"Right then," Drakor announced with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for discovering that your least favorite teacher had been replaced by a pizza party. His voice rumbled through the ruined cell like distant thunder that had just learned some really good jokes. "Time to extract you from this charming vacation resort and begin our exciting new career in vigilante justice. I hear the benefits package includes cosmic revenge and all-you-can-eat Dementor buffets."
The cosmic entity began rippling like liquid starlight having the world's most spectacular identity crisis. His draconic form shifted and flowed as he prepared to scoop up Sirius and make their dramatic exit. It was at that exact moment—because apparently the universe had a premium subscription to Murphy's Law and really enjoyed getting its money's worth—that a voice drifted through the hole where the wall used to live.
"Please."
The woman's voice was rough with years of screaming at creatures that literally fed on happiness for breakfast, but it still carried the unmistakable cadence of someone who'd grown up thinking the word 'please' was only for people who couldn't afford better options. Like maybe someone who'd learned to curtsy before she learned to walk.
"Please, whoever you are, whatever you're doing—take me with you."
If you've ever watched someone's face go from 'rescued puppy' to 'stepped on a LEGO barefoot,' you'd understand the expression that immediately took over Sirius's features. His jaw—which could probably cut glass and definitely cut through most people's common sense—tightened into a line that suggested he'd rather french-kiss a Dementor than deal with whatever fresh nightmare was about to complicate his rescue.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," he muttered, running a hand through hair that somehow managed to look perfectly tousled despite nine years of prison conditions that would make a zombie reject the styling package. His voice carried the weary tone of someone who'd just realized their dramatic rescue was about to become significantly more complicated than a Christopher Nolan movie. "Of course she'd wake up now. Of bloody course."
You know that feeling when you're ten years old and someone starts talking about complicated adult stuff that makes your brain hurt? That was exactly what Harry was experiencing as his voice emerged from somewhere inside Drakor's magnificent head, carrying all the confusion of a kid who was still getting used to the fact that his life had apparently become a fantasy novel written by someone with serious issues.
"Who's that?" Harry asked, and even sharing headspace with a cosmic entity, he still sounded like a ten-year-old who'd been living on scraps and hand-me-downs his whole life.
"Bellatrix Lestrange," Sirius said, his voice carrying the special kind of disdain usually reserved for people who thought chocolate should be illegal or that Quidditch matches should end in group hugs. He shifted his weight with the fluid grace of someone who'd learned to make even prison look good, which was honestly impressive given that he was wearing what could generously be called 'rags with delusions of grandeur.' "My dear, psychotic cousin. Mass murderer, torturer, and generally the kind of person who makes Dementors look like emotional support animals."
The ten-year-old boy sharing headspace with an ancient cosmic entity processed this information with the kind of careful consideration that came from having his entire worldview reconstructed approximately seventeen times in the past twenty-four hours. His emerald green eyes—visible even through Drakor's cosmic consciousness—held that particular combination of innocence and premature wisdom that came from growing up in a cupboard under the stairs.
"She's family?" Harry's voice held that small, confused note that reminded everyone listening that he was still just a kid who'd never really had a family to begin with.
"Unfortunately, yes," Sirius replied with the kind of resigned acceptance that came from years of family therapy that mostly involved avoiding relatives at social gatherings. "Black family genetics are like a cosmic lottery—you either get devastatingly handsome with a rebellious streak—" he gestured to himself with the casual confidence of someone who'd never met a mirror he didn't like "—or you get devastatingly beautiful with homicidal tendencies. Bellatrix got the second option and decided to make it her entire personality."
From the neighboring cell, Bellatrix's voice rose with the kind of desperate hope that came from someone who'd been drowning for years and had just spotted what might be a life preserver, or possibly just another piece of floating debris.
"I'm innocent!" There was something in her voice that might have been genuine desperation, if you were feeling particularly generous with your interpretations and had recently hit your head on something substantial. Her words carried the crisp articulation of someone who'd grown up in fancy drawing rooms before everything went spectacularly wrong. "I never wanted to do any of those things! Please, I've been trapped in here for the same crimes you've been wrongly imprisoned for!"
