Disclaimer: Universe and characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I just borrow them for my dreams. I make no money off them.

A/N This story was originally only three chapters. But I have now decided to continue it. The first three chapters are re-posted along with the uploading of the new fourth chapter, because I have done some minor changes to the disclaimer and the formatting. The content is the same. Also, since this is now the first part in a possible longer series, I've decided to add section titles.

PART ONE

THE HEARING

ONE

The sobbing and the wailing fades. (I never sobbed and wailed. But I always hear sobs and wails.) They are retreating. Someone is coming.

I don't get up anymore. To stare them down. Put on some sorry show of defiance. That's long gone. I look at the texture of the wall. I notice every crack, every bump. It's a blessing to notice them. An awakening.

I savour the clearing of my mind. The thin prickle of energy seeping into my limbs. I know it won't last.

The clammy Dementor fog inside my head never entirely lifts. But there is a clearer focus now. I hear the key in the corridor door.

Only me in this corridor. What do they want this time? Clean my cell? Feed me?

My filth is cleared from outside my cell by some house elf magic. I've seen them. The prison elves. Food is pushed underneath the bars by the human guards who sometimes check on me, and the (sometimes) emptied bowl Accioed out again.

Keeping time is hard in here: The light is from gas lamps in the corridor and it never changes. But no, I don't think it's time for cleaning or feeding. My stomach is not bothering me at the moment. There's no sickening stink in my nose from my own waste.

So what do they want? Check on me? Let some big shot who's bribed the human guards come and stand near the bars to goggle at me, the mad animal?

I never knew there were people who would want to do that. Come to Azkaban and get a kick from its grossest. Get turned on by a close view of this excitingly filthy and dangerous criminal inside my cage of a cell.

But people do want that. Oh, they do. Someone must have made a small fortune off me by now.

I know what they think. I hear their whispers at the bars. Their bloody panting! I swear it sometimes sounds as if they're jerking it off while staring at me. Then they'll be off to brag at their trendy parties: I saw the demon. He looked completely insane!

Yeah. That's what we do in here. Insane.

I'm so tired. Whenever the Dementors are gone, I get to sense how tired I am. I support my forehead against the wall and close my eyes.

I don't know what I want the most. The freak show to be over fast or the Dementors to stay away long.

They don't stop at the door to goggle. They open the door.

They're opening the door to my cell.

I don't open my eyes. I don't turn my head. But I hear it: the key in the lock, the screeching of the hinges.

What do they want with me? This can't be good.

'Mr. Black?' a voice says in my cell. Tentative. Almost polite. 'Mr. Sirius Black? Are you awake? You're wanted at the Ministry – we've come to escort you there.'

I sit at the bottom of a deep and vast room, dimly lit by torches. There are too many people in here. Hundreds of witches and wizards sit on benches rising in levels around the walls. They're staring down at me, all of them. Leaning towards each other, whispering.

The sound is like a wind in the room. It wakes up a faint image somewhere in my mind. Something moving. Something green.

Leaves. I remember leaves. Boughs moving in the wind, making green leaves rustle. That's it; that's what the sound in this room is like.

But it's not. It's the sound of people, whispering about me, staring at me, and they are not my friends. None of them. Not anymore.

I want to close my eyes against them. But that may be dangerous. I need to watch.

I want to see when they do whatever they mean to do to me. If I'm going down, I'm not going down oblivious.

They didn't escort me here, those almost polite people who entered my cell. No matter what they said they would do. Dementors did that.

Those people escorted me no longer than to the quarters of the human guards. Who magicked my ragged prison robes off my back and pushed me stark naked under a shower. Who used their wands to take my beard away and shorten my hair to shoulder length before they threw some old, but clean, black robes at me.

I'm ashamed to remember it. I struggled to put on those robes under the hard gaze of the guards. I struggled even more with the ill-fitting leather boots they brought me next. My Dementor-addled brain barely recognised what they were at first. My hands needed time to properly remember where they fit.

When they brought me out of the shower room, the Azkaban guards had a yelling-fest with the outside people who took me out of my cell.

