Until Harry spoke those words, it had taken twelve long years for Sirius Black to finally realize what he had misunderstood and overlooked all that time.
"In short, I've had experiences that most people would find hard to believe," Harry said, looking down at his palm with a self-deprecating smile. "At first, the more love I felt from Old Man Kane, the more I hated the place where I lived for eleven years."
"I still remember when I was just eleven, how desperately I wanted a real home—someone to wish me a happy birthday, or to love me no matter what I did, like they did for Dudley…" Harry let out a short laugh and shook his head. "But that's all in the past now. I don't care about those little things anymore."
"Old Man Kane?" Sirius asked, bewildered, trying to parse Harry's words. The only thing he could grasp was that his godson, after Sirius had been thrown into prison, hadn't been well cared for and had suffered greatly.
Opening and closing his mouth repeatedly, Sirius wanted to say something but didn't know where to begin. All he could do was apologize over and over.
"I forgive you."
In the midst of Sirius's apologies, Harry's voice cut through abruptly.
Everything he had seen on the way here—the horrors of Azkaban, the torment of the Dementors—Harry had taken it all in. If this was punishment, he felt it was more than enough.
Far more than enough.
"…So, there's no need to keep punishing yourself," Harry said, exhaling deeply. He spoke calmly to Sirius, who was kneeling on the other side of the iron bars, apologizing endlessly without daring to look up. "It's enough. For my parents, for me—what you've been through these past twelve years is enough."
Only by walking through Azkaban could one truly understand the cruelty of this prison, a place that made wizards pale at its mention. The lives of the prisoners here meant little, or rather, their existence served only to provide an endless supply of emotional sustenance for the Dementors—dark magical creatures that couldn't be destroyed, kept here to prevent them from wreaking havoc in the outside world and harming the innocent.
In comparison, the idea of punishing prisoners seemed more like a flimsy veil draped over the whole operation, insignificant and irrelevant.
Perhaps this was why the British wizarding world didn't have the death penalty. For those who committed crimes, there was a more "efficient" way to deal with them.
Having witnessed Azkaban's brutality and the barbarity hidden beneath the veneer of wizarding society's civility, Harry believed Sirius had suffered enough—more than enough, even as punishment.
"…No, it's not enough, Harry…" A broken whimper escaped Sirius's throat, like a kicked dog. "I failed James, I failed Lily… I failed all of you…"
Harry had no intention of arguing with Sirius about the rights and wrongs of the past. He knew Sirius's mind was too shattered to think clearly, his emotions teetering on the edge of collapse, held together only by a stubborn obsession.
Perhaps that was why, despite being locked in the deepest cell for so many years, Sirius hadn't become a soulless husk like the Death Eaters in the neighboring cells.
There was no need to argue.
"Want to take a look?" Harry held up a folded newspaper, passing it through the bars to Sirius. "Go on, read it."
Sirius looked up, confused, unsure why his godson would hand him a newspaper at a time like this. Still, he instinctively took it and unfolded it.
"Genius Quidditch Prodigy—Britain's Legend!"
Without a doubt, this was the front-page headline of today's Daily Prophet, penned by none other than Harry's current strategic partner, Rita Skeeter.
As the one who had shaped Harry's reputation beyond Hogwarts, Rita wasn't about to stab her golden newsboy in the back. Instead, she spared no effort in praising him—it benefited her too, after all.
She also ruthlessly attacked her peers who had recently published skeptical remarks about Harry in the Daily Prophet, tearing them apart with relish.
Despite the doubts and rumors swirling around him, Harry's debut match against the Ballycastle Bats yesterday had been a perfect performance.
He hadn't relied on his teammates to carry him to victory. On the contrary, Harry had been the one steering the game, playing a pivotal role.
As a result, the moment the match ended, the doubts and criticisms in the papers and among the wizarding community vanished as if they had never existed. In their place came a flood of praise and optimism for Harry…
Harry was used to this kind of flip-flopping. It was human nature, and it didn't affect his mood in the slightest—though he suspected Hermione, with her temperament, would be fuming today at the sight of those fickle opinions in the papers.
