In the first few days of the holiday at Andromeda's house, Harry learned more about Sirius and his therapy. As Sirius had mentioned in his letters, it was a mix of magical and Muggle medicine, something Harry found fascinating. The sessions had gone from being daily to once every two days.
Sirius admitted that Hestia Jones wasn't just helping him deal with his years in prison, but also with his years at home with his parents. Although Sirius didn't say it outright, Harry understood that the Black family's discipline hadn't been kind. It was clear that the Black parents had been harsh, controlling, and unyielding in their expectations.
Harry, having lived through his own traumatic experiences with the Dursleys, could relate. He understood what it felt like to grow up in an environment of abuse and neglect. The subtle hints in Sirius' words, the unspoken tension in his voice, made Harry recognize the emotional scars that were still with him.
He realized that both he and Sirius, in their own ways, were children of abuse, shaped by the harshness of their families. The thought made Harry's heart ache. He had always looked up to Sirius, seeing him as a model of resilience and strength. But now, seeing the emotional toll that upbringing had left on him, Harry couldn't help but feel an even deeper connection to him. They both carried the weight of their pasts, and that bond, though painful, was something they could understand in each other.
One evening, after dinner, as Harry and Sirius were sitting in the living room, Harry couldn't help but make an observation that had been on his mind for some time. It came out with a wry, almost amused tone, but there was a deep undercurrent of bitterness beneath the humor.
"You know," Harry said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, "the Dursleys were a lot like the Blacks. Not much difference, really. The human , anyway. Both families liked to control everything, keep you in your place." He let out a short, bitter laugh. "I suppose the Dursleys just didn't have magic on their side, but they certainly had the cruelty down."
Sirius froze, his gaze dropping as Harry's words hung in the air. It was a simple observation, but for Sirius, it struck a nerve, deep and raw. He had always known the Dursleys were cruel to Harry, but hearing it compared to the abuse he'd endured in the Black household hit too close to home.
Sirius felt the weight of regret press heavily on his chest. His mind flashed to the day he had left Harry, the day he had run after Peter Pettigrew, thinking he was doing the right thing. He could still hear the sound of Harry's voice in his mind, could still feel the weight of the guilt from not staying with him. He had left Harry, and now here was the boy—his godson—telling him that his life had been just as twisted as his own had been.
Sirius felt a lump in his throat. His eyes stung as he swallowed the rising emotion. He had failed Harry, and the thought of Harry having grown up in a situation so similar to his own made his heart twist painfully.
"I should've stayed," Sirius said quietly, his voice rough, almost hoarse. "I should've stayed with you that day. I shouldn't have run after Peter... I never wanted you to live like I did, Harry. Never." His voice cracked slightly. "I should've been there for you, all this time."
Harry looked at Sirius, surprised by the raw emotion in his voice. He could see the pain and regret in Sirius' eyes, the silent tears that threatened to fall. Harry understood. He could feel the weight of it—the guilt Sirius had been carrying all these years for not being there for him.
"It's alright, Sirius," Harry said softly, his voice steady. "I'm here now. We're here now." He offered a small, comforting smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Sirius nodded slowly, trying to swallow back his emotions, but the sting of it all was still there. The years lost, the chances missed, the love they had for each other that had been buried under so much pain.
"I never wanted that life for you, Harry. You deserved better." Sirius' voice broke, and Harry could see the sadness in his face. It was a sadness he had carried for years, a burden too heavy to shake off.
Harry sat in silence for a moment, feeling the weight of Sirius' words. He didn't know what to say to make it better. All he could do was offer the comfort of understanding, of knowing that they were not alone anymore, not like they had been before. And that, in itself, was something to hold onto.
Harry watched Sirius closely, his expression clouded with so much grief that it seemed his head might fall forward at any moment. The weight of everything—the years in Azkaban, the loss, the betrayal—seemed to be pressing on him, suffocating him, and Harry felt a sharp pang of sympathy.
In an attempt to ease the dark tension that was building in the room, Harry finally spoke, his voice almost casual, but laced with a sense of vulnerability.