'Black is still a top security prisoner!' the guards yelled. 'Show us an authorised document stating otherwise!'

The yelling ended when the guards called the Dementors. Who brought me here – by boat. I think. And maybe some carriage or other. I'm not sure. The Floo after that? You don't really notice things when Dementors travel before and after and beside you, holding your arms.

I didn't really notice anything before I was seated here, feeling the cold Dementor fog only slowly leave my brain. Watching them glide across the floor and disappear behind a small door in the far corner to my left.

Discovering all the people staring down at me.

I don't know what I'm doing here. What place this is. I try to shift in my chair, but I can't.

Golden chains encircle my arms and hold them tight against the armrests of my chair. I can't move one inch. All I can do is turn my head, or kick my feet out.

Which I'm not going to do. I remember my name. I know who I am. I am not going to show them Sirius Black doing anything as futile, as humiliating as that.

I stare straight ahead, up at the people on the nearest benches. There must be a reason why they have me facing these people in particular.

I am so tired. So tired. But the chains hold me up. And the Dementors are gone. Far gone. I don't sense them at all.

That has never happened before, in all the long years I've spent in my cell at Azkaban.

I am waking up.

My thoughts are slow and laborious. But I can hold my focus. I start to take notice. I recognise what I see the moment I see it.

The fifty-something people in front of me are on the highest benches in the room. Their robes are plum-coloured with an elaborately worked silver 'W' on the left-hand-side of the chest –

W –

Wizengamot.

Bloody hell. Have they brought me here for a trial?

After all this time?

An open trial it seems, with all these people around all the walls, staring down at me.

Someone is talking from up high. Seated in the middle of the highest bench.

'I think it is reasonable to assume Black did not quite understand – or even hear before,' he says. 'We need to take the Dementor effect into account here. We must allow Mr. Black some time to recover before we demand any answers from him.'

I know this man.

Dumbledore.

Is the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot?

Yes. I knew that.

Dumbledore believes I'm the filthy traitor. He's with the Hit Squad that arrested me and threw me in Azkaban to rot. If not, he would have had me out of there a long time ago.

Why does he want to showcase me here? Isn't the goggling visitors in Azkaban enough?

After his little speech, the whispering in the benches dies down a bit. I look at him and his neutral face steadies my brain. Because I know that face.

But it does me no good to remember it. It makes everything seep back into my mind: The times when this man looked at me in trust. My chest begins to ache from a grieving pain keener than Dementor fog.

Because now I am fully aware of all the good things I've lost and I must not remember anything else.

James' face. Laughing at me like a brother. Next to him is Peter, admiring me.

And now I do look down after all. This will be much crueler than I thought.

'Mr. Black?'

It's Dumbledore addressing me. It's surprising how such a soft voice carries so well in this huge dungeon of a room. I look up at him again.

'Do you know where you are?'

I nod. I do. Now.

But he spells it out for me nonetheless. Tells me this is courtroom 10 at the Ministry of Magic. I am brought here in front of the Wizengamot because they want to investigate the evidence concerning my alleged crimes in the last war.

My alleged crimes. He put a slight, but very distinct accent on that word. I heard it. I noticed.

He starts to name all the important ones present: Head of the law department who will lead the interrogations, secretaries and undersecretaries, scribes and whatnot. Their names mean nothing to me and they don't stick. I don't look at them. I look at him, trying to read his face.

But it's still neutral, revealing nothing.

There is a pause after the last name mentioned. We look at each other. They are almost silent in the benches.

Then he nods towards a woman with short grey hair and a monocle standing at his right. She nods back and addresses me.

'You are Sirius Orion Black?' she says.

So the game begins.

I nod.

'Please speak up for the Wizengamot. Are you Sirius Orion Black?'

I try to find my voice, never used for I don't know how long.

'Yes,' I croak. 'I am Sirius Black.'

Omitting the name of my father. But she doesn't comment on that.

I don't recognise my voice as mine. It sounds like the voice of a ghost. But my voice, too, carries well in the bleak air of this room. Maybe there's some magic involved.

The witch says something about examining the accusations against me, to decide whether they warrant a trial.

