Chapter 11: Under the Layers of Dirt

Sirius Black had lost track of time since Hedwig had vanished beyond the bars with his reply.

He knew Azkaban played tricks on the mind. It stretched the hours like a torturer stretching a prisoner on the rack, leaving him uncertain if minutes or entire days had passed. The cold, damp air gnawed at his bones, and the distant, echoing screams of the damned had long since faded into the background of his suffering. But in the wake of that owl's visit, hope—dangerous, fickle hope—had stirred in his chest.

The irony hadn't escaped him. He had written I AM INNOCENT in his own blood. His magic. His life essence. Blood was the foundation of so many ancient spells, oaths, and bindings. It held a power beyond ink, beyond mere words. A guilty man couldn't have done it. The magic itself would have rebelled.

Dumbledore would know that. But would Remus? Sirius had no way of knowing. The only reason he himself understood the significance was because, at the tender age of eight, his grandfather had forced him to use a blood quill to sign his name as heir to the Black family. He had watched, wide-eyed and barely comprehending, as the quill drank greedily from his hand, etching his name in crimson onto a parchment older than some kingdoms. His grandfather had explained it then—how wizarding blood was sacred, how contracts bound by it were unbreakable.

He let his head thunk against the rough, unyielding stone of his cell wall.

Too much time. He had too much time to think.

His gaze drifted to the narrow crack masquerading as a window. The thin sliver of golden light creeping through was both a blessing and a curse. For just a few moments, he could bask in its warmth, letting it chase away the shadows clinging to his skin. But it was always fleeting, always a cruel reminder of what he'd lost. The outside world was still there—bright, warm, and indifferent to his suffering.

Three days, he guessed. Maybe it's been three days.

Then, the air shifted. A slow, creeping dread curled around his spine.

The Dementors were coming.

Sirius scrambled back, forcing himself into the furthest, darkest corner of the cell. He sucked in a breath, steeling his mind against their influence. "Remember, you are innocent. You didn't kill them. You didn't do that. He did. Remember, it was the rat. The rat did it. The rat. The rat did it."

The chant filled the space in his head, a fragile shield against the creeping tendrils of despair. Dementors preferred easy prey—those who crumbled, who surrendered to their worst memories. Hatred and vengeance were bitter to them, unpalatable. If they lingered, he'd transform into Padfoot, let his canine form mask his emotions entirely.

But before he could make the shift, a sudden burst of radiant silver light flooded the corridor. Sirius winced, turning his head away as the brilliance stung his eyes. It was unmistakable—a Patronus. A powerful one.

Through bleary vision, he caught sight of a massive feline shape—a lynx?—prowling through the darkness, scattering Dementors like dead leaves in the wind.

A Patronus meant someone was coming.

He forced himself to stand, legs trembling beneath him. The sound of boots echoed against the stone, and then, two figures materialized outside his cell.

One was tall, dark-skinned, and bald, dressed in flowing robes of deep, earthy hues with intricate gold embroidery—a distinctly African design. The other was shorter, stockier, and wearing a badly fitting Muggle suit that made him look like he'd been stuffed into someone else's clothes.

Sirius narrowed his eyes. Aurors.

The taller man stepped forward, his voice steady and authoritative. "Sirius Black, you are being transported to the Ministry of Magic to stand trial for the murder of Peter Pettigrew and thirteen Muggles. Please turn around and place your hands behind your back."

Sirius blinked.

A trial.

The words rattled in his skull, impossible to process at first.

"I'm getting a trial?" His voice cracked like brittle parchment. He had to repeat the question twice before his parched throat allowed him to be understood. Then recognition flickered in his weary mind. He squinted at the taller man. "It's Kingsley, right?"

The Auror gave a slow nod. "Yes. I'm surprised you remember. It was a long time ago."

A ghost of a grin flickered across Sirius's gaunt face. "Oh, I remember a lot of things. I remember you were absolute shite at stealth, but you had a hell of a way with witches. You aced that exam."

