(Gilderoy Lockhart)
Tuesday, November 2, 1993
The courtroom felt colder than usual.
Not physically, though the stone benches of the lower tiers still leached warmth through one's robes, but politically. The air carried that particular tension that only accompanies inevitability. Today was not a day for debate. It was a day for confirmation.
I adjusted the cuffs of my robes as I took my seat, offering a polite nod to several members of the Wizengamot. A few inclined their heads back with varying degrees of warmth. My recent successes had shifted the atmosphere around me considerably. Reputation, I had found, was a far more persuasive advocate than rhetoric.
At the center of the chamber, bound in enchanted restraints, stood Fenrir Greyback.
The infamous werewolf looked smaller than the stories suggested, though perhaps that was simply the effect of iron shackles glowing faintly with suppression charms. His yellowed eyes swept across the gallery with undisguised hatred. There was no fear there. Only contempt.
His trial had been postponed due to the chaos surrounding Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew. That spectacle had consumed the Ministry's attention for most of the previous day. But now that order had been restored, it was time to tidy up the remaining loose ends.
Not that today required much effort.
The proceedings began with the usual formalities: charges read aloud in a clear, echoing voice; a list of attacks; testimonies already recorded and entered into evidence. The tally was extensive: murders, deliberate infections, abductions, coordinated assaults carried out under the full moon.
Greyback did not deny any of it.
He simply smiled.
When the matter of Veritaserum arose, a murmur rippled through the chamber. Purebloods retained the legal right to refuse it unless under extraordinary decree. It was a relic of old legislative compromise, one of many protections designed to prevent Ministry overreach.
Werewolves, however, enjoyed no such courtesy.
Greyback snarled when the vial was presented, straining briefly against his bonds, but resistance was symbolic at best. The potion was administered under supervision, its contents disappearing down his throat.
The answers that followed were clinical, detached, and incredibly damning.
He admitted to targeting children deliberately. To seeking out victims for the purpose of swelling his ranks. To aligning himself with dark elements not out of ideology, but because chaos offered opportunity.
Several members of the Wizengamot looked ill.
By the time the potion's effects subsided, the verdict was already written across every face in the room.
Guilty.
The sentence was delivered with solemn finality.
Greyback and approximately half of his captured pack were condemned to the Veil.
The archway in the Department of Mysteries had always fascinated me. Even now, as the condemned were escorted below, there was an eerie reverence to the process. No spectacle. No grand speeches. Just the quiet acknowledgment that some threats were too persistent to be contained.
One by one, they were pushed through the ancient archway.
The remaining members of the pack, those whose crimes were deemed severe but not irredeemable, were sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban. A handful had been coerced, pressured, or born into the pack's brutality. It earned them consideration.
But unfortunately for them, it did not earn them freedom.
Justice, after all, must be seen as much as it is enacted.
When it was over, the chamber emptied in subdued clusters of conversation. Robes swished against stone. Names were whispered. Political calculations recalibrated.
I remained seated for a moment longer, fingers steepled beneath my chin.
Another crisis concluded.
Another dark chapter neatly sealed.
And yet, my thoughts were nowhere near the Veil.
They were folded neatly inside the inner pocket of my robes.
I slipped the small parchment note free and unfolded it once more, though I already knew its contents by heart.
Lunch. Today. Same place.
No signature was necessary.
Tonks' handwriting was impatient even in ink, slanted, energetic, almost aggressive in its curves.
My lips curved upward before I could stop them.
She had stormed out the last time we'd spoken properly. Fire in her hair. Fire in her eyes. I had given her space, as any wise man would.
But this?
This was initiative.
I checked my watch. Barely half past ten.
An eternity.
But I felt the anticipation coil pleasantly in my chest.
Would she demand explanations? Set conditions? Issue ultimatums?
Or…
A faint chuckle escaped me.
…would she surprise me?
I rose smoothly from my seat and adjusted my cloak, offering a courteous farewell to a departing Madam Bones. My reflection shimmered faintly in one of the polished brass fixtures along the wall. Composed. Confident. Entirely in control.
Yet my pulse betrayed a subtle quickening.
Greyback's fate had been inevitable.
Tonks, however…
She was anything but predictable.
And I found, to my private amusement, that I rather liked that.
…
(Third Person POV)
Breakfast at Hogwarts was rarely quiet, but that morning the Great Hall felt particularly alive.
Sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling, which reflected a pale November sky streaked with soft clouds. Plates refilled themselves with sausages and toast, goblets brimmed with pumpkin juice, and the steady hum of conversation echoed off the high stone walls.
Harry was halfway through his second piece of toast when the owls arrived.
It started as a distant flutter that gradually increased until it resembled a storm.
Over a hundred owls swooped through the enchanted rafters, wings beating loudly as they spiraled downward toward their respective recipients. Feathers drifted through the air. Someone at the Hufflepuff table yelped as a barn owl clipped their ear.
