Chapter 206 — Prelude to Sirius' Release from Prison
Time: 1:00 a.m.
Location: Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts
No one in the room was remotely sleepy.
Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout sat tensely as Snape paced, wand clenched tightly in his hand. His face was taut with fury, but his voice, when it came, was disturbingly calm.
"What about Peter Pettigrew? The rat who actually betrayed Lily and James," Snape hissed. "Don't tell me he's dead."
The others said nothing. Snape continued, voice rising.
"If it's true—if he faked his death and left behind a finger—then the Ministry gave him the Order of Merlin, First Class for that? It's outrageous."
"You know what I lived for after Voldemort's fall?" Snape sneered, eyes burning. "I was going to go to Azkaban and kill Sirius Black myself. For Lily."
He looked around at the other professors. "But now... if it was Peter all along... who should I kill?"
Professor McGonagall staggered back a step, startled. Flitwick looked like he wanted to say something, but the words caught in his throat. Sprout hesitated to approach him, but Snape quickly stepped away from her.
"Severus," Dumbledore interjected gently, "don't let your life be governed by hatred. Think about Harry."
Snape ignored him.
"Peter is presumed dead. That's why Sirius blames himself—he thinks he killed his best friends."
"He repeats it every time someone questions him," Dumbledore said quietly. "He insists he's guilty."
"So let me get this straight," Snape said, his voice hollow. "Pettigrew was the Secret-Keeper. Sirius—that mad dog—let himself rot in Azkaban out of guilt. He thought suffering would bring him peace. What a fool."
Then, disturbingly, Snape smiled.
"But I have a better idea," he said, eyes gleaming with malice. "I want Sirius Black freed—cleared of all charges. Let the wizarding world praise him, hail him as a wronged hero. Let him taste freedom."
His smile twisted. "And let that freedom torment him."
The professors fell silent, stunned by Snape's intensity. No one knew how to respond.
Truthfully, they all wanted to ask the same question: How do we reverse the case when Sirius refuses to cooperate?
A voice broke the silence—from a portrait on the wall.
"I beg your pardon," drawled Phineas Nigellus Black, cracking open one eye. "Did I just hear that my great-great-grandson is innocent?"
"Yes, Phineas," said Dumbledore with a nod. "But the real challenge is convincing him."
"No need for convincing," Snape muttered darkly. "Veritaserum. Legilimency. Take your pick. Stop pandering to his martyr complex."
Phineas beamed. "Ah, Severus, you do Slytherin proud."
Snape nodded in return, expression unnervingly calm—so calm it unsettled everyone else in the room.
For the first time, McGonagall questioned whether releasing Sirius Black was even a good idea.
Maybe it was better to leave him in Azkaban.
All except Dumbledore seemed to share that unspoken thought.
Then Snape said, "We'll say we've found traces of Peter Pettigrew. That will do."
"The case was originally overseen by Bartemius Crouch, Sr. He's disgraced, so no one will object too much. And Fudge? He'd love a dramatic gesture—reopening an old case to show he's tough on corruption."
"This could let him bleed the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, weaken their power… He'll bite."
Snape looked truly excited now, and Phineas's portrait shared the same gleam of ambition.
"Good, Severus," Dumbledore said cautiously. "Why don't we—"
But Snape was already heading for the door.
"I understand. I'll control everything. I'm writing the appeal now. I'll show it to you before I send it."
Before anyone could respond, he was gone.
"…As expected of Sly—" Phineas started.
"Shut up, Phineas!" Dumbledore groaned, rubbing his eyes.
"Jealousy doesn't suit you, Albus. Our House always produces the most effective wizards," Phineas said smugly, before vanishing from his portrait, leaving it empty.
"Who was that?" asked Professor Flitwick, still shaken.
"Phineas Nigellus Black. He also has a portrait in the Ministry—and one in St. Mungo's. He gets around," Dumbledore explained wearily.
"I didn't mean—" Flitwick tried to clarify, but Dumbledore raised a hand to stop him.
"He probably just wants someone else to celebrate Sirius's release with."
Flitwick gave a small nod of understanding and sighed.
Then McGonagall, always the pragmatist, asked what they were all wondering. "So… are we going to help Snape, or not?"
Dumbledore gave a long-suffering sigh. "Let's continue watching the recording first."
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The magical memory stone projected images once more—this time, Dumbledore's private conversation with Harry.
Although the words were not spoken explicitly, the emotions on Dumbledore's face were raw and unguarded.
He hadn't wanted them to see this part.
And McGonagall noticed. Her eyes narrowed in understanding.
The more someone hides a secret… the more others want to know it.
The memory played on. They saw the moment Dumbledore entered the chamber. The moment Quirrell's body erupted into black smoke. The moment Voldemort fled like a shadow, escaping once more.
Even knowing Quirrell was gone, the scene still turned their stomachs.
"He begged for his master even at the end," Flitwick muttered bitterly, nearly falling from his chair in his distress.
"That poor boy," Sprout whispered. "How did he even end up like this…?"
"Why did Voldemort have to kill him?" McGonagall asked, her voice tense. "He could've escaped without sacrificing Quirrell."
Dumbledore nodded slightly. "I missed it then. But later, I realized—Tom likely has more Horcruxes than we guessed. He's not bound to a single host anymore."
"Harry's magic marked Quirrell," he continued. "But unless Harry were constantly in contact with him—and with Lily's blood relatives nearby—Tom had the advantage."
McGonagall finally burst out, "It's disgusting!"
Was she talking about Voldemort or Quirrell? Even she wasn't sure.
As the scene shifted to a calm conversation between Harry and Dumbledore, emotions cooled.
Nothing surprised them. They already knew what was said.
But then—Dumbledore blushed.
McGonagall gasped.
"Albus," she said slowly, "you're blushing."
"Are you—?" Professor Sprout began, then leaned in, eyes wide. "Are you about to confess something?"
Her tone was teasing… but not entirely unserious.
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