Prologue
A man was sitting on the floor of his cell. The cells weren't at all comfortable, they were 5 foot by 6foot, had stone walls of grey, and the only furniture was a camp bed with a threadbare blanket covering it. The man was sitting in the corner, rocking backwards and forwards, muttering incoherently to him self, not stirring or moving apart from when the guards went away, when the prisoners ate their meals.
The guards were Dementors, Dark Creatures that sucked the happiness out of people, and when wanted to, kissed them, and sucked out their souls. The prisoner was the notorious Sirius Orion Black, convicted murderer of Lily and James Potter, Peter Pettigrew and a street full of 13 Muggles. He had been in the prison for four and a half years now, and everyday was the same. Wake up whenever, eat the gruel left for him, sit in the cell until dinnertime, and then fall asleep. No one ever visited Azkaban. No one wanted to. No one was allowed. Only the Minister of Magic who came for his yearly inspections of the prison.
This time, Sirius was waiting for him, his mischievous past was not behind him, and he wasn't going to miss the first chance for four and a half years to spook someone out. Silently he got off the floor, from his usual position and sat on the bed humming. The Dementors didn't affect Sirius like they did the other prisoners. There was a very good reason for this, Sirius was very different from the other prisoners. He was innocent, and this was one of the only thoughts that kept him live and from not going crazy.
Sirius heard a rustling form down the hall, and brightened slightly. He leant back against the wall and waited until the Minister came to his cell. The Minister was a short balding man by the name of Cornelius Fudge. He wasn't very high in Sirius' good books, he had sent him to Azkaban without a trial. But was Sirius Black one to hold grudges? Hell yes.
"Hello Mr Fudge. How are you today?" Sirius said as the man was passing, and chuckled as the man jumped, apparently thinking that everyone in Azkaban had lost the ability to speak.
"Mr... Mr Black..." Fudge began, perspiration running down his chubby face.
"Oh, yay you remember me. Do you think I could borrow that paper? Don't get much news in here." Sirius said.
"Of... of course, here." He said and thrust The Daily Prophet threw the bars. Sirius stood up and took the paper from his hands, and grinned wickedly at him, before he basically ran down the hall.
"Nice to see you too!!" he yelled after him, before chuckling, and sitting on his bed. He sighed and opened the paper to the front page, and jumped up when he saw the headlines.
Spotted! The Boy-Who-Lived!
Today Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived was spotted playing in a Muggle park. Harry Potter defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, at just a year old, has been living wit his Muggle Aunt and Uncle, when his parents, Lily and James Potter were killed in the attack on their home in Godrics Hollow.
This is the first time since he was given to the Muggles that Harry Potter has been seen in public. Just to see him is a reminder of how lucky we are that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was defeated on Halloween, four and a half years ago.
Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent.
There was a large wizarding photo above the writing of a skinny jet-black haired boy, with large emerald green, unblinking eyes. He had clothes which appeared too big for him, and he was sitting alone on the grass, looking at the other side of the park, a sad look on his face. This was Harry Potter. James and Lily's son. The boy who defeated You-Know-Who. Sirius' godson. The only reason apart from the knowledge that he was innocent, which kept Sirius alive. And now he had a picture, a souvenir from the life he could have lived, if he hadn't switched Secret Keepers with Peter or gone after the little rat. That night Peter had framed him, faked his own death, and condemned him to life in his own personal hell, being the only innocent man in Azkaban, and being able to do nothing about it.
~*~
Sirius picked up the worn piece of paper of the bed, and again began to read it. He'd read it so many times he could say it in his sleep, and he had memorised Harry's movements in the picture. All he did as sit there, once in a while looking around, catching the eye of the person looking into the photo. Then something happened that hadn't before. A man came into the picture, a man as wide as he was tall, with a pudgy pig face and no neck. He took Harry by the scruff of the neck and hauled him off the picture. Holding his breath, Sirius watched the photo. Harry limped back into the picture, holding his arm , and sat back down, tears in his eyes. Then he turned, and looked straight into Sirius' eyes and mouthed the words, 'Help me' before turning away to watch the other side of the park again.
Chapter 1:
Harry was cold. He was always cold. The cupboard under the stairs wasn't the warmest place on the earth by any means. The cupboard was cold, dark, small and had a lot of spiders in it. Harry didn't mind the spiders, he got used to them. They were the only company Harry had. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Dudley never spoke to him, only barking orders at him, do this, do that. He deserved it in his opinion. He was a bad boy, a freak, and he should have been grateful that the Dursleys didn't dump him in an orphanage.
