Chapter 302: Old Dumbledore
The witch who had previously asked Dylan about the Patronus Charm, Amelia Bones, stood up. She was a high-ranking Ministry official, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
"I have one last question, Black." Her gaze settled on Sirius Black, her tone serious. "How did you escape from Azkaban?"
"According to the information I received, you appear to have escaped the prison on the very day Minister Fudge came to inspect Azkaban?" Amelia Bones stepped forward, her eyes fixed sharply on Sirius, pressing the question.
The wizards present in the courtroom were stunned. They hadn't thought to ask this question before. Now that Bones had brought it up, all eyes were fixed on Sirius Black, awaiting his answer.
Sirius looked up, meeting someone's gaze for a fleeting moment. He quickly lowered his head, rubbing his sleeves with his fingers. After a moment of silence, he spoke in a husky voice.
"It was my suggestion to James to make Peter Pettigrew their Secret-Keeper. That one foolish act killed James and Lily."
"For all these years, I have lived with guilt. When the Aurors caught me, I didn't utter a single word in my defense."
"The depression in my heart, the agony of losing my best friend, made me willing to stay in Azkaban. I hoped to serve my time as atonement." He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing, and continued, "During that time, my heart was dead. Happiness could never touch me."
"Therefore, the Dementors had little interest in me. They preferred to cluster around the Death Eaters, greedily feeding on their souls..."
"Stop beating around the bush, Black! Tell us how you escaped Azkaban!" Fudge's face tightened. The fact that the Dementors in Azkaban were disobedient made him furious—he had promised everyone that the Dementors were completely subservient to the Ministry of Magic, and now there was a problem.
Sirius glanced at Fudge, his voice carrying a hint of mockery. "On the day you came to inspect, you casually tossed me a copy of the Daily Prophet."
"The newspaper had a photograph of the Weasley family in Egypt. In that picture, I recognized the rat that Peter had turned into immediately."
"You made me realize one thing: Peter wasn't dead at all! At that moment, my desire for revenge burned like fire..."
Fudge abruptly cut Black off. "Enough. I think that's enough."
"I believe the matter is quite clear. I hereby declare that this Wizengamot session is concluded!"
"End!"
He was desperate to shut down the meeting. Although acquitting Black was beneficial to him, he had also taken a significant amount of Galleons from Black before the trial began. After all, the Black family still had substantial assets and a very deep pocket. What's wrong with the Minister of Magic taking a little? If others continued to interrogate Black, it might lead to complications. Therefore, even though there were still some ambiguities, Fudge picked up his gavel.
With a firm "DONG," he announced the end of the meeting.
Dylan, Sirius Black, and Dumbledore stood together. Dumbledore looked at Sirius, smiling. "It's wonderful. You've finally cleared your name."
"Ah, I think I have Dylan to thank for that, too. You've taught another excellent student, Headmaster." Sirius smiled with relief, turning to look at Dylan.
It had to be said that some of Dylan's actions, seemingly insignificant, were extremely helpful to him.
Dumbledore then looked at Dylan, reminding him of their agreement. Next, his gaze returned to Black. "Since you're grateful to him, why not take him to your house for a look around? He loves reading, even books that are restricted."
Dylan's mouth twitched. Old Dumbledore didn't forget to score a benefit for him before leaving? What a good old man.
Black looked at Dylan with some surprise. "That's certainly not a problem, but are you sure?"
The old Headmaster nodded. "Don't worry, Dylan is a good boy."
Black finally nodded in agreement.
Then, a flash of fire surrounded the old Headmaster. Fawkes, the Phoenix, appeared and vanished with him.
Dylan and Sirius Black walked out of the Ministry of Magic building together. Sirius grabbed Dylan's arm, and they Apparated.
The next second, they appeared on the streets of London, arriving at Grimmauld Place.
Between numbers 11 and 13, a dilapidated door suddenly materialized without warning. Following that, grimy walls and sullen windows gradually emerged. It looked as though an extra house had suddenly inflated, slightly squeezing the buildings on either side. This was Number 12, Grimmauld Place, the ancestral home of the Black family.
Sirius warned in a low voice, "Remember, you must keep this a secret."
Dylan nodded.
He followed Sirius up the crumbling stone steps, his eyes fixed on the newly revealed front door. The black paint on the door was largely peeled off, revealing the dark, aged wood beneath, its surface covered with crisscrossing scratches, as if something had repeatedly clawed at it. The door knocker was made of silver, fashioned into a coiled serpent. The gems in the serpent's eyes had long since lost their luster, making it look rather eerie. The door had no keyhole and no letterbox; there was no obvious way to open it.
Sirius pulled his wand from his robe pocket. It was newly purchased from Ollivanders: oak, twelve inches long, with a Phoenix feather core. He lifted the wand and gently tapped the door.
Dylan immediately heard a loud metallic clang, mixed with the rattling sound of dragging chains. Then, the door slowly groaned inward with a piercing "Screeeak—"
Stepping over the threshold into the nearly pitch-black hallway, a musty, damp air mixed with a hint of sickly sweet decay rushed over them, as if something had been left in a dark corner for too long and had begun to spoil. The place felt like a long-abandoned, empty house. Everything was silent; even the air seemed frozen.
Just then, Dylan heard a faint rustling sound. Immediately, a row of old gas lamps on the walls flickered on, casting patchy, flickering light that looked utterly unreal. The light illuminated the long hallway. They could see shredded wallpaper peeling off the walls. The carpet on the floor was worn shiny and frayed at the edges, exposing the floorboards beneath.
