On the opposite side of the witness stand, several reporters were scribbling excitedly across rolls of parchment, their quills dancing with barely restrained glee.
Among them, a woman with voluminous blonde curls and a pair of jewel-encrusted spectacles stood out. Arms crossed, she watched the proceedings, her Quick-Quotes Quill flying furiously before her.
It was Rita Skeeter.
She arched one heavily drawn brow, seized the quill mid-flight, and bit the tip thoughtfully. What headline should I use?
"A Shocking Turn of Events! Justice at Last, or Dumbledore's Dark Deal?"
Hmm… sensational enough, but perhaps lacking in punch. Maybe she'd keep it as a backup.
"Exclusive: The Fugitive Who Became a Godfather Savior" — or perhaps "The Ministry in Disgrace: Who Paved the Road to Black's Freedom?"
Rita crossed one leg over the other and turned her gaze toward the boy at the center of the courtroom — Hodge Blackthorn. He was intriguing, she decided. There might be an explosive story buried there somewhere. This boy wasn't an idiot, not with the way he spoke, bold as it was.
"Ron, bring out your rat," Hodge said suddenly.
Ron swallowed hard and pulled a limp gray rat from his pocket. The creature was utterly motionless, whiskers drooping, body soft and unresponsive. Hodge had seen it before — it was thinner now, more pitiful, worn down by the combined strain of the Horcrux diary and Sirius Black's looming shadow. He even remembered Ron once talking about buying tonic for the poor thing.
When Hodge reached out a hand, Ron flinched and drew the rat back.
"Are you sure… are you sure you're not mistaken?" he asked nervously.
"You noticed the discrepancy yourself, didn't you?" Hodge replied evenly. "Don't worry. If it's just a normal rat, I'll return it to you unharmed."
He grasped the rat by its long, bald tail, lifting it carefully for inspection. He studied it closely at first, then raised it higher so that everyone in the courtroom could see.
A few people realized what was about to happen even before Hodge spoke.
Dumbledore's fingers twitched ever so slightly; a sharp, cutting gleam flashed in his eyes as his gaze swept repeatedly over the gray rat.
Rita Skeeter froze in place. She, of all people, was an unregistered Animagus herself — and when she'd heard that Sirius Black could transform into a great black dog, she'd scoffed and even considered writing a mocking piece about it. But right now, for the first time, she didn't feel safe.
Through her jewel-studded glasses, she looked again at the boy. His eyes seemed to pierce right through her.
A shiver ran down her spine.
Suddenly, Sirius Black, who had been sitting quietly in his chair, leapt to his feet in a burst of fury. Chains lashed out instantly with a sharp clang, binding him back in place — but he still struggled, his face twisting with rage.
"It's him—! Give him to me!"
Ron yelped and stumbled backward, crashing into the witness bench. A hand reached out instinctively to steady him.
"What—what's wrong with him?" Ron stammered, swallowing hard. What he really wanted to ask was: Why has Black suddenly gone mad?
"Anyone would, after seeing that," came the weary sigh of the man beside him.
Ron turned sharply toward Remus Lupin, who hadn't gone mad — but there was unmistakable loathing written across his exhausted face.
"Well?" Lupin asked calmly. "Wasn't it your discovery?"
Ron's cheeks flushed crimson.
He barely understood what had just happened himself — one moment, Hodge had appeared at the dormitory door; before Ron could even ask how he'd gotten past the Gryffindor common room password, he'd been overwhelmed by a rapid barrage of questions. By the time he heard his own voice blurting out, 'Scabbers is Peter Pettigrew', he'd gone completely numb. Then Hodge had looked at him with feigned concern — pointing out how awful it would sound if people learned that the Weasleys had been harboring a Death Eater, even unknowingly.
And when Ron stood there, lost and terrified, it was Hodge who'd offered a way out: if Ron himself helped reveal the truth, no one could blame him.
"I—it's missing a toe," Ron murmured now, recalling his supposed 'deduction.'
His voice was faint, but in the dead silence of Courtroom Ten, it struck like thunder.
A collective gasp rippled through the spectators.
Cornelius Fudge fumbled for his spectacles, perching them crookedly on his nose as he leaned forward to squint at the rat.
"This—this is Peter Pettigrew?" he wheezed. "Another Animagus? Merlin's beard, this is… astonishing…"
His eyes darted instinctively toward Dumbledore.
Hodge lowered the oblivious gray rat onto the floor, drew his wand, and pointed it steadily at the creature.
Everyone held their breath.
"What's he doing, Professor Lupin?" Ron whispered.
"Forcing him to reveal his true form," Lupin said through gritted teeth, his hand clutching the bench so tightly his knuckles turned white.
A surge of blue-white light burst from Hodge's wand.
Forced transformation was a complex piece of magic — advanced even by Auror standards — but thanks to Hodge's composure, no one interfered. It was tacitly accepted that he possessed magical skill beyond his years.
The rat suddenly levitated, its small gray body trembling violently. Then, with a twitching spasm, it fell — and where it landed, a short, stocky man now lay sprawled on the stone floor.
Even standing upright, the man barely reached Hodge's height. His thinning, pale hair stuck out in messy tufts around a bald crown. He was fat, hunched, and ashen-faced — the very image of an oversized rat brought to life.
Ron gagged and clapped a hand over his mouth.
"Rennervate!" Hodge cast firmly.
Peter Pettigrew's pointed nose twitched twice; his limp body stiffened, and at last, his beady, rodent-like eyes fluttered open. He blinked in confusion — but years of skulking and spying had honed his instincts. Within seconds, he understood where he was. His jowls quivered, and his whole body began to shake.
"I—this is—this must be a dream—no—" he gasped, voice thin and strangled, as though invisible fingers were tightening around his throat. His expression flickered wildly between denial and desperate sycophancy, making everyone present recoil.
He pinched himself hard, trying to wake up. When that failed, sweat beaded on his forehead, and his complexion turned ghostly pale.
"Peter Pettigrew," Hodge said coldly. "Your crimes have been exposed. You've been running for twelve years — it's time you atoned for them."
With that, Hodge stepped back toward the witness stand. There was nothing more for him to say. His mind already felt far away from the courtroom. The coming weeks, even months, might bring debates and appeals — but the verdict would not change.
The rest unfolded like distant echoes.
Pettigrew's whimpering confession — "It was the Dark Lord, he made me! He tortured me, forced me to spy—James, Lily…"
His frantic denials — "No! I'm innocent! I was cursed—it was Sirius, Sirius!"
Harry's trembling voice, demanding answers.
Amelia Bones' deep, mournful questioning.
Fudge's blustering outrage.
Sirius's wordless, guttural roar.
And with that, the trial drew to a close.
The curtain fell.
————
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