Standing before the grimy door of the Leaky Cauldron—which looked like it had been painted during the Bronze Age and then forgotten by every maintenance worker since—Harry suddenly experienced what adults call "a moment of clarity" and what ten-year-olds call "realizing you're about to do something incredibly stupid."
You know that feeling when you're standing at the edge of a swimming pool, and your brain is screaming "This is a terrible idea" while your feet are already moving forward? That was Harry right now, except instead of diving into chlorinated water, he was about to dive headfirst into a world where people wore pointy hats unironically and apparently thought flying on broomsticks was a reasonable form of transportation.
"Drakor," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible above the symphony of London traffic, which included at least three car horns, two angry taxi drivers, and what sounded like someone trying to teach a pigeon advanced mathematics. "I'm ten years old, I look like a scarecrow that lost an argument with a particularly vindictive hedge trimmer, and the second someone spots this scar, our whole 'subtle information gathering mission' becomes 'breaking news: The Boy Who Lived caught buying candy.'"
If Drakor had been capable of evil cackling, Harry was pretty sure he would have done it right then. Instead, the cosmic entity's mental voice carried the kind of smugness usually reserved for chess masters who had just announced checkmate in three moves against someone who was still figuring out how the horsey pieces worked.
"Already seventeen steps ahead of you, kiddo," Drakor replied, his tone suggesting he'd been planning this particular trick since before Harry had finished his mental panic attack. "Time for your first lesson in Advanced Cosmic Deception: How to Not Look Like Yourself When Everyone in Britain Knows What You Look Like."
Before Harry could ask what that meant—and honestly, considering his day so far involved flying through London while bonded to an alien entity, he really should have seen this coming—he felt the symbiotic material surge across his skin like warm honey made of pure possibility.
This wasn't the sleek armor from their earlier aerial adventure. This was something completely different, like having the world's most talented special effects team redesign your entire existence while you watched.
Harry stared at his reflection in the pub's grimy window, watching his transformation with the kind of horrified fascination usually reserved for watching nature documentaries where one animal eats another animal in very graphic detail.
His height stretched upward like someone was operating an invisible taffy-pulling machine, until he stood nearly six feet tall. His scrawny, underfed frame—which had always looked like a strong wind might relocate him to another postal code—filled out with the kind of muscle definition that suggested regular meals, actual protein, and maybe even vegetables that hadn't come from a can labeled "Expired But Probably Fine."
His face aged from ten to somewhere in his early twenties, losing the hollow-cheeked, haunted expression of a kid who'd spent too many nights wondering if breakfast was going to be a real thing or just a cruel rumor. The infamous lightning bolt scar—the one that had basically been his entire identity since birth—simply vanished, replaced by unmarked skin that had never been kissed by dark magic or anything else particularly unpleasant.
His perpetually messy black hair, which had always looked like he'd been personally electrocuted by Zeus during a particularly bad mood, lightened to sandy brown and arranged itself into something that actually appeared intentional rather than accidental.
Even his clothes transformed from the Dursley hand-me-downs that hung on him like a circus tent into a well-tailored dark coat, crisp white shirt, and trousers that suggested their owner had both money and the common sense to spend it on clothing that actually fit.
"How—?" Harry began, then stopped because his voice had dropped several octaves and now carried an accent that sounded like he'd been educated at one of those schools where they charged more per semester than most people earned in a year.
"Biological mimicry," Drakor explained with the casual tone of someone discussing the weather rather than completely rewriting the fundamental laws of human anatomy. "Think of it as cosmic plastic surgery, except there's no recovery time, no risk of infection, and the results are guaranteed to be better than whatever you started with. I can maintain your cellular restructuring for about three hours, which should be plenty of time for our little expedition into amateur detective work."
Harry continued staring at his reflection. The young man looking back at him was handsome in that understated way that suggested good breeding, excellent nutrition, and the kind of confidence that came from never having to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs while your relatives pretended you didn't exist.
"I look like I should be managing trust funds and attending polo matches," Harry observed, marveling at the transformation.
"Perfect," Drakor said, his mental voice radiating satisfaction. "Rich, respectable, and most importantly, completely forgettable. The kind of person who blends into expensive restaurants and first-class train compartments without anyone asking uncomfortable questions about their background or why they're asking about dangerous criminals."
"Speaking of which," Harry said, suddenly remembering their earlier conversation about funding, "you mentioned something about startup capital?"
