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HRA# CHAPTER 133
🕑 Added 2025-05-20 00:47:35 +0000 UTC“We’re here,” Diaz said, halting abruptly and turning to Harry. “Baldwin and I will wait over there… Be careful with Black. Don’t let him hurt you.”
“Thanks, I’ll be cautious,” Harry replied with a nod.
The two Beaters stepped aside, leaving only Harry and Lucius standing at the door of Sirius Black’s cell.
From the outside, Sirius’s cell looked no different from the others. Even without stepping inside, a foul stench assaulted the senses—a mix of rotting meat and the briny tang of seaweed, blending into a nauseating miasma.
In the background, the ceaseless crash of waves against jagged rocks echoed faintly, an unending rhythm.
Even without Dementors, no sane person could endure this environment for long. Their mind would unravel eventually.
Harry could see the figure inside. Long hair and beard tangled into matted clumps, caked with filth and grease, obscuring his face entirely. He wore what could barely be called clothes—black prisoner’s rags, more like scraps of coarse fabric smeared with grime.
He lay motionless on the stone bed, as if dead, not even stirring at the sounds from the corridor outside. It was as though he was waiting for death.
“Black?” Lucius tapped the iron bars lightly with the end of his serpent-headed staff, his voice low. “You have a visitor.”
The figure on the stone bed didn’t respond. Lucius glanced awkwardly at Harry before striking the bars harder with his staff. This time, the man—his face still hidden—finally moved.
He glanced toward the bars, as if doubting whether the sounds were real or a hallucination. Then his gaze settled on the man with striking platinum-blond hair, smirking coldly at him.
“…Mal… Malfoy?”
His voice was dry, rasping like a throat slashed raw. It grated on the ears, likely from years of disuse. Sirius had to force his tongue to cooperate just to say the name clearly.
“If I recall correctly, you should be calling me brother-in-law,” Lucius said, his tone dripping with disdain.
Lucius assumed Harry was here to confront Sirius Black, the traitor who betrayed his parents. The loyal Death Eater was already prepared to cover up Sirius’s death as “natural” if Harry decided to kill him in a fit of rage. A small price for a big gain—nobody cared about the life of an Azkaban prisoner.
“Hah,” Sirius sneered, his throat catching on something, making his voice even hoarser. “I don’t have any filthy Death Eater relatives.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. Sirius’s mental state was better than he’d expected. He still had the strength to throw insults, and his jab was precise—calling a pure-blood elitist like Lucius a “half-breed” was a calculated blow to the pride of Voldemort’s followers.
“You dare?!” Lucius’s face flushed with anger, but he remembered who was in charge today and swallowed his rage. “Keep talking, then! Hmph, look who’s here!”
Lucius was ready for Harry to unleash something spectacular—like the molten lightning he’d seen in the secret chamber at Malfoy Manor. One blast to reduce this disgusting relative to ash.
“Keep those two Beaters occupied, Lucius,” Harry said calmly. “Make sure they don’t hear anything from here, and don’t let them interrupt us.”
“Yes, my lord,” Lucius replied, bowing respectfully before striding off. He was already calculating how many Galleons he’d need to bribe the Beaters.
Given the friendly attitude Diaz and Baldwin had shown Harry on the way here, it probably wouldn’t take much. Everyone knew the Potter family’s story. If the Potter boy lost control and did something everyone secretly wanted, it would be entirely understandable.
Meanwhile, Sirius had sat up on the stone bed, his eyes wide as he stared at the boy outside the bars. At first, he thought it was Voldemort himself—after all, few could make Lucius Malfoy act so deferential and call them “my lord.”
But if it was Voldemort, wouldn’t Lucius have called him “Master”?
Years in Azkaban had hollowed out Sirius’s body. Daily Dementor patrols had drained his spirit. His mind could barely focus, scattered thoughts drifting uncontrollably.
Then he saw that face.
“…James?” Sirius held his breath, scarcely believing his eyes.
Another hallucination?
Crack!
Without hesitation, he slammed his hand against his own head, not holding back. Even with his weakened arms, the blow left him seeing stars.
