Sirius woke for the first time in more than ten years without the sound of waves or the pressure of dementor's chill against his mind. The air was still. The light was soft. No moans crawled along the stone. He lay very still and listened. Silence. He drew a slow breath and let it out. The absence felt unreal, like a charm he did not trust.
He sat up. The floor was dry. The blanket was rough but clean. His body answered him with aches that felt honest. He stood carefully and paced the small space to wake his legs. Pins and needles flared, then faded. He crossed to the door and looked out through the bars.
Across the corridor another cell stood open to his view. A tall figure with silver blond hair watched him with cool contempt. Sirius felt a laugh rise, half memory and half relief.
"Oh, Lucy," he said, voice raw but steady. "What happened. A raid gone wrong. Lost your footing. Could not slither off with the loot this time."
Lucius Malfoy's face did not change for a heartbeat. Then the mouth tightened. "You should have stayed where you belong, Black."
Sirius smiled without humour. "Says the man who posed half his life with hair care and masks. Tell me, do the shackles itch the wrist or the pride."
A rustle came from the next cell. Lord Nott leaned in the shadows, older and thinner than Sirius remembered. He had shared corridors and classrooms with both men once. Their childish banters and pranks moved on with them. He fought them as well, them and other death eaters. As the naive little soldier under Dumbledore's orders he went and risked his life. Vampires, werewolfes and Voldemort's thugs.
Lord Nott lifted his eyes, measured the two of them and chose silence. His gaze dropped to the floor.
Footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor. A door opened and shut. Aurors came into view with measured strides. Rufus Scrimgeour led them. He stopped at Sirius's cell and studied him for a long second.
"Stand back," Scrimgeour said. "Hands forward."
Sirius obeyed without comment. The cuffs closed around his wrists with a soft click. They were warm from a charm. His shoulders sagged, not from defeat but from the habit of restraint. Scrimgeour stepped aside and pointed down the hall. "Walk."
They passed Lucius's cell. Sirius did not look in. He could feel the stare like a draft on his neck. They passed Nott. The older man shifted his weight and kept his eyes down. The group moved on.
The Ministry holding block was cleaner than Azkaban. Light fell from charmed globes set into the ceiling. The air tasted of dust and ink instead of salt and rot. It was still stone and walls.
They turned into a small room with a table and two chairs. Scrimgeour closed the door and stood, considering. "Do you wish to shave before you meet Director Bones."
Sirius blinked and nodded. "Yes."
Scrimgeour lifted his wand. The self care charms were simple, efficient and quiet. Hair shortened. Beard trimmed, rest of it fell away and vanished. A light Scourgify lifted dirt from skin and cloth. Scrimgeour was kind enough to conjure a mirror on the wall which now held a face Sirius barely knew. Gaunt, old and still his. Scrimgeour tapped the rags and tranfigured them into something plain but whole.
"This will hold through the meeting," Scrimgeour said. "You may have a bath after the interogation."
Sirius raised a hand and touched his jaw. The skin felt new. He took a breath and tasted soap. His stomach tightened at the smell of food from a tray someone had left on the sideboard. He took a piece of bread and tore it carefully. He ate without rushing, the way a man eats when he has learned the price of haste.
"Water," he said. Scrimgeour handed him a cup. Sirius drank and closed his eyes for a count of three. When he opened them, the room held steady.
Scrimgeour watched without comment. There was no warmth in his look and no malice either. Duty sat on his shoulders like a coat he had chosen long ago.
"Director Bones will be here shortly," he said. "Answer what you can. Do not waste words. She will not."
Sirius simply nodded.
He set the cup down and turned toward the door as it began to open. The hinge creaked. Light from the corridor spread across the floor and caught the edge of the table. He straightened and waited.
--
Corvus was having breakfast at his usual seat beside Flitwick when Mel swooped down, wings gleaming in the morning light. She extended her leg toward him with an air of pride. He freed the beautiful falcon of her burden and offered a few strips of bacon in payment for the long flight. She accepted the offering in silence satisfaction. Corvus broke the seal and read the short message. His face was calm, but his eyes sharpened as he finished. He crushed the parchment in his palm, a small wandless and silent incendio reducing it to ash.
He conjured a piece of parchment and wrote in neat, clipped script: prepare a small cage from glass if possible, make sure it is unbreakable and enchanted against animagi. He rolled it, tied it to Mel's leg and stroked her feathers once. When she took flight, his plate was.. another four pieces short of crispy bacon. Flitwick chuckled softly, watching the exchange.
Corvus leaned back, wished Flitwick a good day, and turned his steps toward the stairs after his gaze roamed the Gryffindor table. His path was quiet, the hum of morning chatter fading behind him. The moment he entered an empty corridor, without portraits or curious ears, he checked his map. Certain he was alone, he closed his eyes and shifted.
The change came smoothly. His height shortened, his features softened. Within moments, a first year student stood where the young professor had been. Corvus transfigured his robes and made his way toward the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady frowned at him as he approached. After a light rebuke for not being in class already, "Password?" she asked. "Brave," was the short answer, unable to hide the dry note in his voice. The portrait swung open.
Inside, the common room was nearly empty, save for a couple of students whose morning hours were free. Corvus's map had already shown him where the little rat was hiding. He moved to the first year dormitories, opened one of the doors on the right, and drew his wand. A sharp, whispered Accio brought the creature flying from under a bed. Before it reached his hand, he struck it with a coma curse. The small body hit the floor, limp and silent. Corvus conjured a box and levitated the rat inside without touching it, the corners of his mouth tight with cold satisfaction.
