Harry Potter: MageX

Back at the Leaky Cauldron, Sirius was stretched out in a chair that creaked louder than an ancient broomstick in a thunderstorm. He looked thoughtful—or, as thoughtful as Sirius ever got. When he was deep in thought, it usually led to one of two things: brilliant chaos or completely disastrous chaos. And considering that he was Sirius Black, chaos was practically his middle name.

He leaned forward, grinning at Harry like he'd just stumbled upon a brilliant idea (or a chest full of stolen chocolate frogs). "You know, Harry," Sirius started, rubbing his hands together like a villain in a bad movie, "I wonder if you could, uh, absorb Remus's 'furry little problem.' I mean, technically, Remus is a magical creature, right? Like Hagrid's three-headed puppy, only a little less slobbery."

Harry stared at him, blinking, considering this like he was trying to decide whether to fight a Blast-Ended Skrewt or just casually walk away and leave someone else to deal with it. On the other side of the room, Remus looked like someone had suggested turning him into a garden gnome. "I'm not sure that's the best idea, Sirius," he said, sounding like a patient professor trying to explain that no, he would not be performing dangerous experiments involving firecrackers again. "What I have isn't something I'd wish on anyone, least of all Harry."

Sirius, naturally, wasn't one to let logic stand in the way of a potentially incredibly bad plan. He leaned in closer, practically vibrating with excitement. "Come on, Moony! Think about it. If Harry could, I don't know, absorb your condition, maybe he could help us find a way to control it—or even cure it! You know, like how they can heal Dragon Pox with the right potion. We just need the magical equivalent of a really big band-aid!"

Remus, as calm and reasonable as ever, sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Sirius, you know as well as I do that there's no cure for being a werewolf. It's not like you can just brew a potion to fix this." He glanced at Harry, his eyes filled with something close to concern. "Harry, I appreciate the thought, but I don't want to burden you with this curse. You've already had enough—more than enough—on your plate."

Harry, who had dealt with more curses, hexes, and life-threatening situations than any teenager should ever have to, shrugged. "Hey, I absorb whatever comes my way, and my body just... figures it out. Maybe I can absorb this too. I mean, how bad could it be? It's not like I'm turning into a werewolf or anything... or am I?" He grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "Besides, Remus, you're one of the bravest people I know. You're not cursed—you're just, uh, misunderstood."

Remus's lips twitched, a tiny smile breaking through his usually calm demeanor. "You really have a way with words, Harry. If you're sure about this, then I trust you." He paused, looking Harry straight in the eyes. "But promise me—promise me—you'll be careful. This is no small thing, and you're not just some random magical experiment."

Sirius, of course, couldn't resist the urge to push things along. He slapped Remus on the back, nearly knocking him out of his chair, and grinned like someone who'd just stolen the last biscuit from the cookie jar. "See, Moony? Harry's got this! He's like a superhero—only, you know, without the spandex. Yet."

Harry stood, feeling the rush of determination surge through him. He reached out, gripping Remus's hand with a steadying strength. This wasn't just about absorbing a curse. It was about understanding it. About finding the power within Remus's darkness and making it his own.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the essence of Remus's condition. It felt like diving into a swirling vortex, full of tangled magic and raw, unpredictable emotion. Darkness was there, but so was strength—strength from fighting every full moon, from enduring every painful transformation. It wasn't just a curse. It was a part of Remus, as much a part of him as his kindness, his wisdom, and his incredible patience.

A low hum filled Harry's ears as the magic surged within him, a strange sensation racing through his veins. His body tingled, adapting to the curse, learning its complexities, its power. He felt the werewolf inside, clawing to be free, but at the same time, he felt the control that Remus had fought so hard to maintain.

For a moment, Harry thought he might lose himself to it—that he might be overtaken by the wild magic and become something entirely different. But no—he had control. He was Harry Potter, and if anyone could handle the mess of magic that was this curse, it was him.

He opened his eyes, meeting Remus's gaze. "I've got this," Harry said, his voice steady. "I won't let it take over. We'll figure this out."

Sirius, ever the optimist, clapped him on the shoulder. "See, Moony? Told you Harry's like a magical Swiss army knife—he's got all the tools!"

