Hello and welcome to my story!

It'll be a shorter AU-fic of the what-if-Sirius-got-to-raise-Harry-kind. I know there's quite a few of them already, but I just like the idea of Harry getting a happy childhood, so I decided to write my own. Enjoy and do tell me what you think!

The Dog in The Fortress

The dark fortress in the middle of the ocean was plagued by many things, most of them unpleasant. There was the constant dampness, seeping through the thick stone walls. There was the salt, eating away at its surface. The cold wind never stopped, and often grew to monstrous, howling storms, rattling at the foundations, the freezing rain finding its way even into the innermost cells.

Yet despite its position in the middle of the sea, the waves crashing against the rocks were the only sound to be heard. No sea birds called, no gulls bickered over food on its stony shores. From the outside, the rocky island looked dead, the black fortress on its top seemingly abandoned. Fear hung over the place, a despair that penetrated deeper than even the most freezing storm.

And then there were the howls that didn't come from the wind. They came in episodes, just like the storm, but they were shorter, exhausted after mere minutes. None of the inhabitants of the fortress had enough strength to keep it up, thFlighte shouting and screaming but a feeble protest of their waning minds. Sooner or later, they all stopped, and the rushing waves were once again the only sound.

One thing the fortress did not see often was post. It did not have an address, much less a muggle postman that knew how to find it. And it certainly wasn't frequented by owls, who gave the island and the terrible creatures that guarded it an even wider berth than any hungry seagulls. Much less did it have inhabitants that anybody would want to write to.

And yet, on one particularly stormy night that certainly no owl, be it ever so brave, could have flown through, there appeared a letter in one of the cells, fluttering in on an icy gust of wind through the narrow window and landing right next to the scruffy black dog that was curled up in one corner.

The dog was sleeping, but the soaked paper brushing its paw made it twitch, a low whimper escaping its massive snout. The dog blinked and opened its eyes, grey eyes that had once shone with life but were now dull and glazed over. It lay still for a moment, the only movement being its eyes quickly scanning its surroundings.

There wasn't much to see. In one direction the cell was so narrow it could barely turn around. It was bigger in the other direction, maybe ten feet long. One end was blocked by thick iron bars, a dark corridor barely visible beyond it. There was another set of bars opposite, but its inhabitant had long gone silent. The wall at the other end was bare, except for a small window five feet above the ground, also barred. Rain dripped in through it, and the stones beneath it were white with salt that the sea had swept in over the years.

Everything was unchanged, as it had been for the past six years. The dog was just about to go back to sleep when another gust went through the cell, lifting up the scrap of paper next to it. It reacted instinctively, its head shooting forward, big fangs snapping at the sudden intrusion. It said it down between its front paws, taking a closer look at it, and blinked. It blinked again. And then it changed into a man.

He wasn't much of a man, more a shadow of a human being. His ragged robes hung loosely around his narrow frame and his long, matted hair fell into his sunken face, its waxy skin giving him closer resemblance to a corpse than a living being. His skeletal hands were shivering as they held the letter, staring down at it with the dog's dull eyes.

It wasn't so much a letter but a folded piece of paper, soggy from the rain it had apparently flown through. But on it, in very neat handwriting, was clearly written:

To Sirius Black, Azkaban, Cell 84

It appeared to be ink, yet the damp patches did not seem to affect it at all, the writing just as clear as if it had sat on a dry desk instead of having flown through a storm.

For a long while, the man did not move, sitting on the cold floor as motionless as if he really was a corpse. Then lightning illuminated the sky outside, followed by thunder, and he finally lifted one shaking hand, slowly unfolding the paper.

The writing inside was much less neat than the one on the front, yet just as miraculously preserved. There was no light inside the prison, and the moon was barely visible between the storm clouds, so it took him quite some time to decipher the words. When he had finally finished, he again sat silent for a long time, before safely tucking the paper away in his robes. Then he got up, stepping to the window and peering outside. The storm was weaker now, and the crashing of the waves had receded a bit.

A dark figure swept passed the window, the cold freezing the water droplets that clung to the iron bars, and the man stumbled back with a groan, falling over. Before he hit the ground he was gone, the black dog once more standing in the cold cell.

In the morning, it was gone as well.

The Man in the Shack

Remus Lupin had never thought of himself as particularly brave. Ever since that terrible incident when he was five, bravery was the very last thing on his mind. He lived in constant terror of the monster inside him, the monster that he was powerless to stop, that would rip him apart every month no matter what he did.

It had come as a bit of a surprise to him, then, when the Sorting Hat had put him into Gryffindor, and for the first few weeks he'd been rather certain that it had indeed been a mistake. Even later, when he had risked his life fighting against the darkest wizard Britain had ever seen, he wouldn't have used that word to describe himself.

