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“Peter? Come on out, little Peter; I just want to talk...”
A giggle echoed softly down the dimly-lit corridor of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, followed by a choked intake of breath. For a moment, the only sound was the stride of a pair of Oxfords on the marble floor, until another giggle burst from the end of the hallway. The deranged, high-pitched giggle caught in the throat, before erupting into a full-fledged cackle. Silence finally reigned over the corridor as the Director of Law Enforcement stopped at the last door on the left.
“Fudge,” said the Director. “Has he said anything?”
Rough stubble lined the young wizard’s jaw as he turned his wearied eyes upward. “Director Crouch,” said Fudge.
"Naughty Peter, fooling us... where are you, you little RAT?”
Fudge winced at the volume and waved a hand towards the door of the interrogation room. “Well, you’ve heard him, Sir. He’s been alternating between sobbing, cackling, or screaming all afternoon. Between you and me, Sir, the Blacks always had a touch of madness in them. Bellatrix was worse, but Sirius seems determined to prove he’s not far behind.”
Crouch grimaced and gave a final glance at Fudge before unsealing the door with the flick of his wand. When he entered, the man restrained to the chair at the table didn’t react. Silky black hair fell in unbrushed waves, obscuring his eyes. He sat slumped forward, hands clasped in magical suppressing shackles resting on fine, well-tailored robes.
Fudge drew his wand and tapped the Ministry’s seal at the corner of the parchment. The golden stamp shimmered and a Dictaquill floated from the ink well to the page. The quill darted across the parchment, and perfect calligraphy spilled out in its wake. November 4th, 1981. 4pm. Case Number: DMLE-DE-042/81. Interrogator: Bartemius Crouch. Observing Hit Wizard: Cornelius Fudge. Accused: Sirius Orion Black III. Fudge watched the quill perform a final flourish, then cleared his throat.
“The quill is ready, Sir.” Crouch didn’t acknowledge him. He stepped forward and sat down, eyes never leaving the man shackled on the opposite side. Fudge resealed the door and stood guard over the proceedings.
“Sirius Orion Black,” said Crouch. “You are formally charged with the betrayal of James and Lily Potter leading to their deaths, the murder of Peter Pettigrew, and the mass murder of thirteen Muggles. How do you respond to these charges?”
Sirius didn’t respond nor make a sound. As the seconds ticked by uncomfortably, Crouch curled his lip in frustration as he snapped his fingers and held out his hand. Fudge pressed the file into his palm without hesitation.
“I have here a sworn statement from Albus Dumbledore which confirms the nature of the protections surrounding the Potter property in Godric’s Hollow. It is further sworn that the magic of the Fidelius Charm can only be broken when the Secret Keeper willingly divulges the secret to a third party, in this case, the location of the Potter home to the Dark Lord. Albus Dumbledore personally witnessed, and performed the charm which designated you as the Secret Keeper.”
When Sirius didn’t react or respond, Crouch dropped the file onto the table with a smack, and stared at him with a dispassionate look. “I can understand why you would think holding your tongue would be beneficial to you in your defence, but let me remind you that Albus Dumbledore has no motive to lie to the Ministry. We have verified his memories of the event. There isn’t a Lord or Lady on the Wizengamot who would dare refute his sworn statement; it’s damning stuff, Mr. Black.” He traced the edge of the file for a moment, before smirking across the table at Sirius.
“What I saw in those memories were five best friends. Young parents that trusted you with their lives, and that of their heir. I believe young Remus has fled England for the continent, though he will never forgive himself for not seeing you for who you truly are. Were you pleased that none of them saw your treachery?” Finally, Sirius’ shoulders shook as he chuckled inaudibly to himself. The same high-pitched giggle as before welled up as the chains rattled around his feet. “Bellatrix laughed too; perhaps this is a trait of the Blacks, or is it simply that you both take pride in your work?” Crouch didn’t pause for a reply. “Let’s talk about Peter. You refer to him as a rat… He was going to tell us what you did, wasn’t he?” He tutted, watching as Sirius very slowly raised his chin, just a fraction. “Yes, he was going to tell us everything, but you couldn’t have that, could you, Mr. Black? Instead, you hunted him for four days, and you made well sure he would never speak again.”
