The Wizengamot was already restless after Harry, Hermione, and Ron's testimonies. Purple-robed witches whispered to each other, the silver-threaded chains of their office clinking faintly whenever one leaned forward in agitation. The tension had grown thick enough that even the enchanted torches on the walls flickered lower, as though straining under the weight of so much political maneuvering.
Eira sat with Fleur beside her in their reserved seats for guests of status. The White crest embroidered on her robes gleamed faintly, and though her posture was calm, her sharp eyes missed nothing. She could feel the waves of resistance already building from the pure-blood bloc. The Malfoys, Notts, and Averys muttered among themselves; even the Greengrasses looked reluctant. They wanted no part in supporting Sirius Black—not when his freedom would upset alliances carefully tended since the war's end.
Lucius Malfoy rose elegantly, cane tapping against the stone floor as though he owned the chamber itself.
"Minister Fudge speaks with sense," he drawled, his pale hair shining under the magical lamps. "What are we to believe? The emotional outbursts of Potter, whose judgment is questionable at best, and whose… temper has already been displayed here? The shaky recollections of children? Or perhaps we should hang our faith on the word of a werewolf?"
A ripple of agreement ran through several families.
Harry bristled at the insult, half-rising from his seat before Hermione clutched his arm and hissed, "Harry, don't—please don't." His face flushed red with the effort of holding back his anger.
Minister Cornelius Fudge seized the moment, puffing himself up with a self-satisfied air. His lime-green bowler hat was perched precariously on the bench beside him, as though even it were tired of his bluster.
"You see?" Fudge exclaimed, gesturing grandly. "The boy cannot contain himself for a single moment, and yet we are to take his testimony as proof? Ladies and gentlemen of the Wizengamot, this is nothing but conjecture. No evidence has been provided—none whatsoever—beyond the ramblings of three students and a dangerous half-breed who isn't even here."
He slammed his palm on the desk. "Give me proof! Bring forth something solid, something undeniable, and only then will we entertain these wild stories about Peter Pettigrew being alive."
The court descended into murmurs—some scoffing, some murmuring agreement, others frowning at the spectacle.
And then—
"I have proof."
The words were clear, ringing, distinctly feminine. Heads turned sharply, necks craning to find the source.
At the far end of the gallery, a woman had risen to her feet. She was striking—tall, with waves of dark auburn hair cascading over her shoulders. Her robes were cut in an unfamiliar style, sleek lines of deep navy trimmed with bronze, giving her an air both professional and distinctly foreign. She carried herself with confidence, shoulders squared, chin lifted, and when she spoke again, her voice carried a faint lilt—American.
"I have proof," she repeated, louder this time, so no one could doubt her words.
A hush fell over the chamber.
Minister Fudge blinked rapidly, then spluttered. "Wh—who in Merlin's name are you?" He jabbed a stubby finger at her. "Who allowed an outsider into the Wizengamot? This is a court of British law, madam, not a—"
The woman only smiled, lips curving in cool amusement.
"My name is Eleanor Boot," she said smoothly. "And before you ask—yes, of that Boot family. Though I live across the Atlantic now. I'm here today not as a representative of my family, but as a journalist."
Her words landed like a spark in dry tinder. Wizengamot members broke into whispers.
"A Boot? From America?"
"A journalist—Merlin's beard, how scandalous—"
"Why is she here—who allowed—"
Fudge's face turned an alarming shade of red. "Journalist? Journalist? This is preposterous! Who gave you the right to meddle in the affairs of the British Ministry?"
Eleanor's smile did not falter. She folded her hands lightly before her, as though humoring a tantrum-throwing child.
"Minister Fudge," she said, her American accent crisp and deliberate, "under international magical law, open hearings are precisely that—open. Journalists are allowed to attend, regardless of nationality. This court was declared public, not sealed. You may not like my presence, but it is perfectly legal. And," she tilted her head, eyes gleaming, "you will find it very useful. Because unlike hearsay, unlike rumors, unlike the prejudice against children and werewolves—I bring you tangible evidence."
The chamber erupted into gasps.
