The first bite of treacle tart didn't just taste good—it rewrote Harry's entire understanding of what food was supposed to be. Like his taste buds had just discovered they'd been living in a post-apocalyptic wasteland for ten years and someone had finally handed them the keys to paradise.
Harry Potter—formerly of the cupboard-under-the-stairs life experience, currently masquerading as a well-dressed young gentleman with mysteriously deep pockets and an even more mysterious cosmic roommate—sat in the shadowy corner booth of the Leaky Cauldron, staring at his plate with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious miracles or finding out your favorite TV show got renewed for six more seasons.
The dimly lit pub buzzed with the kind of comfortable chaos that comes from people who've accepted that magic is real and have moved on to more important concerns, like whether their butterbeer was cold enough and if anyone had seen their pet rat recently. Candles flickered in bottles that looked like they'd been salvaged from shipwrecks, casting dancing shadows on walls that had probably witnessed more impossible things before lunch than most people saw in a lifetime.
"Sweet cosmic chaos," Harry whispered, his voice carrying just the faintest hint of otherworldly resonance that came from sharing headspace with an ancient alien entity. The sound held the kind of awe people usually saved for witnessing solar eclipses or discovering their student debt had been mysteriously forgiven by benevolent aliens.
"Food," Drakor announced in his mind, his mental voice vibrating with the satisfaction of someone who had just solved the universe's greatest mystery. "Actual, honest-to-nebula food. Not that microwaved tragedy the Dursleys tried to pass off as nutrition. This treacle tart has more life-giving properties than everything you've consumed in the past decade combined."
Harry nodded with the solemnity of someone who had just achieved enlightenment through superior pastry engineering, and took another bite. The treacle tart melted on his tongue like happiness that had been baked into edible form, all golden sweetness and warmth that seemed to fill spaces in his soul he hadn't even realized were empty. The Chocolate Frogs—which he'd initially suspected might actually hop away when he wasn't looking—turned out to be tiny monuments to everything beautiful about confectionery science.
Meanwhile, inside his head, Drakor was experiencing what could only be described as a full-scale emotional crisis brought on by superior chocolate engineering.
"By the Seventeen Rings of Rigel," the ancient cosmic entity breathed, his mental voice trembling like someone who had just discovered the meaning of existence and found it surprisingly sweet, "this chocolate... I can feel it harmonizing with my molecular frequencies. Harry, I believe I'm experiencing what you humans classify as 'feelings,' and I find this development both deeply disturbing and oddly intoxicating."
"Are you actually crying right now?" Harry asked between bites, trying to decide if he should be amused or genuinely concerned about his alien partner's mental stability.
"Cosmic entities do not engage in lachrymation," Drakor snapped with the defensive tone of someone who had absolutely been caught crying. "We experience highly sophisticated quantum emotional responses to molecular perfection. It's a very dignified process that involves no moisture whatsoever. And if I were hypothetically producing tears, they would be composed of seventy-five percent dark chocolate ganache with notes of vanilla and existential satisfaction."
It was precisely at that moment—when Harry was halfway to achieving chocolate-induced transcendence and Drakor was having what could generously be called a cosmic emotional breakdown—that the front door of the Leaky Cauldron exploded inward with all the subtlety of a small war.
"OI!" bellowed a voice that sounded like it had been marinated in cheap gin and questionable life decisions for approximately forty years. "OI, YOU LOT! LISTEN UP!"
Enter Mundungus Fletcher, stage left, like a natural disaster that had somehow learned to walk upright and develop opinions about property ownership.
He stumbled into the pub with the grace of a scarecrow having a nervous breakdown, his patchy overcoat flapping around him like the wings of a particularly pessimistic bat. His beard looked like it had been styled by someone who'd heard a description of facial hair but had never actually seen any, and his eyes were bloodshot enough to serve as emergency lighting during power outages. Everything about him radiated the kind of chaos that made sensible people immediately check their wallets and consider whether they had somewhere else to be.
"SOME BLEEDING TOFF JUST NICKED ME COIN PURSE!" he roared, gesticulating with arms that moved like angry spaghetti having a philosophical argument with the laws of physics. "TALL BASTARD! FANCY COAT! TALKED LIKE HE'D SWALLOWED A BLOODY THESAURUS AND WAS CHARGING ME RENT FOR THE PRIVILEGE OF LISTENING TO HIS VOICE!"