"I prefer the term 'redistributive economics with a focus on cosmic justice,'" Drakor replied, his mental voice taking on the tone of a university professor explaining a particularly elegant theory to students who were probably going to fail the exam anyway. "Much more sophisticated terminology than 'stealing,' don't you think?"
Before Harry could mount a proper argument—and honestly, his moral compass was still spinning from the day's revelations about magic, aliens, and the general unreliability of everything he'd previously believed about reality—Drakor enhanced his hearing.
Suddenly, the muffled sounds from inside the pub became crystal clear, like someone had installed high-definition audio equipment directly in his eardrums. Most of the conversations were exactly what you'd expect from a magical establishment: complaints about the weather (apparently wizard weather was just as annoying as regular weather, but with more chance of spontaneous precipitation made of things that shouldn't be falling from the sky), heated discussions about Quidditch statistics that involved words like "Snitch" and "Bludger" (which sounded less like sports equipment and more like medieval torture devices), and someone having a very passionate argument about the proper way to brew something called Pepper-Up Potion.
Then Harry heard something that made his newly enhanced ears perk up with the kind of interest usually reserved for discovering there was actually dessert after dinner.
"—absolute bloody masterpiece of criminal artistry, it was," a gravelly voice was saying with the kind of pride usually reserved for parents discussing their child's first steps or Nobel Prize winners accepting their awards. "Rich witch in Mayfair, more gold than brains, leaves her purse sitting right there on the café table while she goes to powder her nose. Might as well have hung a sign saying 'Free Money for Hardworking Entrepreneurs in the Redistribution Business.'"
"You're a bloody genius, Mundungus Fletcher," another voice replied with the kind of genuine admiration usually reserved for scientific breakthroughs or particularly impressive magic tricks. "How much did you manage to liberate?"
"Forty-seven Galleons, twelve Sickles, and a mokeskin pouch that's probably worth more than everything I own, including my personality," the gravelly voice continued. "Thing's got more magical protections than the Crown Jewels and twice the style."
Drakor's mental voice took on the tone of a predator who had just spotted the perfect prey wandering directly into its web. "Mundungus Fletcher. Professional thief, part-time drunk, full-time disappointment to everyone who's ever met him, and currently in possession of illegally acquired funds that could finance our evening's educational activities. How wonderfully convenient."
"We can't just rob someone," Harry protested, though his voice carried about as much conviction as a politician's campaign promises.
"Kid, we're not robbing him," Drakor replied with the patience of someone explaining basic mathematics to a particularly slow student. "We're conducting an unauthorized wealth transfer from someone who acquired it through questionable means to someone who needs it for legitimate cosmic business. Think of it as karma with better timing and superior execution."
"That's still stealing."
"That's cosmic justice with a side of poetic irony. Besides, based on Tom Riddle's memories—and trust me, that man knew every criminal in Britain—Mundungus Fletcher has stolen enough money over the years to fund a small war. We're just ensuring some of it gets redirected toward actually useful purposes, like chocolate and prison breaks."
Before Harry could mount a proper ethical argument, Drakor was already guiding his enhanced body toward the pub entrance. The door opened with a creak that suggested it had been complaining about everything since the Romans left Britain, and Harry stepped into his first magical establishment.
The Leaky Cauldron was like stepping into a fantasy novel that had been written by someone who'd clearly never heard of building codes, fire safety, or basic hygiene standards. The air was thick with pipe smoke, cooking smells that defied several laws of chemistry, and something that might have been magic or might have been really old beer—Harry wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know which.
Wizards in robes and pointed hats sat at rough wooden tables that looked like they'd been carved from trees that had died of old age sometime around the Norman Conquest. They were engaged in conversations that probably violated several laws of physics and definitely challenged the boundaries of good taste and common sense.
In one corner, a witch was attempting to teach a very skeptical chicken to perform card tricks, which was going about as well as you'd expect any conversation with a chicken to go. Near the fireplace, an elderly wizard was reading a newspaper whose headlines were literally rearranging themselves like they were having a heated argument about what constituted breaking news versus what was just Tuesday.
At the bar, the landlord—a bald, toothless man who looked like he'd been carved from a particularly pessimistic piece of driftwood by someone who had strong opinions about the decline of modern civilization—was polishing glasses with a rag that had clearly seen better decades.
And there, at a table near the back corner, was their target.