Remus, who was probably still trying to process the fact that Harry was willingly absorbing part of his life, gave a quiet nod. "I believe you, Harry. Just remember to stay yourself, no matter what."

And for the first time in a long while, Harry felt like he wasn't just absorbing magic. He was making it.

—

In his mind palace, Harry felt like he'd just stepped into the weirdest library-Quidditch pitch hybrid. Picture this: shelves filled with ancient tomes, some glowing mysteriously, others collecting dust like the books you swear you'll read but never do, and then—wham!—a sudden gust of wind sent a Quidditch ball spiraling across the room, narrowly missing Harry's head. It wasn't exactly the Hogwarts library experience he was used to, but then again, what in his life was?

Here, in this mental space, Harry could feel the weight of Remus's monthly struggle. It was a silent, constant battle, one that took everything from Remus—his strength, his patience, and sometimes, his very identity. But Harry wasn't here to feel sorry for his friend. No, he was here to understand it. To fight alongside him.

As the curse swirled around him, Harry felt a strange sense of purpose. The magic wasn't just dark; it was powerful. He could feel Remus's strength, built up over years of fighting the monster inside. It was like a fire, controlled, but always threatening to escape. Harry could see Remus's face in his mind, calm and determined, as if he were standing in a storm and refusing to be swept away.

"Alright, Remus," Harry muttered to himself, taking a deep breath. "Let's make this work."

Out in the real world, Sirius was pacing back and forth like a lion in a cage. His usual grin was stretched wider than the Chudley Cannons' losing streak, eyes glinting with pride and amusement. "You know, Remus," he said, leaning against the wall with an exaggerated casualness that only Sirius could pull off, "I think we've got ourselves a real hero here."

His voice was all smug charm, like he was giving an acceptance speech at the Oscars, but there was something more behind it—a genuine fondness, a kind of pride that only Sirius could express without sounding cheesy.

Remus, who had been quiet through most of the process, finally let out a small sigh. He watched Harry, still focused, his brow furrowed in concentration, and his lips curled into the kind of smile that made it clear he wasn't about to cry, but damn, this moment was important. "Indeed we do, Sirius. Indeed we do."

There was a pause. Sirius blinked, clearly trying to process the depth of the moment without getting too emotional, like a man who was definitely not about to start tearing up because his best friend's kid just saved the day. But then, because it was Sirius, he cracked a grin and clapped Remus on the back so hard that the other man nearly stumbled forward into the fireplace.

"Well, if Harry's a hero, then I'm a wizarding god," Sirius joked, his voice dropping into that smooth, teasing cadence that had probably gotten him out of more trouble than he could count. "I mean, really, Moony, you're gonna let this kid absorb your monthly werewolf drama? That's some serious trust, mate."

Remus snorted, a tiny laugh escaping him despite the situation. "Sirius, you know I would trust Harry with my life." He paused, then gave a half-smile. "Although, I'm not sure about handing over my furry little problem to him. It's a lot for anyone, even him."

Sirius raised an eyebrow, his grin stretching into something almost dangerous. "It's Harry. He's practically a walking superhero. Who needs the Ministry's help when we've got the next big thing in magical transformation right here?"

As the two of them bantered on, Harry was still in his mind palace, feeling the curse solidify within him. It was rough, like trying to contain a firestorm in a teacup, but Harry wasn't about to back down. The curse was trying to fight back—he could feel it tugging, wanting to take control, but he wasn't going to let it. He could see Remus now, standing there, a quiet soldier in his own personal battle. If Harry could take even a fraction of that strength and make it his own, he'd be unstoppable.

But control wasn't enough. He needed to understand it, to wield it, not let it wield him. The darkness inside him, that bitter, wild power, began to settle, as if accepting Harry's presence. It felt... oddly comforting, in a twisted sort of way. Like he and the curse were finally learning to share space.

Outside, Sirius gave Remus a wink. "I'll tell you this much, Moony," he said with that smooth, teasing voice of his. "If anyone's got the guts to take on a curse like yours, it's Harry. Kid's practically a magical Swiss Army knife. No idea how he does it, but he does."

Remus's smile softened, and he looked over at Harry, his eyes filled with pride, a bit of that familiar wariness still there, but also a deep sense of trust. "He's got more courage than I've ever given him credit for. I just hope... he never has to face a full moon like I do."

