1. Chapter 1

Keep swimming.

That's all I can consciously think through numb paws and waterlogged fur and the occasional lungful of brine, surely. Keep swimming.

The island on which Azkaban is located isn't really that far off-shore – after all, it can be reached in a little under an hour in a rowboat from the mainland. Magically propelled rowboat, but still... I like to think I can swim faster than a ruddy rowboat.

Course, I didn't take twelve years without much exercise or food into consideration when I was making my big fancy escape plans, and now I'm sort of regretting that.

Is that a whale, or...?

Right. Swim faster.

There is really only so much of prison time an innocent (or at least, not guilty) man can take. Twelve years is it, in my case.

Twelve years. I've been regretting and thinking and wishing for twelve years in that damned place. It was really sheer chance when I found out how long I'd already been in. They don't much bother telling the date to people with life sentences.

Aren't prison guards supposed to guard, not read newspapers?

It felt like eternity in a cold hell, with all those dementors swarming about. They like innocents better, I figure – more happiness to leach off of someone who hadn't actually been driven to darkness.

I wasted twelve years that I could've been helping to raise my godson – I have no delusions that I could have raised him himself, of course. I was too much a child at heart (and in action) back then, to be trusted with the care of a toddler. I might've begged help from cousin Andy, though.

Didn't she have a kid, too? Awesome name? Something horribly embarrassing to a young girl? A Tonks, anyway. Now he was a decent fellow, and brave to boot, to go up against Cygnus and Walburga Black for the sake of love. I'm pretty certain the old cow didn't know what love was even when she was sane. And Uncle Cygnus? Don't start.

Shit. Keep swimming.

Oh, look. Selkies. Wonderful. Maybe they'll – no, apparently those are just seals. Damn.

Mph. Don't like undertow. Or tide. Beach! Please let there be more beach than cliff just here. Yes! There's a real beach. And buildings. Town? And sandy, rocky, windy, freezing cold beach.

Yep. Still in England.

At least I didn't accidentally swim to Denmark. Or Norway. That probably would've killed me. And, whilst good for hiding out, it might've been bad for both my ability to find Harry and Pettigrew, and, nearly as importantly, my pride.

And... this place looks a bit familiar. Like I might've... driven my motorcycle off the end of the pier, once? Aha! Southwold. Which gives me...

Roughly one hundred and fifty miles to walk, whilst avoiding muggles and traffic, and not getting caught by aurors or spotted by other wizards, in order to reach Surrey. On the bright side, I can stop by Grummauld Place on the way and procure myself a wand from one of those moldy boxes upstairs. London might actually be a good stop for all sorts of supplies, come to think of it.

Food, for one.

Food...

If I can figure out when I'm hungry at all anymore. I haven't really _felt_ much in... years.

Alright. So, done swimming, rest a bit under that fisherman's tarp, then in the morning...

Start walking.


	2. Chapter 2

The hike to London was not as bad as it could've been. Most of the trouble came from trying to avoid cars. I was following a major road, so it was a bit difficult to avoid side-streets. I had less trouble finding food than I expected. Fast food chains and restaurant throw out their old foodstuffs, so all I had to do was be lingering at the correct time – and look pathetic, but that's not very difficult, these days. I did have to be careful how much I ate, however, especially with all the walking I was doing. My stomach can't handle much, as a dog or as a man.

London itself was fairly navigable. Most people don't see strays, even if we are monstrously huge. Once I got into Grimmauld Place and got my hands on some dead relation's wand (one of the Arcturuses, I think) I was able to effectively glamor myself and get cleaned up a bit.

Surprised I could do that much, rusty as I am. I don't trust the bathrooms in that house, the whole place has been infested with... things. And some things have always been there.

So, with a new wand, some fresh, if very dusty, clothes, a still-empty stomach (I don't trust the kitchen either, nor the house elf that was mad when Walburga was alive) and aching feet, but a destination in mind, I set out.

And then belatedly cast a notice-me-not after someone who ran into me screamed.

Then, on the way to Surrey, and Privet Drive, I... didn't get very lost. And it had nothing to do with being too lost in reflecting on my recent travels to notice that I was walking the wrong direction until just now, when a bus nearly hit me.

It took me a while to remember the name of Lily's sister – Petunia, those Evanses must have had a thing for flowers – and then to recall the location of her house beyond 'in Surrey', but I managed. She'll be able to tell me where Harry ended up being placed. I can't exactly go to anyone else. They'll all know I've broken out by now.

