Harry Potter: MageX

The Wizengamot Chambers felt like the inside of a Blast-Ended Skrewt: crowded, tense, and just waiting to explode. Harry sat on the edge of his chair, bouncing his knee like he was auditioning to be the new percussionist for the Weird Sisters. The weight of the place—the history, the formality, the slightly sinister smell of old parchment and wizard robes—was pressing down on him. And then there was Susan Bones.

Susan, sitting beside him, was fidgeting with the hem of her robes like it was some kind of stress-relief charm. Her freckles stood out against the pale flush on her cheeks, and she kept sneaking glances at Harry, her expression flickering between wide-eyed determination and something that might've been an adorably awkward crush.

"I hate waiting," Susan muttered under her breath, her voice sharp but low, like she didn't want to disturb the courtroom's sanctity. "Why do trials always take forever? If I were running this, we'd be halfway through closing arguments by now."

Harry arched a brow. "What would you do? Snap your fingers and declare everyone innocent or guilty on instinct?"

Susan shot him a mock glare. "No. I'd streamline the process. You know, cut the dramatic pauses, maybe throw in some snacks. This place could use a refresh." She gestured vaguely around the chamber. "Honestly, who designs a courtroom to look like a villain's lair?"

He chuckled, and for a moment, her nerves seemed to settle, though the flush in her cheeks didn't fade.

A few seats down, Ororo Munroe—Storm to her friends and a walking embodiment of grace—sat like she owned the place. Not in a smug way, but in the effortless, "I command the weather and look amazing doing it" way. Her white hair framed her face like a halo, her posture regal. Harry wasn't sure how she managed to look so calm, but then again, she had faced down literal gods and probably didn't lose sleep over much.

"Patience, Harry," Ororo said, her voice as smooth as butterbeer but with the authority of a Hogwarts professor who actually meant business. "The truth will prevail in time."

"Sure, but does the truth have to take this long?" Harry muttered. He felt like he was about to crawl out of his skin. The trial wasn't just about Sirius—it was about everything. About proving he wasn't crazy for believing in him. About justice. About… well, not screwing up in front of half the wizarding world.

Professor Charles Xavier, sitting beside Ororo, leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped in front of him. He had that calm, wise aura that made you want to sit up straighter and think about your life choices. "Harry," he said, his voice rich and measured, "sometimes the most important battles are fought in the waiting. It's not always about action. It's about being ready when the moment comes."

Harry turned to look at the man, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at how perfect that sounded. "Yeah, but what if you're not ready? What if you just… mess it all up?"

Xavier's gaze was steady, piercing but kind. "Then you learn. You adapt. Growth comes from mistakes, not perfection."

"Wow," Susan piped up, her tone halfway between admiration and mischief. "Do you just… have that wisdom on tap, or do you rehearse it? Because if you ever get tired of leading mutantkind, there's definitely a market for inspirational posters."

Ororo's lips twitched into a faint smile. "He'd make an excellent motivational speaker."

"I'd certainly try," Xavier replied, his own smile softening his serious demeanor.

Susan leaned closer to Harry, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, if we survive this without a total meltdown, we're all going out for ice cream. My treat. But only if you don't brood."

"I don't brood," Harry said, scandalized.

Susan gave him a look. "You do. It's very dramatic. Like, brooding hero levels of dramatic."

Before Harry could fire back a witty retort, the chamber doors creaked open, and the assembled wizards straightened in their seats. The trial was about to begin. The tension in the air ratcheted up to about eleven, and Harry felt his stomach flip-flop.

Ororo placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her touch grounding him. "Focus on what's right, Harry. The rest will follow."

As the trial began, Harry glanced at Susan, who gave him an encouraging (if slightly nervous) smile. Xavier's words echoed in his mind, blending with Ororo's steady presence and Susan's fiery determination.

He had no idea how this would play out, but one thing was certain: he wasn't alone. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to get him through.

—

The doors to the Wizengamot Chambers creaked open, and the room instantly snapped to attention like someone had just shouted "Troll in the dungeon!" Everyone sat straighter, robes rustling, and suddenly the chamber felt smaller, like it was holding its breath. Harry's stomach did a nervous somersault as his eyes locked on Sirius Black.