"You know," Harry began, hoping to change the subject and lighten the mood, "I've been visiting the portals of Euphemia and Fleamont Potter for years. We can go together"
Sirius froze, his eyes widening in shock. "The portals? At the Potter Manor?" He seemed taken aback, as if he hadn't thought about that place, about his parents who loved him, not those tied by blood. But by Heart, in years. His face hardened with the recognition of something he'd lost, something he hadn't even realized was gone until now. He looked almost fragile, as if the weight of this revelation could crush him all over again.
"I forgot…" he murmured, shaking his head. "I forgot so much. The Dementors… they took so much from me. I—" His voice trailed off, and his eyes seemed distant, lost in a storm of memories.
Harry could see the turmoil in Sirius' face. The pain was almost palpable, like a living thing, crawling under his skin. But Harry quickly realized where his thoughts were leading, and he seized the opportunity to remind him.
"They're still there, Sirius," Harry said softly, a small, reassuring smile pulling at his lips. "You're still a Potter by heart . You can go there. We could go there, together. The portals—they'll still let you in."
Sirius blinked, and for a split second, the burden of grief lifted from his face, replaced with a flicker of hope, so faint it was almost imperceptible. But in that instant, Harry could feel the change, like a door creaking open in the darkness.
"They would have wanted to see you, Sirius," Harry added, his voice gentle but firm. "They always cared for you. Even after everything—after all these years. They wanted to see you free. They'd still want to see you."
Sirius' expression shifted again, his joy flickering briefly before it crumbled under the weight of his own guilt. His face twisted, his breath quickening, and Harry could see the sorrow, the sense of responsibility and loss that gnawed at him.
"They wanted to see me, but I let them down," Sirius whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "I should have been there. I should have protected them... I—" He cut himself off, the words too painful to continue. "I failed them. I failed everyone."
The change in Sirius was sudden and jarring. The joy that had briefly sparked in his eyes seemed to vanish like smoke in the air, replaced by the crushing weight of his own regret. The shift was so rapid, so intense, that Harry felt his heart drop.
And then it happened. Sirius began to scream—not with sound, but with a terrible, silent cry. It was as if the very foundations of his being were crumbling, as if the world was being destroyed all over again. His hands gripped the armrests of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white, and his face twisted in silent agony, his mouth moving but no words coming out. The intensity of his grief was suffocating, like a weight pressing down on him, breaking him apart.
Harry froze, unsure of what to do. He could see Sirius gasping for breath, his chest heaving, his face pale, his eyes wide with terror. Panic began to rise in Harry's chest as well. He couldn't help Sirius if he didn't know what to do, if he couldn't make the pain stop. He felt helpless, utterly powerless.
In that moment of desperation, Harry remembered something—Andromeda's phone. He glanced around, spotting the old-fashioned telephone on the side table, along with a small notebook filled with emergency numbers. One of them was for Hestia Jones, the mind healer who had been working with Sirius.
Without wasting another moment, Harry grabbed the notebook and dialed the number quickly. He tried to steady his shaking hands as he spoke into the receiver.
"Hestia, it's Harry Potter. Sirius—he's having a panic attack. He... he's breaking down, and I don't know what to do."
There was a pause on the other end of the line, but then Hestia's calm, composed voice came through.
"I'm on my way, Harry," she said, her tone reassuring. "I'll come through the Floo network. Stay with him, keep him safe."
Harry hung up the phone, his heart still racing, and turned back to Sirius, who was still caught in his silent, tormenting cry. His breathing was shallow, and his eyes were wild, lost in a spiral of his own making.
The minutes felt like hours, but finally, the flames in the fireplace turned green. Hestia emerged from the Floo, stepping into the room with a quiet confidence. She immediately approached Sirius, kneeling beside him, her presence soothing and calm.
"Sirius," she said softly, but with authority. "Look at me. You're safe. You're here. You're not alone."
Sirius didn't respond at first, his breathing ragged, his eyes unfocused, but slowly, her words seemed to break through the fog of his panic. He blinked rapidly, tears spilling down his face as his grip on the chair began to loosen.
Hestia continued to speak gently, her voice low and steady, guiding him back to himself. "You're with people who care about you. We're here for you, Sirius. You don't have to carry this alone."
It took time, but bit by bit, Sirius began to calm. His breaths steadied, and the wild look in his eyes began to fade. His tears slowed, and with each passing moment, the tension in his body lessened.
