The rocky shore of the Scottish coast had probably seen a lot of things over the centuries—shipwrecks, smugglers, the occasional romantic rendezvous that ended badly—but it had never seen a cosmic dragon land with two escaped prisoners and immediately transform into a severely malnourished ten-year-old boy who looked like he'd been living on hope and table scraps for most of his life.
The transformation was gradual this time, like watching a sculpture being carved in reverse. Drakor's magnificent draconic form rippled and flowed, scales retracting, wings folding inward, until Harry Potter stood on the wet rocks in clothes that hung on his small frame like a scarecrow's outfit that had given up trying to be intimidating.
Sirius Black, who had spent nine years imagining this moment, felt his heart shatter into approximately seventeen thousand pieces.
The boy standing before him was tiny. Not just small for his age—tiny in the way that spoke of years of systematic neglect and calculated cruelty. His clothes were clearly hand-me-downs from someone roughly three times his size, hanging off his skeletal frame like a tent that had lost an argument with reality. His hair stuck up in impossible directions, as if it had given up trying to cooperate with any known laws of physics or basic grooming principles.
But it was Harry's eyes that really broke something fundamental in Sirius's chest. They were emerald green—Lily's eyes, exactly Lily's eyes—but they held an awareness that no ten-year-old should possess. The kind of careful, watchful intelligence that came from growing up in a war zone where the enemy looked like family and safety was a luxury you couldn't afford.
"Hello, Sirius," Harry said quietly, his voice carrying that particular quality of someone who'd learned to speak softly to avoid attracting the wrong kind of attention. He looked exactly like what he was: a child who'd been forced to grow up too fast while somehow remaining heartbreakingly small.
Sirius dropped to his knees on the rocky shore, his legs simply giving out as the full weight of what he was seeing hit him like a physical blow. This was his godson. This tiny, underfed, cautious child was James and Lily's son, the boy he was supposed to have protected, the child who should have grown up knowing he was loved and wanted and precious.
"Oh, Harry," Sirius whispered, his voice breaking like glass under pressure. Tears streamed down his face with the kind of raw emotion that nine years in Azkaban hadn't managed to squeeze out of him. "Oh, kiddo, what have they done to you?"
"They didn't do anything that bad," Harry said quickly, his voice taking on that defensive tone that children use when they're protecting the adults who hurt them because it's easier than admitting the truth. "I mean, I had food most days, and a place to sleep, and—"
"Harry." The single word from Sirius carried enough gentle authority to stop the boy mid-sentence. "Love, you don't have to protect them. Not anymore. Not from me."
Bellatrix stood slightly apart, watching this reunion with something that might have been wonder if she'd remembered how to feel normal emotions. Despite fifteen years of magical enslavement and nine years of prison, she still possessed that sharp Black family beauty, though her dark eyes now held a clarity that hadn't been there in years.
"He looks exactly like James," she said softly, her voice carrying the precise articulation of expensive education mixed with genuine amazement. "Except for the eyes. Those are definitely Lily's."
"And the size," Sirius said grimly, taking in Harry's tiny frame with the trained eye of someone who'd seen the results of systematic abuse before. "James was always small for his age, but not like this. This is..." His voice trailed off as he struggled to find words for what he was seeing. "This is malnutrition. This is deliberate neglect."
"I'm fine," Harry insisted, but his voice lacked conviction, like someone trying to convince themselves of something they knew wasn't true. "Really. The Dursleys just... they just don't like magic, that's all. They're not bad people, they just—"
"Locked you in a cupboard under the stairs," Drakor's voice interrupted from inside Harry's head, his mental tone carrying the kind of cold fury that made nearby seagulls decide they had urgent business elsewhere. "Fed you scraps while their son ate enough for three people. Used you as unpaid labor from the age you could barely walk. Should I continue?"
Harry's shoulders sagged as the defense mechanisms he'd built over ten years crumbled in the face of someone actually caring about what had happened to him. It was like watching a dam break, except instead of water, it was years of suppressed hurt and carefully hidden pain.
"They used to lock me in my cupboard for days," he admitted quietly, his small voice barely audible over the sound of waves against the shore. "Sometimes with no food at all. When I did magic by accident, or when Dudley got in trouble and they needed someone to blame, or when... when they just didn't want to look at me."
