Truths of the Past.
The British Ministry of Magic.
The seat of power, where laws are written and broken, where each department watches over the delicate balance of the magical world. It is there that the regulations protecting wizards from being discovered by Muggles are established, and where decisions are made that affect every witch and wizard in the country.
Amelia Bones walked through the endless corridors with a stack of files in her arms. Her steps echoed firmly as she headed toward the central office, more precisely to the office of the Minister for Magic: Millicent Bagnold.
With a soft knock on the door, Amelia announced her arrival after skillfully evading the watchful secretary.
"Come in," a firm voice called from within.
Amelia entered, and the scene before her was the very picture of authority. A woman between fifty and sixty years old, her silver-gray hair pulled back into an elegant yet practical bun, awaited her behind the desk. Her blue eyes conveyed both intelligence and hardness, though the corners of her lips still hinted at someone who had once known how to laugh with ease. Her bottle-green robes, of classic cut, emphasized her solemn bearing. The office was covered in piles of papers, stacked in precarious columns, each of them meticulously read and signed with precision.
"Amelia. Strange to see you on your day off. Then again, a work addict like you would be impossible to drive out of here, wouldn't you?" Millicent remarked with dry humor and a trace of sarcasm.
"I'm sorry to take your time, Minister, but there's something important you must see." Amelia approached the desk with seriousness and placed the documents before her.
The Minister set aside the papers she had been holding, put down her quill, and extended a hand. Adjusting her glasses, she began to read in silence. Her frown deepened with each page until she finally stopped. A heavy silence filled the room before she raised her eyes to Amelia.
"Are you certain about this?" she asked gravely.
"Not entirely. It arrived at my house unexpectedly, as if from nowhere. I've already sent someone to investigate, but if this is true… an innocent man may be in Azkaban."
"It's more than that." Millicent drummed her fingers on the dark wood of the desk, her face thoughtful. "Investigate thoroughly. Leave nothing out. Discover the truth, but do it quietly. If this gets out, your promotion, your job… even mine could be in jeopardy. Understood? Do it quickly. I doubt a man can endure much more than he already has."
"Yes, Minister," Amelia replied with a firm nod before preparing to leave.
"Wait." Millicent's voice stopped her just before she reached the door. "Inform Dumbledore. He may be able to help you."
Amelia inclined her head in farewell and departed.
…
Hogwarts, the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Nestled among mountains and surrounded by a dark forest, it was a place where the young learned to master their powers, forged friendships that would last forever, and discovered that magic and knowledge were inseparable.
In one of its highest towers, the headmaster's office stood like a sanctuary of secrets.
"Are you certain, Miss Bones?" asked an elderly man with a long white beard that fell to his chest, clad in starry robes and a pointed hat that proclaimed "wizard" at first glance.
"Yes, Headmaster." Amelia spoke from the fireplace, her face appearing among the green flames of the Floo Network.
Dumbledore looked pensive, a shadow of worry crossing his features.
"Very well. I believe many will be eager to help you. But… would you allow me to speak with Sirius Black? Until now he has been denied all visits. However, since he was moved to a lower security wing, I might be able to secure that permission."
Amelia hesitated for a moment. "In truth, I already went in without asking the current warden, so it will be difficult. Still, in that wing the guards rotate every four hours. If I'm not mistaken, there's one particularly lax in his duties… at eight o'clock in the evening. Perhaps you should remind him that his job is to guard criminals. And, coincidentally, it's only a few minutes until eight."
"I see. How unfortunate. Then I'd better speak with that guard—after all, one should never neglect their duty." The conversation ended under a charged atmosphere.
Dumbledore turned back to his desk, sinking into silent thought, guilt flickering in his eyes. From one of the portraits on the wall, a gaze weighed on him. Looking up, he met the eyes of a former headmaster of Hogwarts. Phineas Nigellus Black quickly averted his gaze, pretending to study something else.
"Do you know something, Phineas?" Dumbledore asked gravely.
The portrait cleared his throat with disdain. "Albus, you know well that matters concerning the families of headmasters do not fall under the category of aiding Hogwarts. Unless they choose to reveal it themselves, it is not my place."
"You'd best not meddle. This has nothing to do with you or with the school. Remember, you are the headmaster of Hogwarts, not the guardian of the entire wizarding world," he added coldly.
Dumbledore's eyes gleamed behind his glasses with a sudden, icy light.
"You are right, Phineas. I am only the headmaster of a school, and the conflicts of pure-blood families are not mine to interfere with." His voice, however, carried a glacial edge. "But if any of my students are attacked, then not only as headmaster, but as a teacher, I will do everything in my power to protect them."
The portrait's frown deepened.
Dumbledore glanced calmly at the clock, then back at Phineas.
"As headmaster of Hogwarts, I forbid the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black from leaving its frame or communicating with anyone outside this school. You are bound to your magical contract of support and assistance to the headmaster."
The old man's voice resounded with unshakable weight, sealing the command with an air that chilled the room.
Several portraits of former headmasters looked at Dumbledore with surprise, then turned their eyes toward Phineas. Some even allowed sly, mocking smiles to creep onto their painted lips; after all, he had never been the most amiable among them, always placing his family above his past as headmaster.
"You've gone too far, Dumbledore," Phineas spat in contained fury.
