Thank you SO MUCH for the 500 reviews! Also, since I'm not a native English speaker, please say if I should use 'the' before 'Wizengamot.' I have absolutely no idea. Any other things regarding my grammar you might pick up are also greatly appreciated. Grammarly doesn't find everything.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 30

The eight-hour shift couldn't last longer, in Cyrus' opinion. While he truly enjoyed his job, that day, he couldn't wait to return home. His longing only intensified when a large manila folder appeared on his desk. He only took a brief peek inside to make sure it was what Madam Bones promised to deliver to him. Cyrus smiled in anticipation upon noticing the date and the name on top of the first envelope. He closed the folder; tempting himself would only stretch the shift unbearably. And so, against his desire to dive right into the reports and find out if Daphne, or rather Potter, was right, or not, Cyrus hid the manila folder in his briefcase, already well aware of how he would spend that evening. And most of the night, probably.

And so, when the clock struck five, announcing the end of the terribly long day, Cyrus was already walking out of his office. Not wanting to waste a single precious second, he finished all his daily tasks half an hour before the end of his shift. He used that time to change from his Uniform back into his everyday robes. Not that anyone, except for him, would call them that – to someone looking at him from the side, it would seem Cyrus was dressed to attend the most exquisite formal meeting one could imagine. A small smile danced in the corner of his lips – Roxanne enjoyed laughing at his clothes choice from time to time.

Cyrus looked longingly at the Floo as he walked through the main hallway of the Ministry. Even though apparating back to the Greengrass Manor would take him only two or three minutes longer, he couldn't help but feel as if he was being delayed for hours. He shook his head, mentally chastising himself; the Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House didn't act like a small child on a Boxing Day. His present, if he could call it that, was already in his grasp – he only had to be patient enough to come back home to dive right into it. His pace increased as he headed towards the Apparition Point.

After a short wait in a line of people who couldn't afford or didn't have the space required for Floo, a split-second travel through a too-narrow tube, Cyrus was standing just outside the wards of his Family Home. He sighed heavily; almost fourteen years earlier, he, his wife, and a one-year-old Daphne had to leave this place in hopes of surviving. He had to admit he was surprised to see the Greengrass Manor standing in one piece when they returned – everything was just as they left it. There wasn't even a single trace of someone entering their House, whether magical or physical.

That was one of the things that puzzled him the most, even so many years later. Obviously, Cyrus heard stories of what had happened to those who said 'no' to the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord. Entire families were murdered, and homes were burnt to the ground. He wasn't sure if it was luck or fate that he, Roxanne, and Daphne didn't live in the Greengrass Manor when they were approached with the offer to join 'The Cause.' And, with hindsight, he started thinking that it was fate that his parents passed away before he and his wife went into hiding. The last two months before they decided to disappear, they lived with his parents, helping them in any way possible with the Dragon Pox that attacked them. And they remained in the Greengrass Manor ever since.

So why, if the accusations against Black and Lupin were correct, was their Manor left intact? It was a question Cyrus couldn't find an answer to, no matter how hard he tried. If they both were the Dark Lord's followers, they surely would have revealed the Greengrass Manor's location to the Death Eaters, not to mention their hiding place. And yet, there was his house, standing as tall and proud as it had been for centuries.

A quick glance at the windows told him his daughters were home. Cyrus sighed quietly in relief as he walked from the wards' boundaries towards his house. Roxanne would already be at St. Mungo's, even if her shift was still almost an hour away from starting. He made a mental note to ponder on Black's and Lupin's situation later; at that moment, he had other things, arguably more important, to investigate.

Cyrus hung his cloak on the wooden coat rack and headed directly to his study. He didn't bother himself to announce his return to his daughters – if their talk the previous night was anything to go by, Daphne wouldn't care that much, and Astoria was probably busy in her own little world of books and fantasies she so adored. He sighed heavily; when exactly did his relationship with his firstborn take the wrong turn?

