It took Madam Bones two tense days to officially clear Sirius Black's name. On Thursday morning, as the morning owls swept through the Great Hall in a flurry of wings and parchment, Eleanor's fingers trembled as she unfolded her copy of the Daily Prophet.

Her heart leapt into her throat at the bold headline screaming across the front page:

SIRIUS BLACK CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES
Ministry Declares: A Miscarriage of Justice Finally Righted

In a dramatic turn of events that has rocked the magical community to its core, the Ministry of Magic has formally exonerated Sirius Orion Black of all charges pertaining to the betrayal of the Potters and the deaths of Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles in 1981.

The announcement followed an independent inquiry led by Madam Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, who uncovered grave irregularities in Black's original conviction.

"We have confirmed beyond all doubt," Bones stated in a press briefing late last night, "that no trial was held, no defence permitted, and no evidence beyond hearsay was ever considered. This was a grievous miscarriage of justice—one we must never allow to happen again."

The catalyst for Black's vindication was the emergence of a key witness, offering previously withheld information vital to the case. Upon this revelation, Black voluntarily submitted to questioning under Veritaserum.

"He was fully cooperative," Bones confirmed. "Every memory, every account corroborated his innocence. There was no evasion—only a man determined to tell the truth."

Peter Pettigrew, long thought dead and posthumously honoured, is now declared a fugitive and known Death Eater, wanted for murder, conspiracy, and betrayal. A Ministry-wide alert has been issued for his immediate capture.

As part of his formal acquittal, Sirius Black has been awarded the Order of Merlin, Second Class, for his bravery and endurance. Minister Cornelius Fudge, in a rare public concession, stated:

"The Ministry must be the standard of truth and justice, even if it means admitting fault. Today, we correct one of the gravest errors in our history."

Photographed outside the Ministry Atrium, Black stood proud in deep black robes embroidered with the newly restored Black family crest. Beside him stood Astraea Fawley, who had championed his cause. His statement to the gathered press was brief but heartfelt:

"It's a strange thing, to breathe freely again. To live without fear. But the truth has won, and I intend to spend what life I have left focused on my family."

In a stirring moment, Black officially acknowledged Pleione Black, formerly Eleanor Seymour, as his daughter and heir. Sources close to the family describe her as "intelligent, formidable, and true to the finest traditions of her House."

"The Black name has been shrouded in darkness long enough," Sirius declared. "It's time to redeem it—not through power, but through purpose. And that begins with my daughter."

As the wizarding world grapples with the repercussions of these revelations, one thing is certain:

Sirius Black is free—and this time, he's not running.

More on the history of the Noble House of Black, page 4.

Eleanor tore her eyes from the paper and glanced up at the staff table. Umbridge, for once, had no hawkish glint in her eye. She sat hunched, stirring her tea with unnecessary force, looking as though someone had cancelled her birthday.

Around her, the teachers buzzed with quiet discussion—Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall leaning close over a copy of the Prophet, Professor Sprout frowning thoughtfully. Snape looked as if he had just bitten into a particularly sour lemon, and Eleanor knew well enough why. There was no love lost between her father and the Potions Master.

From the Slytherin table, Eleanor felt the ripple of change sweep through the hall. Curious glances, whispers behind hands. The Purebloods who once treated her indifferently now stared with something close to awe.

Adrian Pucey nudged closer to her.

"I'm happy for you, Nell," he said in a low voice, his hand brushing hers under the table. But there was fear flickering in his eyes—not for her, but for what this meant for the prophecy.

She squeezed his hand back, firm and sure. "It'll be all right, Pucey," she whispered.

In the days that followed, Eleanor noticed how differently she was treated. When she entered the Slytherin common room that evening, the atmosphere shifted palpably. Malfoy himself approached her, mouth twitching uncertainly, clearly intending to apologise.

"An apology?" Eleanor said coolly, tilting her head. "Only now that you realise I am the rightful Heir to the House of Black?"

