## Azkaban Prison – Maximum Security Wing – 6:47 AM GMT
The North Sea wind howled against Azkaban's weathered stone like a banshee with nothing left to lose, carrying with it the endless percussion of waves that had beaten against the fortress walls for centuries. The sound was a constant companion to madness here—wave after wave after wave, counting down the seconds, minutes, hours of lives forgotten by the world above.
Inside the fortress, moisture wept from every surface, creating rivulets that traced pathways through accumulated grime like tears on a corpse's cheek. The air hung thick with the taste of rust, rot, and something far worse—the metallic tang of despair so concentrated it had become almost solid. Most mornings brought only the familiar symphony of suffering: the rattle of chains, the distant weeping of the mad, and the soul-freezing whisper of Dementors gliding through corridors like death given form.
But this morning carried a different energy entirely.
The Dementors had retreated to the lower levels with an almost petulant reluctance, their usual dominion interrupted by the arrival of something even they found distasteful: a cluster of international officials armed with diplomatic immunity and an insufferable sense of righteousness. Even creatures that fed on human misery had standards, it seemed, and bureaucrats apparently fell below them.
Ted Tonks stood outside a cell that had become the stuff of wizarding legend, gripping a weathered leather briefcase with white knuckles. The case had seen better days—much like Ted himself. His usually neat brown hair looked as though he'd wrestled with a hurricane during the boat ride over and come out decidedly second-best. Salt spray had left white residue on his traveling cloak, and his shoes squelched with every step, but his eyes—those warm brown eyes that had charmed Andromeda Black away from her pureblood family—burned with the stubborn fire of a man who'd spent five years tilting at legal windmills and had finally brought a proper army.
"Right then," he muttered to himself, adjusting his grip on the briefcase handle. "No pressure, Ted. Just the most important case of your career. The one where you either free an innocent man or confirm you're a complete tosser who's wasted five years chasing shadows."
Beside him, Andromeda Tonks was the very picture of controlled determination wrapped in healer's robes that somehow remained crisp despite their journey through the North Sea's worst temper tantrum in a month. Her dark hair was bound in a severe knot that would have done her mother proud—though for entirely different reasons—and every movement carried the distinctive elegance that marked her as Black family born, tempered now by years of healing the broken and forgotten. Where Ted looked like he'd been through a blender, she radiated the sort of icy control that suggested she'd seen horrors before and knew exactly how to stare them down without blinking.
"You're muttering again," she observed, her voice carrying that particular tone she'd perfected during their marriage—fond exasperation wrapped in silk and steel.
"I always mutter before impossible cases," Ted replied, attempting a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "It's part of my process. Muttering, followed by mild panic, followed by brilliance. Sometimes the order varies."
"And sometimes you skip straight to the panic," Andromeda noted dryly, though her hand found his elbow in a gesture of support that was all the more powerful for being subtle.
Ted took a steadying breath that tasted of salt and suffering, squared his shoulders in a way that would have made his old debate team proud, and called through the door with as much confidence as he could muster.
"Sirius? It's Ted. Ted Tonks. I've brought Andromeda with me. You remember her—the sister who didn't go completely mental? We've come to get you out of this delightful holiday resort."
For a moment, there was nothing but the eternal sound of waves and the distant drip of condensation marking time like a funeral metronome. Then, from somewhere in the depths of the cell, came a voice that made both Tonks freeze with recognition and heartbreak.
It was unmistakably Sirius—that distinctive baritone that had once filled Hogwarts corridors with laughter and Gryffindor common room with the sound of plans being hatched. But five years of Azkaban had worked their terrible alchemy on it, thinning it to a rasp, cracking it at the edges, leaving it uncertain in a way that Sirius Black had never been uncertain about anything in his life.
"Ted?" The voice carried a world of disbelief, as though the speaker was afraid to trust his own ears. "Ted Tonks? The one who married my cousin and convinced her to elope rather than face Mother's inevitable apocalyptic reaction?"
Despite everything, Ted felt his mouth curve into the first genuine smile he'd managed in weeks. "That's the one. Though I maintain that eloping was entirely your cousin's idea. I was perfectly willing to face down Bellatrix and her curses like a proper gentleman."