Kingsley sighed, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "Turn around, Black."

Sirius did as ordered, wincing as the shackles locked around his wrists with a heavy click. The second Auror crouched to secure the iron around his ankles.

Sirius snorted. "Not taking any chances, huh?"

"Protocol," Kingsley muttered.

The two Aurors exchanged a look before Kingsley spoke again, his voice measured. "I have orders to take you to St. Mungo's first. They want you cleaned up before the trial."

Sirius stiffened, his brief amusement vanishing like mist.

"No." His voice was sharp, raw with defiance. "I want them to see exactly what they did to me. No fresh robes, no haircuts. No whitewashing this." His shackled hands curled into fists. "I'm an innocent wizard, and they treated me worse than an animal. They deserve to see it."

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Kingsley sighed again. "You're as stubborn as ever, Black."

Sirius gave him a crooked, haunted grin. "That's what kept me alive."

Kingsley had the grace to look ashamed. Azkaban was hell on earth. And if Sirius was innocent, then what had been done to him was nothing short of despicable. Even if he had been guilty, it was still despicable. Everyone deserved a fair trial.

Kingsley took in Sirius's appearance and sighed. "I'm still taking you to St. Mungo's to have you checked out. Your condition needs to be documented if you plan to sue."

Sirius nodded, allowing the Aurors to escort him to the wizarding hospital.

Kingsley defended his right to remain in the condition he was found until after his trial. But Sirius didn't refuse the nutrition potions, the calming draught, or the dreamless sleep potion prescribed to him. He needed them. But no one was allowed to cast a cleaning charm on him.

The diagnostic paperwork was humiliatingly long. Malnutrition alone had left him with a host of problems: severe arthritis, a lung infection, compromised eyesight, failing kidneys and liver. His mental health was even worse. Long-term exposure to Dementors had irreversible effects—paranoia, delusions, depression, anxiety, uncontrollable outbursts of emotion. The prognosis without intervention was poor. The prognosis with intervention was... slightly less poor.

The healer reading off his ailments also listed his old injuries—the reconstructed hip, the countless hexes and curses that had left scars across his body. Battle wounds from his time as an Auror. Proof of everything he had sacrificed for a community that had thrown him to the Dementors without a second thought. He didn't regret the scars. He regretted that he'd earned them for people who weren't worthy of his loyalty.

Once the healers finished poking, prodding, and pleading to let them clean him up, Kingsley transported him via Portkey to the Ministry holding cells. To Sirius, it was an upgrade. There was a bed—an actual bed—charmed for comfort. A few pieces of furniture. And best of all, quill, ink, and a massive collection of law books.

Kingsley unshackled him and gestured toward the button near the door. "If you need anything, press that. Someone will come." He gathered the chains and passed them off to his silent partner, who Sirius suspected was a trainee.

"A lawyer," Sirius rasped. "I need a lawyer."

Shacklebolt nodded. "I believe your friend Mr. Lupin and Professor Dumbledore are handling that."

Sirius lowered himself into a chair. It felt foreign. He had the strange urge to sit on the floor instead but forced himself to resist. He had to relearn how to be human again. If he was getting a trial—if it was fair—he would walk out of here a free man.

"Good," he said, then hesitated. "And, Kingsley—"

The Auror paused, glancing back at him.

"Thank you."

Sirius's voice was nearly gone, but Kingsley understood him all the same. He nodded once.

"You have a 24-hour guard. Your lawyer should be here soon. Rest. You look like shit."

Sirius snorted. "Ah, but do I smell like shit? Because I want them to smell me all the way from the gallery. The stench of my suffering should stain their pureblood noses until the end of time."

Kingsley chuckled. "That's the spirit, Black. I'll be one of the ones in the back, holding a perfumed handkerchief over my nose." He winked before leaving.

