her assets with shameless confidence, skirt that hugged her hips before flaring out to dance around knees that could make poets write sonnets—wasn't just clothing. It was a declaration of war against every red-blooded wizard in Britain.
Her honey-blonde hair was pinned up in a style that looked effortlessly elegant but probably took considerable time to achieve, with strategic tendrils escaping to frame a face that belonged on magazine covers. High cheekbones, full lips that curved in perpetual invitation, and eyes the color of warm amber that seemed to hold secrets and promises in equal measure.
"There you are, you mangy thing," she said, spotting him immediately with that uncanny ability she'd always possessed for locating trouble. Her voice was honey over gravel, sweet but with an edge that suggested she could handle herself in any situation. "I was wondering when you'd show up again."
The casual affection in her tone made something twist in Sirius's chest. When was the last time anyone had spoken to him—even unknowingly—with such warmth? Even as a dog, even as a stranger, she was offering him more genuine human kindness than he'd experienced in over a decade.
Padfoot wagged his tail and pressed against her legs, desperate for contact, for warmth, for the simple proof that he could still inspire something other than fear or disgust. Her hand came down to scratch behind his ears, and the sensation was so overwhelmingly wonderful that he had to resist the urge to whine.
Her fingers were strong from years of pulling pints and carrying trays, but gentle as they worked through his matted fur. The touch sent electricity racing along his nerves—when was the last time he'd been touched with kindness? When was the last time anyone had touched him at all without it being a guard's rough hand or a fellow prisoner's desperate grab for warmth?
"You're getting thin," she murmured, crouching down to his level so that her face was close enough for him to see the laugh lines around her eyes, the subtle freckles across her nose that spoke of time spent in sunshine. "Can't have that, can we? A handsome boy like you deserves better."
Handsome. Even in his canine form, even after everything he'd been through, Rosmerta called him handsome. The compliment hit harder than it should have, considering she was addressing what she believed to be a stray dog, but Sirius felt warmth spread through his chest anyway.
"I have some leftover roast beef from dinner service," she continued, still running those magical fingers through his fur in a way that was making it difficult to remember why maintaining his canine disguise was important. "Proper beef, not the scraps most people give strays. You look like you appreciate the finer things in life."
If only she knew how accurate that assessment was. Sirius Black had been raised on the finest everything—food, wine, education, expectations—until it had all been stripped away in a single night of betrayal and false accusations.
She disappeared back into the inn, and Sirius allowed himself a moment to admire the way her hips swayed as she walked, the confident stride of a woman who knew exactly how attractive she was and wasn't remotely apologetic about it. Twelve years of enforced celibacy had left him more than a little starved for such sights, and Rosmerta had always been particularly worth looking at.
When she returned, she was carrying a plate piled high with thick slices of roast beef, fresh bread rolls, and what looked suspiciously like expensive cheese. The aroma hit him like a physical force, making his mouth water and his stomach cramp with sudden, desperate hunger.
"There you go, handsome," she said, setting the plate down and settling beside him on the stone step with fluid grace. The movement caused her skirt to ride up slightly, revealing a glimpse of stockings and the pale skin of her thighs that made Sirius grateful he was in dog form because his human reaction would have been embarrassingly obvious.
"I don't suppose you'd tell me where you came from if you could talk?" she continued, watching him tear into the beef with something approaching amusement. "Far too well-bred to be a true stray. Look at those eyes—there's intelligence there. Noble bearing, even when you're wolfing down dinner like you haven't eaten in days."
Noble bearing. Even as a dog, even half-starved and living rough, something in his posture apparently still screamed aristocracy. The Black family breeding ran so deep it transcended species, apparently.
As he ate, Rosmerta kept up a steady stream of conversation, her voice washing over him like warm honey. She talked about the inn, about difficult customers and profitable nights, about the weather and the local gossip with the easy intimacy of someone who was accustomed to talking to herself or perhaps to the occasional stray who wandered into her life.
"Business has been good lately," she mused, absently stroking his head as he finished the last of the beef. "Ministry officials coming through, asking questions about security, about who's been seen around town. Can't imagine what they're so worried about—it's not like any real criminals would be stupid enough to hang around Hogsmeade with half the Auror force combing the countryside."
Sirius nearly choked on his final bite. If only she knew she was currently hand-feeding Britain's most wanted fugitive while casually discussing the manhunt for him.