Rap. Rap. Rap. "Boy get up and make my Duddikins breakfast, he's not going to starve because you're too lazy to get up."
Harry snorted. There was no way Dudley would starve, he was fat enough to go without food for months, and he still would be over weight. Standing up, Harry pulled off his size 7-8 pyjama top, courtesy of Dudley, who at 5 years old, had out grown that particular pair a year ago. He winced as the fabric brushed over the welt on his arm, which he had been given in the park two weeks ago by Uncle Vernon, when no one was watching.
When he was dressed, in an oversized brown t-shirt, jeans and NHS prescription glasses, he walked out of his cupboard and went in the kitchen. He knew the drill. Make Dudley bacon sandwiches, wait until he was finished, wash up and then he was given a dry piece of toast.
He walked to school every morning on his own, Dudley had a lift in the car. The school wasn't far, only a mile or two, and Harry had realised how long it took him now, so he was never late. He liked school, and was eager to learn, but never had the opportunity as the teachers seemed to dislike him as much as his relatives. They'd probably told them lies about their home life, he knew the sort, he'd heard them telling Mrs Figg, his babysitter them too. He's a mad delinquent, he's insane, he is a bully, he steals, he'd heard them all.
He went to Little Whinging Primary School, and he was in Year 1. He was the youngest in the class, having only made that year group by 5 days. He was the shortest as well, and the only one with glasses. Add this with the fact that Dudley hated him, and you had the reason why Harry Potter was bullied at school.
Slam. Harry fell straight to the floor, having fallen over Dudley's large foot. He could hear the squawks of laughter from the entire class, and Harry did nothing. There was nothing he could do. He stood up and pulled off his glasses. They were broken again. That didn't matter, Harry had a trick. If he really, really wanted it he could make them fixed again. Harry didn't realise he was doing Wandless Magic, but he was. Noone ever noticed, and Harry didn't mind. He was pleased about it. He went to the back of the class to his desk and held his glasses under the table. He scrunched his eyes up and wished his glasses were fixed. He felt a tingle of magic and the shattered glass was back in place.
'Good' thought Harry, 'Uncle Vernon might hit me again if I break my glasses.'
"Harry Potter?" The teacher called his name on the register. He hadn't noticed she'd started.
"Yes Miss." The teacher narrowed her eyes at him before calling, "Kerry Robertson?"
When the register was completed, she told them to take out their paintings they had been working on. Harry smiled inwardly. He liked painting and drawing, he was quite good at it as well, but he never got any encouragement. He got up and fetched some of the poster paints from the cupboard under the sink, as well as a paintbrush and newspaper to lean on. He carefully placed them on his desk and went to the front to collect his drawing.
It was a picture of an enormous castle with a man standing outside, with a long white beard, blue robes and a wand. Harry wasn't really sure what to do on the rest of his picture, so went to the front to request another piece of paper.
"Miss Weston? May I have another piece of paper please?" Harry said timidly. The teacher looked at him suspiciously before handing him another piece, and sending him back to his desk. Harry immediately was struck with an idea, and began to draw. When he thought he was finished, he looked at his painting. It was a picture of a big black dog, a wolf, a stag and a rat. When Harry looked at it, he decided the rat looked out of place, so he took out his paintbrush and carefully painted over it in green. He smiled, art was one thing that took his mind off his troubled home life, which struck up immediately when Uncle Vernon came home that night.
"Boy!!" Uncle Vernon shouted as he walked through the door.
Harry was in his cupboard, trying to read one of the books he had 'borrowed' off Dudley. He wouldn't notice, Harry doubted if he could write his own name, never mind read 'Alice in Wonderland'. Although Harry didn't understand it all but most of it made sense. He'd taught himself to read at three.
At Uncle Vernon's voice Harry shuddered. He sounded mad, and drunk as well, there was a slur to his voice that Harry recognised. He climbed out the cupboard and came face o face with a ver purple faced Uncle Vernon.
"It'ssss all your fault, you freak, you cursssed my company, and now it'ssss going under, you freak, its all your fault." Uncle Vernon slurred at Harry. Harry knew what was coming, and curled himself into a ball on the floor, trying to block out the pain as a large leather belt with a steel buckle, hit Harry's small frame.
