The Weight of Retribution
The Black townhouse, for the first time in years, pulsed with a hum of voices and laughter, but also quiet observations, calculated silences, and even a hint of magic swirling through the air. Sirius could feel the weight of the history within these walls as each guest settled into the grand dining room, visibly taken aback by the modern grandeur overlaid on ancient architecture. It was a home he had once despised, yet now he couldn’t help but feel pride in the way he had reclaimed it. The House of Black was his, and tonight, he was determined to remind every guest present—family or otherwise—of what that truly meant.
The young Weasley heir, William, had engaged Harry in a captivating exchange, chatting animatedly as if they were old friends rather than children who had only just met. Nearby, the Prewett twins—Frederick and George—were already whispering to each other with mischief in their eyes, causing Sirius to send them a wary glance. Knowing their knack for minor mayhem, he braced himself, half-expecting a minor explosion or an odd enchantment to spring from their end of the table.
Around them, the adults conversed with an air of thinly veiled curiosity, each one eyeing Sirius and Harry with a mix of admiration and quiet scrutiny. Some, like Lucius and Narcissa, were trying to mask their surprise at the transformation of the home they once considered dreary and outdated. Others, like Septimus and Cedrella, seemed relieved at the warm atmosphere, though their sharp eyes missed none of the finer details of Black wealth on display. Meanwhile, Cassiopeia moved with a sense of ease, clearly pleased to be in her ancestral home once more, watching over the scene with the air of an elder stateswoman.
Sirius cleared his throat, raising his glass of rich red wine, instantly drawing the attention of the guests. “To family, old and new,” he said with an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “May tonight be one of fresh beginnings and good company.” There was a pause as he met the gaze of each guest in turn, a quiet authority in his tone that brooked no interruptions. “The House of Black has endured through many trials and transformations, but it remains strong, as always.”
The toast was met with polite murmurs of agreement, though Sirius couldn’t miss the glint in Lucius’s eye or the brief glance Andromeda shared with Aiden. It was a silent acknowledgment that not all those gathered tonight were united by loyalty or kinship. He knew they were all here as much for curiosity as for family ties, each with a different agenda, each harboring secrets of their own.
As the evening progressed, Sirius found himself shifting between conversations, responding to Lucius’s subtle questions with carefully measured replies, and laughing warmly with Andromeda as she recounted tales of their childhood. Harry, meanwhile, seemed to float effortlessly between the adults and the children, his charm winning over even Kreacher, who hovered nearby, watching his young heir with a fiercely protective gleam.
Yet as the first course was served, and the low murmur of voices filled the dining hall once more, Sirius couldn’t shake the sensation that tonight’s gathering was only the beginning—a prelude to the challenges, alliances, and perhaps, conflicts that lay ahead.
<>
The soft murmurs and gentle clinking of silverware provided the perfect backdrop as Andromeda and Narcissa exchanged glances across the dining table, silently assessing one another. Once, they had been inseparable, woven together by shared secrets, dreams, and a fierce sense of loyalty to one another that had withstood the walls of the Black household. Now, there was an invisible line between them, stretched taut by years of resentment, missteps, and unspoken expectations.
Narcissa was the first to break the silence, her gaze steady, almost cautious. “It’s been some time, Andromeda,” she began, her voice as cool and poised as ever. “Perhaps…long overdue for a conversation.”
Andromeda let out a quiet sigh, though a faint smile curved her lips. “Indeed, Cissa. We’ve been dancing around each other for far too long.” Her tone held the barest edge of warmth, softened by an understanding that only time could bring. “We both made our choices, and we both paid our prices for them. Perhaps it’s time we see if there’s a way to bridge…whatever’s left.”
Narcissa inclined her head, gracefully acknowledging her sister’s words. There was a hesitancy to her expression, but her eyes softened just enough to reveal the vulnerability beneath. “I thought, perhaps, you might blame me. For staying loyal, for…not standing up for you as I should have. It’s something I’ve wondered about over the years.” Her words were measured, careful, like stepping across ice too thin to trust.
Andromeda’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the years fell away, leaving only the two sisters they’d once been. “I wanted you to fight for me,” she admitted, her voice thick with a long-buried ache. “To demand that family be more than just a name or a bloodline.” She paused, as if collecting her thoughts. “But I realize now, we each did what we thought best. You held fast, thinking stability would help keep us all connected. I just...needed something different.”
Narcissa reached across, gently laying her hand atop Andromeda’s. “Perhaps, then, we can forgive each other. No more of this silent blame we’ve harbored.”
The sisters exchanged a tentative, understanding smile, a quiet acknowledgment that old wounds didn’t have to define their present. They both understood what the Black family’s tumultuous history had done to each of them in different ways, and the bond they’d once had could be mended, however slowly, with time and patience.
Across the room, Cedrella and Cassiopeia exchanged their own glances. While Cassiopeia had always been the bastion of Black ideals, Cedrella had never fully aligned with their family’s more restrictive values. The estrangement between them hadn’t been as stark as with Andromeda and Narcissa, yet it had left marks of its own.
Cassiopeia finally cleared her throat, her tone softer than it usually was. “Cedrella,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “It’s been far too long. Though I daresay the years have brought you wisdom, even if they also took you from the family.”
