Morning came too quickly.
Wanda woke to the sound of soft cooing from the next room and a moment of pure panic before memory crashed back—*Harry. Scotland. Agnes. I kidnapped the Boy Who Lived.*
She sat up, running her hands through her hair. Sunlight streamed through the window, painting the small bedroom in shades of gold. Outside, she could hear birds singing and, distantly, the angry squealing of Malcolm from his pen.
The cooing continued, punctuated by a delighted laugh.
Wanda pulled herself out of bed and padded to the guest room, expecting to find Harry awake and demanding attention. Instead, she found Agnes sitting in the rocking chair Wanda didn't remember creating, Harry cradled in her arms while she sang softly in Gaelic. The baby was entranced, his green eyes fixed on Agnes's face, one tiny hand wrapped around her finger.
"...s'ann dhomh fhìn a bha an t-àm, nuair bha mi òg..." Agnes's voice was surprisingly lovely, clear and pure despite years of cigarettes and shouting. She'd changed from last night's worn clothes into something cleaner—a simple dress, her hair brushed and pinned back. The bruises were still visible, but somehow she looked lighter. Younger.
Free.
She glanced up as Wanda entered, and her face broke into a genuine smile. "Guid mornin'. I hope ye dinnae mind—I heard him fussin' an' I thought I'd let ye sleep a wee bit longer."
"No, it's..." Wanda's throat tightened unexpectedly. "Thank you."
Agnes looked back down at Harry, her expression soft with wonder. "He's a bonnie wee thing, isn't he? Those eyes—I've never seen such a color. Like emeralds."
"His mother's eyes," Wanda said quietly, moving closer. "Lily. She died protecting him."
"Then she was a brave woman." Agnes shifted Harry slightly, and he made a happy sound. "He's been a perfect angel. Played wi' his wee lion, let me change his nappy—though I'll admit, it's been years since I've done that—an' now he's jist enjoyin' the singin'."
Wanda watched them together, something warm and complex blooming in her chest. Agnes was a natural with Harry, confident and gentle in ways Wanda still felt uncertain about. The way she supported his head, the way she instinctively swayed to soothe him, the easy affection in every movement—this was someone who'd wanted children. Who'd probably dreamed of them before Malcolm's fists and bottles had crushed those dreams.
An idea began to form.
"Agnes," Wanda said slowly, "how would you feel about being Harry's nanny?"
Agnes looked up sharply. "His... what?"
"His nanny. Caretaker." Wanda sat on the edge of the bed. "I need to leave for a while—a day, maybe two. There are things I need to do, people I need to help. Things that could be dangerous, and I can't bring Harry."
"Ye want me tae watch him."
"I want you to take care of him," Wanda corrected. "Feed him, change him, play with him, love him. You're already doing it. I can see it—you're good with him. And he likes you."
As if to prove her point, Harry chose that moment to grab a handful of Agnes's hair and shove it in his mouth, giggling around it.
Agnes gently extracted her hair, laughing. "Aye, well. He's easy tae love, this yin." She hesitated. "But Wanda... I'm no' a proper nanny. I've nae training, nae experience wi' bairns—"
"Neither do I," Wanda admitted. "I'm making this up as I go. But I trust you. You're kind, you're gentle, and you understand what it's like to survive things you shouldn't have to. That makes you exactly the person I want caring for my son."
*My son.* The words felt natural now, settled. True.
Agnes's eyes filled with tears. "Ye trust me. Wi' the most important thing in yer life. An' ye barely ken me."
"I know enough." Wanda reached out and squeezed Agnes's shoulder. "I know you chose to help us when you could have turned us away. I know you stayed with Malcolm for five years because you're loyal to a fault. I know you sang to Harry this morning because you wanted to, not because you had to. That's enough."
"What if somethin' happens while ye're gone? What if he gets hurt, or sick, or—"
"Then you handle it." Wanda pulled out a small object from thin air—a mirror, ornately framed in silver and red. "This is enchanted. If you need me, just say my name three times while looking into it. I'll hear you, no matter where I am. I can be back in seconds if there's an emergency."
Agnes took the mirror carefully, turning it over in her hands. "This is really magic?"
"Really magic." Wanda stood. "So. Will you do it? Will you take care of Harry while I'm gone?"
