If you've ever wondered what happens when an ancient cosmic entity with anger management issues meets a prison built by people who clearly never heard of building codes, here's a helpful tip: find somewhere else to be. Preferably on another continent. Maybe another planet.
The outer wall of Azkaban Prison had been standing for four hundred years, which was pretty impressive considering it was basically a giant stone middle finger pointed at the North Sea. It had survived wizard wars, dragon attacks, and at least three attempts by particularly ambitious Dark Lords to redecorate the place with explosions.
What it had never encountered was a ten-year-old boy bonded to a cosmic entity who'd just discovered that the wizarding justice system made about as much sense as a chocolate teapot.
When Drakor hit the fortress wall, the explosion didn't just break the sound barrier—it grabbed the sound barrier, gave it a wedgie, and stuffed it in a locker. The ancient stones, which had been specifically enchanted to resist everything from Blasting Curses to really angry Hungarian Horntails having bad days, took one look at whatever cosmic nightmare was approaching and decided that maybe today was a good day to become dust.
The entire section of wall simply ceased to exist. Not destroyed, not blasted apart—just gone, like reality had decided to take a coffee break and forgot to put it back.
Sirius Black, who had been having his daily philosophical discussion with the window about the theoretical possibility of rescue missions involving things that weren't rats or really disappointing soup, suddenly found himself staring at eight and a half feet of scaled, winged, absolutely magnificent destruction.
"Well," Sirius said, his voice carrying that special blend of aristocratic breeding and motorcycle gang swagger that had made professors question their life choices for seven years, "I have to admit, this is significantly more entertaining than my usual Tuesday afternoon schedule of contemplating injustice and critiquing the architectural flaws of medieval prison design."
The dragon-creature stood in the smoking crater where Sirius's wall used to live, and honestly, calling it impressive was like calling the ocean slightly damp. Obsidian scales covered its massive frame, each one reflecting light like liquid midnight shot through with veins of molten gold. Its wings spread wide enough to cast shadows over half the cell block, and when it moved, those shadows seemed to move independently, like they had their own opinions about geometry.
But the eyes were what really got your attention. They blazed like emeralds that had been personally set on fire by righteous fury, and when they looked at you, you got the distinct impression that they were seeing things about you that you probably didn't want anyone seeing. Ever.
The creature's head was sleek and draconic, all elegant curves and predatory angles, but here's the weird part—there was no mouth. Just smooth scales where a mouth should be, like someone had forgotten to install that particular feature.
"Sirius Black," the creature said, and its voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, resonating through the stones and straight into Sirius's bones. The harmonics made the remaining walls vibrate like tuning forks having anxiety attacks.
"That's me," Sirius replied, because when cosmic dragons crash through your prison wall and know your name, you don't argue with their conversation starters. "Though I have to say, if you're here about my outstanding library fees, this seems like a bit of an overreaction."
That's when the Dementors showed up to the party.
Six of them came gliding through the new skylight that used to be a wall, and they moved like death having a really bad hair day. Their hooded forms radiated the kind of cold that went beyond temperature and straight into existential crisis territory. The air around them turned thick and choking, and frost began spreading across the stones like winter was trying to file a hostile takeover claim on reality.
Sirius felt the familiar wave of despair wash over him—that crushing weight that made every happy memory feel like a lie and every moment of hope seem like cosmic joke. But here's the thing about being innocent in a place designed to break guilty people: after nine years, you develop a certain immunity to having your soul marinaded in liquid depression.
The lead Dementor extended one rotting hand toward the dragon-creature, clearly expecting the usual response. You know: screaming, begging, soul-extraction, the works. Standard Tuesday afternoon entertainment for creatures that fed on human misery like it was their job.
What it got instead was a clawed hand that moved faster than physics should have allowed, snatching it out of the air like someone catching a particularly slow and unfortunate butterfly.
"Oh," Sirius breathed, his voice carrying the kind of awe usually reserved for witnessing Quidditch miracles or really spectacular explosions, "this is about to get interesting in ways that probably violate several laws of nature."
