Verdicts of the Wizengamot
"You… you… you are here." Arcturus could barely contain the overflowing joy that surged through him at the sight of the woman. And yet, every fiber of his being screamed danger; it was as if his very skin wanted to tear itself away and flee.
"Morgana le Fay," he whispered, reverently.
Mor stopped staring at the sweet she held between her fingers and arched an eyebrow at him. "Yes, yes… say what you want. I have somewhere else to be." Her hand flicked with careless dismissal.
Lucius' eyes widened at the sound of that name. Fear cut through him with a brutal chill. The woman even Merlin himself could not defeat, the one he had only managed to chain and seal away… The Queen of lost Avalon, the magical isle where the old wizards had once taken refuge before the Great Catastrophe.
For Arcturus, that title was pure glory. To free Morgana from a centuries-old seal was, to him, the promise of a favor assured.
"Yes…" he said, his voice trembling with delight. "Please, Lady le Fay, rid us of our enemies." His eyes shone with a sickly darkness, while twisted thoughts sprouted in his mind like weeds, as if the very presence of the sorceress had given him wings to imagine atrocities he had never dared conceive before.
But Morgana was not looking at him. Her narrowed eyes fixed instead on Lucius.
"And you are…" she murmured, soft as a blade.
"Ah… I am Lucius Malfoy, patriarch of the Malfoy family. My family is one of the twenty-eight pure-blood lines that still uphold our magical world."
"Hmm." Mor bit into the sweet with sudden force, splintering it with a sharp crack. "Well. Time's up." She turned her back on them with cold indifference.
"Wait!" Arcturus reached out desperately. "I haven't told you their names yet… Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black, Millicent Bagnold, Edward Greengrass, the Longbottoms… and Harry Potter."
The last name froze Morgana's steps.
"Did you say Harry Potter?" Her eyes cut through him with lethal intensity.
"Yes, that's right." Arcturus smiled darkly. "That brat… it's because of him that our Lord died. We don't know how he did it, and Dumbledore has hidden him for years. Five years searching, and nothing. No, don't kill him… bring him to us. With his sacrifice, we could awaken those who still slumber. With his death, I myself could rise as the new Dark Lord."
The old man almost trembled with delight at the thought. The Boy Who Lived, humiliated and executed before the entire wizarding world. He, Arcturus Black, lifted to a dark throne, followers obeying his every command.
Lucius, on the other hand, felt a chill crawl down his spine. Morgana regarded him as though she were listening to the ramblings of a fool.
"Why would I harm or hand over my dear nephew?" she asked with deadly calm. Then, tilting her head just slightly, like an executioner measuring the weight of the axe, she added: "Are you an idiot?"
Arcturus' smile shattered like glass.
"W-what?" he stammered, just before Morgana's gaze darkened. Not only her eyes: the entire world was blackening.
The old man spun in terror. Darkness was devouring every corner, swallowing everything like an endless mouth. He turned toward Lucius, desperate for help… but Lucius stood motionless. His eyes had turned pitch-black, and his mouth gaped wide, a chasm of the same void.
From the ground burst rotting arms, bony and dripping, clawing their way out of invisible graves. Each corpse that emerged bore Lucius' face, with empty eyes and mouths wide open toward nothingness.
"No… no, no, no!" Arcturus screamed, stumbling as he tried to flee. Hands, skeletal and slimy, grabbed him and dragged him into the damp earth.
He fell, rolled, and found himself surrounded by a sea of those faces. Each one was a grotesque reflection of the fear consuming him.
"Nooooooo!" His final cry dissolved into the infinite dark, as the shadows and the grasping hands swallowed him whole.
Silence.
…
Meanwhile, Lucius remained frozen, staring at Morgana who stood before him like a shadow that had learned to smile. Arcturus, sprawled on the ground, clawed at the earth and screamed incoherent words with the voice of an ancient wail. Mor spared him only a glance, then fixed her gaze on Lucius with the slow, slicing judgment one might give an insect.
"Do you also wish to betray my dear nephew?" she asked, her voice low yet chilling enough to still his heart.
"N-no, no, no!" Lucius blurted in haste, shaking his head so quickly it bordered on madness. "I… I only followed him. I didn't know what he intended. It wasn't part of my plans." His voice shrank into cowardice, the sound of someone who realizes the piece he chose to follow has carried him to the brink of an abyss.