This is not a trial?

They haven't decided whether they want to try me yet?

The witch continues to say something about my rights according to some laws and charters of the Ministry of Magic and the Wizengamot. It's all in legal lingo, too advanced for my fucked up, sluggish brain.

But she doesn't seem to expect me to follow. Or care very much if I do.

It's all form, this.

'On the night of October the 31th, 1981, the Dark wizard known as Lord Voldemort broke into the home of James and Lily Potter in Godric's Hollow and had them killed – '

My heart starts to pound as if it wants to beat me up from within. My vision darkens. At the back of my mind the sound of wails and sobs is returning. And now I get to realise with a clearer mind who it is.

It was never me who sobbed and wailed next to their dead bodies. It was Lily's baby boy. My godson. Harry.

I don't need this.

'Mr. Black?' the witch says.

I look up and realise my whole body is trembling. I don't have the energy needed to command my tongue. I think she's been calling on me to answer her a couple of times already. But I'm not sure I know what her question was.

'Perhaps, Madam Bones, you need to rephrase the charges in a simpler manner, one element at a time, to ensure that Mr. Black will understand,' I hear Dumbledore say. 'Mr. Black has, after all, been under Dementor influence for the full length of eight years and three months at this point.'

'Quite,' the witch says, not looking at him. Her voice is deeper than his. 'Miss Ackerley?'

A young witch at the very end of the front bench puts down a purple-feathered quill and stands up.

'Madam Bones?'

'I believe the guards of our holding cells carry chocolate on them, when they need to deal with prisoners escorted by Dementors,' the grey-haired witch says. 'Please have one of them get some for Mr. Black. I need to know he understands the charges before I ask him how he pleads.'

The young witch gets up and leaves the room. There's a flurry of movement, a murmur in the benches.

The young witch returns through the small door in the corner, followed by a stern-looking, elderly wizard. He comes across the room to stand over me, holding out something in his right hand. I stare down at it. It's a small, dark brown bar.

My brain is still slow. I still hear the baby wailing. I don't know what this is.

'Take it and eat,' the man says. 'It's chocolate. Will do you good. Here.'

He lifts it to my mouth. The smell makes my stomach churn. But it somehow agrees with my brain. It somehow mellows the screams.

Chocolate.

I take a bite. I chew and swallow and fight to keep the sick down. This rich, fat taste in my mouth is nothing like the prison food of Azkaban. My stomach is no longer fit for this kind of thing.

But then there is an odd sensation of warmth in the sick, spreading from my stomach out into my limbs. It makes them ache, as if I ought to hear my joints creak. The back of the chair starts to hurt the knots of my spine. It's seat starts to hurt my sitting bones.

It dawns on me that I must be very thin. I have no flesh to cushion my bones.

The sensation spreading in my body is not warm when it reaches my brain. It's cool. The wailing in my mind start to fade; the room around me widens.

I take more bites. I chew very carefully before I swallow to be sure the sick stays down. Now I feel my teeth ice and ache. They must be rotten.

But my brain clears. At least some. I am too tired and I ache all over, body, soul and mind. But I can think.

It won't last. They want me to think only so I shall understand what they say when they judge me and send me to hell. Forever. This time making it official.

But I'm still grateful.

The wizard guard patiently stands to offer me the chocolate, waiting till I have downed it all and kept it down before he retreats from my side and leaves the courtroom.

The grey-haired witch in the high bench nods down at me. Madam Bones.

'Mr. Black,' she says. 'I will now present you with the charges against you. Do you understand what this means?'

'Yes,' I croak.

Oh yes. I understand.

'The charges against you consist of three different allegations. Accusations that is. I will present you with one at a time. Please answer truthfully to each question with a simple yes or no. Please let me know if you do not fully understand any or all of the questions. Do you understand what I just said?'

'Yes.'

'Very well. Now answer my first question truthfully. Were you, Sirius Orion Black, at any point in the last war a spy for Lord Voldemort?'

A spark of anger lights up inside. Joined by a ghost of contempt at all the hushed gasps I hear around the room as she spells out the hated name.