The locks engaged one by one, each click a reminder that he wasn't free. Not yet. But for the first time in 10 years, Sirius Black had hope.

Over the next few days, Sirius received numerous visits from his lawyer, Benjamin Pepper. The man had the air of someone who belonged in another century—his white hair was perfectly trimmed, his handlebar mustache was immaculate, and his thick muttonchops almost met at his chin. Sirius couldn't decide whether he looked more like Mark Twain or that Muggle, Colonel Sanders, with his chicken empire. Either way, Pepper carried himself with the confidence of a man who was used to commanding courtrooms and bending the law in his favor.

The first time they spoke, Pepper had him recount his story from start to finish. He listened without interruption, scribbling notes in his crisp, efficient handwriting. The second time, he bombarded Sirius with questions—pressing for details, clarifying dates, picking apart his memories with the precision of a man dissecting a corpse.

Sirius found himself growing irritated, then grudgingly impressed. Pepper was thorough. He was relentless. And, most importantly, he believed Sirius.

That didn't mean he wasn't fastidious to the point of being obnoxious. On every visit, Pepper cast a Bubble-Head Charm on himself the moment he stepped into the holding cell.

"I mean no offense, Mr. Black," he said casually, as though discussing the weather. "But I have a very delicate sense of smell."

Sirius snorted. "None taken. I imagine I do smell like something that's been dead a while."

The only real argument they had was about Sirius's appearance.

"You cannot go before the Wizengamot looking like something that crawled out of a corpse's backside," Pepper insisted, arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair. "You look guilty. And people judge based on appearances. It's unfair, but it's reality."

Sirius sneered. "I want them to see exactly what they did to me."

"They will. Through photographic evidence," Pepper countered smoothly. "We'll have documentation of every scar, every injury, every ounce of suffering you endured. But if you walk in there looking like this, they won't see a wronged man. They'll see a madman. And madmen don't get justice."

Sirius gritted his teeth, hating that Pepper had a point.

He had spent ten years as a prisoner, as something less than human. Now, he was being told to clean up and play the part of a respectable defendant. It felt like another kind of prison.

But he wasn't going to gamble with his freedom. Not when he was so close.

"Fine," he muttered. "Do whatever needs to be done."

A photographer was brought in. The process was humiliating. Sirius thought he had steeled himself for it—he had lived it, after all—but when he saw the pictures, his stomach turned. His ribs jutted out like the bars of a cage. His cheeks were hollow, his skin stretched thin over sharp bones. His once-handsome face was sunken and shadowed, haunted by the ghost of the man he used to be. He looked feral.

He looked dead.

Kingsley arrived later, carrying a bundle in his arms. He set it down with a solid thunk.

"What's this?" Sirius asked warily.

Kingsley's lips twitched. "Soap."

Sirius snorted. "Looks like enough to last me a lifetime."

"That's the idea." Kingsley shoved the bundle toward him. "Use it well."

Sirius barked a laugh, taking one of the heavy bars and stepping into the showers. The Ministry's facilities weren't luxurious, but the water was hot, and the pressure was strong. He stepped under the spray and let it pound against his shoulders, let it slough away ten years of filth and despair.

The soap smelled sharp and clean, and he scrubbed until his fingers ached. He attacked his hair with a vengeance, working out the tangles, watching the water swirl dark at his feet. He scrubbed his skin raw, until it was pink and stinging, until he could almost feel himself again beneath layers of Azkaban's decay.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, they would see.

Tomorrow, they would know.

But as he reached for the soap again, something inside him cracked. His breath hitched, and suddenly he was curling in on himself, shaking, the water pounding down on his hunched back. He didn't know how long he stayed like that, arms wrapped around his knees, gasping for breath that wouldn't come.

He didn't hear Kingsley enter. Didn't realize he was there until a warm hand settled on his shoulder. No words. No commands. Just solid, steady presence.

