Chapter 1
High pitched laughter. A woman's voice, filled with malice and hatred. A tall, dark haired man stepping back to ward off a curse. And then the man was falling, falling back into an archway, an archway with a tattered curtain...
Harry Potter woke up suddenly, drenched in a cold sweat. He tried to stop the tears that threatened to fall. Stop, Harry said to himself, you have to deal with it. Sirius is dead...dead. And its your own fault.
Harry swore as he looked for his glasses. There would be no sleep tonight, again. He stepped out of bed and went to the window, where Hedwig's empty cage sat. He fell into a desk chair and buried his face in his hands.
He knew he shouldn't be blaming himself. God knows that Moody and Tonks and Mr. Weasley and Ron and Hermione had told him that hundreds of times. But he couldn't help but do it.
Harry thought back to that night in Dumbledore's office, when he had heard the prophecy. He had to kill Voldemort, or be killed by him. Be killed or become a murderer. He remembered Sirius' face; laughing, stern, mischievous, sunken and gloomy. Sirius who had lived on rats because Harry had mentioned his scar hurting. The cocky, handsome Sirius who had laughed at his father's wedding...
I'll get you back for this, Voldemort, Harry thought, clenching his fists, if it's the last thing I do I will defeat you.
The next day Harry started to execute his plan. He was so excited he jumped down the stairs three at a time, bounding into the kitchen.
Aunt Petunia stared at him strangely. The boy had been dark and depressed for a week after they had brought him home. And now here he was smiling. His smile irritated her so much that she cut the sandwich of stale bread and old cheese in half and handed it to him.
"Eat your breakfast quickly," She said sharply, "You're weeding the garden today."
Harry jumped at the opportunity. "Aunt Petunia, wouldn't it be more helpful if I worked in Uncle Vernon's factory? I wouldn't need to be paid but I heard him complaining about the man who lifts the boxes of drills into the truck. I'll do it." There. He hoped he hadn't sounded too eager.
Aunt Petunia looked at him suspiciously, but his face was as innocent as a lamb's.
"All right," She said, her mouth pursed, "I'll tell Vernon. Now finish up that breakfast and get outside and wait!"
Uncle Vernon put up no resistance. But he took Harry roughly to the side when they reached the factory that day.
"Now listen, boy," He growled, "I don't want ANY of those men to know who you are. As far as they're concerned, you are a hopeless criminal who is working here on probation from jail. And I don't want to hear a different story from you, you here me? And," his voice grew menacing, "I don't want to see any of that funny business in MY factory."
Harry nodded mutely, grimacing. He had to take it. He needed exercise. If he was going to fight Voldemort he intended to be as fit as possible. The Dursley's would never let him go to a gym, so this was the best he could do.
At the end of the day, thoroughly exhausted from lifting boxes all day, the muscles of his arms aching, he climbed into bed. At that moment, a large, white bundle of feathers flew through his window and dropped something heavy onto his stomach. He sat up.
"Hedwig!" He reached over to pet her. "Where've you been, girl? I sent you off two days ago! London isn't that far you know." He had sent messages every two days to the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix at Grimmauld Place. He had also sent a letter to both Ron and Hermione, but neither had replied yet. Harry tore open the package.
"Wow!" He cried, holding the letter in shock. Feelings of pain, anger, grief, sadness, and most of all regret swept through him as he read the letter, scribbled in a thin, dark, uphill scrawl.
Dear Harry,
I know if you are reading this that I am gone. And I also know you are probably blaming yourself for whatever happened to me. But Harry, nothing is your fault. Whatever happens, however I die, know that you are not to blame.
I just want you to know that I love you Harry, as if you were my own son. I know I haven't had time to be a real godfather to you, and I'm sorry. But I hope what I'm about to write will make up for it. So Harry, keep living. I have faith in you. You are a better and more powerful wizard than you know. Remember me always.
Love, Sirius
TO BE CARRIED OUT ON AUGUST 24th, GRNGOTTS BANK, DIAGON ALLEY.
I, Sirius Black, hereby name Harry Potter, son of James and Lily Potter, my last remaining heir. I would like my possessions to be divided in the following manner.
10 Boxes of various letters and keepsakes of the Black Family and 1,000,000 galleons to Nymphadroa Tonks, my favorite cousin.
5,000,000 galleons and #12, Grimmauld Place to Remus Lupin, my dearest friend.
The Black Family Estates in Paris, New York, Switzerland, and Sydney, as well as the apartments in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley, to my godson Harry Potter.
194,000,000 galleons to my godson Harry Potter.
The contents of Vault #276, Gringotts Bank, Diagon Alley, to my godson Harry Potter.
Harry was stunned. Nearly two hundred million galleons. He had to be the richest wizard in the world. Four estates in the most desirable places in the world., as well as homes in the two wizarding communities in London. He was angry. Why was he the one with all the luck? He was the one who caused people's deaths. The money would be better off with good, honest people like the Weasleys. But he remembered Hermione telling him about wizards' wills- if they weren't followed exactly the people in them would be cursed for life.
