A/N: Hello! So, I have seen this concept done a few times, and I'll recc my fave, so I figured I'd give it a shot. Enjoy!

The summer of 1987 is sweltering. Even the prisoners in Azkaban can feel it, despite the constant chill from the dementors. Sirius Black is one such prison, sweating in the confines of his small cell. He sits on the floor, next to a stack of yellowing newspapers, fanning himself with one of them. He watches as Phillip Hotchkiss, who's meant to be surveying the prisoners, makes his way slowly through the compound, cowering behind his duck Patronus.

"Hullo," Sirius calls out, half just wanting to test his voice.

"Er," Hotchkiss stammers, stopping in front of his cell. "Hello, Mr. Black." Sirius snorts, raising his eyebrow. Hotchkiss is young, perhaps 18 or 19, just fresh out of school. He hasn't developed the sense to be rude and degrade the prisoners yet.

"No need to stand on ceremony, Philly," he says. "We're all friends here." Sirius pauses, frowning, and tilts his head towards the dementors crowding just beyond the Patronus's reach. "Well, except for them, I suppose."

"Er, right," Hotchkiss mutters, looking down to the paper clutched in his hand. Sirius looks at it with intrigue. It's been ages since he's last had a paper.

"Could I have that? The paper, I mean," Sirius asks, trying for a charming smile. He's not sure how it comes out, because Hotchkiss recoils, but hands over paper nonetheless.

"Cheers, mate," Sirius says brightly—well, as bright as he can get in a place like this, where his very soul seems to cling to him from a few wispy strands. "Ta very much. I rather enjoy the crossword."

"Er, sure," Hotchkiss says, a pinch louder than before. "I've got to get on, then." Sirius nods, scooting back to try and find a cool stretch of wall. Of course, with the blessed cool comes the deep, creeping dread, the kind that gnaws at you, ripping away parts of until there's just pale, dry bone. Sirius has become an expert at ignoring it.

He flicks the paper open, focusing solely at the words.

THE GIRL WHO LIVED, WHERE IS SHE NOW?

Rita Skeeter

Not a person alive has forgotten the great and terrible day when He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named was defeated by a child, a blessed, powerful child perhaps, but a child nonetheless. Little Harriet Potter was only a year and a half when she vanquished him. Unfortunately, Harriet lost her parents that night as well, clearly not powerful enough to save them. But without her parents, who's left to look after her? Who's there to guide her, to teach her our ways and customs? Surely not a set of muggles? For the past six years, has little Harriet learned our ways, our traditions? Is she out frolicking with other children or shut away for her own safety. And the biggest question of them all remains: who made the decision to leave her where she is?

Anyways, a very happy birthday to you, little Harriet!

The little blurb is tucked away into a corner, not really meant to be read, but her name had caught his eye instantly. A deep ache filled him, worse than anything a dementor could do, expanding within him until there was nothing else.

Harri.

He remembers the day she was born, the chaos, the panic, and the pure exhilaration. He remembers pacing frantically in James' and Lily's little house, trying desperately to reach James, who'd been out on a baby errand with Moony.

"Fuck it!" Lilly had shrieked, clutching his bicep, and scaring the shit out of him. "We're going now!" Sirius had turned pale, stuttering out excuses before Lily grabbed his shoulders and hauled him down to look her in the eye.

"Listen to me, wanker," she'd snarled. "We're going to get on your fucking bike, and we're going to fly to St. Mungo's, do you understand?"

Now, he'd never been scared of Lily, or even intimidated by her. For the nine years he'd known her, she'd been sweet, kind, and clever. In that moment, however, he had no doubt that if he didn't listen to her, she'd really make him regret it. So, he'd nodded, and helped her out to the garden, where he'd set his bike against the low wall.

He remembered roaring through the sky, mirror gripped in one hand, shouting for Prongs to get his sorry arse down to St. Mungo's, lest he miss the birth of his child.