This small boost of energy is a blessing. It gives me the strength to glare. There's a hint of pride in my croaking voice when I state my answer. I hope they all hear that.

'No.'

Now a hushed whisper makes its round in the benches.

'Did you at any point reveal the hiding place of James and Lily Potter to the enemy?'

'No.'

'On the 1st of November 1981, did you kill 12 Muggles with one blasting spell and wound 16?'

'No.'

Madam Bones just nods. The whispering in the benches doesn't get any louder. She proceeds to recite in a detached, formal voice:

'Let the record show that Mr. Sirius Black has claimed innocence to all charges made against him before the Wizengamot.'

Something is off about this. Yes. I do claim innocence to those charges. But -

Peter. She didn't mention Peter. Why am I not charged with the murder of Peter?

I would have murdered him. I wanted to. But he was quicker. Peter bested me in a duel –

Because I never expected him to do what he did. Cast a spell behind his back instead of aiming one at me. Never thought Peter had it in him to kill a dozen innocent bystanders in order to outsmart me and get away.

Even though I knew he had gone Dark, I never saw that one coming.

'The Wizengamot is now ready to hear the witnesses,' the grey-haired witch says. 'But I suggest Mr. Black is first given some rest away from the Dementors, and some basic medical attention, by someone at least on a Mediwitch level. I fear that he may otherwise not be able to pay full attention to the testimony given, and as a result may not understand how to defend himself in front of this court.'

The wind of whispers in the room before was nothing compared to the storm now rising in the benches. But the grey-haired witch – Madam Bones – is unperturbed. She addresses someone in the benches behind me.

'Mr. Scrimgeour, I trust you will see to it that my orders are fully carried out, with all the necessary precautions the security levels of this case demands,' she says. 'Just make sure the Dementors have no more direct contact with Mr. Black until a verdict is reached by this court. The Wizengamot will now take a three hour recess. Thank you.'

They take me to a small room next to the hall of the court. The Dementors are at the other side of the door. I sense them. Their cold, their fog. But at least the door is closed and they are not here. I appreciate the difference.

They bring me to a soft couch and tell me to lie down. It doesn't hurt my pelvis bones or my spine. Pillows are stacked under my head. Three or four of them have their wands out and their eyes fixed on me at all times.

They are Aurors. I recognise at least one face. There are at least five or six of them. They don't talk. Not to me, nor among themselves. But I'm really too tired to look at them much.

Then a Mediwitch arrives. Or maybe she's a Healer. She orders everyone to back off and fusses over me something awful.

I don't like her sighs and huffs and complaints. She talks non-stop under her breath about the horror of Azkaban, the shame of the Dementors and I don't think she looks me in the eye even once, save for examination.

But she knows her healing. She uses a wand, and potions, and pads to place on my joints and chest and forehead. Her wand stops the aching in my teeth. Her pads are steeped in strange smelling concoctions that ease the aching in my body and head. Her potions taste of chocolate and something bitter besides, but do not make me sick. They clear my mind.

When she leaves and one of the Aurors tells me to get up and come with them back to the court, I don't sway when I stand up. My head doesn't swim. I will never be more lucid than this for the rest of my life. They will bring me back to face my doom.

Two of the Aurors take me by my arms and lead me back to courtroom 10. The others follow around me and behind me. The Wizengamot is ready and waiting and so are all the spectators.

But as I sit down in front of the high benches, the chains on the armrests of my chair do not move to restrain me. There's a cushion on the seat. The whispering in the benches feels different somehow.

The grey-haired, monocled witch again stands up.

'The Wizengamot is now in session,' she says. 'We will hear the first witness in the examining of the charges against Mr. Sirius Black. I call Mr. Remus Lupin.'

Remus. Will witness against me.

I don't turn my head as I hear him come; I look straight ahead. I would have recognised those steps anywhere. Even in Azkaban, with a hundred Dementors between us.

But you are weary, Moony. You drag your feet. Do you even have a limp?

I know who you are. James and I thought you were the spy. So what can I ever say against you.

Just make it short. I forgive you already. I forgave you anything you might ever do to me a hundred years ago, when we were still a pair of idiot kids at a school.

