July 6, 1993

The sleep Sirius emerged from was thick and warm, lying over him in soft layers. Sprawled boneless against thin cloth, he blinked into the pale light shading through his cell's solitary window. Clouds blocked the sun, casting the day in a dreamy gray.

I haven't slept like that for…

A year.

The Dementors were gone.

He's back.

Nails cutting deep into his palms, he pushed stiffly up from the worn straw mattress spread on the stone block that made up his bed. He'd eaten last night, tried this morning – but not much. Something had set his stomach to cramping, and he'd vomited into the early dawn hours.

Last year I missed it entirely. He'd lost track of the days, forgotten the seasons – and ended up drugged senseless for the Minister's annual visit, as well as a good few days following.

Pensive, Sirius rested a careful hand against his abdomen.

Sore. From exertion, and the hollowness of hunger.

But his mind was clear, the Dementors at the farthest edges of his senses. In the cliffs and coasts of the island, probably. Emotion surged – not happiness, that wasn't possible here, but the closest he could come anymore – and blurred his vision with tears. He let out a shaky breath, throwing all of his consciousness into that moment.

And the next.

And thought.

Bailey, now the Guard-Captain, had eyed him carefully a for a week after he woke. The man was easy enough to parse, despite not having exchanged words with him since the morning after his mother's death – nothing changed in Azkaban. The prison was as frozen in time as the prisoners, trapped in the height of their worse memories. He wants us to suffer long, full lives under the Dementors' tender mercies.

They'd changed his sedative, then – from Dreamless Sleep to . . .

Sweet, like apples. Too dim to see if there was a green hue to the water. A derivative of the Draught of Living Death, without the wormwood oil infusion; which would account for his illness. Something that would allow the recipient to wake without a restorative, unlike the vast majority of derivatives from the Draught.

Chione's Bane.

Most likely.

Mouth twisting, Sirius blew out his distaste on a deep exhale.

If you need someone unconscious for whatever you might want to do, that would get it done. Brewed properly, of course.

Thank Merlin someone didn't get further than O.W.L.s in Potions.

Slipping to the edge of the bed, he tested wobbly legs for a brief moment – pressing back memories of James' first full transformations. A glance at the sun against the floor told him it was early yet; the Minister unlikely to have already come and gone.

Standing made his vision spiral into darkness, his ears deafened by a sharp ringing. Sirius clutched at the wall, unwilling to return to the cobblestone floor. Between the Dementors and the Aurors, he spent far too much time there already. And shaky thought they were, his legs were glad for the exercise. Spend all my time sitting rather than collapse every time a Dementor gets too close.

Any fleeting thoughts he'd entertained in those first few years of keeping his strength up were quickly killed by the minimal food and struggle at times to simply breathe.

But today, the Minister would come. The Dementors had retreated, the prisoners on the first three floors were senseless, and the sun, however weak and hidden by clouds, warmed and brightened his cell.

The steps to his window were worth every near-fall. He even had strength to rest his palms on the sill, not needing to suffer the bite of cold iron by wrapping his fingers around the bars just to keep himself upright. Gray eyes ignored the dirt of the ground in favor of ever-brightening clouds, even though the light made him wince.

Breathe. Just breathe.

It was so blissfully quiet that the sound of the door from the Auror's levels was clearly audible, even halls away.

"I say, that's much better than last year."

Boots and shoes, scuffing on stone. Just two pairs, though there was a low murmur of other voices that stopped with the clank of stone as the door swung closed.

"We've adjusted our protocols, Minister." Bailey. "Per your requests." And he was shirty, too.

The muscles in his face twisted. It took Sirius a moment to realize he was smiling.

"Very good." Fudge's voice was too absently bland to have picked up on it. "And I must credit where it is due, Captain; the smell is almost tolerable."

Did he Confound the entire population to win that election?

"Again, Minister, we took your concerns seriously, including those about the facility's sanitation." Bailey would crack a tooth if he ground down any harder.

At least that explained the high-powered Aguamenti charms through the hallways last week, as well as the grumbling Aurors who had, for once, been too distracted to throw hexes.

Their noise – voices, feet, humanity – grew louder as they approached, and Sirius put his back to the wall as he waited for them to come into view.

Bailey, the same as ever, though the years had granted him more weight in the barrel of his chest. Fudge, still portly. Is that… the same suit? Pinstripes and a purple cravat. The hat was definitely the same, or near enough as to make no difference.