"Liar," came the response, and there was something almost like amusement in it—rusty, disused, but definitely there. "You were terrified. Andromeda told everyone at the wedding that you'd gone green around the gills just thinking about asking for her hand properly."
"I wasn't green," Ted protested, his confidence growing with each familiar exchange. "I was... strategically pale. There's a difference."
A pause. Then: "This isn't another Dementor trick, is it? Because I have to tell you, mate, their psychological torture has really improved over the years. Very sophisticated. Last week they convinced me I was having tea with McGonagall and she was complaining about my Transfiguration essays from twenty years ago."
Andromeda stepped forward, her healer's instincts already cataloging the tremor in her cousin's voice, the way his words carried both hope and the terrible fear of having that hope crushed again. Her hand touched the iron door as though she could transfer strength through cold metal, and when she spoke, her voice carried all the warmth she'd learned to hide from her family and all the steel she'd inherited from them.
"It's real, Sirius. We're real. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere until you walk out of this place with us." She paused, letting the words settle. "I've come to take you home."
That word—home—hung in the stagnant air like a spell too powerful and too fragile to trust. In the silence that followed, they could hear movement from within the cell, the rustle of fabric against stone, the careful shuffle of someone who'd learned not to move too quickly lest the world prove to be just another cruel illusion.
"Home," Sirius repeated, and the word sounded foreign in his mouth, like he was testing the pronunciation of a language he'd once been fluent in but had forgotten how to speak. "I don't think I have one of those anymore, cousin dear. Haven't for quite some time, actually. They said I betrayed James. That I killed Peter. That I murdered thirteen people with a single curse and laughed about it afterward."
The bitterness in his voice was sharp enough to cut glass, but underneath it, Andromeda's trained ear caught something else—a question. A desperate need to be told that the nightmare had an ending.
Ted's response came sharp and certain, five years of legal frustration finally given proper outlet. "They lied, Sirius. Every single bloody word of it was a lie told by incompetent fools who couldn't find their own arses with both hands and a detailed map."
"Ted," Andromeda murmured, though there was approval in her tone.
"What? I'm being diplomatic. I could have said what I really think about the Ministry's investigative capabilities." Ted shifted his briefcase to his other hand, the leather creaking with the movement. "We've got proof, Sirius. Real, actual, undeniable proof. Pettigrew's alive. The Ministry's case has collapsed faster than a house of cards in a hurricane, and the International Confederation of Wizards is demanding your immediate release with the sort of language that usually precedes declarations of war."
The silence that followed was different—charged with possibility rather than despair. When Sirius spoke again, his voice had changed, gaining a dangerous clarity that reminded them both powerfully of the young man who'd faced down his own family for the sake of his principles.
"Peter's alive?" There was something almost predatory in the question now, the sound of a man who'd spent five years planning what he'd do if he ever got his hands on the real traitor. "You found him? You actually found the miserable, backstabbing rat?"
"Not exactly found," Andromeda corrected with the precision of someone who'd learned not to give false hope to patients' families. "But we have proof he's alive, proof of what he did. The ICW has issued warrants, and when he's caught—not if, when—he'll face proper trial. The kind with actual evidence and competent representation."
"First, though," Ted added, his voice growing stronger with each word, "we're getting you out of here. Transport to Geneva is waiting. Full diplomatic protection, proper hearing before the ICW tribunal, complete public exoneration. The works."
From within the cell came a sound that made both of them freeze—half laugh, half sob, raw and jagged and utterly heartbreaking. It was the sound of a man who'd given up hope discovering that maybe, just maybe, he'd been wrong to do so.
The ancient door groaned open with a grinding protest of metal against metal that seemed to shake the entire wing. Ministry wards unraveled with sparks of dying magic, and the sound of chains falling away rang like church bells announcing resurrection.
Ted and Andromeda stepped into the cell, and both had to work to keep their expressions neutral.
