Authors Notes
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CHAPTER TWENTY
EXONERATED
Dumbledore's POV
Dumbledore sat utterly still in his chair, his hands steepled beneath his chin, his mind racing with the weight of revelation.
The Pensieve's swirling mist cast an eerie glow over the dimly lit office, illuminating Harry's face as he stood hunched over the basin, completely absorbed in the memories. Dumbledore's gaze lingered on the boy—no, the young man—who had endured so much, unaware until now of the terrible truth that had been growing inside him for over a decade.
A Horcrux.
The boy had been a Horcrux this entire time.
Right under my nose.
Dumbledore exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his temples, trying to make sense of it all. He had suspected, of course—had known there was something unnatural about the connection between Harry and Voldemort. But he had never truly dared to believe that the Dark Lord had, however unintentionally, tethered his very soul to the child he had sought to destroy.
Harry had come so close to being lost to it. So close to being fully possessed.
And yet, by sheer luck—or perhaps by the fickle hand of fate itself—he had been saved.
Voldemort's arrogance had been his undoing. When that fragment of his soul, the one that had latched onto Quirrell, had cast the Killing Curse at Harry, it had unknowingly annihilated a piece of itself. The parasite had been purged, obliterated in the very moment it sought to kill.
But something else had happened.
Dumbledore's fingers tightened slightly as a chill ran through him. The power contained in that soul fragment—the knowledge, the dark magic, the essence of Voldemort's own being—had not simply vanished. It had transferred.
Into Harry.
That was the piece he had not foreseen.
The boy was now Voldemort's equal—not just in the ways Dumbledore had once believed, but in knowledge, in understanding, in power.
No, Dumbledore reassured himself. Voldemort still had the advantage. Even now, even with everything Harry had gained, Voldemort was a fully realized Dark Lord. He had spent decades honing his craft, bending magic to his will, committing atrocities in pursuit of greater strength. Harry, despite all he had been through, was still just a boy. A boy with an incredible reservoir of power, yes, but one who had yet to fully grasp the depths of what he had inherited.
More importantly, a boy who would not cross the lines Voldemort had long since abandoned.
Dumbledore was certain of that.
For all the darkness that now coiled beneath Harry's skin, for all the knowledge he had unwillingly absorbed, there was one fundamental difference between him and the monster whose soul had once clung to him.
Harry would not fully embrace and give in to the Dark Arts.
Not in the way Voldemort had.
Still…
Dumbledore sighed, rubbing his temples.
How had James and Lily spoken to Harry from beyond the veil?
Was it simply Harry's mind, desperate for closure, creating the illusion of their voices? A trick of his subconscious? Or had it truly happened? Had the boy actually been dead, for even the briefest of moments, and returned?
Or had he stood at the precipice of the afterlife, balanced between two worlds, before being pulled back?
It was a question that gnawed at Dumbledore's mind, one he knew he had no answer to.
His piercing blue eyes drifted back to Harry, who remained utterly engrossed in the Pensieve.
The second-year's expression was unreadable, his face bathed in the silvery light of memory.
Dumbledore knew what he was seeing.
Everything.
The memories he had given Harry spanned the entirety of Voldemort's reign—from the first whispers of his rise to power to the bitter end of the First Wizarding War. Every calculated decision. Every unholy alliance. Every shadowed maneuver, carefully orchestrated from the sidelines.
Harry was seeing it all.
Seeing how Dumbledore had fought, not by direct confrontation, but through careful strategy—through influence, through manipulation, through the slow, methodical undermining of Voldemort's empire.
A war fought not on the battlefield, but in the shadows.
Dumbledore wondered what Harry would make of it.
What conclusions he would draw.
And what, when he finally emerged from the Pensieve, he would say.
Dumbledore had, at first, hesitated. He had considered withholding the full truth from Harry, revealing only what he deemed necessary, feeding the boy just enough to ensure his allegiance. It had always been his way—secrets carefully measured, information parceled out in fragments, all for what he told himself was the greater good.
But after what he had seen… after what Harry had shown him… Dumbledore could no longer justify the lie.
The memories Harry carried—the ones that did not belong to him but to Voldemort—had changed everything.
One, in particular, haunted Dumbledore's thoughts.
Dorcas Meadows. A member of the original order of the Phoenix.
For years, he had comforted himself with the belief that her death had been swift. That she had not suffered. That whatever cruelty Voldemort had inflicted had been brief, a mere flicker of agony before the end.
He had been wrong.
The truth, as laid bare in Harry's mind, was a horror beyond words.
Dumbledore had watched through Voldemort's eyes as the Dark Lord took his time with her, reveling in her agony, prolonging her suffering for his own amusement. The memory played in his mind like a cursed melody—the way she screamed, the way her body twisted under Voldemort's relentless magic, the laughter of the Death Eaters echoing like a chorus of the damned as they watched her life slip away, piece by excruciating piece.
Dumbledore gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles turning white. A sickening nausea coiled in his stomach.
Never again.
Never again would he stand on the sidelines, watching as his allies were slaughtered while he maneuvered from the shadows. No more waiting. No more passive resistance. This time, he would take an active role in the war against Voldemort. This time, he would ensure the Dark Lord's destruction with his own hands.
He could no longer allow such atrocities to continue.
And now, for the first time, he truly understood Harry's hatred for the Death Eaters—the raw, unfiltered loathing that simmered beneath the boy's surface. He understood, too, the fury behind Harry's warning to Severus last summer, the veiled threat in his voice when he spoke of the man who had sworn himself to Dumbledore's cause. Merlin, to think that Harry carried all of Voldemort's kills in his head…
Dumbledore suppressed a shudder.
It was a small mercy that the boy was an accomplished Occlumens.
His sharp blue eyes flicked toward Harry, who remained still, his face illuminated by the swirling silver mist of the Pensieve.
Yes, Harry would be a powerful ally in the war to come.
Not a pawn. Not a tool to be positioned on the chessboard of battle.
But an equal.
A true ally.
If Dumbledore wanted Harry to fight beside him—not out of obligation, but as a willing and trusted partner—then the boy needed to know everything. Just as Harry had shown him his own memories, Dumbledore had laid everything bare. There could be no more secrets between them.
He had given Harry everything.
Dumbledore exhaled slowly, his decision firm in his mind.
A movement in the corner of his vision caught his attention—Harry straightening, stepping back from the Pensieve.