And Sirius Black, who had survived ten years in Azkaban, broke.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was a man of honor.

He had been a Hufflepuff at Hogwarts, steadfast and loyal to the core. He remembered Sirius Black and James Potter well. They had been a force to be reckoned with—mischievous, yes, but brilliant, skilled, and damn near fearless. They were thick as thieves, the best of friends, partners on and off the field. Kingsley had seen them throw themselves into the line of fire for each other more times than he could count, taking curses meant for the other without hesitation. It had become a running tally between them—who had saved whose life more times.

When James had quit the force to go into hiding with Lily and their newborn son, no one had suspected Sirius of all people to betray him. It had been unthinkable. And yet, the evidence had been damning.

But now, Kingsley wasn't so sure.

Looking down at the man curled up beneath the spray of water, shaking from something far deeper than the cold, Kingsley saw no Death Eater. No traitor. No murderer. He saw a man who had survived hell. A man who had lost everything—his best friend, his freedom, his very sense of self. And something in Kingsley's chest twisted sharply.

He had never doubted his own sense of justice before. But Merlin help him, he was beginning to believe that Sirius Black was innocent.

With a wave of his wand, he dried Sirius off, conjured fresh robes, and levitated him to a chair with careful precision. Sirius didn't resist, too drained to do anything but let Kingsley work.

His hair was an absolute disaster—matted, tangled, a wild mane of neglect. Kingsley took his time with the hair-cutting charm, making sure to do a proper job. It wasn't just about appearances. It was about giving Sirius back some small piece of dignity.

Then came the beard. It was a mangled, overgrown thing, streaked with grime and more than a few strands of gray. It took effort—charm after charm, careful maneuvering—but when Kingsley finally stepped back, Sirius Black was there again.

Gaunt, haunted, but human.

Sirius stared at his reflection in the small conjured mirror, his fingers brushing over the unfamiliar smoothness of his jaw.

"You cut my hair," he muttered, voice rough.

Kingsley quirked an eyebrow. "You're welcome."

Sirius huffed something that might have been a laugh if it weren't so fragile.

Kingsley said nothing about the breakdown. He simply placed a steady hand on Sirius's shoulder and guided him back to his cell. When they reached it, he didn't bother putting him back in shackles.

Sirius noticed.

It was later, when the weight of exhaustion finally settled over him, that Sirius found the courage to look past his shame and recognize the kindness for what it was.

He lay in a real bed, wrapped in clean robes, his skin scrubbed raw but clean. The room didn't stink of rot. His hair didn't hang in his eyes. His body, though still too thin, no longer felt like it belonged to a corpse.

For the first time in ten years, he felt… human again.

Tomorrow, he would face them.

Tomorrow, they would see.

And tomorrow, if the gods were merciful, he would walk away with a clean slate.

Remus Lupin walked through the stark, torch-lit corridors of the Ministry's detention level, his footsteps muffled by the thick stone floor. It was different from Azkaban—warmer, cleaner, devoid of the soul-draining presence of Dementors—but it was still a prison. And Sirius Black was still behind bars.

He had spent the last few days unraveling everything he thought he knew. First came the shock of learning that Sirius had never been given a trial. Then came the whispers, the inconsistencies, the questions that had festered for a decade but never had a chance to be asked.

Now, he was here, face-to-face with the man he had once called brother, the man he had mourned, hated, and now… now he didn't know.

The guard stepped aside, and the door creaked open. Remus stepped inside.

Sirius sat on the edge of his cot, no longer the walking corpse Remus had seen in the papers. He looked more like himself. But his eyes—Merlin, his eyes—were hollowed by a decade of nightmares.

"Sirius."

The name felt strange on his tongue.

Sirius looked up slowly, his storm-gray eyes locking onto Remus with something that looked like hope, but also fear. He swallowed. "Moony."

The old nickname nearly stopped Remus in his tracks. The familiarity of it. The weight of it.

