The Time Of Trial

The Time of Trial

Chapter 1 - The First Trial

"Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide
The darkness deepens: Lord with me abide!
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee
Help of the helpless, Oh abide with me!

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day
Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away
Change and decay in all around I see
Oh thou who changest not, abide with me!

I need thy presence every passing hour
What but thy grace can foil the tempter's power?
Who like thyself my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Oh abide with me!

I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness
Where is death's sting? Where, grave thy victory
I triumph still, if thou abide with me!

Reveal thyself before my closing eyes
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee
In life and death, Oh Lord abide with me!"

Rain poured down ceaselessly out of a sky the colour of slate. It drummed upon the roofs of the cars parked outside. It pattered against the stained glass windows of the chapel, running in rivulets down the panes of colourful glass. The noise was so intense that the Minister could barely make himself heard above it.

There were no more than twelve or thirteen people seated in the Malfoy family chapel that afternoon. It was cold inside the old stone structure, and in response, those present were crammed tightly into the front few pews.

At first, Harry had been at a loss as to exactly why Malfoy's funeral was so sparsely attended. After all, he had been a man with connections, powerful connections that ran deep through wizard society. Now it seemed, in death, unlike in life, few proved willing to flock to his side. Perhaps it was that they feared association with the fallen, with the low and with the criminal. Or perhaps it was that they feared the wrath of the Dark Lord himself, Voldemort. Whatever those reasons might have been, the fact remained that there was hardly anybody there ...

Harry's spirits were low. They had been low since his return from Naxcivan, the war-torn region of Azerbaijan, a remote republic deep within the Caucasus Mountains. He, his friends ... and Draco Malfoy, had been taken there against their will, in order that Lucius Malfoy might fulfill his 'duty' of restoring Voldemort to power. Their adventures in that tiny country had very nearly been the death of Harry, and for a few, brief moments, they had been the death of Draco. But there was another thing that addled his soul, constantly, gnawing away at it like a rat, and causing him inconsolable pain. For the first time in his life, Harry had spoken to his parents. They had appeared to him, in spiritual form, to guide him and aid his escape from the clutches of Darkness. And it had been James Potter who had shown his son that he had within him more powers than he had ever dreamed of, including the ability to transform himself, at will, into a stag at least as powerful and noble as Prongs.

But that meeting with the parents whose memories he adored had been too painful for him. He had left Naxcivan emotionally drained, and with the knowledge that the one thing he wanted in his life above all else could not be granted him, reinforced. It was a horrible cross to bear.

Harry had not spoken of his worries, of his fears to anybody else ... not Dumbledore, not Ron or Hermione, and not even Sirius, for he had been taken away, re-arrested upon their return, now awaiting trial in Azkaban. So Harry suffered in silence.

And now, as they closed their hymnals, and sat down again, he felt more elated than he had done in days, weeks even. There was something uplifting, something inherently glorious about church singing. It made a shiver run down his spine. He had shared in something beautiful and private. And he had a feeling he would need what faith he had more than ever in the coming times, whatever they might hold. As the Minister bade them kneel and pray, Harry's eyes were shut tight, his hands clasped together, squeezing the blood out of them, his lips moving rapidly in time with the Minister's words.

The coffins were lowered into the graves at two minutes past three. It would have been fitting, perhaps, if, as the words of the funeral service were read to the assembled company, the clouds had parted briefly, the rain had stopped, and rays of sunshine had descended from heaven, bathing them in light. However, this did not happen. All that did happen was that the rain eased off a bit.

Harry shuddered, not caring to think about the last time he had stood in a graveyard, four whole months away in time, now, but still in his mind, achingly close. He could still feel the ground under his feet as he had fled, blinded by fear and terror, as the Death Eaters cast spells and curses at him, stumbling over to the limp body of Cedric Diggory, his fingers grasping the Triwizard Cup. No, however much Harry preferred not to think of that night, he could not stop himself. It was as though he was being made to sit again through a movie that he had seen a thousand times before, and would see a thousand times again, until it was engraved upon his memory like words upon a headstone ... permanently.

Harry and Hermione shared an umbrella. Draco was standing a few feet away from them, his head bowed, Tatiana clasping his hand. Her face was hidden behind a black mourning veil, so that her emotions were not betrayed. In her free hand she held a bunch of white lilies. Harry could not hope to imagine what they must be going through. He, Harry, had lost two parents without really being fully aware of it. He had been only a baby at the time of Voldemort's attack, after all. Draco had lost both of his parents at the time of his life when he was most in need of them. That had to count for something.

More common ground.

Harry noticed Draco had not brought any flowers at all with him. At first, Harry had not been entirely sure why this was, and Draco had explained it on the train down to London from Hogsmeade in some detail. He did not feel that bringing flowers would solve anything. Both Lucius and Narcissa remained dead ... and Draco felt he had never known either of them as well as he had thought he had, or as well as he had hoped. He felt alienated from them.

Harry could see his point ... almost.

He tried not to imagine Draco's parents' remains, alone and cold under the hard, clay soils. He preferred not to think of Draco's Father at all. But Harry also had to keep reminding himself how much he had hated the man, hated Lucius Malfoy for what he had done to his family, for what he had become, as did they all. But that had been hatred in life, and now that he was dead and almost buried, each of them was separately coming to the conclusion that they did not know what they should feel for him anymore. Should they hate him? Nobody should have to die, nobody, not like that.

Harry decided he probably should not hate Draco's Father anymore, and he hoped Draco decided the same ... he tried to catch his eye, but the other boy was giving nothing away. Just like Draco, really ... although he had broken down and cried on Tatiana's shoulders during the singing of 'Abide With Me.'

The brief service ended, and gathering his robes tight around himself, Harry followed them out of the churchyard, turning back as he closed the squeaky gate, to see the single bunch of lilies resting on the sodden ground before the new, marble headstone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They gave Sirius a little water and a loaf of bread. He did not look up as they left the cell, and the door was slammed shut. After a while, he heard their unearthly footsteps tapping on the floor as they walked away, and after about a minute longer, the cold feeling began to fade, and he at last felt able to open his eyes.

The pitcher of water was about half full, and though it was a strange colour and smelled funny, he lifted the heavy earthenware jug to his lips and drank deeply, relishing the feeling of wetness in his throat. He set the jug down on the straw covered floor, and then dipped his hands into the water, splashing it on his face.

From the folds of his robes he withdrew a small, pocketknife. It was a regular Muggle one, but they hadn't bothered to take it away from him when he arrived, for it could do no damage in Azkaban. It was handy for cutting great hunks of bread out of the loaf, however.

Sirius had sustained himself over the previous two weeks with fantasies of fluffy, white loaves spread liberally with butter, and maybe jam too. The stuff they gave him here in Azkaban was dark, brown and heavy, and it sat on the bottom of his stomach like a cannonball. That was the only good thing about it ... you didn't need to eat much to stop feeling hungry ... indeed, it was said of the bread in Azkaban that that men would eat anything to avoid having to touch it.

He masticated thoughtfully on his vile bread, before giving up, and putting it back down on the floor. Lunch would be the usual bowl of porridge; thick, lumpy, and quite unlike the smooth, creamy stuff he was used to. Dinner would be more of the same ... bread and cheese, with a hunk of dried bacon on Sundays. That was the only way he had been able to tell what day it was; bacon day was always Sunday, and there had been two of them so far. That meant two weeks. He had been using his penknife to scratch a rudimentary calendar on the wall of the cell; the Dementors had done nothing to keep him from doing this. Fourteen notches in all ... that made it ... that made it the 30th of September. Which was ... which was ... he struggled to remember. 30th of September ... that made it Saturday, surely. Saturday morning.

With a titanic effort, he swallowed the bread, and then leaned back against the wall of the cell, feeling the cold stone, hard against the back of his head. Every night he could see them in his dreams, faces, floating before him. Usually Harry's ... sometimes Gwyneth's, once or twice even Draco's ... and they were laughing at him, laughing at him for having the stupidity to assume he wouldn't be caught, for assuming he could live a normal life. It was a tremendous fight for him to maintain his knowledge that they weren't really laughing at him.

There was only one blessing, only one faint glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel; the knowledge that they had captured Pettigrew, that he would be brought as a witness and that he would prove Sirius' innocence ...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"If you'd like to take a seat, Harry," one of them gestured him to the chair standing in front of the desk. Harry closed the door, looked warily around the office, and then sat down in the proffered seat.

The two men sat down on the opposite side of the desk. One of them shuffled some papers, and then put them inside a drawer. The shorter of the two had a very red face that gave the impression of having had far too much gin too early in the morning. He was portly, and his Muggle suit was stretched tightly across his expanding beer gut. The other was a tall Irishman with very dark hair and an aquiline, Roman nose.

"I'm sure you know why you're here," said the fat one.

