"Expecto Patronum."
Silvery mist poured from the tip of the wand, glowing softly. It didn't scatter this time—holding together instead, already forming a vague outline, like a young animal bounding lightly through the air.
"Good," Hermione said, lowering her wand and letting out a relieved breath. "You haven't fallen behind too much. At this rate, you should be able to summon a fully corporeal Patronus before summer break."
She added with a sheepish shrug, "I've been buried in the library lately and haven't practiced the Patronus Charm much myself."
"Don't you still have homework to finish?" Harry asked.
He had already stopped practicing and was sitting by the fireplace to warm up, holding a roasting fork with a slice of toast crisped to a golden brown on the end.
"Well… Professor Viktor did assign quite a lot," Hermione admitted. "But I finished it last week."
She patted the cushion and sat down in a single armchair, picked up another roasting fork, skewered a meat pie, and held it toward the fire.
"I've mostly been in the library researching Ministry trial procedures."
"Trial procedures?" Ron's voice startled Harry.
The pure-blood wizard—who had been completely absorbed in Dark Magic—slouched on the sofa, finally set aside his book on Fiendfyre, and snapped back to reality. He leaned over and snatched Harry's freshly toasted bread.
Plopping down next to him, Ron took a big bite and asked through a mouthful, "What trial procedures? You should've asked me—my dad works at the Ministry!"
Harry blinked, looked at the now-empty roasting fork, then at Hermione, clearly confused.
"What other trial could it be?" Hermione said irritably. "Obviously Sirius's."
She had been through this before. Back when Hagrid secretly hatched Norbert, these two had been just as distracted—completely fixated on the baby dragon—while she was the only one in the library calculating how many years Hagrid might be sentenced to.
"…"
Harry scratched his head, finally catching on.
When the Ministry took Sirius away, Harry had been reluctant to part with him. Then that very night, Professor Levent had produced the Resurrection Stone and reunited him with his parents. Ever since, Harry had been caught between the joy of reunion, the ache of separation, and nonstop Patronus practice.
"The truth's already been uncovered," Harry said slowly. "I thought Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall had everything arranged. Once the holidays end and the trial starts, Sirius will be cleared."
"Assuming everything goes normally," Ron said, swallowing the last of the toast.
"What do you mean by that?" Harry felt a chill creep up his spine.
"The Ministry isn't Hogwarts," Ron explained. "We shut down for Christmas, but the Ministry doesn't. Staff are always on duty. Normally, trials don't have to wait until after the holidays."
He even gave an example. "Last Christmas, Willy Widdershins enchanted a public toilet so it grew teeth and bit a Muggle's backside into seven pieces. Two hundred Galleons in fines, three months in Azkaban—sentenced the same day."
"Then why are they delaying Sirius's trial?" Harry demanded.
"Could be that pink toad stirring things up. Could be Fudge trying to undermine Dumbledore. Who knows?"
Seeing Harry's brow furrow anxiously, Ron clapped him on the shoulder and skewered a few mushrooms onto his fork for him.
"Relax, mate. The Ministry isn't just Fudge and Umbridge. There are decent people there too—like my dad."
"I know Mr. Weasley's a good man," Harry said quietly. "But he can't help with this."
"Then there's Director Bones," Ron continued. "And Dumbledore's Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Professor Levent has influence too…"
He spoke calmly. "This is too big a case to delay forever. At worst, Fudge can stall until the holidays end. Once it reaches the courtroom, the presiding judge and the Wizengamot decide—not him."
Harry had just started to relax when Hermione's next words made his heart leap back into his throat.
"Actually," she said, "Fudge can."
She waved her wand, summoning the documents she'd brought back. "The Ministry's structure is extremely outdated. Most authority is concentrated in the Minister's hands. The Wizengamot exists to limit that power, but it's really just a loose council of senior witches and wizards—with no direct administrative control."
She continued, "As long as procedure is technically legal and the justification sounds reasonable, Fudge can interfere in almost every department."
She flipped to a bookmarked page and pointed. "Sirius's original conviction didn't even involve a trial. At the time, the courtrooms were overloaded. For cases that looked airtight, clerks from a few departments could approve sentencing."
"You're saying…" Ron frowned. "Fudge could flood the court schedule with minor cases and keep Sirius stuck in limbo? Or hand it off to Umbridge?"
"How dare he!" Harry burst out.
"Or," Hermione added calmly, "he could appoint himself as presiding judge."
She switched to another document. "These regulations are incredibly vague. Honestly, aside from the Statute of Secrecy, most wizarding law is sloppy. A presiding judge has enormous discretion."
"That's how Malfoy and the others escaped punishment twelve years ago," she said. "And why Professor Snape, with Dumbledore's backing, didn't even have to post bail or give a statement."
She paused briefly. Professor Levent's habit of skating along legal gray areas suddenly made a lot of sense.
"Discretion… bail…" Harry murmured, lost.
"It means the judge's personal will can steer the outcome," Hermione explained gently. "In Sirius's case—he wasn't the Secret Keeper and never served Voldemort. But he violated the Statute of Secrecy by dueling Peter in a Muggle street. Twelve Muggles died. Legally, he bears secondary responsibility."
"That was Peter's fault!" Harry protested. "Why blame Sirius?"
"We have to admit that without Sirius chasing him, Peter wouldn't have caused the explosion," Hermione said quietly.
"But Sirius already paid!" Harry snapped. "Twelve years in Azkaban—twelve years of torture!"
