The transformation of Sirius Black was nothing short of miraculous.
Where once there had been a man so gaunt his bones jutted against his skin like scaffolding, now stood someone entirely different—a man reborn. America Chavez, with her no-nonsense attitude and mastery of magical alchemy, had taken Sirius under her wing like a personal project. Her healing potions—nutritional blends, sleep enhancers, bone-marrow boosters—had done what St. Mungo's might have considered impossible.
"You've put some meat on those cursed bones," America grinned as Sirius adjusted the collar of his leather jacket, standing in front of the full-length mirror in the manor's hall. "If you keep looking like this, the Muggle ladies might start writing love letters."
Sirius smirked, his now-short hair trimmed back in a stylish, tousled cut. "They'll have to form an orderly queue behind the witches first."
"I mean it," she said, tossing him a bottle of pepper-up potion. "Your sarcasm's back. That's how I know you're healing properly."
Sirius rolled his eyes, but in truth, he felt stronger than he had in years. No more wheezing in his sleep. No more tremors in his hands. No more waking up screaming because he thought the Dementors were still hovering at his cell door.
But still, the wizarding world was not ready for his return. The Daily Prophet had printed a new article in bold, black ink: "Life of Sirius Black, the life story of Sirius Black with his old photos." As far as anyone knew, he was dead—and that was how it had to remain for now.
"Give it time," Wanda had told him, as she watched the fire crackle in the hearth. "When we're ready, we'll clear your name. We just need the right moment… and the right evidence."
"Finding a rat animagus who's been missing for a decade isn't exactly a stroll through the park," Sirius muttered. "Peter always was a coward. He could be anywhere."
"Then we'll find him," Harry had said firmly, his eyes steady with determination. "We're not giving up."
For now, Sirius remained in the Muggle world. Without a bit of magic, he could walk the streets of Edinburgh or London in plain sight. He wore denim and leather, occasionally glamoured his face with subtle tweaks, and loved the way ladies looked at him.
The three of them—Sirius, Harry, and America—would often go on short excursions into Muggle towns. They visited cafes, bookstores, and old ruins disguised as hiking spots. Sirius, oddly enough, took a shine to Muggle music. One day, he bought a small cassette player from a vintage shop and spent the evening listening to Bowie and Queen.
Since Harry is now nine years old and that came with a different kind of milestone.
The blood adoption ritual.
It had been Wanda's idea—an ancient, deep magic she read from one of the book, a rite that would make her Harry's mother in blood and magic. A true blood adoption. A new lineage.
But there was a problem.
"Blood rituals are illegal in Britain," Sirius reminded them sternly one morning as they sat at the breakfast table. "Even the good ones. Ministry paranoia. They consider it dark magic, regardless of intent."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Coming from the guy who spend Azkaban without a trial, that sounds rich."
Sirius gave him a look. "That's exactly why I insist we follow protocol. I'd rather not have to spend even one more day in that hellhole, thank you."
Harry grinned. "Fine, fine. Let's be law-abiding criminals."
"So where do we go?" America asked.
Wanda gave them a quiet smile. "I have a hideout. A place in Slovenia, deep in the forest. Protected by ancient wards. No one can find it unless I want them to."
"A secret witch lair?" Sirius said with mock awe.
"Something like that," she replied.
They made their preparations swiftly. Wanda packed the ceremonial materials: powdered silverroot, phoenix ash, a crystal dagger infused with chaos energy, and a vial of her own blood, sealed under stasis charm. Harry packed his wand and his journal. Sirius, ever cautious, brought an emergency portkey and a flask of Pepper-Up Potion—"Just in case something explodes," he said cheerfully.
America opened the portal with her trademark starburst. The golden-blue rift shimmered in midair, and the Scottish wind howled as they stepped through.
They emerged into a dense forest, its towering trees dappled with moonlight. At the center of a clearing stood a stone cabin, draped in ivy and cloaked in silence. Moss grew along the walls, and carved runes glowed faintly above the door.
"This place gives me the creeps," Sirius said as they approached. "I love it."
Wanda led them inside. The air was heavy with magic—deep, old, and slumbering. The stone floor pulsed faintly beneath their feet.
The ritual was held in a central chamber, its walls covered with sigils from a dozen magical traditions. Wanda laid out the components with reverence, forming a complex circle of power. At its center stood a pedestal, carved from marble and inlaid with gold.
"You're sure you're ready?" she asked Harry as he stepped into the circle.
He nodded. "I want this."
"You understand what it means?" Sirius added, serious for once. "This magic will change your bloodline. Your magical core. Your heritage."
Harry looked Wanda in the eye. "She's already my mother. This just makes it real."
Wanda's breath hitched.
"Then let us begin," she whispered.
She stepped into the circle opposite Harry and placed the tip of the chaos-infused dagger against her palm. With a smooth stroke, she drew blood, crimson and glowing faintly with her magic. She let the blood drip into a silver bowl at the pedestal's base.
Harry stepped forward, and Wanda repeated the motion on his hand. Their blood mixed in the bowl, swirling into a glowing spiral.
Wanda raised her hands. Red magic surged from her fingertips, filling the air with whispers and energy. Runes along the circle ignited one by one.
"By the ancient blood," she intoned, her voice echoing, "I bind this child to me—not in flesh alone, but in spirit, in magic, in soul. Let his heart beat with mine. Let my power become his shield. Let our bond be sealed."
