On a warm May evening, a widely known old man sat in his office, enjoying the weather outside his window, the singing of a phoenix, and a cup of aromatic tea, snacking on lemon drops. The sun was setting smoothly behind one of the hills—hills low enough that at this specific point, one could consider them the horizon.
The fire in the fireplace behind the Headmaster suddenly flared up, and Dumbledore did not let this go unnoticed, turning around immediately.
"Dumbledore, are you there?" the painfully sharp, raspy voice of a certain retired Auror, painfully familiar to some, rang out.
"Yes-yes, Alastor, what happened?" the Headmaster leaned back from his seat, standing up and approaching the fireplace, where Moody's scarred face was forming from the fire.
"In short, I have news for you. I'm ready to bet Merlin's beard that this will interest you."
"What happened, old friend, don't keep me waiting?" Dumbledore sat down on a small chair created with a wave of his hand, looking at Alastor Moody's fiery face.
"You won't believe who managed to track down a certain fugitive known to you," a most obvious smirk was readable on Alastor's face.
"You mean to say..."
"Yes, Albus. I thought you'd want to have a chat with this Death Eater spawn before I send him back to Azkaban. Or better yet, straight into a Dementor's maw."
"State the address," Dumbledore immediately livened up, rising from the conjured chair.
"You know it, my second safehouse."
Alastor's face vanished, and the Headmaster, without a second's delay, took a handful of Floo powder and threw it into the fireplace. The flames turned green; Dumbledore stepped inside, stated the address, and threw another handful of powder. A moment later, the green flames swallowed the Director's figure.
In the well-protected underground bunker, there wasn't much space, and the amount of furniture was extremely meager. Bare stone walls, a couple of chairs, a wardrobe, and a table—that was all the decor. But one thing was worthy of attention—a reliable magical prison. It was there that a bearded, thin man sat shackled in chains, in a dirty, old, and torn prison robe, with hair matted from dirt and sweat.
The only exit from here, a stone staircase leading up, was reliably blocked by a massive door. This door opened, and widely known in narrow circles Alastor Moody began to descend the stairs, thumping with his prosthesis and limping. The retired Auror couldn't boast of an athletic figure or good health—a prosthesis instead of a leg, another instead of an eye, scars, and a multitude of internal injuries invisible to anyone—his inheritance from the war with Voldemort.
Alastor Moody descended into this dungeon, hobbled to one of the chairs, and adjusting the hems of his long brown coat, settled himself more comfortably, gripping his staff so that Black—and it was indeed him behind the bars—wouldn't manage to escape even with phenomenal luck.
The second visitor was a gray-bearded old man in violet robes. He stooped as he passed through the doorway, although despite his great height, it wasn't necessary.
"Dumbledore..." Black rasped from behind the bars while the Hogwarts Headmaster took a seat on the second chair.
"Yes, Sirius, it is I," the Headmaster settled himself as comfortably as was possible on a simple wooden chair. "Tell me, my boy... Why did you betray them?"
"You think so too?"
"How could I think otherwise?" Dumbledore was surprised, running a hand along his gray beard. "I personally cast the Fidelius, making you the Secret Keeper. I personally placed the key to the secret in your heart. I heard your words in court, heard you blaming yourself and laughing madly. Tell me, my boy, do I have reason to doubt?"
"I didn't betray them... I didn't betray James," Sirius muttered, looking at Dumbledore from under his brows. "It was Wormtail!"
"Wormtail?"
"Enough nonsense!" Alastor struck the floor with his staff, and a small lightning bolt flew from the top of this cumbersome weapon.
The discharge hit the dungeon bars, spreading across them, and Sirius convulsed for a couple of seconds. Dumbledore didn't stop his old friend, understanding the motives for his actions.
"What does poor Peter Pettigrew have to do with this?" Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, asking the recovering Sirius Black. "What does that unfortunate boy you ruthlessly killed have to do with this? Killed, just like twelve Muggles."
"I didn't kill him, Dumbledore," Black rasped. "He is more than alive."
"Let's assume."
"James and I decided that Wormtail should be the Secret Keeper—no one would suspect him. And then, the Fidelius Charm would have become even more impenetrable, hiding James's house from anyone."
"How interesting," the Headmaster pondered. "But I definitely remember..."
"It was Wormtail under Polyjuice! Hahaha..." Sirius burst into barking laughter. "We fooled everyone... Even ourselves..."
"That is, I made Pettigrew the Secret Keeper?"
"Precisely, Headmaster!" barked Black. "And that scum turned out to be a servant of the Dark Lord! He was the one who gave up the location of James's house to him... And he is still alive."
"Even if what you say is true..." Dumbledore pondered, while Alastor watched the situation closely. "The fact that Peter is alive is unlikely. After your Bombarda Maxima, only the torn bodies of Muggles remained, and Peter's finger."