Agnes looked down at the baby in her arms. Harry had abandoned her hair and was now trying to eat his own fist, making wet smacking sounds. She smiled, that soft maternal smile, and Wanda knew the answer before Agnes spoke.
"Aye. I'll dae it." Agnes met Wanda's eyes. "I'll guard him wi' ma life."
"I know you will." Wanda leaned down and pressed a kiss to Harry's forehead. "Be good for Agnes, малыш. Mama will be back soon."
Harry cooed at her, reaching out with one chubby hand. Wanda caught it, marveling again at how small he was, how fragile. How much she already loved him.
*I won't let you down,* she promised silently. *I'm going to fix everything. You'll have your godfather. You won't have that monster in your head. You'll have a real childhood, a real family.*
*I promise.*
---
After Agnes had fed Harry—transfigured milk that Wanda prayed was nutritionally adequate—and settled him down for a nap, Wanda retreated to the kitchen to finalize her plan.
The Horcrux was the priority. It had to be. Every moment that piece of Voldemort's soul remained attached to Harry was another moment of potential danger, potential corruption.
The solution was simple, theoretically. She was the Scarlet Witch. She could rewrite reality itself. All she had to do was reach deep into her chaos magic and say the words: *No more Horcruxes.*
And they would cease to exist. All of them, everywhere. Destroyed in an instant.
But.
*But.*
The problem—the massive, terrifying problem—was Harry. The Horcrux wasn't just attached to him. It was *in* him, woven into his magic, his life force, possibly his very soul. When she'd examined it last night, she'd seen how deeply embedded it was. Like a tumor wrapped around vital organs, impossible to remove without catastrophic damage.
If she simply erased all Horcruxes, what would happen to Harry?
Would the Horcrux just... disappear, leaving him intact? Or would it tear away pieces of him when it went—his magic, his memories, his *life?*
She couldn't take that risk. Wouldn't.
Which meant she needed a different approach.
Wanda pulled out her notebook and began sketching, using her chaos magic to create diagrams that hung in the air, glowing red and three-dimensional. Harry's magical core, as she understood it. The Horcrux, a black stain wrapped around it. The connection between them, pulsing with dark energy.
She'd already created wards to suppress the Horcrux, to keep it dormant. That was step one: containment.
Step two would be complete separation. If she could sever the connection between Harry's soul and the Horcrux entirely—build a wall so complete that the two never touched—then the Horcrux would become just... an object. A thing lodged in his scar but no longer part of him.
And then, eventually, she could remove it. Extract it like a tumor, with her chaos magic acting as the surgical blade.
But there was still a problem. Harry was fifteen months old. His magical core was still forming, still developing. Any manipulation, even careful manipulation, could affect his growth.
Unless...
Wanda stared at her diagrams, an idea crystallizing.
What if she didn't just separate Harry from the Horcrux? What if she *replaced* the connection? Filled the space where Voldemort's soul had been with something else?
With her chaos magic.
She could infuse Harry's magical core with her power—slowly, carefully, over months or even years. A little bit at a time, allowing it to merge naturally with his own developing magic. It would become part of him, woven so deeply that no one could separate them.
And there was precedent. Lily's love magic had already done something similar—her sacrifice had left a permanent mark on Harry, a protection that lived in his very blood. That's what Dumbledore had been counting on, why he'd wanted Harry with the Dursleys.
But Wanda's chaos magic combined with Lily's love magic? That would create something entirely new. Something unprecedented.
A child with the power to rewrite reality and the protection of a mother's sacrifice. Love and chaos, merged into one.
It was ambitious. Possibly reckless.
But it was also *brilliant.*
The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. Her chaos magic was already responding to Harry, already recognizing him as hers to protect. If she made that official—wove herself into his very essence—then he'd carry a piece of her always. Even if something happened to her, even if she died, he'd still have that protection.
That power.
That love.
"Okay," she murmured, dismissing the diagrams. "Okay. That's the plan. Separate the Horcrux. Infuse him with chaos magic. Create something new."
But not yet. That would take time, preparation, careful monitoring. Right now, the containment wards were enough. Harry was safe.
Which meant she could focus on priority two: Sirius Black.
