Rita Skeeter, Senior Correspondent, Daily Prophet
There are moments, dear reader, when a courtroom shifts from mere debate to legend—when words become weapons and truth, once buried, claws its way free.
Today, in Courtroom Ten of the Ministry of Magic, such a moment arrived.
Even i who normaly is on the saliacious side of thing take the truth and blowing it out of proportion with my own articles being only one part truth to nine parts made up.
The second day of the Sirius Black trial had already been chaos disguised as civility.
Every bench was packed, every quill trembling over parchment, every breath held in anticipation.
The scandal was no longer confined to whispers—it had exploded across wizarding Britain like a Howler at supper.
And now, as Adrian Arclight had risen from his seat and calmly announced, "The defense calls Arthur Weasley to the stand,"
the entire courtroom leaned forward.
What did this man, another member of the sacred 28 have to do with this case?
When he'd never been brought up either the day before, or in any of the diggings done by reporters or even the ministry aids.
Arthur Weasley—an unassuming, soft-spoken man with a perpetually kind face and a fondness for Muggle gadgets—looked utterly bewildered as he stepped up.
"Er—excuse me," he stammered as he took the witness stand, and all eyes in the court became focus on his every movement.
"I—I'm not sure I understand why I've been called. I wasn't part of the Potter's protection circle. My assignment during the war was the Longbottom family at that time."
Fudge leaned back in his chair, smirking.
"See? The defense has run out of real witnesses."
But Adrian Arclight—oh, how that man had a flair for patience—merely adjusted his robes and gave the Minister a thin smile.
"All in good time, Minister."
He turned to Arthur, his voice smooth and deliberate.
"Mr. Weasley, thank you for being here. This won't take long. I'd simply like to revisit a few details already presented to the Wizengamot—specifically, concerning Peter Pettigrew's alleged death."
Arthur nodded, confusion deepening.
"Of course."
"Then, to confirm for the record," Adrian continued, pacing lightly, "Peter Pettigrew was presumed dead after an incident on a Muggle street, where he allegedly confronted Sirius Black, accused him of betrayal, and was killed by a Blasting Curse that also took the lives of twelve Muggles. All that remained of him was—"
"A finger," Arthur supplied. "Yes. That's what the records said."
"Quite right. Just one finger."
Adrian paused.
His tone remained calm, but I could feel something building.
The same subtle tension that rises in the air before lightning strikes.
"Tell me, Mr. Weasley," Adrian asked suddenly, "you're familiar with rodents, yes?"
Arthur blinked.
"Rodents?"
A ripple of laughter moved through the gallery, quickly silenced by a sharp look from Madam Bones.
"Yes," Arthur said cautiously. "We've… had a family pet rat for years."
"Ah, yes," Adrian replied smoothly. "That's Scabbers, isn't it?"
Arthur looked even more confused.
"Er—yes. My son's rat. He's had him since—oh—since Bill was at Hogwarts, and later passed him to Percy, who passed him to Ron."
Delores Umbridge, who had been sitting in prim, pink smugness up to this point, gave an exaggerated cough.
"Excuse me, Mr. Arclight, but is this really relevant to the matter at hand? We are here to discuss murder, not vermin!"
A few of the elder witches in the stands tittered approvingly.
Adrian, however, didn't even flinch.
His eyes remained on Arthur, his voice deceptively calm.
"With your permission, Madam Prosecutor," he said, bowing slightly in Umbridge's direction, "this will make sense in precisely… two more questions."
The entire courtroom seemed to inhale at once.
"Mr. Weasley," Adrian said, leaning on the railing of the witness stand, "how long does the average Irish rat live, to your knowledge?"
Arthur frowned, clearly perplexed. "Er—two, maybe three years at best? I'm not sure—why?"
"Two to three years," Adrian repeated, nodding thoughtfully. "And you say your family's rat—Scabbers—has been with your family for how long?"
Arthur hesitated. "Let's see… Percy had him when he started Hogwarts, and that was—Merlin, nearly twelve years ago. And before that, we found him in the garden. He already seemed a bit old then."
Adrian stopped pacing.
The silence stretched.
Then, softly: "Twelve years… and already old when found. So this rat has lived what—fifteen? Perhaps sixteen years?"
A murmur swept through the chamber.
Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "I—I suppose that's right. It's strange, now that you mention it."
Adrian inclined his head. "One more question, Mr. Weasley. If you don't mind."
He reached into his robe pocket, and the room collectively held its breath.
"Your family's rat," Adrian said, withdrawing a small, trembling bundle of fur. "He's missing a toe, isn't he?"
The gasp that followed nearly drowned out Arthur's strangled, "What in Merlin's name—?"
Because there, dangling between Adrian's fingers by the scruff of its neck, was Scabbers.
Or rather—what everyone thought was Scabbers.
The rat squeaked furiously, twisting and writhing, but Adrian's grip was firm.
Meanwhile tiny magical chains bound the creature prevent any real struggle from occuring.
But the beast still fought as if its life depended upon it, seeing the courtroom filled with people.
"The defense presents Exhibit A," he announced. "The rat known as Scabbers, family pet to the Weasley Family, a rodent having lived well beyond his natural lifespan, whose missing a toe on his front paws, and who very clearly wants to be far away from these legal proceedings."
The courtroom erupted.
Fudge slammed his gavel, shouting for order.
Umbridge shrieked about "fabrication" and "magical tampering."
Dumbledore's eyes glimmered like twin blue stars, sharp and ancient.
But the noise couldn't drown out what came next.
Adrian dropped the rat to the floor just in front of Arthur Weasley before drawing his wand.
"Revelio Animagus."
Nothing appeared to happen as an invisible stream of magic was transmitted from the wand tip into the still squirming rat.
The rat convulsed—shrieking, writhing, limbs stretching and twisting—until, in a matter of seconds, where Scabbers had been now knelt a pale, terrified man, his watery eyes darting desperately for escape.
Peter Pettigrew.
The same man who'd "died" a dozen years ago.
The same man who'd condemned Sirius Black to Azkaban.
The same man who'd sold the Potters to their deaths.
Cries of shock filled the room.
Some screamed.
Others stood frozen.
An unregistered Animagus!
That alone would be grounds for Pettigrews arrest, but to find the man was still alive all these years, and living with a notable wizarding family no less.
Fudge gaped like a beached fish.
Umbridge turned an alarming shade of puce.
And Sirius—Merlin, Sirius Black—just stared, silent tears streaking down his hollow cheeks as realization dawned.
For the first time that day his eyes which had never left the minister had shifted locking on the rat, and then the miserable excuse for a human being that rat became.