Cedrella raised an eyebrow but held back a sharp retort. She, too, felt the years of silence weighing on them both. “Wisdom, perhaps, but I’d like to think it’s been worth it.” She sighed, a gentle smile breaking her usual formality. “I may have left the family, but I never truly forgot what it meant to be a Black. Maybe that’s why I find myself here tonight—curiosity and a touch of nostalgia, I suppose.”
Cassiopeia allowed herself a small smile, and with it came the slightest relaxation in her posture. “Then perhaps,” she murmured, “this family isn’t so fractured as we might have feared.”
For all four women, the evening was a tentative step toward reconciling their past, a quiet yet powerful acknowledgment of the connections they had once cherished, hidden beneath the weight of years, pride, and pain. Tonight, under the Black family’s roof, they allowed themselves to hope that even old grievances might one day be healed.
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Sirius listened closely, sipping his drink with a contemplative expression as Septimus elaborated on William’s upbringing. There was a weight to Septimus’s words, one that spoke of the careful balance between personal desires and family duty—a familiar struggle in the lives of pure-blood families. Sirius couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for young William. He himself knew all too well the crushing expectations placed upon heirs, especially those bound to uphold the legacy of an old and influential house.
Ignatius joined in thoughtfully, “William’s a bright boy, with a good head on his shoulders. He’s taking well to the Prewett family values, too—discipline, perseverance, and a touch of ambition, within respectable bounds. He’s been groomed to understand the importance of tradition without getting lost in it, a balance that few manage.” Ignatius’s eyes briefly flickered to Sirius, almost as if acknowledging that Sirius himself had once tried to fight those very traditions, yet here he was, Lord Black, embodying them in his own way.
Sirius nodded, his gaze lingering on William, who was seated nearby, listening intently to his grandparents’ conversation. “He seems a fine young man,” Sirius said with sincerity. “I admire how he’s taken everything in stride. It’s not easy to be handed expectations you never asked for, yet still rise to meet them.”
Septimus glanced at Sirius with a spark of understanding. “I suppose you would know best, Sirius, having gone through something similar. Although it seems you’ve finally found a way to reconcile who you are with what’s expected.”
Sirius let out a low chuckle, leaning back. “Perhaps. It took years of fighting my family’s expectations and carving my own path, but now I see that there are ways to honor our heritage without being bound to outdated ideals. The House of Black can move forward without leaving its past behind, as long as we respect those parts worth holding on to.” He looked thoughtfully between Septimus and Ignatius. “And, if I’m honest, I’d like that for all of us. To break some traditions, maybe reshape them, so that our heirs won’t feel the same restrictions we did.”
Ignatius nodded, a small, approving smile breaking his usual stoic expression. “Perhaps that is the path forward, Sirius. Not abandoning the traditions, but evolving them.”
The men shared a moment of quiet agreement, finding a common thread in their differing experiences. This dinner, a tentative step toward trust, hinted that maybe, just maybe, they could reshape the future of their families, and in doing so, guide the next generation to a more balanced and united legacy. For now, though, they all knew it would take time and many more conversations like these, steeped in quiet understanding and the shared weight of heritage, before that change could take root.
Ignatius spoke with a blend of pride and gravity as he described the remarkable nature of his young charges, Fredrick and George. "They are truly unique," he said, his voice carrying a note of admiration. "Their bond is… exceptional. It goes beyond what we saw in the previous Prewett twins, Fabian and Gideon. There is a depth of understanding between Fred and George that’s nearly instinctual. Despite their love for pranks and mischief, they have a keen awareness of when the time calls for solemnity and duty."
Sirius could see the pride in Ignatius's eyes, a man who had endured much loss but found purpose in guiding these two young heirs. Ignatius continued, "Though the title of Lord Prewett remains unclaimed, only twins born within the line can inherit it, and the boys take to their lessons as if each one is an adventure. It’s rare to see children with such energy still capable of the focus and discipline needed to carry forward a family’s legacy."
Septimus listened intently, nodding in agreement as Ignatius spoke. He added, "There’s no question about their loyalty to each other. They understand what it means to be brothers, and they carry the awareness that they’re part of something larger than themselves. They’re aware of their Weasley and McKinnon brothers -also of their other siblings-, and they understand, as much as young boys can, why they are not raised together."
The older men exchanged glances, each bearing the solemn weight of families fractured by choices that went against tradition and expectation. Ignatius cleared his throat, his tone more serious as he spoke about the guidance they had given Fred and George regarding their family’s complicated history.
“We’ve explained to them that their parents didn’t just abandon titles or estates; they walked away from the very fabric of our world, from the shared values and structures that bind families like ours,” Ignatius said, glancing at Sirius with a look of understanding. “It’s not something that makes sense to them yet, but they know it has shaped their lives. They have the wisdom, perhaps beyond their years, to understand the importance of our ways, even if they don’t fully agree.”
Sirius gave a small nod, finding himself reflecting on the complexities of tradition and rebellion. He could see that Fred and George, even at such a young age, were beginning to carry a sense of purpose and identity that would only grow stronger as they matured. In their mischief and laughter, there lay a commitment to something deeper—a connection to the legacy of the House of Prewett and, perhaps, the hope of mending the divides their parents had left behind.
