(Gilderoy Lockhart)
The execution had gone almost exactly as I had predicted. Not perfectly, of course. Nothing involving the Wizengamot ever proceeded perfectly. Too many egos, too many secrets, too many ancient families clutching their reputations like misers clutching coin purses. Still, events had unfolded close enough to my expectations to be satisfying.
Pettigrew had begged.
Oh, how he had begged.
It had not been dignified pleading either. No tragic last words. No trembling confession worthy of a dramatic ballad. No. He had sobbed, shrieked, promised secrets, alliances, hidden vaults, names, locations, plots. He had offered information with the frantic desperation of a drowning man throwing gold into the sea in hopes it would make him float.
Unfortunately for him, he had chosen the worst possible bargaining chip.
Information.
I had watched the Dark-leaning members the moment he started talking. Subtle shifts. Tightened fingers. Shoulders drawing inward. Eyes flicking sideways toward one another in silent calculation.
They were afraid… but not of justice. No. They were afraid of being exposed.
It took less than ten seconds for them to decide he could not be allowed to continue breathing a second longer.
Pressure had descended upon Minister Fudge with all the delicacy of a falling anvil. Polite words. Polite smiles. Polite threats. By the time the last of Pettigrew's hysterical offers left his mouth, the Minister looked like a man who had just realized he was seated on a nest of serpents.
So he had immediately given the order to carry out the execution.
The Veil awaited in the Department of Mysteries.
Even now, I could still hear it if I allowed myself to listen. That faint whispering beyond the stone archway. Not sound exactly. More like the memory of sound. The suggestion of voices just beyond comprehension.
Pettigrew had screamed when they dragged him forward.
He cried when they unbound him.
He tried begging one last time when he saw the Veil ripple.
And he screamed once more the moment he was pushed through it.
The silence that followed felt heavy.
Just as it had for Sirius in another life.
I exhaled slowly, then turned my head toward the man in question.
Sirius Black stood a short distance away, hands in his pockets, posture loose but not relaxed. His expression was… complicated. It wasn't one of grief or relief, like some might expect. Instead, it was something quieter, a bit hollow actually.
I tilted my head.
"Well?" I asked lightly. "What does victory feel like?"
He huffed a faint laugh that held no humor.
"You know," he said, voice rougher than usual, "I thought watching Peter die would feel better."
He stared at the floor as if it might supply answers.
"But I just feel empty. Is that normal?"
Ah.
There it was.
The aftermath.
I clasped my hands behind my back, adopting what I privately considered my Wise Mentor stance. Chin slightly raised, shoulders relaxed, and voice warm yet profound. The same one I had practiced extensively in mirrors.
"It is perfectly normal," I said gently. "Vengeance is rarely as satisfying as imagination promises. The death of your enemy does not resurrect the dead. It does not rewind time. It does not undo regret. And once it is done…"
I gave a small, sympathetic shrug.
"You discover that revenge was never a destination. Only a distraction. And without it, one often finds oneself… unemployed, purpose-wise."
Sirius glanced sideways at me.
"That might be the most depressing thing anyone's ever said to me."
"On the contrary," I replied cheerfully, raising a finger, "it is liberating. Because it means you are now free to choose a better purpose."
He did not answer, but he did listen.
I pressed the advantage.
"My professional recommendation," I continued, "would be to focus on your godson. You did promise to care for him, did you not?"
Sirius's shoulders loosened slightly, though worry crept into his eyes.
"Maybe you're right," he admitted. "But what will Harry think of me? I failed him. I left him alone all these years. I don't even know who raised him."
"Oh, that," I said breezily. "That would be his Aunt Petunia."
Sirius blinked.
I smiled with all the warmth of a man reminiscing about a mildly unpleasant dental procedure.
"I assure you, he will not refuse if you invite him to live with you. That household is among the most disagreeable domestic environments I have ever had the displeasure of visiting, and I once spent a week with a banshee who snored."
Sirius's eyes narrowed.
"And who," he asked slowly, "was the idiot who thought it was wise to place Harry with her? She hates magic."
I scratched the back of my head.
"Well, you see, that would be a fascinating anecdote involving questionable judgment, political necessity, blood wards, and a truly astonishing faith in the concept of good intentions which…"
"That would have been me."
The voice came from behind us.
Calm, mild, and infuriatingly serene.
Ah.
Right on cue.
I turned with a polite smile already in place as Albus Dumbledore approached, robes whispering across the stone floor like secrets reluctant to be told.
He inclined his head slightly toward Sirius.
"And for that," he said, "I apologize. But believe me, Sirius, I acted with what I believed were the best intentions. It was the safest option for Harry."
Sirius's jaw tightened.
His eyes sharpened, a flash of old wildfire stirring behind them. For a moment I truly thought he might say something spectacularly inappropriate.
His lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he just exhaled tiredly, and the fire in his eyes dimmed.
"Honestly," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, "I'd love to curse you for it. But I don't think I've got the right. I'm the one who ran off after Peter instead of staying with Harry. Some godfather I turned out to be."
Ah. Guilt. That old parasite.
I clucked my tongue softly.
"My dear Sirius," I said, placing a dramatic hand over my heart, "if poor decisions disqualified people from guardianship, there would not be a single parent left in Britain."
That earned the faintest snort from him, which I considered a triumph.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, though there was a weight behind the light.
"You may yet have the opportunity to remedy that," he said. "Now that matters have… changed."
Sirius looked up.
Hope is a fragile thing. You can see it the moment it appears, like the first crack of dawn under a door.
"Yeah?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "I believe it is time Harry knew the truth."
Silence settled between us.
Not the suffocating silence of the Veil.
This one felt different.
This one felt like the pause before a new story begins.
I smiled.
Oh, I did so love new beginnings.
…