Sirius's laugh was about as warm as a glacier in the middle of a particularly bitter winter that had decided to take up residence in Antarctica for the improved working conditions.
"Innocent. Right." His voice dripped with the kind of sarcasm that could probably corrode metal. "Next you'll be telling me you were under some kind of magical compulsion, or that the Dark Arts made you do it, or that you were temporarily possessed by the ghost of someone with really poor life choices and worse fashion sense."
"Actually," Drakor interrupted, his mental voice suddenly taking on the tone of someone who'd just accessed a very interesting file from a very disturbing database. Think of it like finding out your favorite restaurant has been serving something really questionable, except instead of questionable meat, it was questionable magical enslavement. "She's telling the truth."
The silence that followed was the kind of profound quiet that usually preceded either great revelations or spectacular explosions. In Harry's experience—which admittedly was limited but growing rapidly in the 'horrifying cosmic revelations' department—it was often both.
Sirius blinked with the slow, careful precision of someone whose brain had just performed several impressive mental gymnastics routines and was now filing for workers' compensation. His dark eyes, which had that smoldering intensity that suggested he'd been personally trained by someone's romantic fantasies, widened in genuine shock.
"Come again?"
"Oh, this is delicious," Drakor continued, his mental voice carrying the fascination of someone who'd just discovered a particularly juicy piece of cosmic gossip that would probably ruin several people's day. "Harry, remember how I mentioned that I'd absorbed a certain soul fragment that had been living in your scar like the galaxy's most unwelcome houseguest?"
Harry's stomach did a small flip that had nothing to do with the fact that he was currently sharing headspace with someone who considered Dementors a light snack. His ten-year-old frame, already too small from years of malnutrition, seemed to shrink even further as he processed this information.
"The piece of Voldemort's soul," Harry said quietly, his voice carrying that particular mix of fear and determination that seemed to be his default setting these days.
"Exactly!" Drakor's mental voice took on the tone of a professor who'd just gotten to the really interesting part of the lecture. "Well, it turns out that Tom Riddle had an excellent memory for the details of his various crimes, including the circumstances under which certain followers joined his merry band of homicidal maniacs. And Bellatrix Lestrange..."
Drakor paused with the timing of someone who really knew how to deliver a punchline that would probably ruin everyone's day.
"Well, let's just say her recruitment wasn't exactly voluntary."
Sirius's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline like they were trying to escape the conversation entirely and relocate to somewhere with better working conditions and fewer family scandals.
"What do you mean?" His voice carried the careful tone of someone who suspected they were about to learn something that would require a significant adjustment to their worldview.
"Marriage contracts," Drakor said with the clinical detachment of someone discussing particularly unpleasant medical procedures that involved a lot of screaming and questionable ethics. "Specifically, binding magical marriage contracts that included clauses about obedience, loyalty, and the complete subjugation of the wife's will to her husband's desires. Very old magic, very dark, and very, very illegal in most civilized parts of the galaxy. Think of it like cosmic slavery, but with more paperwork and worse legal representation."
The sound that came from Sirius's throat was like someone had just told him that gravity was optional and water was actually made of liquid disappointment. He leaned against the cell wall with the kind of boneless grace that suggested his skeleton had just received some very disturbing news.
"You're saying Bellatrix was under magical compulsion for everything she did?"
"Not just compulsion—complete magical enslavement," Drakor confirmed with the grim satisfaction of someone who'd just solved a particularly disturbing puzzle that nobody really wanted solved in the first place. "The contract bound her will so thoroughly that she literally couldn't disobey her husband's orders. When Rodolphus Lestrange told her to torture someone, she had no choice but to torture them. When he ordered her to kill, she had to kill. The contract made her into a puppet with someone else pulling all the strings while she remained fully conscious for the entire horrifying experience."