Sirius made a sound like someone had just reached into his chest and squeezed his heart with fists made of concentrated anguish. His hands clenched into fists that would have been impressive if they weren't shaking with barely controlled rage.
"I should have come for you," he said, his voice raw with guilt and fury. "The moment I escaped, the moment I could think clearly, I should have found you and gotten you away from them."
"You were in prison," Harry pointed out with the logical tone of someone who'd learned to be reasonable about unreasonable situations. "It's not like you could just pop over for tea and custody battles."
"I was in prison because I made stupid, selfish choices," Sirius replied, his voice carrying the kind of self-recrimination that came from nine years of having nothing to do but think about your mistakes. "I chose revenge over responsibility. I went after Peter instead of making sure you were safe. I put my need for justice ahead of your need for protection."
Bellatrix shifted uncomfortably, her dark eyes moving between her cousin and his godson with something that might have been guilt if she'd been capable of feeling normal emotions after fifteen years of magical enslavement.
"Sirius," she said carefully, her voice carrying that precise articulation that came from years of expensive education. "You couldn't have known what would happen. No one could have predicted that Peter would... that he would do what he did."
"I could have been smarter," Sirius said bitterly. "I could have thought instead of acted. I could have remembered that sometimes the most important thing isn't getting revenge—it's protecting the people you love."
Harry stepped forward with the careful movements of someone who'd learned to approach emotional adults with caution, and very gently placed his small hand on Sirius's shoulder.
"It's okay," he said softly, his ten-year-old voice carrying more wisdom than it should have. "You're here now. That's what matters."
Sirius looked up at his godson—this tiny, underfed, impossibly brave child who was comforting *him* after everything that had happened—and felt something fundamental shift in his chest. Like a gear clicking into place after years of being misaligned.
"Right," he said, standing up with the fluid grace that had survived nine years in Azkaban and made even simple movements look like they belonged in an action movie. "Right. We're not going to waste any more time on guilt or recriminations. We're going to fix this."
"How?" Harry asked, though his voice carried the kind of hope that suggested he was beginning to believe that fixing things might actually be possible.
"First, we need help," Sirius said, his mind already working through possibilities with the efficiency of someone who'd had years to think about contingency plans. "Magical help, legal help, and most importantly, medical help. I know exactly where to get all three."
"Where?" Bellatrix asked, her voice carrying genuine curiosity mixed with something that might have been hope if she'd remembered how to feel it properly.
"Andromeda," Sirius said with the satisfaction of someone who'd just figured out the solution to a very complex problem. "My cousin Andromeda Tonks. Your sister," he added to Bellatrix. "She was disowned from the family for marrying a Muggle-born, which means she's exactly the kind of person who knows how to handle complicated family situations and has very strong opinions about justice."
"Andromeda was always the smart one," Bellatrix said softly, her voice carrying a note of wistfulness that suggested she'd missed her sister more than she'd allowed herself to admit. "Even when we were children, she was the one who could solve any problem if you gave her enough time and chocolate."
"Plus," Sirius continued, his voice taking on the tone of someone outlining a battle plan that just might work, "she's a Healer, so she can actually do something about Harry's malnutrition and general health issues. And her husband Ted is a magical lawyer—one of the best in Britain. If anyone can help us navigate the legal nightmare we're about to create, it's Ted Tonks."
"What kind of legal nightmare?" Harry asked, though something in his tone suggested he already knew the answer and wasn't particularly looking forward to it.
"Well," Sirius said with the cheerful tone of someone explaining a particularly complex explosion that was about to happen, "let's see. We've got two escaped prisoners, multiple counts of what the Ministry will probably classify as 'murder by cosmic entity,' destruction of government property, violation of magical creature protection laws—"
"Dementors aren't protected," Drakor interrupted indignantly from inside Harry's head. "They're interdimensional pests! It's like saying you can't swat mosquitoes because they have feelings!"
"—unauthorized prison break, conspiracy to commit cosmic justice, and probably several charges they haven't invented yet," Sirius finished with the satisfaction of someone who'd just catalogued a truly impressive list of felonies. "Plus, Harry's technically a minor who's been living with abusive guardians while his legal guardian was wrongfully imprisoned, which opens up about seventeen different cans of worms regarding child protection laws."
