The stone walls of the Wizengamot chamber stood tall, cold, and ancient. Shadows clung to every corner, torchlight flickering over the etched crests of old magical houses. Dozens of witches and wizards watched from the tiers above, silent as owls.
Harry Potter stood alone, in chains.
The magical shackles bound his wrists and ankles, glowing faintly blue. His wand was gone. His magic wasn't—not completely—but the suppression sigils burned against his skin like frostbite. He stood tall anyway. Unflinching.
He had faced Voldemort with less fear.
Across the chamber, the Chief Warlock's chair sat empty.
For now.
A scribe to the left of the dais began to speak, voice flat and formal. "This closed hearing of the Wizengamot is convened to judge the magical status and threat level of one Harry James Potter, accused of harboring dark magic, corrupted soul fragments, and unauthorized use of knowledge extracted from the entity known as Lord Voldemort."
Harry's jaw clenched.
Unauthorized knowledge. That was what this was about. He had won the war, and they were afraid of what he'd kept. What he'd learned.
The scribe continued: "The subject stands accused of magical contamination, destabilizing magical equilibrium, and postwar subversion. The penalty, if guilt is found, is banishment through the Veil of Death."
No reaction. Not yet.
Harry scanned the crowd. Kingsley sat stone-faced. Neville avoided his eyes. Luna was nowhere to be seen. McGonagall looked pale, aged. Arthur Weasley sat beside her. His hands fidgeted with a silver pocket watch.
Then came the footsteps.
Soft, slow, echoing.
A familiar shape moved through the side gate, blue robes brushing the floor, silver beard catching the firelight.
Harry's breath caught in his chest.
Dumbledore.
Alive.
Whole.
Untouched by the battle on the tower. Unscarred. Unapologetic.
The man Harry had grieved. The mentor he'd honored. A ghost now walking, not dead at all—but hidden. Waiting. Guiding from the shadows, pulling strings like always.
"Albus Dumbledore, reinstated as Chief Warlock," the scribe announced.
The chamber didn't cheer. It exhaled, like a spell had been confirmed.
Dumbledore looked at Harry with that maddening serenity in his eyes. "Mr. Potter," he said gently. "This is not punishment. It is necessary."
Harry stared back, voice low. "You were alive this whole time."
"There were… considerations. The war needed a symbol. You provided it. As intended."
The words hit harder than any hex.
"You used me."
"I prepared you. And when the time came, you prevailed."
"And now that I survived it, I'm inconvenient."
Dumbledore gave a slight nod. "Your victory was… complete. Too complete. The knowledge you absorbed—his mind, his magic—it makes you a threat. Not just to others, but to yourself."
"I've done nothing," Harry said.
"Yet," Dumbledore whispered.
---
Testimony began.
Ron Weasley was first. He didn't look angry—he looked bitter. "He's not Harry anymore. He's cold. He looks at people like he's calculating them. Like he knows things he shouldn't."
Hermione followed. She stood stiff, shaking. "He's been having visions. Using magic that isn't… normal. I checked his aura. It's wrong. Tainted. Please, Harry, you know it's true."
He said nothing.
Arthur spoke next. "He's been avoiding Ginny. Won't talk to her. Won't talk to any of us. And he—he threatened Percy during the Auror review."
"I threatened to expose his corruption," Harry said flatly.
Molly was weeping. Kingsley voted in favor of judgment. So did twenty-two others.
Neville abstained.
No one stood for him.
---
The verdict came down like a hammer.
"We find Harry James Potter to be corrupted in mind and magic, unstable in soul, and a threat to the stability of the postwar magical world. You shall be cast beyond the Veil, beyond the world of men. There is no appeal. There is no mercy. Let the ancient law decide what becomes of you."
The guards approached.
Harry didn't resist.
He walked.
---
The Department of Mysteries hadn't changed. Still cold. Still humming with strange energies. The Veil rustled as if breathing.
They stood him at the stone arch. Cloaks billowed. The watchers remained silent. Only one voice broke the quiet.
Dumbledore.
"Harry. If you could see the damage in yourself the way I do, you would understand this is not cruelty. It is kindness."
Harry turned.
"No," he said. "It's fear. And control."
He looked at Hermione. She flinched.
He looked at Ron. His jaw was clenched.
He looked at McGonagall. Her eyes were wet.
"You all followed him again. After everything."
Dumbledore said, "You could have ruled this world with what you took from Voldemort."
"I didn't want to rule," Harry said. "I wanted to live."
And he stepped through the Veil.
---
He did not fall.
He flew.
Through silence and shadow and memory.
Through ancient forests. Through walls built with ice and runes. Through blood and wolves and flame.
Through dreams not his own.
And then—
---
He cried.
---
When he opened his eyes, the world was too bright.
Salt and sea stung his newborn lungs. His body was small, fragile, but alive. Alive.
He felt arms—warm and trembling—holding him close. A woman's voice cracked with emotion.
"Cregan," she whispered. "My little Cregan…"
She was beautiful. Ashara Dayne. Pale and distant, violet eyes haunted even in love. Her hair spilled like silk across the bed linens, damp with sweat and sea air. Her voice trembled, full of a sadness he didn't yet understand.
They were in a stone room, high above crashing waves. Driftmark. He would learn the name later. The man who visited wore silver hair and salt-stained armor. He brought gold. Letters. Safety.
Cregan Stark was born not in fire, but in mourning.
And when Ashara stepped into the sea months later, her voice whispering prayers to no god Harry had ever known, he did not cry.
He simply watched.