Chapter Text
Wednesday, 31 October 2001
Today started too peacefully. Harry had slept soundly, a pleasure he hadn't felt in years, and woke without the heaviness that usually accompanied his nightmares. His sunny-side-up eggs were perfect, the eggs had the dippy yolk and a mainly cooked white. The bacon was crisp enough. Even his toast was burnt nicely, just the way he liked it. After years of chaos, Harry had learned that the universe only gave you a perfect breakfast right before it took everything else.
Today was Halloween. For the rest of the world, it was a day of celebration. For Harry, it was the anniversary of the beginning of his misfortune—the day he became an orphan. The ghosts of his parents weren't the only ones haunting him today. It had been three years since the Battle of Hogwarts; he still felt like a ghost walking in a living man's body. He sat in the silence of his kitchen, wondering why he was the one eating toast while Lavender, Fred, Tonks, Lupin, Colin and fifty others who had died fighting Voldemort were nothing but cold names etched into a memorial wall.
He lived in Grimmauld Place now, with only Kreacher for company. Everyone had been against it. Mrs. Weasley repeatedly voiced her concern over an Omega living alone, especially in such a gloomy house. She insisted Harry would always have a place at the Burrow, but Harry couldn't bear it. He couldn't live in the house where Fred’s laugh still felt like an echo in the hallways; it felt like he was taking a place that wasn't his.
He knew everyone was scared he would drown in his own sorrow, but he had promised he wouldn't. He couldn't fall apart when he had a little metamorphmagus angel waiting for him. Teddy was his saving grace—the reason that's made the last three years bearable. He loved Teddy so much that he had chosen to decline a position in the Auror Office; he was done with hunting dark wizards. Not even Kingsley’s relentless letters could shake his resolve. He had also chosen to self-study for his N.E.W.T.s, because returning to Hogwarts meant seeing the ghosts of the fallen and spending less time with his godson.
Nowadays, he rarely ventured into the Wizarding World. Even when he went out with Teddy, it was usually around Muggle neighborhoods. He knew the public was restless, having not seen him for months, but he was done with pleasing people. He had done his duty by killing Voldemort. What more did they want?
His world had become smaller now. He spent weekends with Teddy and attended Sunday lunch once a month with the Weasleys. His weekdays were spent in a quiet apprenticeship with a Warding Master who, fortunately, didn't care about Harry's fame.
It was an easy life, Harry realized. He felt the brick on his chest lessen a bit. Well, not really—the nightmares still woke him at dawn like clockwork—but at least here, in the shadows of his study and the bright smile of Teddy, he didn't have to pretend he was okay.
The peace of his morning shattered the moment a letter bearing the Ministry seal arrived. Kingsley and Harry had a standing accord: the Ministry would leave Harry to his privacy, and Harry would refrain from publicly criticizing the new administration.
So, a summon from Kingsley to the ministry is weird. While the letter was phrased as a casual invitation—written as if Harry could drop by at his leisure—the desperation between the lines was unmistakable. Kingsley needed him, and he needed him now.
There it was. His "cursed day" was just beginning. After sending a quick note to his Warding Master explaining he wouldn’t be in for his apprenticeship today, Harry took a pinch of Floo powder from the mantle. He stepped into the fireplace and threw the powder into the flames, shouting, “Ministry of Magic!” with a heavy sinking feeling in his chest.
***
As soon as Harry stepped out of the Ministry fireplace, the first thing Harry noticed was the smell. It was thick with the scent of Alphas; sharp and aggressive. Before he could even pull his wand, he felt a Body-Bind Curse slam into him. He didn’t understand. What the fuck was happening?
He wanted to scream, to ask what was going on, but he had been silenced as well. Aurors moved quickly and efficiently around him. They seized his wand and snapped magic-binding shackles onto his wrists and ankles. They escorted him—almost dragged him—down into the depths of the Ministry.
Courtroom Number Ten.
The same room they had used for his trial when he was fifteen. Harry’s heart hammered violently against his ribs. He swallowed hard as he looked around; the room hadn't changed a bit. The walls were still dimly lit by flickering torches. The benches rose on either side of him, and in the highest tiers sat many shadowy figures. The gallery wasn't empty. It was packed with reporters from the Prophet, their Quick-Quotes quills scratching like a swarm of insects. They had been talking in low voices, but as the heavy door swung closed behind Harry, an ominous silence fell.