"Though between you and me," she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made him lean closer despite himself, "I think they're going about it all wrong. If I were hunting someone, I wouldn't make such a production of it. All that stomping around in official robes, asking loud questions in public places—it's enough to scare off anyone with half a brain."
She wasn't wrong. The Ministry's approach to his capture had been ham-fisted at best, relying on brute force and intimidation rather than actual detective work. It was exactly the sort of bureaucratic incompetence that had allowed Peter to frame him in the first place.
"Now, if I were a clever criminal," Rosmerta mused, scratching behind his ears in a way that made him want to roll over and beg for more attention, "I'd hide somewhere obvious. Somewhere they'd never think to look because it's too simple, too close to home."
Sirius stared at her with something approaching admiration. She'd just described his exact strategy, and she didn't even realize it. Perhaps there was more to Madam Rosmerta than just devastating beauty and excellent customer service skills.
"What do you think, handsome?" she asked, tilting her head to look at him directly. "Am I talking nonsense, or do I have a point?"
He wagged his tail enthusiastically, partly because she expected it and partly because she absolutely had a point. Her amber eyes crinkled with laughter at his response.
"You're far too agreeable to be a real man," she said with a grin that could have powered half of Diagon Alley. "Real men always think they know better, even when they obviously don't."
There was a note of affectionate exasperation in her voice that suggested recent experience with exactly that sort of masculine stupidity. Sirius found himself wondering who had been foolish enough to disappoint her, and whether they were still walking around with all their limbs intact.
As if reading his thoughts, she sighed and shook her head. "Take Cornelius Fudge, for instance. Came through here last week with his entourage, all puffed up with self-importance, ordering people around like he was some sort of war hero instead of a politician who's never faced anything more dangerous than a hostile budget meeting."
She stood, brushing invisible dust from her skirt in a gesture that was probably unconscious but drew his attention to the curve of her hips with laser precision. "Wanted to know if I'd seen anything suspicious, anyone unusual hanging around. As if I'd tell him if I had—man has all the charm of a wet sock and twice the intelligence."
Despite everything—his situation, his desperation, the constant low-level terror of being caught—Sirius felt his lips pull back in what would have been a grin if he'd been human. Rosmerta's assessment of Fudge was spot-on and delivered with the kind of casual disdain that suggested she'd had considerable practice dealing with overinflated male egos.
"Anyway," she continued, gathering up the empty plate with efficient movements, "you should probably find somewhere safer to sleep than back alleys. It's going to rain tonight, and you don't strike me as the type who enjoys being cold and wet."
She paused at the door, looking back at him with an expression that was difficult to read. "There's a shed behind Honeydukes that's usually unlocked. Clean straw, keeps the wind out. Just... try not to get caught, all right? I've grown rather fond of you, and I'd hate to see you carted off to whatever passes for animal control in this backwards village."
The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Sirius alone in the alley with the lingering scents of her perfume and the warm food she'd shared. For a moment, he just sat there, overwhelmed by the simple kindness of the gesture and the strange intimacy of their conversation.
When was the last time someone had worried about his wellbeing? When was the last time anyone had shown him such casual affection, such easy generosity? Even unknowingly, even while believing him to be nothing more than a stray dog, Rosmerta had given him more genuine human warmth than he'd experienced since before his imprisonment.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. This was what he'd been missing, what Azkaban had stolen from him—not just freedom, but connection. The simple pleasure of conversation, the warmth of another person's concern, the basic human need to be seen and valued, even in small ways.
He shook himself, literally and figuratively, and padded over to where the discarded newspapers lay in untidy piles. Information first, emotional revelations later. He had work to do.
The daily Prophet lay on top of the stack, its headline screaming something about Quidditch scores and Ministry initiatives. Sirius grabbed it carefully in his teeth and made his way back toward the Shrieking Shack, Rosmerta's advice about the rain and the shed behind Honeydukes filed away for future consideration.
The trek back felt shorter somehow, as though the brief taste of human kindness had recharged batteries he hadn't realized were running low. His step was lighter, his senses sharper, his mind already beginning to turn over the implications of what Rosmerta had told him about Ministry search patterns.
By the time he reached the dubious safety of his hideout, the first fat drops of rain were beginning to fall, pattering against the boarded windows like gentle applause. Sirius shifted back to human form, cracking his spine with a satisfied pop that echoed in the empty space.
His stomach was full for the first time in weeks, his mind was clearer than it had been since his escape, and he had intelligence to review. For the first time since breaking out of Azkaban, he felt something approaching optimism stirring in his chest.
