!!!TRIGGER WARNINGS: REFERENCED CHARACTER DEATH, IMPLIED DISORDERED EATING, VERY VAGUELY IMPLIED SUICIDAL IDEATIONS, SELF HARM, REFERENCED ABUSE!!!
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At breakfast, Ron was delivered a copy of the Daily Prophet with a note from his mother, who was asking him to stay safe. Harry, very much interested in an excuse to stop pushing the food on his plate around and pretending to eat, leaned over to see. On the front page, there was bold writing, proclaiming developments in the escaped prisoner case. Harry had never heard anything about an escaped prisoner— well, no, that was a lie. He'd overheard some news anchor talking about an escapee one morning, serving Vernon his coffee and trying to escape before he got his ass beaten, so he hadn't really been listening.
On the cover, under the headline, "NEWS ON THE MURDEROUS AZKABAN ESCAPEE; PRISONER SPOTTED IN SCOTLAND?" was a large picture of a man, taking up about half of the space delegated for writing. The image, according to the date, was four years old, from 1990, when they last updated the prisoners in their records. The man was pale, with an aristocratic air about him; high cheekbones and narrow eyes, full lips and an upturned nose. His hair, long, ending somewhere out of frame, was dark and curly, but greasy and matted from his stay in jail. His expression was perfectly neutral, giving off no glimpse of anxiety, anger... anything, really. He just looked terribly bored. He had something of a beard, but seemed to have found some way to shave— or, rather, clean it up, and something in his eyes was entirely sane, almost eerily so, yet haunting in that it felt like he could see Harry through the paper. The plate he held read "SIRIUS O. BLACK," presumably his name.
Sirius O. Black. Sirius, Sirius, Sirius. Where had Harry heard that before? Sirius Black. Siri, something in his mind provided, only to be brushed to the side. Siri? Why in the world would his brain be trying to call this man— this murderer, if the title was to be trusted— some cutesy nickname? That made no sense, so Harry discarded it.
Sirius Black looked... frightening. And familiar, which frightened Harry even more that Sirius Black's appearance, because, last time he thought someone looked so unshakeably familiar, he actually had very close ties to them, which wasn't exactly what he wanted, in this case.
Hermione seemed interested in the article, which meant something to Harry, so he piped up, "What's this about?" he asked neither friend in particular, content to just get an answer, regardless of who it was from. They both turned to him in alarm, and Harry was struck with the sudden feeling that he really ought to have known all of the ins-and-outs of this whole Sirius Black business by now.
"You don't know!?" Ron exclaimed, looking at him like he was insane. Hermione looked similarly surprised.
"Am I supposed to!?" Harry said back with just as much vigour. Really, if those are the reactions he was in response to asking about it, it wasn't a wonder he had no bloody clue who this Sirius Black guy was and what he did.
"Well, yeah, mate," Ron's eyebrows were furrowed, suddenly, and he was frowning, "I mean... of all people, I kind of expected you to know, like... the most," he hesitated, and, before Harry could ask how the hell he was meant to know that much, he continued, "After all, he is the one that g—" Hermione reached over Harry to smack Ron.
"Harry, pay attention to me. Ignore him," Hermione instructed him, going so far as to grab Harry's face and make him look at her, "Has anyone been looking at you weird this year? Like... like you might know something?" she asked, eyes darting to the people around them, only to return to Harry's when she'd confirmed no one was watching too closely.
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We Will Protect You
FanfictionHarry James Potter has a shit home life. It's a fact he tries to keep quiet, to a surprising amount of success. Of course, that doesn't mean no one has suspicions- in fact, a good few people in his life are making connections. From his best friends...