The Auror lifted the Silencing Spell just before shoving Harry into the chair in the center of the room. Immediately, the chains coiled around his arms. Harry felt sick as he looked up at the sea of people above him.
It was a full house.
Dozens of wizards and witches in plum-colored robes, each with an elaborately worked silver ‘W’ on the chest, stared down their noses at him. He tried to find if there were friendly or familiar faces. But, some only looked curious; others looked down at him with pity.
There, in the very middle of the front row, sat Kingsley Shacklebolt. He was in the seat where Cornelius Fudge once sat—the man who had ordered a farce of a trial when Harry was only fifteen.
“Harry Potter,” Kingsley said, his voice curt and weary. He didn't look at Harry as he adjusted the parchment in front of him. “You have been brought before the Council of Magical Law to answer for actions that have, until now, been shielded by the chaos of war. But the war is over, and the law has returned.”
Harry couldn’t believe his ears. “What?”
“The charges against the accused are as follows,” Kingsley continued, reading from a parchment. “That on the first of May, 1998, you did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness perform the Imperius Curse upon a wizard known as Travers and a goblin of Gringotts Bank known as Bogrod. Furthermore, on the same date, you did perform the Cruciatus Curse upon Amycus Carrow within the confines of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
Kingsley paused.
“How do you plead?”
“I plead that this is a joke,” Harry snapped. He tried to shift in the chair, but the chains tightened in an instant. “We were at war. Voldemort was in control of the Ministry. Are you telling me that after three years, you’ve decided that I’m the criminal for doing what was necessary to stop him?”
“Necessity is the plea of every tyrant, Mr. Potter,” a sickly-sweet voice drifted down from the shadows.
Harry’s skin crawled. He didn't even have to look up to see the pink cardigan. Dolores Umbridge sat a few seats away from Kingsley, her hands folded neatly on the desk.
“We are not judging your intentions,” Umbridge continued, her toad-like eyes gleaming with a triumph she had waited years to taste. “We are judging your actions. To use an Unforgivable is one thing. To use the two of them and as… naturally… as you did, at seventeen? Without a second thought? That speaks to a certain darkness of the soul, wouldn't you agree? A darkness that hasn't seen the light of day in three years.”
“I’ve been raising my godson!” Harry shouted, his heart hammering. “I’ve been studying! I haven’t even picked up my wand against another person since the day Voldemort died!”
“Exactly,” Umbridge purred. “Hiding. Retreating into the shadows. One wonders what a man with your… talents… is doing in a house as dark as the Black townhouse. I remember Walburga Black used to boast about their library; you couldn't find another as vast in the Dark Arts. Are you healing, Mr. Potter? Or are you simmering?”
Harry let out a dry, hacking chuckle.
“Not being seen in the public eye doesn't mean I never leave my house, Dolores. But I see how it is. If we're judging the use of Unforgivables in the middle of a war, what about your actions? What was it? Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission?”
Umbridge’s face turned a blotchy, indignant red. “Defiant as always, Mr. Potter. But this is your trial, not mine. And if you're curious, my actions were pardoned by the Minister because of the pressure of the war. I was threatened, you see.”
Kingsley still wouldn't meet Harry’s eyes.
Harry knew exactly why. This was the reason he had walked away. He couldn't accept a Ministry that pardoned people like Umbridge, who had hunted Muggle-borns with glee and campaigned against 'Mudbloods' with zealotry, just because the Ministry 'needed to function’.
Kingsley wanted to compromise; Harry wanted justice. And because Harry wouldn't 'meet in the middle' and play the role of the smiling Saviour for a corrupt system, he left.
Before Harry could open his mouth to give a scathing answer to her, one of the witches on the jury stood up. Harry knew her: Augusta Longbottom.
“Yes, Madam Longbottom?” Kingsley asked.
“We would just like to ask the Minister... Why are we charging the man who saved us from the Dark Lord for using the Unforgivable Curses in the middle of a war?” She paused, her sharp eyes scanning the room. “As far as I am aware, there was a blanket pardon issued for actions taken during the conflict, especially if it's necessary.”
Muttering broke out across the benches. A few people nodded; others shook their heads grimly.
“Yes, there was,” Umbridge interrupted, the corners of her mouth twitching into a small smile. “But, let us think about this, Madam Longbottom. If he could wield such dark magic with such chilling ease at seventeen... What might he be capable of now? We must ensure the 'Saviour' hasn't simply become a new threat.”