* * *

Ah, Privet Drive. The stuff of nightmares, at least for the creative, inquisitive mind.

Doesn't help that the place is named after a type of shrubbery. Wasn't there something in a movie about that...?

There's a theme right there! Privet, type of shrubbery. Petunia, flower. And I crossed through Wisteria Walk to get here. Heh. Although, real wisteria is much prettier. All the gardens here just look depressingly perfect. How does anyone have time to maintain lawns like those in a middle-class neighborhood? They don't have house-elves.

And I'm rambling. In my own head. Can't talk out loud right now, certainly. People might freak out about the barking. Maybe I should've drunk more water before walking all that way, eh? Or even eaten real food? Well, no help for it now.

Number four, number four... How do people live in such ... _conforming_ houses? They might go to visit a neighbor and forget they were the ones doing the visiting.

Wow, nice roses on that place. Really, kind of oddly nice, they smell mouthwatering, almost like... Ah. This is four Privet Drive. That would explain roses that smell like roast chicken and sweet potatoes, and look like they actually... sparkle in the moonlight?

Does Harry like gardening, then? Or was that just a really pleasant prank he played when visiting?

Oh, dear. Looks like not all is well in the conformist's paradise after all. Even on such a perfect-looking street, people still have fights. Shouting matches actually. Really, is it necessary to call people freaks? Even I never did that, not even to Snivellus, and I was a right terror in school. Oh, low blow there, too, bringing in someone's parents' shortcomings. Why isn't this other person shouting back, anyway? Even after prison, I'd probably have already blown up at this bloke. Just because I hated my mother doesn't mean I'll take other people calling her things like that. I might even rudely snap my teeth at him.

Wait a second. Isn't that shouting coming from number four?

Hey, the bastard is putting down Lily and James! But then, he must be yelling at... Harry? Little Harry is living here? In suburbia hell with muggles who say such horrid things about Lily and James?

Maybe I'll put off heading to Hogwarts just a bit longer. Get a good look at the kid. Make sure he's really alright, and not depressed from living with this ass, and even then, I intend to get him out of that bloody house as soon as possible. No one, but especially not my little Harry, should be made to listen to codswollop like that.

… Azkaban did not do wonders for my swearing vocabulary. Codswollop? Really?

Which probably is a good thing if I want to interact with the boy without scarring him for life.

Ah, the fight stopped, or at least turned quiet. How did the neighbors not hear all that and come knocking to tell the man what-for? Surely someone on this street would rather interfere publicly than leave a child in that house? Anyone?

Well regardless, I'd best settle down for the night. Away from those roses, they actually make my stomach rumble more than it has in years.

Tonight, there will be dreams of roast chicken feasts... and fluffy sweet potatoes... with real butter...

* * *

Morning light does nothing for Privet Drive. In fact, it makes it more depressing in that it shows just how forced the cheeriness of the neighborhood is. And how fake the occupants. All the husbands, in their nicer-than-necessary suits stroll out to their perfectly-washed-cars, kiss their perfectly-made-up (at this hour?) wives on the cheek, and drive dutifully off to their probably-not-very-satisfying jobs.

This would make a good musical. They were almost in tandem.

And one of them was the obnoxious bloke was yelling at my Harry last night. I didn't get a good look at him - too busy watching the backup chorus - but I got a glance in. That man needs a diet. Desperately. And Petunia could use some good, filling English meals. The woman is all bones. I remember she's always been bony though, so maybe it's just the way her clothes fit her. Or maybe Lily got all the pleasant genes in the family?

I _was_ expecting it would be a few hours till little Harry showed himself. After all, teenager plus summer vacation equals sleeping in and lazing about, right?

Apparently, wrong. Not an hour after the final flourishing notes of Morning in Suburbia Hell, here comes Harry out of number four with the lawn mower, and I almost could not hold my growls, nor force my hackles flat. Love muffling charms.

My little Harry's a mess. His clothes are too big (really too big), he's thin, scrawny even, and he moves as though he's in pain. Admittedly, most kids Harry's age would have some trouble pushing that monster of a lawn-mower, but Harry's favoring his right wrist and is therefore using his arm to push the thing, and the going is slow. There's blatant bruising on the boy's face, and I'd be willing to bet, elsewhere less visible.

I glance around as Harry's stowing the machine to see just what the neighborhood will do about such blatant injuries on a child who is clearly overworked. Nothing? Well no, not quite nothing. They do apparently feel the need to shoot the boy disgusted sneers once in a while, or stare at him suspiciously. What? What could he possibly have done, to warrant such treatment? Broken a window? How many kids have done that who were mostly forgiven within the week?

