Daily Prophet, Morning Edition
By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent
BLACK SUN RISES OVER WIZENGAMOT
Arcturus Black takes the chair and clears an innocent
Readers, adjust your spectacles and your expectations. The Wizengamot did not meander yesterday. It moved.
First, the chamber decided who would keep the keys. The Minister's chair was empty, the murmurs were not. The Neutrals rose and named Lord Arcturus Black. Progressives namedLord Ogden and Traditionalist Lord Selwyn. Wands lit red like a sunrise to select Lord Black when it was time to vote. With practiced economy, Lord Black allowed Lord Selwyn to serve as the Traditionalist candidate, a neat stalking horse that exposed how naive the Progressive benches have become. Lord Tiberius Ogden gathered like minded votes. The tally was not even close. As a result Interim Minister Arcturus Black placed his palm upon the old stone, spoke the oath without embroidery and the chamber remembered what order feels like. Some men chase applause. Lord Black chases outcomes.
With a Minister seated, the broom turned to the mess. Cornelius Fudge arrived heavy with guilt and even heavier fear. Charges were read, the list ran long. Then came the word that stiffens a spine. Treason. He pleaded guilty before the chamber could yawn. Under the old and might this reporter add, perfectly valid statutes, his glittering piles of coin and comfort slid across the floor to the Ministry ledger, a small mercy left to the family purse. Life in Azkaban was chosen rather than the Veil as Lord Black's personal touch of showing mercy.
Lord Malfoy, who was in custody with Lord Nott, discovered that generosity is such a freeing habit when it is encouraged. A mountain of donations and fines later, he left the chamber a paler shade of elegant, and two doors lighter in the Alley. Lord Nott brought no mountain. The Ministry was understanding enough to accept scenic acreage near Hogwarts and reminded him that Azkaban keeps tidy rooms for short stays.
The unusual session continued with DMLE gets breath, spine, and a budget with a future. Minister Black tripled Madam Bones's budget, thanks to a donation from an upstanding citizen, energetically encouraged by the old statutes. Recruitment. Training. Standards that look like something from a serious country rather than a school picnic. One can almost imagine Aurors spending more time keeping us safe and less time wrestling requisition forms. A thrilling concept.
Then came the moment that will make even hard hearts soften. Sirius Black stood again as a free man. He sat thirteen years in Azkaban without a trial. Thirteen winters of cold stone and colder company of dementaors. Under Veritaserum he spoke and the chamber listened what it should have asked a decade ago. Chains fell. The vote was clear. When the question of compensation followed, the new Minister did not even blink. One hundred thousand galleons for each stolen year, to be paid by the officers who failed the law they swore to serve. Gringotts will audit the transfer. Coin, deeds, and artefacts will count said Minister Black. The air changed when the names were marked for the bill. Accountability dear readers, has returned to fashion.
As if these were not enough for one sitting, the benches turned on the rat who betrayed, lied and sold. Peter Pettigrew, styled a hero after his theatrical disappearance, still breathes the air of honest folk. His Order of Merlin, First Class, has been placed on the block for annulment. A suitable end for a ribbon given to a ghost. This reporter was not surprised that previous management not only failed to uphold the law; they even decorated the culprit.
And what is the price for a traitor's head? Here is where character shows. The Chief Warlock announced five thousand galleons for the capture of the man who sold the Potters to He Who Must Not Be Named. Five thousand, dear readers. For a liar and an Animagus who can sleep in a nursery toy box. The benches made a polite sound. Newly seated Lord Rosier, yes he is none other then Corvus Black, did not. He smiled the smile of a young man who understands both what is at stake and the danger it represents. Good luck finding him for that, he said, the chamber heard him. Minister Black listened. He added more than coins to the purse. Two Diagon Alley shops will pass to the lawful captor who delivers Pettigrew alive to the DMLE. That is a figure that loosens tongues. That is a figure that respects the safety of ordinary witches and wizards. We are fortunate to have Lords Black and Rosier looking out for us, rather than men who prefer platitudes to protection. This reporter sleeps better now, knowing who is leading the country.
--
Corvus let the Prophet lie where it fell and laughed softly at Skeeter's barbs. "She sharpened the quill today," he said. He turned to Arcturus. "I hope he mends quickly. It will be better to keep him close for a while. I suspect Dumbledore will try to contact him."
Arcturus's mouth tilted. "I doubt it. I Will meet with Selwyn and Avery this morning. The Wizengamot will be busy for the foreseeable future. Now that I am in the Minister's chair there is a great deal to repair and I have the tools to do it." He drank his tea and set the cup down with care. "On another note, Norway is on track. Expect good news, soon they will reach you. The acolytes in Russia and Bulgaria are moving as well. Structures will settle there soon enough."
Corvus nodded. The syndicates had filled the coffers to a comfortable line. Gold was not a problem. Arcturus spent it like a builder.
"Friday is your seventeenth birthday," Arcturus said. He looked at his heir as if measuring a suit. "You, I, Vinda, and Sirius will be here. You are to become an adult in the eyes of Mother Magic."
The door opened as he finished his sentence. Sirius drifted still in his sleepwear and a dazed look on his face. Arcturus raised an eyebrow.
"It is a comfort," Arcturus said dryly, "to see that even a decade in Azkaban was not enough to improve your disdain for wizarding etiquette. However, unlike the woman you called mother, I do not shout. You will behave like a Black, or you will find somewhere else to behave like an animal in its natural habitat."
Sirius blinked. "Good morning?" he tried in a tone that is unsure what to say.
