Arthur as a Ministry of Magic employee, led the way with ease.
Sherlock walked with steady steps, his sharp gaze capturing environmental details and the characteristics of passing personnel.
Harry followed closely behind, filled with curiosity as he surveyed the grand magical facility he had never seen before.
Sirius's face was somewhat grim, his eyes fixed straight ahead, blind to the surrounding scenes that symbolized the Ministry's authority and harmony, walking silently at the rear.
The wizards here—some clutching precariously stacked piles of parchment, others carrying battered briefcases, still others reading the Daily Prophet as they walked, nearly all appeared hurried, not much different from Muggles working in office buildings.
Passing the fountain, Harry saw many gleaming silver Sickles and bronze Knuts at the bottom of the pool. A small, grimy sign beside it read.
[All proceeds from the Fountain of Magical Brethren donated to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries]
"If Peter's matter can be resolved smoothly today, I'll put in one... no, five Galleons," Harry thought to himself.
"This way, Harry."
Noticing Harry had stopped before the Fountain of Magical Brethren, Arthur Weasley called out a reminder.
If he knew what Harry was thinking, he'd probably be stunned by such extravagance.
As they continued forward, the splendid golden scenery of the Ministry's underground eighth floor gradually faded behind them, submerged by the noise and flow of people.
As they approached the golden gates, they finally broke free from the crowded stream of Ministry employees and came to a desk not far to their left.
A wizard in peacock-blue robes with an unshaven beard sat behind the desk, a sign reading [Security Check] hanging above his head.
As they approached, he looked up and set down his copy of the Daily Prophet.
"What is it, Weasley?"
"I've brought three visitors."
Mr. Weasley gestured toward Sherlock, Harry, and Sirius.
"Come over here."
The wizard's gaze swept over the three, speaking in a listless tone.
With a single glance, Sherlock knew the man had been late this morning.
He also deduced the reason for the tardiness—he'd had a fight with his wife last night because he'd failed to satisfy her needs.
The security wizard raised a thin golden rod like a car antenna and swept it up and down across Sherlock, Harry, and Sirius's chests and backs.
During this process, Sherlock felt curious, Harry was somewhat nervous, and Sirius wore an expression of impatience and annoyance.
After the inspection, the security wizard lowered the detector and extended his hand toward the three, muttering.
"Wands."
Harry was first to hand over his wand.
The wizard tossed it onto a strange brass contraption that resembled a single-pan balance.
The device began to vibrate slightly, and soon a narrow strip of parchment shot rapidly from a slit at the bottom.
The wizard tore off the strip and read the words aloud.
"Eleven inches, phoenix feather core, in use for two and a half years. Correct?"
"Yes," Harry said nervously.
Next came Sherlock's wand, following the same procedure.
"Twelve inches, dragon heartstring core, in use for two and a half years."
When it was Sirius's turn, he kept both hands in his pockets, showing no intention of producing his wand.
The security wizard waited a moment, looked up to see Sirius's attitude, and repeated.
"Sir, please present your wand."
Though he still said "please," his tone carried obvious impatience.
Then things went badly.
"No."
Sirius's voice wasn't loud, but it was crystal clear, making the previously noisy surroundings seem to fall silent for an instant.
"What did you say?"
The security wizard appeared to be encountering this for the first time. He stared at Sirius in astonishment, almost thinking he'd misheard.
"I said, I refuse to surrender my wand."
Sirius's eyes held a mixture of the Black family's hereditary pride and utter contempt for the security guard who symbolized the Ministry's bureaucratic system.
"I believe you should be quite clear that I'm here as a witness for a trial, not to be interrogated.
Does the Ministry now believe everyone entering here might be a criminal?
Or must even those coming on legitimate business be disarmed?"
Noticing the biting sarcasm in Sirius's words, beads of sweat appeared on Mr. Weasley's forehead.
He hastily tried to smooth things over. "Uh... Sirius, you don't need to be so sensitive, according to regulations..."
"Regulations?"
Sirius cut him off, his gaze still locked on the security guard. "Arthur, I still remember perfectly clearly the regulations that wrongly imprisoned me in Azkaban for twelve years.
Heinous criminal, no trial necessary, immediate execution... heh."
At these words, both Mr. Weasley and the security wizard became visibly uncomfortable.
Only now did the security wizard recognize this was Sirius Black, wrongly imprisoned for twelve years. While the Ministry's action of sending him to Azkaban without trial seemed reasonable at the time, it was actually neither lawful nor proper.
"The freedom I've reclaimed and my right to carry my wand—not a single damned security regulation can arbitrarily strip them away.
So, tell your superior, or record it officially.
Unless before a wandmaker, or upon receiving a Ministry order with full legal basis, my wand will never be surrendered."
After Sirius finished speaking, the security wizard's face turned extremely ugly.
He'd wanted to argue, but seeing Sirius's cold eyes, eyes that had experienced true suffering and injustice—he suddenly recalled various rumors about the last heir of the Black family.
An invisible pressure seemed to emanate from Sirius. He opened his mouth but ultimately couldn't produce any rebuttal, his eyes revealing traces of panic and retreat.
Yet to be intimidated like this felt somehow unwilling.
When had such a thing ever happened before!
He couldn't help glancing at Mr. Weasley, hoping this colleague who'd brought this difficult character would say something.
Mr. Weasley sighed, rubbing his temples, looking both helpless and somewhat anxious.
"Ah, well... the registration is complete—three visitors, Sherlock and Harry's... wands are all recorded."
He glossed over the part about Sirius's wand vaguely, desperately giving his colleague meaningful looks.