Harry shook his head. "Well, not ... um, really," he faltered. "Why am I here?"

The fat one smiled at the other. "Well, we're representatives of the High Court of Magic, Harry. My name is Norman Hunt, I'm the Convenor of the Court, which basically means I give the orders to the Judge and order the Court to session. This is my colleague, Eoin Ó'Cíobháin. He is one of the best lawyers in the country, and he'll be representing your Godfather in his trial."

"Um ... okay," said Harry.

"We just thought it might be a good idea for us to come up here and have a little word with you prior to the trial, put your mind at ease and so on," said Hunt. "I assume you're aware that you've been summoned to appear as a witness for Sirius?"

Harry nodded, he'd got the letter yesterday.

"Right, that's good," said Hunt. "Before Mr Ó'Cíobháin gives you a brief run down of what will be expected of you, are there any questions that you'd like to ask me?"

Harry, who had been staring very intently at his shoelaces, which were coming undone, looked up, and brushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. Then he blinked. "There were a few things," he said.

"Fire away ... I think you'll find me intimately familiar with the inner workings of the Court," said Hunt, smiling at what he thought had been quite a funny joke; it being worth mentioning that Norman Hunt was possessed of no sense of humour, and had marginally more culture than a cheese sandwich.

"How long is it going to take?" asked Harry. "Trials can last forever, can't they?"

"They can last a long time, yes, Harry," said Hunt. "However, there is the possibility that Mr. Ó'Cíobháin will succeed in proving Sirius innocent very quickly indeed, if his evidence is corroborated, and I have a feeling it will be. This trial will merely be a formality."

"You mean Pettigrew, right?" asked Harry.

Ó'Cíobháin smiled. "Exactly," he said. "I have great confidence that the trial could be over in about a week, maybe less. It depends how quickly we can bring Pettigrew to the stand. The Ministry's lawyer is a man called Trevithick ... he has a reputation as a very tough cross-examiner. He could easily keep the Court tied up for weeks."

"That's bad, right?" asked Harry, looking up again.

"It very much depends," said Ó'Cíobháin. "If he takes a long time over questioning all the witnesses he can find, he could very well dig himself into a substantial hole. The thing is, I want to keep Pettigrew until the very end, so that all your statements will be corroborated."

"Why don't you bring him out first and end the trial early?" suggested Harry.

Ó'Cíobháin smiled. "Ah, yes. Well, that would seem to be eminently reasonable, wouldn't it?" he said. "However, the larger the body of evidence in favour of Sirius is, the greater the chance we'll get him off. I'll be calling several people, including Remus Lupin ... I believe you know him?"

Harry nodded. He hadn't actually seen Remus for a very long time. He had been a Marauder, along with his Father, Sirius and Pettigrew, back at Hogwarts, and latterly had held the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts master during Harry's third year. It would be good to see him again. "Who else?" he asked.

"Well," said Ó'Cíobháin. "There's you, obviously, you're a key witness, so I'm afraid you'll have to expect Trevithick to be very harsh with you. Then I'll need to speak with Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger," he paused, briefly consulting his notes, "Albus Dumbledore, Rubeus Hagrid, and Draco Malfoy ... amongst many others ..."

"What do you need to speak to Draco for?" asked Harry.

Ó'Cíobháin smiled mysteriously again. "Sirius isn't only being tried for the crimes he didn't commit all those years ago, Harry. He's also up on a charge of abduction."

"Abducting who?" asked Harry.

"Well ... you, Draco, Hermione. This whole Naxcivan thing. The Ministry are very anxious to keep Sirius behind bars ... they're going to be dredging up everything they can think of. That's why we need to concentrate on more than just clearing him for the murder of your parents, Harry. Trevithick will be asking you things that may seem, on the face of it, to be completely unrelated to the trial, and you won't be able to do a thing about it. I'm just warning you, so you'll be prepared."

"There's a chance that he'll go back to gaol then?" asked Harry.

Ó'Cíobháin nodded. "Well, yes, that chance always exists," he said. "However, Harry. You forget that we aren't Muggles, I think."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm referring to a certain potion known as Veritaserum," said Ó'Cíobháin. "Do you know what Veritaserum is, Harry?"

Harry nodded ... Snape had cruelly threatened to use it on him last year to find out who had been stealing ingredients from his store cupboard, and he had later seen it used on Bartemius Crouch Jr., to extract a confession from him after the final incident of the Triwizard Tournament. Literally, it was a truth serum. When under the influence of it, it became physically impossible to lie, though Harry had no idea how it actually worked or felt.

"Will you be using it on everyone?" asked Harry.

Ó'Cíobháin nodded. "When they say the High Court of Magic is a place of truth, they aren't kidding," he grinned. "We use it on everyone, without exception. Technically, it's the Judge's prerogative ..."

"How d'you mean?" asked Harry.

"The Judge has the decision as to whether or not the potion can be used in a Court in which he presides. Thankfully, we've drawn Winterbourne Strickland. He's an excellent Judge, and he permits us to use Veritaserum if we want."

"Some Judges don't?" asked Harry.

Hunt nodded. "Plenty," he said. "Vikram Sivanandarajah, for instance, he's a Tamil, from Southern India. Veritaserum is illegal under Indian law. And God knows what we'd have done if we'd drawn Sir Haarlem Vlachtbos. He's Muggle born ... hates the stuff."

Ó'Cíobháin continued. "But, we've nothing to worry about. And it means Trevithick is greatly inconvenienced. He can't accuse any of the witnesses of lying, you see. It's kind of a hobby of his," he added.

"But does it hurt, or anything?" asked Harry.

Ó'Cíobháin raised his eyebrows. "Veritaserum? No," he shook his head. "If you try to lie, it'll just ... well, it just won't. There's no pain involved ... matter of fact I'm not entirely certain just how it works. But it does. You won't feel a thing."

This was a relief to Harry.

"Is there anything else?" asked Ó'Cíobháin.

Harry shook his head. He couldn't think of anything.

"Okay, so. I'd like to give you a brief run through of your testimonial to the Court. Now ... at every stage I will be guiding you through what you say. One thing will lead into another. It'll be nice and safe, nice and simple, okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

"That's the easy bit. When Trevithick gets his hands on you, it'll be a completely different kettle of fish. And I won't be able to help you, though I'll try and object as much as possible, throw him off track. If we can make him look like a silly arse, it'll work in our favour."

"You mean sabotage him?"

"That's one way of putting it," said Ó'Cíobháin.

"That's not illegal at all?" asked Harry.

"Oh no, everyone does it. Make the other man look like an idiot, it subtracts credibility from what he has to say, makes us look better," he leaned closer to Harry over the desk. "What you have to remember, Harry my boy, is that we lawyers are basically evil bastards."

"I ... uh, see," said Harry.

"Of course, our friend Trevithick will be trying to do exactly the same to us," said Ó'Cíobháin. "Don't let yourself get distracted by him. Don't let yourself get upset by what he has to say. You know the Ministry is just paying him to be horrid. I always try to imagine the opposition wearing pink bikinis, or something. Try that, it helps. Remember, Harry, that above all, Trevithick is an insecure forty-eight year old who lives with his parents and has a pathetically small ..."

"That'll do, Eoin," interrupted Hunt. "You are meant to be taking Harry through the testimonial."

"Yes, okay. Sorry Norman," he said. "Right, Harry. I will first ask you how you met Sirius, where, and under what circumstances. I will take you through the events of the day you ran away from the Dursleys, I will take you through your sightings of Sirius in his Animagus form ..."

"You know Sirius is an Animagus?" said Harry.

"For the purposes of the trial, yes, that's going to have to come out," said Ó'Cíobháin. "They will be asking Sirius how he broke out of Azkaban ... that's the one thing, incidentally, that could keep him in gaol ..."

"What?"

"Well, breaking out of Azkaban is a criminal act, and one Sirius is hands down guilty of."

"Then this is all pointless," began Harry, making as if to rise from his chair.

"No," said Ó'Cíobháin. "When we prove that Sirius should not have been in Azkaban in the first place, that charge won't have a leg to stand on, and Trevithick and the Grand Jury will know it. Anyhow, that's speculation at this point. Back to your testimonial. I will then take you through the process of how you became aware of your relationship to Sirius, through to your first actual meeting with him in the Shrieking Shack ..."

"How do you know all this?" asked Harry, suspecting he already knew the answer.

"I have spoken to Sirius, Harry," said Ó'Cíobháin.

"You have ... um, I mean, how is he? Is he okay?"