Corvus flicked his wand. Cloth straightened and darkened, and Sirius found himself in a proper black robe. "Sit," Corvus said, and the chair pulled itself out a hand's width. "Healers will be here today. They will check you and start to undo what Azkaban did. Mind healers as included."
Sirius nodded once. He stared at the table for a breath. "Corvus," he said, "that parchment you had me sign.."
"I did not have you sign anything," Corvus cut in, the tone mild. "You offered a reward. I set it in ink so you would not change your mind, as I suspect you already have."
Sirius ran a hand through his hair. "Is it possible to renegotiate. Perhaps half instead of the whole. You could call it a favour to family."
"You wish," Arcturus said. "Corvus out bargained Tornhook. You would have a better chance with him than with this one."
Sirius's shoulders sagged. "My mouth," he muttered.
"Your mouth," Arcturus agreed. "Learn to place it behind your brain."
A tray appeared with a chime. Tea, toast, eggs, a small heap of fruit. Sirius reached for the tea and paused, then took the cup with both hands as if relearning the shape of ordinary things. Corvus watched him. This man will be remade. He wanted Sirius Black to be sharp enforcer, not a material for jokes.
"Eat," Corvus said. "The healers will prod you all day. You will allow them. Do not play for pride. It wastes time."
Sirius nodded and started to nibble. The first sip steadied him. "What happens now," he asked, "besides healers and all."
"Now we build," Arcturus said. "The chamber will keep moving. The departments will fall into our hands or into the fire. The DMLE will breathe again. The bounty will draw the right sort of attention when Corvus shows with the Rat. Our friends abroad are making ready. You will recover and remember that we are a family that protects its own."
Sirius looked up. For a moment he was young enough to be the boy who ran through these halls with laughter in his mouth... If he takes out the years he rotted in Azkaban. "I will try," he said.
"You will do," Arcturus answered.
Corvus lifted the Prophet and folded it once. "Rita will sing as we proceed," he said. "and we will not only let her, we will support her. We will give her things worth singing about." He set the paper aside and stood.
Sirius nodded. The robe sat right on his shoulders now. He ate in quick, neat bites like a man who had remembered that meals end. Arcturus watched for a moment longer and then turned back to the read some reports from the Squibs in the syndicates that were waiting.
"Norway first," he said to Corvus. "Then the rest."
"Then the rest," Corvus agreed.
--
Days passed and Yule break came. Corvus stayed at Grimmauld Place with Vinda Rosier, Arcturus and Sirius Black. The drawing room carried the comfortable hum of fire and conversation. They argued politics, coin, and academics in equal turns. Vinda corrected Sirius with her usual precision. Arcturus weighed outcomes with the same calm that now moved the benches. Corvus added details here and there. Sirious on the other hand listened, asked the awkward questions, and took quiet notes.
He had been seen by three separate healers. The results were plain and not kind. Body mass low. Magic unstable. Effects of being close to Dementors for this long has devestated his mind as well. Dementor exposure markers were not kind nor easy to repair. Malnutrition confirmed. The regimen was not gentle. A strict diet, stricter potion cycles, marrow fortifiers every third evening, nerve restoratives at noon, and a sleep draught calibrated by the ounce. He swallowed it all without complaint. Dacian Rowle, an old friend of Arcturus and a certified Mind Healer, will see him twice a week. They first session took hours. Occlumency lessons were the addition. Sirius was an open book. One warded room. Sirius had sworn, on wand and word, not to share anything he heard or saw inside the house. He signed the parchment. Strangely this time he read it first.
His temper bent in a new direction. Walburga's portrait screamed itself hoarse and learned that no one here would answer. When he learned the true end of Regulus he stood very still. After that he spent a long time in the cellar and came up with his hands steady. He asked for more lessons. It was a start.
The conversation ran its course and eased. Kreacher popped into the room without anyone calling for him and bowed low his nose brushed the carpet. "Masters," he said looking to Arcturus and Corvus, "there is an old and cranky wizard at the door, with a young witch. He is asks for Master Black."
Everyone stopped. If Kreacher called a visitor cranky, there must be something really strange about him.
Arcturus stood. "If Kreacher says cranky, be on guard," he said, dry as sand and went to the hall.
The front door opened. A voice rolled through the corridor, loud enough to startle Corvus, Vinda and Sirius. Arcturus laughed, a rare sound in this house and answered in kind.
Vinda rose at once. Corvus and Sirius followed her into the hall.
An old man filled the doorway. He was tall and still broad through the shoulders. He had Arcturus in a crushing embrace while speaking in a stream of Russian that needed no translation.
"Grigori, you old monster," Arcturus said, grinning in a way that took years from his face.
Vinda's chin lifted. "This is Grigori Volkov," she said, cool and precise.
"Oh, Vinda," Grigori answered, his accent thick and amused. "Still thorny. It is good. Roses should have thorns."
"You still shout in hallways," Vinda said. "Some habits do not improve with age."
"Shouting is for people who cannot hear," Grigori said, and clapped Arcturus on the arm. "He hears me."
Arcturus turned to the others, pride easy in his voice. "This is Corvus Black, my heir."
"Actually," Vinda said, without looking at Grigori, "he is my heir."
Arcturus did not miss a beat. He pointed to Sirius. "And this is my grandson, Sirius Black."
Grigori's eyes flicked between them and he laughed from the chest. "Two heirs in one person."
He stepped in and gestured to the figure behind him. "And this," he said, "is Elizaveta Volkov, my granddaughter. She is in her fourth year at Durmstrang."