Harry: “…”
He was convinced now—his godfather had truly been driven mad by the Dementors.
While Harry assessed Sirius’s mental state, Sirius stumbled forward, clutching the bars with both hands. A revolting stench wafted through the gaps, but Harry endured it. He’d smelled worse.
“Harry! It’s you, Harry, isn’t it?!”
A wild joy overwhelmed Sirius’s mind, leaving no room for rational thought. All he wanted was to reach out, to pull the boy into a fierce embrace. But the bars held him back. No matter how hard he strained, his arms could only stretch so far, never touching Harry.
“Heh, heh, haha, ahahaha! Harry! Harry!! You’ve grown, Harry!!!”
Strange, choking laughs erupted from his throat. Sirius flailed like a broken puppet, limbs jerking wildly.
“Come here! Come closer!! Let me hug you!!!”
The commotion drew the attention of the two Beaters, who glanced back nervously. Everyone knew Sirius Black was one of the most vile Death Eaters. He’d blown up an entire street to kill Peter Pettigrew, a brutally savage act. As Voldemort’s most loyal servant, Sirius surely despised Harry—the boy who brought down his master—and would tear him apart if given the chance. His maniacal laughter and coaxing words only confirmed it.
Diaz and Baldwin couldn’t let the Boy Who Lived come to harm in Azkaban. If anything happened, no matter the reason, they’d be finished.
—Then Lucius intercepted them.
Following Harry’s orders, Lucius wasn’t about to let Harry think he couldn’t handle such a simple task. So… he started pulling out Galleons.
Galleons—the source of the Malfoy family’s power.
“Never thought… never thought! Harry—ah! Harry! Ha—”
Thud!
The noise stopped.
The frenzied laughter, the chaotic words, the wild movements—all ceased.
Sirius lay flat on his back on the cold stone floor, dazed, unsure what had just happened.
A single punch.
With uncanny agility, Harry’s right fist slipped past Sirius’s grasping arms and connected squarely with his left cheek, exposed beyond the bars. As Sirius instinctively recoiled in pain, his head caught on the bars, leaving his mind buzzing.
“Calm now?” Harry asked, lowering his fist and crouching outside the bars to look at Sirius, sprawled on the floor.
“…Yeah, calm,” Sirius replied reflexively.
But the dazed look in Sirius’s eyes told Harry his godfather wasn’t truly lucid—he was just instinctively avoiding another punch.
“Good,” Harry sighed, sitting cross-legged in the corridor.
“…So, you’re really Harry?” Sirius mimicked him, sitting cross-legged inside the cell, still touching his face in disbelief.
It hurt. The pain felt too real to be a dream.
Harry’s punch had served its purpose, snapping Sirius out of his delirious, joy-fueled frenzy.
“You look… so much like him,” Sirius said, studying Harry, shaking his head in awe. “Except for your eyes—those are Lily’s. But your face… it’s like you and James were poured from the same mold.”
No wonder Sirius had mistaken Harry for a young James Potter, fresh out of Hogwarts. For a moment, he’d thought he was finally dying, and James had come to take him away.
“But what’s with the horns?” Sirius couldn’t help asking, despite trying to ignore them. “Some new wizard fashion?”
He knew it wasn’t Muggle fashion—the horns were clearly a product of Transfiguration.
“Focus, and listen!” Harry cut him off, his tone serious. “I know everything that happened back then. I know you and Peter switched roles as Secret-Keeper. All of it.”
Harry’s blunt words clamped down on Sirius like a vice around his throat. His face, barely visible through the tangled hair and beard, flushed red. He froze, curling into himself, breath held.
The sudden, overwhelming joy of seeing a grown Harry in this wretched place had consumed Sirius, drowning out the icy memories that had haunted him for twelve years. His arrogance, his stupidity, the sins he’d committed…
The death of his best friend’s family, the betrayal of a friend—it was all because of him. Sirius curled tighter, slamming his head against the floor, like a house-elf punishing itself for a grave mistake.
The pain, every second of living, was a punishment he craved.
