Harry Potter's ninth birthday dawned quietly in the Scottish Highlands, but the manor was far from silent. Morning light filtered in through the enchanted stained-glass windows of the library, casting swirling patterns of red and gold across the bookshelves and hardwood floor. It was here, curled up on a plush armchair with his legs tucked under him, that Harry had fallen asleep the night before—his fingers still holding his place in the most treasured object he owned: the enchanted journal of Sirius Black.
Two years ago, when Harry had found the journal in the Gringotts vault of Sirius Black he never thought it will be his most priced possession. The moment Harry had opened it, the journal revealed page after page of Sirius Black's life—his thoughts, feelings, memories, sketches, and even photographs that moved just like the ones in wizarding newspapers. The journal never ran out of pages, enchanted with a charm that allowed it to grow as needed, holding over ten thousand entries by the time Harry had read his way through most of it.
Harry had read it slowly, savoring every word. It was his connection to the parents he never knew—especially to his father, James Potter. Sirius had written about Hogwarts life in such vivid detail that Harry felt he had been there, wandering the corridors with the Marauders—James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter. He had laughed at the prank war against the Slytherins, sympathized with Remus Lupin's quiet strength, and even felt a strange sense of camaraderie toward Peter Pettigrew—until he reached the final entries.
The entries grew darker.
Fearful.
And finally, furious.
It was in one of the final entries that Sirius wrote, in bold, angry ink:
"We've decided to make Peter the Secret Keeper. I volunteered to be the decoy. If Voldemort ever came for me, he'd never expect we hid it with Peter. And We trust each other completely. Yet something in my gut says we're making a mistake. James won't listen. Lily wants to believe the best. But I know Peter. He seem rather excited."
That night, after cake and candles, Harry approached Wanda, who was lounging in the reading nook, surrounded by scrolls she'd acquired from an old tomb in Bulgaria.
"Can I ask you something serious?" Harry said, his tone far too somber for a boy who had just unwrapped gifts.
Wanda looked up, her expression softening. "Always."
"It's about Sirius Black... the man who's supposed to be my godfather."
Her crimson eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "What about him?"
"He's in Azkaban. They say he betrayed my parents and killed a bunch of people. But in his journal... he writes things that make me think he didn't do it. He even wrote that Peter was the Secret Keeper. I just... I don't think Sirius would ever betray Dad."
Wanda sat up straighter, her interest clearly piqued. "You want to know the truth."
Harry nodded.
A long silence followed. Then Wanda rose to her feet, her robes whispering against the floor as she moved toward him.
"Give me a day," she said. "I'll bring you the truth."
Azkaban prison floated like a grim scar on the northern sea, shrouded in constant fog and guarded by the hollow, soul-sucking presence of Dementors. But Wanda was not afraid. Cloaked in shadow and surrounded by her signature chaos magic, she stepped out of the void she had opened above the rocky island and descended through the cracks of reality like falling threads of light.
The Dementors sensed her. They came swarming like vultures, but they faltered at her aura. She did not feel fear. She did not regret. She did not mourn. The creatures hovered, shrieking softly, then fell back as if ordered away by some higher force.
Wanda moved effortlessly through the wards, weaving between spells and detection enchantments until she reached the cell.
Inside, a large black dog whimpered and cowered in the corner—matted fur covering a broken, starved form. The moment she stepped into the light, the dog lifted its head and whimpered. Then it shifted. With a pained groan and trembling limbs, the dog transformed into a gaunt man with sunken eyes, long matted hair, and a beard that had grown wild with time.
Sirius Black stared at her as though he were staring at a ghost.
"...Lily?" he whispered. "No... you're not... I'm dead, aren't I?"
Wanda said nothing. She stepped closer, knelt in front of him, and placed her fingers against his temple.
"No. But you're going to live again."
A flood of memories poured into her mind. His last stand. The explosion. The trial that never happened. The years of rot and ruin. She saw James, Remus, Peter... and Harry.
When she released him, tears had slipped down her face without her realizing.