He remembered hauling Lily up into his arms, ignoring her yelps and the way she dug her nails into his shoulder. He remembers them ushering her away, asking if he was the father, and just as he lying that he was—Lily had been terrified of the idea of doing it alone—Moony had come sprinting down the hallway, yelling that the baby was his. Clearly, he hadn't expected Sirius to do it. The healer had scowled at the both of them, perhaps about to say something particularly rude, when James had finally turned up, looking worse for wear and clutching a collection of soft toys.

"Let me guess," drawled the healer. "You're the father, too?"

"Er, yes," Prongs had gasped out. Apparently, he'd sprinted all the way here from muggle London. "I actually am though. That's my wife in there, Lily Ev—Potter."

The healer rolled her eyes, gesturing for James to go on. He grinned at her, shooting her a mock salute.

"Ta, love," he'd said. He'd shaken a stuffed deer at Sirius, who snickered and wished him luck, before disappearing though the doors. A few hours later, James had come back to where he and Moony waited, joined by Wormtail by then.

"Little girl," he'd said, beaming. "Tiny little dove with a whole head of the Potter family hair. Lils is doing just fine."

"Can we see her?" Moony asked eagerly. James nodded, gesturing for them to go back. Sirius had made to follow, but James had stopped him, suddenly somber.

"Listen," he'd started. "You're my best mate, and you were there for Lils when I wasn't."

"Aw, Prongs, don't get all emotional, now," James ducked his head, chuckling softly.

"Shut it, arsehole," he said, not a lick of malice behind his words. "I'm a dad now. I'm allowed to be as utterly naff and crap as possible."

"Oh, she'll love you for that," Sirius teased.

"Listen, though, we were thinking we'd like to make you godfather." James adopted a sly look, on corner of his mouth pulling up "The dogfather if you will."

"Fuck off," Sirius said, gob smacked. "Me? And Lils agreed to this?"

"Course, she suggested it, even," he'd said. "So? You'll do it?"

"Fuck, of course," he'd agreed. "Shit, can't swear around the baby, can I? Have to mind that."

"You and me both, mate." With that, James had steered him in. The room had been small, but warm, full of sunlight. Lily, looking exhausted, beamed at him when he walked in.

"What did he say?" she asked, voice hoarse.

"What could I have said?" he'd teased, leaning down to wrap her up in a hug and pressed a kiss to her sweaty temple.

"Good," she said resolutely. "You'll have to wait your turn to hold her. There's a queue, apparently."

Moony, who was holding her currently, stuck his tongue out, before returning to coo at the baby. Peter was skittish with her, holding her precariously before passing her along to James, who kissed her tiny forehead before gesturing to Sirius.

He remembers holding her carefully, impossibly still as he cradled her in his arms. She was the spitting image of James, with her button nose, warm brown skin, and shock of black curls. She yawned, her little pink mouth opening and closing. She blinked slowly, and Sirius found his throat was trying to close up. Her eyes were all Lily, brilliant bottle green, so clear and strong for a newborn.

"What's her name?" he choked out.

"Harriet Euphemia," Lily said softly. "For our mums."

"We're thinking Harri, though," James said. "For short."

Harri. Sirius has made it a point not to think about the poor little girl whose life he'd completely obliterated. That she was without her parents was his fault entirely. He'd been so stupid to suggest it, to tell James to change their secret keeper last second, to tell no one because they could trust no one.

Sirius sits there, pressed against the only cool spot in his cell, ignoring the dementors who swarm around outside, hoping for a taste of him. He makes it a point not to ever think of his happy memories, to play the dark ones over and over, to focus on his anger instead, laid bare before the dementors can do it for him.

Tonight, though, is different.

He can't help it, thinking about that little cottage in Godric's Hollow. It had been something of a sanctuary for him, despite being a literal cage for James. He thinks of Lily and the way she'd sweep through the cottage, Harri balanced on her hip, so thrilled to see him. He thinks of James throwing his arms around Sirius, clutching like a desperate man, angry to be put away while his friends were out fighting. He thinks of little Harri, who was already too smart and quick for her age, crawling, then walking—eventually running too—before her time.