Harry stood quietly, watching the scene unfold, grateful for Hestia's presence. He had never seen Sirius so vulnerable, so broken, but in a way, he was glad that the man wasn't alone in his pain anymore. Hestia had a way of grounding him, of helping him find his way back from the edge.
Sirius finally looked up at her, his face still streaked with tears, but there was a faint trace of relief in his expression. "I—I don't know what happened. It just… it all came rushing back."
Hestia nodded, her expression kind but firm. "It's okay, Sirius. It's okay to feel the weight of everything. You don't have to bury it anymore. You're safe now."
Sirius nodded, his shoulders slumping as the last of the panic left his body. For a moment, he just sat there, exhausted, Harry, still standing nearby, let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding.
Sirius eventually lay down on his bed in his room, completely exhausted, his mind numb. With the help of Hestia and Harry, he finally settled, his eyes vacant as he stared at a spot on the wall. Hestia, following Harry's suggestion, sat in the living room while Harry made tea for her, which she accepted with gratitude.
As the house was bathed in the calm of the evening, Harry, still concerned, hesitated before asking, "Do you think Sirius will ever stop having these kinds of attacks?"
Hestia looked at him, her expression soft but firm. "No, Harry. He won't," she replied, her voice steady. "It's part of his journey, something that's deeply tied to everything he's been through. The trauma he's faced... it doesn't just go away with time or healing. It stays with him, especially because the pain of betrayal, loss, and guilt are too heavy to erase. He's made progress, but there will always be moments when the past catches up with him. It's something he will learn to manage, but not fully overcome. It's a part of him now."
Harry took a deep breath, processing her words. He knew Hestia was right, but the weight of it felt like a heavy burden on his own chest. The thought of Sirius, someone who had always been strong for him, carrying so much pain was difficult to bear.
Hestia sighed, her gaze distant as she took a slow sip of tea, letting the warmth settle before continuing. "The war wasn't easy for anyone, Harry," she said softly. "But for Sirius, and for so many others from families like his, it was made even worse by the refusal to accept help. Pure-blood wizards, especially those from old families, didn't believe in mind healers. To them, it was a 'Muggle thing,' something beneath them. They didn't see the value in mental health support, and that only made things worse. They would rather let the pain fester, thinking it was a weakness to admit it, thinking it could be hidden. It poisoned their lives, and their children's lives too. And that belief—well, it's one of the reasons Sirius is struggling now. He was raised to hide it all, to ignore the damage, to carry on without ever seeking help."
She looked at Harry, her eyes full of understanding. "That kind of upbringing... it doesn't just disappear. It leaves scars that run deep, and they don't fade easily. It's not just about the war or the battle wounds. It's the mindset, the shame they attached to needing help. For Sirius, and many like him, it's been a lifelong fight against what was drilled into them."
Hestia paused, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her cup. She seemed lost in thought, her eyes distant as if she were recalling something painful. Finally, she spoke, her voice quieter than before, tinged with regret.
"I was there, during the war," she said softly, her gaze now meeting Harry's. "I wanted so badly to be part of the fight, to stand with those who resisted, because, well… I'm a Muggle-born. A half-blood, if you will. I had every reason to be angry, to fight back. But... my parents, they didn't see it the same way. They were scared. In the middle of all the madness, they took me away. They brought me to India. Right in the heart of the war, when You-Know-Who was growing stronger. I didn't understand at the time why they did it, but now... I can see it was their way of protecting me. Of keeping me out of the fighting."
She paused again, the words coming slower, weighed down by the years of silence. "But sometimes, I wonder if we really won the war. Yes, the Dark Lord fell, but look at what it did to everyone. The damage, the lives that were destroyed. The scars are still there, aren't they? They don't just go away with one victory, not when so many of us—like Sirius—were raised to think that there was something wrong with asking for help. It's like... like we won the battle but lost the peace."
Her eyes darkened, and for a moment, Harry saw the conflict in her expression. "After my parents took me to India, I didn't get to see the worst of it, but I heard the stories when I came back. I met people who were broken. I met families torn apart. And I wonder now… did we really defeat him? Or did we just… stop him for a time? The wounds are still there. The prejudice, the hatred—it didn't vanish, did it?"