Sirius slapped him lightly on the shoulder, his usual grin back in place. "Come on, Moony, who do you think you're talking to? He's Harry Potter. He does the impossible before breakfast."

And Harry, in his mind palace, grinned despite the seriousness of what he was doing. He could hear them—Sirius, Remus—offering their support, their belief in him. It was enough to keep him grounded, to keep him from slipping.

In this world of swirling magic and untamed power, Harry wasn't just absorbing Remus's curse—he was embracing it, understanding it, and making it his own. And, for once, he didn't feel like the kid who had to keep saving the day. He felt like he was finally becoming something more. Something better.

---

Alright, so here's the deal: Harry was no stranger to weird, dreamlike landscapes, but this was a whole new level of bizarre. His mind palace—because what else do you call a chaotic mental landscape that felt like a haunted amusement park built by a mad wizard?—was a nightmare fusion of shadows, moonlight, and floating thoughts that looked like random bits of popcorn in a breeze. Not to mention, the centerpiece of this mess? A giant wolf. No kidding. It was massive, glowing eyes locked on Harry like he'd just trespassed into its territory, and, oh yeah, it was apparently the living manifestation of Remus's werewolf curse. The wolf snarled, showing teeth big enough to make the Google Map look like an app for toddlers.

"Right," Harry muttered under his breath, trying to get a grip on his psionic sword, which was currently blazing like the sun—because why not? The sword was part Phoenix Force, part 'don't mess with me,' and all fiery glory. "You want a piece of me, Fido? You got it."

The wolf didn't respond in any polite way. Instead, it lunged forward with a growl so deep, it practically rattled Harry's bones. It was like a freight train on four legs, and Harry had exactly zero plans of being flattened today.

A quick flick of his wrist, and he threw up a psionic barrier—just in time. The impact was like getting hit by a full-blown cannonball. Harry's teeth rattled, his mind nearly buckling under the force, but he didn't flinch. Nope. He wasn't going to let some supernatural canine mess with him. He dug in, focusing the power of the Phoenix Force into his barrier until it crackled like lightning.

"Nice try, Fido," Harry grunted, cracking his neck as the wolf pulled back, preparing for another round. "But you're gonna have to do better than that."

The wolf let out a bone-chilling snarl and charged again, its claws slashing the air with the speed of a lightning strike. Harry dodged, his instincts kicking in as he rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding a swipe that would've left a new fang-shaped scar on his face.

"Woah, woah, steady there, buddy!" Harry shouted, grinning. "You don't wanna know where I've been. No one survives my bad side."

The wolf let out a growl that sounded suspiciously like an irritated you don't know who you're messing with, and it lunged again, claws extended, teeth bared like it was ready to finish Harry off. But Harry wasn't about to let a big bad werewolf get the upper hand—he could feel that this wasn't just a fight; this was Remus's fight. It was the curse of years of torment, of loneliness, and pain. If Harry was going to defeat this thing, he needed more than just raw power. He needed to tap into why this curse existed in the first place.

As the wolf leapt for him, Harry closed his eyes for half a second. "Come on, Remus," he whispered to the void. "I know you're in there, man. Help me out here!"

And just like that, the air seemed to shift. The wolf hesitated, just for a moment, its snarl faltering, like it could hear Remus's voice too. Then, the wolf's eyes shifted, glowing brighter. It was as if Remus was fighting back—not physically, but mentally, urging Harry to push forward, to keep fighting.

The wolf roared in frustration, charging again, but Harry was ready this time. He channelled all his Phoenix energy into his sword, which blazed with a light so bright it was like staring into the sun. He jumped, high into the air, as if the very act of leaping defied gravity—and then he plunged the sword straight into the wolf's chest. The impact sent shockwaves through the mindscape, cracking the air around them like thunder.

"Take that!" Harry yelled, pushing more energy into the strike. "You're not keeping Remus in here!"

The wolf screamed—loud, high-pitched, like a dying animal—and its form began to shudder, warping under Harry's relentless assault. It tried to fight back, slashing with claws, but Harry was too fast, ducking and weaving with the precision of a well-practiced duelist. The wolf's body was now flickering, the darkness inside it unraveling as the curse's hold weakened.