He left as quietly as he came. Once alone again, he shifted back to his own form, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. In his chambers he transfigured several sheets of parchment into a sturdy box, placed the rat within, and sealed it tight. Then he wrote a short note. 'Peter Pettigrew, alive. As you can see he is an Animagus, so make sure of the enchantments.' He tied it to the parcel and looked to the raven waiting nearby.
"Umbra," he said, tone light. "Take this to Arcturus Black. And do not eat the ugly thing, mate. It is not good for your health."
The raven cawed once, a sound that might have been agreement, and took off through the open window with the package in tow. Corvus watched the bird disappear into the gray morning sky. A quiet chuckle escaped him. Soon, the Wizengamot would see the truth for themselves.
He leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. Sirius would want to skin the rat alive when he heard. But that could wait. Vengeance, in its proper form, was better than justice. In all his time serving as an officer, not once had he witnessed justice sharp and harsh enough. The 'victim' or it's remaining relatives were the ones who truly carried the meaning of the term. What good was it to jail an animal in human skin after an assault on your daughter. What closure is there for a mother whose son was run over by a truck at a festival, stabbed in the very streets she grew up. Justice of the modern world was soft, useless and serving the guilty. He smiled faintly, remembering a pink clad toad who still thought herself safe. Her time would come as well. Not even Azkaban would keep her from him.
--
Harry read the book that Heir Black had given him the way a starving boy eats. He did not skim. He traced every letter with his eyes. He mouthed the words under his breath until they felt like his own. Names and titles. Seating order. How to greet a Lord. The rule that wizards use surnames unless invited to do otherwise. It all slotted into place like a map that had been missing from his head.
Hermione asked to borrow it. She asked again the next day. When he said no, she set her jaw and said she would go to Professor McGonagall and report that he was reading an illegal book. She used the word illegal as if it was a spell. Harry looked at her and said nothing. The book lay flat on his knees. His fingers did not move. He felt the same cold place inside that he felt when Uncle Vernon used the word normal like a brick.
He went back to the page. There were rules about when to stand and when to sit. Rules about how not to waste another person's time. He thought about Professor Black. He tried to hold his spine the same way when he read. A little taller. A little stiller. It made the words feel heavier in his mind.
Ron was worse than the book said how any wizards or witch should not behave. Ron complained about being poor. Ron complained about not being famous. Ron complained about homework, about the food, about how the twins were in trouble, about how Harry was lucky.Ron was a siphon of anything positive or productive. As if being famous had given Harry a bed that was not a cupboard. As if being famous had ever filled his stomach.
The points were already gone. Common room had turned on the Weasleys with the speed of a belt coming down to hit. Harry watched it happen and felt tired. McGonagall had been furious about the points. Yet she had not cared about Ron making Hermione cry in the bathroom. Harry did not know how to fit those two facts together. He folded the thought and put it away for later.
He tried surnames in his head. Granger, not Hermione, unless invited and even so if he agreed. Weasley, not Ron, unless invited again he will call him with his family name. No need to get close to such 'unsavory' characters. He tried the word 'unsavory', It felt stiff. It also felt right.
When he closed the book his hands were shaking. Not from fear. From the feeling that a door had opened and that he could choose to walk through it. He tucked the book into his bag and tied the strap tight. Granger watched him from a table by the window. Weasley watched him from a chair by the fire. Harry nodded to both of them out of habit. Then he went to class and sat straighter than he had yesterday.
--
Amelia Bones was having one of the strangest days of her career. The political spine of Wizarding Britain had bent and then cracked. New names slid into old chairs. She knew all of them. She knew the ones who were subservient to Arcturus Black. That did not comfort her. It was a fact, and she had a desk full of facts that needed ink and signatures.
She wanted a time turner. She also wanted a clerk who read minds and sorted parchments by how loud they were going to explode. She had neither. She had three cold cups of tea and a stack of files that reached her elbow.
A raven landed on her in tray and stared until she looked up. It cocked its head and made a sound that was not quite a caw and not quite a croak. It sounded like a question. Then it sounded like a complaint. Amelia stared back. The bird did not blink.
"Fine," she said and freed the parchment, waiting for the strange rave to go away. She broke the seal and read the note. It was short and clear. The handwriting was neat and sharp. Corvus Black requested an inquiry into why the vault key of House Potter's heir had passed through other hands without the heir's knowledge, why a magical child had been left with Muggles clearly not 'fond' of magic and as a relative, he urged that the investigation be expedited. His signature closed the page.
The raven made the question sound again. Amelia lifted the letter so the bird could see she had reached the end. It leaned forward as if to read it a second time. She set the note down. The raven tapped the in tray with its beak and then hopped to the out tray and tapped that as well.
"I am aware of the concept of action," Amelia said. The raven ruffled its feathers as if satisfied and launched itself back through the opening for avians.
She rubbed her eyes and reached for another file. New assignments in the Auror Office, waiting approval of the minister. New names in the Department of Magical Transportation, waiting approval of the minister. The Board had sent three requests and two demands. The Wizengamot clerk had sent a schedule that read like a curse. She signed what needed signing and pushed back what could wait for the new minister. The letter from Corvus went on top of a thin folder that was for her eyes only.
Someone knocked.
"Enter," she said, and tried to press the weariness out of her voice. Rufus Scrimgeour stepped in and closed the door behind him.
"Director," he said. "Reporting. Sirius Black has been removed from Azkaban. He is in a Ministry holding cell. Food has been given. Medical check is scheduled. He is steady enough to answer questions."
Amelia nodded once. The day grew another branch. She pulled a clean sheet of parchment toward her and reached for a fresh quill. "Good. Let him rest tonight. And ask Records for the Potter guardianship file. I also want our Gringotts liaison in my office within the hour."