(Gilderoy Lockhart)
By the time Dumbledore finally returned to his office, Sirius and I were halfway through what could only be described as a minor culinary catastrophe.
At some point during our wait, I had summoned a house-elf and casually requested "something light." As usual, the little creature interpreted that as a command to recreate the entire Hogwarts feast upon the Headmaster's desk.
Roast beef glistened beneath enchanted warming charms. Platters of honey-glazed ham steamed invitingly. Bowls of buttered potatoes, pumpkin pasties, treacle tart, golden Yorkshire puddings, custards, trifles, éclairs, sugared almonds, and three varieties of pie occupied every inch of available surface.
There was gravy in Dumbledore's inkwell.
Not that Sirius was complaining.
He had abandoned any pretense of restraint twenty minutes ago.
After years on the run, surviving on scraps, roots, and occasionally less dignified sources of protein, Hogwarts food might as well have been divine intervention. He was currently tearing into a drumstick with the focus of a man rediscovering civilization.
"I swear," he muttered between bites, "this is better than anything I remember."
"That," I replied while buttering a roll with careful elegance, "is because you're literally comparing it with moldy bread and living rats. I still don't know how you could tolerate living like that."
He snorted and said, "every time I bit into a rat I imagined it was Peter I was chewing on and the taste improved significantly."
I shook my head with a grimace, "still disgusting."
A few minutes later, I was mid-gesture, enthusiastically reenacting one of Harry's Quidditch games, when the door behind us opened.
Dumbledore stepped in and paused.
His blue eyes traveled slowly over the scene: the buried desk, the floating crumbs, the abandoned gravy boat, Sirius Black very much unbound and very much alive, and me standing on one of the chairs demonstrating a particularly impressive Wronski Feint.
There was a long silence.
The portraits on the walls leaned forward eagerly.
Dumbledore sighed.
With a single, fluid wave of his wand, the entire desk cleared itself. Platters vanished. Grease evaporated. Gravy retreated politely from the inkwell. The wood shone as if freshly polished.
Sirius froze mid-chew.
I lowered myself back into the chair with perfect composure.
Dumbledore took a seat behind his desk.
"So," he said mildly, folding his hands, "this is why you were not at the feast, Gilderoy?"
"Correct," I replied cheerfully.
His gaze shifted to Sirius.
"Long time no see, Sirius."
There was no accusation in his tone. No warmth either. Just calm acknowledgement.
Sirius swallowed and straightened unconsciously.
"Professor."
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. "Would you care to explain what is going on?"
And so Sirius began.
He told the story without theatrics at first. The Secret Keeper. The switch from him to Pettigrew. The confrontation in the street. Peter's screaming performance. The severed finger. The explosion. The smoke. The bodies. His deranged laughter after realising he'd been played by someone he had thought harmless, he admitted to that part bitterly.
"They thought I'd done it," Sirius said, voice tight. "Everyone did. They didn't even give me a trial. Just threw me in Azkaban."
His hands had clenched into fists by the time he finished.
"Peter cut off his own finger. Blew up the street. Turned into a rat and ran. Framed me perfectly. And well, my laughter didn't help, but my head wasn't in the right place…"
Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, they seemed older.
"I see," he said quietly.
He folded his hands once more, gaze steady.
"I must apologize. I should have spoken to you. I assumed you had been formally tried and convicted. I was… occupied. But that is no excuse for inaction."
His voice did not waver.
"For that, Sirius, I am sorry."
The words settled heavily in the room.
Sirius shifted awkwardly.
"It's fine," he muttered. "No one suspected Peter. We even doubted Remus. But Peter?" His jaw tightened. "That damn rat."
He leaned forward abruptly.
"You're going to help me catch him, right? He's here. In this castle. A Weasley boy's pet."
Dumbledore's eyes sharpened.
"Are you certain?"
"I…"
"I fear," I interrupted smoothly, "that Mr. Weasley's current pet is nothing more than a perfectly ordinary garden rat."
Both of them looked at me.
Sirius narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
Dumbledore's gaze twinkled faintly as his fingers brushed his beard.
"I believe," he said, "that Gilderoy is implying he has already handled the matter. Am I correct?"
I chuckled lightly.
"Indeed. Some time ago, I noticed irregularities in Mr. Weasley's pet rat. Behavioral patterns inconsistent with standard rodent intellect. So I cast an Animagus Detection Charm."
I tapped my staff lightly against the floor for emphasis.
"It came out positive."
Sirius leaned forward, breath catching.
"I replaced Scabbers with a real rat shortly thereafter. I saw no reason to inform young Ronald that he had been sharing a dormitory with a middle-aged man."
Sirius made a face.
"Yes," I said dryly. "Quite."
From my inner pocket, I withdrew a small object resembling a snow globe. Inside, miniature snowmen stood cheerfully beneath a swirling flurry.
I tapped it once with the head of my staff and the globe expanded to the size of a human head.
Inside, scrambling through enchanted snow, was a rat.
Thin. Bald in patches. One front paw missing a toe.
He was shivering violently.
I gave the globe a gentle shake and the snowstorm intensified, causing the rat to squeak in panic.
"I present," I said pleasantly, placing it on the desk, "Peter Pettigrew."
Sirius moved faster than I expected.
He snatched the globe and shook it enthusiastically until the snow became a blizzard.
Peter tumbled helplessly, squealing in panic.
"Oh, I love this," Sirius breathed, eyes bright with savage delight. "Maybe we should leave him in there a bit longer. Merlin knows he deserves it."
Dumbledore's lips twitched.
"As much as I sympathize," he said calmly, "we require Mr. Pettigrew alive and cooperative if you are to be exonerated."
Sirius paused, then shook the globe again for good measure.
"I don't mind staying a fugitive a few more years," he said. "This is therapeutic."
I leaned back in my chair.
"I would normally encourage creative torment," I admitted, "but there is the matter of Harry."
That stilled him.
"I promised the boy he would not have to return to his aunt and uncle," I continued. "While I would not object to taking him in myself…"
Dumbledore's eyebrow lifted slightly.
"…I believe he would benefit far more from having his godfather."
Sirius's expression shifted. The humor drained and something raw replaced it.
"But that," I finished gently, "requires you to no longer be a fugitive."
Silence lingered.
Finally, Sirius scratched the back of his head.
"Yeah," he muttered. "I guess you're right."
He gave the globe three final, vindictive shakes, making Peter squeal miserably.
Then Sirius handed it back to me.
"Fine," he said. "Let's do this properly."
Dumbledore steepled his fingers.
"Then," he said softly, eyes gleaming with quiet calculation, "let us prepare for a very interesting conversation with the Ministry."
The snow inside the globe settled slowly, but Peter did not stop trembling.
And for the first time that night, Halloween felt less like entertainment… and more like the beginning of something long overdue.
…