Roger returned to Surrey in British Columbia with Harry. Although he quickly found himself attached the the little tyke, he felt somewhat disappointed that he couldn't fulfill his dream of teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was certainly a bittersweet event, but he took heart in knowing that Fontaine would permit him to return to Ilvermorny to teach again one day. And as far as his old friend Sirius was concerned, he never felt so helpless in his life… he could also be out helping Minerva clear the Black scion's name and find the real perpetrator. He again looked at Harry and smiled at the tiny child, who was fast asleep and blissfully unaware of everything that had transpired recently.

He yawned and stretched his arms out as far as he could in the cramped compartment. The steady hum of the subway, coupled with Harry's peaceful breathing put Roger in a trance, and he slowly lost consciousness and drifted off to sleep… it would be the most restful nap he would get in quite a while.

For the next several years, Roger and Rhonda did their best to raise Harry the way Lily and James wanted… despite their limited finances – the promised stipend covered the necessities and not much else – they made sure Harry never went without. It was more of a struggle for Roger than Rhonda as he had to acclimate himself to a nearly magic-free lifestyle, but he did the best he could. He tried his hardest to adapt to Canadian culture, which was in some ways quite similar to British culture, but in other ways, it was vastly different.

Muggle Canadians, he noticed, had an almost unnatural obsession with a stick-and-puck game played on ice… ice hockey, he recalled. He even went to lengths to purchase a pair of ice skates and a hockey stick for Harry's sixth birthday, and would take him to the rink during the fall and winter months so he could practice and maybe even make friends with some of the other children.

One late October Saturday afternoon, Roger took Harry to the rink so he could practice his slapshot. Harry was a natural with a puck and stick, and could accurately shoot the puck into the net from forty feet away from the net. His powerful slapshots even caught the attention of a tall, burly middle-aged man providing instructions to a group of older boys, perhaps eight or nine years old.

The tall man approached Roger and Harry and whistled in disbelief. "Your kid… he's got a heck of a shot. He's what, six? Seven? He hits harder than most of my nine-year olds, and with more accuracy to boot!" He extended a hand toward Roger. "Steve Butler. I'm a junior league coach, and I think it's safe to say that your boy has some potential."

Roger nodded as he accepted the handshake. "Roger Woodward. Harry here's just six, and he's only been practicing for a couple of weeks really. He does seem to be a natural with the stick in his hand…"

Steve laughed. "I'll say. Tell you what, Roger, you ought to keep bringing him here to this rink and let him do his thing. I can't let him on the team this year, as it's for seven year olds on up – no exceptions – but I'd love to hone his skills next year if you'll let me. He'd be a dynamite player with an experienced coach out there to guide him."

Roger looked at Steve and smirked. "I think the one you really should ask is Harry." He turned to the boy, who was grinning from ear to ear. "Would you like Mister Steve to coach you next year? He thinks you could be a really good ice hockey player…"

"You mean I'll actually get to play on a team, Uncle Roger?" Harry asked excitedly. "For real?"

"For real," chuckled Roger. "For now, just keep hitting the puck like you've been doing. You really know how to put the puck in that net."

When Harry and Roger returned to their flat that evening, an urgent-sounding rapping noise from the kitchen window interrupted their dinner. When Rhonda got up to open the window to see what the ruckus was, a large spotted owl flew in, causing Rhonda to shriek. While the owl also took Roger by surprise, he at least wasn't alarmed. "It's okay, Rhonda," he said calmly as he caught a neatly-wrapped parchment in his hand.

"I'll never get used to those crazy birds," grumbled Rhonda. "If they're so smart, why can't they just knock on the front door?"

"Because they won't go away until they know they've reached the intended recipient," replied Roger glibly. He unfurled the note and read its contents.

"Saturday, 18 October 1986

It's been far too long, Roger. I just wanted to write and let you know that after four and a half years of perpetual torment in Azkaban, I am finally a free man. Thanks to the persistence of friends and allies like yourself, enough evidence had been obtained to have my name cleared. I've whiled away my time by keeping my thoughts on Harry.

Speaking of, if you're okay with it, I would like to come to Surrey and visit my godson during the holidays. I'll see if I can bring a Christmas present for him. I'll be sure to tell you more of my story when I get there.

Yours truly,

Sirius"

THUD!

Rhonda gasped when she saw her husband fall from his seat, nearly hitting his head on the kitchen tile. "Roger! Are you all right? Speak to me!"