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, watching him carefully.
"Well, my dear boy," he said at last, his voice even, measured. "You now know everything I know about the war. Every decision I made, whether right or wrong, is laid bare before you, just as you have shared your memories with me. So… what do you think of my choices?"
Harry turned to face him fully, his expression unreadable. His green eyes, so like Lily's, bore into Dumbledore's own with quiet intensity.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"So, Snape loved my mother," Harry said, his voice steady, but laced with something simmering beneath the surface. "Loved her so much that he mourned her after Voldemort killed her." He let out a slow breath, the weight of realization settling over him. "And yet… he was the one who told Voldemort about the prophecy in the first place. He's the reason I have a target painted on my back."
Dumbledore felt the corners of his lips twitch, though the smile did not quite reach his eyes.
"Harry, you must understand, tha—"
"I know, sir." Harry cut him off before he could finish. "I know he did everything he could to protect my mother after he realized what he had done. I know he risked his life playing double agent for you, for the Order, knowing Voldemort would kill him in an instant if he ever suspected. I get it."
His fingers curled slightly at his sides.
"But that doesn't change the way he treated me last year. Or the way he treats students who aren't Slytherins."
Harry's voice remained calm, but there was something cold beneath it now.
"I mean, let's be honest here—he's a thirty-year-old man who bullies kids half his age because he's still bitter about what happened in school. He doesn't just dislike students who remind him of my dad—he goes out of his way to make their lives miserable. And for what?" Harry's jaw clenched. "Because he can?"
He shook his head slightly, his emerald gaze never leaving Dumbledore's.
"Why even give him the job, sir?"
His voice was softer now, but no less pointed.
"Clearly, he isn't meant to be a teacher."
A pause.
"No matter how good he is at Potions."
Dumbledore raised a hand in silent invitation, gesturing for Harry to take the seat opposite him. His piercing blue eyes studied the boy closely, gauging his thoughts, his emotions, the unspoken weight he carried.
As Harry sat, Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers.
"Harry, my dear boy," he began, his voice calm, yet carrying an undeniable gravity. "You must understand—Severus has long served as my spy within Voldemort's ranks. After the Dark Lord's fall, I ensured he remained close, offering him the position of Potions Master. It was not just a matter of necessity, but of strategy. Should the Death Eaters ever rise again, Severus's position within Hogwarts would allow him to maintain his cover while continuing to feed me valuable intelligence. And now, with the possibility of Voldemort's return becoming more likely, Severus may prove to be one of our greatest assets in the coming war."
Harry nodded; his expression unreadable. But then, his lips twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace.
"It certainly helps," he said, his voice laced with dry amusement, "that he treats half-blood and Muggle-born students like dirt while acting as if Slytherins like Malfoy are royalty. Endears him to their Death Eater parents, doesn't it?"
Dumbledore gave a slow nod, acknowledging the point.
"While I do not condone Severus's behavior toward my students," he admitted, his tone carrying a rare note of regret, "I must also acknowledge that his actions have, in many ways, strengthened his cover."
Harry exhaled sharply through his nose, a reluctant agreement passing between them. Dumbledore caught the flicker of emotion behind his green eyes—disapproval, frustration, but also understanding. The boy knew the necessity of it, even if he despised it.
Dumbledore let out a soft chuckle at the realization.
Then, with a decisive motion, he stood.
"Well, my dear boy," he said, his voice lighter now, but no less intent, "I believe we have a rat to capture."
Harry pushed himself to his feet as well, his demeanor shifting into something sharper, more focused.
"So, how do we do it, sir?" he asked.
Dumbledore smiled, a glint of curiosity sparking in his eyes.
"Ah, now that, Harry, is what I am most interested in. I believe you may have something in mind already?"
A small grin tugged at the corner of Harry's lips.
"I do," he admitted. "I believe the best approach is to go in under a Disillusionment Charm, immobilize Pettigrew before he has a chance to react, bring him straight to your office, force him to transform, and then contact the Aurors."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with something akin to pride. The boy's mind worked quickly, efficiently. He was thinking like a strategist, planning ahead, considering contingencies.
"A sound plan," Dumbledore acknowledged, "but before we proceed, tell me, Harry—your Disillusionment Charm. Would you be so kind as to demonstrate?"
Harry nodded without hesitation. He withdrew his wand and, with a silent flick, cast the charm upon himself.
Dumbledore blinked.
And just like that, Harry vanished.
Only the faintest shimmer in the air—imperceptible to all but the most experienced of wizards—hinted at his presence.
Dumbledore felt a small thrill of admiration.
So that's how he's been moving about the castle unnoticed, he mused. He had assumed Harry relied solely on the Invisibility Cloak, he had gifted him—the same one that once belonged to James—but no, this was something different. This was pure skill.
Dumbledore allowed a small, approving smile to cross his lips.
"And your Invisibility Cloak?" he asked. "Do you no longer use it?"
There was a ripple in the air, and then Harry reappeared, his wand slipping back into his robes.
"Sometimes," he admitted with a shrug. "But I usually keep it stored in my trunk."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. The boy was adapting, choosing methods based on their practicality rather than sentimentality.
"Your plan will work," he said, "though I believe a few modifications are in order."
Harry inclined his head slightly, listening.
"We will Apparate to the entrance of the Gryffindor common room," Dumbledore continued. "From there, we will enter and apprehend the Animagus, Pettigrew. However, to ensure he is present and that our actions do not raise suspicion, I will arrange for Minerva to conduct a surprise dormitory inspection." He glanced at Harry with a wry smile. "Forgive me, Harry—Professor McGonagall. The inspection will require all students to have their pets in hand, ensuring that Pettigrew cannot slip away unnoticed."
Harry's expression darkened slightly at the mention of the rat, his fingers unconsciously flexing at his sides.
"Once we have him," Dumbledore continued, "I shall contact Minister Fudge and a team of Aurors—perhaps even an Unspeakable or two—to take custody of him. After that is handled, we will turn our attention to the Basilisk, the Chamber of Secrets, and, of course, the Horcruxes."
A pause. Then, with a faint smile, he added,
"All in all, my dear boy, a rather busy term awaits us."
Harry nodded, a glint of determination flashing in his eyes.
Dumbledore studied him for a moment longer, then allowed his gaze to drift, lost in thought.