Hestia shook her head, almost as if trying to shake off the heavy thoughts. "It's hard, Harry. Sometimes it feels like the war is still ongoing, just in different ways. I wish I had stayed and fought harder, but now I wonder if it would have even mattered."
Harry, his curiosity piqued, leaned forward slightly, his voice softer than usual as he asked, "How old were you when you left?"
Hestia took a deep breath, her gaze falling momentarily before she met his eyes again. "I was sixteen. I barely had time to say goodbye to Amelia Bones and Emmeline Vance. My parents... well, they decided for me. We were already on our way to India before I even realized what had happened. We ended up in Chennai, actually. It's where my father's from."
Harry's eyes widened a little. It was a detail he hadn't known, and it struck him in an unexpected way. He hesitated, but then he decided to speak up. "Funny enough," he began, his voice a little tentative, "I'm actually connected to India too. Well, through my father's side. My paternal grandmother was from there."
Hestia's eyes softened with a knowing look. "I suspected," she said gently, "The Potters are well-known, and people like your grandmother and my father, who were not English, they often found themselves leaning on each other. Especially in times of racial tension. Whether in the Muggle world or the magical one, it was the same. We stuck together, you know? People who understood that there was more to the world than just being 'pure-blooded' or 'Muggle-born.'"
Harry was quiet for a moment, thinking over Hestia's words. It was strange to hear someone else put into words what he'd always felt, that his family—on both sides—had faced prejudices of their own. The fact that his grandmother, an Indian woman, had been part of that wider community of people who had fought against the injustice of both worlds made him feel a little less isolated, as though there were others who had shared in his family's struggles, even if in different ways.
"It's just... odd, sometimes," Harry said slowly, "the way people forget that. Or maybe it's easier for them to forget, especially in times like these." He paused, feeling the weight of history pressing in on him, both his own and the world's. "I don't know. I guess we all have our stories, don't we?"
Hestia nodded, her expression thoughtful. "We do," she agreed softly. "And sometimes, it's those stories that help us understand each other better."
Harry felt his curiosity grow when he asked, "What language do they speak in Chennai?" Hestia smiled gently and answered, "The dominant language in Chennai is Tamil. It's one of the oldest languages in the world."
Harry paused for a moment, his thoughts drifting. He knew his grandmother, Euphemia, was from Calcutta. "What about Calcutta?" he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. "Do you know what language they speak there?"
Hestia smiled again, her eyes soft with understanding. "Yes, I do. In Calcutta, the dominant language is Bengali. It's rich in culture and history. But it's not just Bengali. People there also speak other languages, like Urdu, Odia, Tamil, and even Punjabi. Each language carries its own weight and significance in the city."
Harry's mind raced with questions. Did his grandmother speak all of these languages? Did she prefer one over the other? He couldn't help but wonder if his own family was tied to these languages in ways he had never imagined.
He couldn't resist asking, "Do you think my grandmother knew all of these languages? Or did she favor one more than the others?"
Hestia thought for a moment before replying. "It's likely she knew quite a few of them, especially since language plays such an important role in how magic is used in different parts of the world. Languages like Bengali, Urdu, and Tamil have deep histories, and each of them has its own way of channeling magic."
Harry's eyes widened with interest. "Magic tied to languages?" he repeated.
Hestia nodded, her voice thoughtful as she explained, "Yes. You see, in India, there are many different languages, and each one has a unique relationship with magic. Just like how Latin is the language of spells in Britain and at Hogwarts, in India, different languages have their own sets of spells. The magic responds to the language it's spoken in, and each language can shape the magic in different ways."
Harry was amazed. "So, there are spells in Bengali, Tamil, and Urdu... different ones from the ones we use here?" he asked.
"Exactly," Hestia replied. "The beauty of it is that magic, just like language, is diverse. In Britain, we have a uniform set of spells, mostly in Latin. But in India, because there are so many languages, there are also many more spells—each one tied to the culture, the history, and the language of the region. For example, the magic that's used in Tamil is different from the magic that's used in Bengali, just as the magic in Hindi differs from that in Urdu."
Harry felt his heart race with excitement. "That's incredible," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I had no idea magic could work like that. It's not just about the words we say—it's about the language itself."
