Preparing for the performance at the Ministry took up an entire packed day. Andrei made several trips between Grimmauld Place and the cottage, barely found time to eat—simply forgot, in the end. Late that evening they crept into the Hogwarts kitchens like hungry students and wheedled food from the house-elves, who rarely slept and were only too happy to pile provisions on them.
Peter couldn't get a bite down until Hagrid made a run to Grimmauld for Calming Draught—twice—plus a Dreamless Sleep potion. And at last, morning.
"Peter—you haven't changed your mind?"
"No. Just— could I have more Calming Draught?"
"In a bit. Hold on. Better right before we leave—it'll last longer. You remember the order?"
"Yes. Want me to run through it?"
"Go ahead."
"I cast double Protego. You add a sphere over the top. Sonorus. I state who I am and why I've come. I start with the fact that I was the Secret Keeper."
"Pause before that. A short one—let people gather."
"Right. Then the Unbreakable Vow I asked for."
"Exactly. Don't forget who cast the protection."
"Mm. Then how I was caught."
"The Marks."
"The Marks— do I show all of them? The one on my chest too?"
"Only if you're comfortable."
"Comfortable?" Peter gave a crooked smile. "I don't care."
"Pull yourself together, Peter. I think after what you say today, there will be people who want to stand by you."
"What's the point—" he began to wave it off, but then caught himself and asked: "And if journalists start asking questions?"
"Answer the question first, then carry straight on with your account. Right—let's go."
* * *
At Grimmauld Place they were received calmly. Even Snape said nothing and didn't drill Pettigrew with a lethal stare—he looked at him with a kind of detachment. The way you look at a condemned man. Though Pettigrew wasn't far off it, and had already begun to look different—composed somehow, contained. As though he had aged forty years overnight. His temples had gone slightly white. He even asked Snape for poison—and the way he asked it: that it would be a pleasure for Snape too, having it done by his own hand. Snape was taken aback for half a second, and who knows what he might have said, had they not been interrupted.
Walburga Black held out to Pettigrew not a vial but an ampoule.
"Take this. It's a good poison. You won't feel anything."
"I couldn't have hoped for this, my lady." Peter's hands stopped shaking.
"I will be in your debt. For my son."
"It won't be for long, Lady Black," he sighed.
"That is for me to judge, boy. Promise me you'll only use it if it becomes truly unbearable." She waited until Peter had given his word, then commanded: "Right. We go."
Andrei caught, out of the corner of his eye, Snape pressing a small bottle with opaque black walls into Pettigrew's hand and whispering something. Another poison?
Peter raised it to his lips, drank, and grimaced—then immediately began Transfiguring his clothes, glancing at the others, who were doing much the same. Only Lady Black remained herself; she was helping her son sort out a new set of robes.
* * *
The conspirators timed their arrival in the Ministry of Magic's Atrium perfectly: enough people to navigate without jostling, but enough that navigation required some weaving. Ministry workers were heading out for lunch.
Peter Pettigrew, having swallowed whatever Snape had given him in the bottle, leapt in one bound onto the rim of the famous fountain and immediately cast Protego. The movement alone was sufficiently scandalous to attract attempts to bring him to order—but the support team was ready. They surrounded him with a double spherical shield, and it began.
The announcement and confession of guilt, amplified by Sonorus, rolled out to a collective gasp from the crowd. Aurors, naturally, were not far away and made every possible attempt to remove Pettigrew from his "podium" and haul him off—but the wand-wielding support team in concealed positions was not caught napping.
Three, then five Aurors in crimson robes hammered at Pettigrew with spells like determined woodpeckers, and holding them off grew harder and harder, such that the veins on the forehead of an elderly lady in an enormous hat with a stuffed pygmy griffin stood out visibly, and sweat ran down her temples. The same could be said of two stick-thin ladies in black—the twin sisters might have recalled Walburga Black to someone who knew her. But very few people in this crowd were in a position to make that connection. The lady had rarely graced the Ministry with her presence, and her portrait hadn't appeared in the papers in quite some time.
Help came from an unexpected direction—actually, from two unexpected directions. Rookwood and a group of colleagues from the Department of Mysteries stopped all the incoming spells—whether with an artefact or some other means wasn't immediately clear—and the enthusiastic Aurors attacking the star witness were swept up by journalists, from whose grip there was no escaping. The one commanding the Aurors was restrained by Madam Bones herself—Alastor Moody was not in a position to ignore the displeasure of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, paranoia or not. Especially given that she was one of the finest witches in Britain.
When she appeared in the Atrium, the chaos the Aurors had created died away with remarkable speed.
The Magical Cameras fired without pause, flash after flash. More wizards kept arriving. Quick-Quotes Quills scratched furiously; someone was despatching owls urgently; a whole flock of paper aeroplane memos dispersed to every floor and corridor.
The results were swift: the Atrium became crowded. The Unspeakables' ban on spellcasting remained in force, however, so Peter's voice was increasingly hard to hear. But Rookwood himself and three colleagues had taken positions beside him—artefact ready, wands drawn—and quickly clarified that there would be no magic until their prospective future colleague finished his account.
Peter was so taken aback he nearly sat down. Then he looked with disbelief at two elderly ladies in black—twins or sisters—blinked, and caught the crooked smile of one of them. He exhaled. Then Rookwood nudged him: come on, son, finish up, then we'll deal with the paperwork.
The crowd kept growing. New arrivals who tried to ask questions or complain they couldn't hear were hushed by their neighbours, so the silence broke only occasionally and only for a moment.
Oh—Malfoy! Andrei noticed with satisfaction a tall, elegant blond with a haughty but distinctly interested expression. Didn't something say he'd served a month or two in Azkaban? Or was that only in fanfics? Clever man. Wriggled out fast. And he came at exactly the right moment.
Exactly right—Peter was rolling up his sleeve. Then the other. Then, having politely warned the audience that he was about to unbutton his shirt and ladies need not look, he proceeded. As if they would. The ladies whom someone had tried to nudge aside took a collective step forward, encountered no obstruction, and settled into the best available viewing positions.
Andrei noted with satisfaction how Malfoy's expression changed at the sight of the familiar tattoo. And how Rookwood's jaw tightened.
You thought it was an honour, did you? A mark of special trust? he thought with some venom. Well—enjoy it, branded creatures. Learn what you were actually given, and what Voldemort's trust costs. Wait until Snape and the Blacks work out how to deal with that particular affliction—then you'll come running to us. And we'll find a use for you.
When Peter explained what those Marks had actually been designed to do, the entire Atrium appeared to hold its breath.
Tipping off Skeeter to get the journalists to handle the Aurors was a good call, Andrei congratulated himself. We couldn't have held them all off on our own.
A new group of Aurors joined the Unspeakables—apparently under Scrimgeour's command. These behaved entirely differently: they simply formed a line, a kind of cordon, holding the crowd back with their wand arms extended. The charm wasn't working, of course, but the reflex was intact—the crowd drew back. Someone stepped on someone's foot, a few complaints, but it settled quickly.
"My lady, could you move slightly?" Andrei heard a familiar voice and nearly sat down.
Yes, of course—he was under Polyjuice, in the guise of the unforgettable Augusta. If the crowd's attention hadn't been completely fixed on Pettigrew, things might have become rather entertaining just now. Or rather, the reverse.
Two stuffed pygmy griffins swayed as though debating whether to fight each other or embrace. Two stoat heads on a tippet snapped their jaws in unison.
And then Augusta Longbottom herself—the recent heroine and celebrated figure—smiling, patted her double on the shoulder and murmured something along the lines of "The debt is not yet settled, Mr Snape, but I believe it's time for you to go," and stepped back with perfect dignity. Then he heard a whisper close to his ear:
"I'll keep an eye on your boy. Go. Otherwise we'll attract unnecessary attention. I'll send you an owl when it's done."
"To Hagrid," he whispered back, watching bewilderment give way on Madam Longbottom's face to unexpected interest, even anticipation.
Andrei gave a silent nod and began making his careful way toward two elderly ladies in black—and from there, to the exit. A nondescript wizard with a scar on his cheek followed slowly behind.
* * *
Mercifully, the Iron Augusta did not see her double slipping toward the exit in the company of the enemy of her youth—Walburga Black, in duplicate—or there was no telling how things might have gone. As it was, she was pushing through the crowd toward her former Auror colleagues, greeting Scrimgeour, who flinched slightly. But who cared about that?
Peter Pettigrew had finished his confession and was now fielding questions from journalists. There were many.
After some time, Rufus Scrimgeour felt a tug on his sleeve.
"I'm technically a criminal, aren't I, sir," the thoroughly hoarse Peter whispered. "And they've got a press conference going. Is that how it's supposed to work?"
Scrimgeour looked with some sympathy at the already rather damp young man and turned to Rookwood.
"Ours or yours, to start?"
