CHAP 1
After months of being submerged in darkness, the wizarding world finally saw a brighter color—the color of victory.
That war, without a clear name, came to an end on a day that none of them could ever forget.
May second, nineteen ninety-eight.
The Boy Who Lived defeated the Dark Lord, bringing an end to the era of domination and the pure-blood order he had established.
The prophecy of a child with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord had become reality.
In the days that followed, from The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly to Xenophilius Lovegood's The Quibbler... almost every newspaper in the wizarding world published stories with remarkably similar headlines.
Sensationalized titles were repeated over and over, centering on the Boy Who Lived and his ultimate victory in the final battle.
Even the Muggle press was no exception, though their reports merely mentioned a dangerous serial killer who had just received the maximum sentence.
The wizarding world spoke endlessly of the Chosen One, while Muggles often spoke of a mysterious hero, as if destiny had ordained their arrival to bring an end to all atrocities.
The Chosen One?
Was Harry Potter truly the Chosen One?
His name was always printed in the largest font across every front page, as though repeating it enough times would somehow make it mean something.
Yet Harry felt no pride, nor any sense of relief now that it was all over.
What was this hollow emptiness inside him?
Not only Fred Weasley, but George Weasley too would never laugh the same way again.
Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks had left behind an infant.
Colin Creevey, Lavender Brown.
Severus Snape...
Dobby, Alastor Moody, Cedric Diggory.
Albus Dumbledore...
Sirius Black...
His parents...
And countlessly more whose names he couldn't even fully recall.
While the entire world hailed it as a victory, Harry only felt he had lost from the very beginning. All he knew was that every single one of them was gone.
If this was the cost of being the Chosen One, then what was there to be proud of?
No one had an answer, and there was no goal left to keep him going.
If given a second chance, could he have done better?
The answer was no.
There were no second chances to make amends, nor any way to foresee the horrors that were yet to strike.
In the end, they still had to move forward...
Hermione was the only one who chose to return to Hogwarts to complete her final year. Of course, that would always be her choice.
Ron and Harry received offers to join the Auror Office, thanks to their achievements in the war.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, a key member of the Order of the Phoenix, had become the Minister for Magic.
Under his sweeping reforms, the Ministry of Magic underwent a near-total transformation.
Among them were no small number of ancient pure-blood families who had long served as the very foundation of the wizarding world. Not to mention, not all of them had actually committed unforgivable crimes.
The Ministry of Magic council was gradually split into two factions.
One side advocated for throwing anyone associated with the Dark Lord into Azkaban.
The other side maintained that those who were coerced, or whose offenses were not grave, should receive proportional punishment and be given a chance at redemption—whether through paying fines or being placed under probation.
The conflict dragged on with no resolution in sight, and day after day, the debates raged on.
Kingsley believed that the Ministry of Magic needed someone with enough prestige and fairness to step up and resolve this matter.
And that person revealed himself when a post-war resolution plan was submitted, boasting content both clear and entirely reasonable.
More importantly, the person who presented this proposal was none other than Harry Potter—the very man Kingsley had been longing for at this precise moment.
Harry demanded that the trials be absolutely fair.
When necessary, Veritaserum could be utilized to ensure absolute truthfulness during interrogations.
He believed that if every Death Eater were imprisoned, the balance of the wizarding world would be shattered. The Ministry would only end up losing the trust of half the wizarding world once again, perhaps even igniting a new conflict altogether.
Harry offered to step forward as a witness for those who were truly innocent, or who had redeemed themselves through their actions.
The Malfoy family was among them.
A single shake of Narcissa's head before the Dark Lord had been enough to alter the tide of the entire war.
Perhaps even Narcissa herself never expected that a lie born of her own heart would end up saving the entire Malfoy family at trial.
Perhaps for the rest of his life, Draco would never forget this day...
Inside Courtroom Ten.
The Malfoy family sat in the defendant's chairs.
High above, the council of judges sat in a formidable arc, their gazes bearing down like a crushing weight upon the three seated directly at the center.
Lucius stared silently down at the cold stone floor, as if a lifetime of the Malfoy family honor had vanished through his very hands. Narcissa kept her back straight, for in this family, someone still had to stand firm.
And Draco... the haunting memories of the war and the agonizing months forced into the ranks of the Death Eaters had eroded every last drop of pride within him, leaving not a shred of self-respect behind.
All around, quiet whispers rippled through the room.
"No one would ever step forward to testify for their family."
The doors to the courtroom swung open once more.
The person who walked in was Harry Potter.
Countless scrutinizing, suspicious eyes zeroed in on him. Every gesture, every single step was put under a microscope.
He was not merely a key witness, but also the very person who had once stood directly opposed to the Malfoy family.
No one believed he had come here simply to help them walk free. The Malfoy family was no exception—the fragile ray of hope in the depths of their eyes gradually flickered out.
Stepping into the courtroom once again, those terrible memories returned as vivid as ever, chillingly authentic.
Harry was no longer the fifteen-year-old boy who had tried to hold his ground in total helplessness. Back then, he had been swallowed whole by the sharp, encircling gazes, feeling small, exposed, and without a single thread of support. Right from the start, he had been thrust into the position of the guilty party. Everything had transpired far too quickly before he could fully comprehend the situation. At the time, it had all been well beyond what he could bear.
Which was why Harry respected the truth more than anyone, and he would not allow personal feelings to cloud his reason.
His steps were steady, the Auror robes draped over him swishing lightly with every movement. Within his tired eyes lay a newfound depth of resolve.
