Subpoena

“Mister Black,” the witch said cooly, peering into the face of a man twenty years her senior.

Azkaban had not treated him well.  Merlin, it was astounding he was still alive after nineteen years in its guard.  His face was sunken, cheekbones jutting out in a way that hinted to a man who missed the mark of handsomeness by two decades of torture.  His hair was nearly as filthy as his skin, both of which having a distinctive grey coating, product of the desperate need for a shower.  The man before her did not respond, so the witch pressed on.

“Admitted on the fourth of November, 1981, inmate number 390.  Is this correct?”

Black grunted in response, not bothering to look up from the tattered indigo desk between them.  The interview room was an office just outside the main prison grounds. It was empty apart from the desk, two chairs, and the witch's briefcase. Unlike the cells, there were only a small number of dementors roaming the halls here.  It was still enough, however, to send a chill down the spine of Miss Hermione Granger each time one passed too close to the closed door.  She pressed her lips together and paused before posing her next question.

“Mister Black, are you aware the second wizarding war concluded three years ago as of this last May?”

The man across from her didn’t even attempt to stop the snort escaping him.

“Am I aware? ‘Course I’m bloody aware.  You wouldn’t believe the mourning,” he said sharply, spitting out the word, “taking place in the cells.  People weeping the loss of their master, as though he were the Christ the muggles talk about…” he trailed off, mumbling under his breath.

“Their master?  But not, I take it, yours?”  Miss Granger said unflinchingly.

Sirius’ eyes slowly drifted to her own, and when they locked she had to suppress a hiss threatening to escape her throat.  Gods, she thought, he has the same look as the Ghraib survivors.

He seemed to mull the words around in his brain before answering.

“I don’t join them in mourning, but I still have every reason to be lumped in with their lot,” he said quietly. 

“We’ll see about that.  My name is Hermione Granger,” the witch said, introducing herself at last, “I’m your case worker.  Let’s get you ready for your hearing.”

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Twelve Weeks Earlier

Hermione held her head in her hands, sighed, and counted to eight.  It was a coping tool she had developed in her third year, one that was becoming increasingly handy with the workload her recent promotion had provided.  Straightening her spine and lifting her head, she turned to the massive stack of paperwork in front of her.  After a few more moments of scanning and scribbling, there was a soft rap at her door.

“Come in,” she tutted, not bothering to look up.

“Christ Granger,” said a lofty voice, “I thought you were trying to better the world, not pirate its resources.”

Hermione scoffed, meeting eyes with her newfound ally.

“If someone hadn’t passed the load off there wouldn’t be all of these files on my desk, so which of us is really to blame?”

Her former nemesis arched an eyebrow in mock surprise, “Hermione Granger complaining about research?  Treakle my tart and call me a muggleborn.”

The corner of Hermione’s mouth twitched as she shook her head at the man. In their school years he had been her enemy. Just three years ago he had been distant and formal, making their professional relationship tense. 

After completing their seventh year at Hogwarts as headboy and head girl, the pair began as interns at the ministry. Hermione trying to climb the ranks; Draco as an- albeit redemptive- formality. After fetching “Moody’s bloody coffee,” for the 107th time, the last surviving heir of the Malfoy line had approached his fellow intern with a proposition. 

“What do you mean, open a new department?” Hermione said, jaw slacked.

“Merlin Granger. You’re supposed to be the best of us, yeah? I’m going to use my inheritance to get some real work done around here,” Draco drawled, “You’re too smart to be fetching quills and I’m too...bored.” he decided on after a pause.

Hermione looked up at the blond with a smirk on her lips. “Nice save. I would have thought you were going to choose something more classic, like important, heroic, pure-“

“Don’t say that shite, Granger,” Malfoy said quickly, cutting her off. “I grew up believing that, and I’m working hard to unlearn it. So help me do it.”

The Gryffindor tisked.

“What? Help you reframe your world view? Or head up your department?”

“Yes,” Draco responded, crossing his arms and leaning back

Hermione bit the end of her quill before continuing 

“And what exactly is your vision for this new branch, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Rewriting magical law. I want to fix what’s left of our world.”

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Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. 

“It’s not the research as much as it is the why behind it. Along with what I’m finding. Did you know there was a small group of aurors in the first war who would smuggle corpses to the dark side to make Infiri? It’s not like Voldemort didn’t have people piling up in the streets around him,” she said crossly.

Draco sighed, “Speaking of the dark side…”

“What, another case?”

“Yes, but this one is different. Everything else you’re working on has to be put on hold until it’s wrapped up.”

“That urgent, huh?”

“Someone we know called in a personal favor,” Draco said hesitantly, “What do you know of Sirius Black?”

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Sirius eyed the bushy haired witch in front of him. She looked young, almost too young to do what she was telling him she would. He also noticed her skin was too pale in the fluorescent lighting, almost transparent. As if someone could breathe on her and she would collapse into herself. Sirius raked his eyes over his supposed savior, heart dropping when he caught a glimpse of her forearm. Mudblood. Scarred into her skin with what could only have been a cursed object. The letters looked angry, the skin red and puffy. Perhaps, the wizard thought to himself, it takes more than breath to make her collapse.  He pulled himself out of his musings to realize the girl was still talking.

“...which, of course, is illegal even if you did what you were accused of. So we should be able to get some sort of restitution regardless of your verdict, as well as getting you a break from Azkaban until your initial appearance. If you have to come back until the trial after that...we can cross that bridge when we get to it,” she concluded rather lamely.

“You...I-what?” Sirius croaked, “You mean I can leave?”

Hermione eyed the wizard seated across from her

“Until your initial appearance, yes,” she said slowly, “and with a few conditions. I still have to get it approved, but after paying a fee- and I believe you’ll have to stay in approved custody- but after that you should be able to stay out of Azkaban until proceedings begin.”

Sirius began to tremble, the weight of the witches words hitting him. His heart seemed to be matching the speed of his tremors, the feeling overwhelming his senses until he was certain it was in his ears instead of his chest. He felt his throat restrict, and was soon gasping for air.

“-ack-Black- Mist-!” the witch was shouting; although Sirius knew it, his brain refused to process what was happening. It was like he was wrapped in plastic, the material constricting his breath, his movement, until it threatened to take his life.

He felt someone touch his arm and he jerked, ready to attack.

In a moment, his world was dark. 

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