Harry, currently disguised as a well-dressed young man with sandy brown hair and the kind of sharp cheekbones that suggested he might moonlight as a Renaissance sculpture, calmly sipped his tea. His emerald eyes held just the faintest hint of otherworldly fire, and his outfit—a perfectly tailored forest green peacoat over charcoal trousers and boots that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent—whispered 'expensive and mysterious' in seventeen different languages.
Mundungus's bloodshot gaze zeroed in on him with the intensity of a heat-seeking missile that had been programmed by someone with severe attention deficit disorder and trust issues.
"You," he said, pointing a finger that wavered like a compass during a magnetic storm, "you look familiar. Real familiar. Like I've seen your face on something important. Wanted posters, maybe? Or chocolate frog cards?"
"I have one of those faces," Harry replied smoothly, his voice carrying just enough upper-class accent to sound authentically posh without going full Shakespearean tragedy. "People tell me that quite often, actually."
"Right, right," Mundungus muttered, squinting at Harry like he was trying to solve advanced calculus while moderately intoxicated. His head tilted at an angle that suggested his neck had given up trying to support it properly. "But nah, couldn't be you, could it? The bloke what robbed me was taller. Fancier. Had this whole 'I'm better than you and your entire bloodline' vibe going on. Spoke like he was personally invoicing me for breathing the same air as him."
"That's because I was invoicing him," Drakor said smugly in Harry's head, his mental voice practically radiating satisfaction like a cat that had just knocked an entire shelf of valuable objects onto the floor on purpose. "For crimes against fashion, suspicious coin odor, and general existence within my sensory range. Honestly, that man smells like tax evasion and regret had a baby and raised it on cheap gin and broken dreams."
"Plus his money had this weird greasy feeling," Harry added silently, "like it had been places money really shouldn't go."
"Exactly. We were doing society a public service by liberating those coins from such questionable custody."
As Mundungus continued his chaotic investigation—interrogating innocent bar stools, throwing wild accusations at completely uninvolved furniture, and generally treating the entire pub like a crime scene that had personally insulted his mother—Harry and Drakor sat in their corner booth, radiating the kind of smug satisfaction that came from a job well executed.
Tom the barkeep watched the entire performance with the expression of someone who had seen literally everything the wizarding world had to offer twice and had developed a healthy sense of cynical amusement about most of it. His mustache twitched with barely suppressed laughter as Mundungus accused a coat rack of being an accomplice to grand larceny.
"Definitely not over!" Mundungus declared to the pub at large, his voice cracking with righteous indignation. "This is a proper crime, this is! Theft of a man's hard-earned coin! I'll remember this slight until me dying day, I will! Justice will be had!"
"Hard-earned," Drakor snorted. "The man's idea of hard work is probably lifting his own drinking arm. I've seen cosmic dust with more ambition."
When Mundungus finally staggered out of the pub—still grumbling something about revenge, justice, and how this was definitely not the end of this matter because he knew people who knew people—Tom wandered over to their table with the casual gait of someone who had just witnessed high-quality entertainment.
"Everything to your satisfaction then, sir?" Tom asked, his voice carrying the warm tones of someone who genuinely enjoyed his work. His weathered face showed the kind of laugh lines that came from years of dealing with magical oddities and finding most of them amusing rather than alarming.
He placed a small piece of parchment beside Harry's plate with the practiced discretion of someone who understood that not all customers wanted their financial transactions announced to the entire establishment.
Harry looked down at the bill: three Galleons and seven Sickles.
"That's all?" Harry asked, genuinely concerned he was somehow shortchanging the establishment. "For everything?"
Tom raised an eyebrow with the practiced expression of someone who dealt with confused customers on a regular basis and had learned to find their bewilderment charming rather than irritating. "We use quality ingredients, sir, not powdered unicorn horn and liquefied phoenix tears. Though I suppose after a lifetime of Muggle pricing, our rates might seem surprisingly reasonable."