"Why won't you understand..." Sirius shook his head, sitting on the floor of his cell. "He was an Animagus just like me. A rat Animagus! Fudge gave me a newspaper, and there was a photo... A photo with Weasley. That's where I saw Peter the rat. It's the same rat... He's alive, Headmaster. I must catch and kill him... Must catch and kill... Must..."
Dumbledore took out a tiny vial, conjured a glass of water, and measured three drops of clear potion, pouring them into this glass.
"Veritaserum?" Alastor grunted. "We could have used a couple of gallons back in the day."
"I'm afraid," Dumbledore shook his head slightly. "Severus will be very angry when he finds out I took his potion reserves. Reserves brewed with great difficulty."
Dumbledore levitated the glass of water to Sirius, and he drank without question, and a moment later his gaze became empty and emotionless.
The Headmaster questioned Black for ten minutes—any longer would be too harmful. Only after that did Dumbledore conjure another glass of water, pouring an antidote into it. Not wasting time on further conversation, Dumbledore got up from the chair and headed for the exit, and Alastor followed him, securely locking the door behind him with both magic and a key.
"And what now?" Alastor asked the Headmaster while they stood near the dungeon door.
"And what now?" Dumbledore thoughtfully ran his hand along his beard. "What did the honorable Mr. Diggle say?"
"Honorable... Pah... That sneak noticed Black in the outskirts of London. Says he was walking to a side job, and then bam—a dog chasing a rat. At one moment something flashed on the rat and blasted the dog with something, and it turned into Black. The cowardly runt wanted to run first, but then tied Black up while he was floundering on the ground in pain. That's the whole story."
"Well then... Even if Sirius didn't betray the Potters, as it turned out, he killed those unfortunates."
"Twelve people."
"Yes, Alastor. Twelve unfortunates who accidentally ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Plus the breach of the Statute... I'm afraid justice can no longer be achieved for Sirius; it's too late. Had we raised this question then... Yes, if not for the charge of aiding the Dark Lord, Walburga would have easily bought the boy off. Now, and without Pettigrew 'in hand'," Dumbledore shook his head. "We'll be turned away with any petition."
"Justice?" Alastor scoffed. "It's already been served—what more? And if the boy dies, I won't say a word against it. He never really considered anyone human anyway, except James's friends. Now he's no less dangerous than the Death Eaters."
"He could prove useful in the coming war, and you shouldn't be so categorical, my old friend. I think Azkaban changes people."
"Yeah, right," the retired Auror grunted. "Makes the dead out of the living. But still... Think there'll be a war?"
Alastor struck the floor with his staff, looking at Dumbledore questioningly.
"Voldemort is not dead, that is a fact," Dumbledore nodded. "We need allies. Even ones like Black."
"And what do you propose?"
"Let him go, Alastor. Let him go, recommend he hide. Peter will show up sooner or later. And I'll talk to the Minister—at least we'll remove the Dementors from Hogwarts..."
"I suggest you find a reason to introduce Potter to Black. Your Chosen One will understand he's not alone, and Black will have a restraint in the form of the boy."
"I'll think about it, Alastor. I'll definitely think about it..."
Chance intervened, yes. In mid-May, at one of the breakfasts in the Great Hall, Dumbledore decided to speak, which is an incredible rarity.
"Esteemed students," the Headmaster's voice carried throughout the hall, and the hubbub of the children instantly died down, forming a deathly silence. "Esteemed students..."
Dumbledore repeated himself, sweeping everyone with his gaze.
"I hasten to inform you of joyful news. The Dementors of Azkaban are being removed from their posts around Hogwarts and returned to Azkaban by order of the Minister for Magic of England."
Dumbledore gave time for realization and active whispering.
"...great..."
"...awesome..."
"...finally!.."
"This is done," the Headmaster continued speaking, and silence reigned in the Hall again. "In connection with new nuances regarding the case of Sirius Black. As you know, he was considered an accomplice of the Dark Lord. This turned out to be fundamentally incorrect. But despite this, Sirius Black still remains guilty before the law and, as before, remains wanted. However, it has become reliably known to me, the Minister, and other wizards that there is no longer any sense in Dementors. I dare not distract you from breakfast any longer."
The Headmaster sat in his place, and his statements spawned a wave of discussions.
"And what does this mean?" Justin asked to nowhere.
"Auntie didn't write anything..." red-haired Susan pouted offendedly, becoming terribly cute.
"And this means, gentlemen," I importantly shook a fork in the air. "That we tolerated Dementors in vain—that's first. And second... The court made a mistake at that time..."
"Can't be! Crouch wouldn't make a mistake!" Macmillan was indignant, for the pureblood boy was a fan of Crouch and his unyielding determination. "And if suddenly, then... Oh-oh..."
"What is it, Ernie?" Hannah immediately got worried.
"What a precedent this is!" Ernie grabbed his head. "Imagine what could start..."
I, of course, don't believe that anything can start, but vague doubts torment me that we need to prepare for something. Experience suggests that it is very bad if one of the massively convicted people suddenly becomes publicly innocent.
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