Ó'Cíobháin shook his head. "I won't mince words, Harry. He isn't okay at all. He's in a bad way ... the Dementors are not easy going creatures. That's why we need to bring him to Court as soon as is possible. Then we'll come to the events of this month, how you came to be in Naxcivan, and how it is painfully obvious that Sirius did not intend to abduct you, indeed, that he did not, that was done by other people. This process will be uninterrupted by the opposition, and if you are as succinct and clear spoken as possible, shouldn't take much longer than an hour. Then it's over to friend Trevithick, who sadly will have as much time as he wants to cross examine you. From that point I can't give you any help, beyond objecting and generally being distracting."

"I understand," said Harry, in a quiet voice.

Ó'Cíobháin smiled supportively. "It isn't going to be easy, Harry," he warned. "But I have to say, I have the utmost confidence in you ..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sirius grimaced as the now familiar ball and chain was manacled once again around his bare ankle, the metal cold against his skin. He felt his hair standing on end as he was led down the corridors underneath the Court, to the High Security Trial holding area. This tiny room, not much more than eight foot by six, contained a bed, with a sacking mattress and a thin, sleazy, brown blanket, a small stone washbasin stood in the corner, with a single, cold tap, and there was a bucket for a lavatory. Sirius sighed as the handcuffs were taken off, and the door slammed shut. In Azkaban, the doors had been iron bars, but this door was solid oak, ten inches thick. He heard the bolts being drawn across it. Then, as the footsteps of the gaoler faded away down the corridor, he turned to survey his new quarters.

This tiny cell would be his home for the foreseeable future; however long the trial took, this was where he would remain when not in Court.

He crossed the room (this took about three paces) and stared out of the barred window set high up in the wall. It was a tiny window, far too small for any human under the age of ten to crawl through, and it afforded an aspect of the central courtyard. There was a pile of hay, two horses tethered to a post, an expensive looking carriage, and, against all probability and looking very out of place, a brand new, silver BMW.

Sirius turned away from the window, and sat down on the bed. A previous occupant of the cell had carved a complicated astronomical calendar onto the wall, which Sirius could quite easily have decoded given a couple of hours and a book on Ancient Runes. He lay down on the horrid mattress, covered what he could of himself with the blanket, and waited for sleep to overcome him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Harry opened his eyes, rolled over in bed, and checked the alarm clock. It was a quarter to seven in the morning. Harry groaned, and flopped back down onto the pillows. The bed was so obscenely comfortable that it shouldn't have been allowed; a proper, goose feather mattress, chunky pillows, and an eiderdown that was so thick and fluffy it had nearly suffocated him twice during the night.

Harry's mind was telling him that really, he had no intention of getting up for a long, long time. The enormity of what was about to happen had kept him awake into the wee small hours of the morning, and his sleep, when finally it came, had been disturbed, the dreams painful.

There was light slanting through the gap in the curtains; bright, morning sunshine. Sighing greatly, Harry heaved off the eiderdown, and climbed out of bed, feeling for his slippers, which he had left at his bedside. Then he stumbled, bleary eyed, over to the window, and parted the curtains.

He had not been able to appreciate the view when he had arrived the previous night ... it had been dark when they arrived at King's Cross, and the Broomstick Rental Centre had been closed for staff training, so they had been forced to take a Muggle taxi to Diagon Alley, getting stuck in bad traffic on the way. Consequently, they had not reached their destination until nearly half past nine.

It was stunning. The room was on the fourth storey, and looked out over the ramshackle roofs of wizarding London. Below him, Diagon Alley stretched away, undisturbed by human presence so early in the morning. In the far distance, he could make out St Paul's cathedral, the ugly tower blocks of the East End, and very far away indeed, the silvery bulk of Canary Wharf, glinting in the morning sunshine.

Harry showered, dressed in his best dress robes, and then went down for breakfast in the hotel dining room. It was not especially crowded ... the Britannia Hotel was the sort of establishment that preferred to discourage guests if it was at all possible, unless, of course, they were prepared to pay through the nose for top notch treatment. The Ministry had offered to put them up, at its own expense, in accommodation within the Ministry building, but Dumbledore had been dead set against the idea, carrying as he did, something of a grudge against the higher elements of the Ministry. Therefore he had taken money from Hogwarts' vast vaults, and had got them; himself, Harry, Hermione and Draco, rooms at the Britannia ... the finest, most expensive magical hotel in the world; all luxurious beds and fancy carpets and service that was to die for. It was owned by a shady business consortium based variously in Toronto, Edinburgh and Bridgetown, Barbados.

Harry and Hermione were served breakfast at a secluded table in the corner of the restaurant, looking out through French windows over the vast parkland that the Hotel owned. The park itself lay at the heart of wizard London, and covered an enormous area, filled with trees, wide open grasslands, a lake for sailing and swimming (with a large and benevolent kraken inhabiting it), a herd of deer, and even, hidden away in the middle, the National Quidditch Stadium, or the Pudding Bowl, as it was affectionately known.

It was a most singular view.

It was a pity, then, that Harry was not appreciating it as much as he should have been. For Harry's stomach was filled with butterflies. He felt like he couldn't eat a single thing, and he barely managed to force down a single bite of the extravagant spread the kitchens of the Britannia had laid on. His hands trembled as he drank his tea and tried to eat his toast. Hermione, too, appeared nervous, managing only a croissant, spread liberally with jam, and a small cup of black coffee, and as for Draco ... he had not even bothered to turn up for breakfast, preferring to stay in bed with his head underneath the pillows. Neither of them spoke to one another, for there was nothing much that could be said. Both of them knew why they were there. Neither one of them was much looking forward to the ordeal that would shortly be forced upon them. Even Harry ... who had, in his time, faced far worse things, felt more scared now than he had done when facing Lord Voldemort in the graveyard at Little Hangleton the previous summer. For he knew, and Hermione knew, and Draco would know (as soon as he woke up) that, quite literally, everything hinged on the next few days ...

In less than an hour, they would both be walking into the High Court of Magic, into the midst of the biggest criminal case in years. It was a case that, far up in the north at Hogwarts, they had been isolated from for the past week, but now no longer.

They had been listening to the news on the Wizarding Wireless Network the previous evening, up in Harry's room. The reporter had described how rioting crowds had besieged the Court ... how Cornelius Fudge's administration was on the verge of permanent collapse. It had seemed so distant to them both ... until they looked out of the window at the mob surging along Diagon Alley below, bearing placards and torches and chanting slogans. And then it had hit them both. This was nothing less than the biggest civil upset ever to have affected the wizarding world, and it was happening in three dimensions, and in glorious Technicolor, in the street below them. It was a very surreal experience. The papers were already whipping up a feeding frenzy over it ... the Trial of the Century, it had been dubbed in the Daily Prophet, though the Prophet's editor pursued a policy of stunning unoriginality and said that about most trials.

This time the editor had hit the nail squarely on the head ...

The Trial of the Century? Certainly ... when you're trying the man who betrayed his friends and killed thirteen people ... when you're trying the man whom even Azkaban could not hold.

When you're trying Sirius Black ...

Dumbledore joined them at around twenty past seven. He had changed from his customary, slightly shabby, velvet work robes into a smart set of dress robes in royal blue. He looked very important indeed. He gave them both a supportive smile as he sat down at the table with them, but did not otherwise seem to have anything to say to either of them, which was most unlike his usual self.

Harry sipped his tea, then, by way of making small talk, said. "What time are we in Court?"

"Nine o'clock," answered Dumbledore, stiffly. Harry already knew this ... Dumbledore, who was extremely familiar with the processes and practices of a Magical Trial, had briefed him fully on the train down from Hogsmeade the previous afternoon. The conventions, and the behaviour to which he would be expected to adhere completely, were significantly different from any Muggle trials Harry might have seen on TV.

The High Court of Magic was an institution amongst wizards, but an institution whose relevance to the modern world was beginning to be questioned. Its rules were archaic and draconian, its ceremonies mind-bogglingly complicated. Harry had lain awake for many hours in his room the previous night, his mind running over and over the events that were to come, until they took on the status, almost, of a waking nightmare. Consequently, there were ugly bags hanging heavy underneath his eyes. He felt utterly awful. The next few days were going to be a waking nightmare.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"... will today commence the trial of Sirius Black, convicted of numerous crimes in 1981. Black absconded from Azkaban during the summer of 1993, and has been on the run ever since. He was apprehended a week ago at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Northumberland, where he has been hiding out for some time, disguised as a member of staff. Lawyers for Black claim that they have unearthed startling new evidence that may prove, once and for all, whether or not Black was guilty of the crimes he was sent down for. This looks set to be the trial of the decade, if not the century. This is Enid Brook, WWN News, London."

