Sirius Black, heir of the ancient and noble house of Azkaban, was tucked away as padfoot in the corner of his dismally repugnant cell. The stink from his shit bucket, which by design cleared up its waste only after it'd ripened, made his nostrils twitch, but it was a fair exchange to having his mind violated by the resident monsters of the place. He'd long resigned himself to his fate, to die there alone and unacquitted of his supposed crimes.

There was a time when he'd held pipedreams of breaking out, of reuniting with his godson and apologizing for his laundry list of mistakes over a bottle of fire-whisky and some medical marijuana. Clearly, he wouldn't have been the most responsible godfather. He knew that. James had known that, and Lily, she knew that better of all. And still she'd blessed him the title, had shown more faith in him than the lot of his family put together.

But as things were, her faith was in vain. Harry was dead. Cooked alive in a house-fire, they'd said. He'd relished the beatings and all the kicking and stomping that night, curled up in a ball of skinny bones on the cold floor of his hell when the guards had wanted to take out their ire on him – Voldemort's supposed right hand. But he'd fared better, physically at least, than the Lestranges. Bellatrix hadn't moved much since that day. Good for her too, because he would've squeezed through her cell and taken a chunk out of her throat for daring to laugh and cheer at the guards' declaration.

Now he clung to life as recompense for the past.

"Sirius?"

The dog's ears perked up and he scrambled to his feet. Or paws.

"James?" he said, reverting back to his human self when he saw no guards approaching. He'd evaded discovery of his animagus form so far, and he was happy to have it continue.

"It's Harry."

Sirius took a long look at the figure in front of him. Phantom of his nightmares more like.

"You look a lot like James." He muttered.

"That's understandable, considering I'm his son." Harry shrugged. His godfather looked like his pictures in the daily prophet back in his third year. Long tangled hair, greying at the sides, and gaunt hollow cheeks staring back at him in befuddlement.

"But you're dead."

"That's news to me." Harry reached a hand inside and took hold of his godfather's arm. There'd been no body to bury when Sirius had died at the end of his fifth year and he'd no plans to bury him before his time, this time around. "But as you can see, I'm not a ghost, nor am I dead. So, I must be alive or you're finally going crazy. Either way you'll be getting out of here before the day's out, and you can tell me all about how I should be dead later." He stared deep and hard at Sirius's stormy grey eyes.

It wasn't the reunion he'd imagined, but Azkaban wasn't the place for one.

Ignoring the tears seeping down Sirius's cheeks, he gripped the cold iron bars that separated them. He'd learned, developed and perfected a few (many would call him modest, while the rest would tremble to the bone and scamper at the sight of him.) forgotten arts.

His magic sang in his blood and shot through his fingertips, and the cold iron bars were no more.

Sirius looked on in awe as the magically resistant iron dripped and flowed to the floor in a gushing rivulet, forming an array of spikes each looking sharp enough to cut through bone at the slightest push.

"Going to give me a haircut, Harry?" he asked, face crinkling with a sad smile.

"You'd need lawnmower to plough through that bush, old man." He replied with a grin of his own, and waved at the surrounding cells. "I've a bone to pick with the others. Bellatrix especially. I hope you won't mind." Harry asked, but in actuality said.

Sirius looked baffled, "Why?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"No, why would I mind? If I had a wand, I'd have beaten you to it." He grinned, eyes lighting up with madness.

Harry paused, "Well, I can work with that."

The surrounding cells, occupied by sleeping ragged piles of bones, and some flesh here and there, twitched and began waking up as he ended the sleeping enchantment he'd weaved into the air beforehand. He wanted to look them in the eyes as the breath slipped out of their lungs. And he wanted them to suffer.

"There's a girl down there the same state as you." Harry said as they walked past the stirring inmates. "Innocent, and suffering here because of scumbags like Lucius and Fudge." He glanced at Sirius, "Or in your case, Crouch. And boy, do I've a surprise for him."

Sirius had stilled mid-step.

"What's wrong?"

"You didn't even ask me if I was guilty." He whispered, choking on tears, snot and more than a decade worth of regret, misery, and self-condemnation.

"I wouldn't insult you with a question like that."

They shared a teary hug as Bellatrix, Rudolphus, Rabastan, Avery, Rookwood, Travers, and some nameless nobodies screamed and bled to death from spikes stuck to their heads, impaling bone and brain matter through the cold concrete walls of Azkaban.