Muggle-Raised Champion

Sane? Insane? It's All Overrated Anyway

Disclaimer – I solemnly swear that JKR owns everything Harry Potter. Whether or not I am up to no good with her characters is for you to decide.

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10:45am

Saturday, 2 December 1994

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, London

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The face in the mirror was almost one that he remembered. Almost, but not quite. There were age lines around his mouth, eyes and forehead that weren't there before ... well, before. His long dark hair, now washed, cut and styled, had the first inkling of greys if one looked close enough, something that, as a wizard, shouldn't have appeared for at least another decade. The cheeks, at least, were no longer sunken, making his cheekbones and jaw-line stick out comically. Instead, there was a healthy shape to them.

And then there were the eyes. They were as smoky grey as they'd always been, but now they held the lingering touch of his past. Haunted eyes, eyes that had seen far too much dread and despair; too many long, dark years with nothing to smile about, much less laugh at. In all honesty, his eyes had lost much of their vacant and horror filled echoes since he'd been confined here. But the past remained for all to see.

Stepping back, he took in more of his appearance. His clothes, a drab white hospital gown and white drawstring pants, looked comfortable on his frame. No longer did they hang loosely. He'd put on weight since he'd been here, indeed, how could he not after the trays and trays of food that they'd forced on him in conjunction with the gallons of potions that he'd been made to consume.

Physically, he felt fine. Better than he'd felt in over a decade in fact. A lop-sided grin appeared on his face at the thought. Really, how could he not feel better? The Healers had had him doing basic exercises since he'd been brought here, all with the purpose of getting his muscles working again. He may not be up to running a marathon, or even what he was once able to do as an auror, but he was physically ready to take on the world.

Mentally, though, that was the question. Was he ready to leave here, to head out into the masses?

But the question wasn't one that he could answer. More, it was one that he had no use for. He'd been held here for six months now. He'd been around Healers and Medi-Witches constantly; he'd had friends and family visit; Ministry officials had even dropped by, although in their case, it was as infrequent as possible.

And while all that was good and fine, there was one thing that was missing, the one reason that he was no longer in Azkaban; the one person that he'd broken out for; the one person that he'd been kept away from.

His godson.

Harry Potter.

Sirius Black knew that he'd had enough of St. Mungo's. While the hospital had been good for his health, both physically and mentally, it wasn't completely what he needed.

Nearly a year and half ago, he'd broken out of the most secure wizarding prison in the world, Azkaban, with the express purpose of protecting his godson.

The Minister for Magic himself had inadvertently provided the impetus that he'd needed, giving him a newspaper with a picture of the rat-traitor, Pettigrew, on the front page. Finding out that the rat was sharing a dormitory at Hogwarts with Harry (really, Harry simply had to be a Gryffindor, he'd expect no less) had been all that Sirius had needed to break out.

Knowing that it had been the summer holidays, he'd briefly stopped by Lily's sister's place to see Harry. The boy wasn't as tall or as muscled or even looked as well-fed as Sirius would have liked, but he was a Potter, James again, through and through, but with Lily's eyes. He'd stayed for a day and a night before moving on.