Veritaserum took hold in seconds. Umbridge's small eyes glazed over. The pink in her cheeks drained until her face looked like old wax. Deep down she was aware yet the serum did not even allow her to feel fear. Amelia Bones gave a short nod to the scribe. The Dicta Quill began to scratch steadily, its tip hissing on the parchment.
"State your name and date of birth," Amelia said.
"Dolores Jane Umbridge," came the monotone voice. "Born August twenty sixth, nineteen sixty one."
"Parents."
"Father, Orford Umbridge, worker at the Department of Magical Maintenance, a Halfblood. Mother, Ellen Cracknell, a Muggle. A younger brother, a Squib."
A wave of low murmurs swept across the chamber. Some looked at each other with disbelief. The toad's lips moved again, dull and mechanical.
Amelia pressed her with pointed questions.
"I forced them to leave the magical world. Told them to hide among Muggles. Changed my records. Claimed I was pureblood. A distant relative of House Selwyn."
Amelia's face stayed blank, but her eyes sharpened. "And after that?"
"I took what I wanted. Threats. Gold. Favours. I bribed and was bribed. Forced oaths. Worked with Cornelius. Worked with Lord Malfoy."
The chamber stirred. The Dicta Quill wrote faster. Arcturus Black leaned back, watching without expression. Dumbledore's hands tightened on the table. Fudge was a manageable pawn. He never wanted a strong character occupying the Minister's chair. Now, it seemed he would need to arrange another… for the position.
"Explain your dealings with Cornelius Fudge," Amelia said.
"I served him. I helped him rise. He helped me stay. We shared gifts. Gold. Favours. Affection."
Several members turned away. Amelia's jaw twitched. Disgust rose within the chamber as Umbridge started to describe their ...more private moments in great detail. The Dicta Quill scratched until she flicked her wand. A red flash silenced the prisoner.
"Enough," Amelia said. "Seal the confession to this point."
A sigh of relief went up from all sides. They were going to purge those unholy moments from their minds. A rare, unanimous sentiment from this politically shattered chamber.
Dumbledore spoke next. "The statement stands as evidence. We move to judgment."
The vote was quick. Dolores Jane Umbridge, life imprisonment in Azkaban. Arcturus preferred Azkaban to the Veil of Death; even an abomination like her could be of use. Hence he wanted Azkaban over Veil of Death. Cornelius Fudge, suspended and to face full inquiry. Lucius Malfoy, detained for bribery and coercion.
The Aurors stepped forward. Malfoy stood stiffly, trying to smile. The shackles closed around his wrists. His wand taken. A few Lords muttered, others stared. Dumbledore said nothing. Arcturus smiled faintly, fingers resting on his cane.
The chamber broke into motion. Parchments flew. Quills scrawled. The session came to an end at long last.
Arcturus moved through the noise toward Amelia Bones.
"Madam Director," he said in his calm tone. "A fine interrogation. Well managed."
"She confessed to everything," Amelia answered. "And to things no one wanted to hear."
Arcturus inclined his head. "Justice is rarely clean." He paused. "Now, Director," he inclined closer and kept his voice a whisper. "I need access to the trial records of Sirius Orion Black."
Her eyes narrowed. "Now?"
"Yes. I doubt the truth will age better overnight."
Amelia looked to the mess of the chamber and back to him. "You choose your moments poorly, Lord Black. The Ministry is falling apart."
"Then perhaps this is the best time."
She sighed, scratched a note and waved to an Auror. "Scrimgeour. Bring this file to my office please."
They walked to her office. She gestured for him to sit. "Tea?"
"No. Ogden's Old," he said.
A short laugh escaped her. "You sound like my father."
Arcturus sighed with a faint smile. "Alaric was a good friend,"
Amelia smiled softly. A different face from what she shows to the world.
Scrimgeour returned with a thin folder. He placed it before her. Amelia opened it, flipped through the sheets, and frowned.
"There is nothing here. Only an arrest report. No trial notes. No witness record."