Roger propped himself up, and looked at his equally-stunned wife. "Yeah, I think so…" He rubbed the back of his shoulder, then smiled at his wife. "It's good news, I promise."

Rhonda cocked her head. "The way you fell out of your chair, I thought you'd have cracked your skull open."

Still smiling, Roger elaborated. "It's from Sirius Black, my old friend back at Hogwarts. He's finally out of prison… his name has been cleared of any and all wrongdoing."

Rhonda exhaled a sigh of relief. "That's very good news, honey. I'm glad to hear that your friend's been proven innocent… now did he say who was responsible for the crime he was accused of?"

"He hasn't," Roger murmured. "But I suspect he knows much more than he's told me so far." His face brightened, grinning like the former schoolboy he was. "What's even better is that he wants to come over around Christmas. He's been aching to see Hare… he says he wants to bring him a gift."

"I suppose I have no problem with him wanting to see his godson," admitted Rhonda. "Did he say how long he'd be staying? We don't have a lot of extra room, and we have just enough to feed two adults and a small child."

Roger shook his head. "He didn't say, but he's a Black… even if he's not exactly in good standing with the rest of his family, he's still too proud to mooch."

"Yeah, I seem to recall him being disinherited for joining your Order of the Plebeians or whatever it was called…"

"Phoenix," chuckled Roger. "And yes, he did get disinherited. He, along with his cousin Andromeda. Neither of them bought the 'blood supremacy' balderdash that practically every other Black lived and breathed."

"You and your magical friends are five hundred years behind the rest of the world," groaned Rhonda. "The lot of you think you're so enlightened, but you're really just so provincial and petty."

Roger guffawed. "You're preaching to the choir, darling." He planted a smooch on her cheek.

It was Christmas eve in Greater Vancouver, and the chilly, foggy conditions made it foreboding for travel. It was barely above freezing, and the cold drizzle threatened to harden into ice. The foreboding weather didn't deter Sirius Black from paying the Woodwards a long-overdue visit.

Traveling under the guise of a black, somewhat mangy dog, he prowled the streets of Surrey to find 57 Skylark Place. He finally found the correct street at about a quarter til eight in the evening, passing row after row of small, quaint townhomes. When he was certain he found the correct address, he found a suitable shrub to revert to his human form.

When Roger heard a distinct pounding on his front door, he wasn't totally prepared for the sight in front of him as he unlatched the bolt and turned the knob. He knew the man was Sirius, but he looked so… different. Sirius seemed so haggard and frail, just a shadow of the strapping, cocky kid he knew from his Hogwarts days. Sirius looked like he barely weighed a hundred pounds, and his dark brown hair and beard were both matted and unkempt.

The two friends embraced each other like they haven't seen each other in years – which truly was the case. Roger invited Sirius to the living room, and offered him a cup of piping hot tea, which Sirius gratefully accepted.

"The way you looked at me," Sirius chuckled, "it was if you hardly recognized me." He chuckled again. "If you think I look bad now, you should have seen me three months ago when I found out I was a free man. I've put on about a half stone since then." He gestured toward Rhonda. "It's been forever, Rhonda. I hope you've been keeping old Rog in check?"

"I have, though it certainly hasn't always been easy," replied Rhonda with a grin. "He's definitely grown up a bit since you two were galivanting around Hoodwinks…"

"Hogwarts," Sirius and Roger both corrected with hearty laughs.

Rhonda rolled her eyes. "Whatever. At any rate, I'm glad to hear that you were found innocent of those awful crimes. Roger never believed for a moment you'd be responsible for taking innocent lives like that…"

"Four and a half years of hell," moaned Sirius. He then smirked. "About six months after they tossed me in that blasted cell, Old McGonagall and Remus came in to hear my side of the story. They told me that I still had friends, and that they would do whatever it took to get me the trial I was supposed to get." His eyes narrowed to ominous slits. "You'll never believe who was responsible, Rog."

Roger scrunched his face. "Well, who?"

Sirius hung his head in shame. "Peter. Peter Pettigrew."

"Peter was behind the killings?" Roger roared. "If he wasn't already dead, I'd love to get my hands on his throat and squeeze the life out of him…"

"I don't think he's dead, Roger," said Sirius, in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. "I think he faked his death."

"What makes you think that?" asked Rhonda, who inexplicably found herself fascinated by the story.

"He's a Slytherin in Gryffindor clothing…" Sirius gestured respectfully toward Rhonda. "I know that doesn't mean much to you, but Slytherins are all about self-preservation." He shook his head angrily. "That ticks me off… you, James, Remus and I all would have died for him, no question."

