Above the grey and storm-wracked skies, hundreds of Dementors drifted silently, their black cloaks billowing like wraiths in the wind. Occasionally, one would swoop down toward a prisoner, siphoning away every last trace of joy and warmth, leaving only a void of despair behind.
Yet, among the countless cells of Azkaban, there was one in particular that the Dementors avoided.
Inside it sat a boy—young, barely ten—his black hair tousled and unkempt, his silver eyes reflecting the cold stone walls. He sat motionless on the edge of a stone bench, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. His name was Cassian Drayke, and unlike every other prisoner in Azkaban, the Dementors could not feed on him.
It wasn't out of pity. When Cassian had been thrown into Azkaban two months earlier, the Dementors had immediately descended upon him. But what they found—or rather, what they didn't find—unnerved them.
There was no joy to steal, no comfort to drain, no flicker of warmth or hope to devour. His soul was a wasteland of cold calculation and long-buried agony. In fact, the silver glint in his eyes seemed to pull at them instead, drawing something from within them they couldn't afford to lose. And so, the Dementors retreated.
Cassian couldn't remember his parents. His earliest memories, at age three, were of pain and orders barked by cruel voices. He had grown up in the service of a nameless Death Eater—a boy-shaped shadow in the background, used, abused, and discarded. There were no bedtime stories or toys in his past—only incantations barked over his head and punishment for every mistake.
By age eight, he had begun to piece together the nature of spells—how words shaped magic, how intention bent reality. And at nine, he did what no servant was meant to do: he killed his master using the Killing Curse. The wand he used had been forced into his hand a hundred times. This time, it had obeyed him.
After that, he renamed himself Cassian Drayke, a name of his own choosing, and vanished into the shadows of the magical world. He spent his days practicing, analyzing, and rewriting spells, and his nights eluding both Death Eaters and Ministry officials.
Then, one day, two Muggles tried to rob him in an alleyway. Reflexively, the Killing Curse left his wand. The Ministry traced the magical signature within minutes. The Aurors arrived in a flurry of wands and shouted commands. Cassian fought—valiantly, brilliantly—but he was outnumbered.
At the trial, no one cared that he was a child. The fact that he had used an Unforgivable Curse—and that he had done so with mastery beyond his years—was enough to sentence him to life in Azkaban.
But Azkaban had no idea what to do with Cassian.
He had no wand now. That was the first precaution. But it didn't matter. He hadn't needed one to begin with.
And now, the Dementors feared him.
Sitting on his stone bench, Cassian frowned slightly.
"This won't do," he muttered to himself. "They're not coming anymore. I can't test it without them."
For two months, he had been experimenting—modifying the Imperius Curse, reshaping its structure to bind not people, but Dementors. He theorized that if he could weave kinship and dominance into the framework, he could control them, bend them to his will.
In the beginning, it had gone well. The Dementors were eager, drawn to the strange emptiness inside him. But as they approached, they began to sense something else—a hunger in his eyes, a threat that pulled at the very core of their being.
Now, they avoided him altogether.
Cassian sighed and ran his fingers over the scarred stone wall of his cell. He had always been good at improving spells. Even as a child, his instinct wasn't to cast what he was told, but to break it apart and understand it. How did the Killing Curse actually work? Why did intent matter? Could it be reversed or reflected?
And so he'd devised a counter-spell—an invisible shield that rebounded the Killing Curse upon the attacker. It had saved him more than once.
The Death Eaters had wanted him dead. The Aurors had wanted him gone. But spells couldn't trap what they didn't understand.
---
"I don't like it," said a nervous Auror, pacing outside the warden's office. "It's been over two weeks. Not a single Dementor has gone near that boy."
Ludemis, Azkaban's warden, pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's a child. He doesn't even have a wand."
"He doesn't need one," the Auror replied, his voice urgent. "He doesn't chant. He just stares. And they run. Sir… I think he's controlling them."
"Controlling Dementors?" Ludemis scoffed.
"I've been here a long time," said the Auror. "I know how they behave. They never back down—not unless something stronger forces them to."
Ludemis was silent for a long moment. "So what do you suggest? We can't keep four Aurors posted on a boy. That would be a laughingstock."
"Send him to Hogwarts."
The warden stared at him. "What?"
"Think about it. Under Dumbledore's supervision, even Cassian won't be able to do much. The headmaster is one of the most powerful wizards alive. And more importantly… if we show the boy kindness, he might not see us as enemies."
"You're saying we make peace with him?"
"I'm saying… we don't want to be on the wrong side of him."
Ludemis leaned back in his chair, exhaling heavily. It was madness. But perhaps… it was also their only choice.
---
Back in his cell, Cassian sat perfectly still, his silver eyes unblinking.
He had heard the conversation. The stone walls of Azkaban were old, and his magic had crept into every crevice. He knew what was coming.
"Hogwarts," he whispered.
A school.
A place where magic was taught and structured. Where books lined endless shelves and knowledge flowed freely. A place with students—naive, predictable students—and professors who believed they understood magic.
They had no idea what was coming.
Cassian allowed himself the faintest trace of a smile.
---