The beast howled in fury, but Harry's psionic sword cut through the curse like it was paper. With one final, climactic strike, the wolf shattered into a flurry of smoke, its body dissipating into the air like a nightmare being banished by daylight.

And then—silence.

For a second, Harry just floated there in the empty space, feeling like he'd just won the most intense game of Quidditch ever. The mindscape around him shifted, light slowly returning, the moonlight softening, and the heavy, oppressive energy lifted.

The portal that had been guarded by the wolf's curse was now open, glowing with a gentle light. Harry felt a rush of warmth—a feeling that Remus was finally free.

As he stepped through the portal, Harry couldn't help but grin. "Hey, Remus," he said, voice full of that sarcastic humor he always carried with him. "I think your brain just had a really bad makeover. But don't worry, I fixed it."

And just like that, Remus's voice echoed in Harry's mind—a sound full of exhaustion and gratitude. "Harry... I... I don't know how to say this. I owe you everything. You've... freed me."

Harry rolled his eyes, though a smile tugged at his lips. "Oh, come on. It was nothing, Remus. Just another Tuesday. A Tuesday with an oversized werewolf, but still... nothing major."

The calm around him was tangible now, and Harry knew Remus was safe—truly safe. He'd fought through his own demons, and now, with Harry's help, he was finally free of the curse.

"Anytime, Moony," Harry said, his voice full of warmth. "Friends don't let friends fight werewolves alone."

As Harry stepped through the portal, leaving the mindscape behind, he couldn't help but feel like this was just another chapter in the book of their crazy, magic-filled lives. And, well—he was glad to be part of it.

—

Sirius Black sat in the corner of the Leaky Cauldron, looking suspiciously like a brooding, angst-ridden artist contemplating the meaning of life—but with less eyeliner and more scars. His eyes were locked on Harry, who was currently battling it out in the bizarre mental landscape that was Remus's mind. Sirius had stationed himself here on purpose, right by the fireplace but far enough away that no one would notice him making any sudden, suspicious movements. He was trying to play it cool. Which, considering the situation, was a tall order.

"I know I should just chill," Sirius muttered, staring at the swirling, mental chaos happening inside Harry's head like he was watching some kind of wizarding pay-per-view event. "But it's hard to stay 'Sirius' about this." He grinned to himself, clearly impressed by his own cleverness. The pun? Legendary.

But despite the smirk, his heart was doing somersaults in his chest, racing with every punch and kick Harry was taking from the mental manifestation of Remus's curse. Sirius hated being helpless. He hated it with the passion of a thousand sunburns. He wanted to jump in, swing his wand, and rescue everyone from the mess, but he knew better. Harry had this. He was the hero in this twisted little story. Even if he was technically only fifteen and occasionally wore mismatched socks, the kid had a knack for doing the impossible.

Sirius leaned back in his chair, eyes still glued to the scene unfolding in Harry's mindscape. He had to admit—Harry was good. Too good, really. Sirius didn't know whether to be proud or terrified. It was like watching a mini version of James Potter who'd actually gotten his life together. Well, except for the "nearly dying on a daily basis" part.

"James, Lily," Sirius whispered under his breath, not caring if anyone heard. His voice was low, a mixture of wistfulness and guilt. "You'd be proud of him, I think. He's like both of you, in the best way possible." The pride he felt for Harry wasn't something Sirius often let himself acknowledge, but right now, it hit him hard. Harry was brave like James—recklessly courageous, but with a heart bigger than the moon. And like Lily, Harry was resilient, a stubbornness wrapped in kindness that made Sirius's chest ache in the best way.

He watched Harry duck a particularly nasty swipe from the werewolf manifestation, the psionic sword blazing in his hands like it was straight out of a comic book. The wolf's claws narrowly missed Harry's cheek, but he rolled, using the momentum to strike back. The kid was practically a blur of motion, dancing around the cursed beast like it was just another bad dance partner at a wedding.

"Yeah, that's my godson," Sirius murmured to himself, his voice tight with a mix of affection and frustration. "Go ahead, show the wolf who's boss."

But then, Harry took a hit—one that sent him crashing to the ground with a grunt. Sirius's hands instinctively clenched into fists, his eyes flashing. "Not cool, mate," he muttered to the air, his eyes narrowing. It was a reflex at this point, his protective instincts roaring to life like a firework show on the Fourth of July.