Harry felt like someone had just explained that everything he thought he knew about good and evil was actually a cosmic joke that wasn't particularly funny. His small voice, still carrying that distinctive quality of someone who'd learned to speak quietly to avoid attracting negative attention, trembled slightly.
"That's..." His young voice trailed off as he struggled to find words for something that horrible. "That's not fair. Nobody should have to go through that."
"That's one of the most evil applications of magical marriage law I've ever encountered across seventeen different civilizations," Drakor said, his mental voice carrying the kind of cold fury that made nearby stars consider relocating to safer neighborhoods with better cosmic insurance policies. "And the truly sick part is that the victim retains their consciousness throughout the entire experience. She knew what she was doing, knew it was wrong, and was completely powerless to stop herself. Imagine being trapped in your own body while someone else uses it to hurt people."
From the neighboring cell came the sound of someone crying—not the broken sobbing of madness, but the deep, wrenching tears of someone who'd been carrying unbearable guilt for crimes they'd been forced to commit. It was the kind of crying that came from fifteen years of accumulated horror finally having a chance to escape.
"Please," Bellatrix's voice came again, and now it carried a note of desperate hope that made Harry's chest hurt in ways he didn't understand. Her words held the precise articulation of expensive education mixed with the raw emotion of someone who'd been broken and was trying to piece herself back together. "I heard what you said about trials, about innocence, about justice. I know what everyone thinks of me, I know what I've done, but I swear by my magic that I never wanted to hurt anyone. Every spell I cast, every curse I used—it was Rodolphus controlling me through the contract. I've been screaming inside my own head for fifteen years."
Sirius stared at the wall separating the cells, his face cycling through expressions that suggested his entire worldview was being reconstructed in real time by someone with a really twisted sense of humor and questionable architectural skills. His hands, which could probably model for romantic novel covers when they weren't clenched in frustrated rage, ran through his hair again.
"Fifteen years," he said slowly, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd just realized he'd been completely wrong about something incredibly important. "She's been trapped in her own body for fifteen years, forced to commit atrocities while being fully aware of everything she was doing."
"It explains quite a lot, actually," Drakor continued, his mental voice taking on the tone of someone putting together a very disturbing puzzle that probably should have come with a warning label. "According to Voldemort's memories, Rodolphus Lestrange was obsessed with his wife's family connections and magical power. The marriage contract wasn't just about control—it was about turning one of the most powerful witches of her generation into his personal weapon. Very efficient, if you enjoy that sort of morally bankrupt strategic planning."
Harry tried to process this information, but his ten-year-old brain was starting to feel like a computer that had been asked to run too many programs at once while someone kept adding more complicated software. His malnourished frame seemed to curl in on itself as he considered the implications.
"And now?" he asked in that small voice that reminded everyone listening that he was still just a kid who should have been worried about homework, not cosmic justice.
"Now she's been in Azkaban for nine years, paying the price for crimes she was magically compelled to commit, while the man who actually controlled her actions is in a cell just down the hall, probably congratulating himself on how cleverly he arranged things," Drakor replied with the satisfied tone of someone who'd just identified a target that really, really deserved what was coming to them.
There was a long moment of silence as everyone processed this information. Then Sirius spoke, his voice carrying the tone of someone who'd just made a decision that was going to change everything and possibly violate several international laws in the process.
"We take her with us." The words came out firm and decisive, like someone who'd spent nine years thinking about justice and had some very strong opinions on the subject. He straightened up with the kind of commanding presence that suggested he'd been born to make difficult decisions and look good doing it. "If she's truly innocent—if she was really under magical compulsion all those years—then she deserves justice just as much as I do. Maybe more."
"There's just one small problem," Drakor said, his mental voice taking on the careful tone of someone about to deliver news that would complicate things significantly. Think of it like finding out your favorite restaurant is closed, except instead of being disappointed about dinner, you might have to commit several felonies. "The marriage contract is still active. As long as Rodolphus Lestrange lives, she's still bound to obey his will. Which means the moment we break her out of here, he can order her to kill us, or return to prison, or perform interpretive dance while singing show tunes. The magical possibilities are disturbingly endless."