He had already made up his mind. He would allow Harry to take the lead in this mission. He wanted to see how the boy handled himself when faced with the man responsible for his parents' murder. Would he hold his composure? Would he allow the weight of justice to settle the score? Or would he succumb to vengeance?
If the latter happened…
Dumbledore would be ready to intervene.
Harry's POV
Professor McGonagall's sharp gaze flickered between Dumbledore and Harry as they stepped into her quarters. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her arms crossed in silent disapproval.
"May I be so bold as to ask the reason behind this sudden inspection, Headmaster?" she asked, her voice clipped and formal. Then her eyes landed on Harry, and her frown deepened. "And why is Potter with you?"
Dumbledore merely smiled, his usual twinkle in his eyes. "All will be explained soon, my dear Minerva. For now, though, would you be so kind as to escort us to the second-year dormitory?"
McGonagall hesitated, clearly wanting more answers, but with a small huff of exasperation, she turned on her heel and led them up the winding staircase. The wooden steps creaked under their weight as they ascended, until they reached the dormitory door. McGonagall pushed it open, revealing a group of second-year Gryffindor boys standing beside their beds, all of them wide-eyed and uneasy at the sudden arrival of their head of house, the headmaster, and—perhaps most unsettling of all—Harry Potter.
Harry stepped in behind McGonagall, his gaze sweeping the room. His eyes briefly met Ron's. His best friend stood by his bed, his arms crossed, but the hostility from the train ride had faded. Now, Ron only looked confused, searching Harry's face for answers.
McGonagall, too, was itching for an explanation, her sharp gaze darting between Harry and Dumbledore. But Harry was focused on one thing.
His eyes flickered across the room, searching—no, hunting—for the rat.
It didn't take long.
Scabbers lay curled up on Ron's pillow, completely oblivious to the danger lurking in front of him. Oblivious to the fact that his carefully hidden life was about to shatter.
For a fleeting moment, Harry felt the ghost of pity stir within him. But then—memories crashed down like a tidal wave. His mother's screams. The cold laughter of Voldemort. The empty space in his life where his parents should have been.
Because of him.
Because of Peter Pettigrew.
Harry's grip on his wand tightened, and without hesitation, he flicked it forward. A silent spell shot through the air.
The Stunner hit its mark instantly.
Scabbers stiffened and went rigid, his tiny body freezing mid-breath. The second-year boys jumped back in shock, some of them yelping. The room filled with the sound of beds creaking as the boys scrambled away, eyes darting between Harry and the now-paralyzed rat.
"What the bloody hell?!"
Ron's shout sliced through the moment of stunned silence. His face was red with fury, his hands clenched at his sides. "Harry, that was Scabbers! Are you mental?!"
He moved toward the bed, his body tense with protectiveness over the unconscious rat.
"Mr. Potter!" McGonagall's voice was sharp, her expression thunderous. "I demand an explanation this moment! What is the meaning of this?!"
She turned to Dumbledore, eyes blazing. "Headmaster, may you please explain what is going on?"
Dumbledore, completely unfazed, merely smiled. "Minerva, my dear, you will receive your answers soon enough. I ask that you be patient."
Harry glanced at Dumbledore, who gave him a single, knowing nod.
Show them.
Harry took a deep breath, then turned back to McGonagall and Ron.
"Scabbers isn't a rat," he said, his voice calm but unwavering. "He's an Animagus. And not just any Animagus—he's Peter Pettigrew."
McGonagall let out an incredulous scoff. "That is nonsense, Potter. Pettigrew was not an Animagus! If he had been, he would have been registered! And even so—Peter Pettigrew is dead! All that was left of him was a finger!"
Harry let out a quiet chuckle. "No, Professor. He's not dead. And I can assure you, he is an Animagus." He held up a hand before she could interrupt again. "How I know doesn't matter right now. But what does matter is that this rat—" he gestured toward the frozen form on Ron's pillow "—is Pettigrew."
McGonagall's lips tightened; her disbelief evident.
"Look at the rat's toes, Professor." Harry pressed. "Tell me what you see."
McGonagall hesitated, then stepped forward, her sharp eyes narrowing as she inspected the small creature. A gasp escaped her lips, and her fingers twitched in realization.
"The rat—" she whispered. "It's missing a toe."
Harry nodded. "Exactly."
His gaze flickered to Ron, who was staring at Scabbers as though he'd never seen him before.
Ron shook his head rapidly. "No. No, that's not possible. He's a rat, Harry. You're wrong. He's always been a rat!"
"Has he?" Harry asked quietly. His green eyes locked onto Ron's, unwavering. "Has he been in your family for… twelve years?"
Ron opened his mouth as if to argue—then stopped.
A flicker of doubt crossed his face.
"Think about it, Ron," Harry pressed. "How many garden rats do you know that live that long, huh?"
Ron faltered. His hands clenched and unclenched.
Harry exhaled. "I know you don't believe me. So let me show you."
Before Ron could protest, Harry flicked his wand again.
Scabbers lifted off the pillow, floating limply in midair. Another quick wave of Harry's wand, and the stunning spell lifted.
The rat came to with a sharp twitch. His small body convulsed slightly as his beady eyes flickered open. For a brief moment, he was dazed.
Then—he took in his surroundings.
His whiskers twitched violently. His tiny chest rose and fell in rapid succession. His gaze darted from the unfamiliar floating sensation to the people watching him—to Dumbledore, to Harry—
His body trembled.
Harry leaned in slightly, his voice low and steady.
"Hello, Pettigrew."
The rat froze.
"Sirius sends his regards."
A high-pitched squeal erupted from Scabbers—no, Pettigrew—as he began thrashing wildly. His limbs jerked frantically, his tiny claws scratching at the air as he tried in vain to escape the levitation spell. Panic radiated off him in waves.
"Harry, stop!" Ron shouted; his face filled with distress. "You're hurting him!"
He took a step forward, reaching out for his pet, but—
"Stay where you are, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall commanded, her voice sharp.
Ron halted, looking torn.
McGonagall's gaze snapped back to Harry. "Potter, I expect answers after this." She took a breath, her fingers twitching as she glanced at the writhing rat. "But for now… show us what you meant."
Harry nodded grimly. He tightened his grip on his wand, then pointed it directly at Pettigrew.
Another flick.
A flash of blue-white light exploded from the tip of his wand.
For a moment, Scabbers twisted midair, his gray form writhing madly—Ron let out a strangled yell—then the rat dropped.