But then Harry pushed up, not even a scratch left on him. Classic Harry. Sirius rolled his eyes, exhaling a frustrated sigh. "You know, Harry," he said to himself, "if you could just let me swoop in and save the day for once, that'd be great."

Sirius could feel his pulse pounding in his ears. This was not how he preferred things to go. Normally, if someone was in trouble, he was the first one charging in with an awkwardly placed dramatic entrance, all "Look at me, I'm the hero!" But today? Today, he was stuck on the sidelines, stuck with his own thoughts, watching the kid he'd promised to protect—to raise—fight in a mental battlefield where he couldn't even cast a single spell.

"Alright, enough of this." He shook his head and forced himself to sit back in the chair, though his fingers still itched for his wand. "No charging in. Harry's got this. And I'm just… here for moral support. Being an emotionally supportive godfather. Ahem."

Sirius glanced around to make sure no one was watching his silent commentary—because if someone did, they'd probably think he was either crazy or a bit too into the whole 'protective godfather' thing. Or both.

He watched, rapt, as Harry, gritting his teeth, dove back into the fight, his psionic sword glowing even brighter, crackling with raw energy. The wolf roared in fury, its massive, clawed paws slashing out at Harry with an almost supernatural speed. Harry dodged, barely. Every move was executed with precision, with a kind of frantic urgency that made Sirius's heart race.

"You're doing great, kid," Sirius muttered, his voice tight with unspoken pride. "Just keep fighting. You've got this."

In that moment, something stirred deep inside him—an almost overwhelming urge to reach out and grab Harry by the shoulders and tell him everything would be alright. To tell him that he didn't have to do it all on his own. But that wasn't the way things worked anymore. Harry was his own person now. And Sirius, well, he was the godfather who would stand by, grumble, and throw in a few bad jokes for good measure, but never let Harry feel alone.

The wolf in Harry's mind howled one final time, the sound ear-splitting and filled with pure rage. But as Harry's sword landed a final, blinding blow, the beast evaporated into nothingness, leaving the mindscape eerily quiet. Harry stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, a streak of sweat tracing down his forehead. Sirius, for a second, forgot to breathe, too.

"That's my godson," Sirius said again, his voice softer this time, almost a whisper. He had never been prouder.

And then, because it was Sirius Black, the guy who couldn't resist a joke even in the most heart-pounding moments, he leaned back and sighed dramatically.

"Good thing I'm here to keep watch. You're welcome, Harry. I totally would've swooped in at the last minute. You know, to save you from the danger." He threw a glance at the empty room. "Totally."

There was a brief silence. Then, in the back of his mind, he could almost hear Harry's voice, sarcastic as ever.

"Thanks, Sirius. Really. Couldn't have done it without you."

Sirius grinned to himself and leaned back in his chair, confident in the knowledge that Harry was going to be alright. And that, for now, was enough.

—

As the mindscape shattered like a cheap mirror, Harry and Remus popped back into the Leaky Cauldron as if nothing had happened—aside from the whole battling-the-unseen-horrors-of-a-curse-in-your-mind bit, of course. The pub buzzed with the usual noise: clinking glasses, animated conversations, and that one old guy who always seemed to be a little too loud after one too many Firewhiskies. You'd never know a battle of mental wills had just gone down. It was like Hogwarts on a lazy Sunday, minus the occasional hex.

Sirius was lounging in his usual corner, his hair messily falling into his eyes like he had just rolled out of a good dream (or a bad one, but we're sticking with the good). He had a newspaper spread out in front of him—clearly for show. The only thing he was reading was the two people across from him, eyes darting between Harry and Remus like an eagle stalking its prey. It's safe to say, he didn't really care about the latest gossip from the Daily Prophet.

When they finally returned, looking a little disheveled and probably wishing they could erase the past few minutes of mental gymnastics, Sirius couldn't help but breathe a huge sigh of relief. It was the kind of dramatic sigh that would've made even the most seasoned actors in the wizarding world jealous. "Ah, there you are! I was starting to think I'd need to pull out a Portkey and get all heroic on you. But then, where would I get the dramatic music for my entrance?"