He chuckled humorlessly as he closed the door of his study. It was a stupid question with an answer almost screamed at his face a few times – since he didn't say 'no' to Malfoy's suggestion about connecting their families via their firstborns. Still, he couldn't fully understand Daphne's reaction. The contract wasn't signed – hell, it wasn't even properly written, and she acted as if she was already married to Lucius' Heir.

Just as his briefcase landed on his desk, Cyrus' eyes landed on the small piece of parchment he received from Daphne the previous night. Crabbe. Goyle. Nott. Malfoy. MacNair. Avery, Cyrus read, gritting his teeth. From what he knew about the trials from almost fourteen years earlier, all these men were brought in front of the court. Sitting down in his chair, Cyrus pulled out the thick manila folder and opened it.

With a swift flick of his wand, Cyrus summoned his pipe and the small bag filled with vanilla-scented tobacco. He filled the wooden object, staring at Avery's name written on the first envelope as if he wanted to force the reports to give him the details they couldn't possibly have. Incendio, he thought, moving his gaze to the dried leaves; they caught fire immediately, and a pleasant aroma filled his nose. He took a deep drag before opening the first envelope.

Cyrus furrowed his eyebrows in disgust. To say that the report was skimpy would be an understatement – the report looked as if it was taken by a five-year-old child. There were no details about the accusations and absolutely no details about the hearing. If he recalled correctly, every trial was supposed to have a detailed transcription of questions and answers, word for word. A simple summary of 'Found innocent because of the usage of the 'Imperius' Curse' was not enough. Cyrus glared at the short report as if that piece of parchment somehow personally offended him.

But that was all he could find in the short report. Not a single question that was asked, not a single answer that was given, other than the 'Imperius' excuse, and not a single accusation that was presented. The names of the judges present also weren't listed. If this was an assignment at Hogwarts, and Cyrus was a teacher, he would surely give it a 'T.'

Disappointed and infuriated, Cyrus tossed the report aside, reaching for another envelope. His hand stopped when he read the name.

Black.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. Of course, Sirius wasn't the only Black who lived a decade and a half earlier. There were others whose loyalty to the Dark Lord couldn't be questioned, but those had either died before the end of the Wizarding War or were carrying different names. Cyrus ripped open the envelope and allowed its contents to spill on his desk, shaking his head to banish his initial surprise. After all, he asked Madam Bones about the reports on the Death Eaters. And in everyone's eyes, Sirius Black was one.

Like with Avery's report, there was a picture of the accused. Cyrus stared for a few seconds at Sirius' silently screaming face; the picture was taken just as he was being dragged into Azkaban. Once again, Cyrus skimmed over the basic details – name, parents, date of birth, and all that unimportant stuff. His eyebrows rose further on his forehead as he reached the accusation reports.

It was a stark contrast to Avery's file. All the accusations were there – accepting the Dark Mark, betraying the Potter Family, murdering twelve Muggles and Peter Pettigrew. Some other crimes were listed as well, mostly other examples of murder. Cyrus would have been impressed with the report if it wasn't for one single detail.

Sirius Black never had a trial.

And even though those accusations weren't anything new to him, only death excused someone from being brought in front of the court. And even that rule had its exceptions. History had a few odd cases of judging someone long after their death. However, Cyrus had yet to encounter another person who was put in Azkaban for life without being brought to Wizengamot first.

How are we still alive? He asked himself for what felt like a millionth time already. Cyrus took another drag from his pipe and filled his glass with Ogden's Old Firewhisky.

Cyrus put Sirius' report away, staring at the old photograph for a second or two. Many questions he thought he would never get an answer to reappeared in his mind, tormenting him yet again. But he wouldn't get those answers from staring at a single piece of parchment. And so, he grabbed another envelope.

Cyrus honestly had no idea if he was surprised or not to see Crabbe's report being just as useless as Avery's. Basic biographic info was all the detail it contained. Once again, no accusations were listed, no transcript provided, and no judges named; only a brief summary of 'Found innocent.' There wasn't even a reason given why the man was found innocent.

He continued pulling out envelope after envelope, feeling his irritation rising rapidly. The reports about those who were in Azkaban were quite detailed, even more so than Sirius'. However, the reports that concerned those found innocent were derogatorily short. Tampered, was the word that made its way to the front of his mind.