She laughed, sharp and scornful.

"Please, Malfoy, save your half-hearted regrets for someone who cares." Her voice rang out, silencing the room.

She turned to address them all, her gaze sweeping over the assembled students like a queen surveying her court.

"You superficial lot. My blood should never have mattered to you. All you ever saw was status, not character. Bloodline is but one thread in the tapestry of a witch or wizard. If you let it blind you, you're no better than sheep. True Slytherins know better."

Without waiting for a reply, Eleanor turned on her heel and swept away, her robes billowing behind her.

The greatest change came in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Dolores Umbridge, who had once delighted in punishing Eleanor for the smallest imagined offence, now treated her with trembling deference. Eleanor responded with the cold disdain of someone who had already judged and found her unworthy.

She studied independently, barely sparing Umbridge a glance.

The only one who hadn't changed was George.

After a particularly dreary Potions lesson, he caught her hand and led her, half-laughing, half-breathless, into an empty classroom tucked near the dungeons. The heavy door clicked shut behind them, and before Eleanor could speak, George crushed his mouth to hers, urgent and rough.

She clung to him, her fingers slipping under his robes, desperate for more. George's hands roamed over her body, unbuttoning her shirt with a hunger that made her knees tremble. The cool air kissed her skin as he bared her chest, his fingers brushing over the dark red lace of her bra, sending delicious shivers through her.

Eleanor fumbled with his belt, her fingers shaking, as George's mouth traced a burning path down her neck to the swell of her breasts.

"George," she gasped, the word ripped from her as he lifted her with strong hands and set her on the edge of the desk. She could feel him—hard, needing—pressing against her thigh, and her own desire spiked fiercely.

"Duchess," he rasped, his voice hoarse, almost reverent. His tongue flicked over the sensitive skin at the top of her bra, his hand slipping lower to toy with the hem of her panties, teasing her mercilessly.

Her fingers finally found purchase, unfastening his trousers. She leaned into him, lips brushing his ear. "Take me," she whispered, raw and urgent.

George needed no more permission. He pushed into her with a desperate groan, and Eleanor cried out, clutching his shoulders as he moved inside her.

The desk creaked rhythmically with every thrust, the air around them thick with the scent of sex and something deeper—something that tasted like freedom and recklessness and want.

Their climax built quickly, spiralling between them, and Eleanor broke apart first, muffling her cry against his neck. George followed with a shudder, his body collapsing against hers, every muscle trembling.

For a long moment, they stayed like that—his arms locked tightly around her, her forehead resting against his shoulder, both of them catching their breath in ragged gasps.

Reluctantly, they dressed, fingers brushing, stealing kisses as they tugged robes back into place and muttered cleaning spells under their breath, their eyes never straying far from each other.

As George fastened the last button, Eleanor, still flushed and breathless, grinned mischievously. "So, how are the Headless Hats doing?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

George's face lit up immediately, that familiar spark dancing in his eyes. "They're a hit," he said proudly. "Even Hermione tried to grill us on the theory—but naturally, we couldn't disclose such delicate trade secrets."

Eleanor laughed, a low, throaty sound, and tugged him back to her, capturing his mouth in a long, lingering kiss that left them both a little dizzy. "You're so bloody hot when you talk business to me," she murmured against his lips, a teasing glint in her eyes.

George answered her with a hungry kiss, sliding one hand into her hair as he deepened it, opening her mouth and tracing her tongue with his own, slow and possessive.

"I really like you, Duchess," he said roughly, when they finally broke apart, his forehead resting against hers, his voice rough with emotion he barely knew how to voice.

Eleanor smiled, heart pounding as she wound her arms around his neck, her legs folding lazily around his waist again. She tilted her head, nibbling the soft skin along the curve of his neck, feeling him shiver beneath her touch.

"And don't you dare forget it," she whispered, smiling against his skin.