---
Wanda stood in the small back garden of Agnes's cottage, staring at Malcolm's pen. The pig squealed at her indignantly, as if she were the unreasonable one in this situation.
"You brought this on yourself," she told him. Malcolm squealed louder.
She ignored him and closed her eyes, reaching out with her chaos magic. Not to transform anything, not to fight or destroy. Just to *sense*.
Scotland was full of magic. She could feel it everywhere—in the old stones, in the earth, in the wind that carried the scent of heather and rain. This land had been sacred long before wizards built Hogwarts, long before the Romans came. Ancient magic lived here, wild and untamed.
Somewhere in all that wildness, there had to be a tree. One tree that would resonate with her magic. One tree that could become what she needed.
Her awareness spread like ripples on water, touching trees, testing them. Oak—strong but too rigid. Pine—flexible but too light. Birch—beautiful but too pale, too innocent for what she was.
There.
Her consciousness snagged on something about three miles northwest. A tree that felt... right. Old but not ancient. Strong but with flexibility. Dark wood shot through with veins of something almost red.
*Yew.*
Of course it was yew. The wood of death and rebirth, of transformation. Sacred to Hecate, goddess of witchcraft. Used in British wandlore for centuries, paired with phoenix feather cores for wizards with... complicated destinies.
*How appropriate.*
Wanda opened her eyes and stepped sideways through space, reality bending around her. The world blurred red and she was there—standing in a small grove, facing a yew tree that had probably been growing since before Shakespeare was born.
It was magnificent. Easily thirty feet tall, its trunk thick and gnarled, its dark green needles seeming to absorb the light rather than reflect it. And yes, there—visible when she looked with her magical senses—veins of red running through the wood like blood vessels.
"Hello," she said softly. "I need your help."
The tree didn't respond—trees rarely did—but she felt its awareness. Old, patient, curious about the strange magic that had suddenly appeared in its grove.
Wanda reached out with both hands and her chaos magic, touching the trunk gently. "I need a branch. Just one. I'll make it worth your while."
She let her magic flow into the tree, not taking, not demanding. Offering. Showing it what she was, what she needed, what she would create. A partnership, not theft.
The yew considered.
Then, with a soft creak, a branch—about fourteen inches long, perfectly straight, the thickness of her thumb—detached itself and fell into her waiting hands.
"Thank you," Wanda breathed.
In return, she poured magic into the yew's roots. Chaos magic, yes, but gentle. Encouraging growth, health, strength. The tree would flourish now in ways it hadn't before. Would live centuries longer than it otherwise might have. Would become a legend among the local magical community, sought out by wandmakers who would find its wood particularly potent.
Fair exchange.
Wanda stepped back through space, returning to Agnes's garden with the branch in her hands. Malcolm squealed at her sudden reappearance, and she rolled her eyes at him.
"Shut up, Malcolm. I'm working."
She held the yew branch up to the morning light, examining it. The wood was smooth, slightly flexible, with that distinctive dark color. Good. Very good.
Now came the delicate part.
Wanda sat cross-legged on the grass and laid the branch across her lap. She closed her eyes and reached deep into her chaos magic—not the wild, destructive force that had consumed Westview, but the careful, creative power she'd been learning to master. The power that built instead of destroyed.
*I need a wand,* she told her magic. *Something that looks normal to local wizards. Something that will let me blend in, hide what I really am. But something that's also **mine**—truly mine, connected to me completely.*
Her chaos magic hummed in understanding.
Scarlet mist gathered around the branch, sinking into the wood, reshaping it molecule by molecule. The branch smoothed, refined, became elegant. The dark wood seemed to drink in her magic, veins of red becoming more pronounced, pulsing like a heartbeat.
For the core—because wands needed cores, that's what this world believed—she didn't use phoenix feather or dragon heartstring or unicorn hair.
She used herself.
Wanda pulled a single strand of hair from her head and, with her chaos magic, transformed it. The hair became pure energy, pure power, essence of chaos itself. Then she drove it deep into the wood, where it spread and merged, becoming the wand's core in truth.
The result was stunning.
Fourteen inches of dark yew wood, polished to a subtle shine, with those red veins visible just beneath the surface. At the handle, where her hand would grip it, the wood had molded itself perfectly to her palm. The tip tapered to a point sharp enough to be dangerous.