Because he did not fight with the energetic bravado of James or Sirius, who did not seem to even consider death, or the quiet determination of Peter who followed them into battle after battle despite his trembling knees. He fought because while he certainly knew about the dangers, they simply didn't scare him. He wasn't was afraid to get hurt, maybe killed – because really, while he did not enjoy pain he was used to it, and death in battle seemed like the most a werewolf could hope for. He had embraced his fate, finding comfort in the seven years of joy he had spent and Hogwarts, and deciding that for a werewolf, he really had been exceptionally lucky, even if he were to get hit by a killing curse the next day.

Yet he hadn't died, and the years that followed had been far less kind to him. He was sick, unemployed, and desperately poor, living in a small house that had once been his parents' cottage, but now barely deserved that moniker.

So it was that he again found himself lacking any sort of fear when he found himself facing the dark wizard in his own home, the Death Eater he had once called friend, and who Dumbledore had warned him might come to kill him.

He didn't even make to ward the door when he heard the cautious sniffing outside. He merely set down the cup of tea he had been holding and carefully extracted his wand from his pocket, not moving from the battered old armchair he was sitting in.

"There's no Aurors here, in case you were wondering," he finally said loudly, surprised at how calm his voice sounded. The sniffing stopped, directly in front of the front door now. Then, there was the rustling of robes, and the breathing changed. Remus gripped his wand faster. While he had no real ambition to come out of this alive, his pride kept him from just giving in, and letting the man who had murdered his friends kill him without at least putting up a fight first.

Slowly, the weathered door opened, creaking terribly in its hinges. It revealed a gaunt figure, ragged robes flying across bare ankles in the soft morning breeze. As he stared into the face of the man who had destroyed his life, all Remus could find himself think was how terribly different he looked from the handsome boy he had once been.

Black – because he had stopped calling him Sirius, or even Padfoot in his mind many years ago – didn't move, standing in the open doorway and staring at the other man with dull, haunted eyes. He didn't carry a wand, as Remus noticed when he could finally tore his eyes away from that horribly sunken face.

Slowly, Remus made to stand, his wand still firmly in his hand. He knew he should stun him quickly, while Black still seemed to be frozen in place, or at least call the Aurors, but he found his wand hand unable to move. All these years he had wondered what he'd say to Black should their paths ever cross again, even considered visiting him in that god-awful place, asking him, screaming at him how he could ever have betrayed Lily and James, how he could have killed Peter… and yet here he found himself unable to speak.

"Here to finish the job?" he finally managed, his earlier calm gone completely as his voice was now barely more than a whisper.

It was enough to shake Black out of his stupor. "Remus," he croaked, moving forward a slow step before coming to a stop once more. "I – I need you to listen."

Remus raised an eyebrow, his courage coming back to him. Although it probably wasn't courage, but lack of care. "Listen?" he said, almost managing the mocking tone he had aimed for. "I don't think I want to listen to anything you have to say, ever again." Black flinched, but took another step forward, closing the door behind him. Remus raised his wand a little higher.

"I'm not…I never…" Black's voice faltered, and he grabbed for his left sleeve. Remus' automatically flinched, expecting him to draw a hidden wand, but all Black did was lift up the sleeve, and present his left arm to him. His bare arm.

"No mark," he croaked. "I'm not one of them; I never was."

Remus' wand arm faltered a little, but he kept the tip firmly pointed at his former friend. "Of course there's no mark. What kind of spy would you be if he had marked you?" He didn't know why he was even speaking to Black. He should call the Aurors, or, better yet, Dumbledore. But he didn't.

Black shook his head. "He marked him. He marked Wormtail."

It took a few moments for his words to sink in. When Remus realized what Black implied, his grip on his wand tightened further, his knuckles going white. "Don't you-"

"It was him," Black blurted, his face contorting into a mask of anger and pain. Oddly, it made him look human for the first time since he had stepped through the door. "We swapped it was my idea…I thought it was so clever , because nobody would expect it to be him, and Voldemort'd hunt me, and they'd be safe…we didn't tell you because...because I thought you were the traitor, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...and then he…and they…I hunted him, wanted to kill him. But he was faster, and he blew up the street and cut off his finger and transformed…I was outwitted by Wormtail." He laughed, but it was a hollow, bitter laugh.

Remus simply stared, his mind trying to process what he'd just heard. This is ridiculous. He's trying to trick you, trying to get you to lower your wand…he doesn't have one; he needs to win you over so he can defeat you… And yet he still did not cast his Patronus to call Dumbledore.

At his hesitation, hope flickered up in Black's grey eyes. "Please, Remus. Lily and James...James. You know I'd never...could never..."

Six years Remus had tried to consolidate the Sirius Black he had known at school with the cold blooded traitor, and he still hadn't quite managed it. And yet...

