Author's Note:
Hey guys! If the pacing feels a little slow, hang tight for about a week. I've spent a lot of hours cutting down unnecessary content to keep the story tight. I'm trying to avoid plot holes, and if I cut any more, it would compromise the story—please understand.
You can also choose to wait a week and binge through five chapters at once. Thank you for your patience!
If you'd like me to release five chapters every Sunday instead, just leave a comment after this chapter—I can switch to that schedule with no problem.
Now, on with today's chapter!
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Step.
Step.
Step.
Jameson Greengrass, Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Greengrass, climbed the short flight of stairs with measured poise, the thunder of applause swelling through the hall as he moved toward what was now rightfully his: a seat of power in the Assembly of the Wizengamot.
No longer was he simply the head of a noble house, or just another councilor among Britain's magical representatives. Today, he stood at the pinnacle of power—the most coveted seat in all of wizarding politics, the head of government itself: the Minister of Magic.
Yet it wasn't the wealth, nor the power to command armies and galleons with a single word, that made his pulse race. No—it was the realization that, after years of a life he had once thought unremarkable, he had finally accomplished something truly extraordinary.
With the final step, he drew in a steadying breath and set his features into calm composure. A faint smile tugged at his lips as his gaze lifted and found two familiar figures watching him.
Albus Dumbledore. The old wizard's eyes shone with quiet encouragement, his gaze warmly inviting him to the seat beside him. Yes—it was his now. And if only in the game of politics in this country, he stood shoulder to shoulder with this legendary old monster now, whom everyone either feared or worshiped.
With a measured nod, he inclined his head in respect, then turned to the younger man seated at Dumbledore's side—the one to whom he owed everything that had unfolded for him on this very day.
Their eyes met. How long had it been? he wondered, studying the man he had chosen—by will or by fate, it no longer mattered—to follow in leadership. A year? Perhaps. Even so, the weight of this moment still felt unreal. He had long known this would be the outcome, but knowing it and standing here to live it were two entirely different things.
He saw the young man's lips curl into a knowing smirk, and with a subtle gesture, he too extended an invitation for him to take his place—no less warm than Dumbledore's. Cameras flashed relentlessly from above, capturing every breath, every glance, so in this moment, both of them had to keep up appearances.
So after brushing aside the thrill rising in his chest and taking another long, steadying breath, he looked down for the first time at the witches and wizards governing the country from that position—each of them meeting his gaze with expectant expressions.
The hall fell silent. As the new Minister of Magic, he would, of course, have to give a speech before taking his seat. Then, clearing his throat, he addressed not only the councilors before him but also the hundreds of thousands who he knew were watching live across the country.
He had long anticipated this moment, and his speech was already written and memorized. Yet the nerves were undeniable, flickering across his face for anyone keen enough to notice. Still, he delivered it with poise, each word carrying the weight of his new authority.
Finally, with the last syllable leaving his lips, he lowered himself into the seat beside the two Archmages, allowing the Adjudicator below him to carry on with the rest of the proceedings.
The Assembly was complete once more—except now, there was no Cornelius Fudge, and in his place, a new Minister of Magic looked over the Wizengamot.
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"Let's begin," Bartemius Crouch announced for the second time today, his voice cutting through the hall and forcing the murmurs into silence.
He moved briskly through the formalities of the matter at hand, and to the relief of many, it was finally the issue for which the assembly had truly gathered. Only the journalists slumped in their seats, shoulders sagging as they realized there would be no further scandals to feast on today.
With Barty's command, the iron gates on either side of the chamber rattled open, their grinding echo bouncing off the high stone walls.
Chains scraped harshly across the floor as Aurors pulled the prisoners forward. Moments later, two figures emerged—Sirius Black, dressed surprisingly well for a so-called fugitive on the run, and Peter Pettigrew, by contrast, in ragged clothes that made him look more like a homeless beggar dragged in off the streets. Both were hauled into the open and shoved toward the defendants' dock at the center of the chamber.
Sirius looked calm, almost as if he already knew the verdict would fall in his favor, while Pettigrew seemed utterly drained of hope—especially when his eyes lifted to the high platform and found Bartemius Crouch seated there, stern and unyielding, with the front row of power gathered at his side.