"Kid," Drakor muttered in his head, "this feast would cost more than a university semester in the non-magical world. And I once consumed the dying light of a binary star system—it was less nutritionally satisfying than this treacle tart."
Harry handed over four Galleons with the kind of generous tip that made Tom's eyebrows climb toward his receding hairline.
"You're always welcome at the Leaky Cauldron, sir," Tom said with the genuine warmth of someone who had just witnessed proper generosity in its natural habitat. "Always. Day or night, rain or shine. And if you ever need anything—anything at all—you just let old Tom know. I've been keeping this place running for more years than I care to count, and I've got connections throughout the magical community."
"Thank you," Harry said, meaning it. "That's... that's really kind of you."
"Kindness costs nothing, lad," Tom replied with a wink. "But good chocolate cake costs three Sickles, so I'd say you're getting the better deal."
Outside the pub, Harry paused beside the apparently solid brick wall that he now knew concealed the entrance to Diagon Alley, staring at it with the longing of someone who had just discovered that paradise was located approximately three feet away but might as well have been on another planet.
"Drakor," he said quietly, his voice carrying the tone of someone about to make a request he already knew would be denied, "couldn't we just take a quick look at Diagon Alley? Just a peek? I mean, we're already here, it's right there, and I've never seen a magical shopping district before, and—"
"Harry," Drakor interrupted with the firm tone of someone who had dealt with this exact argument approximately twenty-three times in the past hour, "we are about to infiltrate what is essentially the wizarding world's equivalent of Alcatraz, which is guarded by creatures that are literally the physical manifestation of depression and despair having a really bad day. Shopping for school supplies can wait until after we've solved the mystery of your missing godfather and possibly prevented what appears to be a spectacular miscarriage of justice."
Harry sighed with the resignation of someone who knew his cosmic partner was absolutely right but still really wanted to see what a magical shopping district looked like. "Right. Sirius first. Family reunions and justice before retail therapy and school shopping."
"Exactly. If he's innocent—which all the evidence suggests he is—we extract him from that floating nightmare prison and reunite you with your proper guardian," Drakor said with the confidence of someone who had never met a problem that couldn't be solved through superior firepower and creative applications of cosmic justice. "If he's somehow actually guilty—which would be the plot twist of the century—we at least get some real answers about what happened to your parents and why everyone thought it was appropriate to stick you in a cupboard."
"Either way," Harry said, his voice taking on a harder edge, "someone's got some serious explaining to do."
They ducked into a narrow alley that smelled like urban decay, forgotten takeout containers, and the kind of questionable life choices that left permanent stains on both concrete and moral fiber. Garbage bins overflowed with the detritus of city life, and the brick walls were decorated with graffiti that ranged from artistic to anatomically improbable.
Harry looked around at the grimy surroundings that would serve as the backdrop for his transformation into something that would probably require several new categories in the Ministry's threat assessment files.
"Alright," he said, squaring his shoulders. "Let's do this thing."
"Permission to activate Operation Magnificent Cosmic Badassery officially granted," Drakor said with the enthusiasm of someone who had been waiting his entire multi-dimensional existence for this exact moment.
The transformation wasn't just a simple costume change—it was a complete metamorphosis that would have made every special effects studio in Hollywood weep with envy and immediately start updating their résumés.
It began with the bones. Harry felt them lengthening, thickening, restructuring themselves with audible cracks and pops that sounded like someone was performing aggressive chiropractic work on a giant. The sensation was bizarre but not painful—more like his skeleton was finally remembering what it was supposed to look like after years of being compressed into something far too small.
His muscles expanded next, bulging outward as new mass materialized from cosmic energy and pure determination. His shoulders broadened until they could have been used as architectural support beams, and his chest expanded like someone was inflating him with divine purpose and really good protein supplements.
Then came Drakor's symbiotic material, flowing over his enhanced form like liquid starfire that had opinions about interior decorating. It formed intricate scale-like plating that gleamed black as midnight with veins of gold and deep crimson pulsing through it like a cosmic heartbeat. The scales weren't uniform—they varied in size and shape, creating patterns that seemed to shift and flow even when he was standing still.
Two magnificent horns spiraled back from his skull, not crude or brutish but elegant and deadly, like someone had carved them from polished obsidian and set them with internal fire. They caught the dim alley light and reflected it back in ways that hurt to look at directly.
