Sirius Black sat in his tatty living room, smoking a cigarette, hoping the nicotine would calm his frayed nerves. James was dead. Lily was dead. And their son … Sirius could hardly think about poor little Harry. At last report the tyke was still alive, but how? Rumors were circling about like an obnoxious pigeon. How could he tell the truths from the lies? For all he knew, Harry was just as dead as his parents. Sirius jumped as something tapped at his window, interrupting his thoughts. He snuffed his cig, and turned to see a dour, tawny barn owl standing at his window with a letter in its beak. Positive it was Dumbledore or one of the other members of the Order updating him, He opened the window, took the parcel, and shooed the owl off. But contrary to his prior thoughts, the letter was not labeled "Sirius" or "black" or "confidential".
It read "Padfoot"
His throat tightened at the familiar name. Peter Pettigrew wouldn't dare write him now. Not after what he did to James. But it didn't look like Remus Lupin's neat print. No, indeed, it looked like...
Sirius shook his head. No. James was dead. Dead people don't write letters.
Do they?
Oh god. Sirius put his head in between his legs. Here he was wondering if his best friend was contacting him from beyond the beyond. Was he delusional?
The correct answer is yes, yes he is. That's why he opened the letter with fervor, and gasped at what he read inside.
The letter read:
