The Ministerial Touch

Very AUish. Sirry Slash HPSB (Yeah, Sirius/Harry is all I seem to ship these days) M for dark content and probably sex stuff if kind reviewers want me to continue.

FULL SUMMARY:- Harry Potter sends his memories back in time, he doesn't go to save the future, or the world at large, no, he's gone back to save his godfather and give him the life he should have had after rotting in Azkaban. A silver stag Patronus bursts through the halls of the prison as Prongs rides again, and Sirius Black feels hope for the first time in twelve years when his godson and the Minister of Magic in tow arrive in a spray of silver light.

He'll never forget how Harry leaned down, with warm green eyes and long black hair, holding out his hand past all the filth of his tiny cell, blocking the view of dingy brick walls he'd been staring at for so very long, counting the cracks, uttering the most soothing words he'd heard in decades.

"It's time to come home, Padfoot,"

Nonbastard!Fudge.

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is property of JK Rowling

Letters from Home

It all started when Harry Potter collapsed out of his bedroom and clutched his head, screaming bloody murder into the skies and rumbling every Dursley awake, ready to thunder down to the smallest bedroom and begin screaming at him, except, when Petunia and Vernon got there, they saw their nephew hitting the floor erratically – a steady pool of crimson leaking from his left ear.

It frightened them, to say the least, but receiving half the memories of a grizzled war veteran that you're destined to become was hardly going to be a walk through the park.

And then plans set in motion, to change on man's fate that would in turn, perhaps change the entire outcome of the war, or at the very least, Harry Potter's future.

….It all started with stealing his friend's pet rat, and putting him in a tight, spelled cage, before the Weasleys were destined to win a galleon prize-draw, and use it on a trip to Egypt to spend time with their eldest son, Bill.

"Scabbers will probably sweat horribly in the Egyptian heat, if you want, you can send him over to me and I'll take care of him, he already looks old and sick, can rats even die of heat stroke?" Harry had grimaced, and a few sharp vindictive pokes to the squeaking vermin was enough to persuade Ron to hand him over.

"I don't want to worry about him all holiday either, he's always scurrying off to fall asleep in a corner somewhere but knowing Scabbers he'd probably activate a curse or sleep right in a snake pit," snorted Ron, handing him over.

And so, Scabbers never made the perfect Weasley picture that graced the Daily Prophet shortly, and was left uncomfortably in a spelled shut cage, where Hedwig glared from her perch and occasionally tried to nip the creature through the bars of her own dwelling.

"It's okay little rat," he cooed a false sort of smile at the vermin, carefulling not to let on that he knew who he really was.

The next stage of the plan, happened all on its own.

"BOY, get down here now!" Vernon's yelling the next day heralded something unforgettable, and with knowledge of how it was going to play out, Harry couldn't help a sadistic grin cross his face, letting the agitation overcome him gladly.

"-and you act respectful to your Aunt Marge, understood? None of that freakishness we dealt with yesterday or it'll be more than just your ears bleeding Boy, understood?!"

"Yes sir," he smiled, and for once, Vernon was rather wary, and bit down the urge to smack it clean off his nephew's face.

The subsequent visit went exactly as expected, with no deviation from the script, and Aunt Marge thoroughly enjoying insulting Harry's parents – even with the memories he had, it was so difficult not to be vexed by her words and find them just as insulting as before, letting loose on his inner magic had never felt so damn satisfying.

Predictably, she blew up, physically and verbally, only the table decided to react to the boy's expanding magic and decided to float itself upward before flipping over entirely, and at that point, the very foundations of Number 4 began to vibrate and shake, as though an earthquake occurred.

At that moment, Harry knew everything changed, things were already deviating from the timeline he knew, grabbing both Scabbers and Hedwig's cages, he took his pre-packed trunk and fled to the Knight Bus towards The Leaky Cauldron to go on the 'run' as it where, and only hoped his preventing of Sirius Black's escape meant that Fudge still had a vested interest in intercepting Harry when he arrived at the pub.

Luckily, he did.

"Nonsense my boy, if everyone got sent to Azkaban and their wand snapped for blowing up their Aunt, why we'd have no wizards left at all," he chuckled heartily, and Harry forced a smile and the wateriest stare he could muster, before reaching under his large glasses with the back of his hand to wipe his crocodile tears in the most exaggeratedly childish manner he could muster.

"Thank you," he gave a soft hiccup for the record "-I didn't expect it to be like this. I thought I'd be in trouble for s-sure…"

"Well, we had to send a few Obliviators, but it'll be all fixed, right as rain, and your muggle relatives good as new," Minister Fudge gave Harry an attempt at a wink.

