Symphonie Fantastique

The march to the courtroom went for miles, Sirius's shoes scuffling along the polished floor. The cords binding him cut into his wrists and his shoulders ached from forcing his hands behind his back. His legs grew heavier with every swish of his threadbare robes. The sun had begun its ascent into the sky, and long narrow clouds muffled the scarlet dawn. Storms were coming. That explained the spike of pain just above his right eye, amplifying his every sense. Objects seemed closer, surfaces rougher, sounds louder. Though loathe to admit it, he took pleasure in these sensations. Any feeling at all was better than the emptiness left to him by the dementors.

James and Lily. Dead. Gone because he had been so gullible. His godson forced to live with Muggles. How could anyone think he would ever betray James, for whom he would have died? "I deserve Azkaban," he cursed himself silently, "for all my stupidity and blindness. Why didn't I see what Peter was? Why didn't I see what he was going to do? How could he turn on James? What had Voldemort offered him that we couldn't?"

It felt like he had been watching the past three months of his life as a series of photographs. Giving a teary Rubeus Hagrid his motorcycle to take Harry to his Muggle relatives. Peter destroying the street. Clouds of crushed granite mixed with branches and bricks disrupting the peace. Bodies strewn across the torn sidewalks. Acrid smoke burning everyone's lungs. Water gushing from a broken fire hydrant; the river Styx flooding newly formed trenches. The dust and blood on his hair and robes when the Law Enforcement wizards came to take him to Azkaban to await trial. Losing his memories of warmth and love. Remus, his last hope, abandoning him. Waiting day after day in his cell for someone to figure out the truth. Today, he would begin his trial.

The guard pulled the oak doors open. The atmosphere in the room swelled in a crescendo of vengeance. Sirius focused on the empty wooden chair ahead of him, magical shackles its only adornment. He stood in front of the chair, raised his head with his last ounce of will, and sat as the golden restraints encircled his limbs.

Remus sat among the courtroom spectators, stone silent, brown eyes crystalline. Remus, who had never come to see him in Azkaban. Torn between the one whose idea had saved him from loneliness and exile and the one who slowly, gently, learned every line of his body. Sirius fought hardest against the dying of his thoughts of Remus. The harder he struggled, though, the faster they seemed to fade.

Looking around the room, something seemed strange to him. A piece was missing out of this scene. The jury box. His breath caught in his throat. It was empty.

Five judges filed into the room, and the people rose to their feet. Fear spread through Sirius as he watched the flow of their heavy robes. As they sat, so did the gallery, and four of the judges waited for their leader to begin. From the center of their bench, Bartemius Crouch's baritone reverberated through the courtroom.

"Sirius Black, you have been brought before the Council of Magical Law so that we may pass judgment and sentence on you for the murder of Peter Pettigrew and thirteen Muggles."

"What about my trial?" Sirius shouted, the words escaping him before he could think about them. How could Crouch be so calm, sitting there as though fashioned from marble? Did the truth mean anything to anyone?

Scanning the faces in the room, he saw not one glimmer of outrage, rather, they all looked as though they supported Crouch's declaration. It wasn't difficult to understand. These were times of terror and distrust and, though the truth was always stranger than fiction, he knew it would take a miracle for anyone to believe he was innocent. He looked to Remus, who stared straight ahead. Resolve and hope began to leave his body, replaced by despair and an awareness of the weight of his body in the chair.

"In light of the overwhelming evidence against you, this court finds you guilty of this crime and shall pass sentence."

"James," he thought, "please forgive me."

"For this crime, you will serve a life term in Azkaban."

At the threshold of hearing, his voice came, "No..."

Voices rose around the room, a fanfare of satisfaction.

"I knew he was guilty all along..."

"I hope they do to the rest of the Death Eaters what they're going to do to this one..."

"Turning over his best friend to You-Know-Who, I hope he dies slowly..."

He closed his eyes, which burned as he hung his head, tangled black hair falling in curtains around his unshaven face. A rat ran across his shoe, pausing only for a moment to curl its whiplike tail around his ankle.