There he was, flanked by two Aurors, looking… well, like someone who'd spent twelve years in a soul-sucking prison but was still trying to pull off "devil-may-care" swagger. Sirius had that haunted, gaunt look, the kind that whispered I've been through hell, but there was still something in his eyes—sharp, defiant, alive. He was the kind of guy who could smirk at a dragon while standing in its mouth.

"Remind me again why these trials can't just happen over tea and biscuits?" Harry whispered to Susan, who was sitting next to him and fiddling with her wand.

"Because this is the wizarding world," she replied, deadpan. "If it's not needlessly dramatic, are we even doing it right?" She offered him a tiny, nervous smile.

Up front, Albus Dumbledore rose from his seat, radiating gravitas like it was something he bottled and sold at Flourish and Blotts. His long silver beard shimmered faintly in the torchlight, and his half-moon glasses glinted just enough to remind everyone that he was the guy. You know, the one who could probably win an argument with a dragon or out-riddle a Sphinx before breakfast.

"Esteemed members of the Wizengamot," Dumbledore began, his deep, deliberate voice rolling over the room. It had the exact tone of someone who was about to drop some world-altering news but would make you sit through a five-minute speech first. "It is with a heavy heart that I must recuse myself from presiding over this trial."

Cue the murmurs. The room erupted like a gaggle of first-years discovering the Forbidden Forest for the first time. Harry craned his neck to see everyone's reactions. Even Susan looked like she'd been hit with a mild Stunning Spell.

Dumbledore raised a hand, silencing the crowd with an ease that was both impressive and a little unsettling. "As Chief Warlock," he continued, "I am duty-bound to ensure that this trial is conducted with the utmost impartiality. However, as I am to serve as a witness for the defense, I cannot, in good conscience, maintain that impartiality."

Harry blinked. He knew Dumbledore was playing the "wise old mentor" card here, but there was a part of him—probably the part that remembered being left in the dark about a dozen different things—that wanted to ask, Really, though? Couldn't you just stay impartial and save us all the drama?

"Therefore," Dumbledore announced, "I appoint Amos Diggory to preside over these proceedings." He turned to Amos with a benevolent nod, like he was handing over the keys to Hogwarts itself. "Amos, I trust you will handle this responsibility with the integrity and wisdom you are known for."

Amos Diggory, looking every inch the distinguished middle-aged wizard, stepped forward. If Dumbledore was the wise professor, Amos was the no-nonsense head of a department who made you redo your paperwork three times to "get it right." He had the kind of voice that could carry across a Quidditch pitch without needing a Sonorus Charm.

"Thank you, Albus," Amos said, his tone formal but steady. He glanced around the chamber, taking in the sea of faces with the faintest twitch of his mustache. "Let's get to it, then, shall we?"

The murmurs died down as Amos took his seat, a look of grim determination on his face. It was clear he wasn't here to play games—or tolerate any nonsense.

The bailiff stood, his voice booming like a Howler. "Court is now in session."

Harry shifted in his seat, his attention snapping back to Sirius. The man stood there, still and quiet, but Harry could feel the barely restrained energy humming beneath the surface. It was the kind of tension that said, I've been through worse, but this? This is personal.

As Sirius's gaze swept across the room, he caught Harry's eye. For a moment, the tired mask slipped, and there it was: a spark of the reckless, mischievous Sirius Harry had heard about. The guy who'd once charmed a broomstick out of Filch's office, just because. The godfather who had risked everything to protect him. The man who—despite everything—still had the audacity to wink at Harry like they were sharing a private joke.

Harry's lips twitched upward, a flicker of hope breaking through his nerves. Then Sirius turned back to the bench, his posture straightening as he faced the Wizengamot with a defiance that screamed, Bring it on.

Susan leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. "He looks… good. For someone who's been in Azkaban, I mean."

Harry shot her a look. "You realize that's not exactly a glowing compliment, right?"

She shrugged, her cheeks turning pink. "I'm just saying. He's got a presence. Like, look at me, I dare you kind of presence."

"I think that's less presence and more a survival mechanism," Harry muttered, but deep down, he agreed. Sirius was still Sirius, even if Azkaban had left its mark.

As the trial began, Harry felt a mix of dread and determination settle in his chest. This wasn't just about clearing Sirius's name—it was about justice. About proving that the truth, no matter how messy or inconvenient, could still win.