"So… this is really you?" Sirius was beginning to wonder if he'd been in Azkaban so long he'd forgotten how to read. He could hardly believe what he was seeing.
Slap! Slap!
Under Harry's exasperated gaze, Sirius unhesitatingly gave himself two sharp slaps to clear his head—only to confirm that what he'd read was real. Yes, the person the newspaper was talking about was Harry.
"You? A professional Quidditch player?!" Sirius's voice grew more incredulous. "The Kenmare Kestrels?!"
In his shock, he forgot to wipe his tears, snot and all smearing into his matted hair and beard. It was a bit gross, but he didn't care.
"You—you're just this young—" Sirius stammered, gesturing wildly with both hands. "I mean, aren't you supposed to be at Hogwarts, studying?! If I've got my math right, you're only twelve, aren't you? Am I right?"
"You're right. I'm twelve," Harry said, his face growing even more helpless. "And I am still at Hogwarts. The only reason I joined a Quidditch club is because I'm… well, talented. Professor McGonagall helped me get in touch with the Kenmare Kestrels."
"Aha! I knew it!" Sirius sat up straight, excitement coursing through him. "You've inherited James's talent! The paper says you're a Chaser? James was a Chaser too! You're truly father and son!"
Harry: "…"
What else could it be? Was he supposed to be the dad?
Sirius devoured every word in the newspaper, as if he wanted to glue his eyeballs to the page. He lingered over the descriptions of Harry, especially the details of the match.
Harry didn't rush him. He waited patiently, his gaze studying Sirius.
From the moment he'd entered the depths of the dungeon and seen Sirius, Harry had been observing his godfather through the Astral Perspective. He could see the faint glow emanating from Sirius's soul.
Like Quirrell, Sirius's soul radiated a decaying light—dim, gloomy, and weakened. Years of feeding the Dementors had drained not only his positive emotions but also his very soul.
And that wasn't even accounting for the physical toll—twelve years without a proper meal or exercise, leaving his body malnourished and frail, which only further weakened his soul.
But as Sirius greedily read the newspaper, Harry noticed a slight improvement in the glow of his godfather's soul. It wasn't much, but it was like a parched traveler in the desert finding a single drop of water to wet their lips—precious beyond measure.
"…This is great," Sirius murmured, setting the newspaper down, his gaze distant as if his thoughts had wandered far away. "Really great… a Quidditch star. Ha, my godson's a Quidditch star—but why not the Chudley Cannons?"
Sirius snapped back to reality, asking a question that left Harry at a loss for words.
"The Chudley Cannons… well, they might need a bit of a rebuild," Harry said, surprised to learn his godfather was a Cannons fan. He chose his words carefully to avoid offense. "And, uh, they're struggling to find decent practice opponents, so improvement's been tough."
"Oh, Harry, you sound just like Lily when you're being gentle," Sirius sighed deeply. "I know exactly what kind of mess the Chudley Cannons are in."
"So?" Harry asked suddenly.
"So what?" Sirius hadn't caught up yet.
"I thought you'd want to cheer for me at my match against the Chudley Cannons," Harry said calmly. "So—want to come live with me?"
The simple words hit Sirius like a tidal wave, leaving his mind blank, his thoughts frozen.
It was as if someone had clapped an iron bucket over his head and started hammering it.
Deafening, yet silent.
"…Of course," Sirius said, a smile breaking through. Though his lips were hidden beneath his tangled beard, the man was clearly overjoyed—eager, even.
Guilt, persistence, atonement, regret—all of it paled before a single sentence from his godson.
It was a closeness he'd never felt before, a scene that had only existed in his fantasies. The pain in his body and mind seemed to vanish, leaving him weightless.
"Of course!" Sirius repeated, his voice rising. "Let's go—let's leave right now!"
He seemed to forget where he was, struggling to stand with great difficulty, as if he couldn't wait to sprint out of Azkaban with Harry—only to be pressed back to the ground by a gust of wind.
"Calm down, you're still a prisoner," Harry said, rubbing his temples.