Harry felt his stomach drop like it had just discovered gravity was more of a suggestion than a law and had decided to take the suggestion very seriously.
"So what do we do?" His small voice carried the weight of someone who was learning that grown-up problems were significantly more complicated than figuring out how to avoid his cousin Dudley's gang.
"Simple," Drakor replied, his mental voice carrying the satisfied tone of someone who'd just figured out the solution to a very complex problem and was probably going to enjoy implementing it way too much. "We make sure Rodolphus Lestrange stops being a problem. Permanently. I'm thinking something educational, with a side of cosmic justice and perhaps a light appetizer of existential terror."
The silence that followed was heavy with implications that made everyone involved slightly uncomfortable, like sitting in a waiting room where the background music was just slightly too loud and played the same three songs on repeat, except the songs were about murder and the waiting room was a prison.
"You're talking about murder," Harry said quietly, his ten-year-old voice carrying the weight of someone who'd just realized their cosmic partner was suggesting they cross a line that couldn't be uncrossed.
"I'm talking about executing a man who magically enslaved his wife and forced her to commit atrocities for fifteen years," Drakor corrected, his mental voice carrying the kind of cold justice that made mountains decide they needed to be somewhere else with better weather and fewer cosmic entities planning executions. "There's a difference between murder and cosmic justice, Harry. Murder is what you do for selfish reasons. Cosmic justice is what you do when the universe has failed to adequately address a problem that really, really needs addressing with extreme prejudice."
Sirius leaned against the wall with the casual grace of someone who'd learned to make prison look good, which was honestly impressive given that the circumstances included limited grooming options and a fashion palette that could generously be described as 'apocalyptic chic.'
"Harry," he said, his voice taking on that particular tone adults used when they were about to explain something complicated to a kid who really shouldn't have to understand it yet. "I know this is difficult to understand, but some people... some people are just evil. Pure, irredeemable evil. And sometimes the only way to stop evil people from hurting others is to make sure they can't hurt anyone ever again."
Harry was quiet for a moment, and Sirius could practically see the cosmic debate raging inside Drakor's head. The kid was ten years old, severely malnourished, and had probably never had to make a decision more complicated than which hand-me-down shirt was least likely to fall off his skinny frame. Now he was being asked to make choices about life and death while sharing headspace with something that could probably rearrange reality for fun.
"But I'm ten years old," Harry protested, his voice carrying all the confusion of someone who'd suddenly been thrust into decisions no child should have to make. "I shouldn't be making decisions about who lives and who dies. I shouldn't even know that these kinds of choices exist. Last week my biggest problem was avoiding getting stuffed in a toilet by Dudley."
"You're right," Drakor said, his mental voice gentle in a way that somehow made his cosmic fury even more terrifying. Like a tiger deciding to be patient with a kitten before going back to tiger business. "You shouldn't have to make these choices. But the world thrust these choices on you the night your parents were murdered by someone who thought infant genocide was an acceptable hobby. Sometimes, kiddo, being a good person means making hard decisions to protect innocent people from monsters."
Sirius's expression softened as he looked at the magnificent creature that contained his best friend's son. His dark eyes held that particular combination of protective fury and gentle understanding that suggested he'd been through his own share of impossible choices.
"What about his brother?" he asked, his voice carrying the practical tone of someone who'd learned to think through all the angles. "Rabastan Lestrange? If the contract is tied to the family line..."
"Also needs to go," Drakor confirmed grimly, his mental voice taking on the tone of someone planning a very thorough spring cleaning that would involve significantly more violence than usual. "The magic doesn't distinguish between the brothers—as long as any male Lestrange lives, the contract remains active. It's all or nothing, I'm afraid. Like a cosmic subscription service, but with more murder and significantly worse customer service."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, and Sirius could practically hear the internal debate raging in the boy's head. Finally, Harry spoke, his voice carrying the kind of determined resignation that suggested he'd just grown up significantly in the space of a single conversation.