"The Ministry's wrongful conviction was also partly because Sirius refused to cooperate back then," Hermione said evenly. "He didn't explain himself, didn't appeal, escaped illegally as an unregistered Animagus, and caused public chaos."
She took a breath. "If the trial goes badly… he could be sent back."
Silence fell.
"That's why I've been researching," Hermione said firmly. "We can't let Fudge control this. We have to defend Sirius and convince the Wizengamot."
She handed Harry the roasted meat pie. It was so hot he jerked his hand back instinctively.
Harry held the pie without speaking.
Ron snatched it away cheerfully. "Relax. Worst case, we break him out. I've almost mastered Fiendfyre—burn down Fudge's office and that pink toad's while we're at it."
…
Hogsmeade—The Three Broomsticks.
With the holidays nearly over, Melvin met a few professors for drinks. Flitwick and Sprout declined the private upstairs room—it was too quiet—and the ground-floor bar was packed, Madam Rosmerta nearly buried in customers.
By chance, they ran into Tonks on duty and ended up together in a corner on the second floor.
Lupin looked slightly uncomfortable. His clothes, though mended, were old—washed thin, faded at the creases, giving him a worn, down-on-his-luck look.
"Your eggnog and mead," said the server, setting down a tray.
Professor Flitwick ordered fruit soda with syrup, topped with a cherry and a tiny paper umbrella—delicate and adorable, utterly at odds with his rough goblin-blooded appearance.
Tonks downed her eggnog through a straw and glanced toward the crowd gathered around the enchanted screen.
"The mirror business really rakes it in," she said. "Just wait, Melvin—Fudge will come knocking for donations sooner or later."
The second floor doubled as a screening room. A trailer for Magical Epic played on the screen. By Melvin's modern standards, it was barely passable—flat storytelling, stiff acting, more documentary than drama, with Malfoy and Nott names shoved in at every opportunity.
But the wizards loved it. Seeing textbook history brought to life had them buzzing with excitement.
At Tonks's comment, Melvin smiled. "Donations? I was already thinking about it."
That got everyone's attention.
"You'll see soon enough," he said, taking a sip of mead.
They didn't press him, choosing instead to enjoy the last hours of the holiday, clinking glasses and chatting.
Flitwick ate the cherry and twirled the little umbrella, looking at his former student. "Tonks, you've been stationed in Hogsmeade all holiday. Didn't you even get Christmas off?"
"What can you do…" Tonks slumped. "I'm the youngest in the unit, not married, no kids. If I don't work, who does—Mad-Eye? Oh, right, he's retired. I'll make it up at Easter."
"Aurors pulled out already, didn't they?" Lupin asked.
"Patrol Aurors, yeah," Tonks replied. "But someone has to keep an eye on the Dementors. Fudge and—well—Umbridge's little schemes. You know how it is."
She winked.
Lupin looked away awkwardly. "Do you… have to go back to the Ministry during shift changes?"
"You mean Sirius Black?" Tonks said flatly.
Everyone looked at her.
Her tone turned serious. "Fudge is deliberately delaying the trial. He's stuffing the schedule with meaningless cases. Enforcement staff are still on holiday, but the courtrooms are already overwhelmed."
She paused. "Best estimate? Sirius's case won't be heard for at least two more weeks."
Sprout and Flitwick frowned deeply.
"How is Sirius?" Lupin asked. "Is he… all right?"
"Depends. Night-shift staff sometimes turn off the fireplaces—probably on Umbridge's orders. The holding cells get freezing. Peter curled up as a rat. Sirius had to pay heating fees."
Seeing Lupin's worried face, Tonks added quickly, "But it's not much. When Director Bones checked in, Sirius was still joking—said even if he stayed two hundred years, it wouldn't be enough to buy Harry a Firebolt."
Lupin didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
"Bones didn't like that joke," Tonks added dryly. "She hates his pure-blood attitude."
…
Sunlight reflected off the snow, slanting through the windows. Melvin listened quietly, mead in hand, then turned to look outside.
A clear winter day—but a band of white mist hung in the distance, blocking half the sunlight over Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. Cloaked black figures drifted within it, ugly and intrusive.
Two hours later.
The professors walked back toward the castle. Flitwick still carried the little paper umbrella like a child with a new toy. Melvin kept glancing at the Dementors in the sky, his gaze so peculiar that Lupin kept sneaking looks at him.
It felt less like concern—and more like a hunter sizing up prey.
Lupin shook his head and spoke again. "We can't let Fudge drag this out forever. Sirius can't stay in a holding cell indefinitely. Is there any way to bypass Fudge and force a trial? Preferably without Umbridge interfering."
"I recall the Wizengamot has some kind of special provision."
"There is," Flitwick said thoughtfully. "Melvin actually experienced it. When he first arrived at Hogwarts and Umbridge tried to target him, Madam Marchbanks called a vote and bypassed the Ministry entirely."
Lupin's eyes lit up. "Could that work for Sirius?"
Flitwick hesitated. "Madam Marchbanks acted not only as a Wizengamot member, but also as head of the Examinations Authority. Melvin's reforms fell under her jurisdiction."
"Sirius's case is far more complex," Sprout said carefully. "To directly initiate a trial, you'd need the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—and ideally the Chief Warlock himself."
"That would require Dumbledore to take a public stand," she added softly.
To openly oppose Fudge.
Melvin understood their hesitation. The Headmaster had avoided power for decades, locking himself away from politics—even at Voldemort's height, he never crossed that self-imposed line.
And now, once again, the cost of stepping beyond it loomed heavily.