Sirius Black crouched in the far corner like a wounded animal, all sharp angles and hollow spaces where a man should have been solid. His once-magnificent black hair hung in tangled ropes past his shoulders, his beard had grown wild and unkempt, and his prison robes hung on his frame like burial shrouds. But when his eyes found theirs—those distinctive Grey eyes that marked him as unmistakably Black—there was still fire there. Dimmed, banked, but burning nonetheless.
Ted crouched to bring himself to Sirius's level, his movements slow and non-threatening. "Hello, mate. You look absolutely dreadful."
Despite everything, Sirius's mouth quirked upward. "Flatterer. You should see what five years of gourmet Azkaban cuisine does for the figure. I'm thinking of writing a diet book: 'The Dementor Method—Lose Your Soul and Thirty Pounds!'"
"Your sense of humor survived," Andromeda observed, relief evident in her voice. "That's... actually rather remarkable."
"Humor was all I had," Sirius replied, his voice gaining strength. "That and the absolute certainty that I was innocent. Amazing what you can endure when you know the truth, even when everyone else has decided you're lying."
Ted nodded, understanding perfectly. "Listen to me, Sirius. I need you to hear this, really hear it, because it's important." He paused, making sure he had his friend's full attention. "Harry's alive. He's safe. And he knows you're innocent."
The change that came over Sirius at Harry's name was immediate and devastating. Every defense he'd built, every wall he'd constructed to survive, crumbled in an instant. The bitter humor, the careful distance, the protective cynicism—all of it fell away to reveal something raw and desperate and utterly vulnerable.
"Harry?" His voice broke on the name, and tears began tracking through the grime on his face. "My Godson? James's boy?"
"Your godson," Andromeda confirmed gently. "And he's been asking about you. Demanding answers, actually. Rather forcefully, from what I understand."
Sirius laughed through his tears, and for a moment, he sounded almost like himself again. "Of course he has. Potter stubbornness runs in the blood. Lily used to say James could argue with a brick wall and usually win."
"He's being raised by a man named Tony Stark," Ted continued, watching Sirius's face carefully. "Perhaps you've heard of him?"
Sirius blinked, confusion replacing grief for a moment. "Stark? As in the makes-weapons-of-mass-destruction, explosions-for-entertainment, thumb-his-nose-at-authority Tony Stark? That Stark?"
Ted's grin was answer enough.
"Bloody hell," Sirius breathed, then threw back his head and laughed—really laughed—for the first time in five years. It was weak and broken and beautiful. "James would have absolutely loved that. Prong's son being raised by the world's most famous reckless genius. Lily would have killed them both within a week."
"From what I understand," Andromeda said dryly, "Mr. Stark has been making life rather difficult for certain Ministry officials. Something about finding British magical law 'quaint' and 'charmingly medieval in its disregard for basic human rights.'"
"He's made my job considerably easier," Ted admitted. "Having someone with unlimited resources and a personal grudge against incompetent bureaucracy can be remarkably helpful in legal proceedings. Also terrifying. Mostly helpful, though."
They helped Sirius to his feet, both of them careful with their touch, aware that five years of Azkaban would have left him touch-starved and skittish. Andromeda's wand was already moving in diagnostic patterns, her lips tightening as the results became clear.
"Severe malnutrition. Chronic sleep deprivation. Trauma exposure that's off any scale I've seen." Her voice was professional, but her eyes were furious. "The fact that you're still coherent is either miraculous or testimony to Black family stubbornness."
"Bit of both, I think," Sirius said, managing a crooked grin that was pure Black family arrogance. "Though 'coherent' might be overselling it. I've been having conversations with the rats. Lovely creatures, rats. Much better company than most of the guards."
"Well, you'll have better company soon enough," Ted said, helping steady Sirius as they began the slow journey toward the door. "Harry's waiting to meet his godfather properly, and from what Stark's told me, you'll probably end up being his drinking buddy within a week."
"Drinking buddy with Tony Stark," Sirius mused, his steps growing surer with each word. "Five years ago, I was planning to be the world's most embarrassing godfather to Harry Potter. Now I might end up corrupting Iron Man instead. Life takes the oddest turns."