The captured Dementor writhed in the dragon's grip, and for the first time in its very long, very evil existence, it experienced something completely new: panic. Its shadowy form became more solid as terror gave it unexpected substance, which was probably the kind of irony that philosophers wrote really depressing books about.
The other five Dementors began circling like vultures who'd just realized their intended lunch might have ideas about being eaten that differed significantly from theirs.
And then the dragon's face opened.
Not like a mouth opening—like the entire front of its skull decided to renovate itself without bothering to check local building codes first. The smooth scales simply unfolded along seams that definitely hadn't been there a second ago, revealing an interior that made biology textbooks weep and quit their jobs.
The mouth that emerged was wrong in approximately seventeen different ways. It opened far wider than the laws of anatomy suggested was possible, creating a maw that looked like it could swallow a small castle and still have room for dessert. Rows upon rows of teeth lined the impossible cavern—each one longer than Sirius's forearm and sharper than his best Cutting Curse. They weren't arranged in neat little rows like normal, sensible teeth. These were chaos given dental form, overlapping and interlocking in patterns that hurt to look at directly.
A tongue unfurled from the depths—not a normal tongue, but something that seemed to go on for miles, covered in smaller teeth and moving with predatory intelligence. It flickered out to taste the air, and where it touched, reality seemed to shimmer like heat waves.
The jaw structure itself defied every principle of engineering Sirius had ever learned. It unhinged like a snake's, but worse—sections of it telescoped outward, creating additional chambers lined with more impossible teeth. The whole thing pulsed with an organic rhythm that suggested it was very much alive and very much looking forward to lunch.
"Drakor," came a voice from inside the creature's head, and it sounded suspiciously like a very young, very exasperated human trying to manage a cosmic entity with questionable dietary habits, "what exactly do you think you're doing?"
"Scientific research," the dragon replied, its mental voice carrying the tone of someone who'd just discovered their new favorite hobby, "into the nutritional value of concentrated existential despair. Also, I'm pretty sure these things qualify as interdimensional pests, and I'm providing a valuable community service by removing them from the local ecosystem."
"That's not scientific research, that's you developing weird eating habits!"
"It's not weird if it's delicious," Drakor said with the satisfaction of someone who'd just solved world hunger and possibly several philosophical paradoxes. "Besides, I can already feel myself getting stronger. These creatures are pure magical essence, just filtered through centuries of really poor life choices and questionable career decisions. It's like cosmic protein powder with a side of emotional trauma."
The captured Dementor made a sound that was part scream, part static, and part the universe having a nervous breakdown. It struggled against the clawed grip with the desperate energy of something that had just realized it was about to become a very exotic snack.
"Think of it as recycling," Drakor continued cheerfully, positioning the writhing creature over his impossible mouth. "I'm converting negative energy into positive cosmic enhancement. It's environmentally friendly interdimensional consumption."
"That's not—" Harry started.
"Too late!" Drakor announced with glee.
The impossible mouth clamped shut around the Dementor's hooded head with a sound like reality tearing along the seams. The creature's form began collapsing inward, its dark essence being drawn into the dragon like smoke into a vacuum. Ethereal wisps of pure shadow streamed from its dissolving body, and where they touched Drakor's scales, the golden veins pulsed brighter.
The sounds coming from inside that cosmic maw were indescribable—part digestion, part nuclear fusion, part the universe taking very detailed notes about things that probably shouldn't exist. Crunching sounds that operated on frequencies that made the stones weep, followed by what might have been interdimensional belching.
For a moment, the Dementor's empty robes fluttered in the air like laundry that had given up on life, and then they fell to the floor with the sad finality of curtains dropping on a really bizarre one-act play.
The remaining five Dementors looked at their colleague's sudden transformation from "terrifying soul-sucking demon" to "cosmic entity's afternoon snack," and made what was probably the smartest decision of their very long, very evil careers.
They ran.
Not retreated—ran. Like someone had just told them that happiness was mandatory and hugs were being distributed free of charge. Their forms streaked through the hole in the wall with the kind of desperate speed usually reserved for creatures who'd just discovered they were significantly lower on the food chain than previously advertised.