So it's alright. It will always be alright.

I hear Remus stop to stand at a distance on my right.

'State your name for the court,' the witch says.

She moves you down her list of formalities and I get to hear your voice.

Your address is no longer the same. 'Unemployed,' she makes you say while this crowd of many-hundred-something spectators is listening.

And then she forces you to stand in front of all the whispering benches and admit that you are a werewolf. Explain to her all the humiliating precautions you go through every month to make the public safe.

I hear as everyone in the benches whips up a nasty whispering wind about you. There's a smoldering anger started somewhere in my groin.

But I can't stand up to defend you. You don't want my defense anymore. Your old friend, the mad mass-murderer.

'The Wizengamot declares you worthy of being heard as a trustworthy witness, in spite of your condition,' the grey-haired witch says. 'Let the records show that on the date of this hearing, the full moon is still twenty days away. Now please relate to this court as truthfully as you can what you know of the recent events pertaining to the charges against Mr. Black.'

Your voice is so slow, so subdued and tired, Moony. So alien. So well known.

What happened to you to give you such a voice? Or is it because you must witness against me? Don't you do it willingly?

It's hard for me to follow what you say. You speak without interruptions and there are some whispers. But not enough to be disturbing. It's my brain that is still too slow.

My head gets dizzy, my thoughts woolen from trying to understand. I ponder over the few facts I do get. I don't understand how they relate to me. To the charges against me.

The deaths of James and Lily – but you don't talk about them at all.

Mr. Weasley. Arthur Weasley. Invited you to a Christmas party, just because – he bumped into you and you had nowhere else to go.

Don't talk like that about yourself in front of the court, Moony. Show them your pride. These people are not your friends. They think you're a werewolf freak and want to lock you up.

So he said you could come for old time sake –

Old time's sake? They were never in the Order, the Weasleys?

Molly. Yeah. The Prewett brothers? Wasn't their sister called Molly Weasley?

Yes. We made a makeshift infirmary at their house once. After that battle at the Muggle village. I remember now. They had a bunch of kids.

Or was that someone else?

They were not in the Order. But maybe we did know them at one point.

Or – you knew them. Everyone likes you, Moony. But why are you talking to the court about these Weasley people? How come they have any evidence against me?

Must be something Peter planted.

You sat in their living room on Christmas Day. Hidden in a corner.

Why in a corner? Why hidden? Didn't you just say you were invited?

The kids came in from playing in the snow outside and they didn't see you.

A Christmas party at the Weasleys. I don't get it.

Snow.

Snow outside. Winter.

Is it winter now?

Percy and his pet rat. Sounds like a children's book.

I don't remember any Percy. Didn't Molly Prewett – Weasley – have a son called Charlie? Or was it Bill?

...

!

But.

But.

Don't tell them that. You shouldn't tell them that. The secret.

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs.

Moony?

You knew he was an Animagus at school. Peter.

You're telling them the secret about us?

It was your secret, too. We did it to be with you.

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs.

And James' secret. You don't want to tell them about James!

Let them add Padfoot to my charges if that's why you're here. But don't tell them about Prongs!

Moony, Wormtail –

You're moving on. You didn't tell them about Padfoot and Prongs.

You told them about you and Peter. But not me and James. Why...?

Moony, Wormtail –

You performed the Revealing Spell.

In the corner.

From the corner.

Revealing Spell?

They saw him.

Arthur Weasley works for the Ministry and saw him, too.

On the table. You crashed the table.

He crashed the table.

You stunned him.

She stunned him. Molly.

Percy.

Table.

Percy screamed. Smashed all the crockery

on the table.

No.

No.

Peter

smashed

all the crockery. On the table. When you cast the Revealing Spell

as he ran

across it.

The table.

Peter. On the table. And they all

saw him.

Saw him.

YOU FOUND HIM! WHERE IS HE? WHERE?

'Mr. Black, please sit down.'

I shiver. Did I scream? Maybe I'm crying. I don't know. I can't stop.

'Mr. Black! I must ask you to sit down immediately!'

I'm standing?