There was a moment, when things were quiet, a few weeks after Harri's first birthday, where he'd been in their sitting room, watching Harri whilst Lily cooked lunch. He'd transformed for her—it made her laugh and clap her little hands—and was lazily trotting around the coffee table, while Harri toddled after him, determined to grab his tail.

"Pa'foo!" she'd cried, frustrated she couldn't reach him. He froze, stunned, and Harri latched onto his tail, grinning like she'd won a prize. "Pa'foo."

Lily stuck her head into the sitting room, an incredulous expression on her face.

"Did she just…?" Sirius transformed back, and Harri looked up reproachfully at him, a tiny frown on her little mouth.

"Pa'foo!" This was a demand, and Sirius barked out a laugh, transforming again to oblige her.

"James!" Lily hollered up the stairs. "Come down! You won't believe what your daughter's saying."

There was an almighty crash, then the sound of thumping footsteps before James burst into the sitting room.

"What?" Sirius barked, nudging Harri gently with his nose. She giggled, reaching up to pet him.

"Pa'foo!" James had beamed then, swooping over and swing Harri in a high arc before hugging her close.

"That's right, darling! That's Padfoot! What a clever girl! Who's a clever girl? You are!" He nuzzled her cheek and Sirius sat up, human again, cackling.

"Who's a naff dad?" Sirius teased, in the same sing-song voice James had on. "Who's the naffest dad in all of England? You are!" He tousled James' hair, ducking good-naturedly when the blushing naff dad himself took a swing.

"She really is clever," Lily said, taking Harri from James so she's be safe for the ensuing wrestling match. Sirius had been laughing too hard to really put up a good fight, so James easily tackled him to the floor. "She's up to six words now."

"Well," Sirius grunted, shoving James' face into the carpet. "I reckon this is the only that counts."

Sirius sits in that same spot for hours, straining his memory, because once he'd opened the floodgates, he might as well relish the memories. The trouble is, the good brings the pain, and with that, come hungry dementors.

It's late at night—or perhaps very early in the morning (Sirius hasn't seen the time in years now) when he remembers one of the questions the article had brought up. Was Harri safe? Was she happy? Sirius wracked his brains, wondering who'd gotten her. Euphemia and Fleamont had died in 1979, and Lily's mum and dad had died two years after that, just a few months before Lily herself had died. Who was left?

Then, it hit him.

Petunia, and oh, what was the name of her husband? The horrible one, who looked quite like a walrus in a wig. They were in Surrey, if he remembered. Or London? Maybe Cokeworth.

Had they taken in Harri? Were they kind to her? Sirius remembers the strained relationship Lily had with her sister. It was something she and Sirius bonding over, their ruined relationships with their siblings.

He had to know, he had to see, just once, that Harri was happy. How old was she now? Sirius grabs the paper and did some quick calculations. Not quite seven, then. He rolls his eye; the stupid reporter, this Skeeter woman, had gotten the date wrong.

Then, in his dark, sweltering cell, with weak shafts of moonlight streaming in through the bars, Sirius did something he hadn't done in years. He transformed.

Padfoot shakes himself, stretching and yawning. He is hungry. When had he last eaten? He pads over to the bars sniffs them inquisitively. A dementor passes by, gliding right past him. Padfoot presses against the bars, turning his head this was and that. There's a squeeze, then Padfoot's head pokes out the cell. He wriggles some more, twisting and working his limbs free.

Padfoot stumbles, gains his footing and looks around. He stares back at the cage he was in and growls softly, intent on finding something to eat. The dementors floating above pay him no mind, swooping over the other cages. The humans cry out, some wail and weep, but others just scream. Some are silent.

There is nothing on the island, but not too far, there is another patch of rock. Padfoot bounds into the icy, dark water and swims. It feels like an eternity before he has made it to the next patch of land. Exhausted and cold, Padfoot shakes himself dry and curls up against himself. There will be nothing to eat now.