"So basically," Harry said slowly, "we're all wanted criminals now."
"We're all people seeking justice who happen to have violated several laws in the process," Sirius corrected with the tone of someone who'd learned to think positively about impossible situations. "There's a difference. A subtle one, perhaps, but definitely a difference."
"The Tonks family lives in Kent," Bellatrix said, her voice taking on a more practical tone as she shifted from emotional reunion mode to strategic planning mode. "About two hours from London by conventional travel. But I don't suppose your cosmic partner has opinions about interdimensional transportation?"
"Flying is faster," Drakor confirmed with the satisfaction of someone who'd just figured out a shortcut that would save considerable time and probably violate several traffic laws. "Plus, I've been looking forward to stretching my wings again. The transformation back to dragon form should be quite spectacular."
"Before we go anywhere," Sirius said firmly, his voice taking on that protective tone that suggested he'd just remembered he was dealing with a malnourished ten-year-old who'd been through enough trauma for several lifetimes, "Harry needs food. Real food. Not scraps, not leftovers—an actual meal that would be appropriate for a growing child who's been systematically underfed for years."
"We could stop somewhere," Harry said uncertainly, his voice carrying the hesitant tone of someone who wasn't used to having his needs considered in planning decisions.
"No stopping," Sirius said with the kind of determination that suggested he'd just made this his personal mission. "No delays, no risk of being spotted by Ministry personnel who might have uncomfortable questions about our recent prison break. We go straight to Andromeda's, and she can make sure you get proper nutrition while Ted starts figuring out how to keep us all out of Azkaban permanently."
Bellatrix was looking at Harry with something that might have been maternal instinct if she'd remembered how those worked after fifteen years of magical enslavement. Her dark eyes held a sharpness that suggested she was cataloguing everything she saw and planning to do something about it.
"Fifteen years of forced participation in war crimes," she said quietly, her voice carrying that precise articulation that came from expensive education, "and the most horrifying thing I've seen tonight is what those Muggles did to a child. Rodolphus forced me to torture grown adults who chose to fight—but Harry was just a baby who needed protection."
"The Dursleys are going to answer for what they've done," Sirius said, his voice carrying the kind of quiet menace that suggested he'd been planning creative revenge scenarios during his years in prison. "But first, we make sure Harry is safe and healthy and knows he's wanted and loved."
Harry looked between his godfather and his... whatever Bellatrix was to him now... with something that might have been wonder if he'd remembered how to feel emotions that weren't related to survival.
"You really want me?" he asked quietly, his small voice carrying all the uncertainty of someone who'd never been wanted by anyone in his entire life.
"Harry," Sirius said, dropping back down to his godson's eye level with the fluid grace that made even simple movements look effortless, "you are the most important person in my life. You're my godson, my responsibility, my family. There is nothing I wouldn't do to protect you and make sure you're safe and happy."
"Even if it means being fugitives?" Harry asked, though his voice carried hope rather than fear.
"Especially if it means being fugitives," Sirius confirmed with the reckless grin that had gotten him into trouble for most of his life and would probably continue to do so. "The Black family has a long and distinguished tradition of causing trouble for authority figures who deserve it. Consider this your introduction to the family business."
Harry smiled then—not the careful, cautious expression he'd perfected for dealing with the Dursleys, but a real smile that lit up his small face and made him look like the child he should have been all along.
"Alright," he said, his voice carrying determination that seemed too large for his small frame. "Let's go meet the Tonks family and start our new career in creative justice."
"That's my boy," Sirius said with the kind of pride that suggested he'd just witnessed something magnificent. "Now, shall we give Kent a rather dramatic introduction to cosmic entities and family reunions?"
As Drakor began the transformation back to his magnificent draconic form, scales rippling across Harry's skin like liquid starlight having opinions about physics, the three of them prepared for what would probably be the most interesting family visit in the history of uncomfortable conversations and unauthorized dragon landings.
Behind them, the waves continued their eternal dance against the shore, completely unaware that they'd just witnessed the beginning of what would probably be the most spectacular campaign for justice in wizarding history.
This was going to be very, very interesting.
---
Meanwhile, approximately forty-three miles southeast of the Scottish coast where cosmic justice was being dispensed with extreme prejudice, Mrs. Arabella Figg was having what could generously be called "a morning of considerable concern."
