The Life He Deserved

Chapter 3

Harry spent the next few months learning and practicing his magical abilities. While he felt bad letting Sirius rot in that place, he knew he couldn't afford releasing him without precaution incase things go wrong. From Death magic, necromancy, potions, healing, parselmagic, to dueling, he was building a skill level surpassing most trained Aurors. The boosts that Death gave him was truly some help. In time with the access of the Black Library, he read and memorized thousands of books with the help of eidetic memory. He had a set schedule; every morning he'd wake 5 o'clock sharp to work out after breakfast. He'd then spend a few hours on reading before lunch, then finished the day with hands on work in spells, dueling, and brewing. His cycle repeated for a long while before he was confident in his dueling and hand to hand combat. He decided it was finally time to reunite with Sirius. Harry decided to leave his wand at home and do this as quick as possible. Eyes shining with determination, he shadowed into the burrow, hidden in the dark thanks to death magic. Once he got a hand on shadowing, he realized it was much more convenient than apparating as it was silent and stealthy. Looking forward he detected the traitor's magic, sleeping on Ron's bed. It seemed the Weasleys weren't home much to his convenience. With a wave of his hand, he watched as the rat froze for a moment before scurrying off the bed and out a crack towards the ministry. Satisfied, he shadowed home. There he contacted Death for the first time.

'Death?' He thought inside his head. Harry suddenly felt a presence in his mind, similar to Snape during the legilimency lessons only gentle and calming. A familiar chill that he'd grown to enjoy in his practice embraced him, and the low rumble of Death echoed his head.

'Yes master?' Death asked. Harry smiled, grateful for all Death had done for him. Why Tom Riddle was so scared of Death he had no clue.

'Could you tell me when Sirius's trial will take place?' He enquired, though he was unsure if Death could know the future.

'It is complicated master, when a choice is inevitable, the future is outlined. However, when indecisive, it will overlap. While others' decisions will not cause this distortion, yours will as you can change the future. Now to your original point, his trial will take place in 2 weeks at 8. He will be released as not guilty.' Death replied. Harry let out a sigh of relief. He'd get his godfather soon. Harry was excited, he missed Sirius the most out of everyone. His death was singlehandedly the most painful experience he ever had. He took in a shuttered breath. The pale face, the light leaving his eyes, his body shriveling before disappearing within the veil away from his grasp. Shaking his head rapidly, he tried to forget the painful memory. He spent the rest of the day in an oddly depressed mood but continued with his training. On the whim, he decided to brew dozens of wolfsbane doses. He asked Kreacher to deliver them to Remus anonymously with a paper soaked in Veritaserum saying it was real. Just because he wouldn't contact him doesn't mean he wanted the man to suffer his transformations. It must be hard without his best friends next to him. Harry scoffed at that, Wormtail was one of those so-called friends. Oh, how it felt familiar to him. He merely continued his day, and went to bed, dreaming of his newfound time with his precious godfather.

Two weeks passed by as if it were 2 decades. Everyday, his anticipation grew. By the last three days he could barely focus, constantly tripping on nothing and spilling his drinks. He could barely sleep (not that he really needed sleep), and he constantly muttered to himself the time ticking by. Then the day came. He'd meet his godfather. More excited than his first day at Hogwarts, harry put on some of his finest pureblood clothes, and changed to look in his late 20s. He flooed into the ministry as apparating through the wards would be suspicious, and he silently asked Death for directions before heading to the courtroom. The sight was heartbreaking. There he was, his godfather, covered in grime and dirt, his hair he took pride in during his youth, tangled and tussled. His face was ghostly pale and skeletal, and his eyes were dull with barely any life left. He was thrown roughly into the seat with chains on his wrists, and he barely contained his boiling anger as the ministry workers sneered in disgust at him. 'How dare they look at him that way.' He thought in anger.