"In other news today, operatives of the Magical Law Enforcement Service announced the seizure of more than a tonne of illegal potions in a Muggle lorry at Dover. The lorry was stopped by Muggle Customs Officials as part of a random search for illegal immigrants ..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They took their seats in the Courtroom Chamber. The Chamber itself was packed to the gunwales with lawyers, witnesses, clerks, guards, and almost two and a half thousand spectators, who had crammed themselves into the mezzanine gallery overlooking the Chamber. And all this was done in complete silence. Not a human voice could be heard. The only sound was that of footfall on the stone floors, and the low beating of a drum, coming from the ante-chamber outside, where Harry had been told Sirius was being held by elite foot-soldiers of the Minister's Guard, armed to the teeth, and amongst the few men licensed to use the Killing Curse, Avada Kedavra.

Dumbledore ushered Harry into a seat. The witnesses were herded into a small holding area directly opposite the bank of seats that the Grand Jury was occupying. The distance between the two was, allegedly, that of the distance between two drawn pikes. The seats were long, wooden benches of an antique red hue, arranged in rows, like pews in a church. Between the two banks of seats was a large wooden construction, built of the same dark red mahogany of the rest of the furniture, accessed up a short flight of steps, the whole topped off with a metal cage. This was the Dock where the Defendant stood. On either side of the Dock were further platforms, both with wooden lecterns holding heavy ledgers, a pot of ink and a quill, and a small candelabra, one for the Foreman of the Jury, and one for whatever witness was being cross-examined. None of the candles were lit, indeed, the only light was the natural daylight slanting in through the high, stained glass windows.

Around this construction was drawn a circle, picked out as a deep groove in the flagstone floor. This denoted the area around which the Wards were drawn up, protecting everyone within from attack. If an attack did occur, the custom was for the entire Grand Jury, and all the witnesses, to cram themselves into this circle. Fortunately, according to Dumbledore, it had only been used once, in the aftermath of Voldemort's first Reign of Terror, when Death Eaters had broken into the Chamber during, coincidentally enough, the Trial of Lucius Malfoy.

"Stay quite calm," said Dumbledore. "This takes some getting used to."

Harry looked across the Chamber floor. The Judge's position on the dais was flanked by several desks, at which already sat the clerks, looking pompous and silly in their over-starched hats. Behind the Judge's seat, which in reality was more of a throne, opulent red leather abounding, was, carved into the stone wall in relief form, the coat of arms of the High Court, depicting a rampaging hippogriff carrying a flag. On either side of this bizarre sculpture were two more flags. On the left hung the flag of the International Confederation of Wizards; a red background, with sixteen yellow stars, representing the sixteen founder nations, ranged in a circle around the world, representing all the others. On the right hung the Union Jack.

Without warning, the Judge Apparated into the centre of the floor. What little whispering was going on in the Chamber ceased instantly. The Judge raised his right arm, and turned towards the dais, facing away from the packed Court. At first, Harry thought it looked like he was throwing a Nazi salute, but then he noticed the Judge was holding a long, wooden torch, burning with an eerie green flame.

The Judge bowed his head towards the dais, and muttered some ritual incantation that nobody heard, that nobody was meant to hear. Then the green flame torch guttered and died.

The Judge raised his head. A sonorous and slow voice that was patently not his own, echoed around the Chamber.

"With the extinguishing of the Green Flame, all present are hereby bound to the Court Chamber in spirit and body. With the extinguishing of the Torch, all present do declare that they are bound to tell only the truth in this Chamber. With the extinguishing of the Torch, the High Court of Magic is declared open. The presiding Judge is Sir Winterbourne Strickland."

The Judge stepped up to the throne on the dais, and sat down behind his desk. There was a jug of water, two large books, and another candelabra, which flickered into life as he sat down. Simultaneously, the other candles and torches around the walls, which Harry had not previously noticed, erupted into flame.

"The Court will rise for the prayer."

There was a rumbling sound as two thousand people got to their feet at once. Harry, even though he didn't have a clue what was going on, found himself standing up too. He was not especially surprised to see that Hermione looked very familiar with the whole thing, and even mouthed the words of the prayer as the Judge intoned it. Draco stood slumped forwards, his eyes half closed, his head bowed ...

"Our Father. Grant that the High Court of Magic might seek and arrive at an honest and truthful verdict. Grant that the verdict shall be the correct one. Grant that justice shall, indeed, be done, and grant us the wisdom to find it. Amen."

"Amen," he heard Dumbledore whisper under his breath. There was another rumbling sound as two thousand people sat down again.

"Under the terms and conditions of the 1977 Emergency Justice Act, copies of which are available in the foyer, the High Court of Magic convenes today, this 3rd day of October, in the Year of Our Lord 1995, to try Mr. Sirius Eamonn Black. Before Mr. Black is brought into the Chamber, it is my duty to inform the Court of his crimes. Mr. Black is charged with the following; supplying information to the Dark Forces, breaking the Fidelius Charm, betraying bona fide agents of the Ministry of Magic, acting under the influence of the Dark Lord, charming a Muggle motorcycle with intent to fly, murdering thirteen unarmed and unidentifiable Muggles, murdering one Mr. Peter Victor Pettigrew, absconding from gaol, breaching the Magistrate's Court Order No. 760C, of August 26th 1993, and finally, conspiracy to abduct minors.

I must now ask the Grand Jury to forget all that they may have heard about this high profile case. You have all been selected because the Court has deemed you to be impartial, intelligent, trustworthy witches and wizards. Please do not give us cause to doubt this. It is always vital that one approaches a case with an open mind, and today, it is even more vital. We are here to do justice, and whatever may be your decision, we shall abide by it. But may God help your souls if it is the wrong one. Do I make myself understood?"

The Foreman of the Jury rose, and gave the Judge the briefest and the curtest of nods.

"Thank you. Please bring in the Defendant."

At these words, spoken a fraction louder to make himself heard outside, the drum, which had fallen silent, began to beat once more. The doors into the Chamber swung open, and two of the Guardsmen walked in, slowly, carefully, judging each step, each man perfectly in time with the other. Behind them walked Sirius. Harry craned his neck to get a better view, willing Sirius to look in his direction, needing human contact with him, needing to know that he was still all right, and that the week he had spent in Azkaban had not sent him out of his mind. He was quite clearly not all right. Harry could not see very well from where he was sitting, but Sirius looked tired, strained and ill. He was wearing prison robes, and his hands were cuffed behind his back. The humiliation was complete by the ball and chain he was dragging behind him. His head was hung, avoiding the stares of the spectators, some of whom were booing and hissing. Harry tried to make eye contact, but Sirius was staring resolutely at the jurors as he was led up the steps, and into the Dock. The guardsmen slammed shut the door behind him, and retired to their positions around him. Sirius did not look up.

"Your name is Sirius Eamonn Black?"

Sirius looked up at this point, and nodded. "That is my name," he said, his voice hoarse and cracked.

"Your date of birth, if you please?"

"March," said Sirius. "March the 14th, 1959."

The Judge consulted his notes. "That is correct. Mr. Black, before we move further, I would like you to confirm to the Court that you have taken Veritaserum, and agree to be bound to the terms of its use. Furthermore, you acknowledge that anything you say will be taken by this Court as the gospel truth."

"I understand," said Sirius. "I mean ... I confirm it, yes."

From where Harry was sitting, he could see his Godfather visibly shaking, and he was filled himself with a sickening fear. Even though he knew Sirius was innocent, even though he had seen the evidence with his own two eyes, there was still a lingering vestige of doubt within him. For all the certainty that Veritaserum offered him ... there was still the chance, still the possibility. Sirius' innocence was not completely proven. The Jury could still find him guilty. He found himself shaking in response, and Dumbledore, noticing this, put a hand on his shoulder.

"We'll be fine," he whispered hoarsely. "We'll get him off. It'll be okay."

Harry wished he shared the Headmaster's confidence.

"Sirius Eamonn Black. You are charged with the following crimes; supplying information to the Dark Forces, breaking the Fidelius Charm, betraying bona fide agents of the Ministry of Magic, acting under the influence of the Dark Lord, charming a Muggle motorcycle with intent to fly, murdering thirteen unarmed and unidentifiable Muggles, murdering one Mr. Peter Victor Pettigrew, absconding from gaol, breaching the Magistrate's Court Order No. 760C, of August 26th 1993, and finally, conspiracy to abduct minors. Is this understood?"

"Perfectly," said Sirius.

"Then we begin," the Judge banged his gavel down. "This Court is now in session!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Trevithick paced back across the stone floor of the Chamber, the only sound the clicking of his shoes on the stone floor. Hardly anybody in the Court dared draw breath. The Spectators Gallery, packed to the rafters, practically overflowed with onlookers.

Sirius had been led through his story, the process taking little more than twenty minutes, for he had had plenty of practice at getting his spiel just right. Each new twist in the tale had elicited fresh gasps of astonishment from the audience. Thankfully for Sirius, Magical Law forbade the presence of any kind of media within the Court, and so his words were not yet being aired to an impatient world. However, it seemed to Harry, looking on from his seat down amongst the other witnesses, that the impatient world was already listening in.