"Well," Sirius said into the sudden silence, his voice carrying a mixture of awe, terror, and what might have been slightly hysterical admiration, "that's officially the first time I've ever seen a Dementor retreat from anything. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's the first time anyone has ever seen a Dementor retreat from anything. Their usual strategy involves more soul-sucking and less running away screaming."
The dragon's face folded back into its previous smooth configuration, but now the golden veins in its scales pulsed noticeably brighter, like someone had just upgraded its cosmic batteries.
"Sirius Black," it said again, its voice now carrying undertones that suggested the recent snack had been both nutritious and satisfying, "allow me to introduce myself. I am Drakor, ancient cosmic entity, interdimensional predator, and currently the roommate of your godson. This charming young gentleman sharing my headspace is Harry Potter, and we have some rather pointed questions about your relationship with a rat named Peter Pettigrew."
Sirius blinked. Then he blinked again. Then he sat down heavily on his moldy straw mattress, because sometimes when cosmic dragons casually mention your godson like it's perfectly normal, your legs forget how to work properly.
"Harry?" he whispered, his voice carrying more raw emotion than nine years of Dementor exposure had managed to squeeze out of him. "Harry Potter? My godson Harry?"
"The very same," came a different voice from somewhere inside the dragon's magnificent head—younger, warmer, and carrying just a hint of the uncertainty that came from being ten years old and having your entire worldview rebuilt from scratch in the space of a single day. "Hello, Sirius. Sorry about the dramatic entrance, but we weren't entirely sure about the whole 'innocent godfather' versus 'homicidal mass murderer' situation, and Drakor has some pretty strong opinions about conducting thorough investigations before making important decisions."
"Also," Drakor added with the tone of someone sharing a particularly satisfying piece of gossip, "we just discovered that you never actually received a trial, which is either the most spectacular failure of the legal system in recorded history, or evidence of a conspiracy so thorough it makes my previous host's memories look like amateur hour."
Sirius stared at the magnificent creature that apparently contained his best friend's son—his godson, the child he'd failed to protect, the boy who should have been learning to fly a broomstick and complaining about homework instead of... whatever this was.
And for the first time in nine years, two months, and seventeen days, Sirius Black began to cry.
Not the broken sobbing of a man who'd lost everything, but the overwhelming tears of someone who'd just discovered that hope was still possible, that family still existed, and that sometimes—just sometimes—impossible things showed up at exactly the right moment to make everything right again.
"You magnificent, terrifying, completely impossible child," he managed through his tears, his voice rough with an emotion he'd almost forgotten how to feel. "You beautiful, cosmic, dragon-shaped miracle. How in Merlin's name did you find me? How did you know to look?"
"Long story," Harry's voice replied, and Sirius could hear the smile in it even through whatever interdimensional translation was happening, "but the short version is that we had some serious questions about your trial—or rather, your complete and utter lack of a trial—and we thought we should hear the truth directly from the source before we accidentally declared war on the Ministry of Magic."
"War on the Ministry?" Sirius laughed, and the sound carried more genuine humor than his voice had held in nearly a decade. "Kid, if you're planning to take on the Ministry of Magic, you're going to need a bigger dragon. Though honestly, after watching your cosmic roommate turn a Dementor into a mid-afternoon snack, I'm starting to think you might actually have a chance."
"We don't want war," Harry said, his voice taking on the determined tone of someone who'd inherited both his father's reckless heroism and his mother's fierce protective instincts. "We want answers. Starting with what really happened the night my parents died. And don't leave anything out—we've got all night, and frankly, after nine years, I think you deserve to have someone actually listen to your side of the story."
"My trial?" Sirius asked, still laughing with the slightly unhinged edge of someone who'd just realized the cosmic joke his life had become. "What trial? They threw me in here without so much as a 'please explain why you were laughing maniacally at the scene of a massacre.' Apparently, looking suspicious while devastatingly handsome is sufficient evidence for life imprisonment these days."
"No trial," Drakor's mental voice carried a dangerous edge that made the remaining stones of the cell vibrate with sympathetic anger. "Exactly as we suspected. Someone wanted you in here very badly, Sirius Black, and they couldn't risk the inconvenience of actual evidence, witness testimony, or due process getting in the way of their carefully constructed frame job."
