The morning owls came later than usual that week — the skies over Britain were heavy with rain, and the news they carried was heavier still.
Harry read The Daily Prophet over toast that had gone cold, his expression unreadable.
Pettigrew Alive — Ministry Reopens Inquiry into the Potter Case.
Fudge Cautions Public to "Await Official Confirmation."
Black's Guilt Under Review, Sources Say.
It was all there — the truth, rewritten into uncertainty.
Hermione's hands trembled as she read. "They're twisting it," she said. "They're already trying to soften it. Look at this— they're calling Pettigrew a possible imposter! How can they deny what they saw?"
Ron slammed the paper down. "They're scared they'll look stupid!"
"They already do," Harry muttered, and Hermione glared at him even though she agreed.
Harry looked toward the empty head table. Dumbledore wasn't there again. Neither was McGonagall.
He didn't need to ask where they were.
⸻
At the Ministry, Dumbledore's patience wore thin.
He'd presented Pensieve memories, Veritaserum confessions, and sworn testimony from Hogwarts staff. Still, the Wizengamot stalled.
Some claimed procedural irregularities. Others insisted on "psychological verification." Fudge himself, ever the politician, wanted time to "manage public stability."
In truth, Dumbledore realized, it was fear. Fear of admitting that the Ministry had left an innocent man to rot.
Fudge wrung his bowler hat nervously as they left another "hearing." "You have to understand, Albus — this kind of revelation could collapse confidence in Magical Law! It would ruin the Department of Magical Justice!"
Dumbledore gave him a long, quiet look. "Then perhaps," he said softly, "the Department of Magical Justice should concern itself with justice."
Fudge paled. "I—I'll need more time."
"Time," Dumbledore murmured, "is something Sirius Black has already paid more of than any man deserves."
⸻
Back at Hogwarts, Harry trained.
He didn't speak of the Ministry's silence, but the tension showed in every spell he cast. His wand flicks were sharper, his voice steadier.
The Defence Circle — as the other students had begun calling it — met every other night now.
At first, it had been small.
Now it was growing.
Seamus, Dean, Neville, the Creevey brothers — even a few Ravenclaws had joined after hearing whispers of "Potter's private training."
Hermione was both exasperated and secretly proud. "We'll have to start organizing lessons properly," she said one evening. "Schedules, topics, rotating dueling partners—"
Harry smiled faintly. "You just want to make a syllabus."
She huffed. "Someone has to keep you from turning this into a glorified brawl."
Ron grinned. "It's already better than Lockhart's class."
Lockhart himself was still blustering about his upcoming Defensive Demonstrations in the Great Hall. But since his last stunt had resulted in him accidentally hexing his own robes translucent, even his most ardent fans (Hermione included, reluctantly) were beginning to doubt.
When Lockhart stopped Harry one afternoon in the corridor, all gleaming teeth and cologne, and asked, "My dear boy, perhaps you'd like to demonstrate a few of my dueling techniques for the second-years?", Harry smiled politely and said, "You'd better demonstrate them yourself, Professor. I'm sure they'd be unforgettable."
They were — mostly for the laughter that followed.
⸻
It was a week later, long past curfew, when Harry sensed the familiar pulse of old magic — the kind that hummed like an echo through the air.
He turned toward the window of the Gryffindor common room. The faint pop of apparition followed.
"Harry Potter, sir," came a soft, reverent voice.
Harry smiled. "Dobby."
The house-elf bowed so deeply his nose brushed the carpet. "Dobby could not stay away, sir — Dobby came to say thank you. Hogwarts feels different now. Safe. Still, Dobby wanted Harry Potter to know — there are whispers. In the kitchens, in the corridors. Some say the Ministry watches you now."
Harry's expression sharpened. "Let them."
"Dobby also heard — the Ministry delays freeing the innocent man."
Harry looked away, toward the flames. "They'll delay until someone makes them stop."
⸻
Winter crept closer. The lake froze. The halls smelled of fir and cinnamon.
Students fretted about exams and Quidditch standings.
The first snow of December fell in soft drifts against the tower windows.
An owl arrived during dinner, regal and slow. It landed in front of Harry, parchment sealed with blue wax.
From the Desk of Albus Dumbledore
Harry,
The Ministry has chosen silence over truth. But silence cracks faster than denial. Fudge trembles, Bones pushes, and the Wizengamot begins to stir. Sirius will not be forgotten.
In the meantime, continue your work. The castle grows stronger under your hand. You are teaching Hogwarts to remember its courage.
Yours, always,
A.D.
Harry read it twice, folded it carefully, and tucked it into his pocket.
Then he looked around the hall — at the chatter, the laughter, the flickering candles.
For a moment, it almost looked like peace.
But beneath it all, he could feel the faint hum of the world shifting — small, steady, inevitable.
And when he finally spoke, it was to himself.
"Alright, Sirius," he murmured, "hold on just a little longer."
⸻
End of Chapter 53 — Freedom Deferred