"Do it," he said quietly, his small voice somehow carrying more authority than most adults managed in their entire careers. "But make it quick. And clean. No torture, no drawing it out—just... just make it stop."
"Understood," Drakor said, his mental voice carrying a note of respect for his young host's moral strength. "Justice, not vengeance. I can work with that. Though I should mention, my definition of 'clean' might be somewhat different from yours, given my recent dietary discoveries regarding the nutritional value of despair-based entities."
Sirius moved toward the hole in the wall with the fluid grace of someone who'd learned to make even the most mundane movements look like they belonged in an action movie where he was definitely the romantic lead.
"I'll stay here with Bellatrix," he said, his voice carrying that protective tone that suggested he took family obligations seriously, even when family had been magically enslaved into committing war crimes. "Try to explain what's happening, maybe start figuring out how to help her deal with fifteen years of magically compelled trauma. You go handle the Lestrange brothers."
"This shouldn't take long," Drakor said, his draconic form already shifting toward the opening with the casual confidence of someone who considered mass murder a light warm-up exercise. "Maybe ten minutes for both of them, plus whatever time I need to deal with any Dementors who try to interfere with the proceedings. I'm hoping for interference, actually. I've worked up quite an appetite."
"Deal with them how, exactly?" Sirius asked, though something in his tone suggested he was beginning to suspect the answer and wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know the specifics.
"The same way I dealt with the last one," Drakor replied with the cheerful tone of someone discussing their favorite hobby that happened to violate several laws of physics and probably a few international treaties. "Apparently, Dementors are quite nutritious. High in magical essence, low in actual substance. Like cosmic protein bars, but with more existential dread and significantly better flavor profiles. I'm thinking of writing a restaurant review blog: 'Interdimensional Dining with Drakor.'"
Sirius blinked slowly, processing this information with the careful consideration of someone whose worldview was being systematically demolished and rebuilt with significantly more disturbing components.
"You're eating the Dementors?"
"Recycling," Drakor corrected with the patient tone of someone explaining something obvious to a particularly slow student who'd missed several important classes on cosmic dietary requirements. "I'm converting negative energy into positive cosmic enhancement. It's environmentally responsible interdimensional consumption. Also, they taste like concentrated despair with notes of vanilla, which is surprisingly pleasant. Very complex flavor profile, really. The Lestrange brothers probably have a more robust flavor—years of accumulated evil tend to add depth to the dining experience."
And with that deeply disturbing culinary commentary that would probably require therapy for everyone involved, Drakor launched himself through the hole in the wall and into the darkness of Azkaban Prison, leaving Sirius alone with his thoughts and the sound of his cousin crying in the next cell.
"Bellatrix," he called softly through the wall, his voice carrying a gentleness that would have shocked anyone who'd known him during his school years when he'd been more interested in pranks than emotional intelligence.
"Sirius?" Her voice was tentative, fragile, like someone afraid that hope might be another cruel joke played by a universe with a twisted sense of humor and questionable timing. Despite the years of imprisonment, her voice still carried that crisp articulation of expensive education mixed with genuine vulnerability.
"Yeah, it's me," he confirmed, his voice taking on that warm tone that suggested he'd spent nine years learning to appreciate family connections, even complicated ones. "And... and I'm sorry. For not believing you before, for assuming the worst. If what they're saying is true..."
"It is true," she whispered, her voice breaking like glass that had been holding together through sheer willpower and was finally allowed to shatter. "Every spell, every curse, every scream—I felt it all, knew it was wrong, tried to stop myself. But the contract... it made me into something I never wanted to be. Something I hated."
Sirius felt something crack in his chest that had nothing to do with his ribs and everything to do with understanding exactly what it felt like to be trapped by circumstances beyond your control. His hand pressed against the wall separating them, as if he could somehow transfer comfort through solid stone.