"A frame job?" Sirius looked up at the cosmic dragon with something that might have been hope beginning to kindle in his eyes. "You actually believe I'm innocent?"
"Kid," Drakor said, his mental voice taking on the tone of someone explaining something painfully obvious to a particularly slow student, "I'm currently carrying around the memories of Tom Riddle—you know, Voldemort, the guy who actually killed Harry's parents—and his recollections of that night are very clear about who the real traitor was. Spoiler alert: it wasn't you."
"Then who—?" Sirius started.
"Peter Pettigrew," Harry's voice cut through the question with the cold certainty of someone who'd already done the math and really didn't like the answer. "The rat who was supposed to be your friend. The one everyone thinks you killed."
Sirius felt like someone had just dropped a mountain on his head, followed by several smaller mountains for emphasis. For nine years, he'd been telling himself that Peter was dead, that his friend had died because of his—Sirius's—mistakes. To learn that the little rat was not only alive but had been the real traitor all along...
"Now," Harry continued, his voice gentle but implacable, "why don't you tell us exactly what happened that night? Start from the beginning, and don't leave anything out. We've got time, and after nine years of everyone assuming your guilt, I think you've earned the right to have someone actually listen to the truth."
Sirius looked up at the cosmic dragon that contained his godson—this impossible, magnificent creature that had literally broken him out of the most secure prison in magical Britain just to hear his side of the story—and felt his heart lighten for the first time in nearly a decade.
Someone was finally asking for the truth instead of simply assuming his guilt. Someone was finally willing to listen.
And by Merlin's beard, he was going to give it to them. All of it.
---
Sirius Black had told this story to himself approximately three thousand times over the past nine years, but he'd never told it to anyone who actually wanted to hear it. The words came slowly at first, like water from a long-frozen pipe, but once they started flowing, they poured out in a torrent that carried nine years of bottled-up truth.
"It started with the prophecy," he began, his voice taking on the careful cadence of someone recounting a particularly complicated tragedy. "Dumbledore told us there was a prophecy about a child born at the end of July who would have the power to defeat Voldemort. Could have been you, could have been Neville Longbottom—both of you fit the criteria."
"Wait," Harry's voice interrupted from inside Drakor's head, carrying the confused tone of someone who'd just discovered that their life story was significantly more complicated than advertised. "There was a prophecy involved in all of this?"
"Yeah. As I said, he had two choices, but Voldemort chose you, which made the prophecy about you specifically." Sirius ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that had survived nine years of prison and still made him look like he'd just stepped off a motorcycle. "Your parents went into hiding under the Fidelius Charm—that's a piece of magic that makes it impossible to find someone unless you're told their location by their Secret Keeper."
"Let me guess," Drakor said, his mental voice carrying the tone of someone who'd already figured out where this story was heading, "Peter Pettigrew was the Secret Keeper."
"That's where it gets complicated," Sirius said, his voice taking on a bitter edge. "I was supposed to be the Secret Keeper. I was James's best friend, his brother in everything but blood. It should have been me protecting them."
He stood up and began pacing the small cell, his movements carrying the restless energy of someone who'd been caged too long.
"But I convinced them to change it to Peter at the last minute. I thought I was being clever, you see. I figured Voldemort would expect James to choose me—his best mate, the obvious choice. So we made it look like I was the Secret Keeper while Peter actually held the secret. The old double-bluff. Seemed brilliant at the time."
"Classic misdirection," Drakor commented approvingly. "I can respect the strategic thinking, even if the execution was catastrophically flawed."
"Catastrophically flawed doesn't begin to cover it," Sirius said with a laugh that held no humor whatsoever. "Because what I didn't know—what none of us knew—was that Peter Pettigrew, our friend Peter, shy little Peter who couldn't hex his way out of a paper bag, had been feeding information to Voldemort for over a year."
The silence that followed was the kind of heavy, oppressive quiet that usually preceded very large explosions or very bad news. Possibly both.
"A year?" Harry's voice was barely a whisper. "He was spying on my parents for a year?"
