He was never sure what voice to write back with - the voice of the traumatised teenager who had witnessed a school friend murdered? Or perhaps the teenager who was furious at being abandoned by his parental figure with people who hated the sight of him, and at his moment of greatest need? Or maybe, the thirty-five-year-old who loved the godfather he had lost too soon, but was now finding himself disappointed by their relationship. He’d been happy with the scraps of paternal affection he’d been able to eek out of Sirius, because it was the most anyone had ever offered him. And that wasn’t to say he didn’t think Sirius loved him, or didn’t love him enough - but rather, that twelve years in Azkaban, then being on the run, and then being confined like a prisoner once more, had left the other ill-equipped to meet the emotional needs of his teenaged godson. Mostly, Harry just felt sad - for them both.  