"You're innocent," she murmured.
"I told them... no one listened," Sirius rasped.
"You don't need to stay here anymore."
Wanda left behind a replica—a dead body, transformed from a conjured stone, to trick the guards. She carried the unconscious Sirius through the void and reemerged in the greenhouse behind the manor, where America was trimming vines of self-harvesting dittany.
"Who's this?" America asked, blinking in surprise.
Harry came running as he sensed the portal open, then stopped short when he saw the pale, bony man lying in Wanda's arms.
"This is Sirius Black," Wanda said, softly. "Your godfather."
The next morning, the Daily Prophet ran a large front-page headline:
"SIRIUS BLACK DEAD IN AZKABAN – DARK WIZARD DIES IN SLEEP"
The article painted Sirius as the last loyalist of Voldemort, a villain who never revealed his secrets. The Ministry declared the case closed.
But inside the manor, Sirius Black slept in a warm bed for the first time in years. And when he finally awoke, groggy and confused, the first thing he saw was a young boy with black hair and electric blue eyes peering down at him.
"Are you really Sirius Black?" Harry asked, unable to hide the emotion in his voice.
Sirius blinked, then nodded slowly. "You're... Harry?"
Harry nodded, gripping the edge of the bed tightly.
"You look very different," Sirius whispered. "And your eyes... Lily must have done the ritual."
And then, unexpectedly, Sirius began to cry.
Sobs of pain. Betrayal. Grief.
Harry reached forward and hugged him, and Sirius hugged back like he was holding the last piece of a broken world.
That evening, the manor was decorated with enchanted streamers and floating candles. Wanda and America insisted on a proper birthday celebration for Harry—even more so now, with Sirius present. They baked a cake together (with America nearly blowing up the oven), and Sirius sat at the head of the table, laughing for the first time in years.
Wanda gifted Harry an ancient tome bound in scarlet dragonhide.
"This," she said, "belonged to Godric Gryffindor himself. I got it from a collector who didn't know what he had."
Harry's eyes lit up.
America handed him a carefully wrapped case.
"It's the Animagus Potion," she grinned. "You've been reading about transformations forever. I figured it was time."
Sirius choked on his drink. "You're going to be an Animagus? At nine?"
Harry grinned. "Why not?"
Sirius laughed. "James would've been proud."
Sirius Black had been a prisoner of Azkaban for twelve long years. His body bore the marks of that suffering—his limbs thin as twigs, his cheeks sunken, and his eyes shadowed with trauma. But inside the manor, sheltered by wards and surrounded by warmth, things began to change. Slowly.
America Chavez, ever practical, had immediately taken charge of his recovery. She converted one of the side rooms into a small infirmary and mixed a collection of carefully crafted nutritional potions—designed to rebuild tissue, replenish magical energy, and accelerate natural healing. Her hands were steady as she stirred cauldrons, her brow furrowed in concentration as she read from handwritten notes.
"Drink this," she told Sirius one morning, holding out a glowing orange potion in a thin-necked vial.
Sirius raised a skeptical brow. "It doesn't smell like pumpkin juice."
"It's not. It's protein-rich, nutrient-dense, and magically enhanced. I had to wrestle a grindylow for one of the ingredients."
He chuckled weakly. "Well, you're definitely not from around here."
"Nope," she replied with a wink. "Another universe."
Sirius, strangely enough, didn't flinch. He'd seen enough weirdness in his youth to know that the impossible just meant unexplained yet.
Still, nothing prepared him for watching Harry—his Harry—dueling in the courtyard with a woman who looked like Lily Evans.
It nearly broke him.
Wanda was in crimson dueling robes, her hair transfigured into a dark braid that whipped through the air as she spun and cast. Her spells were elegant but chaotic—surging red hexes that crackled like thunder, met by Harry's structured, wand-based defense.
Sirius sat wrapped in a woolen cloak on the bench nearby, sipping a potion and watching them practice. His fingers trembled slightly, but his voice had grown stronger each day.