"And they’re not alone," Ignatius said, his voice softened with something close to a grandfatherly fondness. "They’ll have us, guiding them, keeping them steady when they start to question, as all children do. And maybe, someday, they’ll carve their path—one that honors the past while creating something new."
In that moment, the three men found an unspoken understanding. They were the keepers of these fractured, storied legacies, determined to see the next generation flourish even as they carefully balanced the weight of tradition and the urge for change.
<>
Lucius, Aiden, and Rabastan watched Sirius closely as he approached, Harry balanced effortlessly in his arms, the little boy beaming at the guests around him. It was a sight none of them expected—a Black who, despite the weight of an ancient family name, looked genuinely happy and content in his role as both guardian and Lord. And Kreacher, the ever-loyal elf who had always reserved his devotion solely for Regulus, followed closely, casting protective glances toward Harry. It spoke volumes about the heir and the quiet shift taking place within the house.
As Sirius neared them, Lucius inclined his head slightly, his face inscrutable but his eyes betraying a hint of curiosity. Aiden, however, wore a faint smirk, as though amused by this transformation in the once reckless cousin of his wife. Rabastan kept his face neutral but couldn’t hide the curiosity flickering in his gaze.
Sirius paused before them, his eyes sweeping over the group with a polite but guarded expression. "Gentlemen, ladies," he greeted them. “I trust the evening is to your liking?”
Lucius, ever the smooth talker, stepped forward, his tone courteous but probing. “An impressive gathering, Lord Black. I don’t think any of us anticipated such a... cohesive reunion.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a slight smirk. “Family deserves to be connected, Lucius. We’re all tied to the House of Black in one way or another, and it felt… fitting to reunite under the same roof.”
Narcissa, standing by Lucius’s side, inclined her head. "You’ve done well, Sirius. The house looks... better suited for its legacy. A true credit to the Black name.”
Sirius nodded, catching her gaze with an appreciative glance. “Thank you, Cissa. We’re all striving to honor that legacy—some more recently than others.”
Aiden gave a low chuckle, folding his arms as he surveyed Sirius. "You seem rather comfortable in this role, cousin. One would think you were born to it."
Sirius’s smile didn’t waver, though his eyes held a flicker of defiance. “Maybe I was, Aiden. Or maybe life has a way of teaching you what’s important—through lessons you never see coming.”
Rabastan, observing Harry with a keen eye, added quietly, “And what of the young heir, Lord Black? He holds a powerful position already. I suppose this little one will have every opportunity to live up to both his names.”
Sirius glanced down at Harry, a flicker of pride crossing his face. “Indeed, he will. The House of Black and Potter bloodlines both carry weight, and I intend for him to understand that power comes with responsibility.”
At that, Narcissa leaned forward slightly, a rare softness in her gaze as she addressed Harry directly. “You are already quite the centre of attention, little one, aren’t you?”
Harry, sensing the attention, gave a shy smile before burying his face into Sirius’s shoulder, eliciting a chuckle from the group.
With that, they fell into a more relaxed conversation, though the air was filled with a subtle tension. Each was gauging the others, measuring loyalties and intentions, yet bound by an unspoken agreement to maintain the family’s strength. For all their differences, there was a new sense of purpose in the room—a delicate alliance, held together by the youngest heir among them. And as the evening continued, Sirius knew this was just the beginning of a new era for the Black family, one bound by both the weight of tradition and the possibility of change.
Lucius, ever the opportunist, saw this as the perfect moment to broach the subject of the trials, especially those concerning his in-laws. He would never risk himself for anyone beyond his immediate family, but Bellatrix and Rodolphus, for all their flaws, were family to Narcissa—and, in a way, to the others here as well. Despite the rift between the sisters, Lucius knew Narcissa still cared for her siblings, just as he assumed Andromeda did. If there was any hope of appealing to Sirius’s family loyalty, he thought, they might secure some advantage. After all, many in their circles would be less inclined to see Bellatrix condemned to Azkaban for life or worse. It wasn’t that they believed her innocent; rather, they knew well how their Lord had favored her, and if—no, when—the Dark Lord returned, he would want his lieutenant free.
Yet what happened next was a lesson none of them would soon forget.
“So, Sirius, what are your thoughts on the upcoming trials? Do you think those imprisoned deserve such harsh punishment?” Lucius began smoothly, confident in his approach. He assumed Sirius’s Gryffindor heart would still side with those unjustly imprisoned, understanding the sting of wrongful accusation.
A silence settled over the room, tension thickening as everyone awaited Sirius’s response. Each guest was curious, some hopeful, others wary, to hear the stance of the new Lord Black.
Sirius regarded Lucius steadily, his expression unreadable. Though often accused of wearing his heart on his sleeve, Sirius had long been taught the art of reserve. He was, after all, a Black, and a Gryffindor who wasn’t afraid to speak his mind—yet still wise enough to shield his more private thoughts.
“I want justice,” Sirius said evenly, his voice steely. “Justice for those wrongly imprisoned and accountability for those in power who failed them. But I’ll never stand with those who committed atrocities in the name of war, family or not. They will face what’s coming, one way or another.”