Above their heads, a cobweb-covered chandelier cast a dim glow. Several framed portraits hung crookedly on the walls; the frames were old, and the canvases were darkened with age, the faces in them blurred and indistinguishable. Dylan also heard something scurrying quickly behind the skirting boards, making a small noise.
Both the chandelier and the candelabra on a rickety side table were shaped like large serpents, mirroring the door knocker.
A look of nostalgia flashed in Sirius's eyes. He glanced up at the ceiling, then let out a cold laugh. "Still as stuffy as ever, not a single change."
Dylan followed his gaze. A line of text on the ceiling was particularly conspicuous, written in ornate script: THE MOST ANCIENT AND NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK — ALWAYS PURE.
The living room, which should have been grand, was now covered in thick dust, as if no one had stepped foot in it for years. The surface of the wooden doors was covered in dark green moss, damp and occasionally host to palm-sized Doxies hopping around, making a delicate rustling sound.
A sudden, rapid sound of footsteps descended the nearby staircase. A House-elf hurried down. It froze for a second upon seeing Sirius Black and Dylan, then its protruding eyes instantly filled with rage, and it began to curse loudly.
"Wicked Sirius Black, you have the nerve to return! And you dare bring a filthy Mudblood into this house!"
"Oh, my poor old Mistress! If she knew what you've done, she'd be heartbroken!"
"Shut up, Kreacher!" Sirius's face instantly darkened, his eyes gloomy. He snapped, "Your mouth smells worse than before! I think you really ought to take a toothbrush and scrub that filthy mouth of yours!" He ordered Kreacher to prepare food. It was almost evening, and he was starving after a day of running around. Dylan probably was too.
Then, he turned to Dylan. "Ignore this lunatic; he's cracked in the head."
"Come, let me take you to the Black Family Library."
Dylan nodded.
The Black family library was on the basement level. Although it was still daylight outside, and the sun hadn't completely set, it was pitch black down here. Sirius had to wave his wand and utter "Lumos." A soft glow lit up the tip of his wand, illuminating the way forward. Dylan wasn't bothered; he could see perfectly fine in the dark.
Sirius first used a "Scouring Charm" to clear away a large cloud of swirling dust from the entrance before leading Dylan into the damp, shadowy room. Inside, seven or eight tall bookshelves were neatly arranged. Every shelf was packed tightly with books. The Black family's collection was indeed as renowned as rumored, astonishingly comprehensive.
"This is our family's library. Hmm... I think I remember something..." Sirius waved his wand, and the ceiling of the room immediately lit up. Upon closer inspection, it was another line of glowing text: THE MOST ANCIENT AND NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK — ALWAYS PURE.
Sirius scoffed, a hint of disdain in his voice. "Still the same old nonsense. Just bear with it. This house is worse than Azkaban prison now. I need to get it cleaned up."
Dylan nodded. The place was incredibly messy. He remembered Black saying he wanted to bring Harry to live here. But in its current state, Sirius would probably be too embarrassed.
The library was extremely silent, the air carrying a cold dampness. However, the magical books were enchanted with special spells, so there was no need to worry about them rotting or being damaged.
Dylan wandered between the bookshelves, occasionally stopping to flip through a book. Even he saw quite a few interesting things. It was no surprise that the Black family, famous for its Dark Arts, had an astonishing number of books on Dark Magic here.
At the same time, a book placed in a corner caught his attention. The paper of the book was a dingy yellowish-grey, and the texture felt disturbingly like human skin. It was covered in disgusting, blue-green spots that didn't look like mold.
Dylan reached out and pulled the book free. The cover was inscribed with red paint: ULTIMATE SECRETS OF ADVANCED DARK ARTS. The red pigment looked suspiciously like human blood—or perhaps it was.
Under Dylan's gaze, the red lettering began to slowly twist. Eventually, it morphed into the face of an unfamiliar man, letting out a husky, hissing sound like a serpent.
"Hissss..."
Dylan tilted his head. The book now floated in mid-air on its own, maintaining that eerie appearance. Seeing this, Dylan snapped his fingers slightly. Occlumency activated. Dylan's gaze became clearer, isolating him from any potential mental intrusion from the strange voice. Having dealt with a good number of serpentine creatures, he could clearly understand the meaning of the hissing from the human face on the book. It was calling his name.
"How interesting."
Dylan looked at the floating book, surmising that this "Ultimate Secrets of Advanced Dark Arts" was no ordinary volume. Sirius had previously told him that aside from books concerning the Black family history, he wouldn't interfere with the rest and Dylan was free to do with them as he wished.
He wondered if the ancestors of the Black family would literally rise from their graves if they knew about Sirius's decision, which practically betrayed their lineage.
Dylan glanced up toward the staircase leading to the upper floors. The portraits of the Black family's ancestors were all hung there. He hoped they would never learn of Sirius's decision, which verged on violating the traditions of their forefathers.
To think the ancestors had endured so much hardship to establish this flourishing collection of Dark Arts books, only for their descendant to discard this inheritance as easily as if it were roadside weeds.
Dylan shook his head with a "tsk-tsk," but his hand movements didn't stop. He waved his wand, and a burst of Holy Light instantly surged toward the human-skin-bound "Ultimate Secrets of Advanced Dark Arts."
However, the light only left a faint, shallow black mark upon hitting the book. The book itself suffered virtually no substantial damage; not even the surface "skin" was scratched.
Time ticked by. Dylan maintained an airborne standoff with the floating book.
.......
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