"Yours, of course. To begin with."
"Let the boy go!" someone in the crowd shouted. "He's been through enough!"
"Don't you dare put him in Azkaban!" came another voice.
Rookwood and his colleagues deactivated the artefact and raised shields, and Amelia Bones's voice rang through the Atrium, amplified by Sonorus:
"As Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I declare that the witness will remain in the Ministry's custody until his own trial and until the retrial of Sirius Black. The date of the hearings will be announced in the Daily Prophet with one day's notice."
* * *
Where was the Supreme Mugwump at this critical moment? Why hadn't he come and turned everything to his own purposes—he could have managed it. Surely someone had sent word?
Word had been sent. Many times over—Dumbledore had more than enough of his people in the Ministry. The difficulty was that the International Confederation of Wizards convenes in a different country each time, and the road to Tipperary is long enough, but Mount Roraima is in an entirely different category, gentlemen. Take that on faith, or verify it yourself.
By the time the esteemed Headmaster arrived, there was nothing left to arbitrate—it was well past the aftermath. He learned the first news from the newspapers, like everyone else. And after a battle, as they say, there's no point waving your fists. You can try, of course, but it generally accomplishes very little. Albus had never been a fool, nor any particular devotee of unnecessary labour.
The plan would simply need some adjustment. Sirius, naturally, would go looking for Harry the moment he came to himself. Well—let him. The only thing required was to position him correctly so that he raised the boy to be a hero. Which Albus could manage easily enough; it wasn't the first time. Black had always been under his influence, and to retain that influence, the thing to do was file for appeal as quickly as possible. Sirius must know to whom he owed his just hearing.
And he sat down at his desk and began his letter petitioning for the review of Sirius Black's case.
* * *
In the drawing room at Grimmauld Place, the improved Polyjuice was slowly wearing off—releasing Regulus from the role of his own mother, Severus from the appearance of Remus Lupin, and Hagrid from the unforgettable form of Augusta Longbottom. Well—you work with what you have. Regulus had originally intended to go as a Lupin twin alongside Snape, a matched pair of brothers, but his mother had vetoed the idea, and with a mother like that, arguing was not something one did. Particularly not this mother.
The lady had wished to attend the event in person, and recognising her when standing next to an identical copy was very nearly impossible. Only minor adjustments to the dress had been required. For presenting at the Ministry entrance, everyone had taken spare wands—the house had no shortage—and each had managed to find something reasonably suited. Entry itself proved remarkably simple. The duty officer was mildly surprised at the sudden abundance of Blacks, but then, what of it? The family had presumably left quite a lot behind; of course the relatives had roused themselves and arrived promptly.
The anti-magic artefact they hadn't anticipated—though in the end everything had gone even better than planned because of it.
Andrei asked whether the house had any wards against owls, and they were temporarily removed while they waited for Madam Longbottom's bird. No one fidgeted waiting—at Hagrid's instigation, they were all occupied with extracting from Snape the details of his recent close acquaintance with the Iron Augusta, which was not a simple undertaking. Eventually Snape gave them a general sketch of his farewell to the lady after Operation Save the Young Family.
Walburga did bristle at the mention of Bella—favourite niece, after all—but Hagrid offered to let her watch it in the Pensieve, and the lady simply waved her hand.
"The most recent generation of Blacks apparently makes a habit of going four or five against one or two?" Snape added, in what could only be described as inflammatory fashion, at which Walburga hissed like butter meeting water in a hot pan and declared that when her dear Bella was released, she would teach her properly what the honour of the Blacks meant and how it was to be observed. And dear Regulus would assist her. She then approved of Snape's "true Slytherin" conduct—a sensible boy, covered himself, did everything right.
Andrei applauded inwardly—and at that precise moment, the owl arrived.
"Trial the day after tomorrow. Separate cell in the Auror Office. Anti-magic restraints—good. Legal representation— Veritaserum—and in the meantime, a Restorative Potion and meals guaranteed for Peter."
Augusta Longbottom had not troubled herself with epistolary style this time—clearly in a hurry. Facts, only facts, nothing further.
"Severus—" Andrei suddenly remembered something he'd been meaning to ask. "What did you give Pettigrew? Did you manage to invent a Courage Potion?"
"Guess," Snape said, with a thin smile.
Walburga Black glanced at the young man with surprise, and a sly, almost girlish smile spread across her face.
"For a Slytherin, Severus Snape, you are far too much of a Gryffindor. But it does make a certain amount of sense..."