"At least. Maybe longer. Only Voldemort and Peter would know better than I would." Sirius's hands clenched into fists. "Peter was scared, you see. Terrified of Voldemort, terrified of the war, terrified of choosing the wrong side and ending up dead. So he chose what he thought was the winning side and started selling out the people who trusted him."
"Classic coward behavior," Drakor observed with the clinical detachment of someone who'd seen this pattern play out across multiple civilizations. "When faced with a choice between courage and survival, some beings will always choose survival and tell themselves it's pragmatism."
"The night it happened—October 31st, 1981—I was getting suspicious. Peter had been acting strange for weeks. Nervous, jumpy, avoiding eye contact. I thought maybe the pressure was getting to him, but something felt wrong. So I decided to check on him."
Sirius stopped pacing and stared out through the hole where his wall used to be, looking toward the distant lights of the mainland.
"I went to his hiding place first. It was empty. Not just empty—abandoned. Like he'd packed up and left in a hurry, taking only what he could carry. That's when I knew. That's when I realized what we'd done."
"You realized Peter had betrayed them," Harry said quietly.
"I realized I'd handed my best friends over to Voldemort on a silver platter," Sirius said, his voice raw with an anguish that nine years hadn't managed to dull. "I raced to Godric's Hollow, but I was too late. The house was destroyed, James and Lily were dead, and you..." He paused, his voice catching. "You were just sitting there in your crib, crying, with that lightning bolt scar on your forehead where Voldemort's killing curse had hit you and somehow failed to kill you."
"The night I became the Boy Who Lived," Harry said, and there was something in his voice that suggested he was beginning to understand just how much he'd lost that night.
"Hagrid was already there when I arrived. Good man, Hagrid, but not exactly built for making quick decisions under pressure. He was going to take you to your aunt and uncle—Lily's sister and her husband. Muggles who hated magic and everything connected to it."
"The Dursleys," Harry said, and just the way he said the name made it clear what kind of guardians they'd been.
"I offered to take you instead," Sirius continued, his voice getting rougher. "You were my godson, my responsibility. James and Lily had chosen me to look after you if anything happened to them. But Hagrid said he had orders from Dumbledore, and everyone knows how Hagrid is about following Dumbledore's orders."
"So you let them take Harry to people who hated him," Drakor said, and his mental voice carried the kind of dangerous calm that preceded very creative forms of cosmic justice.
"I let them take him because I was thinking like a soldier instead of a guardian," Sirius said, his voice full of self-recrimination. "I thought I could get you back after I'd tracked down Peter and proven he was the traitor. I thought it would only take a few days, maybe a week. I was young and angry and stupid, and I wanted revenge more than I wanted to protect you."
He sat back down on his straw mattress, suddenly looking every one of his years in Azkaban.
"I gave Hagrid my flying motorcycle—told him to take you somewhere safe while I went after Peter. Then I spent the next day tracking down that rat, following every lead, checking every safe house we'd ever used. I finally found him in a crowded Muggle street in London."
"And that's where you killed thirteen people," Harry said, but his voice carried the tone of someone asking a question rather than stating a fact.
"That's where Peter killed twelve people, faked his own death and tried to kill me too," Sirius corrected grimly. "I cornered him in broad daylight on a busy street—not my smartest tactical decision, but I wasn't exactly thinking clearly. I was running on rage and guilt and about two hours of sleep over three days."
The memories were clearly painful, but Sirius continued with the dogged determination of someone who'd waited nine years to tell this story.
"I accused him of betraying James and Lily. He denied it, of course, started crying and carrying on about how he'd tried to protect them, how he was sorry they were dead. But then I saw it in his eyes—that moment when he realized I knew the truth. And instead of fighting like a man, he did what cowards always do when they're cornered."
"He ran," Drakor guessed.
"He exploded," Sirius said flatly. "Cast a Blasting Curse behind him that tore up the entire street—water mains, gas lines, everything. But not before shouting out loud, and accusing me of all of the crimes he committed. Twelve Muggles died instantly, and the explosion was loud enough to shatter windows for three blocks. In all the chaos and smoke and screaming, Peter cut off his own finger, left it in the wreckage, and transformed."