It looked like a wand. Would register as a wand to any magical detection.
But it was so much more.
Wanda picked it up, and the connection was immediate, overwhelming. The wand wasn't just a tool—it was an extension of herself, a channel for her power. When she flicked it, scarlet sparks shot out, brighter than any spell.
"Perfect," she whispered.
A test, then. Something simple.
She pointed the wand at a dandelion growing near Malcolm's pen. "*Incendio.*"
Fire erupted from the wand tip—not a gentle flame but a torrent of scarlet fire that immolated the dandelion instantly, leaving nothing but ash. The spell was magnitudes more powerful than it should have been, amplified by chaos magic pretending to be regular wandwork.
Wanda frowned. That could be a problem. She'd need to learn restraint, learn to dial it back so she didn't accidentally reveal what she was every time she cast.
But it would work. It would absolutely work.
She stood, brushing grass from her jeans, and tucked the wand into her jacket. Now she looked like any other witch—albeit one who didn't wear robes and had a Sokovian accent.
Good enough.
"Right," she said aloud. "Step one: wand. Check. Step two: break Sirius Black out of magical prison. Let's see how that goes."
Malcolm squealed his opinion on that plan. Wanda ignored him and headed back into the cottage.
---
Agnes was in the kitchen making lunch—soup, from the smell—while Harry sat in a conjured high chair, playing with a set of wooden blocks Wanda had made him. He looked up when she entered and waved a block at her enthusiastically.
"Mama's back, wee yin," Agnes said, stirring the pot. "Did yer business go well?"
"Better than expected." Wanda kissed Harry's head and conjured a chair. "I have what I need. Now I just need information."
"What kind o' information?"
"The kind that tells me where they're keeping Sirius Black."
Agnes set down her spoon. "The man ye mentioned last night? Harry's godfather?"
"The same. He was arrested—probably last night or early this morning. He'll either be in Ministry holding cells awaiting trial, or..." Wanda's jaw tightened. "Or they've already sent him to Azkaban without one."
"That's no' legal, surely."
"It's not. But Sirius is accused of murdering thirteen people with one spell. Of being Voldemort's right-hand man. Of betraying Harry's parents to their deaths." Wanda shook her head. "The magical government is terrified right now. Voldemort just fell, there are Death Eaters everywhere, and they want someone to blame. Sirius is convenient."
"But he didnae dae it."
"No. The real traitor—Peter Pettigrew—he faked his own death. Cut off his finger, blew up a street, killed twelve Muggles—non-magical people—and transformed into a rat. He's been hiding as a pet ever since."
Agnes's eyes widened. "They can dae that? Turn intae animals?"
"Some can. It's called being an Animagus. It requires years of training and registration with the Ministry, but some people do it illegally." Wanda conjured a cup of tea, needing something to do with her hands. "Peter Pettigrew is an illegal Animagus. A rat. And if I remember correctly, he spent the next twelve years living with a family called the Weasleys, pretending to be their pet."
"So ye need tae find him. Prove he's alive."
"Eventually. But first, I need to get Sirius out before Azkaban destroys him." Wanda took a sip of tea. "The problem is, I don't know where he is. I don't know the layout of the Ministry or Azkaban. I don't have contacts, don't have information networks, don't have—"
"Ye have magic," Agnes interrupted. "Can ye no' jist... magic yerself the information?"
Wanda blinked. "I... huh. Actually, maybe I can."
She'd been thinking like an Avenger—like someone who needed intelligence, reconnaissance, planning. But she wasn't an Avenger anymore. She was a witch. *The* Scarlet Witch, who could rewrite reality itself.
She pulled out her new wand, feeling it hum with power. "I need a location spell. Something that will find Sirius wherever he is."
Her chaos magic stirred, eager to help.
Wanda pointed the wand at the air and spoke in Sokovian, the language of her childhood, the language that felt most natural for magic: "*Покажи ми Сириуса Блека.*" Show me Sirius Black.
Scarlet mist exploded from the wand tip, swirling and coalescing into an image—hazy, indistinct, but visible. A man, gaunt and wild-eyed, his black hair hanging in matted tangles. He was in a cell, stone walls and iron bars, wearing striped prisoner's robes. His hands were chained to the wall, and a Dementor glided past his cell door, sucking away hope and warmth.