The stillness that followed was profound, and the unspoken realization dawned among the Malfoys, Averys, and Lestranges: when the trials of individuals like Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Travers, and Crouch Jr. came, they could count on Lord Black’s vote—and potentially his proxy vote for the Potter seat—against them. For the Weasleys, Prewetts, and even Marius, this was welcome news, affirming their own stance on justice and integrity. Marius found himself filled with a quiet respect for the new Lord Black.
Narcissa and Andromeda were divided. They knew Bellatrix had lost herself to extremism, especially with rumors that she and Rodolphus had tortured the Longbottoms to insanity before Barty Crouch Jr. had cast the Killing Curse. Yet hearing Sirius, Head of their maternal house, declare his intent to stand against family was still difficult to reconcile.
Before Lucius could voice a retort, an overwhelming force of magic flooded the room, nearly suffocating in its potency. It was directed solely at the adults, sparing the children but leaving even the most seasoned witches and wizards bracing against its weight. This magic, though unlike the familiar presence of the Dark Lord or the Headmaster, was undeniably powerful.
Every head turned to Harry, nestled in Sirius’s arms, wide-eyed with astonishment—and, in some cases, fear. “You will apologize for what you just thought,” Harry’s voice, soft yet authoritative, rang in Lucius's mind, “or face the consequences of your disrespect.”
Lucius gasped, feeling a wrenching pain as if his mind itself were being gripped by an unseen hand. It was not the Cruciatus Curse, yet the sensation held a similarly profound discomfort, forcing him to reconsider his thoughts. He looked at Harry with newfound apprehension, feeling an eerie foreboding. This boy, Sirius’s godson, was destined for power. In a hoarse whisper, he managed, “I… apologize.”
The others looked between Harry and Lucius, bewildered but acutely aware of the magical energy lingering in the room.
Sirius, catching the iron will in Harry’s gaze, asked with a mixture of pride and amazement, “Did you… just let out your magic and ‘mind control’ Lucius?”
Harry blinked up at his godfather, his eyes softening back to their usual innocent brightness, though a hint of intensity still lingered. He tilted his head, as if trying to understand the question himself. “I just… made him understand,” he replied with a simple, childlike tone, though his words were anything but innocent.
The silence that followed was profound, and every adult present could only stare at the boy in Sirius’s arms. Lucius was still slightly ashen, his breathing shallow as he wrestled to regain his composure. The thought that such raw, instinctual magic—powerful enough to influence his thoughts and emotions—had come from a child barely two years old was chilling.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, half-impressed, half-alarmed. Lucius swallowed, his earlier confidence shaken as he processed Harry’s words. The boy had not only sensed his hidden intentions but somehow responded with such a fierce wave of magical energy that Lucius had been helpless to resist. If Harry had indeed ‘only’ made him feel a reminder, the potential for his future power was terrifying.
Seeing that Lucius remained silent, Narcissa stepped forward with a polite, careful tone. “Lord Black,” she said, addressing Sirius with more formality than she’d ever needed before, “it seems… young Heir Potter-Black possesses a deep protective nature already.”
Sirius nodded, though his gaze didn’t leave his godson. “Yes, it would appear so.” He met Narcissa’s eyes, his voice carrying a slight warning. “Harry is both a Potter and a Black. Perhaps it’s best for everyone to remember that… respect is not optional.”
A ripple of understanding passed through the room as the adults around them came to an unspoken agreement: to tread carefully around the young heir, as his abilities were clearly not to be underestimated. And while Sirius knew he’d have to teach Harry the importance of control, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride that his godson had chosen to protect him in such a unique way.
As the tension in the room began to ebb, Andromeda spoke up, breaking the silence with a nervous laugh. “Well, it’s certainly been an unforgettable evening so far, hasn’t it?”
The group chuckled, though the laughter was laced with unease, and Lucius inclined his head in a subtle nod of respect toward Harry, whose innocent expression now belied the quiet power within him. With that, Sirius led the group back into lighter conversation, though each of them knew that this night had changed something fundamental in their understanding of the young heir to the House of Black.
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Fred and George had carefully planned a light-hearted prank with the help of the house-elves, who had been convinced through a mix of charm, persistence, and possibly a few innocent puppy eyes. They knew well enough that a formal dinner like this, filled with people who valued tradition and decorum, would not appreciate any large-scale chaos. But they’d sensed the tension in the room even before the conversation began, and now, as the air grew thick with unease, they couldn’t have been happier with their choice of mischief.
At the perfect moment, each of the children’s cushions suddenly bounced, levitating their small occupants a few inches into the air. One by one, each child giggled in surprise before letting out shrieks of joy as they floated and bobbed around the table like a game of magical musical chairs.
The adults, startled at first, quickly relaxed, smiles spreading across their faces as the children’s laughter filled the hall. The sight of the little ones suspended in midair—particularly Harry, whose squeals were the loudest of them all—broke through the lingering tension. Even Lucius couldn’t hold back a chuckle as he watched Draco and Maia reach for each other, giggling as they floated a few inches off their seats.