As they reached the corridor, Sirius cast a sideways glance at Ted. "Tell me straight, mate. No lawyer double-talk, no diplomatic niceties. Do I actually get to be Harry's godfather? Or am I too much of a wreck? Because I won't blame him if he takes one look at me and decides he's better off with the stable billionaire genius."
Andromeda's response was immediate and fierce. "You are wounded, Sirius. Traumatized, certainly. You'll need time to heal, time to remember how to live in the world again. But you are not broken. You are not ruined. And you are absolutely Harry Potter's godfather, now and always."
"Besides," Ted added with characteristic dry humor, "from what I've heard about Tony Stark's idea of responsible parenting, Harry could probably use a stable influence in his life."
Sirius snorted. "Me? Stable? Clearly Azkaban has affected your judgment, Ted."
"You're more stable than a man who thinks the appropriate response to international incidents is to fly around the world in a suit of armor making sarcastic comments."
"I can't wait to meet him," Sirius said, and meant it. "It's been far too long since I've had a proper partner in crime."
As they approached the Portkey that would take them to Geneva and freedom, Sirius felt something he'd almost forgotten existed. Not the bitter hope that had sustained him through the worst days—that desperate, clinging thing that hurt more than it helped. This was different. Warmer. More solid.
For the first time in five years, hope didn't feel like a cruel joke. It felt like coming home.
"Ready?" Ted asked, his hand on the old boot that would carry them away from this place of nightmares.
Sirius Black, heir to an ancient name, innocent man wrongly imprisoned, godfather to the Boy Who Lived, looked around the cell that had been his world for half a decade. Then he turned his back on it forever.
"I've been ready for five years," he said. "Let's go get my godson."
---
## International Confederation of Wizards Headquarters – Geneva, Switzerland – 2:15 PM CET
The ICW headquarters loomed over Geneva's hidden magical quarter like a monument to justice built by committee—and somehow made magnificent despite it. The building was an architectural impossibility that shouldn't have worked but absolutely did: part Byzantine basilica, part Japanese pagoda, part Moorish citadel, its walls adorned with protective symbols that predated the rise and fall of empires. Every stone thrummed with layered enchantments from dozens of magical traditions, the kind of deep, complex magic that made even the most arrogant governments pause and reconsider their positions.
The emergency tribunal chamber was a study in controlled grandeur, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadows that seemed to whisper of justice delayed but never denied. Banners representing every magical nation hung in precise rows, their colors muted by the ancient lighting charms that cast everything in the golden glow of autumn afternoons. The air carried the distinctive scent of old parchment, polished wood, and something indefinable that might have been the accumulated weight of centuries of legal precedent.
Behind the vast bench of enchanted oak—carved smooth by generations of Chief Warlocks and worn to a patina that seemed to glow with inner light—sat Sebastian Durand. He was a man built like a fortress, broad-shouldered and immovable, his steel-gray beard trimmed with military precision. Every movement he made was deliberate, economical, carrying the quiet menace of someone who had stared down corrupt governments and recalcitrant dictators and had never once been the first to blink. His dark eyes, sharp as obsidian blades, swept the chamber with the methodical attention of a predator cataloging prey.
When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of absolute authority wrapped in a French accent that turned even simple words into pronouncements of fate.
"This emergency tribunal," Durand began, each word measured and final, "has been convened to examine the case of Sirius Orion Black, heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, godfather to Harry James Potter, and victim of one of the most egregious miscarriages of justice in modern magical history."
The words echoed through the chamber like stones dropped into a deep well, each syllable carrying implications that made several of the British delegation shift uncomfortably in their seats.
"The accused," Durand continued, his gaze settling on the defense table with something that might have been approval, "was imprisoned by the British Ministry of Magic without trial, without evidence, and without the basic considerations afforded to the lowest criminal. He has spent five years in Azkaban Prison for crimes he not only did not commit, but which were in fact perpetrated by the very man whose testimony sent him there."