As soon as he hit the floor, another burst of magic engulfed him.
It was like watching something unnatural, something impossible.
His body stretched. Limbs erupted from the tiny frame, twisting and growing. A head shot upward, hair sprouting across the rapidly expanding form.
Then, with one final pulse of light—
A man stood where Scabbers had been.
He was trembling, wringing his hands together like a caged animal. His watery, pale blue eyes were wide with sheer, unfiltered terror.
Peter Pettigrew had returned.
Peter Pettigrew hung suspended in the air; his small, trembling form encased in the glowing chains that kept him from shifting back into his Animagus form. He was barely taller than Harry, his hunched posture making him seem even smaller. His thin, mousy hair was unkempt, greasy strands clinging to his clammy forehead, the bald patch on top gleaming under the flickering candlelight of Dumbledore's office. He was plump, his grubby, sallow skin making him appear sickly. His pointed nose twitched, his beady, watery eyes darting desperately around the room, searching for any possible means of escape.
Professor McGonagall stood rigid, her face pale with shock as she stared at the man, she had once taught, a man she had believed dead for over a decade. Her breath hitched as she uttered his name, disbelieving. "P-Peter Pettigrew… How is this possible? You are supposed to be dead."
Pettigrew flinched at her words, his bound hands clenching as if he wanted to shield himself from their accusations. His entire body shuddered, his rat-like features twisting into a look of pitiful desperation.
Dumbledore, ever composed, observed Pettigrew with an unreadable expression, his piercing blue eyes betraying no emotion. "Hello Peter," he said smoothly, his voice carrying a quiet authority that sent shivers down Pettigrew's spine. "It has been quite some time. I do hope you will be kind enough to accompany us—Professor McGonagall, young Mr. Weasley, Harry, and myself—to my office. I daresay the Aurors and the Minister of Magic will find your story of survival quite… enlightening."
Pettigrew's breathing quickened. His gaze flickered toward the door again, his instincts screaming at him to run, but before he could even attempt an escape, Harry flicked his wand.
With a sharp crack, shimmering crimson chains materialized from thin air, wrapping around Pettigrew's limbs like living serpents. He let out a strangled squeak as they tightened, restricting every possible movement.
"I wouldn't try escaping or transforming if I were you," Harry said, his voice like ice. "These chains will burn you if you try."
Pettigrew whimpered, his small frame trembling violently. There was something dark in the spell Harry had cast, something dangerous—not evil, but undeniably powerful. A spell meant for control, for restraint, for subduing threats without giving them a chance to fight back. The kind of magic that was pragmatic, ruthless, and effective—exactly what was needed to deal with someone like Pettigrew.
Dumbledore raised a single eyebrow at the spell but made no comment. McGonagall, on the other hand, looked like she wanted to say something but was too overwhelmed by the night's revelations to find the words.
With a calm, measured movement, Dumbledore extended his arm. "Let us be off, then."
Harry grabbed Pettigrew's shoulder, his fingers digging into the trembling man's flesh, and reached for Dumbledore's arm with his other hand. The next moment, with a sharp pull, the world twisted around them, the familiar squeeze of Apparition taking hold.
They reappeared inside Dumbledore's office in an instant. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, candle wax, and lemon drops. The many silver instruments on the headmaster's desk whirred and hummed softly, oblivious to the tension that filled the room.
Harry took a step back, releasing Pettigrew, who sagged within his restraints. His breath came in shallow gasps, his entire body sagging like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
"I thought we couldn't Apparate within the confines of the school," Harry said, his brow furrowing.
Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Perks of being Headmaster, my boy."
Harry allowed a small smirk at that, but Ron, still rattled, cut in. "What the bloody hell is going on?" he demanded, his voice filled with confusion and anger. "How did you even know about this, Harry? And why didn't you tell me?"
Before Harry could respond, McGonagall straightened herself, her sharp gaze fixing on him. "Yes, Potter," she said, her voice tight with controlled fury. "I would very much like to know how you came by this information."
Dumbledore, still perfectly composed, turned toward the large fireplace at the side of the room. "While you explain tonight's discoveries," he said, his tone almost casual, "I shall contact the Auror's Office and the Minister of Magic."
Harry nodded. He turned back to McGonagall and Ron, taking a deep breath before speaking.
"Alright," he said. "I'll explain everything now."
As Dumbledore knelt before the fireplace, tossing a pinch of Floo Powder into the flames, the green fire flaring to life, Harry began his explanation. He told them about his visit to Azkaban, how he had gone to see Sirius, how he had realized the truth. He explained how, during their conversation, he had pieced together Pettigrew's survival, the missing finger, the way Scabbers had always seemed off. He told them how he had promised to clear Sirius's name.
Ron's expression twisted as he listened, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. McGonagall, for her part, stayed silent, though her eyes flickered with emotion. There were gaps in Harry's story—details he left out, things he wasn't willing to reveal just yet. McGonagall, sharp as ever, noticed.
"And why," she asked, her voice cold and precise, "did you go to see Black in the first place? Besides him being your Godfather?"
Harry met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "With all due respect, Professor," he said slowly, "I can't tell you that."
McGonagall's lips thinned, but before she could press further, Pettigrew let out a sudden wail.
"Please!" he cried, his voice cracking. "You have to believe me—I'm innocent! It was all Sirius! He was the one who betrayed your parents, Harry! He killed all those people! I only ran because I was terrified of him! I had to hide! Please, you have to believe me!"
Harry's grip on his wand tightened. His emerald eyes flashed with cold fury as he flicked his wrist.
Pettigrew's mouth snapped open, but no sound came out. A silent spell—one of Harry's favorites. He tilted his head, regarding the man with icy detachment.
"Save it for the Minister and the Aurors," he said flatly.
Ron stood in stunned silence, his mind still reeling as he tried to process everything that had just unfolded. His gaze flickered between Harry, McGonagall, and Pettigrew, his fingers clenching and unclenching as if struggling to grasp the sheer magnitude of the situation. The weight of revelation hung thick in the air, pressing down on all of them.