"No. I'm making sure," the headmaster replied calmly as he walked to a corner of the office. There, on a perch, a phoenix of resplendent plumage trilled happily. "Would you take me, Fawkes?" Dumbledore asked with a gentle smile to his most treasured companion.
The portraits watched intently as the headmaster vanished, consumed in a blaze of crimson flames that devoured the office and left behind a heavy silence.
Phineas, his face twisted with rage, turned away, unwilling to meet the eyes of the other portraits.
…
Far away, a cursed island rose in the midst of the raging sea. Waves crashed violently against the dark cliffs, and the sky, shrouded in black clouds, seemed to sink upon the earth itself. At its peak, a colossal tower stood like a scar on the horizon, as ancient as it was sinister, surrounded by shadows that cut across the night with inhuman shrieks.
From time to time, harrowing wails rose from within, carried away by the wind like voices that should never exist.
A red flash briefly illuminated the stormy night.
Inside one of the cells lay a man reduced to a specter. His long, tangled hair obscured part of a sunken face; his tattered clothes hung from a famished body, his arms so thin they looked ready to snap. His skin was so pale that, if not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, one might have mistaken him for a corpse. His eyes, sunken and lifeless, remained fixed on nothing, his mouth half open as if he had forgotten how to close his lips.
At the door, untouched food piled up. He had not eaten. But in Azkaban, the cruelest curses ensured the prisoners remained alive. To starve did not mean to die—it only prolonged their agony, multiplying the torment day after day while the Dementors fed on what little remained of their spirit.
Dumbledore approached the iron bars, and for an instant, guilt clouded his eyes at the sight of what this man had become. In his mind, a memory flashed like a mirage: four young men running through the corridors of Hogwarts, chased by furious teachers. They had been chaotic, rebellious, but inseparable. They laughed even in the midst of punishments, bound by an indestructible bond that had endured danger and pain.
"Hello, Sirius," Dumbledore said softly.
The prisoner barely reacted. He shifted his gaze toward him slowly, his mouth still ajar, and then returned his eyes to the ceiling, lost in the void.
Dumbledore watched him in silence, searching for the right words. It was not easy. The sight struck him with a force he had not expected.
On the day Sirius Black was arrested, he had done nothing. All his effort, all his attention, had been placed on protecting Harry and supporting the magical world that staggered after Voldemort's fall. Sirius had been sent directly to Azkaban—without a trial, without a defense. By the time Dumbledore tried to intervene, it was already too late.
The guilt had haunted him ever since. He knew that if he had pressed harder, if he had put his political weight and influence behind that young man he had watched grow at Hogwarts, he might have changed his fate. But he hadn't.
And to make matters worse, when Sirius had been interrogated in the early days of his arrest, the only thing he repeated, with a vacant stare, was: "I killed him. He deserved it." As though his mind had shattered into pieces.
Now, years later, that weight pressed upon Dumbledore more heavily than ever. He stood before a former student, a man reduced to an empty shell, perhaps unjustly imprisoned from the very beginning.
"Sirius," he began gravely, "Amelia has found some leads… evidence sent anonymously, suggesting you may be innocent. I need you to tell me what happened that night. If you cooperate, perhaps we can get you out of here."
The man did not react. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, as though the word freedom no longer held any meaning.
Dumbledore sighed, wondering if another approach would be needed.
"Sirius," he said in a more personal tone, "your best friend died… and his wife with him. But they left behind their little boy. If I'm not mistaken, you're his godfather, aren't you?"
Something broke in the silence. Sirius's eyes shifted heavily to focus on him. His gaunt face twitched with a strange tremor: buried memories resurfaced, mingled with devastating sorrow, corrosive guilt, and dulled hatred. Yet above all, the image of a child emerged.
Tears streaked down his pale cheeks. His mouth quivered as though he had forgotten how to form words.
"Ha… Harry," he whispered, his voice cracked and harsh from years of silence. "Harry…" he repeated, as though that single name was the only thing keeping him alive.
"Sirius, I need you to tell me what happened that night," Dumbledore pressed, keeping his voice steady. "We can help you. But I need the truth."
The prisoner trembled again. His lips parted, but no words came. Only that name escaped him, like a painful mantra:
"Harry…"
Dumbledore inclined his head, understanding.
"Don't worry. He's safe. I sent him to his Muggle relatives… because the magical world was still far too dangerous for him. It still is. I don't want him to be found—not even I approach him. Arabella is the only one watching closely, and our contact is brief, only messages confirming that he's well. If anything ever happened, she would send an immediate alert."
He paused, his voice heavy with gravity.
"We must wait. When the time comes, Harry will return to the magical world. And by then, I hope that man's followers will have abandoned their cause. For now, it is best that he remains hidden."
…
Meanwhile, in the Jackson household, the scene was very different.
Harry zoomed through the living room on a children's training broomstick, laughing uncontrollably as Percy chased him on another. Their improvised race ended with lamps crashing down and vases shattering across the floor.
"Harry! Percy!" Sally shouted, bursting in just in time to see the chaos. Her face was a mixture of anger and resignation as the two boys hurriedly landed with mischievous grins.
The sentence was swift: punishment for both. And though they protested, the smiles tugging at their lips betrayed them—for to them, every second of mischief had been worth it.