Sirius Black sat at the long mahogany table reserved for defendants, and the transformation from the broken man they'd pulled from Azkaban that morning was remarkable. He'd been cleaned, fed, and properly clothed in robes that actually fit his frame. His hair had been trimmed and braided back in a style that managed to look both respectable and faintly rebellious—a compromise that had undoubtedly been negotiated between Andromeda's sense of propriety and Sirius's innate need to thumb his nose at authority. His posture spoke of a man who'd been through hell and come out the other side with his sense of humor intact and his middle finger ready for deployment.
The haunted look in his gray eyes hadn't entirely disappeared—five years of Azkaban wasn't something you simply washed away with soap and clean robes—but there was something else there now. That dangerous spark of mischief that had made him the terror of Hogwarts professors and the delight of everyone who'd ever wanted to see someone stick it to the establishment.
On his right sat Ted Tonks, wearing the expression of a lawyer who'd spent five years building a case and was finally getting to watch his opponents realize they were completely, thoroughly, and publicly screwed. His brown hair was neatly combed for once, his best courtroom robes pressed to knife-sharp creases, and his briefcase sat open beside him like a loaded weapon waiting to be fired. Every few moments, he'd glance at the British delegation with the sort of smile that suggested he was already composing his victory speech and wondering if it would be appropriate to include a section on their complete professional incompetence.
Andromeda sat on Sirius's left, every inch the aristocratic healer. Her dark hair was arranged in an elegant chignon that would have made her mother proud—if her mother hadn't disowned her for marrying a Muggle-born and developing inconvenient opinions about basic human decency. Her healer's robes were immaculate, her posture perfect, and her hand rested lightly near Sirius's wrist in a gesture that looked casual but was actually a mediwitch monitoring her patient's stress levels. The slight curve of her lips suggested she was finding the British delegation's obvious discomfort almost as satisfying as Ted was.
Across the chamber, the British delegation looked like they'd rather be anywhere else in the world. Minister Fudge kept mopping his forehead with an increasingly damp handkerchief, while his legal advisor whispered frantically in his ear. The other officials present had adopted the universal expression of bureaucrats watching their careers implode in real time.
Durand gestured with one massive hand, and the evidence table at the center of the chamber flared with golden light. Documents began to float in orderly rows: the Potter family will, Gringotts banking records, Peter Pettigrew's falsified death certificate, Ministry arrest records, and a dozen other pieces of evidence that painted a picture of institutional incompetence so breathtaking it was almost artistic. Verification charms ran across each document with sharp chimes that rang like bells of doom.
"The evidence," Durand intoned with the finality of a funeral bell, "is not merely compelling. It is indisputable. Peter Pettigrew, the supposed victim, faked his own death, framed his friend, and has lived free for five years while Mr. Black rotted in Azkaban for crimes Pettigrew himself committed."
Sirius leaned slightly toward Ted, his voice pitched low enough that only his companions could hear. "You know, I always wondered how Peter managed to produce enough blood to fake his death so convincingly. Turns out he just needed to cut off a finger. Always was cleverer than we gave him credit for, the miserable little rat."
Ted's response was equally quiet but carried a note of savage satisfaction. "Well, he won't be clever enough to avoid the international manhunt that's about to be launched. Funny how cooperative people become when the ICW starts asking pointed questions about their extradition policies."
"The failures of the British Ministry," Durand continued, his voice rising to fill every corner of the chamber, "are not merely procedural. They are systemic. They are fundamental. They represent a corruption of the very principles upon which magical law is founded."
"Corrupt?" Sirius muttered, his eyes bright with bitter amusement. "That's remarkably diplomatic of him. I was going with 'criminally incompetent with a side order of malicious stupidity,' but I suppose we're in polite company."
"Patience," Ted murmured back, his own eyes gleaming. "We're just getting to the good parts. Wait until he starts reading from the compensation recommendations."
Andromeda's voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the steel that marked her as Black family born. "Behave, both of you. This is a solemn proceeding, not a comedy performance."
"Everything's a comedy performance if you have the right attitude," Sirius replied, though he straightened slightly in his chair. Even after five years in Azkaban, he wasn't entirely immune to that particular tone of voice.