And maybe, just maybe, it was about hope.

—

The bailiff's voice rang out like a Sonorus charm gone haywire. "All rise for the honorable Wizengamot Court!" It had the kind of authority that made everyone jump to their feet, even the snooty types who probably hadn't stood for anyone since Merlin's day.

Harry, perched in the gallery next to Susan Bones, tried to make himself look inconspicuous. It wasn't working. Susan was fidgeting beside him, her hands clenched tightly around her wand as though she might need to duel someone at a moment's notice. Her wide eyes darted from the imposing chamber to the serious-looking wizards filing in, clearly debating whether she was going to faint or hex someone.

Meanwhile, Harry felt like he'd been roped into a bad episode of Wizarding Court Mysteries. His nerves were shot, his palms were clammy, and to top it all off, he had Ororo Munroe and Professor Xavier sitting behind him. Ororo radiated calm like she was sitting in the middle of a thunderstorm she could control, while Xavier's presence was unnervingly serene—so serene it made Harry's suspicion radar ping. Harry couldn't help but think, Please don't turn out to be Dumbledore 2.0. One meddling old man is enough.

Amos Diggory took the central chair like a man who'd been handed a goblet of Firewhiskey and told it was pumpkin juice. He had that kind of mild-mannered authority that made you think he'd be great at telling bedtime stories—until you realized he could probably recite laws about cauldron thicknesses for hours. Adjusting his glasses, Amos gave the chamber a small nod, his voice deep and deliberate as he said, "You may be seated."

The room shuffled noisily as everyone obeyed, and Amos straightened up, looking every inch the man trying to keep order in a room full of chaos. "Before we begin, let me remind everyone that this court operates with the utmost decorum. I will not hesitate to silence unruly outbursts. Yes, that includes muttered commentary, whispered hexes, and any sudden transformations into magical creatures." He glanced sternly at one of the younger Wizengamot members, who shrank back like they'd been caught passing notes in class.

Rufus Scrimgeour was the first to rise. Tall, imposing, and about as cheerful as a Dementor at a picnic, Scrimgeour surveyed the room with the gravitas of a wizard who'd seen far too much. His mane of tawny hair and piercing eyes gave him the air of a lion sizing up its prey. His voice was like gravel coated in steel. "Esteemed members of the Wizengamot," he began, "we are gathered today to deliberate on the case of Sirius Black, a man whose reputation precedes him for all the wrong reasons."

Harry bristled at the condescension in Scrimgeour's tone, but Sirius—standing in chains in the center of the room—didn't flinch. If anything, he smirked. It wasn't a happy smirk, though. It was the kind of expression that said, Yeah, go on. Tell them how much of a monster I am. It's not like they've got it wrong before.

Scrimgeour began pacing like he was auditioning for a dramatic role. "The facts are grim. On October 31st, 1981, Sirius Black allegedly betrayed the Potters to Voldemort, resulting in their deaths and the attempted murder of Harry Potter. Days later, he caused an explosion in a crowded street, killing twelve muggles and one Peter Pettigrew."

Harry clenched his fists as murmurs rippled through the chamber. Scrimgeour raised a hand for silence, his voice cutting through the noise like a severing charm. "And yet, despite these heinous crimes, no trial was ever conducted. Black was sent to Azkaban on the authority of then-Head of Magical Law Enforcement, Barty Crouch Sr. While I am not here to question Crouch's judgment"—his tone suggested he absolutely was—"I am here to seek the truth."

Sirius snorted, the sound echoing in the silence. "Truth? That's rich coming from you lot. You locked me away faster than a broomstick with no brakes."

Amos Diggory cleared his throat sharply, his voice mild but firm. "Mr. Black, I suggest you refrain from commentary until called upon. This is a courtroom, not the Gryffindor common room."

Sirius raised his shackled hands in mock surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it, Your Honor."

Scrimgeour glared at him but moved on. "Our case hinges on the testimony of witnesses, magical evidence, and Veritaserum, should the court allow its use." His gaze swept the room. "And let us not forget the gravity of this case. It is not just about Sirius Black; it is about ensuring that justice—true justice—is served."

With that, Scrimgeour sat, his presence leaving a lingering weight in the air.