"You want me to believe that Peter beat you? Peter Pettigrew?" He was surprised at how cold his voice sounded. Black flinched, and didn't answer immediately. Remus had known Peter's duelling skills, just as much as Black's. There was no question which of them would've won in a fight.

"I- he must've had that plan all along," Black finally said, slower than before. "And I wasn't thinking clearly. I wanted to kill him, but I also wanted him to admit what he had done before I did. And he used that. Called me traitor – me – in front of all those muggles, and before I knew it, there was this huge explosion – barely had time to shield myself – and all those people were dead, and then I saw him, and he had cut off his fucking finger and then he was gone, and I didn't..."

"You laughed," Remus said tonelessly, remembering the gruelling recollection of the muggle witness. "When the Aurors got there, you laughed."

Black shrugged – an oddly human gesture that didn't fit at all to his corpse-like appearance. "What would you have done?" he said, looking at Remus in a way that the old Sirius Black might have done. Remus quickly averted his gaze. "Lily and James were dead, because of my brilliant plan, I hadn't slept in three days, and then I got bested by Peter Bloody Pettigrew, of all people. I just..." He shrugged again, his voice sounding small now. "I thought I'd get a trial, and that maybe I could convince Dumbledore to believe me, or you..." He grimaced, bitterness creeping into his tone. "But that never happened, did it? Right off to Azkaban with dear cousin Bellatrix."

Remus didn't answer, still refusing to look at Black. This is mental. Call Dumbledore already. But he still didn't. "So you're saying that Peter's a Death Eater, and still alive?" he asked instead, struggling to make it sound quite as ridiculous as he felt it should be – because really, who would ever believe chubby, twitchy little Peter to be anything but a harmless little boy?

"Don't know if he's still alive," Black said darkly, ignoring the disbelieving tone. "Probably is, though. Ugly rats like him always find a way." Seeing Remus' still hadn't lowered his wand, his tone grew more pleading. "How come you believe I'm a Death Eater and not Wormtail?" he said, sounding almost undignified. "When did I ever hang out with people stronger than me? When did I ever show anything but contempt for people like my family? When did I ever break my word?"

Remus didn't answer. The storm of thoughts that was swirling in his mind ever since Sirius had started speaking had grown so much that he was now struggling to make out any clear outline. This was just...surely it couldn't be? He'd spent the last six years desperately trying to come to terms with the fact that person he'd known in school was actually as dark wizard, a traitor and a murderer. And now... Only then did he realize that he'd just called him Sirius in his mind.

His wand arm was trembling now. It can't be...

He forced himself to look up, directly into the sunken grey eyes that had once shone with so much life, so much energy. Slowly, struggling to get the words out of his mouth, he asked: "Which finger?"

The Boy in the Cupboard

The boy sat on the front steps of number four Privet Drive, enjoying the first rays of spring sun on his face. It was a Sunday afternoon, the street and the houses on it lay deserted. It was a rather boring street, with neat, regular front lawns framed by neat, regular hedges that led to boring, boxy houses that all looked the same. The expensive cars parked in the driveways also looked the same.

In fact, the only thing breaking the tedious pattern was the aforementioned boy sitting on the front steps of number four. In any other surrounding he would not have been very remarkable, forgettable even, but here, in the almost unnatural tidiness, his somewhat scruffy appearance – the unruly black hair, the visibly mended glasses, the baggy, second-hand clothes – looked rather out of place.

Maybe it was fitting then, that Harry Potter was looking for something out of place himself.

It had begun about a week ago – shortly after that incident with the vanishing letter, actually – when very strange people had started showing up on the usually boring street he lived in. The first one, on Monday night, had been a rather small man, wearing an odd sort of long, green coat and the most ridiculous top hat that Harry had ever seen, coloured in bright purple. He'd met him on his way back from school, having taken a detour to get out of his cousin's way, and had almost run into the man when he was rounding a corner. Instead of shouting or reprimanding him, as Harry was used to from adults, the man had let out an odd sort of squeal, almost as if Harry's presence had scared him, before scampering off towards Wisteria Walk.

On Tuesday morning, there had been a woman walking past on the opposite side of the road when Harry and his cousin had left for school. She was wearing a green scarf but seemed otherwise normal, if maybe a little eccentric for Little Whinging. But when the door opened she stopped to turn around, staring at the two boys until Aunt Petunia appeared behind them, narrowing their eyes and muttering about "shady, thieving folks". If Harry hadn't known this to be ridiculous, he would have sworn the strange woman had been looking at him.