Dumbledore's eyes softened as he addressed the room. "Under the law, she would not ordinarily be permitted here, regardless of her nationality or ethnicity. However, as a journalist, Mrs. Boot may attend the proceedings."
All eyes turned to the woman, who smiled with quiet assurance.
"Thank you, Headmaster," she said. "As you know, during the exam period at Hogwarts, I attended the school for an interview with you—and, in particular, with some of the students. You approved this at the time, did you not?"
Dumbledore inclined his head. "Indeed, I did, as Headmaster of Hogwarts."
Eleanor Boot's smile widened, her confidence palpable. "Very well. On the day of the incident, when Mr. Black was captured, I was present at a distance. Using my magical camera, I captured several photographs of the events as they unfolded. I now present these as evidence. I am certain they will confirm the truth."
Fudge's fists clenched, knuckles white. "Evidence? What evidence could you possibly have? A mere photos that can be forged."
At that, Eleanor reached into her satchel—a sleek, enchanted leather case—and withdrew a stack of enchanted photographs, the kind that shimmered and moved faintly in the torchlight. She held them carefully, almost reverently, before passing them to the nearest usher.
"Distribute these to the court, if you please," she instructed.
The usher, clearly aware of the gravity of the moment, complied without hesitation. One by one, members of the Wizengamot received their copies. Even Eira was handed one.
When Eira's eyes fell on the moving image, her breath caught. Fleur leaned in, her hand brushing Eira's wrist as they both examined it.
The photograph depicted chaos under a pale moon. In the frame, a twisted, moving tree swayed ominously, its branches shifting as if sensing the events unfolding beneath it. In front of the tree stood a werewolf, snarling and tense. Shielding Harry and Ron behind her, Hermione faced the creature with determined courage. Nearby, Sirius Black hovered close, his posture protective, as if keeping the werewolf in check.
On the other side of the scene, a short, stout man clutched his wand. In a shimmer of magic, he transformed before the camera's lens—from man to rat in an instant.
Eleanor Boot's voice rang out confidently. "As you can see in the photo, multiple people are present. That man—this short, fat figure—is Peter Pettigrew. I have spent this week cross-referencing every available image of Pettigrew, and I can confirm beyond doubt: this is him."
The courtroom erupted into pandemonium.
"That's him—that's Pettigrew!"
"Impossible! He was dead—"
"Animagus—illegal animagus!"
"Merlin's beard, it's undeniable!"
Fudge snatched a photo from a colleague, eyes bulging as he stared at it. His lips trembled. "This—this could be fabricated! Illusion work! Forgery!"
"Check it," Eleanor said coolly. "I invite you. The authenticity spells will prove it genuine."
Fudge gestured wildly to a specialist seated near the benches—a squat wizard in silver-rimmed spectacles. "Well? Go on then, test it!"
The wizard muttered charms, his wand glowing over the photograph. Runes shimmered briefly, then settled. The man looked up, swallowing nervously.
"It's authentic, Minister. No tampering. No forgery. These images are genuine."
A ripple of awe and shock spread through the courtroom.
Dumbledore, who had been silent all this while, leaned forward, his blue eyes glinting like the stars themselves. A faint smile played at the corner of his lips.
"It appears, Minister," he said softly, "that we do indeed have proof."
Eira's gaze flicked between Eleanor Boot and the Wizengamot. Her mind raced. So the Americans have chosen this moment to intervene… bold. Sirius Black will not only gain a chance at freedom, but Britain's internal politics are about to become entangled with foreign influence. She narrowed her eyes slightly. A calculated move. Very calculated.
Beside her, Fleur whispered, "So zat is ze truth. Peter Pettigrew… alive all zis time. Mon dieu."
Eira only nodded, her expression unreadable.
Down below, Sirius Black himself stared at the photo copies with a mixture of vindication and raw pain. His chest heaved as though the weight of thirteen years was being ripped away and replaced with something almost foreign: hope.
Eleanor Boot, meanwhile, remained standing, serene and self-assured. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said, her voice ringing out, "the man you thought dead for more than a decade lives still. The evidence is before your eyes. And with that, I rest my case."