"That's it, then?
Eric, time is tight, the courtroom..."
Eric glanced once more at the unyielding Sirius and finally deflated, waving them through reluctantly.
"Well... all right, you can go."
He returned the two wands and stuck the two parchment strips that had checked Sherlock and Harry's wands onto a small brass spike.
Having done this, he immediately lowered his head, picking up that copy of the Daily Prophet again, burying himself behind the newspaper.
Clearly intending to end this awkward standoff as quickly as possible.
However, the slightly trembling newspaper betrayed his inner emotions.
Sherlock observed the entire process impassively.
He offered no comment on Sirius's actions, merely tilted his head slightly and said in a steady voice to Harry beside him. "Let's go, Harry."
Harry quickly nodded and followed Sherlock.
He looked back worriedly at his godfather, but fortunately Sirius gave him a reassuring look.
However, Sherlock noticed that deep in Sirius's eyes remained a trace of lingering hostility. He frowned at this but ultimately said nothing.
Mr. Weasley, seeing this, also hurried ahead to lead the way with evident relief.
As he wiped away sweat, he muttered quietly.
"I knew it... I knew this would happen..."
"I don't think Mr. Sirius's actions were improper," Sherlock said without breaking stride. "As a witness and attendee at a public trial, there's indeed no need to present one's wand."
"What?"
Mr. Weasley looked at Sherlock in surprise. "But you were so cooperative just now?"
"That's two different things."
Sherlock shook his head. "We can choose not to speak out to avoid trouble, but we cannot complain about those who resist, because the rights they defend, you too will one day need."
As his words fell, the corners of Sirius's mouth curved into a barely perceptible smile tinged with victory.
Mr. Weasley: "..."
Fine, so I'm wrong, is that it?
The three followed Mr. Weasley onward, arriving at a smaller hall.
There were at least twenty lifts, blocked by elegant golden grille gates.
With a clanking and clattering, a lift descended before them.
The golden grille gate slid smoothly open, and under Mr. Weasley's guidance, the four entered the lift along with other wizards.
Sherlock and Harry were both pressed against the back wall.
Several wizards looked at them curiously. Seeing this, Sirius snorted coldly, shifted his position, and directly blocked their view of the two.
Sirius was already tall and thin; in this cramped space, he stood out even more.
Everyone quickly averted their gazes.
Strangely, not many people recognized that this tall, handsome man before them was the once-notorious fugitive.
The grille gate clanged shut and the lift slowly ascended, chains rattling.
A somewhat cold and mechanical woman's voice rang out.
"Level Seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office."
The lift doors opened. Harry glimpsed a cluttered corridor with Quidditch team posters plastered haphazardly on the walls.
A wizard in the lift clutching a broomstick squeezed out with difficulty and disappeared down the corridor.
The doors closed and the lift continued up with a slight sway.
Following this, as the woman's voice continued to announce floors, the lift doors opened again and again, wizards constantly entering and exiting.
"Level Six, Department of Magical Transportation, including the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparition Test Centre."
"Level Five, Department of International Magical Cooperation, including the International Magical Trading Standards Body, International Magical Office of Law, and British Seat, International Confederation of Wizards."
"Level Four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, including Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau."
Besides wizards entering and exiting, several paper airplanes whooshed into the lift when doors opened and closed.
They were all pale purple with the [Ministry of Magic] stamp on their wing edges.
After flying into the lift, they began circling slowly near the ceiling, then whooshed out again at certain floors.
"Those are memos between departments," Mr. Weasley told the three quietly. "We used to use owls, but the mess was simply unbearable... droppings everywhere on the desks..."
Sherlock and Harry exchanged glances—in the Muggle world, this would simply be a phone call.
Hard to say which was better.
"Level Three, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, including the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters, and Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee."
At this level, almost everyone got out, leaving only the four and one witch in the lift.
She kept staring at Sirius, as if she could never look enough.
Sirius maintained a stony expression, eyes straight ahead.
Sherlock's lips curved in a faint smile.
Harry and Mr. Weasley exchanged glances, desperately suppressing their laughter.
Whether in the magical world or Muggle world, whether male or female, Sirius's charm was truly unbeatable.
The lift swayed upward again, the remaining memos continuing to circle the ceiling light.
When the doors opened, the voice announced.
"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services."
"We're here."
As Mr. Weasley finished speaking, Sirius immediately strode out without a word.
The witch followed right behind him.
"..."
The remaining three followed the witch out of the lift into a corridor with doors on both sides.
Mr. Weasley coughed. "My office is on the other side of this floor."
The witch kept following Sirius until passing a window, when she gave Sirius, a lingering look before turning into an office.
Sirius's expression visibly relaxed.
Harry suppressed a smile and pointed at the sunlight streaming through the window, asking. "Uncle Weasley, we should still be underground, right?"
"Yes, that's right."
Mr. Weasley understood Harry's meaning and explained with a smile.
"But these are magically enchanted windows. Magical Maintenance decides what weather we have each day.
Last time we had hurricanes here for two months because they wanted a raise."
"Heh."
Sherlock laughed at this—truly a simple and direct method.
"All right, it should be around here."
They turned a corner, passed through two heavy oak doors, and entered a cluttered, noisy open area divided into many small cubicles.
The people here were chatting and laughing, quite lively.
Message memos flew in and out of cubicles like miniature rockets.
A sign hung crookedly on the nearest cubicle.
[Auror Headquarters]
When Harry saw this name, his heart stirred.
Somehow, he seemed to glimpse his future here.
You can read more than 40 chapters on:
patreon.com/MikeyMuse