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly, dissolving the heaviness and returning the warmth and easy camaraderie from earlier in the evening. Sirius glanced over at the twins, who wore identical, innocent smiles, and gave them a small nod of approval. He had to hand it to them—Fred and George had impeccable timing.
With the laughter and joy filling the hall once more, the evening was set back on course, free from the weight of unsaid words and tense silences.
<>
As the evening came to an end, each family extended invitations to the others, offering a rare chance to rekindle bonds and foster deeper ties between their children. The night had been eye-opening, reshaping alliances and resetting their views on the House of Black's new Lord and his young heir. The families departed in contemplative silence, minds racing with plans for the trials and new gatherings that would cement the unity sparked tonight.
For Sirius, however, the end of the evening brought more concern than satisfaction. His godson had just shown an ability no one could have anticipated—mind-controlling a fully grown wizard, and with a magic so intense it was nearly palpable. Sirius held back a shiver as he recalled the power that had flooded the room. It was no ordinary magic, and now he was more determined than ever to dig into the Black library in search of any information on the Grey family. Surely, there had to be records somewhere to explain the magic running through Harry’s veins. And if the Black library turned up nothing, then perhaps the chest he’d taken from the Hufflepuff vault Lily had left for Harry might hold the answers.
Elsewhere, in the shadowed corners of the Black townhouse, Kreacher was reveling in what he had witnessed. The house-elf had sensed there was something extraordinary about his young master, but tonight’s display confirmed it. The surge of magic that had washed over Kreacher weeks before had been potent, but tonight’s demonstration was beyond anything he had dared hope for. A maniacal grin stretched across his face—a disturbing sight for any who caught it in the days to come. To Kreacher, this power was a sign, a promise that the House of Black would soon be a force to be reckoned with once again.
The day of the trials for those accused of murder, torture, and other heinous acts arrived swiftly. The Wizengamot chamber was brimming with anticipation, tension thick in the air as each member took their place, robes adorned with symbols of their Houses, faces solemn with the weight of judgment.
These trials were not for those wrongfully imprisoned—those sessions had come and gone. Today, it was for the ones who had indeed committed dark deeds, yet had been cast into Azkaban without the formality of a trial. Now, even they would be granted their day in court, though few doubted the likelihood of a lenient outcome.
The accused were brought in one by one, each figure shackled by magic-enhanced restraints and seated upon the center platform, visible to all. Eyes shifted across the room—from hardened glares to flickers of pity or, for some, raw disgust. Friends, family, and allies of the victims of these dark figures watched, their emotions barely contained as they waited for justice.
The proceedings began with Chief Interrogator Amelia Bones presiding over the court. Stern and unwavering, she held authority over the questioning, her words sharp and precise as she laid out the crimes, piece by piece, of each who stood trial. Witnesses were called forward, memories reviewed in the Pensieve, and Veritaserum used as needed.
Each House present cast their vote—some with relief, others with vengeance simmering in their gaze. And for some, such as Sirius Black, each vote was weighed heavily, though his stance was firm: justice for the innocent and punishment for the guilty, family ties notwithstanding.
It was a monumental day, not only for the Wizengamot but for all of Wizarding Britain. And by the end, the convictions handed down would echo through the wizarding world as a stark warning—and a promise of change.
When the trial for the murderers of the Bones family was called to order, Amelia Bones, known for her steadfast commitment to justice, made a principled decision. Recognizing her personal connection to the case and the inevitable conflict of interest, she stepped back as Chief Interrogator. In her place, Kingsley Shacklebolt, trusted and respected, took over as Chief Interrogator for this portion of the proceedings.
Both Amelia and Kingsley, understanding the weight of impartiality, had arranged proxies for votes on cases where personal biases might interfere. For these proceedings, the Abbott family represented Amelia, while the Weasley family stood in for Kingsley, honoring the integrity of the judicial process. However, there were still cases ahead where they both intended to vote personally, determined to see justice served where it was needed most.
Mulciber and Rowle, notorious for their ruthless acts, were brought forward in chains, expressions vacant but unyielding under the powerful Veritaserum. Questioned thoroughly, their admissions were straightforward and chilling. They accepted full responsibility, providing clear, detailed accounts of their roles in the brutal murders of Edgar and Margaret Bones, sparing none of the horrific details.
The courtroom, usually buzzing with whispers and hushed speculation, fell silent as the admissions rolled forth. In those moments, there was no question of guilt or innocence, only the grim confirmation of atrocities committed.
When the vote was called, it was decisive and swift, falling overwhelmingly in favor of justice for the Bones family. The members of the Wizengamot cast their votes with a collective resolve, each vote carrying the weight of justice long overdue.
Mulciber and Rowle were sentenced to Azkaban for two lifetimes, a clear message that their crimes would not be taken lightly. This sentence was devoid of any leniency, and their fates were sealed without the slightest room for special treatment or reprieve. The courtroom resonated with a somber finality, and an unspoken sense of justice rippled through those present.
As they were led away, shackled and subdued, it was as if the weight of their own sentence was pressing down, not only from the iron chains binding them but from the memories of the lives they had shattered. Amelia Bones stood by silently, yet a small glimmer of resolution seemed to flicker in her eyes, knowing her family’s memory would endure even as those responsible would remain forgotten, lost to Azkaban's shadows.