Ted Tonks rose next. Unlike Scrimgeour's lion-like gravitas, Ted had a fox's quick charm and intelligence. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room as he adjusted his robes, exuding an easy confidence that said, I know exactly what I'm doing, and you'll love me for it.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Wizengamot," he began, his voice warm and conversational, "today, we are not just examining the actions of a man. We are examining the actions of a system. A system that, for all its supposed brilliance, managed to imprison an innocent man for over a decade without so much as a trial."

There was an audible gasp from the gallery. Ted nodded, as if to say, Yep, I just said that. Deal with it.

"Now, let's talk about Sirius Black." He gestured to Sirius, who raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "This is a man who has offered to take Veritaserum—a substance that compels absolute truth—to clear his name. He claims he was not the Potters' Secret Keeper. That responsibility, according to him, fell to one Peter Pettigrew, who faked his own death and framed my client."

Another wave of murmurs rippled through the chamber. Ted leaned on the bench like he was sharing a juicy secret. "And here's the kicker: Sirius Black performed the Godfather Ritual for Harry Potter. This ancient magical rite binds him to protect Harry at all costs. Does that sound like the kind of thing a Death Eater would do?"

Sirius, never one to miss an opportunity for dramatic flair, smirked. "Death Eater? Please. Black's the name, not Malfoy."

Even Amos Diggory cracked a smile at that, though he quickly masked it with a cough. "Order, please."

Ted's voice softened. "Sirius Black has suffered. He's been broken, humiliated, and vilified. But he's here today, not just to clear his name, but to seek justice—for himself and for Harry Potter. That, esteemed members of the Wizengamot, is the kind of bravery we should be celebrating, not condemning."

As Ted sat down, Harry felt a flicker of hope. For the first time in a long while, it felt like the truth might actually stand a chance against the lies. Sirius shot him a wink, and Harry couldn't help but smile. The fight wasn't over, but at least now, they had a shot.

—

The courtroom was so silent you could hear a quill drop. Which was impressive, considering how many people were packed into the Wizengamot chamber. All eyes were on Sirius Black as he shuffled into the room, flanked by Aurors who looked equal parts awed and nervous. After all, it wasn't every day they walked in with a man who'd spent twelve years in Azkaban—a man they believed was the wizarding equivalent of Voldemort's second-string quarterback.

Sirius, however, seemed utterly unimpressed by the spectacle. His dark hair hung in matted waves, framing a gaunt face that still carried traces of his old, roguish charm—though now it was buried under layers of exhaustion and the kind of sarcasm you only develop after surviving soul-sucking dementors. He looked around, his storm-gray eyes flickering with amusement as though he were cataloging everyone present for future mockery. "Well," he drawled, his voice scratchy but dripping with disdain, "this is cozy. What's next? A group hug?"

Amos Diggory, seated at the center of the Wizengamot like he was presiding over the trial of the century (which, to be fair, he was), cleared his throat. His baritone was rich and authoritative, though it carried an edge of impatience. "Sirius Black," he intoned, his words rolling out with all the drama of a bard delivering a tragic monologue, "you stand accused of treason, mass murder, and conspiracy with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Do you consent to questioning under Veritaserum?"

Sirius raised an eyebrow, looking as if Diggory had just asked him if he'd like to try a new flavor of Bertie Bott's Beans. "Consent?" he echoed, his lips curling into a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Let's skip the pleasantries, shall we? You lot have already decided I'm guilty, so why not give me the truth serum and get it over with? Merlin knows I'm dying to see how much of this kangaroo court actually cares about the truth."

There were a few uncomfortable coughs from the Wizengamot members, but Diggory held his ground, his expression as placid as a well-fed hippogriff. "Very well," he said, motioning to a Medi-Wizard. "Administer the serum."

The Medi-Wizard stepped forward, carefully tipping three drops of the clear potion onto Sirius's tongue. The change was almost immediate. Sirius's smirk faded, his posture slouched further, and his face took on the distant, dazed look of someone who'd just been Confunded. For a moment, it seemed as though the entire courtroom leaned in, holding their collective breath.

