Sirius Black had not known comfort in six years. He had long since forgotten the feel of soft bedding, of warmth beyond the fevered heat of madness, or the simple relief of a meal that was not stale, maggot-ridden, or cold. He had adjusted to the damp, the unyielding stone beneath him, the stench of decay that never truly faded from his cell in Azkaban. So when they moved him, when he found himself in a space with clean air, a real bed, and warm food, his instincts screamed at him that something was deeply, profoundly wrong.

His mind was sluggish with exhaustion, his limbs weak from years of neglect. Yet, even as he slumped against the thin mattress in his Ministry holding cell, his grey eyes flickered with suspicion. The food was edible. The air was tolerable. He had been given clean robes—his first in years. They were still rough, still plain, but they were not caked in filth.

None of this made sense.

Sirius sat up slowly, his long, tangled hair falling into his face as he listened. The silence of Azkaban had been different—oppressive, filled with whispers of old ghosts and the mutterings of the broken. But here, there was activity. Footsteps in the corridors. The occasional murmur of conversation beyond the thick iron door. He wasn't alone in this cellblock.

A calculated kindness, then. A distraction before the Dementors came for him again? Or—something else?

The question clawed at him, but before he could unravel it further, footsteps approached. A moment later, the heavy door creaked open, and Sirius was forced to squint against the torchlight spilling into his room.

Cornelius Fudge stepped inside, his emerald green robes immaculate, his expression carefully measured.

"Sirius Black," he greeted voice light with forced civility. "I imagine you have many questions."

Sirius tilted his head, observing the man. He was fatter than Sirius remembered, his face round with indulgence. But his eyes—those were sharp. Not dim, as Sirius had once assumed.

"I have a few," Sirius rasped, his voice rough from disuse. He coughed, swallowing painfully. "Like why I'm here instead of rotting away."

Fudge smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. "You have been granted a trial."

Sirius stared at him. His fingers twitched where they rested on his knee, his nails jagged and dirty. "A trial," he repeated, tasting the words.

"You were never given one," Fudge continued, as though this were a casual discussion. "An oversight. One we intend to correct."

Sirius did not trust this, not for a second. But he had spent his childhood watching pure-blood politics play out in grand drawing rooms and high-society gatherings. He knew a calculated move when he saw one.

"You're suddenly interested in justice?" Sirius asked, his voice flat.

"I am interested in stability," Fudge corrected, clasping his hands behind his back. "And justice, when necessary. It would not do to have certain…oversights come to light. This way, we can correct them properly."

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "And what's stopping you from throwing me back into Azkaban the moment this farce is over?"

Fudge sighed as if Sirius were being unreasonable. "You will find, Mr. Black, that this is no farce. You have legal representation. You will stand before the full Wizengamot. If you are found innocent, you will be released."

He said nothing of Pettigrew. Nothing of why this was happening now. But Sirius had learned long ago that those who held power rarely gave answers for free. He would have to wait. Observe.

Still, Fudge's measured approach was…unexpected. Sirius had always thought of him as weak-willed, a fool swayed by flattery and fear. But this? No, this was a man who understood how to use the system to his advantage. And that, more than anything, put Sirius on edge.

The chamber of the Wizengamot was grand, imposing. It was designed to make the accused feel small. Sirius had sat in this room once before, as a teenager. He had been taken to this chamber once before, years ago, by his father for a vote, a lesson in the ways of politics and power. He had sat in the shadows, watching as men like his father spoke in measured tones, their words woven with deception and control. Even then, he had understood that truth mattered far less than perception.

He was led to the centre of the room, shackles clamped around his wrists, though they were more for show than necessity. The chains that bound him in Azkaban had weighed more heavily than these ever could.

Rows upon rows of witches and wizards watched him from their elevated seats. The full Wizengamot had gathered, dressed in deep plum robes, their expressions ranging from bored to intrigued. In the highest seat, Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore sat, his face unreadable.

Fudge sat nearby, speaking in hushed tones to Amelia Bones. Sirius could see it now—how carefully this had been arranged. Dumbledore may have held the title of Chief Warlock, but it was Fudge who controlled this trial. Sirius could almost respect it.

A woman to his left cleared her throat. His assigned barrister—Elaine Rosier. He had been mildly amused at the name, wondering if she was any relation to his mother's side of the family, but she had been professional and direct in their brief meeting.

"We will begin," Dumbledore announced, his voice carrying through the chamber. "This hearing is to determine whether Sirius Orion Black was wrongfully imprisoned without trial."