He wakes to warmth, light from the setting sun drenching him. For a moment, he wavers, Sirius and Padfoot battling to be in control. Padfoot wins. He opens one eye lazily, holding himself still. There are birds here, squawking and picking at the barren ground. The one closest to him hasn't noticed his presence.

Carefully, slowly, Padfoot pulls himself up, tensing to pounce. The bird stills for a second, before resuming it's pecking. Padfoot pounces, lightning quick, and catches the bird between his teeth. Blood, rich and inviting, coats his tongue, and he savors it for a brief moment before jerking violently, snapping the bird's neck. The other birds scatter, squawking and shrieking. Padfoot pays them no mind, gulping down the meat he rends from it's body. It's not much, a few mouthfuls, but it'll do for now.

There's a few scant trees on this patch of rock, and Padfoot curls under one of them, inexplicably exhausted. The sky darkens overhead, thunder rolling. Padfoot presses himself to the tree close, determined to stay dry. The rain is quick but heavy, drenching the world and cutting through the oppressive heat, even if for a moment. It's nearly morning by the time Padfoot gives up his hiding place.

There are a few puddles of clean water amidst the rock, and Padfoot gulps down his share, shaking himself dry. Somewhere, deep in his mind, Sirius recoils, but then he remembers the years in the cell, that freedom tastes good enough to make up this.

There are more islands, past this, and vaguely, in the distance, Padfoot can see a bigger land. He'll go there, he decides, before plunging himself into the water once more.

Padfoot doesn't know how many days he swims and stops, but it goes on and on until he can feel Sirius slowly slipping away. Finally, he comes up on the shore as the sun sets on what could be the seventh or eighth day. Padfoot slumps on the sand, lowering his head, and letting Sirius come back to him.

Sirius gasps, weighed down by his hair and his dripping prisoners robes. He looks around, finding a solitary gray building. He knows this place, vaguely. His mind is hazy from having spent so much time as Padfoot.

An office, he realizes, for the administrative work to be done for the prisoners of Azkaban. Also, if he remembers correctly, where they stow wands for prisoners awaiting trial. After five horribly long years, that still includes him. He staggers over to the tree, hiding behind one to watch.

A young man slips out from the building, waving his wand before disappirating. Sirius creeps over to the building slowly, trying the door. Of course, it's locked. He sighs, then reaches for a fallen tree branch, bracing himself. There's no way this will be controlled.

"Alohomora," he tries. The front wall of the build explodes, sending Sirius sailing. He groans as he hits the hard ground. Sirius sits up carefully, checking himself for injury. A few bruises, but he'll live.

"God, I fucking hate uncontrolled magic," he croaks, getting up and heading inside the remains of the building. Thankfully, it's not as trashed as he thought it would be. Sirius picks his way through the rubble, looking for files.

One of the few sheaf's of parchment intact catches his eye. Bellatrix Lestrange. Sirius grins darkly. Good, he thinks, let her rot.

Thankfully, the blast breaks open the cabinet meant to be holding wands. A dozen or so unmarked boxes tumble out, and Sirius has to dig to find his. He grabs it, hoisting it up triumphantly. A rush of brightness rips through him. He feels electric, alive, likes he's just been jolted awake.

To practice, Sirius puts the building back to rights, which doesn't take long. He's happy to do it, happy to feel the magic coursing through his veins. The building looks normal after a few hours, but it's terribly dark, so he shifts back into Padfoot, gripping the wand between his teeth.

Padfoot trots a long time, until the first few rays of morning light. He sits up on top of a hill, outside a town called Corsham, watching the sun rise. There's no one around, so he shifts back to Sirius and lays in the lush grass.

The sun is warm, but it's a welcome heat, kind and gentle. The air is sweet here, where he can no longer smell the saltwater. Sirius savors the moment, unsurprised he's weeping, even though he'd never really been the crying type.

Freedom, he thinks, freedom, then Harri.

A/N: Let me know what you think, and I'll see you next week, updates every Wednesday!