Terror flickered in the rat's gaze—after all, this was the man who had once sentenced his own son to life in Azkaban. If Crouch could do that to blood, what chance did he have?
The noise around the chamber swelled, whispers and murmurs rising like a tide crashing against the stone walls. From the auditorium, countless glares bore down on the two suspects, raw anger written across every face. After all, the Potters were one of the most respected noble families in Britain, with ties that reached into nearly every house present.
Just then, the chains binding the dock groaned and rattled. Peter flinched at the sound, and his head snapped toward Sirius Black—only to meet eyes blazing with unfiltered murderous intent.
"Wretched traitor… scum!" Sirius roared, spitting toward the dock where Pettigrew sat trembling. His voice boomed like thunder, but immediately, the Aurors stationed near his dock raised their wands—a silent warning that one more outburst would earn him a spellfire.
Grudgingly, Sirius forced himself to stay still, recalling all the advice Maverick and Ali had drilled into him, and only then did he manage to calm down.
"If you disrupt the proceedings again, Black," Bartemius Crouch snapped, meeting Sirius's glare with an icy stare, "then guilty or not, I'll throw you straight back into Azkaban without hesitation."
With that warning, Crouch drew a file from the stack before him, letting his voice cut through the chamber.
"Trial of the twenty-eighth of December… the defendants: Sirius Orion Black, and Peter Pettigrew."
His eyes left the parchment and fixed upon the two men shackled in the chains.
"You stand accused of betraying the Fidelius secret of James and Lily Potter to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in October 1981, directly causing their deaths. Do either of you have anything to say in your defense?"
Peter stared blankly ahead, lost in a stupor, his mind fleeing from a truth he could no longer escape. Sirius, on the other hand, was unnervingly calm, collecting his thoughts to give his testimony.
But before he could speak, a councilor in the front row rose. He gave a courteous nod to the Adjudicator and the high council above, then addressed the chamber in a steady, measured voice.
"Speaker Dumbledore, if memory serves, over ten years ago you declared Sirius Black to be the Potters' Secret Keeper. Yet the Ministry now prosecutes Pettigrew for the same betrayal. We require clarity."
"All true," Dumbledore replied gravely, inclining his head. "But only recently did I learn that the secret had been changed a second time, without my knowledge. I would therefore ask the defendant himself to explain and offer what proof he can."
All eyes turned to Sirius, but he didn't falter. He knew he had to explain, and besides, he wasn't going to fabricate anything—he would simply tell the truth. So, he nodded once to the assembly, stepped forward, and began to speak.
"Back then," he began, voice low but clear, "we had word that You-Know-Who was hunting James and Lily. Dumbledore advised the Fidelius Charm, and James chose me as Secret Keeper. But just before the charm was sealed, I… I told him to use this rat instead. Everyone knew me as their closest friend. Voldemort would've suspected me first. I thought… I thought it would be clever."
His voice still cracked as he recounted everything, even though he had told the same story countless times since his escape to Maverick and Ali.
Meanwhile, the chamber stirred with unease. Even before his testimony, the news of Pettigrew being alive—and now seeing him there in front of them—had forced the public to reconsider the truth. But the law demanded more than speculation—the Wizengamot required proof.
"This is an official trial," Crouch cut in, his tone hard as iron. "And words are not enough. Over a decade has passed since the crime, and it is only natural that tangible evidence is limited. Therefore, under authority of the Wizengamot and with due process, I offer this choice: will you, Sirius Black, submit to interrogation under Veritaserum, and repeat your testimony beneath its influence?"
The chamber stirred once again. It was common knowledge that Veritaserum—one of the most tightly restricted magics in the wizarding world—was a heavily restricted potion for any purpose. Only in extraordinary hearings such as this, and only with the defendant's consent, could its use be sanctioned.
"I will," Sirius said without pause.
Across the dock, Pettigrew went pale as ash. He knew exactly what that meant. In the wizarding world, truth under Veritaserum wasn't just evidence—it was as close to being caught red-handed as one could get. He felt utterly hopeless, not even bothering to protest, silently praying to Merlin—or anyone—that he wouldn't be handed the death sentence on the spot.
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Author's Note:
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