His jaw extended into a draconic snout lined with teeth that could probably bite through steel without working up an appetite. When he opened his mouth, the fangs gleamed like polished ivory knives, and his tongue flickered out to test the air with predatory interest.
But the wings were the masterpiece. They erupted from his shoulder blades with a sound like thunder being born, massive and leathery, their membranes glowing with veins of molten gold that cast dancing shadows on the alley walls. When fully extended, they spanned nearly twenty feet, and each wingbeat stirred the air with enough force to rattle windows.
When the transformation was complete, Harry stood eight and a half feet tall and radiated the kind of power that made natural disasters apply for permits before operating in his vicinity. His eyes blazed like rubies that had been set on fire and given personal vendettas against everything that opposed justice.
He caught his reflection in a broken storefront window and grinned, revealing fangs that would have made ancient dragons submit respectful job applications.
"Think this will get their attention at Azkaban?" Harry asked, his voice now carrying harmonics that seemed to resonate in multiple dimensions simultaneously.
"Kid," Drakor said, his mental voice practically purring with satisfaction, "I just felt seventeen different magical monitoring systems have simultaneous nervous breakdowns from the sheer force of our combined awesome. The Ministry of Magic's threat assessment department is probably having collective panic attacks right about now. Several small countries have probably just upgraded their defense conditions. Let's go give Azkaban Prison the kind of memorable introduction that becomes the stuff of legend."
With a leap that shattered several laws of physics and at least one noise ordinance, Harry launched himself into the night sky above London. His wings beat with the rhythm of controlled thunder, each powerful stroke carrying them higher above the city's glittering sprawl.
The transformation from ground level to cloud level took approximately three seconds and left a small crater in the alley pavement that would puzzle city workers for months.
"Next stop," Drakor announced with the satisfaction of someone who had just won the cosmic lottery and was planning to spend his winnings on justice and really good chocolate, "Azkaban Prison. Time to have some very pointed conversations about child guardianship laws, magical justice systems, and why exactly the most famous orphan in the wizarding world has been living in a storage closet while his godfather rots in wizard Alcatraz."
Harry, grinning like he had been born for exactly this kind of dramatic heroic intervention—and maybe he had been—sliced through the night air trailing fire and cosmic justice in his wake.
Below them, London sparkled in blissful ignorance, completely unaware that their most famous orphan had just transformed into something that would probably require the creation of entirely new governmental departments to properly classify and definitely wasn't covered by any existing magical creature protection laws.
This was going to be one hell of a rescue mission.
And somewhere in the back of his enhanced mind, Harry found himself looking forward to it with the kind of anticipation that suggested this cosmic partnership was going to be very, very interesting for everyone involved.
—
If you've never been wrongly imprisoned in a fortress surrounded by soul-sucking demons while looking like a cross between a Renaissance painting and a motorcycle magazine cover, consider yourself lucky. Sirius Black would trade places with you in a heartbeat—assuming he still had one after nine years of Dementor exposure.
The thing about Sirius Black was that even after nine years, two months, and sixteen days of magical prison food (not that he was counting or anything—okay, fine, he was totally counting), he still managed to look like he could bench press a small dragon. Six-foot-three of barely contained rebellion wrapped in prison rags, with the kind of bone structure that made people do double takes even when he was having a bad hair life. Which, let's be honest, had been going on for about nine years now.
"Right then," Sirius muttered to himself, his voice carrying that weird combination of aristocratic breeding and motorcycle gang attitude that had always made professors unsure whether to give him detention or ask for his autograph. "Time for today's motivational speech to the wall. Wall, you're looking particularly moldy today. Really brings out the despair in your stonework."
The wall, being a wall, didn't respond. This was probably for the best, because if the walls had started talking back, even Sirius would have had to admit he'd finally cracked.
He stretched against the perpetually damp stone of Cell 451, his muscles protesting in that special way that said *hey, remember when we used to do things other than contemplate injustice?* Even prison rations couldn't completely diminish the Black family genetics—apparently being ridiculously good-looking was a dominant trait that survived on stale bread and questionable soup.
