Hey new fic again! I liked this idea, and have thought it out so will be continuing with this, plus my other fics. If you are new to my fics, go check them out too!

Disclaimer: I don't own characters or settings in this story. They belong to other people, JK Rowling and Joss Whedon.

Timeline: Season 3 Buffy, and up to Book 3 Harry Potter

Premise: What if Faith had gone to Wesley instead of Giles after she killed the deputy mayor? Buffy is sent away, to prison, but it isn't any ordinary prison.

Chapter 1 – Falsely Accused

Buffy entered the library silently. She walked past the counter, approaching Giles' office. Now she had told Willow what had happened, she felt as if a barrier had broken down inside of her, and she wanted to confess, to finally release what she had been holding inside of her.

 "Giles?" she asked the silence, her pace quickening. She stopped dead when she saw Wesley leave Giles' office.
 "Buffy," he said coolly. "We were just talking about you."

 "Is Giles back there?" Buffy asked, attempting to peer around him through the open door of the office.

 "No, he isn't," Wesley replied, still coolly, putting his hands in his pockets. To Buffy's surprise, Faith appeared in the doorway of the office, and walked towards her.
 "I'll be off then," she said to Wesley, completely ignoring Buffy.
 "Yes, that's fine. Thank you for all your help," Wesley answered. "You did well." Faith nodded at him and continued walking past Buffy. Buffy stared at her, but Faith didn't look at her, passing her without a look or a word.
 "What's going on?" Buffy said, her voice rising. "I need to see Giles; I have something I need to talk to him about."

 "Oh I don't think that will be necessary," Wesley said, taking one hand out of his pocket to scratch his nose. "Faith has already told us all we need to know." Buffy took an involuntary step back.
 "Us? So Giles is here?" She demanded. Pushing past Wesley, Buffy ran into the office, only stopping when she saw the occupants.
 "Miss Summers," Quentin Travers said smoothly. "I wondered when we'd be seeing you. It appears we have a little problem." The tall, broad man next to him stood up.
Without warning, Buffy felt a needle press into her neck. Furiously she tore it out, leaving a small drop of blood on her neck, but the damage had been done. The syringe Buffy clutched had been emptied into her neck, by Wesley who stood behind her.

 "What the-?" Buffy murmured as she sunk to the ground.

 "Very good, Mr Wyndam-Price," Travers said coldly. He motioned to the man next to him, who came forward and picked up Buffy's slender frame.
 "What will you do with her?" Wesley asked curiously. Travers picked up his briefcase and opened it, handing a small wad of forms to Wesley.
 "Sign these please," he said, with authority. "Miss Summers will be in the care of the council now. We have found a place for her at a public institution."
 "You mean a prison," Wesley corrected, smoothing out the papers, and pulling out a pen to sign them.

 "Yes, a prison," Travers said silkily. "But no ordinary prison."

A scruffy, unshaven man sat with his back to the wall, face in his hands. His robes hung off him loosely, his thin frame not coming close to filling them. His black hair, his namesake, was matted and wiry, obviously unbrushed for days. His skin was naturally olive, but paled by lack of sunlight and covered in a layer of grime. The man removed his hands, rubbing his eyes hard, and then lifting his body off of the floor to pace his tiny cell. He was a prisoner, one in a long row of cells.

From his left, he heard soft laughter, floating in the air through the small barred window that linked their cells. His neighbour had long since gone mad, driven so by the incessant thoughts coursing through his mind. He was beyond help, and the guards knew it. His right was silent, and the man knew why. Only recently, its habitant had died, and the cell had stood empty since.

The man came forward to the front of his cell, made of thick steel bars, spaced so he could see the outside, the freedom, but not touch it. He grasped these very bars with worn, calloused hands and rested his head on them. It had been eleven years, eleven long years that had tested his sanity, and strength. But the man was not yet beaten, he held onto his semblance of life with as much as he could muster.

Presently, a noise sounded at the end of the corridor. The man looked up, his dark, hollow eyes looking for the source. Two dementors glided down the corridor, and the man closed his eyes for a second, swallowing hard before looking up again. On second sight he saw who the dementors flanked, a girl, of no more than eighteen. She was beautiful, the man realised, a true unmarred beauty, even though her pallor was grey. The dementors half carried her, supporting her arms, and preventing her from collapsing to the floor. They approached his cell, and once again the man closed his eyes, until they passed. He heard the cell next door to him being opened and the noise of someone stumbling and falling one the cold stone floor. The dementors locked the cage and glided away, leaving the girl alone in her cell.

Sirius Black paced across the small space of his cell, to the barred window that linked his cell to the girls. He peered down at her through the window, gazing at her where she sat, knees tucked up to her chin, hands covering her face, shoulders shaking as she sobbed.