Mrs. Figg had been what Muggles would call a "concerned neighbor" and what the magical community would call a "Squib designated for surveillance duty with a side of cat breeding." For ten years, she'd been watching Number Four Privet Drive with the dedication of someone who took her responsibilities very seriously and had developed strong opinions about child welfare in the process.
This morning, however, her surveillance subject had apparently decided to take an unauthorized vacation from his assigned location.
"Tibbles," she said to the large tabby cat who served as her primary intelligence gathering agent and occasional conversation partner, "something is very, very wrong."
Tibbles, being a cat, possessed the kind of superior intelligence that allowed him to recognize human panic when he saw it and respond with the appropriate level of feline disdain for human problems. He flicked his tail once and continued grooming his paw with the dedication of someone who had better things to do than worry about whatever crisis the humans had manufactured this week.
Mrs. Figg stood at her kitchen window, teacup trembling in her hands, staring across the street at Number Four Privet Drive. To most people, it would have looked like any other boring suburban morning—neat lawns, tidy houses, the kind of aggressive normalcy that made interesting people break out in hives.
But Mrs. Figg was not most people. Mrs. Figg was someone who'd been trained to notice when things were wrong, and this morning, everything was wrong.
For one thing, Vernon Dursley was in his front garden at seven in the morning, which was approximately three hours earlier than his usual routine of thundering around the house like an angry rhinoceros who'd just discovered that gravity was still working. For another, he was smiling. Actually smiling, like someone who'd just received excellent news about something that definitely shouldn't make anyone happy.
Most disturbing of all, there was no sign of Harry Potter anywhere.
No small figure doing garden work that should have been assigned to adults. No glimpses of untidy black hair visible through the kitchen window as he prepared breakfast for people who treated him like unpaid labor. No careful, quiet movements of a child who'd learned to be invisible to avoid attracting negative attention.
Nothing. Harry Potter, the most famous child in the wizarding world, had simply vanished from Privet Drive like he'd never existed at all.
Mrs. Figg set down her teacup with shaking hands and reached for the special mirror that Albus Dumbledore had given her for emergencies. It was the kind of mirror that looked ordinary until you whispered the right words, at which point it became a direct line to the most powerful wizard in Britain and possibly the person who was going to have a nervous breakdown when he heard what she had to report.
"Albus," she whispered into the silvered surface, her voice carrying the kind of controlled panic that came from years of practice at delivering bad news to people who were not going to take it well. "Albus, we have a problem. A very, very serious problem."
The mirror shimmered, and suddenly she was looking at the face of Albus Dumbledore—twinkling blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles, long silver beard that suggested he took his wizard appearance very seriously, and the kind of expression that suggested he'd been expecting this call and really hadn't wanted to receive it.
"Arabella," he said gently, his voice carrying that particular tone adults used when they suspected they were about to receive news that would require immediate action and possibly several forms of damage control. "What's happened?"
"Harry's gone," Mrs. Figg said without preamble, because when the most famous child in the wizarding world disappears overnight, you don't waste time with pleasantries. "Vanished sometime during the night. No sign of struggle, no indication of where he went, nothing."
Dumbledore's face went very still, which was somehow more alarming than if he'd started shouting or throwing things around his office. When Albus Dumbledore went still, it meant he was thinking very quickly about very serious problems that probably required solutions involving considerable magical firepower and creative applications of ancient laws.
"Are you certain?" he asked, his voice carrying the careful neutrality of someone who was hoping very much that this was a misunderstanding that could be easily resolved.
"I'm watching the Dursleys right now," Mrs. Figg confirmed, turning slightly so she could maintain visual surveillance while reporting to her superior. "Vernon is in the garden at seven in the morning, Albus. Seven in the morning! He's practically dancing with joy. Petunia keeps looking out the kitchen window like she's checking to make sure something is really gone. And Dudley..." She paused, watching the large boy waddle past a window with what appeared to be a stack of breakfast pastries that could feed a small army. "Dudley looks like Christmas came early and brought him everything he'd ever wanted."
"The blood wards?" Dumbledore asked, and there was something in his voice that suggested this was either very good news or very bad news, with no comfortable middle ground available for negotiation.