Arcturus leaned forward. "No trial at all."
"None. He was sent directly to Azkaban."
Arcturus closed his eyes. He centred himself. This was not Amelia's fault and he was not going to roast her for it. At least for now.
"Then he leaves that place today. Keep him in the Ministry cells, where he should've waited for his trial. But not one night longer in Azkaban."
Amelia looked up. "If this file is accurate, I can order it. I need to verify it first. I will sign it before sunset if this is all there is to his file."
"Good," he said. "Your department will be remembered kindly for it."
He reached into his cloak and took out another parchment. "One more matter. Bellatrix Lestrange's marriage contract."
She read it carefully. Her frown deepened. "These are consent bindings. Behaviour clauses. Financial control. This is not marriage, Lord Black. It is servitude."
Arcturus nodded. "I would have tortured Cygnus to madness if the moron was still alive." he said, which made Amelia's eyebrows to rise lightly. "I want a mind healer to examine her Madame Bones. I need confirmation whether she acted by her own will or under enchantment."
Amelia rubbed her brow. "Between your heir's ministry summons and this, my staff will mutiny."
Arcturus almost smiled. "Tell them they serve justice, Director Bones. That should soothe them."
She looked at him over the rim of her monocle. "You know this will cause noise. Political noise."
"That is why you will keep it quiet," he said. "My House has enough enemies. No reason to hand them another weapon."
He stood and adjusted his robes. "Thank you for your time."
Amelia closed the folder and looked down at it, then at the old parchment beside it. One ghost from the past and one from the present. Both carried the same name.
The office fell silent except for the ticking of the wall clock and the faint scrape of the Dicta Quill still writing outside.
--
Azkaban was a cold place. A cold that seeped into bone and marrow and soul. The chill never left, not even in sleep. Sirius lay on the stone floor in his grim form, fighting to hold together what little sanity he had left. In that form, Dementors leave him alone. In this form his senses were sharper. He heard footsteps long before they reached his cell. He shifted back and waited. Being an animagus was his last and only defense here. The sound grew louder, the scrape of boots, the distant cry of prisoners. The door clanged open.
"Sirius Orion Black," came a stern voice. "Stand up. Hands in front." Rufus Scrimgeour stood in the doorway, wand raised, eyes hard. Sirius obeyed. There was no point in resistance. Human guards were the first line. Dementors, the second. The cold deepened as they glided past, silent and watchful.
The lock clicked. The heavy door groaned as it swung wider. Scrimgeour stepped aside and motioned. "Move."
Sirius walked out, slow and stiff. His legs trembled from long neglect. He kept his eyes on the damp stones of the corridor. The cries of the other prisoners drifted around them. Bellatrix's voice carried above all, half scream, half laughter. It was impossible to tell whether she wept or rejoiced in her madness.
They moved in silence for a long time. The corridors twisted and turned, descending. Sirius had lost all sense of direction years ago. When they finally stepped onto the upper platform, he squinted against the thin light. The salty wind stung his eyes. His body shook from weakness.
They reached the boat. Scrimgeour lifted his wand, and the vessel began to glide across black waters. The only sound was the slow slap of waves against the hull.
"Have you not recognised me, Sirius?" Scrimgeour asked quietly.
Sirius raised his head. His hair was matted and greyed, his beard filthy, his frame a collection of bones beneath rags. "No, Rufus. I do not recognize anyone. Now shut up and take me to the Veil. I am tired. Ten lifetimes tired."
Scrimgeour did not correct his misunderstanding. Seeing the relief on Sirius' was a hard slap. They were close as brothers one, he said nothing. The ride continued without a word. When the boat reached its destination, he placed a hand on Sirius's shoulder and both men vanished in a swirl with a crack.
They reappeared in a Ministry holding cell. Clean air, still dim but warmer. Sirius blinked, confused. "Veil?" he rasped.
"No," Scrimgeour said. "Orders from Director Bones. You are to remain here for now." He turned to an assistant waiting outside the bars. "Bring food. Real food. Meat, bread, fruit. He will eat it all."