That was why, twelve years ago, after killing the traitor Peter, he’d laughed hysterically. When the Ministry’s Aurors arrived, he surrendered without a word of defense. He wanted to atone, to be tormented, in his own way.
Harry didn’t stop him. He watched as Sirius curled up, striking his head against the floor. Truthfully, in Sirius’s weakened state, the blows lacked force. He could barely hurt himself.
Sirius was no longer normal, Harry realized. His emotions swung wildly from one extreme to another, his thoughts chaotic, able to focus on only one thing at a time. His memories, likely fragmented, seemed to seize control of his mind at random, driving him to lose control.
He needed rest. Time to heal and recover.
Harry sighed.
If he was right, the Dementors and their unique abilities had trapped Sirius in his most painful memories every day for twelve years, never letting him escape.
“I’ve known you were innocent for a while,” Harry said softly, staring at the far stone wall instead of Sirius. “About this time last year, actually… You just need to know I have a unique magic that lets me summon the souls of my blood relatives.”
Sirius’s body twitched.
“I called forth my father and mother’s souls,” Harry continued, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That’s how I learned some things about the past… and cleared up some misunderstandings. Then there was you, my… godfather?”
The word carried weight, and Sirius curled tighter, whimpering, unable to meet Harry’s gaze.
The cell fell silent, save for the drip of water on stone and the distant crash of waves against the rocks outside.
“I could’ve gotten you out long ago,” Harry said suddenly. “Whether by breaking you out or summoning my parents’ souls to clear your name—it wouldn’t have been hard for me. I just… hesitated.”
“Or rather, I wanted you to be punished more.”
Sirius was crying now, though how his emaciated body produced tears was a mystery. He sobbed, curled on the floor, striking his head repeatedly, especially after Harry’s words.
“But it’s not because of my parents’ death that I wanted to punish you,” Harry went on, as if oblivious to Sirius’s actions. “That wasn’t your fault. The only one who should pay is the traitor who betrayed my parents’ trust—Peter Pettigrew. You’re innocent.”
Sirius’s head snapped up, his shocked eyes peering through matted hair, unable to believe what he’d heard.
“No, kid, it’s not like that,” Sirius rasped. “It was my fault. If I hadn’t told James to—”
“Shut up!” Harry’s sharp tone cut him off, irritation flaring. “The traitor pays the blood price, but you didn’t betray them. What does this have to do with you?!”
“What I want to punish is your stupidity!” Harry glared at Sirius. “Yes, my parents died because of a traitor, but I’m still alive!”
“What kind of brain thinks killing Peter and going to Azkaban to ‘atone’ is enough?!” Harry’s voice was thick with frustration. “You call yourself a godfather?! You have no idea what it’s like for a young child to live under someone else’s roof, what that means for both sides!”
“Er, I kind of get it?” Sirius stammered, raising a tentative hand. “When I cut ties with my family, I stayed at James’s house every holiday. Everyone was so kind. Uncle Fleamont and Aunt Euphemia were like my real parents, and I saw them as family—”
“Shut up!” Harry snapped, teeth gritted. He was starting to wonder if Sirius had been a bit off even before Azkaban. “Young! Do you understand the word ‘young’?! Were you friends with my dad as a baby? Did you cut ties with your family as an infant?!”
“Oh, Harry, I wish I’d cut ties with them as a baby,” Sirius muttered, then flinched at the sight of Harry’s clenched fist, his left cheek throbbing in memory. “Wait, I mean—er, I thought Dumbledore would take care of you, you know, uh…”
“Are you my godfather, or is Dumbledore my godfather?!” Harry took a deep breath.
He’d made his judgment. His godfather wasn’t exactly sharp before Azkaban—or at least, he was immature, blind to the bigger picture, unable to grasp the heart of the issue.
“No!” Sirius protested, waving his hands. “But Dumble—”
“Shut up!!”
“Right, sorry,” Sirius shrank back, clawing at his hair and face, mumbling fragmented apologies. “…Sorry, sorry… I didn’t think… I really didn’t think…”
T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