Mrs. Figg consulted the small device she kept in her apron pocket—a rather clever bit of magical engineering that looked like a pocket watch but actually monitored protective enchantments in the immediate area.
"Gone," she said quietly, her voice carrying the kind of finality usually reserved for announcing deaths or cancelled holidays. "Completely gone. Whatever protections you placed on Harry, whatever kept him safe here for ten years—they're not just weakened, Albus. They're gone. Like they never existed at all."
Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, Mrs. Figg could see the kind of calculation going on behind them that suggested he was already three steps ahead of whatever crisis was developing and had probably identified seventeen different ways it could get worse.
"How long?" he asked.
"I noticed something was wrong around six-thirty," Mrs. Figg said, checking the clock on her kitchen wall. "But it could have been hours earlier. You know how the Dursleys are—they wouldn't have checked on Harry unless they needed him to do something, and they don't usually start their daily routine of casual child abuse until after breakfast."
"Arabella," Dumbledore said gently, his voice carrying that particular tone that suggested he was about to ask her to do something she wasn't going to like, "I need you to find out exactly when Harry left and how. Talk to the neighbors, check for any unusual activity last night, see if anyone saw anything strange."
"How strange are we talking?" Mrs. Figg asked, because in her experience, when Albus Dumbledore mentioned strange things, it usually meant the kind of strange that violated several laws of physics and definitely wasn't covered by homeowner's insurance.
"Any unusual lights, sounds, creatures, or phenomena that might indicate magical transportation," Dumbledore said, his voice taking on the tone of someone making a list that was probably going to be longer than he wanted. "Also, check for any signs that Harry left voluntarily versus being taken against his will."
Mrs. Figg nodded grimly, already mentally preparing for conversations with neighbors who thought magic was something that happened in children's books and probably wouldn't appreciate being asked about cosmic entities or unauthorized dragon sightings.
"What about the Dursleys?" she asked. "Should I question them directly?"
Dumbledore was quiet for a moment, and Mrs. Figg could practically see the wheels turning behind those twinkling blue eyes as he weighed various options and their potential consequences.
"Not yet," he said finally. "If Harry left voluntarily, the Dursleys might not know anything useful. If he was taken, direct questioning might alert whoever took him that we're aware of his disappearance. For now, maintain surveillance and gather information discreetly."
"And if I can't find any trace of where he went?"
"Then we proceed to more... intensive investigation methods," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying the kind of ominous undertone that suggested intensive investigation methods probably involved people with very serious expressions and considerably less patience for subtlety than Mrs. Figg.
The mirror connection ended, leaving Mrs. Figg staring at her own reflection and contemplating the fact that she'd just become responsible for tracking down the most famous missing child in the wizarding world while simultaneously conducting surveillance on relatives who were apparently celebrating his disappearance like it was their personal holiday.
"Tibbles," she said to her cat, who was now watching her with the kind of feline attention that suggested he'd understood every word of the conversation and was already forming his own opinions about the situation, "I think we're going to need more tea. And possibly some of those emergency biscuits I keep for really bad days."
Tibbles meowed once, which Mrs. Figg chose to interpret as feline agreement with her assessment of the situation, though it might also have been a request for breakfast or commentary on the general decline of human competence in crisis situations.
Either way, Mrs. Figg had work to do. Somewhere out there, Harry Potter was either on an adventure that would probably require several new classifications in the Ministry's threat assessment files, or in danger that would require immediate rescue by people with more magical firepower than suburban Surrey typically accommodated.
Neither option was particularly comforting, but Mrs. Figg had been dealing with uncomfortable situations involving the Potter family for over a decade. She finished her tea, put on her sensible shoes, and prepared to begin what would probably be the most important investigation of her life.
After all, Harry Potter might be the most famous child in the wizarding world, but he was also just a ten-year-old boy who'd been missing from his assigned protection detail for several hours. In Mrs. Figg's experience, ten-year-old boys had a remarkable talent for finding trouble even when they weren't actively looking for it.
And if recent evidence was any indication, Harry Potter had considerably more resources for finding—and causing—trouble than the average ten-year-old.
This was going to be a very long day.
---
Meanwhile, at Azkaban Prison—or what remained of it after Drakor's architectural improvements and creative approach to pest control—the morning shift was discovering that their workplace had undergone some rather dramatic renovations during the night.