The murmurs that followed weren't just agreement; they were fear. Harry could feel it—the collective withdrawal of the room. It was the same feeling he’d had in his childhood, back when he was just "Harry the Freak" of Privet Drive, the unwanted orphan his relatives had generously raised. The way these people looked at him now was exactly like his old neighbors: like he was a strange, dangerous specimen, but here, the gaze was poisoned with suspicion.
“I did it because I had to!” Harry shouted. The sound of his own voice felt raw in the sudden silence. “I used the Imperius to get to something of Voldemort’s that had to be destroyed! It was the only way!”
“Ah,” Kingsley said, finally speaking. His voice didn't carry the warmth of their old meetings at the Burrow. It was flat and clinical. “And the Cruciatus Curse, Harry? Was that also the ‘only way’?”
The question hit Harry like a bludger to the chest. He faltered, the memory of Amycus Carrow’s face—the glob of spit landing on Professor McGonagall—flashing through his mind with searing clarity.
“He spat on her,” Harry whispered, his adrenaline-fueled fire beginning to burn out into cold ash. “He spat on Professor McGonagall. I couldn't accept it. One of the few people braved enough to stayed at Hogwarts and protect the students, being insulted by a Death Eater while you lot were hiding. If you want to judge me for defending her, then go ahead. But don't pretend this is about justice. This is about fear,” he continued coldly.
In the gallery, the Quick-Quotes Quills scratched frantically against parchment. Umbridge leaned forward, her pink cardigan a sickening blotch of color against the plum-colored robes. “Fear, Mr. Potter? Or... foresight?” said Umbridge with a vicious smile. “We don't want another Lestrange, do we? After all, they tortured an innocent family with the Cruciatus Curse just because they couldn’t accept that their Lord had been defeated in 1981.” She paused, deliberately turning her head to lock eyes with Madam Longbottom.
Augusta Longbottom choked on her breath, her face turning ashen. The reminder of her son and daughter-in-law being tortured to insanity by the Lestrange was a physical blow. By comparing Harry's "revenge" to the Lestranges' "loyalty", Umbridge had just made it impossible for the Longbottom matriarch to speak another word in his defense.
The entire Wizengamot had fallen into urgent, whispered conversations. Harry looked at his feet. His heart, which seemed to have swollen to an unnatural size, was thumping loudly under his ribs.
He thought back to Sunday lunch at the Burrow a month ago. Ron had been strangely quiet, his eyes darting to Harry every few minutes before looking away whenever Harry caught his gaze. Hermione had been worse—her hands trembling as they washed the dishes together in the cramped kitchen.
"Is everything alright, 'Mione?" he’d asked, noticing the way she seemed to be fighting back a sob.
She had opened her mouth to speak, but a sudden, violent cough had racked her chest, her face turning pale as she clutched her throat. She’d just shaken her head, offering a watery, tight-lipped smile that didn't reach her eyes. Harry had brushed it off as stress from her new position at the Ministry.
They knew, Harry realized as he noticed the whispering around him stopped. They knew, and they couldn't tell me.
Kingsley picked up the gavel. He looked at the jury, then finally—briefly—at Harry. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, but it wasn't enough to stop what came next.
“The Council of Magical Law has reached a verdict,” Kingsley announced. The Quick-Quotes Quills stood poised like vultures. “Given the documented use of the Unforgivable Curses by the perpetrator—actions which were deliberate, unstable, and pose a potential danger to the public—the Council has seen fit to bypass a standard sentence.”
He paused, the gavel hovering.
“Harry James Potter, you are hereby sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban. ”
The gavel came down with a final, echoing thud.
“Those in favor of conviction?” Kingsley’s booming voice rang out, the formality a hollow ritual now that the blow had been struck.
Harry’s head jerked upward. In unison, the witches and wizards along the right-hand side of the dungeon raised their hands. Their faces were grim, set in stone. Not a single hand stayed down. Not even from those who used to call themselves his allies.
Harry glanced around at them, a lump forming in his throat that felt like a stone.
Oh, the irony of it.
He began to laugh. It wasn't the laughter of a man who had lost his mind, but of a man who had finally seen his true value. To the Ministry, he was never a person—he was a weapon. And now that the war was won, they were terrified of the sword they had sharpened. He laughed until his lungs burned, the sound echoing off the cold stone. He laughed exactly the way Sirius had in that Muggle street twenty years ago, after he was being framed by Pettigrew for being involved in Voldemort's attack that had made Harry an orphan.