He settled at the rickety table, unfolding the newspaper with hands that were steadier than they'd been in days. The front page was its usual collection of political posturing and social gossip, but he read it all with the focused attention of a man whose life might depend on understanding the current political climate.
Quidditch scores, Ministry appointments, society weddings, minor legal disputes—all of it painted a picture of a magical Britain that was trying very hard to pretend everything was normal, that there were no escaped prisoners or dark wizards or unresolved mysteries lurking in the shadows.
And then, buried on page seven like a diamond in a coal heap, he found it:
**INTERNATIONAL PRESSURE FORCES MINISTRY REVIEW OF CONTROVERSIAL AZKABAN SENTENCE**
Sirius blinked, certain he was hallucinating. Twelve years of Azkaban had taught him not to trust good news, not to hope for miracles, not to believe in salvation that seemed too good to be true. But there it was, in black and white, official Ministry letterhead and everything.
His hands trembled—just slightly, an improvement over the bone-deep shakes that had plagued him in his first weeks of freedom—as he brought the paper closer to the dim light.
*The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has confirmed that an official investigation has been opened into the 1981 conviction of Sirius Black, following formal complaints filed by the International Confederation of Wizards regarding procedural irregularities in the case.*
Procedural irregularities. What a delicate way to describe the fact that they'd thrown him in prison without so much as a trial, based on nothing more than circumstantial evidence and the word of a man who was supposedly dead.
*Head of the DMLE Amelia Bones issued a statement yesterday acknowledging that Black was sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban without receiving the trial guaranteed to all magical citizens under the Wizengamot Statute of 1692.*
Amelia Bones. He remembered her—brilliant, principled, not the sort to be swayed by political pressure or public opinion. If she was involved, this might actually be legitimate.
*"While the original evidence appeared compelling," Bones stated in a prepared release, "the ICW has raised legitimate questions about the legal process followed in this case. In the interest of upholding the rule of law, we will conduct a thorough review of all evidence, including modern magical forensic techniques that were not available twelve years ago."*
Modern forensic techniques. Priori Incantatum on his original wand, perhaps? Spell signature analysis? All the tools that could have proven his innocence twelve years ago if anyone had bothered to use them instead of rushing to judgment.
*The investigation was reportedly initiated at the request of Sebastian Delacour, French representative to the ICW and internationally recognized expert in magical creature law, though the reasons for his personal interest in the case have not been disclosed.*
Sebastian Delacour. The name triggered a memory—French diplomat, politically connected, the sort of man who could move mountains if he chose to. But why would he care about Sirius Black? What possible interest could a French politician have in the case of a supposedly murderous British criminal?
*Preliminary examination using Priori Incantatum on Black's original wand has already yielded surprising results, according to sources within the DMLE who spoke on condition of anonymity. "The spell signatures don't match the crime scene evidence," one source reported. "Either there was evidence tampering twelve years ago, or we convicted the wrong person."*
Sirius let out a laugh that was half hysteria, half vindication. Of course the spell signatures didn't match—he hadn't cast the spells that killed all those people. Peter had, using his own wand, while Sirius stood there in shock trying to process the betrayal of someone he'd trusted with his life.
*If the investigation concludes that Black was wrongfully imprisoned, he would be entitled to full exoneration, restoration of his family assets and titles, and compensation for his years of incarceration under the Wrongful Imprisonment Act of 1743. The investigation is expected to take several weeks to complete.*
Full exoneration. Restoration of assets. Compensation. The words swam before his eyes, almost too good to believe. Not just freedom, but vindication. Not just survival, but the return of everything that had been stolen from him.
More importantly than money or titles or even his reputation—this could mean Harry. This could mean stepping out of the shadows and claiming his rightful place as the boy's guardian, as James and Lily had intended. This could mean family.
But who was Sebastian Delacour, and why was he fighting this battle? The timing was too convenient to be coincidental. Someone with influence and resources had decided to champion his cause, and Sirius had learned long ago not to trust gifts that came without explanation.
The answer, when it came to him, was so obvious he almost laughed out loud.
Harry.
Everything fell into place with crystalline clarity. The boy would be thirteen now, old enough to start asking questions about his parents, about his heritage, about why he'd been left with relatives who clearly despised him. And someone—someone who cared about Harry's wellbeing—had decided that those questions deserved honest answers.