A man was sitting on the floor of his cell. The cells weren't at all comfortable, they were 5 foot by 6foot, had stone walls of grey, and the only furniture was a camp bed with a threadbare blanket covering it. The man was sitting in the corner, rocking backwards and forwards, muttering incoherently to him self, not stirring or moving apart from when the guards went away, when the prisoners ate their meals.
The guards were Dementors, Dark Creatures that sucked the happiness out of people, and when wanted to, kissed them, and sucked out their souls. The prisoner was the notorious Sirius Orion Black, convicted murderer of Lily and James Potter, Peter Pettigrew and a street full of 13 Muggles. He had been in the prison for four and a half years now, and everyday was the same. Wake up whenever, eat the gruel left for him, sit in the cell until dinnertime, and then fall asleep. No one ever visited Azkaban. No one wanted to. No one was allowed. Only the Minister of Magic who came for his yearly inspections of the prison.
This time, Sirius was waiting for him, his mischievous past was not behind him, and he wasn't going to miss the first chance for four and a half years to spook someone out. Silently he got off the floor, from his usual position and sat on the bed humming. The Dementors didn't affect Sirius like they did the other prisoners. There was a very good reason for this, Sirius was very different from the other prisoners. He was innocent, and this was one of the only thoughts that kept him live and from not going crazy.
Sirius heard a rustling form down the hall, and brightened slightly. He leant back against the wall and waited until the Minister came to his cell. The Minister was a short balding man by the name of Cornelius Fudge. He wasn't very high in Sirius' good books, he had sent him to Azkaban without a trial. But was Sirius Black one to hold grudges? Hell yes.
"Hello Mr Fudge. How are you today?" Sirius said as the man was passing, and chuckled as the man jumped, apparently thinking that everyone in Azkaban had lost the ability to speak.
"Mr... Mr Black..." Fudge began, perspiration running down his chubby face.
"Oh, yay you remember me. Do you think I could borrow that paper? Don't get much news in here." Sirius said.
"Of... of course, here." He said and thrust The Daily Prophet threw the bars. Sirius stood up and took the paper from his hands, and grinned wickedly at him, before he basically ran down the hall.
"Nice to see you too!!" he yelled after him, before chuckling, and sitting on his bed. He sighed and opened the paper to the front page, and jumped up when he saw the headlines.
Spotted! The Boy-Who-Lived!
Today Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived was spotted playing in a Muggle park. Harry Potter defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, at just a year old, has been living wit his Muggle Aunt and Uncle, when his parents, Lily and James Potter were killed in the attack on their home in Godrics Hollow.
This is the first time since he was given to the Muggles that Harry Potter has been seen in public. Just to see him is a reminder of how lucky we are that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was defeated on Halloween, four and a half years ago.
Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent.
There was a large wizarding photo above the writing of a skinny jet-black haired boy, with large emerald green, unblinking eyes. He had clothes which appeared too big for him, and he was sitting alone on the grass, looking at the other side of the park, a sad look on his face. This was Harry Potter. James and Lily's son. The boy who defeated You-Know-Who. Sirius' godson. The only reason apart from the knowledge that he was innocent, which kept Sirius alive. And now he had a picture, a souvenir from the life he could have lived, if he hadn't switched Secret Keepers with Peter or gone after the little rat. That night Peter had framed him, faked his own death, and condemned him to life in his own personal hell, being the only innocent man in Azkaban, and being able to do nothing about it.
~*~
Sirius picked up the worn piece of paper of the bed, and again began to read it. He'd read it so many times he could say it in his sleep, and he had memorised Harry's movements in the picture. All he did as sit there, once in a while looking around, catching the eye of the person looking into the photo. Then something happened that hadn't before. A man came into the picture, a man as wide as he was tall, with a pudgy pig face and no neck. He took Harry by the scruff of the neck and hauled him off the picture. Holding his breath, Sirius watched the photo. Harry limped back into the picture, holding his arm , and sat back down, tears in his eyes. Then he turned, and looked straight into Sirius' eyes and mouthed the words, 'Help me' before turning away to watch the other side of the park again.
Chapter 1:
Harry was cold. He was always cold. The cupboard under the stairs wasn't the warmest place on the earth by any means. The cupboard was cold, dark, small and had a lot of spiders in it. Harry didn't mind the spiders, he got used to them. They were the only company Harry had. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Dudley never spoke to him, only barking orders at him, do this, do that. He deserved it in his opinion. He was a bad boy, a freak, and he should have been grateful that the Dursleys didn't dump him in an orphanage.