Professor McGonagall, her sharp eyes glinting with both curiosity and unease, finally spoke, breaking the silence. "Potter, will you now explain how you have developed your magical prowess this quickly?" Her voice was measured, but there was an unmistakable edge to it—part suspicion, part amazement. "You seem to be leagues ahead of what you were last term."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a single word, the flames in Dumbledore's fireplace roared to life, turning a vivid emerald green. The room filled with the sharp scent of the Floo Network, and from the swirling fire stepped Minister Cornelius Fudge, flanked by several Aurors. Among them, Harry's sharp eyes immediately picked out a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark skin—Mr. Steward, Tory's father. The large Auror gave Harry a knowing smile, one that Harry returned with a small nod of acknowledgment. But it wasn't just Aurors who had arrived. Among them was another figure, clad in deep black robes, his face partially obscured by shadows. Harry recognized him instantly as an Unspeakable—one of the secretive enforcers from the Department of Mysteries. Memories from Voldemort's fragmented mind flickered in his consciousness, warning him that this was a man to be wary of.
Fudge stepped forward, dusting soot from his robes as he took in the scene before him. His beady eyes darted between Dumbledore, Harry, and the bound figure of Peter Pettigrew. His face twisted in sheer disbelief. "Did I hear you correctly, Dumbledore?" he asked, his voice edged with incredulity. "You and Potter caught Pettigrew?"
Dumbledore, ever composed, gave a small nod. "Indeed, Minister." With a calm gesture, he motioned toward the trembling man still bound in enchanted chains.
Fudge took a staggering step forward, his jaw dropping as his eyes widened in utter shock. "Merlin's Beard…" he breathed. "It is Pettigrew, he's supposed to be dead."
Harry exhaled slowly. Well, here we go.
Fudge's gaze flickered rapidly between Pettigrew, Dumbledore, and Harry, struggling to make sense of the impossible. His voice trembled slightly as he said, "But… how? Sirius Black killed you! All we found was a finger!"
Pettigrew remained frozen in place, his rat-like face glistening with sweat, his small watery eyes darting between the faces in the room, filled with silent terror. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Fudge frowned deeply, confusion creasing his features. "Why is he silent? Why isn't he answering?"
Harry gave a casual flick of his wand, and the moment the silencing charm lifted, Pettigrew exploded into desperate, panicked pleas. "I'm innocent! I'm innocent! I was hiding from Black—he was going to kill me!" he shrieked, his voice breaking with raw terror. "I had to hide! He framed me! Please, Minister, you have to believe me!"
Fudge hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he observed the sniveling man. His lips pursed as he turned to Dumbledore, his voice regaining some of its authority. "Why is he in restraints, Dumbledore? Clearly, he is no threat to anyone. Black is in Azkaban—he was already convicted of the crime of murdering those Muggles."
A sharp spike of anger flared in Harry's chest, burning hot and furious. His fingers twitched on his wand, his breath hitching. Was Fudge seriously this thick? The Minister wasn't even considering how Pettigrew was standing here, alive. He was still clinging to the farce that Sirius was guilty. Harry was about to snap, about to tell the man off, but before he could, he felt a soft, deliberate prod against his mind—Dumbledore's subtle mental touch. Calm yourself, Harry. Let me handle this.
Harry clenched his jaw but forced himself to take a slow breath. He gave the headmaster a small nod and fell silent.
Dumbledore turned to Fudge, his expression unreadable, though there was a sharp glint of steel in his eyes. "If I recall correctly, Minister," he said smoothly, "Sirius Black was accused of the crime, arrested, and sent to Azkaban without a trial. Not even his wand was checked to confirm whether he had cast the spells responsible for that tragedy." His tone remained polite, but there was a weight to his words, one that made Fudge's face darken. "He was convicted purely on the assumption that he was a Death Eater—that he had betrayed his dearest friends to the Dark Lord and then slaughtered his own companion, along with a dozen innocent Muggles. And yet, here we stand, with undeniable proof that Peter Pettigrew is very much alive and has been in hiding for over a decade. Furthermore," Dumbledore's voice dipped into something quieter, more dangerous, "he has been living in disguise as an unregistered Animagus. I ask you, Minister—are you not the least bit curious to uncover the truth? To hear what truly happened that night when all those Muggles died?"
Silence fell over the room like a suffocating blanket. Fudge stood stiff, his fingers twitching, his face contorted in deep thought. His eyes flickered to Pettigrew, then to the Aurors, then back to Dumbledore. His throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly.
Finally, he turned to a stern-looking woman standing among the Aurors. Her short-cropped hair and sharp features marked her immediately as someone of authority—Madame Amelia Bones.
"Madame Bones," Fudge said carefully, "if you would be so kind as to go to Azkaban and bring me Sirius Black. I would very much like to hear his side of the story."
Madame Bones gave a curt nod. Without hesitation, she turned to one of the younger Aurors beside her and murmured an order. The junior Auror immediately stepped forward, moving toward the fireplace. With a quick throw of Floo Powder, the flames turned green once more, and in a blink, he disappeared into the swirling fire, vanishing in a puff of emerald smoke.
The instant the words left Fudge's lips; Pettigrew's face twisted in sheer horror. His eyes bulged, and he let out a bloodcurdling scream.
"NOOOOO!" he howled. "He will kill me! He will ki—"
With a swift flick of his wrist, Mr. Steward silenced Pettigrew once more. The chains rattled as the terrified man struggled in vain, but no sound escaped him this time.
Fudge let out a slow breath, his expression now grim as he turned to the Unspeakable, the shadowed figure watching the scene with eerie detachment.
"We shall use Veritaserum, as you suggested," Fudge declared. "Both of them will be questioned under its influence. We will get to the bottom of this—once and for all."
The wait felt like an eternity, though in reality, less than thirty minutes had passed when the emerald flames in the fireplace roared to life once again. From the swirling green inferno stepped Sirius Black, his gaunt frame bound tightly with thick ropes, flanked by four Aurors. The harsh, flickering light cast eerie shadows over his haggard features—cheekbones sharp beneath his sallow skin, dark hair tangled and unkempt, and his eyes, sunken yet still burning with an undying fire. He had endured unspeakable suffering in Azkaban, but the moment his gaze landed on Harry, a tired but genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
Harry felt warmth spread through his chest at the sight of his godfather's expression. Without thinking, he took a step forward, intending to close the distance between them, to reassure Sirius that he wasn't alone. But then Sirius's focus shifted—and his entire demeanor transformed.
His breath hitched, and his muscles tensed like a predator locking onto prey. His stormy gray eyes burned with raw fury as they fixated on the trembling figure of Peter Pettigrew. The moment stretched unbearably thin before it snapped—chaos erupted in an instant.