"We're going to fix this," he promised, his voice carrying the determination of someone who'd just rediscovered hope after nine years of despair and was planning to make the most of it. "Harry and his cosmic partner are going to break the contract, and then we're all going to get out of here and start over."
"Harry?" Bellatrix's voice carried a note of confusion mixed with something that might have been wonder. "James and Lily's son? But he's just a child..."
"He's just a child who happens to be bonded to an ancient cosmic entity with very strong opinions about justice and an apparent fondness for eating Dementors," Sirius explained, as if this was the most normal thing in the world and not the kind of thing that would require several new categories in the Ministry's threat assessment files.
From somewhere deeper in the prison came a sound like reality being violently rearranged by someone with a personal grudge against the laws of physics and access to cosmic powers that probably violated several international treaties. Then another sound, like someone screaming in frequencies that hurt to think about and probably required new mathematical theories to properly describe.
"WHAT IN THE NAME OF MERLIN'S SAGGY—" came a voice from down the hall that was definitely Rodolphus Lestrange, followed by a sound that was definitely screaming and probably violated several international treaties regarding cruel and unusual punishment.
"Well, well, well," came Drakor's voice, echoing through the prison corridors with the satisfied tone of someone who'd just found exactly what they were looking for. "Rodolphus Lestrange, I presume? The charming gentleman who thought magical slavery was an acceptable marriage strategy?"
"WHO ARE YOU?" Rodolphus screamed, his voice carrying the particular panic of someone who'd just realized their cosmic chickens were coming home to roost with interest. "WHAT ARE YOU?"
"I," Drakor replied with the dramatic flair of someone who really enjoyed making good first impressions on people he was about to obliterate, "am a cosmic entity with strong opinions about marriage law violations and an excellent sense of justice. Also, I've recently developed a taste for morally bankrupt wizards. You're about to become a learning experience."
"GUARDS! DEMENTORS! HELP!" Rodolphus shrieked with the desperate terror of someone who'd just realized that all his carefully laid plans were about to become spectacularly irrelevant.
"Oh, the Dementors?" Drakor's voice carried amusement that suggested he was genuinely enjoying this conversation. "They're currently being converted into cosmic enhancement supplements. Quite tasty, actually. Very satisfying crunch. As for guards, I believe they're having an extended coffee break in what you might call 'another dimension entirely.'"
The screaming that followed was the kind that suggested Rodolphus had just received a very detailed explanation of what was about to happen to him, probably with visual aids and interactive demonstrations.
"PLEASE! I'LL DO ANYTHING! I'LL RELEASE THE CONTRACT! I'LL—"
"Oh, you'll release the contract," Drakor interrupted with the cheerful tone of someone explaining something obvious to a particularly slow student. "But not because I'm giving you a choice. You're going to release it because dead people can't maintain magical contracts, and you're about to become very, very dead."
"That would be Rodolphus," Sirius said conversationally to Bellatrix, as if cosmic entities devouring people was just another Tuesday evening entertainment option. "I have to admit, I'm not entirely sorry to hear him go."
The screaming continued, rising in pitch and desperation as Drakor apparently decided to provide some educational commentary about the experience.
"This is for fifteen years of magical slavery," Drakor's voice boomed through the prison. "And this is for forcing your wife to commit war crimes while remaining fully conscious!"
"OH GODS, MAKE IT STOP!" Rodolphus shrieked with the desperation of someone who'd just discovered that cosmic justice came with very creative educational components.
"Stop?" Drakor laughed, and the sound was like thunder learning to be amused. "My dear fellow, we haven't even gotten to the main course yet! This is just the appetizer portion of your cosmic comeuppance!"
The screaming reached new heights of creative panic before cutting off abruptly with a sound that was part crunch, part interdimensional slurp, and part the universe taking very detailed notes about things that probably shouldn't exist but were oddly satisfying to witness.
