"THE SIRIUS BLACK CASE: A RETRIAL!?"
"Supreme Mugwump demands justice, new Minister agrees. 'Possible miscarriage of justice,' Ministry officials state."
The headline screamed from the page.
Beside Arcturus, immersed in their plates and quiet conversation, sat Cassius and Avery. Cassius methodically worked on his eggs, his face impassive, though his gaze occasionally slid to the newspaper, then to Arcturus's frozen profile. Avery, usually imperturbable, ate distractedly today; his eyes remained fixed on his friend's face, reading the storm he was trying to contain in the tense jaw and whitened knuckles.
But Arcturus didn't see them. His entire world at that moment had narrowed to the sheet of newsprint, the text, and the moving photograph beneath the headline. The image, clearly taken many years ago, showed a young Sirius Black. A cocky, grinning young man with a reckless spark in his eyes that neither poor print quality nor the years had managed to erase. Beside it was a more recent photograph of Albus Dumbledore, whose piercing eyes behind half-moon spectacles looked directly at the reader, full of unshakeable wisdom and unwavering resolve.
Arcturus forced himself to take a deep, nearly imperceptible breath — a reflex honed over a month of unusual Occlumency practices, meant to calm the mind. It didn't work. He began to read, mentally erecting icy walls between the lines of text and what seethed inside him.
*"Last evening, at an emergency session of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore submitted an unprecedented petition for the retrial of one of Azkaban's most infamous prisoners — Sirius Black, convicted in 1981 for the murder of thirteen people (twelve Muggles and the wizard Peter Pettigrew) and for collaboration with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.*
The newly elected Minister for Magic, Cornelius Oswald Fudge, has supported this initiative. In his first official statement since taking office, Mr. Fudge noted that 'the time has come to carefully examine certain controversial decisions of the previous administration,' alluding to the era of Minister Millicent Bagnold, 'when, in the chaos of the post-war period, both irredeemable criminals and innocent individuals who had no opportunity to prove their innocence may have been brought to trial.'
'I believe in the justice of our system,' Minister Fudge stated to our reporter. 'And if there is the slightest doubt regarding the legality of a verdict, it is our duty to dispel those doubts.'
Sources close to the Wizengamot report that the Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot, Mr. Albus Dumbledore, personally visited Azkaban to speak with the convicted man. According to unconfirmed information, this meeting yielded new evidence that calls into question the official version of events on that fateful night of October 31, 1981.
Of particular interest is the mention of allegedly 'new evidence' concerning the explosion on the Muggle street that claimed the lives of twelve people. The Ministry is not providing details but hints that the magical signature of the explosion may have been misinterpreted by investigators.
Our archival staff also remind readers that at his trial, Sirius Black did indeed confess to his crimes; however, according to witnesses of that trial, his words sounded strange. He did not repent of serving the Dark Lord. He repeated that he was guilty of the deaths of his friends. It is assumed that the High Court of the Wizengamot, which has the authority to judge even Lords, collectively interpreted this as a cynical admission of betrayal. But now, years later, some experts are questioning whether he might have meant something else? Not guilt in betrayal, but guilt in failing to protect them?
Influential voices in the magical community, including several respected members of the Wizengamot, are calling for 'justice.'
Clearly, this is only the beginning of a long and painful process. The rehearing of the case is scheduled for…"
Arcturus read no further. The letters swam before his eyes, and the icy walls in his mind, which he had so diligently constructed, cracked, and through them surged a wave of blinding, mute rage. The thought was furious, searing… but dangerous for the future.
He felt his hand clench the edge of the newspaper, crumpling it. Before his eyes rose Dumbledore's face, who had apparently learned of the will. Sirius Black was the one person who could contest Arcturus's rights to the House of Black. And there were only a few months left to wait…
"Arcturus."
Avery's voice came as if through thick glass. Malfoy forced his fingers to uncurl and slowly, with studied calm, placed the crumpled newspaper on the table. Avery glanced at the headline — he'd set aside his own owl-delivered paper to read after eating, so he didn't know the cause of such emotion.
"Interesting start to the day," Marcus remarked. "Seems our esteemed Minister and Headmaster have decided to do some laundry of old dirty linens."
But his friend, Marcus noted, didn't respond. He only stood with an unfamiliar stiffness. His movements were precise but seemed stripped of their usual ease. He didn't even touch his food.
"I need to step out," he said in an icy voice. His tone was far too even, too monotone, without a single spark of life. There was nothing in it… not even Malfoy's characteristic venom or smirk.