A strangled squeak tore from Pettigrew's throat as he recoiled, his pudgy hands scrabbling at the chains that bound him. His watery eyes darted frantically, searching for escape, but the moment he tried to move, the enchanted restraints flared with brilliant, searing light. A howl of agony burst from his lips as the magical chains burned his flesh, ensuring he could not flee.
At the same time, Sirius lunged forward, teeth bared in a snarl, his whole body straining against his bindings. He twisted and fought, pure rage radiating off him in waves as he spat, "It's all your fault!" His voice, hoarse and raw, trembled with grief and fury. "They're dead because of you! You sold them out! They were your friends, Wormtail!"
Pettigrew's panicked thrashing only increased, his mouth opening in a silent scream, but the silencing charm still held firm. He could do nothing but shake his head frantically, incoherent mumbles spilling from his lips as he writhed under Sirius's accusatory glare.
"Enough!"
Cornelius Fudge's voice cut through the madness, his face red with frustration as he raised a hand for order. "I will have answers tonight, Dumbledore," he declared, puffing out his chest. His tone carried the weight of authority, but it was laced with undeniable unease. His gaze flickered warily between Sirius, Pettigrew, and the gathered Aurors before he pressed on. "Dumbledore, As Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, you have the power to conduct an immediate trial in our presence. A formal trial will follow to ensure that the guilty party faces proper charges." He straightened his robes, inhaling deeply. "Is this agreeable to you?"
Dumbledore, ever composed, gave a slow nod. "Indeed, Minister."
Fudge exhaled, then turned to the no-nonsense figure of Madam Amelia Bones. "Madam Bones, please proceed."
Madam Bones strode forward, the weight of command in every step. Her sharp, calculating eyes flickered over both restrained men. Sirius met her gaze with unwavering intensity, his chest heaving, while Pettigrew actively avoided looking at her, his hunched posture radiating cowardice. She surveyed them both before speaking in a measured, steady voice.
"Before either of you attempts any foolishness once we remove your restraints, remember this—you are surrounded by some of the most skilled Aurors in Britain. Any escape attempt will be met with swift and lethal force."
Sirius, still fuming but not reckless, gave a stiff nod. "I give you my word—I won't run."
Pettigrew whimpered something unintelligible, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Mr. Steward," Madam Bones commanded, "remove the chains from Pettigrew and lift the silencing charm."
Mr. Steward raised his wand—but nothing happened. He frowned, trying again. Still, the chains refused to budge. His eyes narrowed as he turned toward Madame Bones. "Huh, that's strange, they're resisting me."
Harry couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped his lips. Without hesitation, he gave his wand a subtle flick, and the enchanted restraints vanished as if they had never been there.
A stunned silence followed. The gathered Aurors, the Minister, even Madam Bones herself, stared at Harry with something bordering on disbelief.
"Pray tell, young man, how," Madam Bones asked slowly, her gaze locking onto him with newfound scrutiny, "is a wizard of your age capable of such potent magic? And without an incantation?"
Before Harry could answer, another voice cut in—Professor McGonagall's, firm and certain. "Well Potter is among the most gifted students Hogwarts has seen in decades. His magical prowess far exceeds that of even some of our older students."
A murmur spread among the Aurors, whispers of awe and disbelief filling the air.
"Potter?"
"The Harry Potter?"
"The boy who bested He who must not be named as a baby?"
But Harry barely registered their words. He wasn't focused on their astonishment—only on the way Sirius's eyes gleamed with fierce pride at McGonagall's words.
Madam Bones, ever professional, quickly redirected her attention to the matter at hand. Her gaze hardened as she looked between Sirius and Pettigrew. "Mr. Black, Mr. Pettigrew, you will be administered Veritaserum to answer for what happened on the night of November second, 1981." She gave them a moment to respond. "Before we begin, do either of you wish to speak?"
Sirius lifted his chin, his voice unwavering despite the years of torment he had endured. "I was framed. I am innocent."
Madam Bones studied him for a moment before turning to Pettigrew.
"He lies!" Pettigrew shrieked, his voice shrill and panicked. "He killed them—he tried to kill me, too! He's dangerous!"
Madam Bones, unimpressed, gave a curt nod. "Very well. Chief Warlock, administer the Veritaserum."
A Dicta Quill hovered in midair, poised to record every word as Madam Bones continued, "Trial of Sirius Black. Accused answers under Veritaserum. Interrogator: Amelia Bones, Head of the DMLE. Witnesses: Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore, Cornelius Fudge, Samson Steward, Minerva McGonagall."
Harry and Ron, being minors, were not formally included as witnesses, though they remained in the room, watching intently.
The first question was asked. "What is your name?"
"Sirius Black," Sirius answered, his voice flat, his eyes glazed over as the Veritaserum took effect.
"Were you the Secret Keeper for the Potter family?"
"No."
"Who was?"
"Peter Pettigrew."
"Did you kill the Muggles on November 2nd, 1981?"
"No, it was Peter Pettigrew who killed them."
"Are you a Death Eater? Or a supporter of the Dark Lord?"
"Never."
"Were you planning to register as an Animagus?"
"Yes."
"Explain."
"Our Animagus forms were a secret weapon, meant to help us evade Death Eaters and Voldemort if needed. We planned to register once the war was over—if we survived it."
The Dicta Quill stopped writing. Madam Bones exhaled sharply.
"Sirius Black is innocent of all crimes he was convicted of."
Harry's entire body felt weightless, as if all the tension and fear that had gripped him for so long had suddenly melted away. His godfather was free. Sirius Black was finally, truly free. A deep, overwhelming relief spread through Harry's chest, making his insides feel like they had turned to liquid. He had done it. He had cleared Sirius's name.
He watched with eager anticipation as Mr. Steward flicked his wand, the magic slicing through the heavy ropes that had bound Sirius. The restraints fell to the floor with a soft thud, and Sirius, now unshackled, took an unsteady step forward, his gaunt face frozen in an expression of stunned disbelief.
For a moment, it seemed as though Sirius couldn't quite process it—that after twelve long years of imprisonment, after an existence marred by chains and Dementors, he was finally free. Then his stormy gray eyes locked onto Harry's, and something in them softened.
