Chapter 131: Sirius Released
"No. I've changed my mind," Voldemort said coldly. "Grant him what he wants—for now. Once we've made full use of him, we'll kill him. Do you understand?"
For the first time in a long while, Voldemort felt a trace of unease.
Russell's current abilities might not yet rival those of Tom Riddle in his prime—but the potential was there. And that was enough to trouble him.
After all, Voldemort had once slaughtered every child born on a particular day simply because of a prophecy. Now he had encountered someone who might one day pose an even greater threat to his supremacy. How could he not be wary?
"As you command, my Lord," Quirrell said eagerly, practically glowing with delight.
He had long held a grudge against Russell. And after nearly dying at Russell's hands earlier that day, his hatred had deepened into something visceral.
If he could watch Russell fall in the future, he would savor every moment of it.
---
Fudge moved quickly.
Whether it was to consolidate his political standing or to strike at old rivals, no one could say. But within a week of returning from Hogwarts, Sirius Black's case was officially scheduled for retrial.
Russell even requested leave from Snape to attend.
When Snape learned the reason for his absence, his pupils constricted in shock.
Without hesitation, he canceled his classes.
He was going as well.
Snape's true target had never been Sirius.
Though Snape loathed Sirius—had once wished him dead—the moment he learned that the real traitor had been Peter Pettigrew, that hatred shifted instantly.
When Snape saw Pettigrew in person, veins bulged across his temples. His eyes turned bloodshot. If Russell hadn't restrained him, he might have drawn his wand on the spot and sent Pettigrew straight back to the underworld.
It was also here that Russell saw Sirius Black for the first time.
After ten years in Azkaban, Sirius was little more than skin and bones.
His skeletal frame hung loosely inside the gray prison robes. His eye sockets were sunken like twin caverns; sharp cheekbones cut through sallow skin. Tangled, shoulder-length black hair and beard were matted with grime, making him look like a corpse forgotten in a grave.
Only his eyes still burned.
They flickered between madness and clarity—sometimes dull and clouded like fogged glass, sometimes flashing with blade-sharp fury. Even after the Dementors had gnawed at his soul, something within him still refused to die.
His gaze swept across the room.
When he saw Dumbledore, guilt flashed briefly across his face before he quickly looked away.
His eyes met Snape's for a moment—mutual loathing burning between them.
Then he saw Peter Pettigrew.
In the dim courtroom light, the moment Sirius locked onto Pettigrew, that wasted body suddenly erupted with terrifying vitality. His hollow eyes blazed with venomous fire. A hoarse roar tore from his cracked throat like a starving wolf lunging at prey.
His claw-like fingers slashed through the air toward Pettigrew, his spine arching beneath the prison rags like a drawn blade of vengeance—
—but the Aurors restraining him acted immediately.
"Traitor! You filthy traitor!" Sirius struggled violently against their grip, eyes fixed on Pettigrew with murderous hatred.
"After being wrongfully imprisoned for so long, a little anger is understandable, wouldn't you say?" Dumbledore remarked mildly, glancing at Fudge.
"Ah—yes, yes, of course," Fudge hurriedly agreed. "A regrettable mistake by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We owe him an apology."
As he spoke, his eyes drifted toward Barty Crouch.
Though Crouch had lost his chance to become Minister due to the scandal involving his son's connection to the Death Eaters, his lingering influence within the judicial system still threatened Fudge's position.
Crouch, however, stood motionless—expression blank, like a statue. He stared at nothing in particular, saying nothing.
He understood perfectly that today's proceedings would collapse what little authority he still had within the Ministry. As the former head of Magical Law Enforcement, he had personally signed Sirius's imprisonment order. The responsibility was undeniable.
And ever since Fudge took office, Crouch had been quietly removed from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and reassigned to head the Department of International Magical Cooperation—effectively stripped of real judicial power.
Part of it was due to the ongoing disgrace surrounding his son. Part of it was Fudge's political purge of his predecessor's influence.