"Arcturus, wait…" Cassius spoke up, also sensing something amiss in their friend's behavior, but Malfoy didn't turn. They never saw his completely empty, dead gaze. He was clearly in a hurry, but that's what friends are for — they understood: they needed to follow him, just in case something had happened or might happen to him in such a state.
People practically parted instinctively before Arcturus's path, sensing that dead look. However, when he left the Great Hall, he didn't notice that several Gryffindors, late for breakfast, having spotted the strangeness in his movements and the fact that he was alone, decided to follow him, curious where he was heading when breakfast had only just begun. He was clearly not going toward the Slytherin dungeons.
For Arcturus, nothing mattered now except one goal: to get away. Quickly, directly to the Room of Requirement.
Somewhere in the recesses of his detached consciousness, one harsh, incontrovertible thought persisted: he had only a few minutes before the curse would be unstoppable. Even the emotional emptiness from employing an extremely dangerous and vile technique…
***
"Total Emotional Suppression" was an emergency Occlumency method his mother had long hesitated to teach him. He had never applied it in a real situation — only in controlled exercises to master the sufficiently complex mental magic required for the technique. But now, he had to use the method itself.
For when nothing else helps and control is about to be lost — which had happened. With this technique, one could mentally 'sever' the emotional center, shifting the entire consciousness into a mode of pure logic and observation, devoid of emotion. The side effects were numerous: in this state, he could barely speak, felt not a single emotion, and his eyes, according to his mother, became utterly vacant and inhumanly cold — which was clearly frightening those who stepped aside for him. But better they step aside… if he didn't make it and lost control… it would be worse.
This ancestral mental technique could not be used for more than a few minutes; otherwise, a cerebral hemorrhage could easily occur. Even after a few dozen seconds, consequences awaited: migraines, nosebleeds, and emotional emptiness for a long time. However, this emptiness would not save him from the unnaturally induced rage. The rage that no ordinary person could experience, but he could. That rage, capable of turning him into a monster, was something he did not need.
He just had to run… run to the Room of Requirement.
It was very strange — losing emotions as if by snapping one's fingers. He hadn't 'severed' the emotions themselves, of course, but his access to them. And it was strange… like watching a raging sea through thick, soundproof glass. You see the fury of the waves, their power, but you don't hear the roar or feel the spray. Inside, there was complete emptiness. No anger, no fear, not even fatigue. Just… nothing.
He had long trained to control this… this madness in his blood. The primary and most difficult task since the summer. Before the school year began, once the problem was revealed, his mother allowed no leniency. "Either you learn to lock this inside, or it will devour you and everyone around you," she had said then, without a shred of comfort. And he learned, because emotions must not control him.
The Blacks had devised many methods over centuries of coexistence with the ancestral curse, which some outsiders, in their time, even considered a gift… Ridiculous…
Every night before sleep, he performed the same grueling procedure. He forced himself to remember. He literally reopened the most humiliating, the most rage-filled moments: the feeling of helplessness in that old hut; imagining that missing piece of memory where Godfrey Answorth had erased his memory — may his afterlife be filled with fiberglass; the insults throughout his life, moments of weakness, shame, humiliation… He reopened everything.
He didn't allow himself to just simmer in that emotional mire. He applied a method called "Analysis and Dissection." The method wasn't Black family tradition, but Narcissa — first and foremost a Black — knew it would be suitable. Perhaps she didn't suffer from such a powerful variation of this ancestral curse, but she had lived with her sister Bellatrix, who had chewed through a few dragons with these methods, because hers was like his. Probably.
Thus, he would isolate the trigger — a specific gesture, word, intonation. Then he would recall and dissect what his body had felt then. Whether it was trembling hands, a stomach cramp, or the feeling of lungs clamped in a vise, ready to scream in senseless fury.
And most importantly — the essence. What lay beneath this? Fear of death? Or perhaps — of powerlessness? Humiliation? An encroachment upon his still-fragile autonomy?
For over a month, he had dissected each episode into these lifeless components, stripped them of emotional coloring, turned them into dry memory. Then he 'rewrote' the scene in his mind, finding the ideal version of events that should have happened. It was like an inoculation. He injected himself with a weakened virus of rage, again and again, so his psyche would learn not to become fully infected. To build immunity. It helped. Over time, the sharpness of the memories dulled. There was hope that, this way, he would train himself not to react so… furiously. And perhaps it was effective, but not today.
There were other Occlumency practices he had studied even before the curse was identified: strengthening mental boundaries, concentration exercises that sharpened and subdued the mind. Dedicating himself to this, he had become noticeably better at sensing his thoughts, quicker at tracking nascent emotions. But all this was merely the foundation, strengthening passive defense. Now, his cold mind was under siege.