Hestia smiled warmly at him. "That's right, Harry. The languages shape the magic. It's one of the reasons why India has such a rich magical history. The connection between language and magic is stronger there, and that's something we've lost a little here in the West. At Hogwarts, for example, Latin spells are taught and used, but there are spells in other languages that have been forgotten or overlooked."
Harry's mind was swirling with the possibilities. He had always thought that magic was the same everywhere, that it was all about the right words, the right gestures, the right incantations. But now, he realized that magic was shaped by culture, by history, by language. His grandmother's legacy, tied to Calcutta and to Bengali, now seemed to carry even more weight.
"I think I want to learn more about it," Harry said, his voice filled with determination. "I want to understand the magic of those languages. Maybe even learn Bengali."
Hestia nodded approvingly. "That's a wonderful idea. There's so much to discover in those languages, Harry. They've shaped the magic in India for centuries, and you'd be learning more than just spells—you'd be learning about the people, the history, and the culture that built them."
Harry felt a sense of awe and purpose well up inside him. There was so much more to magic than he had ever imagined. And now, a whole new world of learning had opened up before him.
Hestia sighed softly, standing up from her seat as she prepared to leave. "I should go now," she said, her tone both gentle and weary. "Sirius will likely remain silent for a day, maybe more. He always shuts down completely after a panic attack."
Harry nodded, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. His thoughts lingered on his godfather's condition, and one question kept swirling in his mind, one he had held onto since he had first learned of Sirius's struggles. "Hestia, what's the verdict with Sirius?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.
Hestia hesitated, clearly grappling with the decision to reveal something so personal. It was a medical secret, and she was bound by confidentiality. But she also knew that Harry, who was so close to Sirius, needed to understand. After a long pause, she finally spoke, her voice soft but filled with a quiet gravity.
"It's difficult to say," she began, looking Harry in the eye. "Sirius has been through so much. His life after the war, his struggles with his family... all of it's affected him deeply. He's living with PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. But... there's something else. I'm starting to believe, though I'm not sure yet, that he might also have bipolar disorder. He shuts down completely at times, but when he's not in those lows, he's unpredictable, full of energy. It's as though his moods swing dramatically, and it's been that way for as long as I've known him."
Harry's heart tightened in his chest. The idea that Sirius was living with something so complex, something he had never fully understood, made him ache with helplessness. He didn't know what to say, but he couldn't leave the question unasked.
"But why haven't you put him on medication?" Harry asked. "Why haven't you tried to help him more? You must know how to treat him."
Hestia's expression grew serious, and she sighed again, her face filled with frustration and resignation. "Harry, the truth is... magical medicine isn't as advanced as you might think. In the magical world, we don't have the same resources that Muggles do. And bipolar disorder? The idea is largely dismissed here. Many still see it as a non-existent illness, something that doesn't even deserve consideration." She paused, shaking her head. "It's idiotic, but true. The magical world, especially in Britain, has a long way to go when it comes to understanding mental health. They don't believe in things like bipolar disorder. They think it's a myth."
Harry's eyes widened in disbelief. "But that's... that's madness! How can they not see it?"
Hestia gave him a somber look. "I know, Harry. It's maddening, really. In other parts of the world, like in India and Africa, they have a bit more understanding of mental health issues, but they're still not as far along as they should be. Even in those places, magical treatment is lagging behind what Muggle medicine can offer. It's frustrating for me, too. I've done all I can, but until magical medicine catches up, I can't just give Sirius Muggle medication. It wouldn't work the same on someone with magic running through their veins."
Harry stood there, stunned by the depth of the problem. He felt the weight of the situation more than ever. Sirius's suffering wasn't just personal— it was part of a much larger, deeply ingrained issue in the magical world, one that was beyond his godfather's control. Harry's heart went out to Sirius, and he knew that, somehow, he had to do more to help him. The system, the world they lived in, seemed broken in so many ways.
"That's... terrible," Harry murmured. "I didn't realize. I didn't know how hard it was for him, for you, too."
Hestia gave him a sympathetic smile, her eyes filled with a quiet sorrow. "It's not easy, Harry. But we do what we can. For now, just being here for Sirius, giving him a safe space to heal—that's what matters most. He'll get better, but it'll take time. And that's something we don't always have."