Harry gave him an exasperated look, but there was a glint of fondness in his eyes. "Yeah, that would've been great, Sirius. You'd probably knock over every table in the place trying to save us."

Sirius smirked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Hey, if I'm not making an entrance like a grand wizard, then what am I even doing with my life?"

Remus, looking like he'd just been through a particularly bad roller coaster ride (mental versions of those can be worse than real ones, trust me), rubbed his temples as though trying to wipe away the effects of their strange adventure. "It's like discovering you've been wearing an invisibility cloak backward for a decade. You think you're doing fine, but then—bam!—it's like everything clicks into place."

Sirius' grin stretched wide. "Invisibility cloak backward, huh? That's one way to look at it. Personally, I'd say it's more like finally getting an owl post delivered without any owls getting distracted halfway through the journey."

With a dramatic flick of his wrist that was somehow both graceful and a little over-the-top, Sirius summoned three butterbeers from thin air. They materialized with a soft pop, and he slid one toward Harry, then Remus. He took his own, settling back in his chair with a contented sigh. "Here's to victory over cursed mind-maze things. And to not needing any more impromptu mental battles for a while. Honestly, this was too much of a workout for my delicate soul."

Harry raised his glass, though there was a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips. "To more adventures. And fewer mind-wolves. Seriously, I've had enough supernatural weirdness for one day."

Remus let out a chuckle, though it was warm, like it had been a long time coming. It was one of those laughs that felt like it belonged in a movie—genuine, full of relief, and definitely long overdue. "Here's to that. Maybe next time, we'll take a nice, relaxing stroll through the Forbidden Forest...without any curses, mind-wolves, or the usual drama."

As they clinked their glasses, Sirius couldn't resist one more quip. "Remember, boys, you can't have an adventure without a bit of Sirius in it. I'm the magic ingredient that makes this whole thing work."

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn't fight the grin that tugged at his lips. "You're impossible."

"Impossible? Nah," Sirius said with an exaggerated pout. "I'm more of a necessary nuisance, Harry. You'll thank me when you're older. Or when I finally come through with that dramatic rescue."

Remus, who had been quiet for a moment, nodded thoughtfully, his gaze warm with something like gratitude and affection. He hadn't laughed like this in a while, and there was something about it that made him look younger—more alive. "You know, we really wouldn't have it any other way. This whole trio thing… it works."

The warmth of that moment settled over the table, wrapping around them like a cozy blanket. There they were—Harry, Remus, and Sirius—surrounded by the hum of the pub, facing the chaos of the world as only they could. With a group like this, you knew no matter what came next, they'd face it together. And if things got a little weird (and let's be real, they always did), there'd be a joke, a laugh, and, most importantly, each other to hold it all together.

After all, that's what family was for. Even if it involved a lot of unnecessary drama and uncalled-for heroic entrances.

—

The cold of Azkaban wasn't just something you felt—it was something you became. Peter Pettigrew was currently an expert in that phenomenon, curled up on the stone floor of his prison cell, clutching his knees like he was trying to make himself disappear, which, considering his talent for hiding, seemed like an excellent idea. The chill in the air was more than just physical; it was a deep, gnawing chill that burrowed into your bones and reminded you, every single moment, of all the terrible things you had done. And Peter? Oh, Peter was having a fantastic time in this frozen little slice of hell.

In the back of his mind, there was a constant echo of guilt, and it was a loud, obnoxious echo, like a bad song stuck on repeat. James and Lily Potter's faces haunted him, their trust—his betrayal—shining through in his every waking thought. The Marauders had been everything to him—James, with his reckless bravery; Sirius, with his smirking, roguish charm; Remus, ever the smart, kind friend. And Peter? Well, Peter was the guy who was there. The fourth wheel, the guy who did the legwork and got none of the glory. Always the sidekick. Always second place.

But when Voldemort came around promising power, safety, and all those things Peter had never had, he didn't hesitate. He sold them out, all of them. Like a rat scurrying to save its own skin, which, if we're being honest, was pretty much exactly what Peter had done. Oh, yeah, he thought bitterly, shivering even more. Survival is such a great excuse for backstabbing your friends.