Besides, Harry doesn't look like he has the strength to do much of anything. The boy is thinner than me for merlin's sake, and I'm the escaped convict!

* * *

Over the course of the day, things become progressively more grim, no pun intended. One thing after another is not right. The boy's injuries, I discover with very little surprise, were inflicted by Petunia, her overweight husband, and their overweight son.

They overwork him and underfeed him, in Petunia's case. They trip him, hit him, shove him, and chase him, in the young pig-in-training's case (and the damned brat employs the rest of the neighborhood children to this endeavor as well. They call it 'Harry Hunting'.) And, at the very end of the day I discovered, they outright beat him bloody whilst verbally assaulting him, in Vernon's case.

At that point I do try to go and intervene. It doesn't work out. First, I bound for the house, out from where I'd been spying through the windows from under a bordering yard's hedge, then, I find myself turned around and a bit dizzy.

Wards. Some sick fool placed wizard-repelling wards around the Dursley residence. Or maybe they're intent oriented.

Whichever. It takes someone powerful and knowledgeable to set wards beyond those temporary sorts that disallow eavesdropping or stealing. Especially something as big as the Dursley house.

There are wards like that on Hogwarts, against muggles. Maintained by the current Headmaster – the power and knowledge to do so is a prerequisite of the job.

There are wards like that on the Black family home in London to keep away anyone not of Black blood, made when the place was built and contracted for continued maintenance with the goblins (last I checked, they weren't too happy about that.)

There are wards like that on Azkaban, to keep those within it miserable and unmotivated towards escape. It took me over a decade to work up the willpower escape, and I did finally realize that it wasn't really just the dementors that affected the inmates so negatively, though they were a huge part. In fact, if those wards were anchored to the keep itself, they were probably powered by the dementors' life forces. Why would the ministry bother finding another source, when unwilling subjects were right there for the draining? Who cares about the well-being of dark creatures, anyway? Make the guards hungrier, they'll feed on the inmates more... Damn.

I have to get Harry out of there.

But the wards. And whoever placed them there.

I have some research to do.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: There. Update. Slight change in the perspective, but then this is a 'moving the plot along' rather than a 'dealing with the inner thoughts and feelings of the characters' chapter. There will be another chapter within a couple of weeks at most. I'm done with battling another piece I was working on. (Actually, I might stay with this pov - I like it better, it's easier for me to write. It's so difficult to write thoughts because really, people don't usually think in words, we think in ideas and concepts and feelings, and only express them in words.)

* * *

Sirius Black had never been known for his level temper. Just the reverse, in fact. In school, he had been a bit of a bully if he were to be honest with himself, though he did usually restrict himself to young Snape – not that that was really any excuse... But his already hot-headed personality did not combine at all well with the emotional instability of being an Azkaban escapee.

This thought was privately held by the goblins of Gringotts as they informed him of the particulars (to the best of their knowledge) of Harry Potter's bank vault. He was a bit alarmed that they were willing to share this information with him, until they pointed out that he was in fact Mr. Potter's legal guardian, and was therefore legally the one meant to speak for him in the banks and courts until he reached his majority. Regardless of alleged (never proven or tried, or it would have been an issue for them) criminal activity.

It also helped some that he'd willingly gulped down veritaserum and they'd all had an interesting little chat.

As things stood, they were delighted to inform him that his escape meant that Mr. Potter's previous 'guardian' could no longer access any of the Potter accounts unless Lord Black stated that this should be allowed.

He asked why they were so happy about that. It was not a pleasant conversation, filled as it was with revelations of betrayal, abuse of authority, and bloody old goats taking full advantage of the natural ignorance of young children, particularly of a specific child whose guardianship had been illegally seized.

By the end, Lord Black was raging, sobbing, and trying to punish himself by turns (they'd had to ask him how long he'd had these feelings he was a house-elf to get him to stop.) He was clearly, in a word, unstable. But there were things that could be done about that.

After a calming draft, some pepper-up, and a mug of hot chocolate, Sirius Black was in a calmer state of mind and able to make some decisions regarding his and his godson's lives. For one, as much as he wanted to save his godson, he knew himself to be an unfit guardian. He was promptly reassured by the goblins that they would do all in their power to assist – otherwise they would lose their best (wealthiest) customers, one to premature death, the other to depression and possibly madness. There were potions to correct some of the damage to his body, there were mind healers to correct some of the damage to his intellect, there were even specialized healers to correct the wear on his soul that was caused by twelve years close proximity to dementors. (And indeed, that sort of wear would eventually have lead to madness.)