Hestia, seeing the sorrow in Harry's eyes, felt a wave of tenderness toward him. She approached slowly, her gaze soft and comforting, and gently asked,
"Harry, may I give you a hug? I can see you're upset about Sirius."
Harry, a little surprised by the request, hesitated for a moment before nodding. He realized that this simple, comforting gesture might help lift some of the weight pressing down on his heart.
"Yes... I think that would be good," he replied, his voice barely audible.
With a warm smile, Hestia pulled him into a gentle embrace, offering him the kind of reassurance he didn't know he needed. The moment of warmth and comfort helped ease some of the tension that had built up in his chest. She held him for a few moments, letting him breathe, before pulling back slightly.
"Take care of yourself, Harry. Sirius is lucky to have someone like you," she said softly.
Harry gave a small, grateful smile in return. As she made her way to the fireplace, he watched her with a mixture of sadness and appreciation.
"Thank you, Hestia," he said quietly.
With one last look, she stepped into the green flames, disappearing back to her home. The soft crackle of the fire was the only sound that remained, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts and the quiet uncertainty of what the future might hold for Sirius.
After Hestia left, Harry quietly went to check on Sirius. As he entered the room, he saw that Sirius was completely lost, his eyes open but vacant, as if his mind had wandered far away. The spark that had once lit up his face seemed to have gone out. He looked exhausted, drained, the energy he once had completely spent. Harry's heart ached for him, seeing his godfather in such a state.
Harry lingered for a moment, unsure whether he should try to engage Sirius or give him space. It seemed pointless to disturb him in this state, so he decided it would be best to let him rest for now. There was nothing more he could do for him at this moment.
He left the room quietly, making his way downstairs, his mind preoccupied with all that had happened. The Tonks family had been incredibly kind to him, taking him in, looking after him like one of their own, and Harry felt a strong urge to do something in return.
He went into the kitchen and started preparing a meal for them. It wasn't much, but it felt right. He chopped vegetables, stirred pots, and focused on the simple task of cooking, letting the rhythm of it calm his racing thoughts. The Tonks had done so much for him—giving him a place to stay, offering him comfort during times of distress—and he wanted to show his gratitude in whatever way he could.
As he worked, he thought about Sirius again. The pain and turmoil he had been through... it was no surprise he was in such a state. Harry had seen his godfather fight through so much, but even the strongest people had their breaking points.
The meal came together slowly, but Harry didn't mind. It was a small gesture, nothing compared to all that the Tonks family had done for him, but it was something. After everything, he just wanted to contribute, to offer his thanks. The warm scent of the food filled the kitchen, and Harry, lost in thought, kept stirring the pot as the minutes passed, hoping it would bring some comfort to Sirius and the Tonks when they sat down to eat together.
As Harry stirred the pot, his thoughts continued to wander, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to do more for Sirius. He had always been focused on the healing of the body—learning charms, potions, and remedies for physical wounds and ailments. But after everything that had happened with Sirius, it became clear to him that there was another kind of healing that he had been neglecting.
Margaret had spoken to him about mind healing before, and he had read some books on it, but he realized he hadn't given it the attention it truly deserved. He had always assumed that magic could solve everything, that it could fix the broken parts of a person's mind, but now, with Sirius, he could see that wasn't always the case. There was so much more to understand, so much he didn't know.
"Yes, I'll do it," Harry thought to himself, determination settling in. "I'll learn more about bipolarity and mental health. I have to understand it better. If it can help Sirius, then I'll do whatever it takes."
The idea of learning how to help Sirius in a deeper, more meaningful way felt right. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the magical world had barely scratched the surface when it came to treating mental health. He had heard too many times that magic couldn't fix certain things, but Harry was certain that there had to be something out there that could help his godfather.
"Maybe I can find someone to teach me more," he mused quietly, his resolve growing stronger. "There must be other mind healers out there, or books, or… something."
He had to learn, not just for Sirius, but for himself, too. For all the people in his life who were struggling, whether they realized it or not. Harry had always been determined to protect the people he loved, and now, he was going to do it by learning how to heal their minds, just as he had learned to heal their bodies.
With a quiet but firm nod to himself, Harry knew that this was his next step. He would study, he would understand, and he would do everything in his power to help Sirius—and anyone else who needed it.