Auror Captain Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody stood in what used to be Cell 451, staring at a hole in the wall that could have housed a small dragon, while his magical eye spun in its socket like a disco ball having an identity crisis. The regular eye was focused on the damage assessment, but the magical eye was tracking magical residue that painted a story more interesting than anything he'd encountered since the last Dark Lord went out of business.
Next to him, Amelia Bones—Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and someone who'd seen enough impossible things to develop a healthy respect for cosmic mysteries and really good coffee—was examining what appeared to be the remains of Rodolphus Lestrange's cell. Or rather, what remained after something had apparently redecorated it using methods that weren't covered in any architectural manual she'd ever read.
"Mad-Eye," she said, her voice carrying the careful control of someone who'd just discovered that their morning was going to be significantly more complicated than advertised, "please tell me your magical eye is seeing something that makes sense of this situation. Because my regular eyes are telling me that someone or something rearranged this prison using techniques that violate several fundamental laws of physics."
Moody's magical eye stopped spinning and focused on something only he could see, which was usually a sign that the day was about to become either very interesting or very dangerous. Possibly both.
"Oh, it makes sense," he said grimly, his scarred face settling into the expression he wore when dealing with mysteries that would probably require extensive paperwork and possibly several interdisciplinary consultations with experts in fields that shouldn't exist. "Just not the kind of sense that's going to make anyone happy about filing the incident report."
"Elaborate," Amelia said with the patient tone of someone who'd learned that Mad-Eye's explanations were usually worth waiting for, even when they involved information that made reality seem like more of a suggestion than a law.
"Someone broke Sirius Black and Bellatrix Lestrange out of here last night," Moody said, his regular eye still focused on the architectural damage while his magical eye continued tracking something that was apparently very interesting from a investigative standpoint. "But that's not the strange part."
"It's not?" Amelia asked, raising an eyebrow with the practiced expression of someone who'd learned to expect the unexpected when dealing with Mad-Eye's case assessments.
"The strange part is how they did it, and what happened to the Lestrange brothers," Moody continued, moving deeper into the ruined cell block with the careful steps of someone who'd learned to treat crime scenes like they might explode at any moment. "According to the magical residue I'm reading, whoever did this didn't just break down the walls—they atomized them. Complete molecular disintegration, followed by what appears to be selective reality editing."
Amelia followed him deeper into the destruction, her trained eye cataloguing details that would probably require several specialist consultations to properly understand. The walls hadn't just been broken—they'd been removed from existence with surgical precision. No rubble, no debris, just smooth edges where stone had been and now simply wasn't.
"And the Lestrange brothers?" she asked, though something in Moody's tone suggested she probably didn't want to know the answer.
"Gone," Moody said flatly, his magical eye spinning to focus on something in what used to be Rodolphus Lestrange's cell. "Not dead—gone. Complete cellular dissolution, followed by what I can only describe as interdimensional consumption."
"Someone ate them?" Amelia asked, her voice carrying the kind of careful neutrality that suggested she was trying very hard not to think about the implications of that statement.
"Something ate them," Moody corrected grimly. "Something that operates on magical frequencies I've never encountered in forty years of Auror work. The residual energy signature is..." He paused, his magical eye spinning like a record player that had just been asked to process information that didn't fit into any known categories. "Cosmic. That's the only word I can think of. Like someone opened a portal to another dimension and invited something very large and very hungry to come solve their problems."
Amelia was quiet for a moment, processing this information with the efficiency of someone who'd learned to deal with impossible situations by treating them like particularly complex paperwork.
"What about the Dementors?" she asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer and wasn't going to like it.
"Eighteen missing," Moody confirmed, consulting a small device that looked like a compass but probably measured things that weren't supposed to exist. "Completely vanished. No trace of them anywhere in the prison or the surrounding area. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were..." He paused, clearly struggling with terminology. "Harvested. Like someone was collecting them for interdimensional cuisine."
Amelia rubbed her temples with the gesture of someone who could feel a headache approaching that would probably require prescription painkillers and possibly therapy.
"So," she said slowly, making sure she understood the situation correctly, "someone or something broke two of our most secure prisoners out of Azkaban using methods that appear to violate the fundamental laws of reality, consumed two other prisoners and eighteen Dementors in the process, and did it all without triggering a single alarm or leaving any conventional evidence behind."