Antonin Dolohov and the others responsible for the deaths of Gideon and Fabian Prewett met the same unyielding fate. Under the influence of Veritaserum, Dolohov recounted his involvement, each confession chillingly confirming the accounts of that brutal time. The Wizengamot members, many of whom remembered the Prewett brothers for their valor, cast their votes with a unified resolve, ensuring that Dolohov would face a sentence in Azkaban for multiple lifetimes. No leniency was given, the memories of his victims spoken in every vote cast against him.
Rufus Travers and his accomplices, those who had mercilessly taken the lives of Markus and Marlene McKinnon and Dorcas Meadows, were next. Their admissions were equally damning, and the weight of their atrocities bore down on the court. As with Dolohov, Travers’s sentencing came swiftly, with the Wizengamot ruling firmly in favor of justice for the McKinnons and Meadows. Each lifetime sentence felt like a small restoration of dignity for the fallen, a retribution for lives taken far too soon.
The sentences pronounced that day echoed through the chamber, reaffirming the commitment of the Wizengamot to justice, as each dark mark of the war was gradually erased, one sentence at a time. For many, it was the first real glimpse of justice, and the chamber itself seemed to breathe a collective sigh of long-awaited relief.
<>
The trials had stretched through the year, with each session uncovering new layers of the war’s dark history. By October 1982, with Harry now two years old, the wizarding world marked the somber first anniversary of those lives lost. The air was thick with both sorrow and anticipation, for the next trial promised to be the most notorious yet: Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, along with Barty Crouch Jr., faced the Wizengamot for their roles in the horrific torture of the Longbottoms. This was more than just a trial; it was a reckoning.
Amelia Bones took her place as Chief Interrogator, prepared yet cautious. She was a woman who had spent the year hearing brutal truths, but even she knew this trial would be something else. The crimes against the Longbottoms were among the most infamous of the war, and as much as she was ready to question the accused, it was the answers she feared. Yet, she was resolute; justice demanded answers.
First came Barty Crouch Jr., shackled and expressionless, his eyes distant, unseeing. As the man who cast the Killing Curse, his guilt was all but confirmed—the use of Unforgivable Curses carried a capital sentence under wizarding law, warranting a life in Azkaban. This trial was a formality, an act of justice performed in full view of the wizarding world.
Crouch Sr. sat at the edge of his seat, every inch of him rigid, his jaw set tight. His eyes held no trace of compassion as they fixed upon his son. Barty Crouch Jr. had not just disgraced his family—he had shattered it. And for Crouch Sr., a man who had sacrificed everything to build his reputation and ascend the ranks of power, this betrayal was unendurable. His hand clenched tightly, white-knuckled against the chair, as he fought the urge to express the fury boiling within. How he wished, for a brief and vicious moment, that he might be the one to cast the sentence upon his own son.
As Barty Crouch Jr. took the stand under Veritaserum, the weight of the truth hung heavily in the room. Amelia’s voice cut through the silence, steady as she recited the list of charges: conspiracy, torture, and murder. All eyes fixed on Barty, but as he began to speak, his words held a nuance few had anticipated.
“I was there as a lookout,” Barty confessed, his voice carrying a strange mix of bitterness and weariness. “I didn’t join them to partake in… that. Rodolphus and Bellatrix, they… they had other intentions. They told me it would be quick, a statement of power to silence any doubts left after our Lord's fall. But it was no quick statement. It was… something else.”
Whispers stirred in the chamber, but Barty’s eyes remained on the floor, his gaze detached as he continued. “I believed in our cause. I believed in what our Lord wanted to build, the world he wanted to reshape. But what I saw in that house…” He shook his head, almost to himself, as if reliving the memory. “It was Bellatrix—mostly her. She took pleasure in it, in their suffering, her laughter echoing while the Longbottoms screamed.”
Pausing, he looked up, his eyes finding Amelia’s, as though daring her to understand. “I’m no stranger to violence, nor to the sacrifices war demands. But this… this was cruelty for cruelty’s sake. I knew, even before the Aurors arrived, that I had to end it.” He inhaled sharply, as if steeling himself to continue. “Whether anyone was coming or not, I was going to cast the Killing Curse. They were already broken, their minds shattered, bodies twisted with pain. It was the only mercy left.”
A stunned silence fell over the room. The Wizengamot, accustomed to hearing confessions of guilt, was taken aback by the strange edge of regret and disgust in Barty’s words. His gaze shifted to the audience, his father among them, every bit the stoic figure, though his face had paled considerably.
Amelia’s gaze hardened, her voice unsparing. “Are you asking us to believe you, Mr. Crouch? That you, a willing follower of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, a self-proclaimed soldier of his cause, performed an act of mercy?” Her tone dripped with skepticism.
Barty’s jaw tightened, but he held her gaze unflinchingly. “Yes,” he said with raw intensity. “It’s not about forgiveness, nor about pleading for a lighter sentence. I know where I’ll end up. But I am not Bellatrix Lestrange. I did not join to relish in the pain of others. I joined because I believed we were building something greater. What happened that night was a betrayal of that ideal. I am guilty of following the Dark Lord, yes, but I’m not a monster. I won’t carry that for her.”