"So, what evidence was there that ultimately cleared your name?" asked Roger. "Surely they needed something tangible to prove you were innocent."

Sirius reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a piece of wood. "Peter's wand was destroyed in the explosion. Thankfully, the DMLE was able to find a piece large enough to test, and found that he had cast several Unforgivables not all that long before the unfortunate incident, not to mention they did trace the curse itself to the wand fragment." He smirked. "Mine was already in safe keeping at the DMLE, so they were able to test mine for comparison… of course, everything came up clean."

Roger nodded. "That's all well and good, but where do you think Peter could have gone, assuming you believe he's alive and in hiding?"

Sirius sighed. "Like myself, he has an unregistered Animagus… but in rat form. He could literally be anywhere… even North America. My guess is that he wants to finish the job… he'll want you, me, and Remus dead… and as much as it pains me to say it, Harry as well."

Roger's heart pounded – a bead of sweat began to form on his brow. "But Harry was brought over here specifically for his protection… and there are no blood wards here to protect him."

"I do think Harry is better off in Canada," admitted Sirius. "But no matter what, you're just delaying the inevitable. Peter knows he'll be no match for Harry when he's a fully trained wizard, and will take no chance for that to come to fruition. He's probably been hiding in his rat form, biding his time until the opportunity presents itself to take the rest of us out. It's just a matter of time before he knows Harry's in North America, if he's not already aware of it."

His face brightened again. "Oh, in other news, Bartemius Crouch the Elder has been sentenced to life in Azkaban for corruption charges. From what I gather, there's also a movement to get Minister Fudge removed from office as well, for incompetent leadership…"

"That's good to hear," Roger responded with candor. "Magical Britain is better off without those two anyway. Who would they replace Fudge with, anyway?"

Sirius chuckled. "Rumor mill says that they want Albus Dumbledore to assume the mantle, though I don't think he wants it. Realistically, I would imagine that it would be the head of DMLE, Amelia Bones. She runs a tight ship and doesn't take much crap."

"Amelia would be a good choice," agreed Roger. "And you're probably right about Dumbledore. I don't think he'd fare poorly, but he does seem to dislike politics. He's an educator at his core."

"Too right," Sirius said. "So, where's the little Pronglet at? I haven't seen him in years… and I do hope he'll like this gift, though it probably would be a bit too big for him right now, I'd imagine."

Rhonda smirked before calling for Harry. "Harry? There's a very special guest in the living room who wants to see you…"

Six-year old Harry Potter rushed from his bedroom to the living room, and practically froze in place when he saw the slight figure of his godfather.

"I haven't seen you in ages, Pup," Sirius said with a huge grin. "It's me, your godfather, Sirius Black. Your Uncle Roger and I go way back. C'mere, Harry. I've got something for you."

Harry's eyes never left Sirius' face as he approached his godfather. His expression could be best described as mesmerized. His eyes grew even bigger when he saw the sleek, silver garment that Sirius produced from behind his back.

"This, pup, is a very, very special cloak. This once belonged to your father, James. He would have wanted you to have it… now, I think it's probably a bit too big for you now, but in a couple of years I think you'll be big enough to wear it."

Rhonda rightly assumed that the garment was magical, and took the cloak from Sirius before Harry had a chance to try it on. "Thank you for the wonderful gift, Sirius," she said in a sweet voice before turning to Harry. "Like your godfather said, you can wear it when you're a little older. Until then, I'll put it in safe place for the time being so that it doesn't get torn or dirty."

Harry gave his foster mother an incredulous look. "But Aunt Rhonda," he protested.

"No buts, Harry," purred Rhonda. "You'll have a chance to try it sometime, but it won't be today. End of discussion." Harry started to pout, but Rhonda gave him a quick glare, so he averted his eyes and looked toward his godfather.

"So… what should I call you?" Harry asked Sirius with soulful green eyes. "Godfather's too… I'unno… proper."

Sirius chuckled. "Sirius is fine, or if you want a nickname, Padfoot. I used to go by that when I was in school."

Harry smiled. "Padfoot… I like that."

"I think that's settled then," Roger chimed in with a grin.

"So, Padfoot, are you gonna be stayin' with us?" Harry asked with hope in his voice.

Sirius shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid not, Pup. But I promise you this… you'll be seeing a lot more of me now. I think I can get used to Western Canada…"