"Transformed?" Harry asked.
"Peter was what is called an Animagus—an unregistered one. Could turn into a rat whenever he wanted. In all the confusion, with body parts scattered everywhere and people screaming about gas explosions, no one noticed one more rat scurrying away through the debris."
The picture Sirius was painting was becoming clearer, and it was the kind of picture that made cosmic entities very, very angry.
"So while everyone was dealing with the dead and wounded, Peter escaped," Drakor said, his mental voice carrying the kind of cold fury that made nearby stones crack from the temperature change. "And you were left standing in the middle of a massacre, holding your wand, looking like you'd just murdered thirteen innocent people."
"I was laughing," Sirius admitted quietly. "Standing there in the wreckage, covered in blood and dust, laughing like a madman. Not because I thought it was funny—because I'd just realized how perfectly I'd been played. Peter had just committed the perfect crime. The only person who could provide proof of his betrayal—Voldemort—was dead, so he faked his own death, and framed me for mass murder all in one move. It was so brilliantly evil that I couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship, even as it destroyed my life."
"And that's how they found you," Harry said. "Laughing at the scene of a massacre, looking like you'd just murdered your friend and a dozen innocent people."
"The Aurors arrived about five minutes later. I was so shocked by what had happened, so overwhelmed by the sheer audacity of Peter's plan, that I didn't even resist when they arrested me. I kept trying to explain that Peter was the traitor, that he'd faked his death, that he could turn into a rat. But who was going to believe that? Especially when there was a finger from his hand in the wreckage and I was standing there laughing like I'd lost my mind."
Sirius looked up at the dragon that contained his godson, his gray eyes bright with unshed tears.
"They threw me in here that same night. No trial, no investigation, no opportunity to present evidence or call witnesses. The case was so obvious, you see—Sirius Black, who's family members are known associate of dark wizards, caught red-handed at the scene of a massacre, clearly guilty of betraying the Potters and murdering Peter Pettigrew and twelve innocent Muggles. Why waste time and money on a trial when everyone already knew what had happened?"
"Because," Drakor said, his voice carrying the kind of dangerous calm that made natural disasters seem like gentle spring breezes, "that's how justice is supposed to work. Evidence. Witnesses. Due process. Not assumptions and convenient narratives that let people skip the inconvenient parts of determining actual guilt."
"For nine years," Harry said, his young voice heavy with an emotion that shouldn't have existed in someone his age, "you've been in here for crimes you didn't commit, while the real traitor has been free."
"For nine years," Sirius confirmed, "I've been going slowly mad in a cell, talking to walls and fighting off Dementors, while Peter Pettigrew has been out there somewhere, probably living as a rat in some family's house, listening to their conversations and eating their scraps."
The silence that followed was the kind of profound quiet that usually preceded earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, or cosmic entities deciding that certain aspects of reality needed immediate and violent correction.
"Well," Drakor finally said, his mental voice carrying the satisfied tone of someone who'd just figured out exactly how to solve a very complex problem, "this has been very educational. Harry, I believe we have sufficient information to proceed with Phase Two of our investigation."
"What's Phase Two?" Sirius asked, though something in the dragon's tone suggested he probably didn't want to know.
"Phase Two," Drakor said with the kind of cheerful anticipation usually reserved for people planning really excellent vacations or really creative revenge schemes, "is where we bust you out. Then we find Peter Pettigrew, extract a full confession, and then introduce him to some very pointed discussions about the consequences of betraying innocent people and ruining children's lives."
"And after that?" Harry asked.
"After that," Drakor continued, his mental voice taking on an edge that made the remaining stones of the prison cell vibrate with sympathetic excitement, "we have some very educational conversations with certain Ministry officials about the importance of due process, the value of proper investigations, and why exactly they thought it was acceptable to imprison innocent people without trials."
Sirius looked up at the magnificent creature that had just promised to turn his life from a tragedy into what sounded like the most spectacular revenge story in wizarding history.
"I like Phase Two," he said with the first genuine smile he'd worn in nine years. "When do we start?"
---
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