Nine o'clock sharp.
Blake and Dumbledore arrived at the Ministry of Magic on time. At the reception desk, they found Sirius waiting.
He wore an exquisite set of robes—slightly ill-fitting.
"You noticed too?" Sirius said, patting his clothes. "I only just went back home, and this was the only set in good shape. Used to fit me well."
Years in Azkaban had changed him. Now thin and worn, his old robes hung loosely on his frame.
"Not a big problem," Blake said.
With a quick flick of his wand—whoosh!—Sirius's robes instantly tightened, tailored perfectly.
Sirius stretched his arms in surprise. "What curse is that? Can you teach it to me?"
Blake put away his wand. "Magic is the power of idealism. There's no specific spell."
His wand, the Ruyi (Wish-Fulfilling Wand), responded directly to intent. It bypassed incantations, turning Blake's magic into silent, will-driven execution.
"Magic as idealism…" Dumbledore stroked his beard. Instantly, the once wiry strands softened into a silky wave.
"Aha! I think I've grasped it," Dumbledore chuckled. "Will alone... Blake, you've touched the essence of magic."
Blake eyed the professor's suddenly glamorous beard and took a cautious step back.
"Already mastered it?" he asked.
"I can't be too far behind, can I?" Dumbledore grinned.
Sirius watched the two—the eccentric old wizard and the prodigious young one—with quiet exasperation. He tugged at his own robe, hoping for a magical change.
Nothing.
"Albus, you're here! Come in!" Dean Bohan called from inside the Ministry.
Bohan had nominated Blake for today's honor and came personally to attend.
As they approached the interior, a Ministry clerk at the reception stopped them. "Visitors must register their wands."
Bohan gestured to Dumbledore. "Surely you know him."
"Of course," the clerk said sheepishly. "But these two…"
Blake said nothing. Rules were rules.
He handed over his wand. Sirius, meanwhile, waved his hands. "I don't have one. Lost it in Azkaban. Unless you think they let us keep wands in there."
The clerk recognized Sirius and ignored his sarcasm. Then he examined Blake's wand—but his quill hovered above the parchment, unmoving.
He couldn't identify the material.
A wandology expert, he prided himself on recognizing wand woods and cores instantly. But this one... it lacked any discernible traits. No magic aura, no texture he could classify.
If he hadn't seen Blake use it, he'd have thought it was a stick.
"Excuse me... what is your wand made of?" the clerk asked hesitantly.
"Ebony," Blake replied calmly. "Core's phoenix tail feather."
Hissss... The clerk frowned. "That's impossible… wait…"
He blinked. Suddenly, the wand transformed. It now clearly looked like ebony, and the magical signature matched.
His eyes widened. It changed because Blake said so?
He glanced at Sirius, who looked ready to snap. Best not to ask more questions.
"Ebony, phoenix tail feather, fifteen inches, very long, very elastic," he recited, scribbling quickly.
He returned the wand, but continued staring at Blake's retreating figure.
A dull-looking wizard appeared beside him, tapping his shoulder. "Got the wand data?"
"Y-yeah. Here."
The stranger took one look and turned to leave.
"Wait! That wand's not normal," the clerk whispered.
Blake, now inside, was surprised to find a charming open-air garden. The Ministry's underground location made it unexpected. But like the starry sky at Hogwarts, the open sky was just a projection.
Many guests had gathered already. Dumbledore nodded at a few, introducing them as Wizengamot members—mostly elderly, but a few younger faces mingled.
Suddenly, Blake felt a hostile gaze. He turned.
A thin, lopsided-faced wizard glared at him. His nose was flat, eyes uneven, ears verging on elf-sized. His robe was ill-fitted, fingers adorned with oversized gold rings. A walking caricature of nouveau riche.
The man sneered and looked away.
Blake turned to an old gentleman nearby. "Sir, is that Mr. Shafiq?"
The man, recognizing Blake, brightened. "Yes, indeed. And you must be Blake! I'm Effias Dorje, Dumbledore's old schoolmate and special Wizengamot advisor."
"Thank you, Mr. Dorje. You're very kind," Blake replied sweetly.
Dorje chuckled. "You may call me Dorje. You remind me of a young Dumbledore."
A friend of Dumbledore from school? That meant Dorje had to be immensely powerful. Blake was honored.
"Don't mind Shafiq," Dorje said. "Some pure-blood families are… narrow-minded. Today is your day. Don't let them sour it."
Blake appreciated the warmth. "I won't."
He'd guessed Shafiq's identity from his twisted features—a product of generations of incest and pure-blood fanaticism. Unlike the Malfoys, who preached purity but secretly intermarried with Muggles, the Shafiqs truly believed it.
Shafiq's hostility made sense. His plan to block Sirius's return had been foiled by Blake's teleportation method. Goblins backing him were furious, and Blake's invention got the credit. Of course he'd hold a grudge.
Dorje guided Blake to meet several other Wizengamot members.
Then Dumbledore, beard now smooth as silk, stepped up to the stage.
As Chief Warlock, he opened the ceremony. After a short address, the medal presentation began.
The Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, handed out the honors.
Blake watched with amusement as Fudge forced a smile while pinning a medal onto Sirius.
Sirius took the stage.
"I don't have much to say about this medal," he said. "Everyone knows why I got it. I'm glad my name's cleared. But I survived. Others didn't."
He paused.
"If I could trade this medal—and my last ten years—for the lives of those who fought beside me... I would."
The crowd applauded solemnly.
Then it was Blake's turn.
Standing before the crowd, he felt a rush of energy—like at his last Hogwarts speech. Every cell in his body seemed to hum with excitement.
Whoa. I think I like this.
He cleared his throat. This wasn't a revolution speech. Just say a few words.
"Ahem. Hello, everyone. Some of you may find me unfamiliar… or think I'm too young to earn this honor."
"Haha! You don't deserve it!" a hoarse voice jeered from the crowd.