Rufus Scrimgeour, who had been watching the proceedings with the air of a man who believed himself to be the smartest in the room (and wanted everyone to know it), rose from his seat. His hawk-like eyes glinted in the torchlight, and his voice carried the clipped precision of a veteran bureaucrat who had seen far too many incompetent coworkers. "Sirius Black," he began, enunciating each word as though it were a spell, "did you betray James and Lily Potter to You-Know-Who?"

Sirius blinked slowly, as if the question had taken an eternity to reach his brain. Then, with a tone as flat as a parchment, he replied, "No. I was not their Secret Keeper. Peter Pettigrew was."

The words landed like a Stunning Spell. Gasps rippled through the chamber, and even Amos Diggory, for all his practiced composure, looked like he'd just been told the Chudley Cannons had won the league. Scrimgeour's lips thinned into a line so severe it could've sliced through parchment. "You claim," he said, his tone ice-cold, "that Peter Pettigrew was the Potters' Secret Keeper? Can you prove it?"

Sirius let out a bark of laughter, startling the room. It was a sound that carried echoes of bitterness and long-suppressed rage. "Prove it?" he repeated, his voice gaining strength despite the serum's effects. "Sure, why not? Let's start with the fact that Pettigrew faked his own death and has been hiding as a rat ever since. Quite literally, I might add. He's been living with the Weasley family for years—go ahead, check for a missing toe on their pet."

The murmurs that followed were no longer shocked but bordering on scandalized. Scrimgeour's face darkened, and he turned to one of the Aurors stationed by the door. "Dispatch a team to the Weasley residence immediately," he ordered. "Confirm this claim."

As the Auror scurried out, Diggory leaned forward, his expression torn between disbelief and reluctant admiration. "Sirius," he said carefully, his voice losing some of its theatricality, "why didn't you reveal this sooner?"

Sirius's laughter came again, harsher this time. "Reveal it?" he echoed. "To whom, exactly? The dementors? Crouch Sr., who would've sooner kissed a basilisk than listen to a word I said? Forgive me, Amos, but Azkaban doesn't exactly have an open-door policy for appeals."

Ted Tonks, who had been sitting quietly at the defense table, finally stood, his sharp features set in an expression of fierce determination. "Members of the Wizengamot," he said, his voice clear and steady, "what you've heard today isn't just the testimony of a man wrongly imprisoned—it's a damning indictment of our justice system. Sirius Black has been denied due process, subjected to torture, and slandered without evidence. I ask you, is this the kind of justice we stand for?"

The room fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the sound of the Auror returning, his face pale. "We've found the rat," he announced, holding up a small cage. Inside, a twitchy, terrified rodent cowered, its balding fur and missing toe unmistakable.

The tension in the chamber reached a fever pitch as the truth became impossible to ignore. Sirius, still under the effects of the Veritaserum, leaned back in his chair and smirked. "Told you," he said, his voice dripping with vindication. "Now, can someone get me a decent meal and maybe a comb? I've got twelve years of hell to make up for."

—

The courtroom was buzzing like a hive of particularly scandalized bees, the shockwaves of Sirius Black's testimony still reverberating through the chamber. It wasn't every day that the Wizengamot got walloped by a truth bomb so big it made Voldemort's return seem like a minor inconvenience. Every witch and wizard present wore expressions ranging from gobsmacked to deeply uncomfortable, as if they'd just been told their dragon-hide boots were knockoffs.

Amos Diggory, ever the picture of stiff-upper-lip British propriety, rose to his feet with the air of a man who'd just had to explain to his dinner guests that the soufflé had collapsed but dessert would continue nonetheless. His voice, rich and sonorous, filled the room with a calm authority that seemed to momentarily soothe the collective chaos. "Ladies and gentlemen of the Wizengamot," he began, his tone grave yet warm, like a kindly uncle about to deliver bad news with a plate of biscuits. "It is abundantly clear that we have been grievously mistaken in our judgment of Sirius Black. The evidence presented today demands nothing less than a thorough reassessment of his case."

Sirius, seated in the dock, looked like a man who couldn't decide whether to laugh, cry, or throw something. His dark hair hung in disheveled waves around his gaunt face, and though his eyes still carried the haunted weight of Azkaban, there was a spark of his old self simmering beneath the surface—a rebellious, sardonic glint that screamed you're all lucky I don't have my wand right now.

