Albus Dumbledore stood motionless for a long moment, his sharp blue eyes studying the quivering wreck of a man at his feet. Peter Pettigrew was pitiful—more rodent than human even now, hunched and trembling, his watery eyes darting about as though seeking an escape that did not exist. The night air was crisp and still, but around them, the very wards protecting Privet Drive seemed to hum with lingering magic from the trap that had been sprung.

Dumbledore sighed. He had known for years that the truth surrounding Sirius Black's imprisonment was murky at best, but now, with Peter in his grasp, that murkiness had transformed into something undeniable. The question was not whether to act, but how.

A flick of his wand conjured shimmering ropes, binding Pettigrew's hands behind his back. Peter let out a strangled whimper, but Dumbledore silenced him with a glance.

"We are leaving," Dumbledore said simply.

Without another word, he reached forward, grasping Pettigrew's arm, and the world around them twisted into darkness.

The Atrium of the Ministry of Magic was nearly deserted at this late hour, the golden fountain at its centre gleaming under the dim torchlight. Even now, its depiction of a wizard standing over goblins, house-elves, and centaurs irked him. It was a monument to arrogance, a reflection of the Ministry's blindness to its own flaws.

Dumbledore stepped forward, Pettigrew stumbling beside him, barely able to keep his footing on the polished floor. They passed the security desk, the sleepy watch-wizard barely glancing up before his face went pale at the sight of the two figures.

"Headmaster—er, Professor Dumbledore, sir," the man stammered. "I—is there something I should—?"

"There is," Dumbledore said, his voice calm but firm. "I require immediate access to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Inform Barty Crouch Sr. that I am here on urgent business."

The wizard hesitated, swallowing thickly, but hurried off toward the lifts. Dumbledore stood in the centre of the Atrium, patient and unruffled. Pettigrew, on the other hand, had begun to tremble so violently that it was a wonder he remained upright.

Minutes later, the lift doors slid open, and out stepped Barty Crouch Sr., his gaunt face severe and pinched, his eyes cold. The man exuded control—always had—but tonight, there was something else, something wary beneath the surface.

"Dumbledore," he greeted curtly, his gaze flicking down to Pettigrew. The reaction was immediate. Crouch's nostrils flared slightly, a brief hesitation before his expression smoothed once more. "What is the meaning of this?"

Dumbledore smiled thinly. "I believe you know exactly what this means, Barty."

Crouch's jaw tightened. He gestured for them to follow, leading them down a quiet hallway, his long strides brisk and sharp. The walls were lined with moving wanted posters, and for a moment, Dumbledore caught the flickering image of Sirius Black's face. His heart ached at the sight.

Once inside his office, Crouch shut the door behind them and turned with an unreadable expression. "Do you understand what you are doing, Dumbledore?" he asked, voice clipped. "Bringing this man here? If this goes public, it could bring down half the department."

Dumbledore lowered himself into the chair opposite Crouch's desk, his gaze unwavering. "Then perhaps half the department deserves to fall."

Crouch's lips pressed into a thin line. "You are asking me to destroy my career. My credibility."

"I am asking you to uphold the law," Dumbledore corrected gently. "I am asking you to ensure that an innocent man is freed."

Crouch inhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. Pettigrew, who had remained silent until now, let out a sudden whimper. "Please," he rasped. "Please, you have to understand—I didn't—"

Crouch slammed his fist onto the desk, making Pettigrew jump. "Quiet."

His gaze flicked back to Dumbledore, something sharper in his expression now. "You know what will happen if Black is freed," he said slowly. "He is Harry Potter's godfather. He will take the boy. Raise the boy."

Dumbledore's fingers steepled. He had considered this, of course, but the words spoken aloud had a different weight. Sirius, raising Harry. There were merits to it—love, protection, the fierce loyalty Sirius would no doubt provide. But Sirius was reckless, emotionally volatile, and had been imprisoned in Azkaban for the past six years. Was that truly the best path for Harry?

"I need to consider what is best for the child," Crouch continued, his voice smooth now, coaxing. "You do as well, Dumbledore. If Black takes him, he becomes his to influence. Is that truly what you want?"