"No need to be upset dear lad," oh good lord the man was almost cooing, though he wouldn't have turned up if he wasn't interested in having Harry in his debt, he hoped at least a bit of that was genuine, and played on his small scrawny size as best he could. The man had a bloody huge ego, and it was his greatest flaw, ripe for exploit.

"Sorry I'm just…s-so overwhelmed, I mean I thought I'd be on a one-way ticket to having my wand snapped but instead I get to meet the most powerful man in all of Britain," said Harry in his shyest voice, inwardly gagging as he looked up at Fudge through his lashes and tried to downplay his size and age.

Minister Fudge went bright red, and started prattling on about their newly found allegiance, their friendship within the public eye and a possible internship with him if he played his cards right, Harry almost wanted to be ill at the thought, but schooled his features into a bright smile with eager nods where appropriate.

"Could you put up a privacy charm? I need to um… I need to ask you something," said Harry, putting on his best blushing boy act, the Minister looked at him oddly, and proceeded to wave a Muffliato charm over their small table, after ordering both himself and Harry two rather nice warm dinners, courtesy of the bartender.

"Sirius Black? Sirius Black?!"

Yes.

"But don't you know what he—"

What Wormtail did.

"My boy I was there…"

You misunderstood, you silly little man.

Harry held his tongue, his eyes watering.

"I just have to know, and if he can't send anything back, I at least want him to know what he did – and that just because my parents are dead doesn't mean he gets to weasel out of punishment, it might be….therapeutic, for me, at least, no one has to know, and I'd be in your debt,"

"Well…. I suppose there's no real harm in it, alright. I'll just write it here - this is the address you'd write too since the island is unplottable, and I'll put forward some papers to have your contact expected to make sure they get through without trouble. Anything I can do, after all, your parent's fate was so tragic…" Minister Fudge then went on his own prattle, until he actually said something of interest.

"You know, James was one the Ministry's best aurors,"

And surprisingly, had his own tales to tell, even if it was just hearsay from when he worked a different department, painting an amazing image of Auror Potter, cutting through dark wizards like a hot knife through butter, and had his life not been so tragically cut short, he was a shoe-in for the Department of Hitwizards.

From all the people in the world, Harry never quite expected to learn about his father as an adult from Minister Fudge, and despite himself, one his smiles that evening wasn't a faked one.

And so Harry spent the rest of his summer at the Leaky Cauldron, with the address to where letters were collected by the Ministry, checked for charms, and then sent on a little dingy of a boat with two aurors, to the island of Azkaban.

Sirius Black was perhaps the sanest man in Azkaban, which, considering those who knew him in his prime, was really saying something. Dementors were the only guards of the island, and the only humans that came were those delivering prisoners in or out of the facility, with the occasional letter.

Sirius Black never had any letters, but that was hardly surprising, all of his friends were dead, traitors, or thought him a murderer.

So, when a human auror came, with face like ash and sin – as whatever few visitors that came to the prison did, and boy, he could count them on one hand, because nobody wanted to be there, Sirius was surprised, because almost nobody stopped by his cell.

"Letter," the man grunted, sliding it through the bars and leaving just as quickly as he came.

The haggard man was tired with long, dirty, matted curls that had dried from years of lack of care, if he was lucky, the rare auror visitor might take pity or perhaps be too aghast at the smell from every cell not to cast a scourgify as they walked past, but Merlin it had been a while.

Who on Earth would send him a letter, anyway? It had been so many years since he'd thought of anyone on the outside, all it did was hurt him, but maybe it was Remus? Good old Moony? No, any hope of him coming to his senses disappeared after his first year in that damned place without a single letter, unless something changed.

Any of his other living relatives were in their own damn cells a few blocks down, so it wouldn't be them, and he'd sell his left nut if it was Narcissa, who never cared for him even when he wasn't in prison.

After staring at the crack in the wall which he'd come to name 'Jim' affectionately after being crammed in there so long, even transforming into Padfoot did little except stave the inevitable – growing insanity, loneliness, hopelessness. My, he was sure he wouldn't make it another twelve years before he joined the small headstones in the island's graveyards for those who died of despair.

His shaking hands gripped the letter, after drinking the warm and frankly disgusting water that the prisoners were given by way of food that was enchanted to appear within their cells at an allotted time along with two loafs of stale bread and a small tub of butter on good days, on really good days, it might even be jam. Sirius suspected that the person responsible for that was probably the newer rookie auror who did the island rounds once every few months. Merlin bless that man.

