The sky above Azkaban was a grim ocean of gray, cloaked in swirling mists and shadows. Hundreds of Dementors hovered restlessly, gliding through the air like living nightmares. Their wraith-like forms twisted and turned in a macabre dance, occasionally diving low over the prison's stone towers. With every pass, they drank deeply from the memories of the wretched souls within—memories of sunlight, laughter, and love—until all that remained was an unending abyss of despair.
Yet, amidst the gloom of the fortress, there was one prisoner untouched by their vile hunger.
In the narrow confines of one of Azkaban's darkest cells sat a young boy, no older than eleven, with disheveled black hair and eyes of piercing silver that shimmered like polished steel. His name was Sirius Black, though he had once been known by another name—one that he had buried alongside the monsters who gave it to him.
The Dementors had sensed his arrival the moment he was brought through the iron gates two months prior. They had swooped in eagerly, expecting to feast on his happiest memories. But instead, they found nothing. No joy. No warmth. Not a single moment of peace or love to devour.
There was something else, too—something deeply unsettling. When they looked into the boy's silver eyes, they felt... drawn in. Not by affection or sympathy, but by a force more ancient and malevolent than anything they had ever known. There was hunger in those eyes—not for love, but for power.
Sirius Black was not a normal child.
He remembered nothing of his parents. His earliest memories began at age three, already shackled to the will of a Death Eater who used him not as a son or servant, but as a tool. For five long years, Sirius endured torture, forced labor, and dark experiments. He was a mere shadow in a world ruled by cruelty.
At the age of eight, Sirius did the unthinkable.
He killed his master.
Using the Killing Curse—Avada Kedavra—he severed the chain that bound him and claimed a new name for himself. No longer would he wear the cursed surname his captor had forced upon him. From that moment forward, he was Sirius Black.
He vanished into the shadows of the wizarding world, living alone, hiding, and studying magic with a passion few could comprehend. But Sirius had no desire for the power others sought. He wasn't interested in ruling. What drove him was understanding.
He dismantled spells the way others might dismantle clocks—analyzing their inner workings, learning what made them tick. He learned to counter curses, reflect hexes, and unravel enchantments from the inside out. He developed variations of common spells with terrifying results. He was a savant. A genius born of darkness.
When he was nine, a trip to a Muggle village for food turned into a tragedy. Two men tried to steal his money. Without hesitation, Sirius cast the Killing Curse. The Ministry of Magic descended on him like a storm. Even without a wand, even at his young age, he nearly escaped. But in the end, he was subdued and arrested by a team of elite Aurors.
The Wizengamot branded him a dangerous criminal and sentenced him to life imprisonment in Azkaban.
But Azkaban was not ready for him.
From the moment he arrived, the Dementors discovered that Sirius was unlike any other inmate. Not only did he lack joyful memories—they found that their very presence agitated him in unnatural ways. Instead of being weakened by their soul-draining powers, Sirius seemed almost... intrigued. Occasionally, his silver eyes would flash with a strange light as he observed them, as though analyzing their form, their function—the essence of what they were.
He had no wand, no formal training. But he had instinct. He had insight. And most importantly, he had a brilliant, obsessive mind.
The truth was, Sirius had been using his time in Azkaban to experiment.
His latest focus was the creation of a new form of the Imperius Curse—a spell that didn't merely dominate its victim but created a hierarchical bond, a master-servant structure rooted in something deeper than compulsion. A twisted form of kinship magic. And he had been testing it—on the Dementors.
At first, they came to him often, eager to feast. But now, none dared approach.
The change had not gone unnoticed.
"Warden Stark, it's been two weeks since any Dementors have gone near that boy," the Auror said nervously, standing in the dimly lit office of Matthias Stark, the current Warden of Azkaban. The flickering candlelight revealed the deep lines etched into the man's face. "Something's wrong. If he really finds a way to control them…"
Stark rubbed his temples, exhaustion dragging down his expression. "He has no wand. No incantations. What can he possibly do?"
"He doesn't need a wand," the Auror replied gravely. "He just stares at them. And they... they yield. I've worked in Azkaban for ten years. I've seen madness, violence, despair—but I've never seen fear in a Dementor's movements. Until now."
"You're serious?" Matthias asked, already knowing the answer.
The Auror nodded. "It's like they recognize something in him. Something older. Deeper. If he manages to truly dominate them, we'll lose control of this entire prison."
Matthias leaned back in his chair. "And you think he's trying to escape?"
"I think he could... if we don't act."
The warden drummed his fingers against the desk. "Even if we doubled the guard, he's too dangerous. It took four Aurors just to capture him—and that was when he was unprepared. Guarding him around the clock would drain our resources, and worse, make Azkaban look weak."
The Auror hesitated, then said, "We need to send him somewhere else. Somewhere stronger."
Matthias raised an eyebrow. "You have a place in mind?"
"Hogwarts."
The name hung in the air like a spell.
"The Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, is the only wizard alive who could keep Sirius in check," the Auror continued. "If anyone can reach him, it's Dumbledore. And if not, he's powerful enough to stop him if things go wrong."
"You want to send a potential Dark Lord to a school full of children?" Matthias said sharply.
"Not as a student. As a project. A ward of the school. We send him under watch, in the open, under Dumbledore's nose. It will buy us time. And more importantly, it might buy us peace."
The silence between them stretched. Matthias stared into the candle's flame, the flickering light reflecting the weight of the decision he was about to make.
"Fine," he said at last. "Contact Dumbledore. Tell him we're sending him a problem... one only he can solve."
Back in his cell, Sirius sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, his eyes half-closed. His mind was abuzz with equations of magical theory and the structure of spell matrices.
The Dementors no longer came. They lingered only at the edge of his awareness—silent, still, wary. He had failed to test the final stage of his spell. They feared him too much now.
A shame.
Still, it meant something. It meant that the spell worked—at least partially. He was close. Closer than anyone had ever come to bending a Dementor's will.
His silver eyes opened slowly.
"Time to move forward," he whispered.
Just then, the heavy clank of boots echoed down the corridor. Two Aurors appeared, wands drawn, expressions tense.
"Sirius Black," one of them said, "you're being transferred."
Sirius tilted his head. "Transferred?"
"To Hogwarts."
His lips curled, not into a smile, but something darker. Something curious.
"A school...?" he muttered.
And then he laughed—low, cold, and unearthly.
"So, the game begins."
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