He could sense that, for Sirius, at least, the process of admitting it all, of telling everything that had happened to him over the past fifteen years, was in some way cleansing him. He spoke with force, elaborated his words with great flourishes and gestures ... he truly, thought Harry, was a great orator. Ó'Cíobháin barely had to prompt him once, the story just seemed to come flowing out.

And then Trevithick had been set loose upon him ...

With a snort of indignation, Trevithick turned back to the dock, where Sirius was standing, leaning forwards, supporting his frame on the iron bars that enclosed him, like some kind of zoo. Harry knew the bars were impervious to magic ... the High Court operated under the strictest security. From where he was sitting, he could see clearly the red restraint marks on Sirius' wrists.

"Mr. Black. You claim you left the dwelling of Peter Pettigrew at approximately twenty two hundred hours on the night of the 31st of October, in the year 1981. Am I correct in those details?"

Sirius nodded grimly.

"And am I also correct in assuming that you went straight from said address to Godric's Hollow?"

Sirius nodded again.

"You did not stop for anything on the way? You did not buy any newspapers, or any cigarettes, or any petrol. I understand you were a smoker at the time."

"That is correct, sir."

"Then surely, with the, so called knowledge that Pettigrew had betrayed the Potters to the Dark Lord, with the dread and the fear that must have been hanging so heavy in your heart, you tell me you did not need a cigarette?"

"I had a packet on me," said Sirius, staring blankly ahead of him, barely acknowledging the rest of the Court.

"Can you tell me what brand?"

"Rothmans," said Sirius, without hesitation. "One packet, twenty cigarettes, I'd smoked about ten of them earlier in the day."

"This information seems remarkably clear in your head, Mr. Black," said Trevithick. "These events occurred fourteen years ago. How can you have any idea of such minute details?"

"I had a lot of time to think," said Sirius. "You get that, in Azkaban."

Trevithick stepped back up to his lectern, and shuffled his notes in a gesture he had been taught made him look impressive, though the reality was that it made him look like a lawyer who had forgotten what he was going to say next.

"So, you proceeded directly from Hogsmeade to Godric's Hollow. A journey that takes, at the most, thirty five minutes. Yet you took nearly two hours. What happened during this two hour period, Mr. Black?"

Sirius looked down at his feet. "Heavy traffic," he said.

"Heavy traffic? At ten o'clock at night? On the moors of Northern England? Mr. Black, I need hardly remind you that you are under oath to this Court, and that everything you say is being noted by the Clerks?"

Sirius nodded. "Nevertheless, I was delayed," he said. "The weather was bad, it was hard to see where I was going, and there was more traffic than I had anticipated."

"But would you describe the aforementioned 'traffic' as heavy, Mr. Black?"

"Well, not as such."

"Not as such," repeated Trevithick, his words dripping with scorn that made Harry want to leap up off his bench and strangle the man until he'd had enough. Dumbledore, sitting next to him, evidently sensed somehow his rising anger, for he put a calming hand on Harry's shoulder.

Trevithick continued to speak. "Therefore, you arrived in Godric's Hollow at approximately twelve midnight. This would now be the early hours of the 1st of November, 1981. Am I correct?"

"Objection. The Counsel for the Prosecution is clearly badgering my client!"

"Objection overruled," snapped the Judge, banging his gavel. "The Counsel for the Prosecution is conducting a reasonable and fair cross examination. Mr. Trevithick, you may continue."

"Thank you, your Grace," said Trevithick, shooting a triumphant glance at Eoin Ó'Cíobháin, Sirius' lawyer. "Mr. Black. Please confirm for me your time of arrival in Godric's Hollow?"

"Approximately five past midnight," said Sirius, weakly.

"And tell me what you found there, if you please?"

"I ... I left my motorbike at the front gate, and I walked down the path. And I already could see that the house had been blown apart. But I was still calm at that point. I thought perhaps the Fidelius Charm might not have been broken. I thought they might be all right. And then," he stumbled at this point ... looked down at his feet, as if the details temporarily eluded him, as if it was a struggle to find the words. "Then I found James' body."

"Tell us, please, where you found it?"

"There was a pile of rubble," said Sirius, sneaking a glance at Harry, who was concentrating very hard on his shoes. This was, of course, the first time in his life he had had to live this moment through the eyes of another man, a man who had been a friend to his parents. "It was ... buried underneath, in the hallway, his wand was split in two, and ... the corpse was bloodied, from where the falling bricks had hit it. Covered, covered in blood. Blood like I'd never seen before, so very much of it," he broke off, examining his hands. Trevithick coughed, loudly, prompting him to continue. "Hagrid was standing by the fireplace ... the fireplace was still standing, in the middle of all that rubble ..."

"Do you recognise the man Hagrid in this Court?" interrupted Trevithick.

"He is not present," said Sirius. "Currently at Hogwarts. He did not want to travel to London for the trial."

"There are many who say that Hagrid, upon his ah, temporary disappearance at the end of June of this year, returned to the Giants of Europe, of the Urals, the Carpathians? There are some who say he has returned to the Dark Arts, Black. Do you believe these rumours?"

"I would not think them possible," said Sirius. "Hagrid was always a very good man, a good friend to me, and to James and Lily too, and latterly to their son."

"So you believe Hagrid to remain, on side," smirked Trevithick. "Even though he declines to be present today ... you still believe this thing to be true?"

"I do, sir. With all my heart," said Sirius.

"I see. Your Grace ... I put it to Mr. Black that his version of events is incorrect ..."

"Objection, your Grace. My client agreed to the use of Veritaserum in this trial," said Ó'Cíobháin. "Might I remind Mr. Trevithick, who, I might add, is hardly playing the role of the impartial prosecutor for which he has acquired such status, that the physical act of lying is impossible under the influence of Veritaserum."

"It may have been tampered with," snapped Trevithick. "Black, you have influential friends, do you not? Friends who would want to see you freed from the gaol you so richly deserve to be returned to you? Friends such as Mr. Albus Dumbledore, whom I believe is present in this Court, and whose scare stories and blind acceptance of the fabricated lies of Mr. Harry Potter lead me to believe he must too, be in the service of the Dark Lord ..."

Harry heard Dumbledore snarl ... he sounded very much like an angry dog.

"Mr. Trevithick," snapped the Judge. "This is not the time, nor the place for such unfounded accusations. This is slander and we will accept no slander in this Court. This is a place of truth, which on the evidence of my eyes and ears, you seek to corrupt. Do you withdraw your previous statement?"

"I withdraw, under duress," snapped Trevithick.

"Thank you," said the Judge. "I, as do the Officials of the Court, the Grand Jury and the Magical Law Enforcement Service have the utmost confidence in the efficacy of Veritaserum. It will not be called into question in a Court in which I preside. Do I make myself quite clear?"

"Crystal clear, your Grace," snarled Trevithick, turning up his nose at Ó'Cíobháin.

"Thank you, Mr. Trevithick. This unwarranted interruption to the proceedings will, of course, be noted on the official record. Do you wish to continue questioning the Defendant?"

Trevithick nodded. "I believe it would be advantageous to my case for the cross examination to continue," he said, though he spoke more quietly.

"Then continue, and let us hear no more unfounded, baseless accusations," said the Judge. "Mr. Ó'Cíobháin ... do you have anything to add?"

"Nothing, your Grace."

"Then continue."

Trevithick smiled, and turned back to Sirius. "You found Hagrid standing by the fireplace," he said. "Tell me, if you please, what Hagrid was doing on the scene?"

Sirius closed his eyes, and he appeared to be thinking, though Harry knew that he, too, had preserved that horrible moment in his mind, as fresh as though it had happened yesterday. He could tell what Sirius was visualising ...

"Hagrid was the first to arrive," said Sirius, his voice cracking under the stress of it all. "He was the first on the scene. He was holding Harry in his arms. But all I could see was James and Lily, my friends ... my friends gone and dead ... and gone for good. That was it. I didn't notice him, and I just stood there, and I knew what had happened and I knew who had done it and I knew what was coming next. I knew what everyone would think had happened. I knew I couldn't stay there. But ... but I wanted to take Harry with me. I thought ... it was stupid, but they had named me as a Legal Guardian ... I thought if I took him with me it would make it okay. That, if I had Harry to back me up nobody could touch me ... nobody could imprison me, or take him away from me, because the love I had for that child at that moment, that would surely be enough. It would be enough to convince them that I had done nothing wrong. And I must have ... I must have begged Hagrid to let me take Harry away."

"But he wouldn't?"

Sirius nodded. "No, of course he wouldn't ... it was the most sensible thing he could have done. It was the most sensible thing any of us could have done. Because I knew what was coming. Everybody else would think I was the Secret Keeper, and poor, sweet, innocent little Pettigrew would never dare to get his scrawny little neck mixed up in such messy business. Clever, eh? You see, his plan worked. He walked free and spent the next twelve years as pet to a wizard boy."

