A/N-Thank you so much to everyone who has interacted with this story! You've absolutely made my week. Have a nice weekend and enjoy this chapter! :)

June 28th, 1986
Azkaban Prison, the North Sea

Brown eyes.

Laughing, loving, beautiful brown eyes. Smiling up at him below the branches of a sunlit tree. Warm gazes from across the room. Winks behind a professor's back during glass. Glinting with the rage of a lioness. Closing shut as she kisses him gently, fiercely. Brown eyes looking straight at him as they began to swim with-

Wait no, no, something is wrong. The beautiful eyes are filled with tears, with pain now. Voices and figures and places whiz past him as she mouths a name to him. Tears streaming down her face, clutching her bleeding and bandaged arm-

Eyes filled with terror. Mouthing a name, his name -he hasn't heard it in so long, he scarcely recognises it. He can't reach her, he can't take away the pain. He didn't get there in time-

The eyes change shape and size, a lighter hue. Glassy, reflecting the ruins of the floor above. Showing the eternal sky and sickly glow of the green light. Eyes that will never see again, never laugh again. The eyes of a boy. Too young to die. Too brave, too trusting , too reckless. The anguish blooms in his chest. He can't breathe. He was too late. Why was he too late? Why was he always too late-?

The pain, the guilt and the all encompassing regret crashes into him, and Sirius wakes with a start, panting; the echo of the waves of the wild sea getting louder as he slowly comes to his full senses. He can almost taste the dampness in his mouth as he sits up on the threadbare board that serves as a pathetic excuse for a mattress and faces the small window in the corner of the room. The faint light reflected on the floor tells him that it's early in the morning. He doesn't need to look out of his cell to see the Dementor lurking there.

Always lurking there.

His face feels wet, and he realises he was crying in his sleep. He wonders if he cried out at any point. Not that it would make any difference here. At times it's hard to hear anything but the crying, the roaring and screaming, the last grip on sanity fleeing so many who wither and rot here.

Sometimes Sirius is surprised he can still process rational thought after this much exposure, but he's not sure if it's a blessing or a curse. Maybe if he was as mad as some of the others it wouldn't hurt as much. He must've dropped off to sleep when the Dementors had been distracted by Dolohov's outburst earlier. He rarely fell asleep in human form as it left his mind more vulnerable to their attack. It lets them have access to some of the only good memories he can salvage in his wreck of a brain.

He had been dreaming of Mary. He rarely let himself think of her too long. It hurt too much to think of the possibilities. Did she, like Remus must, think he was guilty? She probably did. It still felt like a stab to the chest when he considered how she, along with the rest of the world thought he was the reason James was dead. That he was the reason his true brother, the one person who had done more for him than any other-was forever gone from this world.

It didn't matter anyways. It was his fault. He had trusted the rat. He almost felt like his hackles were at the mere thought of the man he had once considered a friend, a brother. The man who had destroyed all of their lives.

The man who had tried to kill Harry.

Harry.

He felt the Dementor drift even closer, as though the mere thought of Harry-that beautiful little boy- had drawn them to him. He shook his head, almost like a dog shaking water off himself, to try and drive Harry out of his thoughts.

He wouldn't let them have any access to his memories of his wonderful little Godson; the only trace of James and Lily left in the world. He had kept them from ruining what few memories he had left of him so far, and he wasn't about to change that.

It had been over four years at this point. Harry would be six this year. Six. Probably already attending school. He wondered who he had been taking care of him. He presumed it was Mary but was worried that some official would find a arbitrary reason to place him with someone completely unsuitable. That would make all of this even worse. As long as Harry was safe, then he could bear this.

The dark thoughts start to crowd his mind again, and in an attempt to distract himself he starts running what he can remember of his sixth year Transfiguration textbook in his head. It's not exactly a happy thought but it's not a negative one either. They can't take it away. When he was seventeen he'd complained endlessly about having to continue his studies when he already felt as though he had mastered the art of Transfiguration through his arduous journey to become an Animagus.

Who would've known that his old textbooks would be the closest thing to a bright spark in his day? Any thought of Mary or Harry only made him feel worse afterwards, full of guilt and despair-even on the rare chance it hadn't drawn the dementors to him.

He kills a few hours by going through his daily exercise routine-while his body may be thin and malnourished from the lack of adequate food and healthcare he'll be damned if he lets them ruin it completely-and he's just started to settle down on the floor when he notices the ever present fog clear from his brain slightly. He's too busy savouring the moment, the unexpected taste of peace, to notice a noise outside his cell.

"Sirius?" He could almost have sworn that he heard his own name. It almost sounded pleasant on someone else's voice. He hasn't heard it in so many years. Now it's just Black, Black, Black when it isn't his prison number. The surname he could never truly run away from. He stares at his ceiling as a shaking noise echoes. Presuming it to be one of the prisoners on either side of him, he ignores it, focusing on the cracks in the ceiling. One, two, three, four -

"Sirius Black?" he hears it again, but sharper. Is he finally losing his mind? He focuses for a moment to see if it happens again. For once he can properly hear the shouting, the crying, the taunting and wailing that echoes from inside the building and envelops it. The sound contrasts with the boom, blast, and ruin of the waves against the rock outside.

"Sirius, can you hear me?"

He straightens up so quick he almost whacks his head off the stone behind him. He looks outside his cell to see someone standing there. Not a dementor, not a surly prison guard reluctantly providing him with the legally mandated warm water to clean himself with. It's a few weeks too early for the annual inspection. So it must be someone else.

To see him.

Sirius has never had a visitor. He doesn't know if those he had been close to in his previous life have ever even attempted to visit him. He doesn't know if they'd be allowed. He's rarely seen a visitor enter Azkaban. Only a handful of times did he see weary, pale wives and the reluctant, shamed parents arrive to visit the lower security prisoners when his cell was on the other side of the building.