Mundungus Fletcher looked exactly like what you'd get if you asked a fantasy novelist to describe "sketchy tavern regular with questionable life choices and even worse personal hygiene." His stringy hair hung in greasy strands around a face that suggested regular acquaintance with both alcohol and poor decision-making. His patched and stained robes had probably been fashionable sometime around the Middle Ages, and he was clutching a tankard of something that looked strong enough to dissolve metal or possibly several small countries.
"He's preparing for departure," Drakor observed, watching as Mundungus drained his drink with the dedication of someone who viewed alcohol consumption as a competitive sport. "Time for a practical demonstration in advanced acquisition techniques."
"I don't know how to pickpocket," Harry whispered.
"Fortunately, Tom Riddle was quite accomplished at acquiring other people's belongings without their knowledge, consent, or appreciation," Drakor replied cheerfully. "Let me handle the technical aspects while you try not to look guilty."
Harry felt Drakor take control, and suddenly he was moving through the crowded pub with the fluid grace of someone who'd done this professionally for years. His enhanced body navigated between tables and patrons like water flowing around rocks, completely unremarkable and utterly competent.
Mundungus was swaying slightly as he made his way toward the door, the mokeskin pouch hanging from his belt like a target with a neon sign reading "Valuable Contents Inside, Please Steal." He was muttering under his breath about ungrateful customers and the declining appreciation for quality thievery in modern society.
"Excuse me," Drakor said through Harry's transformed voice, his accent now perfectly matching the upper-class tones their appearance suggested. He bumped into Mundungus with exactly the right amount of force—enough to seem accidental, not enough to knock the drunk thief into next week or the nearest wall.
"Oi! Watch where you're—" Mundungus began, his voice carrying the indignation of someone who'd been personally offended by the existence of basic physics. Then he stopped mid-complaint as he got a good look at Harry's well-dressed appearance. His expression immediately shifted from righteous anger to the kind of servile politeness usually reserved for people who signed paychecks or had the power to make your life significantly more difficult. "Oh, begging your pardon, sir. Didn't see you there, did I? These old eyes ain't what they used to be."
"Quite alright," Drakor replied smoothly, steadying Mundungus with one hand while the other moved with surgical precision. "These old establishments can be rather cramped, can't they? I do hope you're not injured? I'd hate to think I'd caused any harm to a fellow patron."
"No harm done, no harm done at all, sir," Mundungus said, eager to escape before the well-dressed gentleman decided to complain to management about the quality of the clientele or possibly call the authorities about suspicious-looking individuals lurking in dark corners. "Good evening to you, sir, and my sincerest apologies again for the inconvenience."
As the thief hurried out of the pub like his robes were on fire and he was racing toward the nearest fire department, Drakor guided Harry toward what appeared to be the world's most questionable bathroom facilities.
"Did we just—?" Harry began once they were safely behind the closed door, which looked like it had been installed sometime during the reign of Henry VIII and hadn't been updated since.
"Successfully liberated forty-seven Galleons, twelve Sickles, and one very expensive mokeskin pouch from a career criminal who probably won't even notice it's missing until he's sober enough to count properly," Drakor confirmed, producing the stolen goods from wherever he'd hidden them during the operation. "Tom's techniques really are quite effective. Terrible taste in murder victims and life choices in general, but excellent finger work."
Harry stared at the mokeskin pouch, which looked like it had been crafted by someone who took their leather goods very seriously and charged accordingly. The coins inside clinked with the satisfying sound of money that could solve immediate problems, like funding chocolate purchases and unauthorized prison visits.
"This feels morally ambiguous," Harry said, though he was already calculating how much chocolate forty-seven Galleons could buy and whether it would be enough to power them through a prison break.
"Kid, that man stole this money from innocent people who were probably just trying to enjoy a nice cup of tea without having their financial assets redistributed by semi-professional criminals," Drakor replied with the tone of someone explaining basic ethics to a particularly slow student. "We're ensuring it gets put to better use—specifically, funding our investigation into cosmic justice and chocolate acquisition. Besides, he'll never notice it's missing until he's sober enough to perform basic mathematics, which could be sometime next month if we're lucky."
"And if he does notice?"
"Then he'll assume he spent it on alcohol and questionable life choices, which is probably what he was planning to do anyway. Trust me, we're practically performing community service here. Think of it as preemptive intervention in the downward spiral of a man who's clearly made poor choices his primary hobby."
Drakor made a few more adjustments to Harry's appearance—shifting his hair back to black but keeping it neat and professional-looking, altering his facial features just enough to suggest a completely different person with better genetics and life choices, and changing his coat from dark blue to deep green with subtle gold threading.
