Resolution

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Chapter Twenty One: The Trial

December 5th - 15th

The day Harry learned that Sirius Black had been taken into custody, his trial pending, was the same day Scabbers disappeared. There was no sign that he'd been eaten, or that he'd crawled off to kick the bucket in private. He'd just vanished, and regardless of how often Ron had complained about the rat, he was upset. He and Hermione had argued about it, and there didn't seem to be a resolution of their fight. Not any time soon, at least.

Harry, who was more or less estranged from the pair, had been more preoccupied with the reality that he would finally receive the answers he'd been waiting ages for. He could finally learn of why his family had been targeted, why Voldemort had tried to kill him as an infant, why his parents had been in hiding to begin with.

The man's trial couldn't come soon enough.

The 'Daily Prophet' had written a front page spread regarding the absolute travesty of justice Sirius Black's trial, or rather, the lack thereof, presented, chock full of quotes from outraged members of the Ancient and Noble house of Black, from members of the Fudge Administration and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, among others. Harry read none of it. He was angry, actually, that it had taken 12 years for this day to come. It was appalling.

"Are you pleased?"

Harry shrugged, gaze on the icy surface of the loch. Neville stood beside him, quiet strength and silent companionship. Theo would have occupied himself with disparaging remarks about the Ministry of Magic, Susan would have babbled about whatever came to mind, Justin would have tried to talk him into a debate about football, or movies, or music Harry liked.

I just… want answers."

"Yeah," neville acknowledged, "I don't blame you."

In silence, the two returned to the castle, flushed from the cold and the biting winds. Winter had arrived with a vengeance, drowning the castle in piles and piles of snow until the surroundings were completely awash with white. The nights were frigid, the days weren't much better, but the Gryffindor common room was perpetually warm, and the rest of the castle was more or less tolerable.

Quidditch was out of the question, which meant Harry's schedule had cleared up marginally, but the free time was spent elbows deep in his studies instead. The approach of exams and final projects hung over him like the sword of Damacles, but at the very least, he wasn't the only one stretched thin, and that knowledge somehow made it easier to bear. All the same, he looked forward to the winter holidays, to a reprieve from homework and classes, and what have you. The break was still a month away, however, and Harry had no desire to slack off now.

The days passed, and the 13th arrived in a flurry of snow, a chill Harry could feel in his bones, and the unshakeable feeling that things were about to change all over again. He'd received permission from McGonagall to leave school for the public trial, and though Harry had thought it would be awkward to be accompanied by Lupin when things were still tense between them, he found that, instead, they were both too concerned with what would take place that day to worry about the discussion that had strained their quasi friendship in the first place.

"Are you nervous?" he asked Lupin.

"Tired," Lupin answered, "I thought I put this part of my life behind me along time ago."

-!- -#-

The trial was like watching a train wreck. It was awful, particularly for the Ministry of Magic. As soon as Sirius Black swore an oath on his magic to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and then proceeded to tell everyone, in exacting detail, about the events of and surrounding October 31st, 1981, there was uproar. The press was in a frenzy, the politicians were outraged, the Black contingent in the visitor's gallery were more or less frothing at the mouth.

The man could still cast a lumos spell, and he'd not dropped dead either, and apparently he was Harry's oath sworn godfather - whatever that meant - so it went without saying that the only crimes he was responsible for was the illegal animagus thing. It was quickly determined that, after twelve years in Azkaban, he'd apparently atoned for. There was also the destruction of private property - namely, the Fat Lady's portrait, though that was quickly rectified by a government ready to cover their own arse as best they could.

It did, however, raised the question of why he was trying to break into the Gryffindor common room.

When harry had learned that Scabbers was actually Peter Pettigrew, Harry had turned faintly green. He'd slept in the same room as the man who'd betrayed his parents to Voldemort, in the same room as a Death Eater, known murderer, and such things.

What else had he done in the service of Voldemort?

What else could he have done to them?

Later that night, he'd told his roommates. They all seemed mildly queasy, though it was only Ron who'd actually been sick. None of them blamed him, of course. Scabbers had slept in his bed, after all.

Eventually, as in two days later, Black was found not guilty for the charges laid out against him, of murder, of accessory to murder, of treason, and compensated largely for the massive screw up on the Ministry of Magic's part. They'd also promised to pay any medical fees required to see the Black scion returned to full health, which also saw Sirius court ordered to spend as much time as necessary in St Mungo's hospital for that specific purpose.

Of course, it was said a lot more diplomatically than that, but that didn't stop the 'Daily Prophet' from tearing strips into the former Bagnold administration, and in response, Madam Bones, of the DMLE, had ensured a in-depth enquiry as to how, and why, the oversight had occurred.

After all of that, Harry had returned to school, had thrown himself into his studies, and had tried not to think about how much everything had changed. He'd meet Sirius Black over the winter break, and he'd go from there. Until then, however, he took comfort in the daily grind of life at Hogwarts, and tried not to angst about how dramatic his life had become, because, truly, Harry would probably not have it any other way.