A few days later, The Daily Prophet published a series of even more explosive front-page headlines:
Front Page (Day One): "Shocking Reversal! Peter Pettigrew Captured, True Traitor Who Betrayed the Potters Brought to Justice!"
Sub-headline: Ministry of Magic Confirms: Sirius Black Wrongfully Imprisoned for Twelve Years, Retrial Process Initiated Immediately! Former "Hero" Peter Exposed as Lord Voldemort's Minion!
Front Page (Day Two): "Order of Merlin, First Class Revoked! Peter Pettigrew's Honour Deemed a Historic Error!"
Sub-headline: Joint Statement from the Ministry of Magic and the Order of Merlin: Peter's Fraudulent Actions Tainted the Highest Honour, Medal Recalled Immediately, Permanent Expulsion Announced!
Front Page (Day Three): "Ministry of Magic Issues Apology! Minister Fudge Promises Thorough Review of Sirius Black's Case, Judicial Fairness a Top Priority!"
Sub-headline: Cornelius Fudge: "I offer my deepest apologies for the immense suffering inflicted upon Mr. Black. He will be fully compensated, and we will ensure that such tragedies never occur again."
Each issue was like a massive stone hurled into a placid lake, stirring an unprecedented storm throughout the wizarding world.
Shock, outrage, uproar, doubts about the Ministry of Magic, and sympathy for Sirius Black swept through every corner of society.
And the name "Peter Pettigrew" became completely synonymous with "betrayal," "cowardice," and "disgrace."
The golden light of the setting sun bathed the ancient tower, casting a warm glow over the cold stone bricks.
Harry and Sirius Black stood side by side on the covered bridge, gazing out at the Forbidden Forest, dyed in crimson and gold, and the distant lake.
Black had changed into clothes that, though ill-fitting, were clean and tidy. His grey eyes shone with renewed vitality, reflecting the light of the setting sun.
"It feels… strange."
Black's voice was still a little hoarse, but his tone was more relaxed than it had ever been, even carrying a faint smile. "To be able to watch people pass by openly, without having to hide anymore, without fearing the fear and hatred in their eyes."
Harry nodded, a smile forming on his lips as well. "It's a good kind of strange."
He paused, then said softly, "Welcome back, Sirius."
Black's body visibly trembled. He turned to look at Harry, and a thin sheen of moisture immediately welled in his eyes.
"Thank you, Harry." Black's voice caught. "Thank you for… stopping me back then. You were right. Being alive, living freely, is more important than killing that rat."
He gazed into the distance and let out a long breath, as though expelling all the stale air that had been trapped in his chest for twelve years.
"What do you plan to do next?" Harry asked.
"The Ministry of Magic's procedures will take some time. Formal exoneration, the return of my property… a whole pile of troublesome matters."
Black shrugged, his tone carrying a boyish nonchalance. "But that fellow Fudge is probably desperate to get rid of me, this 'jinx,' to placate public opinion. Once everything settles down…"
He looked at Harry, his grey eyes glinting with warm light. "I want to properly clean up that gloomy old house at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, and bring some life back into it. You might not know this, Harry, but I'm your godfather, and perhaps… perhaps I should prepare a room for you. Of course, that's only if you're willing…"
Harry's heart was flooded with a surge of warmth. He nodded vigorously without a moment's hesitation, his smile brighter than the setting sun itself. "I'm willing. Very willing."
Black smiled as well, a genuine, wholehearted smile, one stripped of every burden.
He looked once more at the red sun sinking toward the horizon, his voice deep and filled with strength.
"Yes, living in the sunlight… it feels absolutely bloody amazing."
…
When Peter Pettigrew was escorted out of Hogwarts by Aurors from the Ministry of Magic, he was little more than a breathing corpse.
At first, the pitiful remnant of magic within him was not even enough to keep him standing. He had to be dragged along like a sack of rotting potatoes.
The small eyes that had once flickered with cunning and terror now held only utter desolation and emptiness. Even the bone-chilling presence of the Dementors drew no more than a faint twitch from him.
At the trial, Minister Fudge spoke at length, announcing that Peter would be imprisoned in the deepest level of Azkaban, where he would await the final judgment of the Dementor's Kiss.
The courtroom seethed with fury, curses nearly drowning out his words.
Yet Peter listened in a daze. He felt no anger, no fear, only a profound emptiness. Sagres had not only drained his magic, but also the last trace of vitality he possessed as a person, even as a wizard.
He was refuse, waiting to be discarded.
The trial would last several days, and each day he would be forced to drink Veritaserum, answering the same questions again and again before the court.
The Ministry of Magic's cold, oppressive temporary holding cell became, for Peter Pettigrew, a brief respite.
The bone-deep chill brought by the Dementors was terrifying, but at least he no longer had to face those hateful stares, nor worry about someone draining what little magic he had left.
He curled up in a corner, greedily breathing in the thin but unrestrained air, praying for the trial to arrive quickly, for the Dementor's Kiss to end it all. That hollow kiss seemed preferable to the living hell of fear he was enduring now.
However, fate appeared to believe that the punishment of this traitor was still not complete.
Late at night, when the Auror on duty briefly left his post due to an "accidental" disturbance, a dark shadow, like molten asphalt, silently slid into the holding cell.
The shadow found Peter with uncanny precision. Just as he was about to scream, a large hand covered in thick calluses and carrying a faint scent of blood clamped tightly over his mouth.
"Quiet, you filthy rat."
A vicious voice whispered close to Peter's ear, laced with undisguised disgust and menace.
Peter's eyes flew wide in terror. By the faint light seeping in from the corridor, he clearly saw the intruder's face: lean, severe, and eerily numb.
Walton Macnair.
The Chief Executioner of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures under the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, infamous for his cold efficiency in dealing with dangerous beings.
More importantly, Peter clearly remembered that this man had once been a follower of Lord Voldemort, one of the Death Eaters.
Macnair produced a large axe and brought it down with precise force on the shackles and chain around Peter's ankle.
Sparks flew as the specially crafted restraints were brutally severed.
At the same time, his other powerful hand clamped onto Peter's nape like an iron vice.
"Come with me, Wormtail."
The rough, hoarse voice sounded in Peter's ear, carrying the reek of a slaughterhouse.
Dragged along by that overwhelming force, Peter scraped across the floor like a torn sack, the sharp pain drawing faint, pitiful whimpers from his throat.
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