"Thank you, Mr. Black. Your Grace, I offer no further questions at this time."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"... were led into Court nearly two hours ago, following which the doors were closed, and are now sealed tight shut. As the Trial of the Century gets underway here in London, it's back to you in the studio, John."

"Thank you, Enid. Today, as the Trial of Sirius Black finally gets underway, fourteen years too late, we ask ourselves the question, why? Why was this not done when the time was right, what incompetence, what catalogue of bureaucratic error, what gross miscarriage of justice must have been perpetrated all those years ago? We can probably never know the answers to these questions, but one thing is for certain. Justice will be done in this case, and what a case it is! The entire wizarding world is on tenterhooks today, just waiting for news. In the United States, Australia and many other countries correspondents report widespread civil unrest in magical communities. Spurred on by the Black case, many families are coming forwards to claim retrials for those men executed in hasty reprisals following the Dark Lord's downfall. WWN's US correspondent, Bernie Featherstonehaugh-Smythe, is on the steps of the Department of Magic in Washington ... Bernie, what's the situation like there?"

"Thank you, John. Well, it's still the wee small hours of the morning here, and the candlelit vigil that local witches and wizards have been holding since yesterday evening still goes on. Most of these people are relatives of men and women who were either incarcerated, kissed, or executed following the Struggle. Rumours abound here that the trial of Sirius Black may force action against the Magical Authorities here in the States. Earlier in the evening the Secretary of Magic, Donald J. Greenbough emerged from high level meetings at the White House to talk to reporters and protestors alike. Mr. Greenbough appealed for all sections of American magical society to remain calm, and not to take any hasty action. It appears that in the face of such widespread popular resentment, the US Government is fighting a rearguard action. Reports are coming in as we speak of widespread rioting in the magical quarter of Salem, north of here, in which there are unconfirmed reports of damage to Muggle property in the area. We'll be getting more information on that very shortly. Back to you, John."

"Thank you. I hear we can now go live to Enid, back at the High Court. Enid, what have you got for us?"

"John ... within the last five minutes, we are receiving reports that four people may be gravely injured after operatives of the Magical Law Enforcement Service fired disarming spells into the crowd outside in an attempt to disperse it. Outside now we are seeing signs of considerable disturbance and anger, much of which is being directed against the MLES. No further news available there, we'll keep you posted on that breaking news story."

"Thank you, Enid. We can take you now to ... no, I understand we have to go to a weather forecast, so we'll have that report for you, just as soon as we can get it ..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sirius' and Dumbledore's testimonials both over and done with, and both, handily, corroborating the other down to the last detail, Harry began to feel increasingly sick as the High Court convened again after the mid-morning coffee break . The spectators filed back into their seats in the mezzanine gallery, the Judge took his place again, and Sirius was brought back out from the cells, looking quite pleased about something, which prompted the Judge to remind him that the Court was not a comedy revue.

Harry could see the crowd straining to get a better view of him as he was led, by two uniformed guards brandishing five foot long ceremonial staffs, up to the stand. Even though he knew, deep down, that he was not in trouble, and that nothing untoward was going to happen to him, not with all the Hit-Squad Wizards surrounding the Court, he still felt nauseous with fear, his knees were shaking, and as he stepped up ... he suddenly felt very dizzy. He cast a look back at Dumbledore and Hermione, who were both sitting in the front row. Dumbledore gave him what was supposed to be a supportive grin. Then he looked up at Sirius, who was sitting on his seat in the Dock

The Judge's eyes were boring into him. Slowly, he looked up. He was an enormous, great bear of a man, who in many ways resembled Harry's Uncle Vernon. He had the same beefy, red face, the same wobbly jowls, and the same bristling moustache. The only dissimilarity was the giant black wizard's hat perched atop his thinning, silver hair.

At length, he coughed, and then spoke. "Your name is Harry James Potter? Correct?"

Harry nodded, slowly.

"For the benefit of the Court, Mr. Potter, I must ask you to speak up when you answer our questions. Is that perfectly understood?"

"Yes, your Grace," said Harry, as he had been prompted to. His knees were still quivering violently. His eyes scanned the Spectator's Gallery frantically for any sign of a friendly face.

"Harry, I would like you to take the Bible in front of you, and place your hand upon it, and repeat after me the following words."

He caught sight of Molly and Arthur Weasley, and his heart leapt briefly. Slowly, he reached out, and placed the Bible on the lectern in front of him. Then he put his hand on the cover.

"Repeat after me, please, Harry," prompted the Judge. "I, Harry James Potter."

"I, Harry James Potter."

"Summoned here upon this 3rd day of October, in the Year of Our Lord 1995, to appear before the High Court of Magic ..."

Harry repeated his words.

"... as a witness in the case of the Ministry of Magic, versus Sirius Eamonn Black, do hereby solemnly swear that I will uphold the Laws and Conditions of the High Court, as set out in the Book of Magical Law ..."

" ... set out in the Book of Magical Law," Harry stumbled along behind.

"... and promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth ..."

"... nothing but the truth," finished Harry.

"... so help me, God."

"So help me, God," repeated Harry.

"Thank you. Mr. Ó'Cíobháin, would you care to begin taking the witness through his statement?"

Ó'Cíobháin stood up, smiled at Harry in a manner as friendly as he could muster; he was, after all, wearing menacing black robes and a long powdered wig. He glared at Trevithick. The Prosecutor on behalf of the Ministry, was a tall man with a bony, theatrically pale face that called to mind the visage of Professor Snape. He was holding a very large ledger open on his desk. He looked up at the sound of the Judge's voice.

"Thank you, your Grace," said Ó'Cíobháin, who looked as though he was grinning. Trevithick looked on; his eyes were a deep, penetrating blue, but bloodshot with it, and he surveyed Harry with the air of a lion, surveying the carcass of its prey.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"... at eleven o'clock. The High Court of Magic convened in its London chambers this morning, to hear the case of the Ministry of Magic versus Sirius Black. Black stands accused of no less than ten crimes, including murder, and remains the only man to have absconded from Azkaban and remain at large. Present at the Court were more than two thousand spectators. The presiding Judge, Sir Winterbourne Strickland, told the packed Chamber in his opening speech that the very fabric of wizarding society is about to be called into question. It remains unclear exactly what he meant, but earlier in the day, several notable witnesses took the stand, including Albus Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and currently Headmaster at Hogwarts School, and being questioned as we speak is his 'star' pupil Harry Potter, who also happens to be Black's Godson. Whatever surprises are to be sprung upon an expectant community within the course of the next few weeks, they are sure to be of a great magnitude. This is Enid Brooks, for WWN News, at the High Court of Magic in London."

"And we will, of course, keep you updated on that story as news comes in. Our other top stories this morning. Operatives of the Magical Law Enforcement Service have arrested six men within the last hour on suspicion of importing illegal potions into the UK. The stash, worth an estimated forty million Galleons, was discovered in a Muggle lorry at Dover in the small hours of the morning. The Muggles present have since had their memories altered. America wakes up this morning to widespread civil disorder amongst the magical community. Secretary of Magic, Donald Greenbough is shortly to issue a statement, we'll be going live to Washington for that, we can also confirm riots in Salem, Massachusetts have killed one Muggle, and in Australia, angry crowds of wizards have besieged the Central Magical Administration Centre in Sydney, demanding the resignation of Governor General Piers Bletchley. In the business world, spokeswizards for Malfoy International Industries have announced today that the company is now, officially, in receivership ..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Harry was duly led through his testimonial to the Court, Ó'Cíobháin prompting him at all the right moments. He was taken variously right over the events of the past two years; from the moment when, sitting at the breakfast table back at 4, Privet Drive, he had overheard the Muggle newscaster talking about Sirius' escape from gaol, then to the fateful evening Aunt Marge had been inflated after taunting Harry one too many times (this part of the tale drew gasps and whispered encouragement from the Spectators' Gallery, prompting the Judge to get very angry with the entire Court). Harry told of how he had flung his things into his trunk, and made a run for it, encountering as he went Sirius in Animagus form, watching him on the corner of Magnolia Crescent; his rescue by the Knight Bus and subsequent sojourn in Diagon Alley. He spoke of the Dementors crowding around the school, and Dumbledore's face fell as he confessed to having sneaked out of school on the Hogsmeade visits that year; on one of those visits Harry had been hiding in the Three Broomsticks, eavesdropping on a conversation between several members of staff and the Minister of Magic himself, during the course of which he had finally learnt of his true relationship to Sirius.