Harry didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms tightly around his godfather, and in an instant, Sirius embraced him back. The hug was fierce, desperate, as if Sirius feared this was all some cruel dream that would vanish if he let go.
"Thank you, Harry," Sirius murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll never forget this. Not for as long as I live."
Harry clung to him, reveling in the warmth of the moment, feeling the weight of twelve years of injustice finally beginning to lift. Yet, in the back of his mind, a question nagged at him. Why hadn't this happened sooner? Why hadn't the Ministry followed proper procedures from the start? Why had his godfather been condemned without a trial, his innocence never even considered? The anger bubbled beneath the surface, but Harry forced himself to push it aside. This wasn't the time—not yet.
From the corner of the room, the portraits that adorned Dumbledore's office erupted in cheers. Phineas Nigellus Black was practically beside himself with glee, his painted form gesturing wildly as he declared that the Black family name had finally been restored. The other portraits muttered their agreements, some clapping, others merely nodding in solemn approval.
But Harry barely heard them. His attention was snapped away from the celebration by a sudden, frantic outburst.
"He lies!" Pettigrew shrieked, his voice high and desperate. His beady eyes darted wildly around the room, his face pale with terror. "Black must have found a way to resist the Veritaserum! He tricked you! He's deceiving all of you!"
Dumbledore, ever calm, merely adjusted his spectacles and turned his steady gaze toward the trembling man. "Not to worry, Mr. Pettigrew," he said in his usual composed manner. "You will also be questioned under Veritaserum. If there are any contradictions, we will investigate them thoroughly."
But Pettigrew was shaking his head, his face contorted in panic. "No! No, I object! I refuse to be put under Veritaserum! I have the right to refuse! I am a pureblood!"
The room fell silent for a beat. Madam Bones sighed, her expression one of clear irritation, but after a brief pause, she gave Pettigrew a sharp, begrudging nod.
"He is, unfortunately, correct," she admitted, a flicker of disgust flashing across her face. "Under the current laws, we cannot forcibly administer Veritaserum to a pureblood if they refuse." Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her gaze darkened as she stared at the rat-like man before her.
Harry's stomach twisted in revulsion. He had read about the law before, though he had never thought he'd see it applied in such an infuriating way. It was a ridiculous, outdated bias—one designed to protect the secrets of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the most prominent pureblood families. It was yet another sign of the corruption deeply embedded in wizarding society.
He scoffed, unable to contain his frustration. "Technically," he said, his voice cold and sharp, "you're dead, Pettigrew. You died twelve years ago. And as far as the law is concerned, a dead man has no rights."
Pettigrew froze.
Harry stared him down, his emerald eyes flashing with fury. The knowledge came to him effortlessly, thanks to the fragments of Voldemort's memories lurking in his mind. Those same memories had given him insight into pureblood traditions, politics, and, most importantly, loopholes in the laws.
For the first time since the trial had begun, Pettigrew looked utterly lost for words.
Madam Bones' eyes gleamed with triumph, her expression one of pure satisfaction as she turned to Harry. "Yes, Mr. Potter! You are absolutely correct. Peter Pettigrew has been legally deceased for the past twelve years. As a dead person, he holds no legal rights, and therefore, he cannot invoke the law to protect himself."
She turned sharply toward Dumbledore, her voice commanding. "Chief Warlock, please administer the potion."
Pettigrew's body tensed, and his beady eyes darted around wildly, searching for an escape that didn't exist. His lips pressed together in a tight, desperate line as he clenched his jaw shut, determined to resist the serum. Dumbledore, calm and collected, held the vial over Pettigrew's head, prepared to administer the Veritaserum.
But before he could, Mr. Steward's patience snapped. With a growl of frustration, he reared back his fist and drove it hard into Pettigrew's gut. The impact sent a choked gasp ripping from Pettigrew's throat as the air was forcibly expelled from his lungs. His mouth popped open involuntarily as he struggled for breath—just long enough for Dumbledore to act. The old wizard swiftly tilted the vial, letting three precise drops of the potion fall onto Pettigrew's tongue.
The transformation was immediate. Pettigrew's twitching, panicked eyes dulled, his pupils dilating as the potion took hold. His body sagged, his resistance vanishing as Veritaserum coiled its way through his bloodstream, forcing out the truth.
Madam Bones wasted no time. She lifted her wand and cast a quick spell. "Dicta Quill, activate."
A quill hovered in the air, poised to record every word. Her voice rang through the office with absolute authority.
"Trial of Peter Pettigrew. Accused answers under Veritaserum. Interrogator: Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Witnesses: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Cornelius Fudge, Samson Steward and Minerva McGonagall."
She stepped closer, staring down at the man who had betrayed the Potters. "State your name."
Pettigrew's lips parted, and the answer slipped from his tongue without hesitation, devoid of deception. "Peter Pettigrew."
Madam Bones nodded in grim satisfaction. "Very well. Were you the Secret Keeper for the Potter family?"
"Yes."
A cold shiver ran through the room, the confirmation sending an electric current of tension through the gathered witnesses.
"Did you kill the Muggles on the second of November, 1981?"
"Yes."
A horrified silence settled over the chamber.
Madam Bones didn't waver. Her expression remained carved from stone as she asked the final question. "Are you a Death Eater?"
"Yes."
The Dicta Quill scratched furiously against the parchment, recording each damning word in crisp, undeniable ink.
"Dicta Quill, deactivate," Madam Bones commanded, and the enchanted quill stilled, its work done.
She straightened, turning to Pettigrew with steely resolve. "Peter Pettigrew, you are under arrest."
Then, with an almost ceremonial weight, she turned to the man who had spent twelve years suffering for Pettigrew's sins. "Sirius Black, you are a free man. However, you must remain available for contact until your trial before the Wizengamot is concluded."
Sirius barely seemed to comprehend the words. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he simply stood there, disoriented, as if his mind refused to accept what his ears had just heard. "So… I'm free?" he murmured, voice hoarse with disbelief.
Madam Bones nodded. "Aside from the requirement to testify, yes, Mr. Black. You are free."
As the weight of those words settled over him, Sirius let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging, as if twelve years of torment were finally beginning to lift.
The moment was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Minister Fudge stepped forward, clearing his throat as he smoothed out his robes. "My good man," he said with practiced diplomacy, "on behalf of the Ministry of Magic, I extend my deepest apologies for your wrongful imprisonment. We will be taking the necessary steps to ensure that you are properly reimbursed for the suffering and loss you have endured."