"Let's review today's agenda, shall we?" Sirius announced to his captive audience of one moldy blanket and several concerning stains on the floor. "First item: contemplate the spectacular injustice of my situation while maintaining my devastatingly handsome features. Check. Second item: plot elaborate revenge fantasies involving Peter Pettigrew and a room full of very hungry, very angry hippogriffs with digestive issues. Double check. Third item: worry obsessively about Harry while slowly going barmy but in a really attractive way. Currently in progress."
The thing about being innocent in a place designed to break guilty people, Sirius had discovered, was that it gave you a weird kind of immunity. Dementors fed on despair and guilt like cosmic vampires at an all-you-can-eat buffet, but righteous anger? That was apparently the magical equivalent of really spicy food—it gave them indigestion.
"You know what your problem is, Padfoot old boy?" Sirius asked himself, using the nickname his friends had given him back when he'd had friends who weren't dead, imprisoned, or mysteriously absent from his life. "You're too bloody noble for your own good. Could've grabbed Harry that night and made a run for it. Could be teaching him to ride a motorcycle right now instead of having philosophical discussions with prison décor."
This was a conversation he'd been having with himself for approximately three thousand days, give or take a few nervous breakdowns. The logical part of his brain (which sounded suspiciously like Remus Lupin at his most professorial) would point out that running off with Harry would have made him look even more guilty than he already did. The emotional part of his brain (which sounded like James Potter at his most recklessly heroic) would argue that at least they would have been on the run together, and wasn't that better than this?
"'Take my bike, Hagrid,'" Sirius said in a mocking imitation of his younger, stupider self. "'I've got something important to do. I'll catch up with you later.' Yeah, brilliant plan that was. Really worked out well for everyone involved. Especially Harry, who's probably out there somewhere thinking his godfather is a psychotic Death Eater."
He stood up and began his daily constitutional—three steps to the barred window, turn, four steps to the door that hadn't opened in nine years, turn, repeat. It was like the world's most depressing dance routine, but it kept his muscles from completely atrophying and his mind from completely imploding.
The worst part wasn't even the Dementors, who treated him like their own personal misery buffet. It wasn't the food, which seemed to have been prepared by someone who thought flavor was a sign of weakness. It wasn't even the accommodations, which made a medieval dungeon look like a five-star resort.
The worst part was not knowing what had happened to Harry.
"He'd be turning eleven soon," Sirius realized, stopping mid-pace as the thought hit him like a Bludger to the chest. "Eleven! Merlin's soggy beard, he'll be getting his Hogwarts letter. Wonder if he even knows he's a wizard. Wonder if whoever's got him bothered to mention that his parents died saving the world, or if they just told him it was a car crash or something equally ridiculous."
This was dangerous territory. Thinking about Harry was what kept him sane most days, but it was also what made the Dementor attacks feel like someone was performing open-heart surgery with an ice pick. Love, it turned out, was a double-edged sword when it came to dealing with soul-sucking demons. Who knew?
"Probably doesn't even know I exist," Sirius continued, his voice getting rougher around the edges. "Probably thinks I'm just another Death Eater who tried to kill him. Perfect. Absolutely bloody perfect. James is probably spinning in his grave so fast they could power half of London."
He pressed his forehead against the cold stone of the window, looking out at the gray expanse of the North Sea. Somewhere out there was the world he'd left behind. Somewhere out there was his godson, growing up without knowing the truth about his parents or their sacrifice or the fact that he had a godfather who would move mountains to protect him if said godfather weren't currently engaged in a long-term relationship with a prison cell.
"You want to know the really hilarious part?" he asked the moldy straw that served as his bed and occasional conversation partner. "The absolutely side-splitting bit that would have James rolling on the floor laughing until he cried? I actually volunteered for this life. Not the prison part, obviously, but the whole 'put my life on the line for the greater good' thing. Thought I was being noble. Thought I was making a difference."
The memories were dangerous—happy memories were exactly what the Dementors ordered for lunch—but sometimes he couldn't help himself. Sometimes he needed to remember what it felt like to laugh with his friends, to plan pranks that would go down in Hogwarts history, to believe that they were all invincible and that good would always triumph in the end because they were the good guys and that's how stories were supposed to work.