Then they came to their encounter in the Shrieking Shack, on the day of Buckbeak's execution, just after the Third Year exams had finished. Harry stammered his replies to Ó'Cíobháin's questions, painfully aware that the entire audience were on the edge of their seats. He described in vivid detail the events of their return to Hogwarts, how the Dementors had nearly sucked out his soul, and how Pettigrew had, against his word, morphed back into his Animagus form, that of Ron's rat, Scabbers, and fled. The audience gasped in all the right places as Harry went on to describe the complicated means by which they had rescued Sirius from under the clutches of the Ministry, and he had flown to safety on Buckbeak.

Harry, his voice now trembling and cracking slightly, despite Ó'Cíobháin's frequent calming words and advice, went on to describe the events of the year of the Triwizard Tournament, how he had been in frequent contact with Sirius throughout, and how his Godfather had tried, in vain, to help him out when he had been stuck on the first task. He even went into detail about how they had been disturbed by Ron, to whom he had not been talking at the time. He spoke about how they had rustled food from the Hogwarts kitchen to bring to Sirius, and then, finally, in the most harrowing part of his statement, for these were the events still freshest in his mind; took the Court through the events of the third and final task, and described how Sirius had remained at his bedside afterwards, and went on to elaborate on the events that had come to pass in Naxcivan. There was very nearly a riot in the Spectators' Gallery at that point.

The testimonial over and done with, Trevithick was invited forwards to begin cross examining Harry ... which he did, with a vengeance ...

"... you claim, Mr. Potter, that you were unaware of your 'position' as Black's Godson until that day?"

Harry nodded.

"Can you tell me what date that was?"

Harry looked around, his face pale with the stress of trying to remember events so long passed, so long consigned to the dustbin of his memory.

"It might have been, on or around the 13th of December," he stammered, after a very pregnant pause, during which you could have heard a fly fart.

"What year?" Trevithick's voice was a most unpleasant one ... it sounded like rock scraping against rock, it sounded like ice, like glaciers, grinding.

"1993," Harry answered immediately. "But I didn't actually meet Sirius until the next summer, June, 1994," he added, by way of an afterthought.

"A period during which," Trevithick consulted his sheath of notes ... he had filled up pages of one of his trademark leather bound ledgers with line upon line of tiny, impossibly neat copperplate handwriting. "You claim, according to your aforementioned testimonial, to have been under considerable academic pressure. Am I mistaken in my belief that the day you met Sirius was the final day of your exams?"

Harry nodded.

"And you had also been preparing a defence for the hippogriff, Buckbeak, who was under pain of death for an attack upon a student going under the name of Draco Malfoy? This day was the date set for Buckbeak's final appeal?"

Harry nodded.

"So you will admit to being, not entirely in command of your faculties upon meeting with your Godfather for the first time? It had, after all, Mr. Potter, been such a very hard day for you and your friends, and you had just witnessed the seizure and disappearance of your friend, Ronald Weasley."

"I was worked up, if that's what you mean," said Harry, quietly, catching Ron's eye briefly. He was sitting in between his parents in the Spectator's Gallery.

"Will the witness please speak up?"

"I was worked up," said Harry, uncomfortably aware that he was sweating like a pig ... his robes were sticking to him, and there was a horrible, burning itch that he longed to scratch, creeping down his spine.

"Worked up enough to believe stories that were blatantly false?"

"I told you, Sirius was telling the truth. Pettigrew was there. You'll be speaking to him later!" said Harry. "Why don't you ask him this? He knows more about it than I do!"

"Mr. Potter, you may be a boy," Harry felt his ears burning. "But I can and will have you charged with Contempt if this attitude is kept up. We are not here to judge Peter Pettigrew ... we are here that your version of events might be aired. Were you worked up enough to believe your Godfather's blatant lies?"

"No," replied Harry.

"Your Godfather spun you a somewhat fantastic tale. He claimed," Trevithick checked his notes again. "He claimed that it was, in fact, Pettigrew who murdered those Muggles, and that he was still alive and well, in the guise of your friend's pet rat, Scabbers ..."

"I wish to raise an objection!" Sirius' lawyer, Eoin Ó'Cíobháin stood up. "It has already been proved in the testimonials of both Sirius Black and Hermione Granger that Pettigrew remained alive when everybody thought he was dead. We have still to confirm the testimonial of Draco Malfoy, but I am assured his story will corroborate the others. There is nothing whatsoever fantastic about this tale. It is the truth."

"Your objection has been noted, Mr. Ó'Cíobháin," said the Judge, peering at the lawyers over his spectacles. Trevithick shot Ó'Cíobháin a death ray glance.

"Mr. Potter," Trevithick went on. "Can you confirm that your Godfather told you that the murderer was Pettigrew?"

Harry nodded, slowly. Then he said. "Yes, Sirius told me that."

Trevithick was looking very pleased with himself. "But surely Sirius would say he was innocent? After all, he was on the run, evading capture. He would need to use every last trick in the book to make it look as though he was innocent. What made you believe that he was telling the truth? It looks to me like the last actions of a desperate man. If I refer the ladies and gentlemen of the Grand Jury to file photograph number 16, in which it is clear that the so called Shrieking Shack was boarded up, and had been for some time, it becomes clear to me that, as you have all described the interior, there was only one way out, down the tunnel, back to the Whomping Willow ... a tunnel we now know that was dug to facilitate the activities of a werewolf, no less ... further proof, if any further proof were needed, that Mr. Dumbledore is a dangerous man and an unreliable source ..."

"Mr. Trevithick. You are deviating from the subject on the card," said the Judge, frostily.

"I apologise," snarled Trevithick. "Yet I make no secret of my desire that the Grand Jury see that I am right. Now, Mr. Potter, you claim that Sirius had earlier attacked your friend, Ronald Weasley?"

Harry looked to Sirius, who was staring down at him from the Dock, wide eyed. Then he nodded.

The Judge sighed. "The witness does not appear to understand that the record cannot see he nodded. You must speak clearly and loudly."

"He did," said Harry. Sirius closed his eyes.

"Breaking his leg?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, Ron's leg was broken."

"In an attempt to trap you all in the Shrieking Shack. You must surely see how this looks. It appears to me that," he consulted his notes, "Professor Severus Snape was doing you a favour ..."

"Snape was poking his ugly nose in where it wasn't wanted!" blurted out Sirius, rising to his feet and clasping the bars of his cage.

"The Defendant will remain silent!" roared the Judge. A whisper travelled around the Spectator's Gallery.

"Thank you," snarled Trevithick, looking at Sirius as one might look at a slug. "Yet, Mr. Potter, you and Ms. Granger wilfully attacked and wounded Professor Snape ... an act of assault that in my day at Hogwarts would surely have warranted expulsion ..."

"Objection!"

The Judge sighed. "Mr. Ó'Cíobháin, what is it now?"

"We are not here to try Mr. Potter for attacking a member of staff, however deliberated the attack may have been. We are hear to try my client ..." he winked at Sirius.

The Judge scowled. "Mr. Ó'Cíobháin, we are not the comedian Rowan Atkinson, we will therefore refrain from indulging in facial contortions."

Sirius winked back. The Judge did not notice. "Mr. Trevithick, on the strength of Mr. Ó'Cíobháin's objection, I require you to pursue a line of interrogation relevant to the subject in hand ..."

"I believe that is what I am doing," said Trevithick. "I seek, like you, the truth. Nothing more. Now if I might continue without unwarranted interruptions. Mr. Potter, to return to your cross examination. Can you confirm for me that Sirius offered to let you come and live with him, afterwards, after his, so called, innocence had been proven?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, that's what he said," he replied.

"I see. Did it not occur to you that this, too, may have been a trap?" asked Trevithick.

Harry shook his head. "No," he said. "When you speak to Pettigrew, you'll understand ... he's agreed to take Veritaserum."

"Pettigrew's testimonial will be taken in due course," said Trevithick. "I will thank you, Mr. Potter, to cease attempting to distract me. The facts of Pettigrew's apparent survival have yet to be put before this Court. We are concerned purely with what you have to say. Now, did it not occur to you that Sirius Black might be trying to trap you? Remember, if you will, that he had already sent you a broomstick, which might have been cursed or jinxed ..."

"But it wasn't!" snapped Harry, rising to his feet, his blood boiling, every inch of his being longing to pound Trevithick's thick head against the floor. "I still have the Firebolt ... I still use it, it's fine!"

"But it might have been cursed," retorted Trevithick, maintaining throughout a disturbing calm that had the effect of making Harry want to kill him even more. "It might have been, yet you used it. And let me remind you that Sirius had already appeared to you in his Animagus form on numerous occasions before that, each time making you think you were seeing a Grim ... a spectre of death. Frightening you half to death on more than one occasion. Mr. Potter, does this not strike you as odd at all?"

"In what way?"

Trevithick sighed. "Mr. Potter ... the sighting of a Grim is enough to drive people to their graves."

