An exploration of the hidden horrors underlying the Harry Potter series, of which I own no part.

The day ended cold and gloomy, the dreary atmosphere befitting uncounted ancient and sacred traditions to a small, secretive society hidden among those who saw only the blatantly visible.

Unlike previous passings, the day took on a new, present significance to those shrouded in secrecy, offering a ray of hope where all had seemed dark.

On this day, in an event befitting the nature of those it freed, a dark lord who had commanded the fear and nightmares of thousands of adult, supposedly capable and trained individuals was brought low by an infant child and magics whose nature, if ever known, had long been lost to the mists and shrouds of time. And so it was that the deepest of darkness was vanquished by the purest of innocence, if only for a time; yet the darkness left its mark on an innocence that would forever be stained by what came after.

Fearing that the young saviour (and indeed, it was noteworthy that such a self-declared noble society had required saving by chance and a child) would be in danger from those following the Dark Lord, the ancient and venerable leader of those that opposed the dark decreed to his companions – nay, followers - that the child would be placed with his closest living family. Yet this unquestionable leader of the forces of Good left the infant swaddled in a blanket on a doorstep on a November night, to be discovered the next morning. Not by capable, loving caretakers, but by those who had already been revealed as questionable protectors of one to whom the world owed so much.

This action would set the tone of the interactions between the boy and the ancient for the next decade and a half.

And yet there were still more to the sordid tale. For the one charged with the protection of the child by his deceased parents was denied, by those that took his charge, the chance to fulfill his duty; his next actions were driven by anger and grief. He devoted his time to seeking out the traitor, the reason that his friends no longer lived, and confronted the rat in a street.

Alas, the one long overlooked proved his limited cunning, and the godfather was arrested as a traitor. Beneath his earth-shattering grief, however, the man felt little worry as he was arrested and placed in a holding cell, knowing his innocence would come out in the trial.

His confidence waned as he received no visits, and erupted into worry, and then horror, as he was transported to prison and thrown into a cell without the benefit of counsel or defence. He did not understand why it was he had been betrayed, but soon lost the capacity to comprehend.

For the venerable leader who had determined the placement of his charge had been worried. Many followers of the Dark Lord, backed by immense wealth and centuries of influence, had claimed bewitchment as the cause of their despicable actions, and with subtle donations and political maneuvering had been released with no charges. The imprisoned one had been the designated guardian of the young Saviour, and heir to one of the oldest and wealthiest families of the elite; despite his prior friction with his dark relatives, he would undoubtedly be released by their influence and welcomed with open arms for his treachery against those they despised, even though his actions had resulted in the fall of the Dark Lord.

Family was everything, and the Black family had no male heir but Sirius.

If released, Sirius Black would petition for the guardianship of Harry Potter and, with the wealth and influence of the Blacks, and his prior naming as godfather, would certainly obtain it. Resulting in the placement of the young Saviour under the control of those whose Master he had destroyed, who would undoubtedly be vengeful.

No, Black could not be allowed to go free. To allow such a possibility would be disastrous.

And so it was that the Chief Warlock allowed the possibility of a trial to slip away, turning a blind eye to the Aurors who threw Black into a place he knew to be worse than death to its inhabitants.

Nobody, once they entered the high-security wing, would ever leave as anything but a corpse. Most would die within a few years, haunted by their personal horrors and failures.

Black would experience everything the hellhole had to offer, and perhaps, if he had any hope of redemption, pay penance in reliving his betrayal.

And so it was that the prisoner was sentenced to death by torture, his guilt never questioned, his crimes never supported by greater proof than hearsay, gossip, and the inconvenience of letting him walk free.

Black himself was horrified at the recognition that there would be no rescue, no escape, that his freedom was a thing of the past.

And the horrors of his imprisonment, of the dementors and the memories and the pain, weighed upon him, tempered by the sole comfort that he shouldn't be there, that he had not been the Secret Keeper, nor had he fired upon muggles.

Yet his comfort swiftly vanished, buried beneath a storm of memories as he watched his friends fall, witnessed every burned and disfigured and disassembled body left as a gruesome trophy by those he had failed to defeat, knelt by James' pale form and wailed in despair and failure. Death and tears eclipsed his mind as he drowned.