The door to his study opened suddenly, making Cyrus blink a few times. When did he smoke so much that the entrance became almost unnoticeable? There again, why were the door and the figure that stood there so blurry? He blinked a few times again, rubbing his face. Only one person could enter his study without first being granted permission.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work, darling?" Cyrus asked, clearing his throat a few times; it was dry, and his voice came out in a ragged rasp. He saw his wife placing her hands on her hips, cocking her head to the side as she stepped deeper into his study.

"My shift ended fifteen minutes ago," she informed him, walking past the desk toward the window behind his back. Cyrus more heard than saw her opening it. A split second later, all the smoke vanished from his study. "And yours is supposed to start in less than three hours," she added, walking back towards his desk. "Care to explain why you aren't in bed? We've talked about this, Cyrus."

Instead of looking at his wife, Cyrus looked at the grandfather clock. His eyebrows rose in surprise when he saw that Roxanne was right – it was fifteen past six already. And if the bright light coming from behind his back was any indication, it was already morning. Where did almost thirteen hours, if his calculations were correct, go?

"Sorry," he mumbled, massaging his temples. Only then did he notice the pounding headache. "I must have lost the track of time."

Roxanne snorted, inspecting his desk. "That's putting it mildly," she commented. "How much did you drink?" she asked, picking up the empty bottle. Cyrus paled slightly, clearing his throat again. If he remembered correctly, it was only half empty when he poured himself the first glass. His wife raised her eyebrow at his silent answer. "And how much did you smoke?" Only then did Cyrus notice two empty tobacco bags. He cleared his throat again.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled again, directing his gaze at the reports on his desk. Roxanne only snorted, shaking her head.

"Care to explain what kept you up for so long, at least?" she asked, taking a few deep breaths to calm herself. "What is this?" she queried, cocking her head to decipher what occupied her husband's desk.

"A little something that Daphne brought my attention to," Cyrus replied, leaning back in his chair. Even if he fell asleep at that moment and took a Sobber-Up Potion, he still wouldn't be in any condition to go to work that day. He made a mental note to send a missive that he was taking a sick day. Good thing he rarely took those.

"I didn't know you two were back on speaking terms," Roxanne commented, picking up one of the reports. Her eyebrows rose on her forehead as Cyrus sighed.

"Because we're not," he replied, unsure if he could say 'yet.'

"Why did she bring up Lord Malfoy's trial?" she queried, briefly skimming over the report.

"Not only his," Cyrus replied, taking a drag from his pipe. He coughed a few times as the smoke irritated his already damaged throat. With a small frown, he banished the still glowing leaves from the small wooden object.

"So I see," Roxanne commented, looking at other reports scattered all over her husband's desk. "Still, why?" Cyrus sighed, wiping his face once again before telling his wife everything he learned in the past thirty hours.

"And you believe it?" she asked; her previous anger was replaced with a barely concealed nervousness. Roxanne's suddenly pale face was a clear giveaway that his words got to her.

Cyrus sighed again, massaging his pulsing temples. Did he believe it? Almost twenty-four hours earlier, he had no problems saying 'no.' But what he found in the reports, or rather, more accurately, didn't find, made him pause. Of course, it wasn't any proof that Potter's claims were right, but he couldn't deny the obvious fact that the reports had been tampered with. If it was one or two, Cyrus would have blamed it on the Ministry's incompetence, but not thirty.

"I don't know," he replied after a moment of silence. "I certainly don't want to believe it."

"Is that why you closed the Floo yesterday?"

Cyrus nodded his head.

Roxanne sat down in the empty chair, nervously picking at the hem of her robes.

"Do you believe it?" Cyrus asked quietly, not moving his gaze from the reports. His wife bit her lower lip, looking frantically at the walls around her.

"It's a little much to take in, don't you agree?" she replied after a moment.

Cyrus nodded his head again. "I do. But those reports," he said, gesturing at the pile of thirty pieces of parchment. "Raise some questions. And that project that was approved by Wizengamot…" he trailed off. Roxanne cleared her throat.

