Chill air

Sirius called himself numerous insults as he was taken to the Ministry of Magic, among which "absolutely brainless idiot" wasn't even a harsh one. He had sworn the Unbreakable Vow to the squeaky animagus he'd once called a friend, but even if he hadn't done so, there was no way out of a testimony on his own trial. He stood tall, partly because he wanted to display some confidence, and partly because he wanted to catch sight of that certain cloaked, bulky figure in the sea of cloaked dark figures. He'd spotted Mixie, the one with dark brown geometrical shapes on his (or her? Sirius had always felt there was something feminine about this specimen) otherwise undistinguishable robe. Howlflow, who had usually preferred outer wall patrols, was seated above the court room's entrance. Vaqqu had taken the position closest to the audience rows, ready to feed from any onlookers not protected by a strong patronus. Skipps settled on the far end of the same row, close to an olive-haired young witch. Chesire, the one with actual deatheater ties, was guarding Wormtail. There was no sign of Daire.

As for the witches and wizards: Remus and Dumbledore were here, as well as about a dozen of the dark lord's former followers who had washed themselves clean. Alastor Moody, keeping his magical eye on them. Several villagers. The press.

By the time he had been led into the room, Remus Lupin was near the end of his own testimony. He repeated what he had said before: he had found Pettigrew hiding in the Shrieking Shack. Which might have been a tiny fragment of the truth.

Sirius could only exchange a few blinks with his friend and former friend as he was led to the center. It was time for him to fulfill his oath.

He began by reminding the audience that he'd already told them the truth about the explosion he did not cause, and the events that had led to it. But after a few short sentences, he started talking about how his twelve years in the company of clustered deatheaters had changed his opinion. Pettigrew was not simply a traitor anymore, as he had played a crucial role in We-Know-Who's defeat. He had led the darkest of all magi to his fall. Lily and James had died, but without that treason, dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands would have been now lying dead, and the survivors would be seeing the Dark Mark everyday. Rhetorically he asked the jury, but addressed the audience: would they want to live in that nightmare?

He'd plotted well. Dementors' presence was freezing the jury hall in fear and darkness. Those with a strong patronus were defending two or three others, huddled together. Only he stood calm in the center, unbothered by the cold, untouched by the palpable fear. Was it just his habituation to the dreaded creatures - or the solid facts (not malleable feelings) he'd been focusing on? Or were all the dementors on his side this time?

He blinked at Chesire, whose breath was aimed at the jury while he was holding Peter's chain. Chesire loathed all wizards without distinction, he would roam Azkaban with his hood lowered, kiss-ready. That would lead to a merry mess here, Sirius mused, if Chesire would put his bare head on display. He almost laughed, secretly hoping Chesire would pick up the idea directed at him. But no, the dementor only turned to the former prisoner with a warning whisper. He really had no sense of humor.

After a quiet nod to him, Sirius continued. He told the audience what he had heard from the other cells: countless death wishes on the wizard who had double-crossed them. He pointed out that deatheaters still at large were likely to seek vengeance, now that the reason of their leader's downfall had been revealed to be alive.

He'd cast another look at Chesire, with an entirely different meaning. Chesire stared back at him from under his hood, as if asking if Black was seriously trying to threaten him.

Sirius continued with remembering the muggles who had died because they could not defend themselves, and asked the Council of Magical Law how many outsiders had died altogether since We-Know-Who had fallen. That number, that sheer number was the first thing to really make Black shiver.

Finally, he lowered himself to the chair, and for the first time that day, he looked into Pettigrew's face. He had been true to his word. As promised, he had done what he could and spoken in Wormtail's defense. And he didn't even lie.

Only after the trial did he see Daire again. After the crowd had dispersed, the bulky dementor floated closer to the formally released wizard. Some stepped in, wands ready, as if defending the convict now that he had been proven innocent would have made up for the years when they had their backs turned to him. Not wanting any injuries from a misunderstanding, Sirius quickly covered the distance to his former guard. Now that he was free and Daire was doing well, they no longer needed each other. Or was that so? Sirius had heard that saving the life of another wizard creates a special bond. Would that statement be also valid with a dementor saving the wizard, who had then returned the favor? Was the debt countervailed, or was it now mutual?

To his surprise, the dementor lifted his right arm for a final handshake. Sirius was taken aback.

He had never touched a dementor in his human form, not on the decaying-like greenish skin, not their hands that seemed as if ready to fall apart any second. He had always imagined that the cloak was some sort of necessary insulation, keeping the worst of the creature sealed away.

Yet Daire's hand felt ethereal, like a column of very cold steam, and something solid remained in Black's grip after the dementor retreated.

Sirius turned to Lupin. "Let's go," he smiled. "First, to Ollivanders."