"That woman…" he said to America, who had joined him with a hot cup of tea, "She looks like Lily. Acts like her, too."
America glanced at him over the rim of her mug. "That's the idea."
Sirius squinted. "How serious is she about this?"
"Dead serious," America said. "She wants to protect Harry. To confuse anyone who comes after him. She wants to be Lily... or at least, convince others she is."
Sirius exhaled slowly. "The wizarding world's full of fools. They believed I murdered thirteen people based on one spell and no trial. If Wanda wants to pose as Lily… they'll believe it. Especially if I help her."
Later that night, Wanda approached him directly.
They sat by the fireplace, Sirius swaddled in a blanket, Harry already fast asleep upstairs. Wanda, expression unreadable, twirled her fingers as crimson magic danced over her knuckles.
"I need your help," she said softly.
Sirius looked up.
"I want to mimic her," Wanda continued. "Her gestures. Her way of speaking. Her presence. I don't want to replace her in Harry's heart. But I do want to protect him… and sometimes, the greatest protection is illusion. You knew her best, didn't you?"
Sirius set his tea down carefully and gave her a long, unreadable look.
"I knew her when she hated James Potter," he said, half-smiling. "And when she fell in love with him anyway. I knew her when she hexed bullies in the corridor and when she cried in the astronomy tower during her seventh year."
He leaned back, eyes distant. "I can help you. But understand this, Wanda—Lily was fire. A different kind of fire than you. She didn't explode. She burned. Quiet. Steady. Until there was nothing left but light."
Wanda nodded slowly, her voice barely a whisper. "Then show me."
They began the next morning.
Sirius took her to the Pensieve Wanda had bought from a magical antique dealer in Belgium—a shallow silver basin inlaid with runes and starlight. He extracted memory after memory from his temple with the tip of his wand and let Wanda and Harry view them, one by one.
There was Lily in the Gryffindor common room, laughing as she braided Mary MacDonald's hair. There she was in the library, calmly arguing with Slughorn about a potion theory. Then dueling in the courtyard against Mulciber, red hair flying and wand steady. Then in the Three Broomsticks, sipping butterbeer and rolling her eyes as James Potter tried to impress her with ridiculous broom tricks outside the window.
Each memory shaped Wanda's understanding of who Lily Evans Potter had been. Each memory deepened her empathy.
Sirius coached her relentlessly.
"Lily never slouched," he said one evening as Wanda attempted to replicate the young mother's posture. "She stood like the world was beneath her feet, not above her."
"Her smile—more subtle. Not with your whole mouth. She had that half-smirk thing going. Like she already knew she was right."
"She always called James 'Potter,' even after they were married. Habit, I guess. But she only used 'James' when she was being serious."
"Her wand flicks were sharp. Like punctuation. You do this circular thing. Too elegant. You need precision, not flair."
It was exhausting.
But Wanda persisted.
And soon, her imitation became uncanny.
Even America, who had never met Lily, found herself startled when Wanda walked into the drawing room one evening dressed in Muggle jeans, a Hogwarts jumper, and Lily's long auburn curls flowing behind her.
"Okay," America said, blinking. "That's weirdly accurate."
Sirius smiled faintly. "We're getting there."
Meanwhile, Harry had not been idle.
When he wasn't training with Wanda or cooking for the manor, he was helping Sirius recover—bringing him books, taking him on slow walks around the magical greenhouse, or simply sitting in silence as Sirius stared into the fire and processed the world he'd missed.
"Do you think Dad would've liked her?" Harry asked one afternoon.
Sirius looked up from his steaming mug of broth. "Wanda?"
Harry nodded.
"He'd have adored her," Sirius said without hesitation. "James loved chaos… and loyalty. She's got both."
Harry grinned. "She also hexed Aunt Petunia. Twice."
Sirius choked on his drink. "Merlin's teeth—I wish I'd been there."
The manor, once quiet and solemn, was now alive with laughter, learning, and memory. And Sirius Black, once a fugitive and prisoner, found a purpose again—not in rebellion, but in legacy.