Due to the sensitive nature of Roger's case, the details were not made public. But among the upper echelons of the wizarding world, it was no secret.
Many of the core members of powerful pure-blood families, along with strong and influential wizards, discussed the matter casually over tea.
Although Roger's lawyer wasn't part of that inner circle, he had connections—after all, in the legal world, you couldn't rise without a network. As the old saying went: the key to winning a trial wasn't inside the courtroom, but outside it.
And the whispers he'd heard were not encouraging.
"At the age of ten, in the midst of a brutal Muggle war filled with hot weapons, he managed to gather a real fighting force, led them through chaos, killed many, and survived it all. His mental strength, leadership, decisiveness—it's all incredible."
"And those who brush shoulders with death understand the value of life far more."
"So, what happens if one day he seeks out dark magic in the pursuit of power—to protect himself or for some other reason?"
"He has a resilient heart. And magic is deeply connected to one's spirit. On top of that… he's a prophet."
"This world doesn't need a second Grindelwald. Nor another Dark Lord."
These words were what the lawyer had heard from his friends. After all, how many years had it been since the shadow of the Dark Lord was lifted from Britain? Those who had lived through that dreadful era were still alive.
Time hadn't healed those scars. The fear lingered.
Could Roger Virgil grow into another Dark Lord?
No one could say.
But even a 10% possibility was too much for some.
To their eyes, Roger was talented—no doubt. But talent was never in short supply in the wizarding world.
In truth, they even disliked such talent.
Voldemort, Grindelwald, Dumbledore, Nicolas Flamel, Merlin, the four founders of Hogwarts like Salazar Slytherin… Every time a new powerhouse emerged, they shook the foundations of the wizarding world with their will and ideals.
Sometimes for better. Sometimes for worse. But always with disruption.
And many people hated disruption. They preferred the world to remain unchanged.
Would Dumbledore risk angering the pure-blood families and many wizards by using his influence to pardon Roger?
The lawyer doubted it.
*Knock knock knock!*
A series of rough knocks interrupted his thoughts.
Then came the guard's voice: "Mr. Roger Virgil, Mr. Wake, your trial begins in five minutes. If you've finished talking, we'll proceed to the courtroom."
The lawyer turned to Roger.
Roger said nothing. He stood up calmly and walked toward the door.
"Roger!" Wake called out.
"Hmm?"
"You've heard about how terrifying Azkaban is, haven't you? Aren't you afraid?" After a brief hesitation, Wake asked what had been weighing on his mind.
That small eleven-year-old figure reflected in his eyes. He couldn't understand why Roger seemed so composed.
Did he have some kind of hidden card to play?
Or… had he really foreseen something as a prophet?
Yes—one of Roger's charges was impersonating a religious prophet. But it was also true that he possessed prophetic abilities. His case file mentioned it.
Roger had kept himself and those who believed in him alive during the war by relying on his visions of the future.
With a smile, Roger gave a reply that caught Wake off guard:
"I'm very afraid. My heart is pounding. My muscles are trembling."
"I've never encountered a Dementor, and I don't know how much torment they'll bring me… But there are people who've survived Azkaban, aren't there?"
"The moment I returned from hell for the second time, I made a vow. I will never give up on life, no matter what."
"I will always fight. I'll fight until the very moment I die."
"Until then, nothing will shatter my will."
Roger didn't raise his voice, didn't stir emotions. He stated it all plainly and with certainty.
In that instant, Wake understood.
The young prophet had no hidden cards.
He just had the courage to face hell—even if fear consumed his heart.
And at the same time, Wake felt something else—fear.
Now he understood why some in the wizarding elite, even knowing the chances of Roger becoming the next Dark Lord were slim, still refused to let him go unpunished.
A person with that kind of resolve—if he ever saw wizards or Muggles as enemies…
*Creak—*
The door opened. Roger walked out. The four guards stationed outside immediately resumed their previous formation, surrounding him tightly.
The group left the Law Enforcement Department located on the second floor of the British Ministry of Magic headquarters.
Normal cases were tried there. But not Roger's.
He was headed elsewhere.
From the seventh-floor second level, they descended to the eighth floor—the Ministry's first floor.
The Ministry had a strange floor numbering system: the topmost floor was the first, and the eighth floor was technically the ground floor. The ninth was the Department of Mysteries in the basement.
But Roger was headed deeper than that.
To one of the highest institutions of the British wizarding world—the Wizengamot, holder of the supreme legislative and judicial powers!
.
Files and reports were laid out before the courtroom.