For the first time, Sirius’s head lifted fully. His hair fell away from his face, and he locked his crazed but unyielding eyes on Crouch
“He needed to pay,” said Sirius, with so much venom and fury Crouch looked up with incredulity.
“Unfortunately for you, Mr. Black, you succeeded in your endeavour. I don’t care to know what particular piece of Dark magic you chose to use, but in that one attack you single-handedly obliterated a man, leaving nothing but a finger, and cost thirteen Muggles their lives,” said Crouch. “I do not require your confession; the evidence is conclusive. However, before I take this to the Minister and condemn you to Azkaban for the rest of your life, remember this: you had the power to save all of them, but you chose to put your faith in the wrong man.”
A pause stretched between them, until Sirius suddenly convulsed in the chair. A strangled howl ripped from his throat. He thrashed against the shackles, the chains holding his wrists and ankles rattling violently as he sobbed and screamed; the chains held him in his seat. He finally leaned forward on the table and howled with wild, hysterical laughter.
Fudge recoiled, pressing himself back against the wall. “Merlin’s beard, he’s completely mad. He’s as mad as the rest of them!”
Crouch didn’t look back. “Any man that placed their trust in the Dark Lord ought to rot in Azkaban for the rest of their life. Watch the door, Fudge; aurors will arrive to transport him shortly. I need to see the Minister.”
The warden scanned the paperwork with a deepening frown. “No conviction by trial?”
Crouch slid the signed parchment across the desk. “I have a signed order from the Minister’s office to imprison this man based on overwhelming evidence of muder, mass murder and terrorism. The case is closed.”
The warden hesitated, his eyes lingering on the official seal. “This is highly irregular.”
Crouch met his gaze steadily. “So are the times we live in.”
After a tense moment, the warden stamped the file and nodded to the guards. “Very well. Take him through.”
Crouch turned and nodded to Fudge. Fudge tapped Sirius on the shoulder, prompting him to stand, though his eyes remained fixed on the scuffed, unpolished stone floor of the prison. His breath hitched as he stumbled forward, prodded none too gently by Fudge to begin the long walk down the aisle of the high-security wing.
“Black?” rasped a voice. Mulciber pressed his gaunt, freshly scarred face against the bars of his cell, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the cold iron.
“Cousin?” A girlish shriek snapped Sirius out of his daze, and he turned toward the source of the sound. “Did you see what I did to the auror and his wife? He was awfully dull towards the end so I had to put him to sleep. I did it for you, Cousin; you always wanted to use that curse on Severus, didn’t you?” said Bellatrix.
“Frank?” murmured Sirius.
“Keep walking,” said Fudge. Sirius grunted, his chains rattling as he stumbled forward another step.
“Not the Marauder I expected to see,” came another voice. Dolohov, the blonde Death Eater lounging on his thin cot, broke into a harsh fit of laughter that echoed off the damp walls.
They reached the end of the corridor, where an Auror stood beside the open door of a shadowed cell. Dim light penetrated only the threshold, revealing slabs of unforgiving rock and a narrow cot bolted to the floor. Sirius felt his body stiffen unnaturally as Fudge flicked his wand once, before removing the cuffs. The door slid shut with a finality that reverberated through the air, and as Sirius found himself able to move again. He sank to his knees, his fine robes withered and transformed into the standard grey Azkaban uniform.
The lock engaged with a sharp click.
At the same moment, a door deep in the Department of Mysteries that had been locked since the Ministry's inception, unlocked with a shimmering golden glow. It drew the attention of every Unspeakable, including the head, Algernon Croaker. The elderly man entered the room to find a dimly lit chamber with a pedestal in the centre surrounded by flickering candles. Five ghostly figures stood around it, and watched as a crack appeared on the face of an ancient scroll. Before his eyes, the crack tore all the way, and Algernon made a sound of confusion.