Hedwig glided toward Harry with practiced grace, her snowy feathers gleaming in the morning light. She dropped a rolled copy of the Daily Prophet neatly onto his plate before extending one leg expectantly.
"Good girl," Harry murmured, smiling faintly as he tore off a strip of bacon and offered it to her.
He had subscribed to the Prophet the previous year after Professor Lockhart had repeatedly emphasized the importance of staying informed.
Information often wins you half the battle, Lockhart had said more than once, smiling brilliantly at the class.
Harry had figured it wouldn't hurt, even if half the time the paper contained little more than exaggerated gossip and self-congratulatory Ministry pieces.
He unrolled the paper absently.
Then froze.
The headline blazed across the top in bold letters:
SIRIUS BLACK FOUND INNOCENT!
"What?" Harry breathed.
His eyes scanned the words again, certain he had misread them.
He hadn't.
Sirius Black, his parents' supposed betrayer. The man who had led Voldemort to their home. The reason they were dead.
Found innocent?
His stomach twisted.
"Are you fine, mate?" Ron asked around a mouthful of scrambled eggs, leaning slightly closer.
"Ron! Don't speak with your mouth full," Hermione scolded sharply from Harry's other side, though she was already craning her neck to see the paper.
Harry didn't answer immediately. He couldn't.
Hermione's eyes widened as she read over his shoulder.
"That's unbelievable!" she exclaimed, her voice rising in outrage. Several students nearby glanced over. "Can you believe it? They had an innocent man imprisoned for over a decade because they couldn't bother to give him a proper trial! That's… that's absolutely unfair!"
"What?" Ron demanded, swallowing hastily and nearly choking in the process. "What's it say?"
Harry forced himself to keep reading.
The article detailed the previous day's trial. The truth about Peter Pettigrew. The falsified evidence. Witness mismanagement. Political panic. All the while emphasizing that it was the previous administration's fault.
Piece by piece, the story he had recently learned unraveled.
Peter Pettigrew, the timid, awkward wizard who had supposedly died a hero while capturing Sirius Black, had in fact been the traitor.
He had betrayed Lily and James Potter.
He had faked his own death.
And now…
Harry's grip tightened on the edge of the paper.
Pettigrew had been captured, tried, and sentenced to death, all in a single day.
And this had all been thanks to Professor Lockhart, although the article did its best to give credit to Minister Fudge for correcting the mistakes of his predecessor. But Harry could see it was just a political move to clean his hands.
He finished the article slowly.
When he lowered the paper, he slumped back in his seat.
He should have felt something else.
Relief, maybe triumph, and closure.
His parents were finally getting justice.
So why did his chest feel hollow?
He had imagined confronting Sirius Black. Demanding answers. Asking why he betrayed them.
But Black had been innocent all along.
And the real traitor was already gone.
There was no one left to confront.
No one left to shout at.
"It's good that Stubby Boardman is finally free," said a dreamy voice behind him. "Maybe now that the Hobgoblins have their main singer back, they'll finally make new songs."
Harry blinked and turned around.
A blonde girl stood there, her long, pale hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Her wide silvery eyes gave her a permanently surprised expression. She looked entirely unconcerned with the emotional bombshell currently detonating across the school.
"Excuse me," Harry said cautiously. "Who are you?"
"I'm Luna Lovegood. Pleased to meet you, Harry Potter," she replied in her airy, serene tone.
"Er… pleased to meet you too," Harry said, still confused. "But what, or who, is this Studdy you mentioned?"
"Stubby Boardman," Luna clarified, as though this explained everything. "He's the main singer of a very popular music band. He disappeared at the exact same time Sirius Black was captured all those years ago. My daddy believes they're the same person. They also look quite alike, so the theory makes a lot of sense."
Harry stared at her.
The theory made absolutely no sense.
"Right," he managed weakly.
"Well," Luna continued cheerfully, "I'm off to feed the Thestrals. They get grumpy if you're late."
And with that, she skipped away toward the doors, as if she hadn't just casually suggested that an alleged mass murderer was secretly a rock musician in hiding.
Harry remained turned around for a few seconds.
Ron leaned closer and muttered, "Don't believe everything Luna says. There's a reason they call her Loony."
"Ron, that's rude," Hermione said immediately, frowning at him. "She's just… different."
Ron shrugged, though he looked faintly embarrassed.
Harry turned back to the table, staring down at the now-folded newspaper.
Around him, the Great Hall buzzed with speculation.
Some students argued loudly about Ministry incompetence. Others debated whether Azkaban should be reformed. A few Slytherins muttered about bloodlines and legal precedent.
The world had shifted overnight.
Sirius Black was no longer a monster in the dark.
He was an innocent man.
And Harry didn't know how he felt about that.
He reached absently for his goblet and took a long drink of pumpkin juice, trying to steady the strange mix of emotions churning inside him.
Justice had been served.
So why did it feel like something had been taken from him instead?
…