"Well, that's comforting," Sirius drawled, his voice raspy but laced with biting humor. "Only took you twelve years, public humiliation, and an illegally administered truth potion to figure that out. Bravo."

Amos cleared his throat, his cheeks coloring slightly, but his composure didn't waver. "Mr. Black, I assure you, the Wizengamot will do everything in its power to rectify this grievous error. Justice, while delayed, will not be denied."

Rufus Scrimgeour, seated a few rows behind Diggory, leaned forward with the kind of intensity that suggested he was planning to wrestle justice into submission if necessary. His leonine features were carved into an expression of grim determination, and his sharp eyes flicked to Sirius like a hawk sizing up a particularly elusive prey. "The man deserves more than an apology, Diggory," he said, his voice low and gravelly, carrying just a hint of a growl. "We've let this go on long enough. If Pettigrew's alive—and hiding as a rat, no less—then we've got a bloody lot of explaining to do."

Ted Tonks, seated on the sidelines, folded his arms and smirked, his youthful features twisted in amusement. "Scrimgeour's right, though I never thought I'd agree with him. But let's not act like this is news. Plenty of us thought something didn't add up back then—most of us were just too scared to say it."

Scrimgeour shot Ted a glare that could've melted a cauldron, but Ted only raised an eyebrow in response. Sirius, watching the exchange with faint amusement, muttered, "Glad to see the Ministry's still as dysfunctional as ever. It's like coming home."

Before Scrimgeour could reply—or possibly explode—Amos raised a hand for silence. "Enough," he said, his tone as firm as a locking charm. "The matter at hand is ensuring that Mr. Black's innocence is formally recognized and compensated. We are not here to debate the past but to ensure justice in the present."

The Wizengamot murmured their agreement, and after a brief, hurried deliberation that mostly consisted of everyone avoiding eye contact with Sirius, Amos announced the verdict. "Sirius Black," he declared, his voice echoing through the chamber like a spell. "You are hereby cleared of all charges. The Wizengamot extends its sincerest apologies for the grievous miscarriage of justice you have endured."

The room erupted into applause, though Sirius looked less than impressed. He stood slowly, his lanky frame carrying the weight of years lost, and swept his gaze over the assembled witches and wizards. "Oh, don't stop there," he said, his tone dry as a desert. "Why not throw in a fruit basket? Maybe a nice 'Welcome Back to Society' card? Merlin knows I'd hate to feel underappreciated."

Amos's face twitched, caught between amusement and exasperation, while Ted let out a low chuckle. "Always the charmer, aren't you, Black?" Ted quipped.

Before Sirius could retort, Dumbledore rose from his seat, his presence commanding immediate silence. His blue eyes twinkled with a mixture of sympathy and something deeper—perhaps regret. "Sirius," Dumbledore said, his voice soft but resonant, "on behalf of the Wizengamot, I offer my deepest apologies. No words can truly compensate for what you have endured, but I hope you will accept our efforts to make amends."

Sirius tilted his head, studying Dumbledore with an inscrutable expression. "Efforts, huh?" he said, his tone sharp but not unkind. "Well, Albus, let's see what those efforts look like, shall we?"

Amos, clearly eager to regain control of the situation, stepped forward. "The Ministry will, of course, offer financial compensation," he said, his voice tinged with the faintest hint of desperation. "A substantial sum to account for—er—the time lost."

Sirius smirked, his lips curling into something that was almost a grin but not quite. "Time lost," he echoed, his voice dripping with irony. "That's one way to put it."

As the applause faded and the courtroom settled into a reflective silence, the weight of what had transpired began to sink in. The Wizarding World, so quick to cast blame and cling to its assumptions, had finally been forced to confront its mistakes. Sirius Black had been vindicated, but the scars of his wrongful imprisonment lingered—a reminder of how fragile justice could be.

And yet, as Sirius stood before the courtroom, his head held high and a shadow of his old swagger returning to his step, one thing was abundantly clear: Sirius Black might have been broken, but he was far from beaten.

—

The courtroom was emptying, but the weight of what had just happened lingered in the air like the aftertaste of a particularly bitter potion. Sirius Black stood in the middle of it all, looking like he couldn't decide whether he was about to cry, punch a wall, or maybe both. His hair, once glossy and rebellious, now hung in limp waves around a face that had clearly seen better days—or, rather, any day that didn't involve soul-sucking Dementors.