The magic flared, a vortex of scarlet and gold.
Harry felt it.
A burning warmth inside his chest. A tether anchoring him to her. His magic danced with hers—chaos blending with lightning, merging into something entirely new.
The room exploded in light.
And when the magic faded, the runes dimmed, and silence fell once more, Harry stumbled into Wanda's arms.
They held each other.
And Wanda whispered into his hair, "You're my son now. Truly."
Sirius stood by the door, watching with glistening eyes. "Lily," he murmured, "he's safe. He's loved."
And somewhere in that quiet, enchanted forest, the world shifted—not with violence or fury, but with choice. With love. With family, forged not by blood, but by magic and will.
The aftermath of the ritual was quiet, almost deceptively so.
Harry sat alone in his room that night, looking at himself in the mirror. At first glance, nothing had changed. His features were still mostly his—but not entirely. His nose was slightly more angular now, the same subtle curve as Wanda's. His cheeks had grown sharper, more defined, and his jawline held a firmness that hadn't been there before.
The most startling change was something he felt more than saw.
The lightning-shaped scar that had been etched into his forehead for as long as he could remember… was gone.
He stared at the reflection, brushing his fingers over the smooth skin that had once borne a mark of pain, of survival, of Voldemort.
Nothing. Not even a faint line.
He had felt it happen during the ritual—like something had been pulled from deep within him, oozing like smoke from the scar. It had vanished into the air, leaving behind clarity. A weight he hadn't even known he was carrying had been lifted.
Wanda entered the room quietly, her cloak trailing behind her. "It's gone, isn't it?"
Harry nodded. "The scar. It just… melted away."
She sat beside him, looking at the same mirror, her green eyes—no, hazel, now—watching him carefully. "It was never a scar," she said softly. "Not just one. It was a tether. A brand."
"And now it's not," Harry whispered.
"No. Now you're free."
A knock interrupted the silence, and Sirius poked his head in. "Mind if I join?"
"Sure," Harry said.
Sirius sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed, studying Harry like he was seeing him for the first time.
"You've changed," Sirius finally said. "Not just your face. Your magic… it feels different."
Harry looked down at his hands. "Yeah. I can feel it inside me. Like… like fire and storm together. Wanda's chaos magic is burning through me. But there's something else. Something older."
He raised his hand, fingers open.
Crackling blue lightning flickered between his fingertips, dancing like excited snakes. It cast dancing shadows across the walls, illuminating their stunned faces.
Wanda blinked. "That's not my magic."
Sirius straightened. "That's… lightning magic."
Harry turned to Sirius, his voice quiet but intense. "I've been thinking about something. Ever since I saw pictures of my parents. I look nothing like Dad or Mum. My hair, my eyes, even my face—it's all different."
He hesitated. "Why?"
Sirius exchanged a long glance with Wanda. Finally, he stood and paced the room.
"There's something I never told anyone," Sirius began. "Not even Remus. Not even Dumbledore. When you were barely a year old, Voldemort started hunting your family. We were all terrified—looking for ways to protect you, desperate for anything."
He stopped pacing and faced Harry. "One day, I got an old book from the Black family library. It was ancient, written in faded runes and obscure Latin. It spoke of a ritual. A desperate one."
Harry's brow furrowed. "What kind of ritual?"
"One that could alter the very essence of a child," Sirius said slowly. "It claimed that if a witch or wizard feared that their child is not magical, they could bind the child's blood to a divine one. Change their very DNA. Make them more… resilient. Powerful."
Wanda's eyes widened. "A divine bloodline? You mean—"
"Yes," Sirius said grimly. "The book only mentioned Norse gods. It was filled with warnings. Madness. Sacrifice. But it also claimed that if the ritual succeeded, the child would become something more than wizard. And he will be protected by devine power."
"And Mum did it," Harry whispered.
Sirius nodded. "She must have. You survived a killing curse as a baby. And after seeing you… there's no doubt."
Wanda stared at Harry, her voice filled with awe. "Then who…? Which god did she choose?"
Sirius exhaled. "The book didn't specify whom to choose."
Harry raised his hand again. This time, he concentrated. Sparks gathered, rippling into arcs of electricity. The energy danced from his fingers to his palm, crackling and alive.
"The God of Thunder," Wanda whispered.
Sirius's breath caught in his throat. "Thor."
Silence fell like a curtain.
Harry slowly let the lightning die. "So… I'm not just adopted. I'm not even a Potter anymore."
"No," Wanda said gently, reaching out to him. "But you're still you."
"I'm someone else entirely," Harry said. "A son of Thor. And now a son of you."
Sirius stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. "James and Lily loved you enough to do whatever it took to keep you safe. Even if that meant giving you the blood of a god. But I'll tell you this, Harry—blood doesn't erase who you are. It just… adds to it."
Harry didn't reply. He looked out the window, where a storm had started to roll across the sky, thunder echoing in the distance. He felt a strange pull to it—like the sky was calling to him.
"I'm still Harry," he murmured. "But now… now I understand why I never quite felt like I belonged."
"You were meant for something greater," Wanda said, standing behind him.
Harry nodded. "I just don't know what that is yet."
Sirius gave him a grin. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together."
Thunder rumbled in the clouds above, and for the first time, Harry didn't flinch.
He welcomed it.
Because now he knew the truth.
He wasn't just a boy who lived.
He was a storm waiting to be unleashed.