The trial was both painfully slow and viciously efficient. Rosier argued with sharp precision, tearing through the Ministry's lack of evidence. Amelia Bones provided the necessary facts, calmly and methodically. The Daily Prophet's reporters scribbled furiously in the background, their presence a reminder that this trial was not just about justice—it was about politics.

Dumbledore made attempts to steer the conversation, but time and time again, Fudge redirected it. Pettigrew's name was introduced at the last possible moment when the Wizengamot had already begun to lean towards exoneration. The reaction was immediate—gasps, muttering, a ripple of outrage. Fudge let it build, then smoothly presented Pettigrew as a captured fugitive, further proving the necessity of this trial.

Sirius watched it unfold, his mind working through the layers. Dumbledore had expected to control the narrative. But Fudge had outmanoeuvred him. And Sirius, despite himself, was impressed.

His mother had trained him in politics, in the art of manipulation, in how to read a room. He had despised every second of it. But now, standing in the centre of the Wizengamot, watching power shift before his eyes, he found himself grateful for the education.

"The Wizengamot will now vote," Dumbledore announced.

One by one, the hands rose.

"Innocent."

Sirius exhaled, slowly and measured. The chains around his wrists vanished.

He was free.

Sirius had been moved to a rehabilitation centre in the countryside, its expenses covered by the Ministry. It was a quiet place, far removed from the noise of the wizarding world, surrounded by rolling hills and dense forests. The scent of damp earth and fresh air filled the wide halls, a stark contrast to the salt and rot of Azkaban. Birds sang in the mornings, and the wind whispered through the trees—a soft, almost taunting reminder of the freedom he had been denied for six years. The building was quiet, secluded, the kind of place designed for those who had been broken and were now expected to heal. But Sirius did not feel like healing.

The first few days were torture. His muscles, weakened by years of starvation and disuse, screamed in protest at every movement. Walking was agony, his balance unreliable, his legs unsteady. His stomach twisted violently at the first proper meal he had eaten in years, rejecting even the blandest of broths. Sleep was a battlefield—when he managed to drift off, nightmares clawed at him, dragging him back to the echoing cries of the damned, the icy grip of the Dementors, the suffocating weight of guilt and rage. When he woke, drenched in sweat, he could still feel the cold of Azkaban in his bones. He hurt—physically, mentally. His body ached in ways he could not put into words, the years of malnutrition and exposure leaving their mark. His mind, too, was slow to adjust. He flinched at sudden noises, distrusted the kindness of the staff, and barely slept, always waiting for the cold to return.

His assigned healer, a woman named Madeline Greaves, was patient but unyielding. She did not coddle him. When he refused to eat, she sat across from him, silent but unmoving, until he managed a few bites. When he staggered through the halls, she walked beside him, never offering a hand, only watching with assessing eyes. 'You are not weak,' she told him on the second day, when he collapsed onto the floor of his room, his breathing ragged. 'Your body has been starved, yes. Your mind has been battered, certainly. But weakness? That is not what I see.' She was not overly gentle, nor did she offer false platitudes. She observed him with shrewd eyes, treated his injuries with quiet efficiency, and gave him space to process. When he ignored her, she ignored his silence in return. When he snapped at her, she did not flinch.

'You will recover,' she had told him on the third day, her voice calm, certain. 'But only if you allow yourself to.'

Sirius had said nothing. He wasn't sure if he believed her.

Time crawled by, slow and unrelenting. He spent hours staring out of the window at the sprawling countryside, watching the trees sway with the wind, yet never feeling like he was there. His mind was still trapped in Azkaban, in the suffocating dark, in the memories of the past.

One evening, as Madeline examined his healing injuries, he spoke without thinking. 'Harry. Where is he?'

She paused only for a moment before replying, her voice carefully neutral. 'Safe. He has been with his relatives since he was a baby.'

Sirius frowned. He had known that, of course, but something in the way she said it made his skin prickle. 'His relatives,' he repeated. 'Do they treat him well?'

Madeline hesitated. 'I cannot say for certain. But he is well.'

The words did not comfort him. He had a thousand more questions, but they all died on his tongue. What would be the point? He had no say in the boy's life, no way to protect him. Not yet.

A week later, as Madeline made her notes during their morning session, she glanced up at him. 'Lupin has been requesting to visit.'

Sirius went rigid. The name was a punch to the gut, a spark of something raw and painful that he had buried under exhaustion and anger. He forced his expression into something blank. 'No.'

'He asks every week.'

'I said no.'

Madeline did not push, only nodded and returned to her notes. But she asked again the next week. And the week after that. Each time, Sirius said no, his voice sharper, angrier, but never uncertain.

Four months in, after another night of sleeplessness, he sat across from Madeline in her office, his hands clasped tightly together. The words left him before he could think better of them.

'Let him visit.