Crouch Sr. watched his son with a mixture of disbelief and simmering fury, the chiseled mask slipping for just a second. His voice, though composed, betrayed a tremor. “You speak of ideals, Barty, of a ‘greater purpose.’ Yet here you stand, a willing accomplice to torture and murder. Don’t disgrace the family further with twisted justifications.”
But Barty's gaze was as fierce as his father's. “Believe what you will,” he murmured bitterly, turning back to Amelia. “I know what I saw. I know what I did. And I know that, unlike some here, I didn’t delight in it.”
Amelia’s jaw tightened as she called the Wizengamot to silence. For a moment, no one spoke, the air thick with a mixture of shock, outrage, and even a hint of understanding.
When the vote was called, there was a solemn finality in the air. No one expected leniency, least of all Augusta Longbottom, whose silent, unwavering gaze cast a palpable weight over the chamber. The memory of her son and daughter-in-law’s broken minds loomed large, and mercy was a word that held no comfort for her, not after what they had endured.
Amelia’s voice rang out as each Wizengamot member cast their vote, one by one, each uttering a resolute “Azkaban” that resounded through the room like the tolling of a funeral bell. It was a unanimous verdict—a lifetime sentence without possibility of parole.
Barty's expression remained unreadable as the sentence fell. The last hint of defiance flickered out of him, as though he had expected it all along. His father's face remained a carved stone, betraying no sign of the inner war raging within. It was as much a sentence for the elder Crouch as it was for his son—a family name tarnished, its legacy entwined with shame.
And Augusta, though stoic, finally exhaled—a slow, relieved breath. Her hand trembled, just slightly, but her face held the fierce satisfaction of a long-fought battle won. Justice was served, as cold and unforgiving as the walls of Azkaban itself.
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Rodolphus Lestrange stood shackled before the Wizengamot, his expression a twisted mask of defiance and apathy. As the questions came from Amelia Bones, each one striking with precision, his only response was the unsettling calm of a man who had long ceased to feel any remorse. Under Veritaserum, he couldn’t veil the truth.
“Yes,” he admitted, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. “I tortured them, as did Bellatrix.” He paused, a faint, eerie smile playing on his lips. “And I enjoyed every moment.”
Rabastan, seated among the Wizengamot members, forced himself to remain composed, though his insides twisted with revulsion. This was not the brother he remembered, the one who had once been a protective, if wayward, sibling. In Rodolphus’s chillingly detached confessions, Rabastan saw the loss of a man to darkness so profound that there was no path back. The realization cut deeply, though he held firm, reminding himself of the promise he had made to Lyra, his niece and heir to a legacy he now saw himself reshaping. He would not allow this stain to darken her future.
The court sat in uneasy silence as Rodolphus continued to speak, details emerging like poisoned droplets. He spoke of the Cruciatus Curse with a horrifying reverence, describing his actions as though reliving a particularly fond memory. He recounted with cold satisfaction how the Longbottoms had screamed, had writhed under the curse, while he and Bellatrix took turns ensuring they did not succumb too quickly.
Amelia's face remained impassive, though her knuckles tightened as she gripped her parchment. This was beyond anything the public had heard before, but she maintained her control, prepared to see the trial through to its inevitable conclusion.
Rabastan swallowed hard, suppressing a shudder as he thought of Lyra, who was not here to witness her father’s monstrosity, thank Merlin. After this trial, Rabastan would take measures to officially distance his niece from any association with her father or mother. The House of Lestrange would find a new legacy, a brighter future in Lyra—a future where mercy, honor, and strength prevailed, untainted by the horrors of the past.
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Bellatrix Black-Lestrange stood before the Wizengamot, chained and under Veritaserum, yet exuding a terrifying energy that filled the chamber with a palpable sense of dread. Her dark eyes gleamed with a madness that seemed untouched by months of imprisonment. Even after all this time, her sense of pride in her atrocities was evident, her lips twisting into a cruel smile with each question posed.
Amelia Bones, resolute in her duty, began with the necessary preliminaries, asking Bellatrix to confirm her identity and other basic details. Once satisfied that the Veritaserum was effective, Amelia’s tone hardened as she delved into the events of that night.
“Describe your actions on the night you attacked Frank and Alice Longbottom.”
Bellatrix’s face split into a wide, unnerving grin. She spoke slowly, her voice tinged with a macabre satisfaction. “It was exhilarating. They screamed, they begged, and I savored every moment of it,” she said, her eyes glinting with pleasure at the memory. “I cast the Cruciatus Curse over and over. They writhed, pleaded, their voices breaking as they begged for mercy they did not deserve.” She paused, her smile widening. “I made sure they never drifted too far into unconsciousness. It’s no fun if they’re not aware of the pain.”
Sirius clenched his jaw, his disgust evident as he averted his eyes. Rabastan, on the other hand, stared straight at her, his face a mask of horror and grief for the brother and sister-in-law he no longer recognized. Bellatrix had gone beyond darkness—she had become an avatar of it. Whatever familial loyalty he might have felt was burned away as he listened to her recount the torture without a shred of regret.