"Yes, but it wasn't a Grim," said Harry. "I really don't understand what you are getting at here."

The Judge spoke up. "I have to admit, Mr. Trevithick, that I completely fail to see what relevance this has to the current line of questioning. You will be charged with Misleading the Court under the terms of the 1466 High Court Charter if this ludicrous round of questioning continues. Please keep to the matter in hand."

Trevithick looked ready to explode. "I maintain my previous line of questioning," he said. "The Grim could have killed Harry at any time. My concern is only for the truth ..."

"Mr. Trevithick. I do not know if I can make it much clearer to you without writing it in big letters," sighed the Judge. "Harry ... Mr. Potter did not see a Grim. He saw merely his Godfather, and the facts of the Godfather's innocence or guilt are what we are here today to determine. Now, I think we need a break; this is becoming farcical. Thank you, Mr. Trevithick. We will stop it there ..."

The gavel banged down.

"This session of the High Court of Magic is adjourned for luncheon. It is one p.m. The Grand Jury will be sequestered until further notice. The afternoon session will begin at three o'clock sharp. Guards, please remove the Defendant from the dock, and hold him until he is called for. Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen for your kind attention."

They filed out of the courtroom in stunned silence. Even though he had been in the Witness Stand barely an hour, Harry already felt that it had been going on for years. Already the dank, dusky smell of the stone Chamber of the High Court of Magic smelled eerily familiar, and the faces of the guards ... grim and emotionless, were etched onto his mind like the most horrible of memories.

Harry knew that not if he lived to be a hundred and fifty could he ever forget Sirius' face, as they were led out of the Chamber. It was a face of utter despair, of utter hopelessness and of utter terror. He had only spent a couple of weeks in Azkaban before his case came to Trial ... the media had been in such a frenzy that it had been pushed forward ahead of schedule on Minister Fudge's personal orders. Yet those two weeks back in Azkaban, with the Dementors, had evidently undone him once more. His face, which had filled out and become considerably less gaunt in the few months he had been hiding out at Hogwarts, had returned to its former blank, expressionless form. He looked exactly how he had done when Harry had first met him, nearly eighteen months earlier. His hair was lank and unwashed, his beard thicker and bushier. As Harry was led past, Sirius stuck his hands through the bars of the Dock, trying in vain to reach Harry. The guards restrained him.

There was a perfectly adequate canteen at the High Court, but Dumbledore thought it would do them good to get out of the oppressive atmosphere that pervaded through the corridors of power, and took them five minutes walk down Diagon Alley to the more familiar surroundings of the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry was relieved to discover that the paparazzi, who had been encamped outside the High Court as they had arrived that morning, had dispersed elsewhere, and they were not bothered by anybody, apart from the waiter in the Leaky Cauldron, who nearly choked to death upon catching sight of Harry, or more specifically, of Harry's scar. Dumbledore silenced him with a particularly well aimed and altogether nasty stare.

"Steak and kidney pie, chips and mushy peas," he said, gravely. "With a side of onion rings."

Harry gave the Headmaster a funny look. "So ... I just happen to like onion rings," protested Dumbledore. "Cheer up, Harry. You look like a wet weekend."

"I feel like one," said Harry. "Um ... gammon steak please?"

"Fish and chips," said Hermione. "No salt on the chips please. No ketchup either, and a bit of lemon."

The waiter scribbled their order down on his pad, and throwing another backwards glance at Harry, disappeared off behind the bar.

"There's no need," said Dumbledore. "I know it may seem hopeless, but we do still have an ace up our sleeves."

"You mean Pettigrew?" asked Hermione.

Dumbledore nodded. "And that awful Trevithick man knows it. That's why he was being so harsh."

"I thought that was normal," said Harry, very quietly. Tom, the owner of the pub, brought their butterbeers over at that point.

"Oh no," said Dumbledore, raising his tankard and taking a deep gulp. "Believe me, Harry. I've been to enough trials in my life ... most of them after Voldemort's downfall, like the one you saw in my Pensieve. That was unexpectedly, unreasonably harsh, especially considered your ... um, current situation. And Trevithick is an evil bugger anyway, which doesn't help. I used to teach him, many years ago," his eyes took on a wistful look. "Always was a tricky sod."

"He must really hate me," mused Harry.

"Well ... he was a Slytherin," said Dumbledore, his tone still airy and far off. "But trust me, he doesn't hate you at all. He's just being paid to take the Ministry's point of view. That's all it is. He just seems to want to give people a hard time."

"What'll they do to Pettigrew then?" asked Harry, changing the subject hurriedly.

Dumbledore shrugged. "That very much depends," he said. "First, the Grand Jury has to clear Sirius. Well, that could be a matter of days ... or maybe even hours. Or at the opposite end of the spectrum, it could take weeks, maybe even months. The longest trial the Grand Jury ever deliberated on lasted for seventy five years. I believe the Defendant died in the end. Anyway, the amount of evidence Trevithick is producing makes me fear for the longer option ... well, the man seems intent on indicting him for every unsolved crime on the books ..."

"And Pettigrew?" asked Hermione, echoing Harry's thoughts; Dumbledore was ducking their questions.

"I know, Harry, Hermione, that we both believe, very strongly that the Court will prove Sirius innocent," began Dumbledore, who seemed, for some reason, to be avoiding Harry's question. "But there is always the possibility that they will find him guilty. And in that case, we must prepare for the worst. If he is found guilty, he will certainly be kissed ..."

He was referring, Harry knew from his own experience, to the dreaded Dementor's Kiss, the ultimate punishment in the wizarding world, by which the condemned man's soul was sucked out of him by a Dementor, one of the unearthly guardians of Azkaban, the fortress gaol. The victim was left afterwards an empty, soulless husk, conscious, but unable to think or experience emotion of any kind. It was a fate worse than death. And it was what faced Sirius ...

"However, I for one consider it extremely unlikely. The tide of popular opinion is against Fudge right now. After all, he allowed Lucius Malfoy's activities to go unchecked," said Dumbledore. "It would certainly be advantageous to Fudge's administration to let Sirius go free and to try Pettigrew. The evidence certainly points that way. I suspect the Judges will see reason. And then Pettigrew will be tried."

"But what will they do to him?" asked Harry.

"Well, technically he will be on trial for the exact same crimes as Sirius was originally convicted for, so if he is found guilty ..."

"The kiss, right?" asked Harry, sipping his butterbeer.

Dumbledore nodded sagely. "That would seem to be the case," he said.

Harry's face fell visibly. "Is there something wrong?"

Harry shook his head. "No, not really. I mean, it's what he deserves. He practically murdered my Mum and Dad, after all. It's just ..." he choked slightly, and then looked away.

"But he did save your life," said Dumbledore. "Harry. Do you remember, after he first escaped from us, at the end of your Third Year? Do you remember that I told you the time would come when you would be very glad that you saved Pettigrew's life?"

Harry nodded. "You did," he said.

Dumbledore looked stoical. "Perhaps that was the time ... the time he saved your life. Perhaps he was repaying his debt to you. Did you ever consider that?"

The waiter came back over with a small basket, filled with bread rolls. Dumbledore took one, and broke it in half with a calm, collected air. Harry did not. Neither did Hermione.

"Perhaps that is how you should look at it," said Dumbledore, spreading butter liberally on his roll.

"That is how I look at it," said Harry. "It's the first ... the first thing that actually occurred to me, and, and he deserves the worst punishment he can get. But ... I still get this feeling, you know. I don't believe he's an evil man any more. Not evil like Voldemort or Slytherin."

"Come, Harry, there is very little evidence to prove that Slytherin was an especially evil man," began Dumbledore. "Unpleasant, yes, nasty, oh, indubitably, but ..."

"Have you ever met him?"

"No," said Dumbledore, masticating slowly on the bread roll. "I have never met him."

"You're lucky then, sir. I have," said Harry. "Believe me, he's evil. Slytherin is the dictionary definition of evil. Look up evil in the dictionary," he went on, "and you will see a little picture of him."

Dumbledore's bearded visage broke into a grin. "Well," he said. "Nevertheless. I have to say I'm glad you feel that way about Peter Pettigrew."

"Why's that?"

"It shows strength of character ... moral fibre, which you have already demonstrated, many times before that you possess ample quantities of."

Harry could feel himself blushing. There was a hot, prickling sensation behind his ears. Dumbledore merely smiled indulgently, swallowed another bite of his roll, and then continued to speak. "Well, I am right. I believe Harry, that you are a truly good person. Such a thing is very rare indeed. A lesser man than you would certainly want the worst for Pettigrew. It says good things about you that you don't necessarily feel this way."

"I think I understand," said Harry.

Dumbledore nodded. "Good," he said. "That's good. You're wise beyond your years. Have trust, Harry. Faith and trust. Good qualities," he munched on his roll, and then winked.