"'We solemnly swear we are up to no good,'" Sirius quoted softly, remembering the words they'd inscribed on the Marauder's Map back when they thought being up to no good meant turning Snape's hair purple for a week. "Well, mission accomplished on that front, eh Prongs? Though I don't think this is quite what we had in mind when we made that particular oath."
The guilt was the hardest part. Not guilt for what he'd done—he was innocent of the crimes they'd imprisoned him for, a fact that seemed to matter to absolutely no one except him—but guilt for what he hadn't done. For trusting Peter Pettigrew, that traitorous little rat who'd fooled them all. For not seeing the signs that should have been obvious in hindsight. For choosing revenge over responsibility when Harry needed him most.
"Could've been different," he muttered, his breath fogging the glass. "Should've been different. If I'd just thought instead of acted. If I'd been smarter instead of so bloody Gryffindor about everything. If I'd remembered that real life doesn't always work out like a heroic ballad."
But here was the thing about Sirius Black that nine years in Azkaban hadn't managed to change: he was still fundamentally the same person who'd chosen his friends over his pure-blood supremacist family, who'd run away from home at sixteen with nothing but his wand and his motorcycle, who'd spent seven years at Hogwarts planning increasingly elaborate pranks and then fought in a war because it was the right thing to do.
Prison hadn't broken him. It had just concentrated him, like distilling firewhisky until all you had left was the really potent stuff that could either cure you or kill you, depending on how you used it.
"When I get out of here," he said, and it was definitely a when, not an if, because Sirius Black didn't do surrender any more than he did reasonable hairstyles, "Peter Pettigrew is going to learn exactly why you don't mess with the Black family. And after I'm done introducing that rat to some very creative forms of magical justice, I'm going to find Harry and be the godfather James wanted me to be. Even if it kills me. Again."
It was at that exact moment—because the universe apparently had a sense of dramatic timing that would make a theater director weep with envy—that something massive and definitely not supposed to exist flew past his window.
Sirius blinked. Then he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Then he looked again, because sometimes when you've been in prison for nine years, your brain starts playing tricks on you, and it's important to double-check these things.
"Okay," he said slowly, his voice taking on the careful tone of someone who's trying very hard not to sound completely mental, "either I've finally snapped like a twig, or there's a bloody enormous dragon flying straight toward Azkaban. Either way, this is about to get significantly more interesting than my usual Tuesday afternoon."
The thing—and it was definitely a thing, not a bird or a cloud or a stress-induced hallucination brought on by nine years of terrible prison food—was huge. Easily the size of a small castle, with wings that seemed to shimmer with their own light and a presence that made the air itself feel like it was holding its breath.
"Well," Sirius said, and for the first time in nine years, a genuine grin spread across his face, transforming his features from brooding prisoner to the kind of trouble that had once made half the girls at Hogwarts walk into walls, "this is either the most spectacular rescue attempt in wizarding history, or the most epic way to die I've ever witnessed. Either way, it beats sitting around feeling sorry for myself and talking to the furniture."
He pressed himself against the window, trying to get a better look at whatever was approaching his lovely vacation spot. The logical part of his brain was having a complete meltdown, insisting that this couldn't be real, that he'd finally crossed the line from eccentric prisoner to completely barmy. But the larger part of his brain—the part that had grown up in the wizarding world, that had seen magic do impossible things on a daily basis—was whispering that maybe, just maybe, impossible things were still possible.
And maybe, just maybe, his story wasn't over yet.
"Come on then," he whispered to the approaching shape, his voice carrying all the reckless hope that had gotten him into trouble his entire life. "Whatever you are, whoever sent you, I'm ready for a change of scenery. Can't possibly be worse than the current accommodations."
For the first time in nine years, two months, and sixteen days, Sirius Black allowed himself to believe that tomorrow might be different from today.
And somewhere in the distance, getting closer by the second, something that definitely wasn't in any Care of Magical Creatures textbook was about to turn the most secure prison in magical Britain into the setting for the most spectacular jailbreak in wizarding history.
This was either going to be the best day of Sirius's life, or his last day on earth.
Honestly, at this point, he was fine with either option. Anything was better than another conversation with the wall about the weather.
---
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