Chapter 533: Cellmate from the Next Cell
“Did I interrupt your meeting, Professor?” Wade asked.
“No,” Dumbledore replied, smiling faintly, “on the contrary, I thank you for rescuing me from a tedious and pointless argument—something far more useful to do.”
His gaze settled on Squirrel, and a hint of amusement flickered in his blue eyes.
Squirrel, thrilled beyond measure, nearly leapt off Wade’s shoulder. It chattered excitedly, its tiny claws fluttering in rapid gestures, its tail whipping back and forth in agitation.
“Ah…” Dumbledore studied the small creature for a moment, then chuckled. “This is indeed Sirius Black.”
He extended a long, slender finger and gently scooped Squirrel from Wade’s arm. “Come with me,” he said.
Wade followed Dumbledore to a nearby tent that looked utterly ordinary—unassuming and perfectly normal. He reached out and brushed aside the rope curtain at the entrance. The gray, weather-beaten canvas blended seamlessly into a Muggle park, giving no hint of magical presence.
Inside, however, the tent was unmistakably magical. The space was vast, and every item was neatly organized. Even the pillows on the high-backed chairs faced the same direction. Near the entrance hung a spyglass and a detective device.
Wade thought: This isn’t Dumbledore’s own tent.
Dumbledore placed Squirrel on the ground. With a flick of his wand, a soft blue light erupted from the tip, flowing like water over the creature’s entire body.
Squirrel’s bones shifted with a faint crackle. Its fur retracted, limbs stretched and expanded, and its round, furry head reshaped itself—features rearranging in a flash. In an instant, a tall, dark-haired man knelt on the floor, gasping for breath. He trembled slightly as he rose to his feet, staring at his restored hands with a dazed expression.
Though Sirius Black was a skilled Animagus and had long since grown accustomed to living in animal form during his time in Azkaban, being transformed into a squirrel by another’s magic—and unable to revert—was still a profoundly traumatic experience.
It wasn’t the transformation itself that troubled him. It was the loss of control over his own body. For a few terrifying seconds, he’d forgotten who he was—reduced to the same hollow, terrified state he’d felt in that cold, hopeless prison.
Wade pulled two bars of chocolate from his pocket and handed them over. Seeing the kettle on the stove was still steaming, he grabbed the teapot and poured a hot cup of tea.
“No, thanks,” Sirius Black mumbled, stuffing the chocolate into his mouth. “Wade, get me a bottle of wine.”
“I’ll have one too,” Dumbledore said. “Ah, I recall there’s a fine brandy in the kitchen’s refrigerator.”
Though they could have summoned the drink with a wave of their wands, Wade walked to the kitchen anyway, fetching two glasses. He himself picked up a porcelain cup from the tea table and slowly prepared a steaming cup of hot water.
Sirius Black downed his drink in one gulp, exhaled deeply, and looked—finally—alive again.
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his expression concerned. “Sirius Black, what did you discover?”
Sirius swallowed, his voice hoarse. “I was tracking Lucius Malfoy into the forest. Then—someone ambushed me. I was fighting Malfoy when a man attacked me from behind. He turned me into a squirrel.”
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
Few could surprise Sirius Black. Fewer still could transform him and keep him trapped in animal form for an entire night. That kind of power was rare indeed.
“Did you see who it was?” Dumbledore asked.
Sirius fell silent for a moment, then slowly nodded. His gaze drifted, haunted by memory.
“I escaped immediately. But later, I returned… and saw someone walking out of the forest. I recognized the face. I saw him with my own eyes turn two of the Bulgarian team’s brides into… something unnatural.”
He paused, poured himself another full glass, and drank deeply before wiping his mouth.
“Little Barty Crouch,” he said, voice low. “I remember how he looked when he was brought to Azkaban. He was carried by a Dementor past my cell. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen.”
Dumbledore’s brow furrowed. Wade turned to look at Sirius too.
“He was terrified,” Sirius continued. “He was screaming, trembling—refused to admit he was a Death Eater. He kept crying for help, screaming for his mother in the middle of the night. But just a few days later… he was silent.”
Another pause.
“A year later, he died. They said he died. I watched the Dementors drag his body out and bury it outside the fortress.”
“I used to think… maybe he was innocent. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Sirius lifted his eyes to Dumbledore.
“But I was wrong, Dumbledore. You should have seen his face when he did it. The way he… enjoyed the pain. The death. It wasn’t rage. It was joy.”
“Little Barty Crouch,” Sirius said firmly, “was a Death Eater. Without a doubt.”
“I’ve spoken with him,” Dumbledore said calmly. “The conversation wasn’t pleasant—but he did confess, willingly, that he’d made terrible mistakes. Under his wife’s plea, he’d secretly exchanged the lives of his sick wife and son.”
Wade noted: That truth didn’t help us now.
After Little Barty Crouch drove the Bulgarian brides into madness, Sirius, even in squirrel form, had charged into the tent to save them. The outcome? He’d nearly been torn apart—and lost the trail of the boy entirely.
Dumbledore didn’t scold Sirius for his recklessness. When Sirius apologized, the Headmaster only asked, “Sirius Black, tell me—when you saw those people caught in the trap, what did you feel?”
“I…” Sirius hesitated, then shook his head. “I didn’t think. I just… ran in.”
Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Sometimes, the most correct choice is the one your instincts make without thought. I’m glad you didn’t let the pursuit of a foe blind you to the value of life.”
He smiled. “What’s wrong with wanting to protect the innocent?”
…
Sirius Black left with renewed determination, though his body was exhausted. Dumbledore turned to Wade.
“Wade,” he said, “I noticed your expression changed just now. Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
Wade’s gaze drifted over the Headmaster’s face. Dumbledore’s eyes remained calm, unchanged—no trace of the turmoil the mention of Gellert Grindelwald had once stirred in him.
Wade rubbed his nose.
“Tonight,” he said, “I met Little Barty Crouch too.”
(End of Chapter)
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