"Can't be too careful," Drakor explained as he fine-tuned the disguise. "Different appearance for different interactions. Basic criminal tradecraft—never let them connect the dots between your various identities, and always look like you belong wherever you happen to be."
They emerged from the bathroom as someone entirely new—still well-dressed and respectable, but different enough that anyone who'd seen them earlier would assume they were dealing with a completely different customer with entirely different questionable motives.
Harry selected a corner table that offered excellent surveillance opportunities while maintaining privacy for potentially treasonous conversations about prison breaks and government corruption. When the toothless landlord approached with the eager expression of someone who'd spotted a customer with both money and the willingness to spend it, Drakor was ready with their cover story.
"Good evening," he said in Harry's transformed voice, now carrying a slight Scottish accent that suggested expensive education, family money, and the kind of breeding that meant you never had to worry about things like rent or wondering where your next meal was coming from. "I'll have whatever passes for your finest meal, and perhaps you could recommend something for someone with a particular appreciation for chocolate?"
The landlord's face brightened considerably at the prospect of a customer with expensive tastes and apparently unlimited funds—the kind of customer who made the difference between paying the bills and actually turning a profit.
"Chocolate, sir?" he said, his voice taking on the reverent tone usually reserved for discussing religious experiences or particularly good wine. "We've got treacle tart that'll make you weep with joy, chocolate cauldrons fresh from Honeydukes that are practically works of art, and if you're looking for something really special, I might have some premium Chocolate Frogs from the collector's edition. Came in just this morning, they did."
"All of them," Drakor said without hesitation, the way someone might order a glass of water or ask for directions to the nearest bathroom. "And perhaps a pot of your finest tea. I've had a rather long journey and find myself in need of both sustenance and substantial amounts of sugar to maintain proper cognitive function."
The landlord's eyes widened at this casual display of extravagance, but he nodded eagerly, probably already calculating how much profit he was about to make from this single customer.
"Right away, sir, right away," he said, practically bouncing on his toes with excitement. "Anything else I can get for you? Perhaps some of our finest butterbeer to go with the sweets?"
"Information, actually," Drakor said, leaning back in his chair with the casual confidence of someone accustomed to having his questions answered promptly and thoroughly. "I'm looking for an old friend who might have fallen on rather hard times recently. Sirius Black. Would you happen to know what became of him?"
The effect was immediate and spectacular. The landlord's face went white as fresh parchment, his eyes widened to approximately the size of dinner plates, and he took a step backward like Harry had just announced he was personally acquainted with Death himself and they had plans for dinner.
"Sirius Black?" the man whispered, his voice carrying the tone of someone who'd just heard the most terrifying name in the English language spoken aloud in polite company. "Sir, you don't want to be asking about him. Not here, not anywhere, not if you value your peace of mind and general continued existence. That man... he's..."
"He's what, exactly?" Drakor pressed gently, leaning forward with the expression of someone very interested in hearing the complete story, preferably with all the gory details included.
"He's in Azkaban, sir. Has been for nearly nine years now, and good riddance to him," the landlord said, his voice dropping to the kind of whisper usually reserved for ghost stories or discussions of particularly contagious diseases. "Mass murderer, he was. Killed thirteen people with a single curse, including poor Peter Pettigrew—they never found more than a finger of him, poor soul. They say Black was working for You-Know-Who himself, betrayed the Potters to their deaths like Judas betrayed Christ. Most dangerous wizard alive, he was, before they caught him laughing over the bodies like some kind of madman who'd lost what little sanity he'd started with."
Harry felt like someone had just dropped a mountain on his head, followed by several smaller mountains for good measure. His godfather—the man who was supposed to have cared for him, protected him, been the father figure he'd never had—was a mass murderer who'd betrayed his parents to their deaths?
But something in Drakor's mental presence shifted, taking on the sharp, predatory focus of someone who'd just spotted a very obvious lie being presented as absolute truth.
"Interesting," Drakor said, his mental voice carrying undertones that suggested he was processing this information with the efficiency of a cosmic computer specifically designed for detecting inconsistencies in obviously fabricated stories. "Because Tom Riddle's memories are quite clear about who actually betrayed the Potters, and it wasn't Sirius Black."
"What?" Harry whispered under his breath.
"Peter Pettigrew," Drakor continued, his mental voice taking on the tone of someone who'd just solved a particularly complex puzzle. "Little rat-faced man, literally and figuratively as it turns out. He was the Secret Keeper, not Sirius. He's the one who sold out your parents' location to Voldemort in exchange for his own miserable life."