Be that as it may, he now seemed to have a visitor. He cautiously makes his way towards the cell door, recognising the thick tartan coat before anything else. That shaking sound from earlier seems to be her pale, bony hands clenched around the bars, rattling them in an attempt to get his attention. He lifts his gaze away from her hands and meets her eyes.

They contain more kindness than he expected, more than he knows what to do with. She snaps her jaw shut as he approaches, and she now looks as wary as he feels. His long, thin, pale fingers clasp the iron bars above her own, and for what feels like an eternity, they stare at each other.

Having someone look at him without hate, or scorn in their eyes is so rare he feels humbled. For it to be someone he once knew, someone he once saw as a sort of maternal figure, is enough to make him feel overwhelmed. He feels slightly dizzy at this unexpected event and holds on tightly to the bars to stable himself. Something she does not, with her beady stare, happen to miss.

"What are you doing here Min?" he croaks, the old nickname slipping out before he's had the chance to think about it, much less second guess it. His voice sounds so hoarse it frightens the two of them for a moment. He can't remember the last time he spoke out loud to another human being, let alone someone who seemed to want to actually talk to him.

"Oh Sirius, you remember me." she sounds relieved, as though she'd thought he wouldn't. Did she think that Azkaban would have succeeded in doing what the Black genes had tried so furiously to do-and render him completely certifiably insane?

"Yeah, course." he coughs twice in an attempt to clear his throat, before appraising her with a raised eyebrow. Why has she come to visit him? Why now?

"Of course," she repeats, a slight touch of mirth in her voice that surprises him. She's warmer than he would have expected. At this point he's presumed that she, like all the rest, believed he was guilty. "Oh Sirius, I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"For never... " she pauses, almost as though she is too emotional to continue, before taking a deep breath and beginning again. "For never coming to see you after James and Lily-"

It hurts too much to hear their names, especially with that much affection in her voice. He raises a trembling hand in a silent plea for her to stop, and thankfully she acquises. He keeps his line of sight focused on the iron bars between them as the silence lingers.

"Sirius…" she tries again. "I don't have much time." When he finally looks up, Minerva's face is etched with guilt, and he feels more confused than ever.

"What's going on?"

"I need to ask you two questions. Two questions I should have asked you years ago, and I need you to be completely honest with me."

"Okay." he agrees readily.

"Did you sell out Lily and James?"

"No!" the word is through his lips before he's even thought about his response. "It doesn't mean it isn't my fault that they- that he-." he falters. "It's still my fault they're dead. But no! No, I would never do that. I would never knowingly betray James in any way. You know that." his tone is biting, with more energy than he's had in years, like someone has just turned on a light.

"How is it your fault?" she asks sharply. He hesitates, meeting her gaze. He feels so helpless once more. This is what he's been waiting, wishing and practically praying for over four years now, and when the time comes he clams up like a stuttering school boy.

"I told them to put their trust in the wrong person." he manages eventually, his voice more choked up than he would like. He feels so overwrought with emotion that it's hard to process his own thoughts, let alone speak. The Dementors must have receded significantly for McGonagall to visit, and the sudden distance from them has caused his own emotions to surface completely and hit him full whack. It turns out he wouldn't have any issues feeling guilty and depressed without them.

There's a short pause, her sharp eyes appraising him so intensely until suddenly; with a much softer tone, almost trembling with emotion.

"That brings me to my second question."

"Yes?"

"On October 31st, 1981, were you the secret keeper?"

"No."

When he responds her eyes light up in a fashion similar to delight. Had she been expecting him to say that? Why was she asking these questions, why now? Before he can ask though, she moves her hands to firmly clasp with his own. The shock of human contact, the softness of skin, makes him jump a little and she smiles affectionately through the tears forming in her eyes.

"Sirius, I am so deeply regretful no one came to speak with you sooner. I don't have enough words to express that. But I don't have too much time and I need to tell you, you're getting a trial."

A trial? He had never received a trial. He had waited for weeks, for months, before he realised that most likely, he had already been sentenced in absentia. Life in Azkaban. He was lucky it hadn't been the Dementors kiss. Why was he getting one now? His expression must have conveyed his confusion, as she hurried to explain herself.

"It's a long story. But it wouldn't be happening without your Mary; a real fighter you have there-" he freezes at the sound of her name, tossed into conversation so casually, but McGonagall plows on. "She convinced me to look into it, and I was able to bring it to the attention of Professor Dumbledore and Auror Shacklebolt."

"I-I-what?" Sirius is so confused by the sudden turn of events as well as her sudden increase in information that he has trouble processing what she's saying. A trial? Mary? Mary was fighting for him?

"You're getting a trial." she presses. "I'm so sorry you didn't get one before. To be frank with you I'm downright furious." As ever, her Scottish accent is stronger when she's angry. "But you're getting one now. It'll be in three days. Tuesday the 1st of July."

"What? A real trial?" he queries, holding onto the bars tightly. He suddenly feels hyper aware of his dirty and dishevelled appearance. Thankfully McGonagall would never look at him with anything as condescending as pity. "Minnie, you believe me?"

"Yes Sirius," she almost snaps, before glancing at her watch once more. "Please, do your best to get them to listen to the truth, whatever those specifics may be. We'll be there, rooting for you." she clasps hands with him, briefly, tightly, one more time as the guard appears behind her shoulder. He barely manages to choke out a 'Thank you' before she is whisked away.

A trial. This means that he will actually be leaving Azkaban for at least a few hours. He has a chance to prove his innocence. A chance to be free. As he lies back down all he can think for the next few hours.

They believe me.

They believe me.

They believe me.

And no matter how close the dementors linger, they aren't able to take that away from him.