He didn't see anybody on Wednesday or Thursday, although he felt oddly watched whenever he stepped out of the door. On Friday, then, there was a giant, brown bird waiting in front of his driveway as he came home from school, and even though it flew off before he could get closer he couldn't help stare after it, once again colliding with someone. This someone was even stranger than anybody had met before. He was wearing a worn coat and was leaning onto a stick, though while he seemed old he did not look like he actually needed help walking. His face was rather terrifying, crossed by terribly scars, and his nose appeared to be missing. On his head sat an enormous bowler, drawn deep into his face and covering one of his eyes. Despite the rather mundane hat, Harry found himself thinking of a pirate. The man's visible eye narrowed at him as he looked the boy over, and Harry felt his pulse quickening – pirates were dangerous, weren't they? – but the man only huffed, shifting the weight onto his stick. "Eyes on the road, lad," he growled, turning away and making his way down the road towards Magnolia Crescent, "Constant vigilance." As he walked, Harry could hear the distinct "thump" of a wooden leg at every other step. As he slowly went into the house, Harry found himself wondering what a pirate was doing in Little Whinging.

Intrigued by these strange happenings that seemed to go almost unnoticed by his Aunt and Uncle – although Uncle Vernon had complained about a "dirty beggar" hanging around Magnolia Road the other day – Harry decided to investigate. It was the weekend, meaning the Dursleys would spend most of their day inside, watching television. At first he had tried to set up camp in the kitchen, where he had a good view on the road, but after Aunt Petunia had found him and suspected him of wanting to steal food, he had migrated outside the front door. Of course she would be terribly angry if she found him here, as well – after all, sitting outside one's front steps was not considered normal by the inhabitants of Privet Drive – but as it was, she was too caught up in feeding Dudley with any sweets that he could stuff in his mouth to notice.

The front steps weren't the most comfortable place, and as he hadn't dared to take a coat for fear of looking suspicious, he'd been rather cold yesterday, but it was still better than spending time in his cupboard and listening to his cousin's squeals of delight at whatever cartoon was playing on the television.

Sadly, Saturday hadn't just been cold, but also disappointing when it came to the strange people. The only person to have come close to number four had been the postman, who, while at least smiling at Harry, was not strange at all. There hadn't been any giant birds again either, just a tabby cat that seemed to have taken a liking to sitting on the small wall on the opposite side of the road. As his boredom grew, Harry had considered walking over to pet it, but then he remembered the terribly frightening lady that lived there and had settled for watching it, just as the cat seemed to watch him.

Despite his failure, he had taken up his watch once more today, an odd tingling of anticipation in his belly. Today just seemed...promising. Something good was going to happen, Harry decided. For once, the cold April weather seemed finally over, and the sun shone down warmly on him as he sat on the stone steps, waiting.

There were even less people about than the day before, but instead of dull, the quiet felt different, anticipating. And then, just as Harry was wondering whether he should go inside to try and sneak some late lunch, it happened.

Two soft pops sounded through the air, oddly loud in the quiet street. When the two people stepped around the corner, Harry immediately knew that they were the same sort of strange as the man in the top hat had been. For once, they were wearing the same weird coats, even though theirs were brown and rather shabby looking. The one in the front had long, black hair whose unkempt state would have had Aunt Petunia fainting. His face was pale, almost skull-like, as if he hadn't been outside for a long time and skipped a lot of meals while he was at it. But there was an impatient spring in his step, and his eyes seemed to shine with life as he was craning his neck for something.

The other man was also looking around, if somewhat more cautiously. He had many lines on his face that were, Harry realized when they got closer, scars. His hair was of a sandy brown colour, shorter than his companion's but still almost reaching the collar of his coat. Petunia wouldn't have liked him much either, Harry decided.

His heart quickened as he realized that they were coming his way, and as he remembered the lessons they had in school about not talking to strangers, he began to question his decision to sit out here alone. Maybe he should go back inside...

Then, the black haired man seemed to have found what he was looking for, and every thought of flight left Harry's head as he realized what it was. Or rather, who.

The man stopped dead in his tracks, staring at Harry as if he had seen a ghost. Maybe he's confused because you're sitting out here. Aunt Petunia says it's a strange thing to do, and grown-ups don't like strange things.

The second man put a hand on his companion's arm, muttering something, and the first man started moving again, slower now. Towards Harry.

As they made their way up the driveway of number four, Harry slowly got to his feet. Should he say something? Should he fetch Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon? After all, they must be here for the Dursleys. Harry never had visitors. And yet, they did not look like the sort of visitors the Dursleys got, either...

Before he could decide what to do, the black haired man stopped in front of him, looking down at Harry with something that resembled a smile on his gaunt face. His eyes – grey, as Harry noticed – shone with emotion as he slowly extracted something from the pocket of his coat. "Harry," he said in a rather hoarse voice that sounded like it hadn't been used very much recently. "I got your letter."

That's it for now, but the next few chapters are already written, so you can expect them soon. In the meantime, why don't you review? ;)