Durand's voice rolled on like an approaching storm. "The tribunal finds, without reservation or qualification, that Sirius Orion Black was wrongfully convicted, wrongfully imprisoned, and wrongfully denied his basic rights as a citizen of the magical world. His imprisonment was not merely a violation of British magical law—it was a violation of the fundamental principles that govern civilized magical society."
The chamber fell silent except for the soft rustling of robes and the scratch of Quick-Quotes Quills recording every word. Sirius closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling as though he was finally allowing himself to breathe properly for the first time in five years.
When Durand's gaze settled directly on him, those dark eyes carried something Sirius hadn't seen in an official's face since his arrest: genuine respect.
"Mr. Black," Durand said, his voice gentler but no less authoritative. "On behalf of the International Confederation of Wizards, I extend our formal and unreserved apology. We failed to intervene when a member state abandoned its most basic obligations to justice. We failed to investigate when the evidence of your innocence was available to anyone with the wit to look for it. We failed to protect your rights when you had no voice to speak for yourself."
Durand paused, his hands folded before him like a judge passing sentence. "That failure ends today."
Sirius opened his eyes, and for a moment, Ted and Andromeda could see the boy he'd been—the young man who'd chosen his friends over his family, principle over convenience, love over safety. When he spoke, his voice carried only a trace of the rasp that Azkaban had given him.
"Chief Warlock," he said, inclining his head with a grace that would have made his aristocratic ancestors proud, "your apology is accepted with gratitude. Though if it's all the same to you, I'd trade all the formal apologies in the world for a bottle of decent Firewhisky and a bed that doesn't smell like despair and broken dreams."
The chamber rippled with quiet laughter—not mocking, but warm, the kind that acknowledged both the tragedy of what had happened and the triumph of what was happening now. Even Durand's stern features softened into something that might have been a smile.
Sirius wasn't finished. As the laughter died, he rose to his feet with the fluid grace that marked him as a product of both Black family breeding and Gryffindor courage. When he spoke again, his voice carried across the chamber without effort, reaching every corner and every listener.
"What I want," he said, his voice steady and strong, "is to make sure that what happened to me never happens to anyone else. I want the system fixed, the procedures changed, and the people responsible held accountable. But more than that—more than any of that—I want to go home to my godson. That boy has spent the first six years of his life without his parents and without me. He deserves better. He deserves a guardian who isn't locked away in a stone box, counting rats and composing increasingly rude limericks about Ministry officials."
The chamber was completely still now, every person present hanging on his words.
"Harry Potter saved the wizarding world when he was barely more than a baby," Sirius continued, his gray eyes blazing with fierce pride. "The least I can do is try to be worthy of being his godfather."
Durand inclined his head with grave formality. "Mr. Black, you are hereby restored to full freedom, compensated for your wrongful imprisonment, and formally recognized as Harry Potter's primary magical guardian with all rights and privileges therein. The International Confederation of Wizards recognizes your authority in all matters pertaining to Mr. Potter's welfare, education, and protection."
Ted leaned over, his voice bright with barely contained glee. "That's legal speak for: you now officially outrank Albus Dumbledore in all matters concerning Harry. Congratulations, you've just become the most powerful godfather in the wizarding world."
Sirius blinked, processed this information, and then threw back his head and laughed with genuine delight. "Merlin's saggy socks! I can't wait to see the look on his face when he finds out. Five years of 'greater good' speeches, and now he has to ask my permission to so much as owl the boy."
Andromeda's response was delivered with the sort of perfectly modulated aristocratic disapproval that could freeze blood at twenty paces. "Sirius Orion Black, you will conduct yourself with appropriate dignity. Harry deserves your best self, not your petty grudges and juvenile revenge fantasies."
"Yes, Cousin Andromeda," Sirius replied with mock meekness, though his eyes were dancing with mischief. "I shall be the very picture of mature, responsible guardianship. Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout," Ted pointed out helpfully.
"Details," Sirius waved dismissively. "I have excellent intentions. That counts for something, surely?"
