Chapter 160: Interrogation
Remus Lupin fell silent.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that Moody had meant something far harsher than “simple”—something closer to “foolish.”
But… wasn’t it, for him, entirely natural?
He’d already been wrong for eleven years. Was he really supposed to keep going on that path?
The four of them had always been inseparable—but even among friends, bonds had varied. Sirius Black’s betrayal of James Potter had cut deeper into Remus than anyone else could know. Yet now, in an instant, he realized the truth: he had been mistaken.
He should have trusted his own heart, not the conformity of so-called “facts.”
But these feelings—this certainty—were something Moody would never understand.
So Remus merely forced a faint smile and whispered, “I believe him.”
Harry summoned his courage, facing Moody’s terrifying face. “I… I believe him too.”
The blue magical eye snapped toward him instantly, while Moody’s real black eye locked onto Harry as well.
Harry’s palms grew damp, but he held firm. “I believe… my father chose him as my godfather. He wasn’t a traitor!”
Moody let out a low chuckle—unusually free of mockery.
“…Child,” he muttered.
Suddenly, the entire room fell utterly still.
The door on the side of the interrogation chamber creaked open. Three figures stepped in from within—Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic; a witch with silver-gray hair and a monocle; and a stern-faced wizard with wild, lion-like hair.
They took seats on the central stool.
Then, over a dozen more wizards entered—dressed in deep crimson robes—taking their places on either side. Their expressions were grave, faces etched with authority.
All voices in the room vanished instantly.
A sharp, crisp tap echoed through the chamber. The gray-haired witch spoke without emotion: “Bring in Sirius Black.”
Remus Lupin lurched forward, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles turned white. Harry instinctively stood.
Moody set down his flask and leaned heavily on his staff.
Wade lifted his gaze toward a small door beside the crooked horn of the staff.
The door opened.
Harry nearly gasped. A ripple of murmurs surged through the crowd.
Two towering, cloaked figures floated in—nearly three meters tall—carrying a third figure between them, as if hoisting a corpse by its arms. Their movements were slow, unnatural, like things pulled through thick water, their limbs stiff and decayed.
The faces beneath their hoods seemed to breathe—inhaling deeply. A wave of cold, suffocating dread washed over the room.
Even from across the chamber, Harry felt his limbs grow numb.
The wizards present exchanged looks of revulsion and fear.
“What… what are those?” Harry whispered.
“Dementors,” Wade replied.
His mental defenses had grown strong enough now that the Dementors’ presence barely touched him.
So this is what they look like.
Harry thought.
He’d once heard that prisoners locked in Azkaban often went mad—but he’d never believed it. Now, seeing the Dementors firsthand, he understood.
He stared at the man they carried—the one trapped between them.
He hung limp, head drooping like a corpse. His long, filthy hair hung in tangled clumps. His skin was pale as wax, his body so emaciated it looked like a skeleton wrapped in rags.
He wore tattered old clothes, hanging from him like a bundle of rags. Thin ankles bore heavy iron shackles, dragging on the floor with a clinking, jangling sound.
Wade suddenly heard a soft, dry chuckle. He looked up.
Remus Lupin was staring at Sirius Black—his face rigid, expressionless. His hands trembled slightly.
Wade lowered his eyes.
The Dementors lowered Sirius Black into the armchair at the center of the room. Suddenly, the chains on the armrests flared with golden light, writhing like serpents and wrapping tightly around Sirius, pinning him in place.
Then, they drifted backward—light as smoke, silent as shadows.
A collective breath escaped the room.
The reporters leaned forward, necks stretched, snapping photo after photo.
Only Dumbledore remained calm. The rest of the seated Wizengamot members wore visible displeasure.
Another sharp tap rang out. The journalists reluctantly lowered their cameras and reached for their quills, eyes still alight with excitement.
“Proceed,” the gray-haired witch said coldly. “Case re-trial, November 14th: Sirius Black, accused of pledging allegiance to the Dark Lord, revealing the whereabouts of James and Lily Potter, and murdering thirteen people after his crime was exposed.”
“Inquisitor: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic. Department of Magical Law Enforcement Head: Amelia Susan Bones. Auror Office Director: Rufus Scrimgeour. Court Recorder: Albireo Ima.”
“Defense Attorney: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.”
Dumbledore rose from his seat on the side bench.
“Given the defendant’s current condition,” he said, “I will speak on his behalf.”
A low murmur stirred among the audience. Most of the crimson-robed Wizengamot members smiled in approval.
Fudge’s frown deepened. He glanced around, hoping someone would object. But Amelia Bones and Rufus Scrimgeour stayed silent.
Fudge sighed. “Well… alright, Dumbledore. It’s permitted.”
Dumbledore ignored Fudge’s grudging tone. He strode forward, placing a hand gently on Sirius Black’s shoulder.
The warmth of a living hand seemed to pull Sirius from the depths of despair. Slowly, he lifted his head, staring at Dumbledore.
His eyes—sunken into hollow sockets—were dark, deep, and utterly empty.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dumbledore began, “I believe most of you remember yesterday’s hearing, where we questioned Peter Pettigrew.”
He paused. “Given the age of this case and the complexity of the events, we granted special permission to use Veritaserum during the interrogation.”
The moment the name was spoken, Sirius Black froze.
Then, for an instant, a flicker of shadow—like a dying ember—flared in his eyes.
He fixed his gaze on Dumbledore.
In the crowd, someone shifted nervously. Another silently signaled for the white-bearded headmaster to step back—afraid Sirius might lunge and tear him apart.
But Dumbledore did not move.
He continued.
“In the potion’s influence, Peter Pettigrew confessed. He admitted he was the true Secret-Keeper for the Potters. He was the one who betrayed their location to Voldemort…”
Sirius Black let out a raw, broken roar.
“Peter Pettigrew? He’s… still alive?”
(End of Chapter)
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