*Azkaban.*
They'd already sent him to Azkaban.
"Bastards," Wanda hissed. "They didn't even give him a trial. Didn't even let him speak in his own defense."
The image zoomed out, showing more of the prison. A massive fortress on an island in the middle of the North Sea, surrounded by storms and darkness. Dementors everywhere—dozens of them, maybe hundreds. And inside, hundreds of prisoners in various states of despair.
Sirius was on the upper levels—better than the worst cells, but still horrific. His cell had a number: 243.
"That's him?" Agnes asked quietly. "That's Harry's godfather?"
"That's him." Wanda dismissed the image with a wave. "And I'm getting him out. Tonight."
"How?"
"Carefully." Wanda's mind was already racing, planning. "Azkaban is supposed to be impossible to escape from. The Dementors, the wards, the location—it's designed to be inescapable. But I'm not trying to escape *from* it. I'm breaking *into* it."
"That sounds equally impossible."
"Maybe for a normal witch." Wanda smiled grimly. "But I'm not normal."
She stood, draining her tea. "I need to prepare. Research what I'm up against, figure out how to deal with Dementors, plan the extraction. It'll take most of the day."
"An' ye'll go tonight?"
"Tonight." Wanda moved to the high chair and crouched down to Harry's level. He immediately grabbed her face with both sticky hands, and she laughed despite herself. "Hey, малыш. Mama has to go away for a little while. But Agnes is going to take such good care of you, okay?"
Harry babbled something that might have been agreement or might have been a demand for more blocks.
"I'll be back by morning," she promised, kissing his forehead. "And when I come back, I'll have someone very important to introduce you to. Your godfather. Your family."
Harry tilted his head, those green eyes impossibly wise for an infant. For a moment, Wanda could have sworn he understood every word.
"Be good," she whispered. "I love you."
She straightened and turned to Agnes. "The mirror works both ways. If I need help, I'll call. If you need me—"
"Three times while lookin' in it. I remember." Agnes hefted Harry out of his high chair and settled him on her hip. "We'll be fine. Ye go dae what ye need tae dae. Save that poor man."
"Thank you." Wanda meant it with her whole heart. "For everything."
"Go on wi' ye." Agnes shooed her toward the door. "An' be careful. I dinnae want tae have tae explain tae this wee yin why his mama got herself arrested fer prison break."
Wanda laughed. "I'll do my best."
She took one last look at Harry—her son, her purpose, her reason for being better—and stepped out into the Scottish morning.
She had a prison to break into and a godfather to rescue.
Then, once Sirius was safe, she'd track down Peter Pettigrew and drag his rat ass to the Ministry in chains.
And after that... after that, she'd come home to Harry and begin the delicate work of making him into something the magical world had never seen.
A child born of love, protected by chaos, carrying pieces of both his mothers—Lily and Wanda—woven into his very soul.
*But first,* she thought, pulling out her wand and feeling it pulse with power, *first I break an innocent man out of wizard hell.*
Scarlet mist gathered around her, ready for whatever came next.
This was going to be interesting.
—
Sirius Black had stopped counting hours.
In Azkaban, time didn't work the way it should. The Dementors saw to that—sucking away not just happiness but context, continuity, the sense of moments flowing one into another. Sometimes he thought he'd been here for days. Sometimes it felt like minutes. Sometimes he was convinced he'd been here forever and everything else—James, Lily, Peter's betrayal, Harry—had been a fever dream.
But the cold was real. The chains were real. And the screaming—always the screaming, echoing through the stone corridors—that was real too.
*Cell 243.* That's what they'd told him. As if the number mattered. As if anything mattered anymore.
He sat with his back against the stone wall, his wrists raw from the manacles, and tried to remember James's face. It was getting harder. The Dementors took memories, fed on them like leeches. Every time one glided past his cell, he felt another piece of himself drain away.
*James laughing at something Sirius said.*
Gone.
*Lily rolling her eyes at their pranks.*
Fading.
*Harry—tiny, perfect Harry—wrapped in blankets with his father's hair and his mother's eyes.*
*No.* Sirius clung to that one desperately. *I won't let them take Harry. That's mine. He's mine.*
His godson. The only good thing left in this rotten world. The baby he'd sworn to protect, to love, to raise if anything ever happened to James and Lily.