"When did you say that voting happened?"

"In the morning of the day when our kids returned from Hogwarts." His voice trembled slightly. "A few hours after the Third Task and what supposedly happened back then."

"Do you think we're in danger?" Roxanne asked quietly, looking anywhere but at her husband.

"On one hand, I don't want to believe any of this," Cyrus replied finally. "I honestly want to think that Mr. Potter's words are just a projection of a tormented young mind – that he hadn't seen anything he claims to have seen. I want to believe that all these people," He gestured at the pile once again. "Were found innocent after a thorough inspection; that Daphne's worries were simply caused by her aversion toward Malfoy Family. On the other hand, though, I can't look at those reports and recent voting in Wizengamot as coincidence."

"Even with the Floo closed, they are still able to reach us," Roxanne commented; her voice was trembling. "They know where we live."

Cyrus nodded his head.

"I'll recast the 'Fidelius' Charm as soon as I can," he announced. "But you know it will take a few days at least to get it done." Roxanne nodded in confirmation. "Do you have any sick days saved up?"

"Yes."

"I want you to use them until the Charm is ready," Cyrus said, standing up from his chair. His spine cracked pleasantly in a few spots. "If, Merlin forbid, Mr. Potter is right, I want us to be safe. They can easily pick us up if we're scattered."

"And what if they come before the Charm is cast?" Roxanne asked, also standing up from her chair.

Cyrus pinched the bridge of his nose as they walked out of his study; his legs were shaking, unable to fully support his weight. "Let's hope it will not come to this. The wards will alert us if anyone arrives." He didn't dare to say what they would do if that scenario came to life.

"One more thing," Roxanne said, pulling her hand out of her husband's grasp. She walked toward the small box standing on a cabinet near the front door. "I'm sure you didn't check it when you returned from work yesterday, but there is a letter to you from the Ministry," she announced, pulling out a white envelope from the small box. It shone with a dim green light when he took it in his hands. Official Ministry correspondence could only be opened and read by the addressee.

Cyrus broke the Ministry seal and pulled out the piece of parchment from the envelope as they made their way up the stairs toward their bedroom. The message consisted mostly of greetings, usage of proper titles, and other unimportant stuff. Only when he and his wife reached the master bedroom and the door closed behind them did Cyrus stop, rereading the message. He squinted his eyes to make sure his alcohol-dazed mind could properly decipher the words.

"What is it?" Roxanne asked, slipping under the covers of their bed. With a swift flick of her wand, she pulled the curtains on the windows closed.

"This is an official summons," Cyrus said, rubbing his short beard. "To Harry Potter's trial."

"We have to do something, Remus!" Sirius exclaimed angrily, kicking a small cupboard that stood closest to him. "We can't sit back and do nothing!"

"And what do you think we can do?!" Remus countered, standing up from the chair. "It's not like we can waltz into the Ministry and attend the trial as Harry's defenders!"

"There must be something we can do."

Having a family member amongst the Aurors proved to have its advantages yet again. Tonks managed to deliver them a message about Harry's incoming trial, causing a disagreement between the two men.

"I'm sure Dumbledore is already aware of it and is working on something to help Harry."

Sirius scoffed, shaking his head. "Dumbledore, you say? The same Dumbledore who did absolutely nothing when Harry's name came out of the Goblet? The same Dumbledore who promised that James and Lily would be safe in Godric's Hollow?" He shook his head. "Do you see them, Remus? Do you see our friends here?"

"No," he sighed, looking anywhere but at Sirius.

"But I do," Sirius replied with a humorless chuckle, leaning towards the other man. "I see them every single night when I fall asleep. I see them asking me to become Harry's godfather – to care for him if they can't," he said, letting out a half-sob, half-laugh. "And I've failed spectacularly at that fourteen years ago." He shook his head, running his hands through his hair. "I admit, I shouldn't have gone after the Rat. I should have argued with Hagrid about taking Harry. I've seen once how he is treated at those Muggles' house, Moony. And I'll never forgive myself for not being there for him when it was my only obligation back then! And I promise you, I won't just sit here and let Dumbledore do nothing again," Sirius hissed through gritted teeth.