Rap. Rap. Rap. "Boy get up and make my Duddikins breakfast, he's not going to starve because you're too lazy to get up."
Harry snorted. There was no way Dudley would starve, he was fat enough to go without food for months, and he still would be over weight. Standing up, Harry pulled off his size 7-8 pyjama top, courtesy of Dudley, who at 5 years old, had out grown that particular pair a year ago. He winced as the fabric brushed over the welt on his arm, which he had been given in the park two weeks ago by Uncle Vernon, when no one was watching.
When he was dressed, in an oversized brown t-shirt, jeans and NHS prescription glasses, he walked out of his cupboard and went in the kitchen. He knew the drill. Make Dudley bacon sandwiches, wait until he was finished, wash up and then he was given a dry piece of toast.
He walked to school every morning on his own, Dudley had a lift in the car. The school wasn't far, only a mile or two, and Harry had realised how long it took him now, so he was never late. He liked school, and was eager to learn, but never had the opportunity as the teachers seemed to dislike him as much as his relatives. They'd probably told them lies about their home life, he knew the sort, he'd heard them telling Mrs Figg, his babysitter them too. He's a mad delinquent, he's insane, he is a bully, he steals, he'd heard them all.
He went to Little Whinging Primary School, and he was in Year 1. He was the youngest in the class, having only made that year group by 5 days. He was the shortest as well, and the only one with glasses. Add this with the fact that Dudley hated him, and you had the reason why Harry Potter was bullied at school.
Slam. Harry fell straight to the floor, having fallen over Dudley's large foot. He could hear the squawks of laughter from the entire class, and Harry did nothing. There was nothing he could do. He stood up and pulled off his glasses. They were broken again. That didn't matter, Harry had a trick. If he really, really wanted it he could make them fixed again. Harry didn't realise he was doing Wandless Magic, but he was. Noone ever noticed, and Harry didn't mind. He was pleased about it. He went to the back of the class to his desk and held his glasses under the table. He scrunched his eyes up and wished his glasses were fixed. He felt a tingle of magic and the shattered glass was back in place.
'Good' thought Harry, 'Uncle Vernon might hit me again if I break my glasses.'
"Harry Potter?" The teacher called his name on the register. He hadn't noticed she'd started.
"Yes Miss." The teacher narrowed her eyes at him before calling, "Kerry Robertson?"
When the register was completed, she told them to take out their paintings they had been working on. Harry smiled inwardly. He liked painting and drawing, he was quite good at it as well, but he never got any encouragement. He got up and fetched some of the poster paints from the cupboard under the sink, as well as a paintbrush and newspaper to lean on. He carefully placed them on his desk and went to the front to collect his drawing.
It was a picture of an enormous castle with a man standing outside, with a long white beard, blue robes and a wand. Harry wasn't really sure what to do on the rest of his picture, so went to the front to request another piece of paper.
"Miss Weston? May I have another piece of paper please?" Harry said timidly. The teacher looked at him suspiciously before handing him another piece, and sending him back to his desk. Harry immediately was struck with an idea, and began to draw. When he thought he was finished, he looked at his painting. It was a picture of a big black dog, a wolf, a stag and a rat. When Harry looked at it, he decided the rat looked out of place, so he took out his paintbrush and carefully painted over it in green. He smiled, art was one thing that took his mind off his troubled home life, which struck up immediately when Uncle Vernon came home that night.
"Boy!!" Uncle Vernon shouted as he walked through the door.
Harry was in his cupboard, trying to read one of the books he had 'borrowed' off Dudley. He wouldn't notice, Harry doubted if he could write his own name, never mind read 'Alice in Wonderland'. Although Harry didn't understand it all but most of it made sense. He'd taught himself to read at three.
At Uncle Vernon's voice Harry shuddered. He sounded mad, and drunk as well, there was a slur to his voice that Harry recognised. He climbed out the cupboard and came face o face with a ver purple faced Uncle Vernon.
"It'ssss all your fault, you freak, you cursssed my company, and now it'ssss going under, you freak, its all your fault." Uncle Vernon slurred at Harry. Harry knew what was coming, and curled himself into a ball on the floor, trying to block out the pain as a large leather belt with a steel buckle, hit Harry's small frame.