The worst part? The betrayal didn't stop with the Potters. Oh no. Peter had had to go all the way, just to make sure there were no loose ends. So, when it came time to frame Sirius for their deaths, Peter didn't even flinch. He planted the finger, literally, and let it all play out. Sirius, the one who would never have hurt James, the one Peter should've been protecting, was dragged off to Azkaban while Peter scuttled off like a literal rat. Peter Pettigrew was living his best life... or least worst life, depending on how you looked at it.

It was a neat little package of cowardice wrapped up in the convenient excuse of self-preservation.

Then there were the Dementors. Of course, they were here. They were basically the universe's way of telling Peter he was super messed up. And if the eerie, soul-sucking creatures didn't do it, his own guilt and self-loathing would. Honestly, Peter couldn't decide if the Dementors or his own conscience were worse. Both were doing a bang-up job of ruining his existence.

But hey, at least the cell was cold enough that he didn't have to feel the sweat of regret constantly trickling down his neck, right?

As if on cue, the air in his cell seemed to freeze just a little more. Peter's head snapped up, his heart leaping into his throat. Oh great. Was it time for the Dementors again? Or had the ghosts of James and Lily finally come to strangle him with their disappointed gazes?

But no. This wasn't the usual hiss of the Dementors. This was... different. This was someone else.

The figure that materialized before him was tall and imposing, the air around him crackling with an unnerving presence. His skin was pale, his eyes gleaming red—nothing like the soulless black voids of the Dementors, but something worse. This guy looked like a bad omen wrapped in a very expensive suit. He exuded confidence, which, for someone currently locked in a deathtrap of a prison, was really not the kind of energy you wanted around.

"Peter Pettigrew," the stranger said, his voice a smooth, eerie melody that sent chills down Peter's spine. "I've been... waiting for you."

Peter scrambled back, bumping into the stone wall behind him. "W-waiting for me? Who the hell are you?"

The man smiled, his teeth unnaturally sharp. "Ah, straight to the point. I admire that. You can call me... Mr. Sinister." He spoke the name with an air of theatricality that made Peter want to roll his eyes, but he was too terrified to do anything other than gape. "And I have an offer that might interest you."

Peter blinked. "Offer? Look, I don't know what you think this is, but I'm kind of in the middle of a... moment of self-reflection, okay? Some serious soul-searching. It's very... tragic and morally complex."

Mr. Sinister gave him a slow, almost pitying look. "How quaint," he drawled, crossing his arms. "But surely, even you, Peter, can't be enjoying this... little existence you've carved out for yourself. Dungeons. Guilt. The constant sound of your own thoughts telling you you're a failure. How does that feel?"

Peter's stomach twisted. "I... It's not great, alright? But that's what happens when you—"

"Betray your friends and get yourself locked away in a cold cell, yes. We all know the story, Peter." Mr. Sinister stepped closer, and the temperature dropped further. It was as though the room itself was leaning in to listen. "But I offer you something different. Freedom."

The word hung in the air like a siren call. Peter's eyes darted to the door of his cell. Freedom... escape. For the first time in... well, forever, he felt the faintest pulse of hope.

But then, something clicked.

"I... I know this isn't going to be free, right?" Peter managed, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "There's always a catch with people like you. Nothing's ever that easy."

"Ah, yes," Mr. Sinister said, his smile widening as if he enjoyed the game. "You're learning. But this? This is the chance to rewrite your fate. To come out of this place, and perhaps, even have a hand in changing the game. All I ask in return is your... loyalty. And your services."

Peter's heart raced, but not with excitement. Loyalty? Services? The last time he had given loyalty, it had led to the destruction of everything he had known. The last time he'd made a deal with someone more powerful than himself, he had lost everything. Again.

But then again... Freedom.

"Just... just tell me what I need to do," Peter whispered, his voice tinged with desperation, the same desperation that had led him down this dark path in the first place.

Mr. Sinister's smile reached the corners of his eyes, an eerie gleam. "Of course. It's simple. You do what I say, when I say it. You will be rewarded. Fail me, and, well... you'll wish you were back in Azkaban."

The offer hung in the air like a deal with the devil, and Peter, ever the coward, found himself nodding before he could stop it.

"Well, that's just great, Peter," he muttered to himself. "What's the worst that could happen?"

---

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