High pitched laughter. A woman's voice, filled with malice and hatred. A tall, dark haired man stepping back to ward off a curse. And then the man was falling, falling back into an archway, an archway with a tattered curtain...
Harry Potter woke up suddenly, drenched in a cold sweat. He tried to stop the tears that threatened to fall. Stop, Harry said to himself, you have to deal with it. Sirius is dead...dead. And its your own fault.
Harry swore as he looked for his glasses. There would be no sleep tonight, again. He stepped out of bed and went to the window, where Hedwig's empty cage sat. He fell into a desk chair and buried his face in his hands.
He knew he shouldn't be blaming himself. God knows that Moody and Tonks and Mr. Weasley and Ron and Hermione had told him that hundreds of times. But he couldn't help but do it.
Harry thought back to that night in Dumbledore's office, when he had heard the prophecy. He had to kill Voldemort, or be killed by him. Be killed or become a murderer. He remembered Sirius' face; laughing, stern, mischievous, sunken and gloomy. Sirius who had lived on rats because Harry had mentioned his scar hurting. The cocky, handsome Sirius who had laughed at his father's wedding...
I'll get you back for this, Voldemort, Harry thought, clenching his fists, if it's the last thing I do I will defeat you.
The next day Harry started to execute his plan. He was so excited he jumped down the stairs three at a time, bounding into the kitchen.
Aunt Petunia stared at him strangely. The boy had been dark and depressed for a week after they had brought him home. And now here he was smiling. His smile irritated her so much that she cut the sandwich of stale bread and old cheese in half and handed it to him.
"Eat your breakfast quickly," She said sharply, "You're weeding the garden today."
Harry jumped at the opportunity. "Aunt Petunia, wouldn't it be more helpful if I worked in Uncle Vernon's factory? I wouldn't need to be paid but I heard him complaining about the man who lifts the boxes of drills into the truck. I'll do it." There. He hoped he hadn't sounded too eager.
Aunt Petunia looked at him suspiciously, but his face was as innocent as a lamb's.
"All right," She said, her mouth pursed, "I'll tell Vernon. Now finish up that breakfast and get outside and wait!"
Uncle Vernon put up no resistance. But he took Harry roughly to the side when they reached the factory that day.
"Now listen, boy," He growled, "I don't want ANY of those men to know who you are. As far as they're concerned, you are a hopeless criminal who is working here on probation from jail. And I don't want to hear a different story from you, you here me? And," his voice grew menacing, "I don't want to see any of that funny business in MY factory."
Harry nodded mutely, grimacing. He had to take it. He needed exercise. If he was going to fight Voldemort he intended to be as fit as possible. The Dursley's would never let him go to a gym, so this was the best he could do.
At the end of the day, thoroughly exhausted from lifting boxes all day, the muscles of his arms aching, he climbed into bed. At that moment, a large, white bundle of feathers flew through his window and dropped something heavy onto his stomach. He sat up.
"Hedwig!" He reached over to pet her. "Where've you been, girl? I sent you off two days ago! London isn't that far you know." He had sent messages every two days to the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix at Grimmauld Place. He had also sent a letter to both Ron and Hermione, but neither had replied yet. Harry tore open the package.
"Wow!" He cried, holding the letter in shock. Feelings of pain, anger, grief, sadness, and most of all regret swept through him as he read the letter, scribbled in a thin, dark, uphill scrawl.
Dear Harry,
I know if you are reading this that I am gone. And I also know you are probably blaming yourself for whatever happened to me. But Harry, nothing is your fault. Whatever happens, however I die, know that you are not to blame.
I just want you to know that I love you Harry, as if you were my own son. I know I haven't had time to be a real godfather to you, and I'm sorry. But I hope what I'm about to write will make up for it. So Harry, keep living. I have faith in you. You are a better and more powerful wizard than you know. Remember me always.
Love, Sirius
TO BE CARRIED OUT ON AUGUST 24th, GRNGOTTS BANK, DIAGON ALLEY.
I, Sirius Black, hereby name Harry Potter, son of James and Lily Potter, my last remaining heir. I would like my possessions to be divided in the following manner.
10 Boxes of various letters and keepsakes of the Black Family and 1,000,000 galleons to Nymphadroa Tonks, my favorite cousin.
5,000,000 galleons and #12, Grimmauld Place to Remus Lupin, my dearest friend.
The Black Family Estates in Paris, New York, Switzerland, and Sydney, as well as the apartments in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley, to my godson Harry Potter.
194,000,000 galleons to my godson Harry Potter.
The contents of Vault #276, Gringotts Bank, Diagon Alley, to my godson Harry Potter.
Harry was stunned. Nearly two hundred million galleons. He had to be the richest wizard in the world. Four estates in the most desirable places in the world., as well as homes in the two wizarding communities in London. He was angry. Why was he the one with all the luck? He was the one who caused people's deaths. The money would be better off with good, honest people like the Weasleys. But he remembered Hermione telling him about wizards' wills- if they weren't followed exactly the people in them would be cursed for life.