Morgana looked at him with patience that allowed no excuses. "You would be wise to stop chasing what is not yours," she said. The threat needed no further edge; it was a clear blade, delivered without hesitation. She was not speaking of now alone—she was speaking of something older, a debt sealed in blood that already hung over him.
And, as if she had decided there was nothing more worth hearing, she vanished before their eyes. It was no grandiose gesture: merely a gap in the air closing upon itself with the same ease as a candle being snuffed out.
Lucius, sweating and trembling, turned his gaze toward Arcturus, who was still writhing on the ground, screaming incoherently. "No… please… aaah…" The old man's hands clawed at the earth like an animal trying to dig its life back out.
Lucius only managed to step back. He did not think of rescue, nor of explanation; he fled. He left the old man there, lost in his own screams and in the darkness that had settled over the scene.
…
In the Great Hall of the Wizengamot, the tension was of a different kind. After hours of witnesses and sworn spells, all awaited the verdict on Sirius Black. The chamber smelled of wax and old parchment; its members moved with the heavy composure of those who know that history is written in such moments. From the instant Peter Pettigrew had appeared and been forced to take Veritaserum, the result had seemed inevitable: truth had begun to pour out, and a dead man did not defend himself as the living could—but truth, once spoken, carries its own weight.
"Ah, Sirius… it is truly my fault for not paying closer attention," murmured Dumbledore, his voice dim, his eyes fixed on the accused as if carrying a guilt that clung to his very face.
Before Millicent could call for the final vote, an alarm—shrill, ancient as runes themselves—shattered the silence. The murmur swelled into confusion: eyes searched for the source of the sound, hands tensed upon wands.
Dumbledore looked down and saw something impossible: a medal rested upon his robes, directly over his chest. It was the very one he had long kept upon a shelf in his office, and now it vibrated with a warning hum. His surprise echoed through the entire chamber as more medals—appearing on other Wizengamot members, even on Peter Pettigrew—manifested at once, emitting the same call. It was the Order of Merlin: its glow had turned into an alarm.
"Dumbledore, what is happening?" asked Millicent, her formality unable to mask her worry.
"I am sorry, Minister, I have no idea," Dumbledore replied gravely. "It would be wise to consult Lord Lukefort, as president of the Order of Merlin committee." Never before, in the living archives of the Wizengamot, had it been recorded that all the insignias of the Order activated at once. It was something ancestral, a mechanism that seemed to awaken from the very heart of magic itself.
Millicent pressed her lips together. "Then let us conclude this trial quickly; this seems more urgent."
With measured calm, Dumbledore cast a small charm to silence the medallions for a moment. "Members of the Wizengamot who believe the accused guilty, please raise your hand." His voice, even now, carried the composure of the court's Chief Warlock.
Only a few hands rose. The majority remained still.
"Very well," said Millicent, casting a glance toward those who had voted. "By the will of the majority, the accused, Sirius Orion Black… is declared innocent." She struck her gavel with the weight of law, and the echo rolled through the hall. "As reparation for the years he has suffered—though it will not suffice to heal the emotional, psychological, or physical harm—the Ministry will grant financial compensation and medical support for as long as necessary."
Millicent turned to Dumbledore. "Regarding Peter Pettigrew, with the evidence presented in this court, can a verdict be delivered?"
"Yes, Madam," Dumbledore said with restrained voice, bowing his head. "The members have decided on him as well. To put an end to this failure…" He paused, the weight of duty pressing like an old wound.
"With unanimous vote of the Wizengamot," he declared, "the accused Peter Pettigrew is found guilty of multiple charges. The Wizengamot sentences him to one hundred and fifty years' imprisonment in the most secure wing of Azkaban." Justice rang dry and ancient in his words; within it lay the sorrow of a lost pupil, but also the firmness of rightful judgment.
Millicent nodded. "So be it." Her gavel fell once more. The chains binding Pettigrew tightened and hurled him to his knees; aurors held him fast with iron grips. At the same time, the shackles that had bound Sirius fell away.
Sirius, newly freed, straightened with a face scarred by time and injustice. He made to lunge at Pettigrew. Moody, quick and unyielding as ever, seized him with a firm grasp. "You'll do nothing foolish," he growled, standing firm between vengeance and law, as one who knows both realms too well.
The hall exhaled, though it was not true relief: something lingered in the air, an alarm beneath the calm, as if this was not an ending but the herald of another door being forced open.