"Mmm," came Drakor's voice, followed by what might have been interdimensional lip-smacking. "Robust flavor profile. Years of accumulated evil really do add complexity to the dining experience. Now, where did I put that brother of yours?"
"I should feel something," Bellatrix said quietly, her voice carrying the tone of someone who'd just realized they were free for the first time in fifteen years and wasn't quite sure how to process it. "He was my husband for fifteen years. But all I feel is... relief. Like I can finally breathe again after holding my breath for decades."
"HELP!" came a terrified voice from further down the corridor. "SOMETHING'S EATING MY BROTHER!"
"Ah, there you are," Drakor's voice carried that same cheerful tone he'd used with the first brother. "Rabastan Lestrange, I presume? Co-conspirator in magical slavery and generally terrible person?"
"WHAT ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY BROTHER?"
"Your brother," Drakor replied with the patient tone of someone explaining something educational, "has been converted into cosmic enhancement supplements. Very nutritious. As for what I am, I'm the universe's way of reminding people that slavery is wrong and that cosmic justice has excellent timing."
"I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING! RODOLPHUS WAS THE ONE WITH THE CONTRACT!"
"Oh, but you knew about it," Drakor continued conversationally. "You benefited from it. You watched your sister-in-law be magically enslaved and used as a weapon, and you never said a word. In some cosmic justice systems, that makes you an accessory to magical slavery, which carries the same penalty as the primary offense."
"WHAT PENALTY?"
"Death by cosmic entity with educational components," Drakor replied cheerfully. "Don't worry, it's quite thorough. You'll learn a lot about justice in your final moments. Consider it a very intensive crash course in moral philosophy."
The screaming that followed was even more creative than his brother's, rising through several octaves that probably shouldn't have been physically possible for human vocal cords.
"THIS IS FOR THE COMPLICITY!" Drakor's voice boomed. "AND THIS IS FOR THE FIFTEEN YEARS OF WATCHING AND DOING NOTHING!"
"AND THAT'S FOR THE EMOTIONAL TRAUMA!" came Drakor's voice, carrying the satisfied tone of someone providing educational experiences to people who really, really needed them. "AND THIS IS FOR THE FIFTEEN YEARS OF MAGICAL SLAVERY!"
"PLEASE! I'LL MAKE AMENDS! I'LL—" Rabastan's voice reached new heights of panic before cutting off abruptly with another reality-bending crunch.
"And that would be Rabastan," Sirius said with the kind of casual satisfaction usually reserved for watching really good sports plays or particularly spectacular explosions. "Well, that's both brothers handled. Efficiently, too. I do appreciate a cosmic entity who doesn't waste time on unnecessary dramatic speeches."
"Though he does seem to enjoy the educational commentary," Bellatrix observed, and there was something almost like humor in her voice for the first time in years.
The screaming cut off abruptly, followed by what might have been interdimensional belching and definitely was the sound of someone thoroughly enjoying their meal.
"Excellent vintage," Drakor's voice carried back to them with the satisfied tone of a wine connoisseur who'd just discovered a particularly good year. "The Lestrange brothers had that robust flavor that comes from years of accumulated moral bankruptcy. Very satisfying."
A few minutes later, the sound of approaching wing beats filled the corridor, along with what might have been cosmic humming. Drakor's magnificent form reappeared at the hole in the wall, his golden veins pulsing noticeably brighter than before, like someone had just upgraded his cosmic batteries with premium fuel.
"Contract severed," he announced with the satisfaction of someone who'd just solved world hunger and possibly several philosophical paradoxes while enjoying a good meal. "The Lestrange brothers have been permanently removed from the equation, along with six Dementors who tried to interfere with the proceedings. I have to say, prison food here is surprisingly agreeable. Very high in magical essence, very satisfying. The Dementors especially have this lovely smoky flavor that really complements the despair."
Sirius looked at the cosmic dragon with something between admiration and the dawning realization that his godson had partnered with something that could probably eat small countries for breakfast and write detailed restaurant reviews about the experience.