But now, they needed a plan, because without a plan Albus too-many-names-to-mention Dumbledore would certainly find them both in no time flat, and nothing of what he'd done to young Mr. Potter was illegal by magical law, strictly speaking.

They made a 'game plan', as the muggles would have said.

* * *

Dressed in clean, fresh clothes and wearing a goblin-made glamour, Sirius Black was enjoying shopping in Diagon again. The goblins had agreed that he needed to stock up on a great number of things for their journey, but really only essentials that could not be guaranteed available upon arrival. Thus, mainly books and some rare potions ingredients. Nothing too unusual – he didn't want them to be tracked by their purchase of a travel guide – but he did have the foresight to pick up standard schoolbooks for the rest of Hogwarts' curriculum and then some. Harry may wish to home school, and he honestly wouldn't blame him – the teenage years were hell.

Then he picked out some more advanced books on all sorts of subjects just because Hogwarts had about the most pathetic curriculum on the planet. It really was a pity there were laws in place in the UK blocking intelligent students from attending other schools.

He kept having to reel himself in from playing around as he once would have – the goblins had some very talented kept healers (he'd been surprised to hear they were so loyal because St. Mungo's wouldn't hire them – they were none of them of human ancestry, and bigotry ran deep in the magical community.) He felt young and invigorated. His body was whole again – not healthy, but whole – and his soul was in the same state. His mind had gotten a basic once-over, and while it was neither healthy nor whole, it was at a good starting point to undergo a longer healing process.

He felt giddy. He felt giggly. He felt like bouncing off the walls.

He didn't really feel all that great, but by sheer contrast to how he'd been feeling for the last twelve years he felt amazing.

All this miracle healing had taken three days, and according to the plan he would pick up his godson tomorrow. He still needed to set the portkey, though. The goblins had said that though they would gladly do it themselves, they actually couldn't make portkeys – the magics involved simply didn't work with theirs – and they felt it unsafe to ask one of their human employees, even given the secrecy and loyalty oaths they all had to take.

* * *

The new day just barely dawning, Sirius Black the gigantic dog stood across the street from four Privet Drive, hidden beneath a strong notice-me-not charm. Strapped to his sides were two bottomless bags filled to the brim, one with books, the other with supplies – money, potions ingredients, and potions, though he'd been sure to distribute the six old family wands he'd brought out of storage between the two bags, just in case they had a bad landing. He also wasn't worried about being able to provide for his godson only because the money pouch was directly connected with the inbox/outbox on his account manager's desk in Gringotts.

The squeaky mouse shaped portkey hung from his somewhat slobbery jaws. He'd put a lot of thought into it. He needed someplace safe, where none who wished them harm could find them, and where they'd both have time for healing. To his frustration he couldn't think of anyplace like that, but he knew a way around that, too. He'd gone back to an old runes book from the Black Library. He'd nearly jumped for joy when he remembered his brother once mentioning that centuries ago wizards and witches would use runes instead of specifics in rituals because better results stemmed from giving magic room for adjustment and creativity. It wasn't done anymore, but he'd figured out how to etch the ideas of what he wanted into the portkey by way of a few runes. Magic would see to the rest.

All that was needed now was one overworked godson, and of course he'd have to catch him right at the edge of the wards to be able to reach him at all. He'd explain everything once they were safe – he didn't know what the child had been told about him, but he hoped he'd be given a chance.

* * *

Harry Potter, soon-to-be thirteen, dragged himself out of his cupboard at the crack of dawn, as usual. Today was trash day – he'd emptied all the bins in the house yesterday evening so that he wouldn't need to wake his relatives by doing it hours before they'd bother to wake up normally. So all he needed to do was wheel the main bin out to the curb, then he could get a head start on breakfast (maybe he could filch some bacon and toast if he finished a bit of it before they came down) and the bathrooms (if he was tricky about it, he could manage a bit of a shower with the excuse of cleaning the bath.)

Unfortunately, Harry Potter wasn't going to get a shower or breakfast today – though breakfast would eventually arrive via godfather – because he never made it back in from taking the trash bin to the curb.

All he saw was a gigantic furry black thing coming at him before it plowed into him, teeth in thigh, and then he felt the most disturbing jerking sensation in his belly. Then, because he had a broken rib and a very bruised belly the sensation caused a great deal of pain, and so he blacked out.


End file.