Sebastian Delacour wasn't fighting for Sirius Black the convicted murderer. He was fighting for Harry Potter's godfather, for the man James and Lily had chosen to raise their son if anything happened to them. This wasn't about justice for its own sake; this was about giving Harry back the family he'd been denied.
The realization sent fire racing through Sirius's veins, the kind of wild, reckless energy that had once made him legendary among the corridors of Hogwarts. Someone was fighting for him. Someone powerful and connected and capable of moving the Ministry of Magic itself had decided he was worth saving.
But more than that—someone thought Harry deserved to know the truth.
Sirius stood, pacing the small space with renewed purpose, his mind already racing ahead to possibilities and plans. If there was going to be an official investigation, he needed to be ready. Not just legally ready, but ready to step back into a world that had written him off as dead or worse.
The man who walked out of this investigation couldn't be the broken wreck of a prisoner who'd escaped from Azkaban. He needed to be Sirius Black—charming, confident, impossible to ignore or dismiss. He needed to be someone worthy of Harry Potter's trust and affection.
The mirror in the corner caught his reflection as he paced, and for the first time in months, Sirius stopped to really look at himself. The face staring back was hollow-cheeked and sharp-angled, aged beyond his years by suffering and loss. His hair hung in tangled waves around shoulders that were too thin, and his clothes—stolen and ill-fitting—hung on his frame like sackcloth.
But beneath the damage, beneath the wear and tear of imprisonment and exile, the bones were still good. The Black family features were still there—the aristocratic cheekbones, the straight nose, the jawline that had been breaking hearts for generations. With proper food and rest and attention, he could be handsome again. Striking. The sort of man who commanded attention when he walked into a room.
More importantly, his eyes were still his own—steel-gray, burning with intelligence and determination and just enough barely-controlled wildness to make things interesting. Those eyes had gotten him through Hogwarts, through the war, through twelve years of hell. They would get him through this too.
"Right then," he murmured to his reflection, letting his voice drop into the cultured, confident tone that was his birthright. "If the Ministry wants to investigate the case of Sirius Black, let's give them a defendant they'll never forget."
The plan began to form in his mind, elaborate and theatrical and absolutely perfect. He wouldn't slink back into society like a beaten dog, grateful for scraps of forgiveness. He would return as Sirius Black—heir to an ancient pureblood fortune, war hero, devoted godfather, and the most spectacular example of wrongful imprisonment in magical Britain's recent history.
Every entrance would be calculated for maximum impact. Every appearance carefully orchestrated to remind people of exactly what they'd thrown away. He would be charming and dangerous and impossible to ignore, the sort of magnetic personality that dominated headlines and dinner party conversations.
But first, he had work to do. Weeks of preparation, planning, gathering intelligence and allies. He needed to understand the political landscape, identify his supporters and enemies, prepare for the battles ahead.
And he needed to find Harry. Not to approach him—not yet, not while the investigation was ongoing—but to see him. To confirm with his own eyes that the boy was safe and well and growing into the remarkable young man Sirius was certain he would be.
The rain was falling harder now, drumming against the roof with increasing intensity. Sirius glanced toward the boarded windows, remembering Rosmerta's advice about the shed behind Honeydukes. A warm, dry place to sleep, she'd said. Clean straw and shelter from the wind.
For the first time in twelve years, someone had shown him kindness without expecting anything in return. The least he could do was take her advice.
He transformed back into Padfoot, gathered the newspaper carefully in his teeth, and made his way out into the storm. The shed was exactly where Rosmerta had said it would be, unlocked and filled with sweet-smelling hay that was infinitely better than the mold and dust of the Shrieking Shack.
As he settled into the straw, newspaper spread before him for another careful reading, Sirius allowed himself a small smile. Tomorrow he would begin the delicate work of reintegrating himself into magical society. He would start gathering allies, rebuilding his reputation, preparing for his triumphant return.
But tonight, for the first time since his escape, he would sleep warm and dry, his belly full of good food given freely by a beautiful woman who had called him handsome.
It was, he reflected, an excellent start to his rehabilitation.
Outside the storm raged on, but Sirius Black slept peacefully, dreaming of vindication and reunion and the moment he would finally be able to tell Harry Potter that he was loved, that he was wanted, that he had never been alone.
The investigation would take weeks to complete, the article had said. Weeks to build a case, to review evidence, to right a twelve-year-old wrong.
Sirius could wait. After all, he'd waited this long.
And when the time came to step back into the light, he would be ready.
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