Andromeda's expression suggested that excellent intentions counted for very little when weighed against Sirius's track record, but she didn't pursue the point. The tribunal was concluding with formal pronouncements and official seals, the ICW's ancient magic blazing overhead like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The British delegation was already making their retreat, shuffling out of the chamber like scolded children who'd been caught cheating at exams.
As the last of the officials filed out and the great doors began to swing closed, they opened again to admit a figure who seemed to fill the entire doorway through sheer presence alone. Percival Graves was built like a mountain—broad-shouldered, granite-jawed, with hands that looked like they could crush stone and eyes that had seen too much and forgiven too little. His MACUSA uniform was impeccable, his posture military-perfect, and when he spoke, his voice had the texture of gravel grinding against steel.
"Black."
The single word carried no particular inflection, but somehow managed to convey both acknowledgment and evaluation. Sirius straightened slightly, his own posture shifting from casual confidence to something more alert. There was something about Graves that demanded respect—not through intimidation, but through the simple recognition that this was a man who'd earned his reputation the hard way.
"Director Graves," Sirius replied, tilting his head in a gesture that managed to be both respectful and faintly challenging. "You look like you wrestle dragons for morning exercise and use Dark wizards as punching bags for stress relief."
Graves's expression didn't change, but there might have been the ghost of approval in his eyes. "Sometimes. Depends on what the job requires."
Ted and Andromeda exchanged glances, both recognizing the particular brand of masculine posturing that seemed to occur when two dangerous men met and decided whether they were going to respect each other or kill each other.
"President Picquery's arranged transport to New York," Graves continued, his words economical and precise. "Portkey leaves in ten minutes. The kid's waiting."
The chamber fell silent. Those two simple words—the kid's waiting—carried more weight than all of Durand's formal pronouncements. Sirius swallowed hard, his confident mask slipping to reveal something vulnerable and almost frightened.
He glanced at Ted and Andromeda, and for a moment, they could see the gratitude he couldn't quite voice. These two people had moved heaven and earth to give him back his life, his freedom, his chance to be the godfather Harry deserved.
Then he straightened, that familiar crooked grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. The grin that had gotten him in trouble at Hogwarts, that had seen him through the war, that had somehow survived five years of Azkaban intact.
"Am I ready?" he asked, though the question seemed to be directed as much to himself as to Graves. "Mate, I've been ready for this since the day they dragged me away from Harry's nursery. I've been dying to meet my godson properly, to find out what kind of young man he's become."
He reached out and clapped Ted on the shoulder hard enough to make the smaller man stagger. "Ted, you magnificent bastard, I owe you a life debt that I'll probably never be able to repay. But I'm damn well going to try."
"Just be happy," Ted replied, his own voice slightly rough with emotion. "Be the godfather Harry needs. That's payment enough."
Sirius turned to Andromeda, his expression growing more serious. "Cousin. Thank you. For everything. For believing in me when the rest of the world had written me off as a lost cause."
Andromeda rose gracefully and, to everyone's surprise, pulled him into a brief but fierce embrace. "Welcome back to the living, Sirius. Try not to corrupt Harry too badly."
"I make no promises," Sirius replied, but his voice was warm with affection.
Graves cleared his throat, the sound like boulders shifting. "Touching reunion. Portkey leaves in eight minutes."
Sirius turned to follow him, then paused at the doorway. When he looked back, his posture was straight, his stride confident, his gray eyes bright with purpose. The broken man of Azkaban was gone, replaced by someone harder, wiser, but fundamentally unchanged where it mattered.
"Someone," he called back to Ted and Andromeda, "get me that Firewhisky. I have a feeling I'm going to need it after I meet Tony Stark."
Graves's response was delivered without turning around, but there was definitely amusement in his gravel voice. "You'll get your drink, Black. After you prove you can handle being a godfather without starting an international incident."
"Where's the fun in that?" Sirius asked, but he was already following the MACUSA director toward his new life.
He was no longer the prisoner of Azkaban. He was Sirius Black—free man, vindicated innocent, and about to become the most overprotective godfather in the history of the wizarding world.
Harry Potter was waiting, and Sirius Black had never been one to keep family waiting.
---
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