Harry hesitated for a moment. He had imagined this reunion a hundred different ways, and somehow, none of those scenarios had included Sirius looking so... haunted. Still, he squared his shoulders and crossed the room, because if there was one thing Harry had learned in his relatively short life, it was that sometimes you had to be the one to take the first step—preferably without tripping over your own feet.

"Sirius," Harry said, his voice tentative, like he was testing the waters to see if his godfather was really there or just a figment of his overactive imagination.

Sirius's head snapped up at the sound of his name. For a second, he looked utterly lost, like someone who'd just Apparated into the wrong room and realized they'd forgotten their wand. Then his gray eyes—sharp even after Azkaban had tried to dull them—locked onto Harry's, and something shifted. It was as if the weight of a thousand bad memories lifted just enough to let him breathe.

"Harry…" Sirius's voice was hoarse, rough around the edges, like he hadn't used it for anything but screaming in years. Which, honestly, wasn't far from the truth. He reached out, his hand trembling like he was afraid Harry might disappear if he blinked too hard.

Harry closed the distance between them, his own heart pounding like it was trying to break free of his chest. "It's me," he said softly, placing a hand on Sirius's shoulder. "I'm real. You're real. And you're free now."

Sirius let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Free," he repeated, as if the word was some foreign concept he was still trying to wrap his head around. "I don't even know what that means anymore."

Harry's lips twitched into a small smile. "It means you get to do things like eat real food, sleep in a bed that doesn't feel like a rock, and, you know, maybe take a shower. No offense, but you smell like a dragon's nest after a rainstorm."

That earned him a proper laugh, though it was cracked and raw around the edges. Sirius's eyes glinted with a hint of the mischief that Harry had only ever heard about in stories. "Well, excuse me, Mr. Potter," he said, his voice laced with mock indignation. "I'll have you know this is the aroma of resilience. Eau de Survival, if you will."

"Right," Harry deadpanned. "I'm sure the Ministry will be bottling it any day now."

The smile on Sirius's face faltered slightly, and the weight of everything they'd both been through settled between them like an uninvited guest. He shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I should've been there for you, Harry. All those years… you shouldn't have had to face any of it alone."

Harry felt his throat tighten, but he forced himself to hold Sirius's gaze. "You didn't choose this, Sirius. None of it was your fault. You've been through hell, and you still came out fighting. That's what matters."

Sirius looked at him like he was trying to memorize every detail of Harry's face, as if he couldn't quite believe this moment was real. "You're a good kid, you know that?" he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Better than I deserve."

Harry shook his head, a small, determined smile playing on his lips. "You're wrong. I've heard the stories, remember? The pranks, the charm, the whole 'rebellious heartthrob' thing? If anything, you've got some serious shoes to fill."

Sirius laughed again, this time a bit stronger, a bit brighter. "Rebellious heartthrob, huh? I'll take it. Though I might need some time to live up to the hype."

"Take all the time you need," Harry said, his voice steady. "We've got plenty of it now."

For a moment, they just stood there, two people who had been broken in different ways but were finally starting to piece themselves back together. Sirius pulled Harry into a hug, and it wasn't one of those awkward, one-arm, "manly" hugs, either. It was the kind of hug that said, I'm never letting go—the kind that Harry hadn't realized he'd been craving until now.

When they finally stepped back, Sirius looked at Harry with a spark in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "All right," he said, clapping his hands together. "So, what's next? I hear they're offering me a boatload of gold as compensation. Think I can buy a flying motorcycle with it? Or maybe two?"

Harry grinned, the heaviness in his chest easing for the first time in what felt like forever. "You could probably buy a whole fleet. But first, maybe we should focus on getting you some new clothes. I don't think Azkaban chic is going to catch on anytime soon."

Sirius smirked, a shadow of the Marauder he used to be flickering to life. "Fair enough. But don't think for a second that I'm letting you off the hook, Harry. We've got a lot of catching up to do—and a lot of trouble to get into."

Harry's grin widened. "Sounds like a plan."

And just like that, the world felt a little less heavy, a little more hopeful. Because Sirius Black was free, Harry Potter wasn't alone anymore, and together, they were ready to take on whatever came next.

---

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