Dumbledore said nothing for a long time. Then, finally, he murmured, "It is a complicated matter."

The halls of Malfoy Manor were eerily quiet, the only sound the faint clinking of ice against crystal as Lucius swirled his drink. Narcissa sat across from him, a candle flickering between them, casting long shadows over the polished dining table.

"You're certain?" she asked, watching him with calculating eyes.

Lucius set his glass down. "I heard it myself. Crouch and Dumbledore are uncertain about whether to have Pettigrew stand trial."

Narcissa's fingers drummed lightly against the table. "And you mean to take advantage of that."

A slow smirk curled Lucius' lips. "I mean to shape the outcome."

She raised an eyebrow. "The Ministry will want to bury this. If Dumbledore forces the issue, Crouch may be removed."

"Which is precisely why we must move quickly," Lucius murmured. "If Crouch falls, someone must step in to guidethe response."

Narcissa tilted her head, considering. "And that someone is Fudge."

Lucius lifted his glass in a silent toast. "Precisely."

But there was something else in Lucius' mind, something he did not yet voice. If Sirius Black was freed, then he would gain custody of Harry Potter. And if Lucius played this correctly—if he extended a hand of gratitude to Black, positioned himself as an ally—he could gain something no Death Eater had ever managed before.

Influence over the Boy Who Lived.

Cornelius Fudge sat at ease in his office, a practiced smile on his lips, his fingers drumming against the desk with an air of calculated patience. He was not a man easily ruffled, and he had long since learned the art of appearing agreeable while ensuring his own position remained secure. Lucius Malfoy lounged opposite him, his every movement deliberate, exuding a respectful admiration that bordered on flattery. He knew exactly how to stroke Fudge's ego, how to appeal to the Minister's need for reassurance that he was the one in control.

"The situation is delicate, Cornelius," Lucius said smoothly. "Dumbledore is a man of principle, but principles have a way of causing unnecessary chaos."

Fudge leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "Lucius, my dear friend, you must understand. These matters are delicate. Crouch may be rigid, but he is thorough. If I am seen overruling him too often, it may appear… destabilising."

"Oh, but you can," Lucius interjected, voice silken. "And you should. Crouch is too deeply entrenched in this. His reputation will not survive, and neither will yours if you let him flounder. Instead, you can control the narrative."

Fudge hesitated, his brow furrowed. "How?"

Lucius leaned forward slightly, his voice rich with persuasion. "You are a man of action, Cornelius. This is an opportunity, not a burden. Frame it as a Ministerial review. Announce that the Ministry, under your guidance, has taken a proactive step to correct past errors. You become the face of justice, the man who saw an injustice and set it right."

Fudge tapped his chin thoughtfully, allowing a slow smile to form. He enjoyed being courted, knowing that powerful men like Malfoy saw him as the fulcrum upon which change rested. He was no fool—he understood exactly what Lucius was doing. But there was no harm in basking in the attention of such an influential ally. "And Black?"

Lucius smiled. "Released under the careful eye of the Ministry, of course. But first, Cornelius, we must discuss Pettigrew. Where is he being held now? Surely you would want to ensure his capture is handled properly."

Fudge adjusted his robes, considering the question with an air of importance. "Well, Dumbledore has him for the moment, but that won't do, will it? The Ministry must act swiftly, and publicly. We can't have it appear as though we were forced into this by outside influences." He tapped his chin, eyes flickering with calculation. "I'll have Amelia Bones oversee the arrest personally. Fair, competent, unimpeachable. The press will eat it can't risk any backlash from Dumbledore's camp."

Lucius nodded approvingly, watching as Fudge leaned forward, pressing a button on his desk. Moments later, his undersecretary, a stout witch with a clipboard, entered.

"Send an urgent missive to Azkaban," Fudge instructed smoothly. "Have Sirius Black moved to a Ministry holding cell. He is to be treated with full dignity—meals, medical examination, the works. I will not have him looking like a half-starved mutt when we release him."

Lucius sipped his drink, his expression unreadable. This was better than he had hoped. Fudge believed himself in control, but Lucius knew better. And Black? If he played this correctly, Black would soon believe him to be an ally.

And, Lucius thought, grateful to the man who might one day have the ear of his godson.