Those emerald-green eyes swept across the figures seated on the high dais, where many new faces now sat.
His black hair was neatly slicked back, giving his appearance a distinctly mature air. The lightning-bolt scar was clearly visible on his forehead, his complexion pale and cool, and his facial features sharper than before—though his frame remained distinctly lean.
From the moment he entered, Harry did not cast a single glance toward Draco. His gaze was fixed straight ahead on the Chief Arbiter's seat, where Kingsley Shacklebolt sat.
The judge merely gave him a single look before lowering his eyes back to the documents in front of him.
A cold voice rang out: "State the name of the witness."
"Harry James Potter."
The room abruptly fell silent, leaving only the rustle of a quill writing on parchment.
Harry offered no unnecessary words. He calmly recounted everything he had personally witnessed and directly taken part in.
At the same time, he emphasized the crucial importance of the accused party's lie—that even if it had not been born of noble intent, the lie had ultimately yielded an advantage for the anti-Dark forces.
"Everything that needs to be said, I have said. I swear that my testimony just now is absolute truth. Should there be any doubt remaining, I am willing to submit to any standard verification procedures."
Harry did not linger to await the verdict.
Having said what needed to be said, he bowed slightly and walked straight out without looking back. He did not care about the council's final verdict; he only needed to fulfill his duty.
The heavy doors opened and swung shut behind him.
Draco stared at the tightly closed doors, and only after a long moment did he slowly turn his head. His mind was in total turmoil, his fingers tightly interlaced and digging so deeply into his skin that they left sharp impressions.
The rapid, rhythmic pounding of the gavel snapped him back to reality.
The final verdict was pronounced: "The Malfoy family shall forfeit a substantial portion of their current Galleons, and future generations shall be permanently barred from holding any position or power within the Ministry of Magic."
They were set free and departed the Ministry of Magic that very afternoon.
The Malfoy family gradually faded from the wizarding world's view, retreating into a life of quiet humility.
Their paths forward had diverged. Perhaps, from this day forth, Draco and Harry would never chance upon one another again.
Draco did not return to Hogwarts. He applied for an internship at St Mungo's Hospital. With his outstanding skills in practical Potions, his quick grasp of concepts, and his precise adherence to recipes, he passed the selection process entirely on his own merit, without relying on the former glory of the Malfoy family.
Afterward, Harry was transferred to the Adjudication Office, officially taking part in handling the post-war aftermath.
This work would stretch on for many months.
Fortunately, Harry's prestige carried enough weight that despite his youth, most of his colleagues respected the decisions he put forward. The work was by no means easy, but neither did it grind to a standstill.
Half a year passed, and the trials were gradually drawing to a close. The information released to the public slowly restored the faith of the wizarding world.
Harry was appointed Deputy Minister, a position second only to Kingsley Shacklebolt. He steadily shouldered a growing burden of official duties, handling Ministry affairs on the Minister's behalf. Work came flooding in, nearly overwhelming Harry, who had only just begun acclimatizing to administrative tasks.
Looking at what Harry had achieved in merely half a year, outsiders saw the natural leadership abilities of a born leader. But for Harry, everything he had attained was bought at the cost of countless sleepless nights.
On second thought, perhaps being busy suited him best right now. At the very least, it left him no time to dwell on the troubling matters of the past.
Gatherings with Ron and Hermione became a rare luxury, and the distance between him and Ginny steadily grew. Harry still could not lay to rest the memory of Fred's death. He erected an invisible wall between himself and those closest to him. Or rather, it was a sense of guilt and self-blame that left Harry unable to face the Weasley family.
Day after day, his life shrank to a simple line between two points—leaving early in the morning and returning late at night. He moved into a small flat near the Ministry; with few needs to speak of, the place served merely as a spot to lay his head, convenient for those endless stretches of overtime.
Forever buried in his work, Harry completely neglected the psychological therapy provided for wizards who had fought in the war.
For some reason, the nightmares returned to haunt him once again.
The days spent running for his life, constantly forced to move from place to place, those agonizing moments hovering between life and death... it all played on repeat, like a film reel flashing endlessly through his mind.
A deep, peaceful sleep had become a luxury for Harry. Sooner or later, he would have to pay the price for these days of dizzying, relentless work.
It was just that the reckoning came sooner than he had anticipated.
One weekend, Harry collapsed the moment he returned to his flat.
A pitch-black nightmare swirled around his consciousness. His vision blurred, then plunged into a dark, endless void.
From deep within him—or perhaps straight from hell—a trembling voice echoed, shrill and high-pitched, like the hiss of a venomous serpent.
He recognized it!
For a split second, Harry even thought of ending it all just to find peace.
His consciousness was being invaded by something...
Harry was brought to the hospital on a rainy day, slips of consciousness lost to delirium.
He had arranged to meet Andromeda Tonks and Teddy, and she had arrived at his flat ahead of schedule. It was a stroke of luck that Teddy had suddenly wanted to see him early, even if the infant couldn't yet articulate it in words.
In his feverish haze, Harry's brow was tightly knit, his sweat soaking deep into the pillow. He looked as though he were locked in a desperate battle against something unseen...
Deep within his subconscious, Harry kept running endlessly, frantically searching for an escape until he was utterly spent... and then, he caught sight of a faint ray of light shimmering through a narrow crevice.
A tiny hand brushed across his eyelids, softly touching his pale face in an awkward, soothing gesture. The child could only utter babbling sounds, yet seemed desperate to wake him. As if the moment he opened his eyes, he would pick him up again and carry him everywhere, just like any other day.
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