The Guard-Captain's eyes marked him in their roving threat assessment, and moved on. Fudge didn't even glance his way. Sirius's gaze caught on something, and he straightened from his stoop.

Bailey caught the motion and tension corded in his neck. One hand curled into a fist – heavy, with scarred knuckles. Sirius remembered that fist.

But.

The Minister had a copy of The Daily Prophet folded up and tucked under one arm.

The noise of Sirius clearing his throat brought them both to a standstill. "Might I have your paper?"

Turned toward the bars out of reflex, Fudge stared at him blankly.

"I miss the crossword," Sirius blurted. His voice, mostly unused, was an unrecognizable rasp. I hate the crossword. I miss Remus; and he loves that damn thing.

Maybe, somewhere beyond the stone surrounding him, Remus was prodding today's copy of the Daily Prophet with a quill, puzzling over the clues and pulling ridiculously short words with too many vowels from the recesses of his brain.

Then again, after twelve years he might not even like it anymore.

Fudge squinted, head cocked in befuddlement.

"Minister," Bailey rumbled, with a glare at Sirius. "We should -"

Fudge raised a hand, and Bailey nearly bit his tongue. The glare aimed at Sirius intensified to a glower.

If looks could kill, Sirius mused. He should be so lucky.

But there was an odd expression on Fudge's face; as if he'd reached over to pat a dumb beast and instead found himself greeted by name. He extended the folded paper through the bars. And waited.

Surprise crept up on Sirius, in spite of himself.

The first step forward brought Bailey's wand to hand, aimed squarely between the bars on center mass.

Little slow on the draw, he couldn't help but think.

Of course, it was easy to criticize when one didn't even have a wand to draw.

"Careful, now," the Auror growled.

Quirking a brow, Sirius slowly lifted his hands up and out – ragged sleeves falling down to show bare forearms; no wand or holster strapped to his wrist. The universal gesture of peace for wizards – who, even wandless, were never truly unarmed.

Not even in Azkaban.

Though he kept the secret of his magic close. Even Trixie, fueled by fury, hasn't produced so much as a spark in half a decade. Azkaban did that.

He chanced one more step, soles bare against stone that had been worn softer over the years by his own flesh. Then another.

Bailey grunted. "That's far enough."

Just barely within arm's reach, but the expression on the Guard-Captain's face meant this could go sour very fast. Carefully, Sirius extended one hand, watching Bailey with every shift of bone and muscle.

Paper, thin against his fingers. He could feel the ink.

Fudge's eyes, a dull green nothing close to Lily's vibrant shade, caught on Sirius's for the split second before he relinquished the paper. The odd scrutiny there had Sirius stifling a snort. Might as well have steam coming out his ears, the wheels in his head are spinning so fast.

The Minister stepped back from the bars with a gusty exhale, as if he'd just finished a race.

Sirius didn't call the words consciously, but they came nonetheless. "Thank you."

That earned him surprise from Fudge, and an automatic "You're welcome"; and suspicion from Bailey – who went so far as to put a hand to the Minister's back to urge him along. Bailey himself kept his attention and wand on Sirius, until they rounded the corner leading to the stairs.

Azkaban stripped people down to their most basic elements. And Sirius's core was – well. Everything he'd learned before a brush with the Sorting Hat changed his life.

Everything that went into training the Scion of an Ancient and Noble House with one of the strongest Slytherin traditions in Hogwarts' history.

That he'd kept anything of the man he'd become beyond that was due entirely to his – unique – circumstances.

But for now, he had something to read.

He was sitting in the light from his window without recognizing how he got there. Greedily, Sirius unfolded the paper.

A large picture spread across the front page, seven wizards and two witches clumped together in front of the Great Pyramids at Giza. They were all waving happily.

Pale eyes devoured the print; Grand Prize Winner Visits Egypt!

Arthur and Molly Weasley, and their sons. Something skittered across the shoulders of one of the boys in the image. Something familiar.

Angling the paper into the weak light thrown down by his narrow window, Sirius squinted. Small body, long tail – a rat. It paused on one thin shoulder, twisting toward the lens long enough for both front paws to flash into view. Like an optical illusion, there and gone so quickly that he knew madness for a long moment, straining after what he thought he'd seen.

Then it did it again, easier to mark now that he was looking for it. And again.

Words leapt out at him from the page.

Merlin save him. Merlin save – Harry!

The rat. And the boy.

The breath clogged in Sirius's lungs.

He's at Hogwarts.

Fin

(Epilogue to follow)