And he'd failed. Failed spectacularly.
Because he'd trusted Peter. Sweet, bumbling Peter who couldn't hex his way out of a paper bag, who'd seemed so grateful just to be included in their group. Peter who'd turned out to be a Death Eater and a traitor and a murderer.
*We should have made you Secret Keeper,* James's voice echoed in his memory. *You're my brother, Pads. I trust you with everything.*
*No, make it Peter. Voldemort will expect me. He'll come after me first. Peter's the perfect choice—no one would suspect him.*
Sirius laughed. The sound echoed off the stone walls, hollow and broken. He couldn't seem to stop laughing. It was that or scream, and he was so tired of screaming.
"Shut up in there!" someone yelled from another cell. "Shut UP!"
He laughed harder.
That's how they'd found him, after all. Standing in the rubble of that London street, surrounded by the bodies of twelve Muggles Peter had killed with a single spell before cutting off his own finger and transforming. Laughing like a madman because what else could you do when your best friend was dead, your other best friend was a traitor, and your godson was an orphan at fifteen months old?
You laughed.
Or you died.
And Sirius couldn't die. Not yet. Because Harry was out there somewhere, and someone needed to love him. Someone needed to tell him about James and Lily, about what they'd sacrificed, about how much they'd loved their son.
Even if that someone was a convicted mass murderer rotting in Azkaban.
*I'm innocent,* he thought for the thousandth time. *I didn't betray them. I didn't kill those people. I'm innocent.*
But no one had listened. No one had asked. They'd just looked at him—laughing in the ruins—and decided he was guilty.
Barty Crouch Sr. himself had signed the order. No trial. No questions. Just... Azkaban. Forever.
*At least it'll be quick,* Sirius thought. *Few months of this and I'll go mad like the rest of them. Then I won't have to think about James anymore. Won't have to remember Lily's eyes when she saw Peter—*
A sound made him lift his head.
Not screaming. Not the glide of Dementor robes or the clank of guard chains. Something else. Something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
A low hum, like electricity or distant thunder. And underneath it, a whisper that grew louder: *"покажи ми Сириуса Блека."*
The words were foreign, musical. Slavic, maybe? Sirius's addled brain couldn't place the language.
The air in his cell began to shimmer. Scarlet mist—impossible, beautiful, wrong in every way—seeped through the walls like they were water, not stone. The Dementors' cold receded, pushed back by something warmer. Something alive.
Sirius struggled to his feet, chains rattling. "What the—"
The mist coalesced, solidified, and then she was there.
*Oh.*
For a moment, Sirius forgot how to breathe.
She was beautiful—not in the way of pretty girls at Hogwarts or elegant Ministry wives, but beautiful in the way of storms and starlight and things that could kill you. Auburn hair that seemed to hold fire in its depths, falling in waves past her shoulders. High cheekbones and full lips and eyes—Merlin, her *eyes*—that glowed actual red, like rubies or burning coals.
She wore Muggle clothes—jeans, a dark jacket—and held a wand that looked like it had been carved from shadow. Scarlet energy crackled around her fingers, around the wand, around her entire body like an aura.
She wasn't just powerful. She was *power itself.*
"Sirius Black?" Her voice was accented—Eastern European, he thought distantly—and low, almost hypnotic.
"Who's asking?" He tried for his usual cocky tone, but it came out raspy, broken from disuse.
"Someone who knows you're innocent." She moved closer, and the chains on his wrists began to glow red. "Someone who's here to get you out."
"That's..." Sirius laughed again, but this time it was edged with hysteria. "That's impossible. No one breaks out of Azkaban. And no one knows I'm innocent except me."
"I know." Those red eyes—*how were they red?*—fixed on him with absolute certainty. "Peter Pettigrew is alive. He's a rat—literally. An Animagus. He killed those twelve Muggles, faked his own death, and framed you. And I'm going to drag him to the Ministry in chains and make them admit they were wrong."
