The heavy oak doors of Courtroom Ten groaned as they closed behind the last of the Wizengamot members. The circular chamber, vast and high, was filled with tier upon tier of benches, all arranged in an imposing arc. Shadows lingered in the recesses of the room, but golden torchlight shimmered over the insignia of the Ministry and the silver carvings of scales and wands engraved into the black stone walls.
Eira sat tall in her designated seat, Fleur by her side, their presence drawing both admiration and disapproving murmurs. A pureblood matriarch's chair had always been placed near the high judge's stand, and her silver nameplate glinted: Lady Eira White, House of White. Fleur's chair was technically "improper," as only court members were supposed to sit so near, but nobody dared challenge it outright.
Across the chamber, Lucius Malfoy leaned lazily against his cane, eyes glinting with curiosity as his pale fingers tapped the silver serpent head. Other pureblood families were present—the Greengrasses, Notts, and Rosiers among them—each cloaked in deep family colors. The Longbottom matriarch sat stiffly, lips pressed in stern judgment. Barty Crouch Sr. sat at one side, looking grim, while Amelia Bones, monocle glinting, observed with keen interest.
Dumbledore himself presided today, alongside Minister Cornelius Fudge, who had puffed himself up like an overfed toad, his lime-green bowler hat set officiously before him. Behind them hovered Dolores Umbridge, swathed in frills and pink, her saccharine smile fixed like a crack in porcelain.
The chamber gradually fell into silence as Dumbledore rose to speak. His voice, calm yet resonant, carried easily through the hall.
"Welcome, esteemed members of the Wizengamot, honored representatives of the noble families, and dedicated servants of the Ministry. Today we gather to address a matter of great importance—one that has sown unrest within our magical society for nearly a year. Our people have lived under the shadow of fear for too long. It is our duty to bring clarity, to restore trust, and to ensure that peace and prosperity may once again flourish.
The case before us concerns Sirius Black—convicted of betraying the Potters, of murdering twelve innocent Muggles, and of taking the life of his friend, Peter Pettigrew."
"Since his capture last week, Sirius Black has been held securely within the Ministry. Today, before this body, we shall determine the truth of his alleged crimes and his guilt—or innocence. Let the convicted be brought forth."
The doors at the base of the chamber creaked open, and two Aurors entered, their wands subtly raised. Between them walked Sirius Black.
Eira's eyebrows rose as she saw him.
This was not the mad, hollow-eyed fugitive painted in every newspaper headline. No, this man walked with surprising dignity, shoulders squared, head high. His long black hair, though streaked with grey, had been combed neatly back; his beard trimmed to a sharp line. He wore clean robes of dark wool, simple but noble. Even his eyes, once described as wild and haunted, now glimmered with steady resolve.
A ripple of murmurs passed through the courtroom.
So this is the man who spent thirteen years in Azkaban? Eira thought. He does not look broken. He looks… defiant.
Fleur leaned closer, whispering, "He looks nothing like the picture in Le Prophète. They made him look like an animal. He seems… noble, even."
Eira only nodded.
Sirius was guided to the central dais where the accused stood. He did not cower. Instead, he faced the chamber with unwavering eyes, though the chains binding his wrists gleamed under the torchlight.
Dumbledore raised a hand.
"Sirius Orion Black. You stand before the Wizengamot. Do you understand the charges brought against you?"
Sirius's voice was strong, roughened by years but steady.
"I do. False charges. Lies that put me in Azkaban without so much as a trial."
A stir swept through the crowd. Fudge immediately shifted, face reddening.
"Lies? Thirteen years ago, you betrayed the Potters to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, murdered Peter Pettigrew, and killed twelve Muggles in the street!"
Sirius's lips curved into a sardonic sneer. "And yet, here I am—alive, sane enough to say what none of you bothered to listen to then."
Dumbledore interjected gently, "We are here to listen now. Tell us, Mr.Black: why did you escape Azkaban after twelve years?"
The room fell into silence, every wizard and witch leaning in. Sirius's grey eyes darkened.
"I escaped because I saw him," he said, voice tightening. "In a photograph. A rat. Not just any rat—but an Animagus. Peter Pettigrew. Alive. Hiding in plain sight as a pet."
A wave of murmurs surged like a storm tide.
Dumbledore inclined his head. "And what led you to believe this rat was indeed Peter Pettigrew?"
Sirius's jaw tightened. "Because we were friends once. I know his Animagus form. A filthy rat, missing a toe. That same rat lived for years in the Weasley family home. I would know him anywhere."
At this, Fudge burst forward, fists slamming onto the desk.
"Utter nonsense! Pettigrew died a hero, a martyr of the last war! He gave his life stopping you, Black, when you would have slaughtered Muggles in the street!"