"Azkaban," Drakor said aloud, his transformed voice carrying thoughtful consideration. "And he's been there for nine years, you said? Without trial, I assume?"
"Aye, since right after the Potters died," the landlord confirmed, nodding vigorously. "Caught him red-handed, they did. Mad as a March hare and twice as dangerous. They say he was You-Know-Who's right-hand man, his most trusted servant and personal favorite for special assignments."
The landlord hurried away to fetch their order, clearly eager to escape the conversation before it attracted unwanted attention from other patrons who might have strong opinions about discussing mass murderers and dark wizards during dinner service.
"Well," Harry said quietly, his transformed voice carrying more bitterness than anyone his apparent age should possess, "that certainly explains why I ended up with the Dursleys instead of with family who actually wanted me."
"Does it, though?" Drakor's mental voice was sharp with suspicion and growing anger. "Kid, I'm currently in the process of sorting through the memories of a genuinely disturbed individual named Tom Riddle, and something about this entire story stinks worse than a three-week-old fish left in the sun during a heat wave."
"Like what?"
"Like how exactly does someone kill thirteen people with a single curse in the middle of a crowded London street without anyone else getting hurt? Like why was Sirius laughing instead of running if he'd actually committed mass murder and needed to escape? Like how did the authorities manage to capture someone who was supposedly powerful enough to be Voldemort's right-hand man without him putting up any kind of fight or resistance?"
"And most importantly," Drakor continued, his mental voice taking on a dangerous edge, "why would they skip the trial entirely for the most high-profile case in recent wizarding history? Even the most corrupt legal system usually manages some kind of show trial for appearances' sake."
The landlord returned with a tray that looked like it had been prepared for visiting royalty with a serious chocolate addiction. Chocolate cauldrons that were practically works of art, treacle tart that smelled like heaven and looked like it had been crafted by angels, premium Chocolate Frogs in their collector's packaging, and what appeared to be a chocolate cake that defied several basic principles of architecture and possibly physics.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" the landlord asked, setting down the feast with the reverence of someone presenting offerings to a particularly wealthy and potentially dangerous deity.
"Actually, yes," Drakor said, selecting a Chocolate Frog and examining it with the appreciation of a connoisseur evaluating a fine wine. "I'm curious about the legal proceedings. Surely there were witnesses, evidence, proper trials—that sort of thing? Due process and all that?"
The landlord looked genuinely confused, like someone had just asked him to explain quantum physics using interpretive dance.
"Trial, sir? There wasn't no trial," he said, his voice carrying the tone of someone explaining something so obvious it barely needed to be said. "Open and shut case, it was. Caught him red-handed in broad daylight with witnesses everywhere. What need for a trial when half of London saw him do it with their own eyes?"
"No trial," Drakor repeated, his mental voice now carrying the tone of someone who'd just discovered a very interesting and potentially explosive inconsistency in what was supposed to be a straightforward story. "For the supposed betrayer of James and Lily Potter. For the man accused of thirteen counts of murder in broad daylight. No legal proceedings whatsoever."
"Well, no, sir," the landlord said, looking increasingly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "Why waste time and money with formalities when the evidence was so clear? Everyone knew he was guilty as sin and twice as dangerous."
After the landlord left—probably to tell his wife about the strange customer asking uncomfortable questions about dangerous criminals—Harry sat in stunned silence, mechanically eating chocolate while his brain tried to process this latest revelation about his increasingly complicated and apparently completely fictional life story.
"Drakor," he said finally, "in your extensive experience with legal systems across the galaxy, is it normal to imprison someone for mass murder without any kind of trial or due process?"
"Kid, even the most corrupt civilizations I've encountered usually manage some kind of legal proceeding before locking people away forever in soul-sucking prisons," Drakor replied, his mental voice carrying the kind of cold fury usually reserved for cosmic entities discovering that someone had been playing games with innocent children's lives. "No trial means either the authorities were absolutely certain of his guilt beyond any possible doubt—which would require evidence so overwhelming that a trial would be redundant—or..."
"Or?"
"Or someone wanted Sirius Black in Azkaban very badly and couldn't risk the inconvenience of actual evidence, witness testimony, or due process getting in the way of their carefully constructed frame job."
Harry stared at the Chocolate Frog in his hands, watching as it made a valiant but ultimately doomed attempt to hop away from its fate, which seemed like an uncomfortably accurate metaphor for his entire life up to this point.