Sirius sank to the bench. The smell of food came minutes later. He ate like a man starved, silent between each bite. Scrimgeour watched for a while, then turned and walked out. He made his way to the lift, mind already on his report to Amelia Bones.
The next morning, the wizarding world woke to chaos. Every newspaper screamed headlines across its front page.
The Daily Prophet, Minister Impeached, Umbridge to Azkaban, Malfoy and Nott Arrested in Scandal of the Century.
The Evening Oracle, Corruption Unmasked, Ministry in Crisis.
And then there was Rita Skeeter, her poison polished to perfection.
From Pink Lace to Iron Chains, the headline read. Her article began with biting precision: "When power perfumes itself with sugar, it always ends in rot. Dolores Jane Umbridge, once the Minister's most devoted servant, now trades lace for chains. Witnesses report she sang like a choir under Veritaserum, giving names that will echo through every corridor of Wizarding Britain."
She lingered on every downfall. "Lucius Malfoy, once polished to perfection, now tarnished by gold that was not his to spend. Fudge, our 'beloved' Minister, finds himself as silent as his portrait will soon be."
She even praised Arcturus and Corvus, if only to stir the pot. "House Black returns from history's shadow and it seems justice wears their colours once more."
By midday, every wizard in Britain had read the story. Some whispered, some laughed, some trembled. The corrupted balance was shifting and the Blacks were at its heart.
--
Britain was boiling in its own chaos. The waves it created spread beyond its borders and reached nearby magical communities. One of those touched was the Norwegian Conclave. This small yet proud community was represented in the International Confederation of Wizards by Astrid Ulfsdottir, Mistress of Wards at the Oslo Enclave. She held both the roles of minister and chief warlock, an uncommon combination that gave her near total control over magical Norway.
Astrid was a separatist and a fierce defender of the old ways. She hated seeing the creeping influence of Muggle habits in magical life. But ideals meant little without power. Her conclave lacked wealth and numbers. Most of their income came from ICW funding, and she knew well that raising local taxes would drive half their witches and wizards to Germany or Russia.
Today, she sat in her office, a chamber of old wood and warded stone. Across the desk sat Henrick Voss, the man Arcturus Black had arranged to take over her position and steer the Norwegian Conclave away from ICW control. Astrid's cooperation was not loyalty. It was a bargain with a vow of silence. She would step aside to keep her dignity and watch her vision take shape through another.
Henrick spoke first. "I have purchased wide tracts of land in the Svalbard archipelago, Rogaland, Vest-Agder, Aust-Agder, and Hordaland. All far from Muggle settlements. Most are deep in forested country. The wards are already in place. Once I take office, construction of new magical settlements will begin immediately." He paused, his expression firm. "We will stay pure."
Henrick leaned forward, lowering his voice. "There is one more plan I will set in motion. The squibs Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Germany will have place and purpose of their own. I will invite them here. They will live among the Muggles, but under our quiet direction. We will place them in key trades and services, unseen but steady. In time, they will have political and economic posts together under our rule."
Astrid tilted her head. "A conquest by patience," she said. "That is a dangerous game."
"A necessary one," Henrick answered. "For now..."
She considered him for a long moment. Then she reached across the desk, her fingers brushing the rune carved into its surface. "You have the ambition. See that it does not devour you."
Henrick bowed his head slightly. "It will not. Norway will rise again."
Astrid's lips curved faintly. "Congratulations on your new position," she said, rising from her seat.
Henrick stood as well. She transferred the control of wards across the Conclave. Astrid's eyes lingered on the chair behind the desk, the seat of magical authority in Norway. Then she turned and left the room. Henrick took the seat and folded his hands on the table. The office felt colder, heavier, as if the wards themselves recognized the change.
It had not been a cheap operation. Nor had it been simple to keep hidden from the eyes of the Confederation. But it was a start. A small shift in the north that would grow into something larger...