Sirius stared at her. At this impossible woman who'd appeared in his cell like a hallucination, who knew things she couldn't possibly know, who looked at him like she *believed* him.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
"Wanda Maximoff." She raised her wand—no, wait, she didn't say an incantation, she just *gestured*, and the chains exploded off his wrists in a shower of red sparks. "And we need to leave. Now."
The pain in his wrists vanished as she waved her hand again, healing injuries in seconds that should have taken weeks. Sirius rubbed his wrists, staring at smooth, unmarked skin where there should have been burns and cuts.
"How did you—"
"Questions later. Escape now." Wanda—gods, even her name was beautiful—grabbed his arm. Her touch was warm, almost feverishly so, chasing away the Dementor cold that had seeped into his bones. "Can you transform?"
"Into Padfoot? I... maybe. I haven't tried since—"
"Try now. You'll need to hold on to me, and it'll be easier in dog form."
Sirius closed his eyes and reached for his animagus form. It was harder than it should have been—the Dementors had weakened him, and the despair made it difficult to focus—but he'd been transforming since he was fifteen. His body remembered even if his mind was foggy.
*Bones shifting. Perspective changing. Four legs instead of two.*
He shook himself and looked up at Wanda from his new height—a massive black dog, shaggy and half-starved but still himself. Still Padfoot.
She smiled, and it transformed her face from beautiful to devastating. "Good boy."
Then she scooped him up—*scooped up a dog the size of a small pony*—like he weighed nothing and held him against her chest. Sirius would have protested, but he was too busy processing the fact that she smelled like cinnamon and something indefinably sweet, and her heart was beating steady and strong against his ear, and oh Merlin he was gone, utterly gone, completely in love with a woman whose last name he couldn't pronounce.
*Pull yourself together, Black. She's rescuing you. Don't be creepy about it.*
"Hold on," Wanda warned. "This is going to feel strange."
Scarlet mist exploded around them both, and then—
—reality *folded.*
Sirius yelped—an undignified dog sound—as the world twisted sideways. Colors bled into each other, solid matter became suggestion, and for one horrible moment he was convinced they were dying, dissolving, ceasing to exist.
Then they were falling.
No—not falling. Flying. Soaring through impossible spaces between spaces, riding a wave of scarlet energy that bent physics into knots. He could see Azkaban below them, shrinking rapidly. Could see Dementors swarming like angry wasps, alerted to the escape. Could see wards—ancient, powerful wards meant to contain magic—shattering like glass against Wanda's power.
She wasn't just breaking out of Azkaban.
She was *laughing at it.*
The prison fell away, became a speck, vanished. The North Sea spread out beneath them, then the Scottish coast, then rolling highlands painted gold by afternoon sun.
They descended—gently, carefully—and touched down in a small garden behind a stone cottage. A pig squealed indignantly from a nearby pen. Smoke curled from the chimney, and somewhere inside, a woman was singing in Gaelic.
Wanda set Sirius down carefully. "You can transform back. We're safe here."
Sirius shifted back to human form and immediately collapsed, his legs refusing to support him. Wanda caught him before he hit the ground, her arms surprisingly strong, and eased him into a sitting position against the cottage wall.
"Sorry," he managed. "I'm... not at my best."
"You were in Azkaban for less than a day and you're still standing. That's more impressive than you think." She crouched in front of him, those red eyes studying his face. The color was fading, he noticed—returning to a more normal brown, though they still seemed to glow from within. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been kissed by a Dementor and haven't eaten in a week." Sirius tried to smile. "But better. Much better. You... you really got me out."
"I did."
"Why?" It was the question that mattered most. "You don't know me. I'm a convicted murderer. Why risk breaking into Azkaban for me?"
Wanda was quiet for a moment. Then: "Because Harry deserves to know his godfather. Because I know what it's like to lose everything and be helpless to stop it. And because I've read your story, Sirius Black, and I know you're a good man who got destroyed by bad luck and worse friends."
"You've... read my story?" He must have hit his head during the escape. Nothing she was saying made sense.
"It's complicated." She stood and offered him her hand. "Come inside. We'll get you fed, cleaned up, and then I'll explain everything. Well—most things. Some of it won't make sense no matter how I explain it."
Sirius took her hand—warm, strong, crackling with barely-contained power—and let her pull him to his feet. His legs wobbled but held.
"Is this real?" he asked quietly. "Or am I mad? Did I finally snap?"
