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Azkaban isn't just a place where prisoners arrive and leave—no one else visits. Yet the Ministry of Magic regularly dispatches personnel to inspect its fixed magical wards. Today was one of those inspection days.
Late at night, Sirius Black—starved and gaunt—transformed into his Animagus form, a skeletal black dog, and squeezed through the bars of his cell. The transformation left him head painfully pressed against the stone as he forced his way out. He wasn't trying to escape, though—that had become a habit over the years. Inspection days were also his reading days.
Even in the original story, Sirius caught a glimpse of Peter Pettigrew reported in The Daily Prophet, cradled in Ron Weasley's arms. Hard to believe prisoners in Azkaban had such luxuries as newspapers, right? But Sirius could read them because the inspectors always left newspapers—and food!—in the inspector's lounge on the first floor.
He had risked sneaking out merely to get information about Harry Potter. Two years ago, when he read that Harry was enrolling at Hogwarts, Dementors had suddenly swarmed around the school. Ever since, Sirius checked the paper on inspection days.
He crept down the corridor, sticking to the shadows. The inspector's lounge was in a small separate hut near the shore, its porch lantern glowing faintly—just enough to keep Dementors at bay. Sirius, knowing the routine by heart, clambered up a stack of wooden crates to gain entry through a broken window. The inspector had already left. Inside, the rich aroma of freshly baked meat filled the air—Yorkshire pudding. A flavor Sirius hadn't tasted for years.
The inspector clearly took his duties lightly, spending more time eating and reading than checking magical wards. He should have been going cell to cell, floor to floor. But he stopped after cursory checks and retreated to this lounge to indulge. When it was nearly time, he'd pretend the inspection was complete and boat back to the mainland.
Sirius leaped onto the table. Among food scraps lay a grease-stained newspaper. With careful paws, he smoothed it out and read the front-page headline:
"Fire Serpent Party Raids Diagon Alley—Is Hogwarts and Merlin City Britain's Only Safe Havens?"
Merlin City. Sirius had heard of it before: a vast metropolis of magic where wizards from all over the world gathered. Curiosity piqued, he scanned the rest of the paper, seeking news about his godson. No mention of Harry, but a tiny item caught his eye:
"Weasley Family Wins This Newspaper's 500-Galleon Grand Prize—Funds to Support Their Shop in Merlin City."
A photo showed the Weasley family standing proudly in front of a sign reading "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes." They were celebrating, and in the center stood a white-haired young man—Dana Avery. Sirius's eyes narrowed.
Dana Avery was the prodigy who had astonished him over those four years at school—brilliant at Transfiguration, spells, and even Dark Arts. He recalled Dana saying:
"Since I'm stuck here, I might as well learn all the spells I can."
But Sirius had seen the gleam in Dana's eyes—the same fierce determination Sirius felt when planning to kill Peter Pettigrew.
Pettigrew! That traitor. Recognition hit Sirius hard. The rat tied in Ron's arms—the same missing-finger rat—there was no doubt. Sirius slammed his paw down, nose nearly touching the newspaper.
Peter Pettigrew.
If Peter was with the youngest Weasley, passing as a pet, then that meant the traitor was at Hogwarts. And Harry was in danger!
Rage and fear twisted inside Sirius. He burned with hatred for Pettigrew—and with fierce, godfatherly concern for Harry. He longed to fly to Hogwarts and protect that boy at all costs.
He reminded himself why he'd endured years in Azkaban: to atone for being blamed in the Potters' deaths. He'd even slain Pettigrew—or so he thought. Now that Pettigrew was still alive, why stay imprisoned? Sirius snarled, propelled by urgent purpose.
He leapt for the window—and failed. His hasty jump lacked force; only one paw grasped the sill. He flailed, crashed onto the wooden floor. For a stifled moment, he lay still—too afraid to breathe, as if exhausted. Then, he shook himself free of fatigue, and tightened his resolve.
Again, he leaped—this time he cleared the sill and tumbled into the night.
But time was short. Azkaban checks its prisoners hourly—if a cell is empty or the inmate unresponsive, officials assume the worst and respond swiftly. Escape, in Ministry of Magic terms, was a risk no one could bear. If they knew he was alive and free, Dementors, Aurors, and bounties would descend upon the seas. Even worse: if he dragged out a rescue, exhausted and afloat, he'd be caught.
Still, Sirius trusted his instincts—and his dog's physicality. He bolted toward the shore, muscles burning with adrenaline.
He recalled the night they had first transported him: departing Scourie, Scotland, they sailed directly north to Azkaban Island. He remembered the ship's heading clearly. Now all he had to do was swim continuously in that direction and eventually reach Britain.
Of course, he could drown from fatigue. But dogs are adept swimmers. And for Harry's sake, he would succeed.
With a final leap, Sirius dove into the icy sea.
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