"But I'm innocent! I'll explain everything to them!" Sirius gritted his teeth. "I'll tell them the whole truth about what happened back then, and they'll let me out!"
Harry couldn't help but marvel at his godfather's naivety.
"The Ministry won't believe you. It's been too long, and you have no evidence," Harry said, shaking his head.
"That's fine! We'll just leave! I don't care what anyone thinks of me!" Sirius shot back without hesitation. "Wait, I know how to deal with the Dement—"
"Enough, calm down!" Harry raised his hand, using a Binding Gust to silence Sirius's increasingly agitated voice before the two Beaters nearby noticed. "You're being too loud."
Sirius mumbled incoherently for a moment before settling down, his wide eyes finally registering what Harry had just done—wandless, silent magic?!
Outside of school!
During the holidays! The kind of magic the Ministry didn't allow underage wizards to perform!
With his mouth sealed, Sirius frantically wiggled his eyebrows to signal Harry, though his tangled hair obscured most of it.
"I'm not letting you escape Azkaban like some broken-backed dog, forced to live in hiding for the rest of your life," Harry continued, not noticing Sirius's body stiffen briefly. "Instead of being hunted the moment you show your face, I want you to be able to walk proudly and watch my matches."
Sirius's struggles ceased. He stopped trying to break the binding on his mouth and simply stared at Harry's serious expression.
"Leave it to me," Harry said firmly. "I'll clear your name, so you can hold your head high and return to the wizarding world as the hero who killed the Death Eater Peter Pettigrew. And then, we'll go stroll through Diagon Alley together."
The wind binding Sirius dissipated.
He had countless questions, countless things he wanted to say to Harry. But in that moment, as a single word slipped from his lips, Sirius was surprised to find himself strangely calm.
"Okay."
That was all.
"…Take this." Glancing at the two Beaters to ensure they weren't watching, Harry tossed a small bag through the bars. It had been enchanted with an Extension Charm. "It's got food and water preserved with charms. Eat regularly, but be careful not to let the Dementors or Beaters notice. My research on Extension Charms isn't perfect yet—this bag's spell will only last about six months. After that, just toss it. But it shouldn't be an issue; you'll probably be out by then…"
Harry kept talking, giving detailed instructions. From what he'd seen, he felt like he and his godfather had completely swapped roles without any sense of discord.
But in that moment, Sirius Black was unexpectedly composed, as if all his former rationality had returned. His gaze locked onto Harry, yet it seemed to see through him, catching glimpses of someone who wasn't there.
After a long pause, Sirius let out a soft chuckle, hidden by his matted beard, unnoticed by anyone.
"…Anyway, just wait here quietly," Harry said, standing up. "Don't do anything unnecessary, and don't let anyone notice anything odd, got it?"
"Don't worry, Harry," Sirius said, leaning back with his arms propped behind him, his tone light. "Acting innocent? I've had plenty of practice."
"It's not acting innocent," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "In this case, you are innocent."
"Got it, got it," Sirius said, growing even more cheerful. "Don't worry, I'll stay put… until the day you come for me."
"It won't be long…" Harry gave Sirius's soul one last look, then turned and left decisively.
There was no need for hesitation. This wasn't goodbye—there were plenty of days ahead.
He just hoped his godfather wouldn't be too rowdy once he was free…
Harry sighed softly at the thought.
It didn't seem likely.
Compared to the dim, decayed soul he'd first seen, Sirius's soul now shone with less gloom. Flecks of color had appeared—red, orange, yellow—signs of excitement, warmth, contentment, and, most importantly, joy.
Without shouting or craning his neck to watch Harry leave, Sirius simply lay back, arms and legs spread wide in a star shape on the ground.
Beneath his tangled, filthy beard, the corners of his mouth curled upward uncontrollably—warmth, joy, and gratitude washing over him.
He greedily replayed every moment of today in his mind. With this memory, let alone staying in Azkaban a little longer—even another twelve years, no, twenty-four years! Even twenty-four more years, Sirius felt he could endure it with ease.
Staring at the moss-covered ceiling, Sirius closed his eyes and drifted off.
Tonight, he was certain, would bring a good dream.
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