Wanda's expression softened. "It's real. I promise. You're not mad, you're not dead, and you're not dreaming. You're free, Sirius. Actually free."
Free.
The word felt foreign. Impossible.
But when Wanda opened the cottage door and warm light spilled out, when the scent of soup and bread hit him, when he heard a baby cooing from somewhere inside—
—when she looked back at him with those impossible eyes and smiled that devastating smile—
Sirius thought maybe, just maybe, he could believe in impossible things.
At least for a little while.
---
Inside, a thin Scottish woman with fading bruises looked up from the stove in shock. "Wanda! Ye're back early—oh my Lord, is that—"
"This is Sirius," Wanda confirmed. "Sirius, this is Agnes. She's been helping me with Harry."
"Harry?" Sirius's heart stopped. "Harry Potter? He's here?"
"He's napping." Wanda moved toward a closed door. "But I think he'd like to meet his godfather."
She opened the door carefully, quietly, and Sirius followed on shaking legs.
The bedroom was small and cozy, with afternoon light streaming through lace curtains. And there, in a hand-carved crib that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale, was—
*Oh.*
Harry.
James and Lily's baby. The son he'd sworn to protect. The child he'd thought he'd never see again.
Sirius's vision blurred with tears.
Harry was bigger than he remembered—fifteen months now instead of three—but still so small. He wore soft pajamas decorated with lions, and his shock of black hair stuck up in all directions exactly like James's had. One small hand was curled around a stuffed lion, the other reaching up as if grasping for dreams.
And his face—Merlin, his face was Lily's. Those cheekbones, that small nose, and even in sleep, Sirius knew that when those eyes opened, they'd be emerald green.
"He's beautiful," Sirius whispered.
"He is." Wanda's voice was soft with unmistakable love. "Do you want to hold him?"
"I'm filthy. I smell like prison. I don't want to—"
With a wave of her hand, Wanda cleaned him. His clothes became fresh, his skin scrubbed, his hair washed. The transformation was instantaneous and thorough.
"Now you're presentable," she said. "Go ahead."
Sirius reached into the crib with trembling hands and carefully, so carefully, lifted Harry. The baby stirred, made a small questioning sound, and then those eyes—*Lily's eyes, oh gods, Lily's eyes*—opened and focused on Sirius's face.
For a moment, they just stared at each other. Godfather and godson, meeting properly for the first time since everything went wrong.
Then Harry smiled—a brilliant, gummy smile that absolutely destroyed what was left of Sirius's composure—and grabbed a fistful of his hair.
"Hello, Harry," Sirius managed through tears. "I'm your godfather. I'm Sirius. And I'm so, so sorry I wasn't there. But I promise—I *promise*—I'm here now. I'm here and I love you and I'm never leaving you again."
Harry babbled something that might have been agreement and tried to eat Sirius's hair.
Behind them, Wanda made a soft sound—something between a laugh and a sob. When Sirius glanced back, her eyes were glowing red again and tears were streaming down her face.
"Sorry," she said, wiping them away. "I just... I'm glad you're here. Harry needs his family."
"Thank you." Sirius held Harry closer, breathing in his baby scent—milk and soap and something indefinably sweet. "Thank you for finding me. For believing me. For... for all of this."
"You're welcome." Wanda moved closer, and gods help him, Sirius's heart actually skipped when she reached out to stroke Harry's hair. "Now come on. Agnes made enough soup to feed an army, and you look like you haven't eaten in weeks."
"I haven't."
"Then let's fix that." She paused at the door. "Fair warning—I'm going to explain a lot of impossible things over lunch. Try not to have a mental breakdown until after you've eaten."
Sirius laughed—a real laugh this time, not the broken sound from his cell. "I'll do my best."
He followed her to the kitchen, Harry still in his arms, and thought that maybe—just maybe—everything was going to be okay.
He had his godson. He had his freedom. And he had... well, he wasn't sure what he had with Wanda yet, but Merlin, he wanted to find out.
Even if she was impossibly powerful and clearly dangerous and probably way out of his league.
*Especially* because of all that, actually.
James would have laughed at him. *You always did fall fast and hard, Padfoot.*
Yeah, well. This time, Sirius thought he might be okay with it.
---
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