Across the room, Augusta Longbottom gripped the arms of her chair so tightly her knuckles turned white, each word from Bellatrix a dagger through her heart. To hear this woman describe her son and daughter-in-law’s suffering with such relish was more than she could bear. But somehow, she held her seat, her gaze never wavering, her spine as unyielding as steel. She owed it to Frank and Alice to see this through.
Amelia’s voice was even but hard, resonating with the authority of her office. “Do you feel any remorse for what you did to them?”
Bellatrix cackled, a high, grating sound that echoed unsettlingly around the room. “Remorse?” she mocked. “The only regret I have is that I couldn’t do more. They were weak, unworthy. They deserved what they got.”
A silence fell over the chamber, heavy and suffocating. Even those who had once harbored some sympathy or affection for her, like Lucius and Aiden, felt the full force of her madness and depravity, leaving them inwardly torn between family loyalty and horror. Supporting her now was no longer a question of family ties but a matter of self-preservation, as they realized any affiliation with her could jeopardize their own precarious claims of innocence.
Sirius watched her, his face set in a mixture of revulsion and disappointment, a reminder of the darkness that had pervaded his family for so long. And as he looked at her, he made an unspoken vow: he would never allow the Black family to sink to such depths again.
In the silence that followed, it was clear to everyone present: Bellatrix Black-Lestrange was far beyond redemption, and the question was not if she would be condemned, but how swiftly.
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Augusta Longbottom’s voice cut through the air, cold and unwavering, as she delivered her demand, “As the matriarch to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Longbottom, I demand that Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange be subjected to the Dementor's Kiss and then tossed in Azkaban until they wither and die. However long it may be.”
A stunned silence gripped the Wizengamot Chamber, rippling through the crowd as people exchanged wide-eyed glances. The Kiss was reserved for only the gravest offenses, its horror unmatched by any other sentence. As the realization of Augusta's demand settled, a mix of agreement and horror filled the room. For though Azkaban's torment was infamous, the Kiss carried a finality beyond life or death—a fate so complete, so absolute, that it left its victim worse than dead: a hollow shell, devoid of self, of memory, and of anything that once made them human.
The chamber remained silent, processing Augusta’s words. The darkest of families—those who had spent generations learning to wield power like a weapon—had never faced such an outcome. Among the seats, Lucius and Aiden felt their blood run cold, while Narcissa instinctively drew a hand to her mouth. This was her sister, after all, and the weight of such a sentence felt unbearably heavy.
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly, a faint glimmer of satisfaction crossing his face before he masked it once again with stoic neutrality. Barty Crouch Sr., on the other hand, looked openly pleased. For him, the Kiss represented the strictest form of control and punishment—the very essence of justice he valued so highly. The whispers began among those who bore dark alliances, their faces pale with alarm. This punishment was beyond what even they would have wished on one of their own.
Sirius, however, found himself thinking it poetic justice. The image of the broken Longbottoms, tortured to insanity, lingered in his mind. If Bellatrix and Rodolphus’s actions were allowed to slide, what message would they send to their world?
Yet, his heart ached for Rabastan. Sitting across the room, Rabastan looked torn, frozen between two identities: the younger brother who once idolized Rodolphus, and the man who had grown to loathe the monster his sibling had become. He glanced briefly at Sirius, catching a flash of empathy in his cousin’s gaze. The man, once a brother but now uncle and guardian to his beloved niece Lyra, hoping to provide her with a future she could be proud of, was now faced with an impossible decision.
Could he, with a clear conscience, tell Lyra one day that he stood by and fought for her father—a man who had tortured innocents beyond recognition? Could he bear the thought of her learning about her parents’ unforgivable actions and knowing her uncle had attempted to shield them from justice?
Taking a slow breath, Rabastan’s gaze shifted to Augusta, whose face, though cold, held a deep grief beneath her hardened expression. Rabastan clenched his fists, his own heart warring between loyalty and justice. When he looked back to his brother, he saw not the boy who had once protected him from childhood bullies, but a man he no longer recognized—a man he wished to protect his niece from ever having to understand.
Bellatrix's wild eyes darted around the room, and for once, even she seemed to recognize the gravity of the moment, her ever-present sneer faltering as she took in the grave faces around her. But Rodolphus only looked back at Rabastan, a glimmer of disdain in his eyes, as if he dared his brother to abandon him now.
Finally, Rabastan looked toward the Chief Interrogator, Amelia Bones, who, with an unreadable expression, waited for the final reactions before calling for a vote. Rabastan’s voice, though steady, was low, barely above a whisper, “If this is what justice demands… then so be it.”
In that moment, everyone understood: the House of Lestrange had severed its ties to its darkest past, placing its future with Lyra and Rabastan—untainted and unshadowed. As Augusta took her seat, the chamber prepared for what would surely be a monumental vote, one that would define the future of wizarding justice. And though Lucius and Aiden sat stiffly, both recognizing the finality of this decision, they held their tongues, knowing any opposition would be met with universal condemnation.
Sirius placed a hand on his heart, thinking of Harry, silently reaffirming his vow to steer his own family toward a future unburdened by the crimes of the past. The path would be long and difficult, but, if today was any indication, he knew they were all capable of taking that step.