Rubbing his eyes, his dirty fingernails slit through the paper with an animal ferocity, the wax seal hadn't even denoted who might have sent it – possessing no family crest or formal mark.

"Dear Sirius Black.

I had to pull a lot of strings to get the privilege to write to you, so I hope it doesn't go unappreciated and you actually open it. I know you can't write back, so I can only pray that these letters will find you safe.

I don't know you, and you don't know me – not properly, anyway. You knew me once though. A very long time ago. When I was a baby.

My name is Harry James Potter. I've included a couple of pictures in the letter – I know I can't send much beyond a few papers, I don't even know if my Boy-Who-Lived status can wrangle the powers-that-be to let me send you books, but if I can, I will.

I know you're itching to write back – to tell me you're innocent. I've heard what the public knew, I even heard from Fudge who saw you that night on Halloween – when confronting Peter Pettigrew.

I should tell you, though.

I know.

I know you're innocent, it's hard to tell you how, so I'll have to give you the simplest reason I can muster – I can read people. I can also read people who aren't people, and I can definitely tell when a rat isn't a rat.

I did some working out from there, some investigation. I don't want to overwhelm you, but I want to set your demons to rest. Some of them, anyway.

Yes, the rat, is alive, and I also have him in captivity without him necessarily knowing he's been caught, so all is well. Don't worry about my safety, it's him that should have to worry about being safe from me, but I'm not going to do anything rash. Not until I can get him safely in the hands of the authorities who won't sweep this under the rug. I refuse to let you rot in Azkaban for another twelve years. It's all in hand. I'll be spending this year getting around Minister Fudge, failing that, I'll go through Albus Dumbledore and Amelia Bones if I have to, and tear through the Wizengamot with my own teeth if I must.

You're the only real family I've got left. You're my godfather – and that isn't revoked just because you're behind bars. Family don't leave family behind. I will come for you.

Just stay sane for me.

With love, your godson,

Harry James Potter,"

The pictures fell out of the envelope as Sirius gripped them, holding them up to the sparse light so he could see a boy with bright green eyes and a pigsty of hair – the splitting image of James Potter, grinning wildly at him, holding a Nimbus 2000 and looking far too small for his age, holding onto a redheaded boy who was about the right height. 'First Year' was crawled on the back of it, and upon closer inspection, he could make out the familiar red and gold tucked of the tucked-in ties on the small polaroid's.

His breathing hitched at the sight, fingers delicately stroking the mass of hair on the photograph that Harry had gone to the trouble of sucking up to Colin Creevey for, in fact, never had he been so glad for the boy's fanboyism as he was right then, getting every shot the kid possessed and paying for the right, swallowing his pride and annoyance so he'd have things to send his godfather.

Not for the first time, a man cried in Azkaban.

But, this time, unlike the others, it was tears not drawn from sadness or immeasurable despair, it was happiness.

He almost didn't believe it, thinking it a sick joke – but there was too many references to very secret things like Peter's rat animagus form that nobody else sans Moony knew about who were still alive.

Sirius took the second picture that fell – on the back, 'Second Year' was scrawled on it, with Harry looking much the same, except there was a bushy haired girl with them and he had to figure that was Harry's close knit of friends, they looked it, just from how their animated forms interacted on the photo.

And finally, the third, with Harry's hair growing out, looking less like James, but still with hideous scotch-taped bottle-glasses and a bright smile with glittering green eyes.

It was the first time Sirius had seen a smile in so long, that he slept with it under his tiny, hard pillow.

The next letter came no less than two weeks later, it seemed every run the aurors did, Harry was taking an opportunity to write, and marked a schedule where he'd never, ever miss a day.

Opening it eagerly, he shifted out of dog form and began tearing through the envelope almost hungrily, before holding it to the light and frowning a bit as a crinkly paper slipped out that was folded into four squares, but read the letter first.

It was much, much longer – thankfully.

"Dear Sirius Black,

I have it on good authority and definitely not bribes that you opened the last letter. Good. I plan to make a habit of writing to you."

Sirius raised a brow at that, his teenaged godson was bribing Ministry officials and bending rules left, right and centre to get information on a prisoner in Azkaban and write to them with Pavolvian frequency? Well, that was rule breaking not even James could really top.

"I can't imagine there's much to do in there, so I'll do my best to fill you in on the world outside, help you pass the time a bit. I guess I should tell you a bit about myself, huh? There's some things you won't even believe until you see me face to face (and that day WILL come) – but I can still tell you a bit about me.