At that moment, when the newspaper in his hands ceased to be paper and became a veritable torch, igniting everything within, his passive threshold was insufficient. With each thought, emotions overwhelmed him. Letters danced before his eyes: "Dumbledore… case retrial… new evidence…"… The rage was real, a literal, Merlin-damn-it, inferno!
It threatened to flood his entire mind, making his analytical skills a mockery. He knew they wanted to take everything from him! Everything that was his by birthright! Dumbledore was trying to snatch away the very straw he was clinging to. His only means to have freedom of action… to become an officially adult wizard at the laughable age of fourteen.
As soon as he saw the headline, he frantically, under the table, felt for his belt. Black dragonhide, cold to the touch, concealed in neat compartments what would help. His fingers, sliding along nearly imperceptible seams, found the correct compartment. A tiny glass vial was now in his palm. He had to pretend to adjust his collar and drink the entire vial, though even a quarter was sufficient… for others. The Potion of Icy Calm was supposed to take effect within a couple of minutes… and he relied on its soothing effect.
However, the potion didn't suppress emotions; it merely slowed neuromuscular transmission and thought processes, buying time to build defenses or calm down.
Against this backdrop of chemical anesthesia, he again attempted to apply active mental defense in the form of a technique more reliant on self-suggestion than genuine Occlumency. "Mental Sphere" — his mother had also taught him this.
Deep, controlled breaths, imagining a stream of icy air rising along his spine. Inside his skull, he tried, as always, to create the image of a perfect, crystalline sphere of ice. But this time, its walls were thin as cobwebs, and pressing against them from within was not merely rage, but an entire universe of grievances: against Dumbledore and his calculated move; against Sirius Black simply for existing and potentially ruining everything; even against his great-aunt Walburga. She had drilled his destiny into him so much, yet couldn't overcome her emotions and wrote a will with a devilish loophole! And most importantly — the timing. All was not yet lost… if only the trial dragged on. Just a few more months, and that straw would pull him up.
And in his future knowledge, everything was entirely different. But why be surprised; reality always disappoints.
The potion's effect only began when it was already pointless, because when he lowered his eyes to the newspaper and began rereading the lines… the 'Sphere' started cracking at the seams.
"…demands justice…" — his fingers dug into the edge of the parchment, joints whitening with each new line, each word. "…new Minister agrees…" — his jaw clenched so tightly his temples throbbed.
Fudge. That insignificant, pathetic sycophant… his father had invested so much in him, and he… he yaps at Dumbledore's command.
"…new evidence… Muggle deaths… may not be the work of Sirius Black…". He thought if he dissected it all into components… it might become easier… but no.
Simply turning these thoughts over in his head only intensified the rage, until he decided on a final step.
Dumbledore had managed a move that not even his father had anticipated. How much time would he need to strip Black of the most serious, 'inconvenient' charge for an acquittal — the murder of Muggles? Shift it onto the dead Pettigrew or onto unspecified 'accomplices.' Perhaps he even knows that Pettigrew is alive? In that case, he might as well start digging his own grave, because that would be Dumbly-dore for you. He hoped he was mistaken and that Dumbledore didn't know about Scabbers — the family rat of the blood-traitor Weasleys. Currently, Pettigrew in rat form was the pet of Percy Weasley, a year older than him.
Inheriting the lordship of the House of Black… meant becoming Lord Black. For him, this was not merely a title or wealth — though it was that too. It was his second house and a lever. A mechanism that could be set in motion with relative ease. Instead of submitting to his father and transferring authority to a regent during his minority, it was enough to fully assume the lordship of the house, making himself, in one step, legally of age and acquiring all the rights and obligations of a lord.
Just three months — and with that title, everyone would have to reckon with him. From his father to Dumbledore and the entire Wizengamot. That very straw that would allow him to dictate rules, not obey them.
And now this straw, this fragile, not-yet-formalized hope, was being wrenched from his grasp. Through a mad traitor to his house, rotting in Azkaban. The old spider with the beard had learned of the will and decided to take everything from him. Had his emotions been with him, he would have blown up everything around him at the mere thought that Sirius, as head of the house, dancing to Dumbledore's tune and hating his family, would destroy the entire house and everything his ancestors had accumulated. He would destroy his House of Black… no, this could not be allowed.
Losing the chance and the final end of the most ancient house at the hands of Dumbledore's future lackey… This thought was like a black hole, pulling in all others, turning them into fuel for that same, unending rage. Rage at everyone. At the entire world, which, again, as during the kidnapping, was trying to take from him what belonged to him. Only this time, they weren't taking his freedom of movement, but the freedom of his future. The very possibility of becoming who he was meant to be.