Sirius didn't react. His jaw remained clenched; his face unreadable. It was Harry who spoke up, his voice sharp with anger.
"Sir, all of this could have been avoided," he said, his green eyes burning with quiet fury, "if the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had done its job properly in the first place. If they had actually held a trial."
A heavy silence followed his words, the tension thick and tangible. Harry's gaze flicked toward Madam Bones. "I assume you weren't in charge back then," he said, his tone pointed, "because you clearly know how to do your job."
Professor McGonagall gasped. "Potter! Don't be rude!"
But to Harry's surprise, Madam Bones simply smiled. "It's quite all right, Professor," she said smoothly. Her expression remained calm, but there was an edge to her voice—an understanding. "I can hardly blame him for his frustration. Truthfully, even I don't understand why my predecessor never investigated Mr. Black's case more thoroughly. The evidence was always there."
Her eyes darkened with resolve. "I assure you, an investigation into Barty Crouch Sr. will be conducted. We will find out why he chose to turn a blind eye."
Harry gave a small nod of approval. His opinion of Madam Bones was shifting—she wasn't like the rest of the Ministry, full of self-serving politicians and corrupt officials. She actually cared. She actually did her job. Internally, he made a note: I like her. She could be a valuable ally in the coming war.
Dumbledore, who had remained silent for much of the exchange, finally stepped forward, his gaze softening as it landed on Sirius.
"Sirius," he said gently, "I would like to offer you the services of Madam Pomfrey to help you recover your health before the trial. I feel the blame is on me for not following through and checking the facts instead taking Barty Crouch at his word. For that, I apologize and hope that you can forgive me."
Harry's fingers curled into fists. Barty Crouch. That name was now seared into his mind. If the Ministry failed to deal with him, Harry would.
Sirius studied Dumbledore for a long moment before finally exhaling, a tired, almost reluctant acceptance in his features. "It's okay, headmaster. I may not like it, but I understand—you believed Crouch. It wasn't your fault."
As the meeting with the Aurors and the Minister concluded, Professor McGonagall wasted no time in escorting Ron back to the commonroom, and Sirius to the hospital wing, leaving Harry alone with Dumbledore. The door had barely shut behind them when Harry turned to the headmaster, a grin breaking across his face.
"I honestly didn't think it would go that well, sir," he admitted, his voice still carrying the lingering disbelief of their success.
Dumbledore nodded; his usual twinkle of amusement presents in his blue eyes. "As did I, my dear boy," he said, his tone warm but thoughtful. "Well, I am most relieved that we managed to save one man tonight. However," He sighed, his gaze turning somber. "There is still much work ahead of us."
Harry's smile dimmed slightly, though his resolve remained unshaken. "What do you think we should take care of next, sir?"
Dumbledore's gaze flickered toward his desk, where the battered, sinister diary lay waiting. The weight of it seemed to press against the room like a phantom presence. "That," he said, his voice quieter now, "is a story for another day, my young friend. For now, I advise you to return to your dormitory and get some rest."
Harry knew better than to push for more information—Dumbledore had a habit of revealing things only when he felt the time was right. And tonight, after everything that had happened, sleep sounded like a reasonable idea.
"Alright," he agreed, offering the headmaster a small nod. "Goodnight, sir."
"Goodnight, Harry."
With that, Harry turned and left the office, stepping onto the winding staircase that carried him downward. His mind buzzed with anticipation. He and Dumbledore had a plan now—one that would weaken Voldemort before he could truly rise to power. But more than that, alliances needed to be built, safeguards put in place. This time, Voldemort wouldn't be allowed to spread terror unchecked.
Harry's thoughts kept him occupied all the way to the entrance of the Slytherin common room—until he realized an important flaw in his plan. He didn't know the password.
Just as he was about to sigh in frustration, the entrance swung open, revealing a figure bathed in dim torchlight.
Harry's stomach twisted in irritation. Oh great, Snape.
The Potions Master stood there, arms crossed, his black robes hanging around him like a shroud. His dark eyes fixed on Harry with their usual disdain. "Hello, Potter," he said coolly, "the headmaster instructed me to wait for you, as you are unaware of the password." His lip curled slightly. "It is 'pureblood,' by the way."
Then, without another word, Snape turned and strode away, his movements eerily smooth, his presence fading into the shadows like a vampire retreating into his crypt.
Harry exhaled, shaking his head before stepping inside.
The Slytherin common room was eerily silent. The flickering green light from the lake outside cast strange, shifting shadows across the stone walls. The students had long since gone to bed, leaving the space empty and unusually peaceful.
Harry walked over to the couch facing the fireplace, sinking into its plush cushions with a deep sigh. The warmth of the fire crackled in front of him, its glow flickering against his glasses as he let his mind finally process everything.
Sirius was free.
A slow, satisfied grin stretched across Harry's face. His godfather was no longer locked away in Azkaban, suffering for a crime he didn't commit. He wasn't alone anymore. He wouldn't have to go back to the Dursleys—ever. This was, without a doubt, the happiest day of his life.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the realization settle. For the first time in what felt like forever, he could breathe without the weight of dread pressing against his chest.
Then, a voice broke through the quiet.
"Well, then. What's got you so happy?"
Harry's eyes snapped open, his body tensing for a split second before he turned.
Daphne Greengrass stood just a few feet away, her long blonde hair flowing down her back. The firelight caught in her strands, giving her an almost ethereal glow. She was wearing her green silk pajamas, her bare feet making no noise against the stone floor. But what really caught Harry's attention was how she had appeared out of nowhere.
He blinked.
She smirked, clearly amused by his reaction. "Disillusionment spell," she said, answering the unspoken question. "I'm getting better at it."
Harry huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, no kidding, clearly you've been practicing."
Daphne moved closer; arms crossed over her chest. "Yeah, got some practice in during the holidays. Well, come on," she prodded, tilting her head. "Don't leave me hanging—spill. What happened after you left the great hall for Dumbledore's office?"
Harry chuckled, shifting slightly on the couch before gesturing for her to sit beside him. He wasn't about to reveal everything that had happened, but there was one thing he could share—What had happened with Pettigrew being Scabbers, and Sirius being exonerated, as it wasn't a serious secret, and would soon become common knowledge anyway.
"Alright, calm down," he said, his grin widening. "Take a seat then. I'll tell you everything."