Remus took a breath. Not yet.

"I need answers," he said, voice steady. "From you."

Sirius nodded, setting his hands on his knees. "I know. I kind of wish you had come a bit earlier."

Remus hesitated before stepping further into the cell, the door closing behind him with a quiet click. He studied Sirius, searching for the man he once knew beneath the layers of ruin and regret.

"Did you do it?" His voice barely wavered. "Did you betray James and Lily?"

Sirius flinched like he'd been hexed. He licked his lips, his fingers curling into fists. "No."

The word landed between them, small but unwavering.

Remus's stomach twisted. He wanted to believe him—desperately. But ten years of anger, of guilt, of grief, couldn't be undone with a single word.

"Then why," he demanded, his voice tight, "why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell anyone?"

Sirius exhaled, his shoulders slumping. He shook himself a bit, like a dog. "Because I was a fool." His voice was hoarse. I thought you were... Because I switched with Peter." He looked up, his expression raw. "He was the Secret Keeper, Moony. Not me."

Remus felt like the ground had been ripped out from beneath him. Just hearing him say it. With such conviction. Such venom. God helped him he believed him.

Peter.

It didn't make sense. Peter was harmless. Peter was soft. Peter wasn't capable of—

But Sirius's face—Merlin, the grief in his face—told him otherwise.

"No," Remus whispered, shaking his head. "That's not—Peter's dead."

Sirius gave a hollow, humorless laugh. "No. Peter escaped. He cut off his own finger, transformed, and scurried into the sewers. Left me to rot." His breath hitched. "And you—you believed them."

Remus staggered back a step, something twisting inside him.

"I didn't know what to believe," he admitted. "I was lost, Sirius. I had just lost all of you. And you—" He swallowed. "You were laughing when they found you."

Sirius let out a long, shuddering breath. "I was." He met Remus's gaze. "Because I had just realized how completely I had been played." His voice cracked. "And I knew it was too late."

Remus closed his eyes, grief crashing over him like a wave.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

"I don't know what to do with this," Remus whispered finally. "I spent ten years hating you." His voice wavered. "And now I don't know how to stop."

Sirius swallowed hard, his expression unreadable. "I don't deserve forgiveness."

Remus exhaled slowly. "You're getting a trial now. They will use veritaserum." He warned.

Sirius grinned, "Good." A feral look on his face. Almost gleeful.

Remus left soon after that, with so much still left unsaid.

Remus stepped out of the cell, his heart hammering in his chest. The door shut behind him with a heavy clang, the finality of it ringing in his ears. He forced himself to walk, one foot in front of the other, through the dim corridors of the Ministry's detention level. His head was a storm of tangled thoughts, old wounds ripped open and raw.

Sirius might be innocent.

The words weren't quite real yet. They hovered on the edges of his mind, waiting for him to accept them, to believe in them. But belief was dangerous. He had spent too many years grieving, hating, doubting. It wasn't so easy to let go of all that pain.

And yet, for the first time in a decade, something unfamiliar stirred in his chest. Hope.

Hope that James's trust hadn't been misplaced. Hope that Sirius wasn't the traitor he had spent years cursing in the dead of night. Hope that—Merlin help them all—Harry might have his godfather back.

Harry.

Remus exhaled sharply. He had to tell Harry.

And Neville.

Lady Longbottom's words echoed in his head, her firm insistence that both boys be informed—properly. He had never felt so unprepared for anything in his life. How was he supposed to explain this? That the man they had grown up hearing was a murderer might not be? That the world they thought they understood was shifting beneath their feet?

How do I tell them that everything they've ever been told about Sirius Black might be a lie?

He reached the lift and pressed his forehead against the cool brass of the gate, closing his eyes for just a moment.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, the trial would begin.

By the end of it, Sirius might be exonerated. He might walk free.

Remus let out a slow breath.

And if that happened… maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have to face this alone anymore.

AN 2/16/25