"Bellatrix, how do you feel?" he asked, his voice carrying genuine concern. "Any compulsions, any remaining magical bindings?"
There was a moment of silence, then Bellatrix's voice came back, stronger and clearer than it had been in years.
"Free." The wonder in her voice was like hearing someone discover they could fly after years of being told they didn't even deserve to walk. "I feel free. For the first time in fifteen years, my thoughts are my own. My magic is my own. My choices are my own."
"Excellent," Drakor said, moving toward her cell with the casual efficiency of someone who considered architectural renovation a light warm-up exercise. "Now let's get both of you out of here before the Ministry realizes they've lost two of their most secure prisoners and several dozen Dementors to what they're probably going to classify as a 'cosmic dining experience with educational components.'"
With casual efficiency that made architectural engineering look like amateur hour, Drakor tore through the wall of Bellatrix's cell like it was made of tissue paper and poor life choices. The woman who emerged was not the mad, wild-eyed Death Eater from her trial photos, but someone who looked like she'd been carrying the weight of the world and had just been told she could finally put it down.
She was still beautiful, in the sharp-edged way that Black family genes apparently came standard with, but her dark eyes held a clarity that hadn't been there in years. Her long black hair was matted and unkempt from prison life, but she moved with the fluid grace of someone who'd just remembered they were allowed to control their own actions.
"Thank you," she said to Drakor, her voice carrying the depth of emotion that came from someone who'd just been given their life back. Despite the years of imprisonment, her words held that precise articulation that suggested expensive education and careful breeding. "I don't know who you are or how you knew, but thank you. For the first time in fifteen years, I can think my own thoughts without someone else's voice drowning them out."
"Thank Harry," Drakor replied, settling down so both prisoners could climb onto his back. "This whole rescue mission was his idea. I just provided the transportation and the creative problem-solving."
"You provided significantly more than that," Harry's voice came from inside the dragon's head, sounding slightly queasy in the way that ten-year-olds sound when they've just witnessed something that definitely wasn't covered in any school curriculum. "Also, could we please discuss your expanding dietary preferences later? Preferably when I'm not sharing headspace with someone who just consumed what amounts to liquid despair with a side of existential horror?"
"Fair point," Drakor conceded with the tone of someone who'd just been reminded that not everyone appreciated fine interdimensional cuisine. "Shall we make our exit before the Ministry's emergency response team shows up with uncomfortable questions about missing Dementors and structural damage that violates several laws of physics?"
As they prepared for takeoff, Sirius looked back at the cell that had been his home for nine years, two months, and seventeen days. It looked smaller somehow, less significant, like a bad dream that was finally ending and taking its nightmares with it.
"You know," he said to Bellatrix as they settled themselves for what was probably going to be the most spectacular prison break in wizarding history, "this is either the best day of our lives, or we're about to start a war with the entire Ministry of Magic."
Bellatrix's laugh was like hearing someone remember what joy sounded like after years of forgetting.
"After fifteen years of magical slavery and nine years of wrongful imprisonment, I'm ready for either option. Bring on the war. I've got some very creative ideas about payback."
"That's the spirit," Drakor said, his wings spreading wide as he prepared to launch them into the night sky. "Now hold on tight, because we're about to demonstrate why conventional prison design is completely inadequate for containing cosmic entities with strong opinions about justice and really good taste in interdimensional snacks."
With a sound like thunder being born and deciding it wanted to be dramatic about it, they exploded through the hole in Azkaban's wall and into the freedom of the night sky, leaving behind a prison that would never be quite the same and carrying with them the beginning of what would probably be the most spectacular revenge story in wizarding history.
Below them, Azkaban sat in the North Sea, significantly less secure than it had been an hour ago and notably lacking in both prisoners and soul-sucking demons.
This was definitely going to require some very creative explanations when the Ministry arrived for their morning prisoner count and discovered that reality had apparently taken the night off.
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!