I got into Gryffindor, but you could probably tell from the photos I sent last. I'm best friends with Ron Weasley and a muggleborn called Hermione Granger, though they don't know I'm writing to you. They're sort of wrapped up in arguing with each other but I'm pretty sure it's just because they fancy each other and I don't feel like playing middleman. Best leave them to it,"

Sirius couldn't help but snort, he didn't think he'd feel amusement in that cell, but it left as quick as it came.

"The first year we had a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher who was possessed by Voldemort's wandering spirit. I ended up channelling some sort of magic – accidental or not – I've no idea, maybe it's what helped me survived that Halloween, but I burned him just touching him and ended up toasting a man to death at the tender age of eleven. His name was Quirinus Quirrell. Dumbledore says the act of Voldemort leaving his body was what ended him, but I'm more inclined to think it was my burning hands of complete fury not allowing him to breathe as he screamed at me to get off. I should probably be in a cell next to you, but I suppose they're more lenient against first years who face Voldemort."

Sirius sucked in a sharp breathe, before muttering "Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Circe and Agrippa," and ploughing on with the letter.

"So, I'm the boy-who-lived-to-piss-off-dark-lords-repeatedly I guess. Uhm…what else.. I like chocolate frogs..? OH! I also play Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, I got on in first year, youngest seeker in a century and never lost a match. I don't like to brag but its bloody hard work spotting that tiny golden ball of irritation so I'll bloody well be proud of it.

The second year I had, well, Voldemort infiltrated again and I'm starting to think Hogwarts really isn't that safe, the school almost shut, but it didn't. Not much happened this year so far, but I won't hold my breath. Hogwarts isn't Hogwarts without me nearly dying somehow.

Um….what else… I live with my muggle relatives so every time I go back I'm always dying to get back to magic but I'm always constantly in danger, which is honestly just bloody annoying at this point.

Living with Aunt Petunia is sort of unbearable, I can't tell you how many times I've wished for a relative to take me away in the night, I'm sorry it couldn't be you, but I forgive you. You were blinded by rage towards a friend-turned-traitor. I don't know what I'd have done if Ron did that to me. I forgive you for that.

When you get out, I'd love to live with you –you'll pardon me for jumping to that, right? I've never had a real home before Hogwarts before, not even with the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon is a fat terrible man who works for a drill company – which is muggle building technology, if you're wondering. Yes, it's as boring as it sounds, but this man quite literally disproves of imagination. I'm not kidding. I wasn't allowed fiction books in the household or to be caught reading them even if they were assigned reading in school before Hogwarts.

Aunt Petunia is awful, she hates mum even to this day for being a witch, they think magic is unnatural and freaky, and by extension – think the same of me.

My cousin Dudley is like a Vernon Version 2, rather like a pig in a wig, but I could fill a novel with how much the Dursleys despise me, heck, if they knew how many times I had the opportunity to get myself killed and didn't – they'd be disappointed.

See? You really are my only real family. Family that I care about, anyway.

I was so unworthy of them and their 'normalness' that my room for eleven years was the cupboard under the stairs, my Hogwarts letter was even addressed to it. They didn't like to give me clothes, or toys or food, I guess it's sort of like your cell, huh? Only, I got let out, even if it was just for housework. But, I used to squirrel away toys Dudley forgot about, and one day, I stole his crayons. I was very little. He broke most of them but I could work the nubs. You know what I used to dream of when I was little? A flying motorcycle, I thought it was just a dream, but now I know better. It was real. You lent it to Hagrid so he could fly me away from the wreckage.

I used to dream a long-lost relative would come for me, flying on it.

I knew it was silly though, and Uncle Vernon would flay me if he caught me imagining things that were magical, or imagining at all really. But I drew it anyway, because it filled me with hope. Happiness. I kept it pinned to the door in my cupboard under the stairs, and I'd look at it when I was sad. It filled me with a silly kind of happiness and hope but now I know you're alive and reading these letters, and that hope is real.

You gave me my first happy memory that got me through many nights in my cupboard under the stairs.

I hope this can do the same for you.

Love, your godson,

Harry James Potter,"

Sirius unfolded the enclosed, aged paper, and felt his eyes go suspiciously warm like he could cry, as he gripped a childish drawing of a night sky filled with stars and flying motorcycle, with magical sparkles in yellow stars over a blue and black sky following it. He could tell that the paper had been folded many times to be hidden, and was very old, as much as the letter suggested.