"That's about the size of it," Moody confirmed with the grim satisfaction of someone who'd just solved a puzzle and discovered that the solution was considerably more disturbing than the mystery. "Though there is one more thing."
"Of course there is," Amelia said with the resigned tone of someone who'd learned that whenever Mad-Eye said "one more thing," it was usually the detail that made everything else seem reasonable by comparison.
"The magical signature," Moody said, his voice taking on the tone of someone who'd just discovered something that would probably require immediate consultation with several experts in fields that definitely weren't covered by standard Auror training. "It's not entirely alien. There's something familiar about it, something..." He paused, his magical eye focusing on residual energy that apparently held secrets. "Human. Young human, specifically. Like whatever did this was being guided by someone who's barely reached magical majority."
Amelia felt something cold settle in her stomach that had nothing to do with the North Sea wind and everything to do with the dawning realization that this situation was about to become significantly more personal than a simple prison break.
"How young?" she asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer and really, really didn't want to have her suspicions confirmed.
"Ten, maybe eleven years old," Moody said grimly. "And before you ask—yes, the magical signature has some very familiar characteristics. Potter family magic, specifically."
The silence that followed was the kind of profound quiet that usually preceded either great revelations or spectacular disasters. In this case, it was probably both.
"Harry Potter," Amelia said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of someone who'd just realized that their morning had become infinitely more complicated than any reasonable person should have to deal with before lunch. "The Boy Who Lived just broke two Death Eaters out of Azkaban using something that eats Dementors and violates the fundamental laws of physics."
"That's my assessment of the situation," Moody confirmed with the tone of someone who'd spent decades dealing with impossible cases and had developed a healthy respect for the Potter family's ability to complicate simple situations. "Though I should mention—there's evidence that suggests at least one of the prisoners was extracted against their will."
"Which one?"
"Sirius Black," Moody said, his scarred face settling into an expression that suggested he'd just accessed some very disturbing memories about the case that had ended with his friend's imprisonment. "The magical residue around his cell suggests rescue rather than escape. Someone came specifically for him, broke him out, and took him away from here whether he wanted to go or not."
Amelia felt her stomach drop like it had just discovered that gravity was more enthusiastic than previously advertised. She'd known Sirius Black before his imprisonment—known him professionally, personally, and in ways that made his arrest for mass murder feel like the universe had decided to play a particularly cruel joke on everyone involved.
"Moody," she said carefully, her voice carrying the tone of someone who was about to ask a question that might fundamentally change their understanding of recent history, "in your professional opinion, based on the evidence we've seen here and what you know about the original case—was Sirius Black actually guilty of the crimes he was imprisoned for?"
Mad-Eye Moody was quiet for a long moment, his magical eye spinning slowly as he processed not just the current evidence but forty years of experience with dark wizards, false confessions, and the kind of complex cases that made reality seem like more of a suggestion than a reliable reference point.
"No," he said finally, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd just admitted to a mistake that had cost an innocent man nine years of his life. "Based on what I'm seeing here, combined with some inconsistencies in the original case that I should have investigated more thoroughly, I don't think Sirius Black was guilty of anything except being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong friends."
"Then who—?" Amelia started.
"Peter Pettigrew," Moody said grimly. "Has to be. The timeline, the magical evidence, the way the scene was arranged—it all points to Pettigrew staging his own death and framing Sirius for the whole thing."
Amelia closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to process the implications of what they'd just discovered. If Sirius Black was innocent, then the wizarding world's most famous wrongful imprisonment had just become significantly more complicated by the addition of cosmic entities and interdimensional cuisine.
"So," she said slowly, "the most famous innocent man in wizarding history has just been rescued by Harry Potter and something that violates several fundamental laws of physics, reality, and probably good taste."
"That's my professional assessment," Moody confirmed. "And if young Harry is anything like his parents were at that age, this is just the beginning of what's going to be a very interesting investigation into cosmic justice and creative problem-solving."
Amelia looked around at the ruins of what had been the most secure prison in magical Britain, now redecorated by forces that apparently considered architecture more of a suggestion than a limitation.
"Moody," she said with the resigned tone of someone who'd just realized their career was about to become significantly more complicated, "I think we're going to need backup."
---
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