"So either my godfather really is a mass-murdering traitor who destroyed my family and left me to grow up in a cupboard," Harry said slowly, "or..."
"Or someone framed him very thoroughly and very professionally to ensure you'd end up exactly where you did—with relatives who despise magic and everything associated with it, completely isolated from the magical world, with no knowledge of your heritage, your rights, your parents' friends, or the people who were supposed to protect you and care for you."
The chocolate tasted like possibilities and conspiracy theories with a side of righteous indignation. Harry chewed thoughtfully, his enhanced mind working through the implications of what they'd learned and what it might mean for everything he'd been told about his life.
"How do we find out which version is true?" he asked.
"Simple," Drakor said, his mental voice taking on the tone of someone who'd just figured out the next several moves in a very complex and potentially very dangerous game. "We go directly to the source. We pay a visit to Azkaban and have a heart-to-heart conversation with Sirius Black."
"The wizard prison?" Harry said, his voice rising slightly in pitch. "The one guarded by creatures that literally suck out your soul and leave you as an empty shell of your former self?"
"The very same," Drakor confirmed cheerfully. "Though I should mention, Dementors—that's what those charming creatures are called—feed on happiness and positive emotions. Which means they're going to have a rather difficult time affecting someone bonded to a cosmic entity with an essentially inexhaustible supply of cosmic energy and a really bad attitude toward bullies who pick on innocent children."
Harry grinned, the expression feeling natural despite his transformed features and the fact that he was apparently planning to break into the most secure prison in Britain.
"You want to break into the most secure wizard prison in the country to interrogate my potentially homicidal godfather," he said, just to make sure he'd understood the plan correctly.
"I prefer to think of it as 'conducting an unauthorized interview with a person of interest in the ongoing investigation into cosmic justice and the systematic abuse of innocent children,'" Drakor replied with the kind of cheerfulness usually reserved for discussing vacation plans or weekend picnics. "Much more professional terminology, don't you think? Besides, if Sirius Black really is guilty, we'll know within five minutes of talking to him. Guilty people have a very distinctive thought pattern—all paranoia, justification, and desperate attempts to rationalize their actions."
"And if he's innocent?"
"Then someone's been playing a very long, very elaborate, and very expensive game to keep you separated from anyone who might actually care about your welfare," Drakor said, his mental voice taking on a dangerous edge that suggested whoever was responsible was going to regret their life choices very thoroughly and very soon. "And when we identify that someone, we're going to have words. Very educational words involving creative applications of cosmic justice and remedial lessons in proper godfather etiquette."
Harry finished his Chocolate Frog and reached for a chocolate cauldron, feeling for the first time since learning about his parents' murder that he was actually taking action instead of just reacting to other people's decisions and lies.
"So," he said, settling back in his chair with the satisfaction of someone who'd just acquired both excellent chocolate and a sense of purpose, "how exactly does one break into the most secure magical prison in the British Isles without getting one's soul sucked out by nightmare creatures?"
"Oh, that's the easy part," Drakor said, his mental voice practically radiating anticipation and what might have been slightly unhinged glee. "The challenging part is going to be getting out again without accidentally starting a prison riot, declaring war on the Ministry of Magic, or traumatizing any innocent Dementors who are just trying to do their jobs."
"Accidentally?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, mostly accidentally," Drakor admitted. "I make no promises about what happens if we discover that certain government officials have been complicit in keeping an innocent man imprisoned while his godson grows up in a cupboard under the stairs, surviving on table scraps and emotional abuse."
Harry raised his teacup in a mock toast, grinning like someone who'd just discovered that life was about to become significantly more interesting and possibly significantly more illegal.
"To accidentally starting prison riots in the name of truth, justice, and proper guardian placement," he said solemnly.
"And chocolate," Drakor added with equal solemnity. "Never forget the chocolate. This entire operation is ultimately about maintaining proper cosmic nutrition and ensuring adequate sugar intake for growing cosmic entities and their ten-year-old hosts."
"And chocolate," Harry agreed, his grin widening as he contemplated what would undoubtedly be his first official act of magical rebellion against authority figures who'd apparently been lying to him his entire life.
Around them, the Leaky Cauldron continued its evening routine, completely unaware that the most famous wizard child in Britain was sitting in the corner, planning a prison break while consuming enough chocolate to power a small interdimensional spacecraft and possibly several small countries.
This was definitely going to be the kind of interesting that would require very creative explanations later, assuming anyone survived to ask for them.
---
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