Using the crack in the wall, he mounted the picture as best he could between jutting bricks that weren't laid as smoothly as they could, serving as a frame so that he could always see it whenever he awoke.

For the first time, apathy broke, and Sirius Black felt fury.

Fury towards the residents of Number 4 Privet Drive – those damned Dursleys.

He would stay sane, as Harry's first letter begged, if only to take him from that horrible place.

'Someday' he thought, as he stared at that childlike drawing that Harry had obviously treasured. 'We'll fly together on that old motorcycle, just like you dreamed about,'

At the end of each month, Harry would take a bunch of Daily Prophets he collected and snip out what he dubbed as important or worldly, interesting news, and crosswords, sudokus and rune puzzles with a muggle pen he could slip through the radar where he didn't need an inkpot and quill to do them. Harry condensed the news and would even include the Quidditch updates from the Nihongo Dragons to the Chudley Cannons and his own private preference, Puddlemere United – just to fill Sirius's time and let him try to get a grasp on what the outside world was like while he was gone.

Soon, his cell became steadily decorated with sheets of papers and letters, photos and news clippings.

Finally, on Valentine's Day – not that he knew it, if not for the date Harry always took care to mark on the top of each letter so he could better grasp the passage of time, inside was some coloured paper, with a funny look, he pulled it out, before letting out a dry cough as he attempted to laugh. He got a valentine behind bars.

Inside was a green piece of paper and red paper, and with much bribing, Harry had managed to get it into Azkaban.

Sirius skidded back in his cell, startled, watching the charmed paper fold itself – the green folded itself over and over again until it formed a long straw-like skinny form and a triangle out of its side, and then the red paper began folding itself infinitely and complicatedly, before sticking itself atop the green stem.

It formed a paper rose – Harry knew there were limits on to what he could send to the prison, but he knew paper was always allowed, and worked around it, to send him precious origami, folded and charmed himself.

"Dear Sirius Black,

Happy Valentine's Day! I'd send you chocolate but I couldn't quite get that through, so instead I included some origami instead and some more puzzles and stuff. I can't exactly send a book but there's no limit on paper, funnily enough. The only thing that makes a book a book is the binding, so you might get a particularly thick letter soon. It'll be the Guide to Decorating a House by Renée Ducase.

Well, I found out your assets have been frozen, not liquidated, and when you get released, you will receive your childhood home, and I've heard nothing good about it from my house elf, so perhaps you could put some thought to how you'd decorate it.

Because I've only gone and gotten you a trial, at the cost of having to publically support Minister Fudge and take a Wizengamot seat, I spent the better part of the year ousting Lucius Malfoy and having to take his place as primary financial supporter and advisor. I managed to get him a written contract from Dumbledore that promises him he won't be after his position as Minister – he's so thankful that he's willing to do anything. Mind you, we're running a smear campaign on Barty Crouch since your lack of trial was under his administration and using it as a selling point.

Basically. If any aurors visit you over the next few months, swallow your pride and sing Minister Fudge's praises for a bit. You've got yourself some powerful friends and allies, Sirius. I'm working my fingers to the bone behind the curtains as much as a teenager can, but I need you to cooperate.

I said I'd be coming for you soon.

Your loving godson,

Harry James Potter,"

Sirius grinned, shifting into Padfoot, filling Azkaban with the sounds of a victorious howl.

A considerable amount of time passed, before Sirius Black began to worry, but relief filled him, as another letter came. Harry himself was infuriated by the fact the memories seem to trickle in one by one, slowing as a mental defence from being overwhelmed to a point of his ears bleeding or turning his mind to complete mush, it deprived him of what could have been prevented, or better approached, as he found himself unable to get rid of the mental block, preventing and shielding him from the worst of his memories, that all began with the Goblet of Fire.

"Dear Sirius Black,

Your trial is going ahead, Pettigrew has been handed over, remember how I said it wouldn't be Hogwarts if someone didn't try to kill me? Well, I've been put in the Tri-Wizard cup. It's being held at Hogwarts and a former Death Eater cast a powerful confundus charm on the cup to make it think another school as entered. Someone who wants me dead has entered me as the fourth champion for this school that doesn't exist, and I'm compelled to compete under a binding contract.

Fuck.

I'll be able to get out of school to come get you ghosted to St Mungo's to recover until your trial but you won't see me again after that until this farce is over. I'm sorry.

I hope you're still keeping sane for me. I care about you.

Your loving godson,

Harry James Potter."

TBC

R&R