The spectres turned as one, and Algernon found himself rooted to the spot by the sheer weight of their presence. These were not ghosts. The air around them shimmered with light, hinting at a magic so old it hummed in his bones.
The figure at the fore met his eyes. "Algernon Croaker, Head Unspeakable of the Department of Mysteries."
Algernon's throat tightened. "Who are you?"
The spectres moved, forming a circle around the pedestal. "We are the King's Council," said the first figure. "We are bound to the Treaty signed in the year of our Lord 1215, when His Majesty King John and the Ancient and Most Noble Houses of wizard-kind did forge an accord to preserve the realm entire." The scroll on the pedestal smouldered as its edges curled to ash. The light around the pedestal began to dim, as the scroll disintegrated entirely.
"The Treaty is broken," said another spectre, this one smaller, its voice sharp and measured. "The young King has no council to shield him or guide him in his rule."
Algernon blinked. "I'm sorry, did you say the king? We haven't had a—that is to say, the Crown has no authority over—"
"You speak of the Muggle Crown," the first spectre interrupted, its tone patient but firm. "We speak of the magical sovereign. The heir of the Ancient and Most Noble Houses, whose blood carries the right to rule."
"There is no magical monarchy," Algernon said, his mind struggling to catch up. "We have the Ministry; we are self-governing."
"You govern yourselves because the Treaty permitted such," said the spectre. "In the year of our Lord 1215, the Ancient and Most Noble Houses could not decide amongst themselves which heir ought to rule the kingdom. While Lord Peverell held seniority, he held but a single daughter. With his wealth and heirs intact, King John proposed the Magna Carta to wizard-kind as a means to avoid civil war between the Houses. There need not be two kings reigning over the land; in sooth, His Majesty proposed a United Kingdom, one throne for all peoples, magical and Muggle alike." Algernon stood stunned by this. "The Houses agreed and signed the Treaty in blood, appointing King John divine authority to rule the United Kingdom as sovereign over both realms. In exchange, His Majesty did swear to protect the right of all His citizens.”
A second spectre spoke. "An heir to an Ancient and Most Noble House, was condemned to Azkaban without trial, without lawful judgment, in violation of the very foundation upon which the United Kingdom was built. The Crown, through its instrument being the Ministry of Magic, has failed in its sworn duty. The Treaty is void."
"Void," Algernon whispered. The implications crashed over him like a wave. "Then the magical community is no longer—"
"No longer subject to the Muggle Crown," the spectre confirmed. "The realm reverts. The magical sovereignty is restored to the rightful King.”
Algernon's hands trembled. "W-who is the king?"
The spectres turned to him as one. "The heir of the oldest, Most Ancient and Noble House," said the lead spectre. "Harry James Potter. Last of the line of Peverell, he shall be henceforth be known as King Harry the First."
"A child," Algernon whispered. "He's barely more than a year old."
"Which is why the Council must be formed," said another spectre. "A king so young requires regency, guidance and protection. We but represent the primary functions of the King’s Court. You must find and form a new living Council to assume these responsibilities.”
“He will require a Lord Regent to protect the integrity of His Crown when His Majesty is unable to rule, and who will protect his sovereignty until he comes of age," said the first spectre.
"A Lord Protector,” said the second figure, “To guard against any hand who would dare strike Him.”
"A Royal Physician,” said the third, “To preserve the King’s health and magic, that He may rule soundly.”
"A Lady Justice.” The female spectre inclined her head slightly. “One who will uphold His just law."
The smallest spectre stepped forward, its form non-human, Algernon realised. "A Lord Treasurer, the keeper of the king's wealth, and protector of his succession. This seat shall be held by goblin-kind."
The final spectre met Croaker’s eye. "He will need a Lord Steward, the master of the king's household, and schedule." The Lady Justice stepped forward. “Do you accept this responsibility, Algernon Croaker?”
Algernon swallowed and nodded. “I do.” “Then go at once.” She held her palm out before the pedestal. A golden ring appeared bearing the ancient Potter coat of arms.
“Take this ring; it will guide you to Him.” Algernon carefully picked up the ring, and bowed to the figures.
“I serve at the pleasure of the King.”