The Wizengamot judges didn't look pleased either.
Sirius's wrongful imprisonment stemmed not only from Ministry negligence—but from fatal flaws in the judicial process itself.
The sole eyewitness, Peter Pettigrew, had been declared "dead." The Ministry had relied solely on a severed finger found at the explosion site as proof of his demise.
Public opinion had rushed to condemn Sirius, fueled by the Black family's dark reputation and his role as Secret-Keeper for the Potters.
The Ministry had refused to administer Veritaserum, claiming the evidence was "conclusive."
The Wizengamot had not even held a proper hearing—simply accepted the Auror Office's report and sent Sirius to Azkaban.
But now, with Fudge and Dumbledore backing the retrial—and Pettigrew's confession under Veritaserum—no one, no matter how reluctant, could stop the reversal.
"The court hereby declares Sirius Black innocent and orders his immediate release."
As the verdict fell, Sirius seemed to lose all strength, collapsing into his chair.
Snape gave Russell a vicious glare, clearly blaming him for meddling, then left without a word.
Russell felt a headache forming. He worried Snape might retaliate in subtler ways. He hadn't considered that angle carefully enough.
Still, after some thought, Russell believed he might have a solution—though he wasn't certain Snape would cooperate.
Then again, after everything Russell had just accomplished, asking for a small concession didn't seem unreasonable.
The courtroom soon emptied.
Because Russell had been instrumental in capturing Pettigrew, many people had memorized his name. On their way out, they shook his hand and praised him as a prodigy.
Fudge himself clapped Russell on the shoulder, declaring that once he graduated, he could join the Ministry directly—"a fine position would be waiting."
After today, Fudge's hold on the Minister's seat was firmly secured.
As for Pettigrew, he was sent straight to Azkaban.
---
"Sirius, congratulations on regaining your freedom," Dumbledore said, draping a wizard's robe over his shoulders, his expression complicated.
"Professor Dumbledore, I—" Sirius began, now fully lucid.
He tried to bow—but his battered body finally gave out. The overwhelming surge of freedom, mixed with rage and exhaustion, made his vision spin.
Dumbledore caught him.
Sirius, once tall and strong, now felt weightless—frail as dry branches. Even Dumbledore could lift him easily.
"Thank you, Professor," Sirius managed weakly.
Then he saw Russell.
"I don't know how to repay you, Mr. Fythorne," Sirius said, stepping toward him.
"If not for you, I might never have left Azkaban."
His eyes were sincere.
"The House of Black will be your ally forever. If you ever need anything, come to me. I will give everything I can. That is my oath."
"Good," Russell replied. "But first, regain your strength. Harry is waiting at Hogwarts."
At the mention of Harry, Sirius's eyes lit up.
"Yes… Harry."
"As for repayment," Russell added casually, "I'd like access to the Black family library."
Sirius almost laughed.
"That's all? You may browse it freely. Contact me anytime."
To him, it was nothing.
---
They escorted Sirius to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
From the outside, it looked like an old red-brick department store called Purge & Dowse Ltd. Inside, it functioned as a fully equipped magical hospital.
To enter, one had to speak their purpose to the mannequin in the shop window—then step through the glass, much like passing through the barrier at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Sirius was admitted to the Spell Damage ward on the fifth floor. The Dementors had ravaged his mind.
The moment his head touched the pillow, he fell asleep.
Russell stepped out of the room for some air—
—and heard a scream from the next ward.
Curious, he glanced inside.
The patients were a man and a woman.
Both were skeletal, skin waxen yellow, muscles atrophied so severely their joints protruded sharply.
The woman's hair hung limp and straw-like; the man's hair was gray, sparse, lifeless.
Their eyes lacked focus—pupils dilated, staring as if at some crack in another world. Their facial muscles were frozen in confusion.
"Child," a voice spoke behind Russell, "there is nothing here worth staring at. If you have any manners at all, you should leave immediately."