"Then what do you propose?" Remus asked, slapping his hands against the tabletop. "Do you have any brilliant plan?"

Sirius paced around the tiny living room in the place they were hiding. It was an old abandoned cottage somewhere on the south coast of Britain. He stopped suddenly, turning around to face his old friend; a small smile appeared on his face as he approached the werewolf.

"Do you remember what Harry said about the Greengrasses?" he asked, making Remus frown. "I'm sure Cyrus already knows about the incoming trial, don't you think?"

"They'll have every right to alert the Aurors if we go to them, and you know it," he countered, shaking his head. "How do you expect to help your godson if you're back in Azkaban or handed straight to the Dementors?"

"If they remember what we've done for them, they won't do it," Sirius replied; his eyes were shining brightly as the idea was forming more and more in his mind. "And, judging by Harry's words, they do remember it, Remus. And I'd rather go to Azkaban or to the Dementors, knowing that I've at least tried to help my godson!"

Remus remained silent, pondering his suggestion.

"You've said during Christmas you want to help Harry as much as you can," Sirius said, staring into the other man's eyes. "Now is your chance. Help me help him!"

"They didn't hide," Remus whispered after a moment of silence. His eyes were moving from side to side rapidly, though his gaze wasn't focused on anything in the small living room. "At least, the Greengrass Manor stands where it stood," he clarified. Sirius' lips curled up in a wide smile as he shifted his weight from one leg to another.

"Do you remember their address?" he asked, leaning slightly toward Remus. "Come on, Moony, I'm sure you do," Sirius mumbled, practically bouncing up and down where he stood. After a second or two, Remus nodded in confirmation. Black's smile widened even more as he straightened himself.

"Kreacher!" he yelled. For a short while, nothing happened, until a loud pop broke the silence of the small cottage.

"How can poor Kreacher serve the disgrace of the Noble House of Black?" the Elf asked with contempt as clear as day in his voice and posture.

"Charming as always, aren't you?" Sirius asked, rolling his eyes. He pulled out one of Buckbeak's feathers that he kept with him all the time. Good thing the Hippogriff allowed him to take so many of them before they went their separate ways. "I want you to deliver this to Harry Potter and tell him we're working on helping him through this mess. Also, tell him not to send any letters until the trial is over."

"Master wants poor Kreacher to serve as a messenger for a filthy Half-blood?"

Sirius closed the distance between them in a few quick steps, grabbing the House Elf's neck before he could even register his movements. "This wasn't a request, Kreacher, but an order," he hissed through gritted teeth. "And this 'filthy Half-blood,' as you said, is my godson! I don't care what you think of me, but I am the last living person carrying the name of Black. As such, you will serve me as you served my family. And with Harry being my godson, you're bound to serve him as well. Did I make myself clear?"

Kreacher stared at Sirius for a few seconds with poorly concealed hatred in his eyes. It was obvious by the way his teeth clenched that he wanted to say something, but Sirius' firm grip around his throat prevented him from doing that. Finally, after what seemed to be an intense internal battle, the House Elf lowered his eyes, slowly nodding his head.

"Good," Sirius commented, dropping Kreacher. He fell to the floor, coughing loudly, as he tried to regain control over his breathing. "Do you remember what you must do?"

"Kreacher remembers," the House Elf replied reluctantly, looking at his feet.

"Then take this and deliver the message," Sirius ordered, pushing Buckbeak's feather into Kreacher's hands. "And don't you dare to breathe a word about this to anyone!"

With one last nod and a loud pop, Kreacher disappeared from the small cottage, leaving the two fugitives alone. Sirius straightened himself up, correcting his ragged clothes.

"Well then. I think we have a debt to collect," he said, walking toward the cottage's door. Remus followed him wordlessly, hoping that Sirius' decision wouldn't turn out to be a mistake. Two loud cracks broke the evening's silence as the two fugitives apparated away.

Before you ask – yes, I've moved Harry's trial. Right now, we're approaching the middle of July in this story.