One question after another was asked by the interrogators, helping the fifty Wizengamot members understand Roger better, especially the parts of the case not recorded in writing.
Roger answered calmly while closely observing everyone around him.
Wizengamot trials were vastly different from standard court procedures.
In this courtroom, interrogators posed questions. The defendant responded. Then the fifty members of the Wizengamot voted, by a show of hands, on whether they believed the defendant guilty.
Majority ruled. If the vote ever ended 25 to 25, the Chief Warlock made the final decision—essentially the chairman of the council.
Naturally, Roger's lawyer had no role here.
Ordinarily, a person not confident in their speaking ability could delegate their responses to a lawyer or specialist.
But after meeting Wake and discussing the case, Roger had decided to speak for himself.
Not because Wake lacked professional skill—but for other reasons.
First, Roger had noticed Wake didn't fully support him. That was normal. Defending someone was just a job—it didn't mean Wake endorsed his actions. Like an employee who curses the boss internally but still has to work overtime and raise a toast.
In an average case, that wouldn't matter. But this was the Wizengamot.
The defendant's demeanor could heavily sway the outcome. If Wake showed even a hint of hesitation at a key moment, it could be fatal.
Second, Roger didn't want to entrust his fate to anyone else.
If the odds of a happy ending were minuscule regardless, then he'd rather take control himself.
"Yes, after awakening my ability—what you call prophecy magic triggered by a magical outburst—I believed that invoking the name of an influential local religion gave me the highest chance of survival."
After Roger answered, Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, continued his questioning with a solemn expression:
"Our investigation shows that by the end of 1990, the war's intensity had declined. With your strength and resources, you could've escaped the battlefield and returned to Britain. Why did you stay in Kuwait until spring of 1991, after the war had ended?"
This wasn't the kind, grandfatherly headmaster of Hogwarts. This was the dignified, solemn Chief Warlock.
And his question was critical.
Much of the legal dispute hinged on the fact that Roger *didn't* leave when he had the chance—meaning his actions went beyond what could be excused as "emergency self-defense."
Such self-defense, like killing a home invader or eating protected animals in starvation, was exempt from criminal liability. But Roger had chosen to stay.
The wizards of the Wizengamot all turned their eyes toward Roger—still a child, with soft golden hair, a handsome yet slender figure, standing barely waist-height to most adults, looking small and fragile.
But Roger's answer was anything but fragile:
"At that time in Kuwait, many people followed me because I used the identity of a prophet. They truly believed I was one and believed I could lead them to survive. And the fact that they did survive… wasn't unrelated to my prophetic ability."
"Mines, bombs, bullets, missile strikes—I could feel them coming. I always managed to avoid death by a second."
"By mid-war, I had enough resources to escape. But if I had left, what would've happened? The belief in me as their spiritual anchor would collapse.
Ambitious men I had kept in check would rise up in pursuit of power and opportunity. The group might've torn itself apart. People might've killed each other."
"Not to mention, we'd had skirmishes with various military forces. Without my foresight, how would they avoid missile strikes and ambushes?"
"Many would've died."
Roger paused.
"I hate lies. And I hate death."
"When I was weak, I had to lie for strength. I had to protect myself by bringing death to others."
"But later, I had people, weapons, and power."
"If I still had to do things I hated when strong—watch those who trusted me die—then what was the point of becoming strong? What was the point of fighting to live?"
"Life isn't meant to be spent constantly sickening oneself. That's not the life I want."
"I hate separation and loss. So I refused to allow it. I refused to let it appear around me."
"I hate lies. I promised them I would get them through this war. So I wouldn't leave until the war was over."
That was Roger's answer. His truth.
A real man bends when he's weak—not to surrender, but to rise again. And when he's strong, the world should follow his will, not force him to keep bowing.
"Hmm," Dumbledore replied neutrally, then moved on to the next question.
"During the Gulf War, you personally killed 98 people. What do you think about that?"
The air in the room suddenly grew heavy.
Clearly, this was the real concern—not Roger's role as a false prophet.
His case had many grey areas, and the law could be debated endlessly. But the reason the Wizengamot had taken over was simple—they wanted to understand Roger as a person.
Some saw him as dangerous.
Others saw him as potential.
If Roger wasn't inherently 'evil,' there were those who didn't want to see him rot in Azkaban.
The Wizengamot had more than just legal authority. Their job wasn't just about guilt—it was about right and wrong. They considered the bigger picture.
Magic had come a long way from ancient, bloody rituals to refined and precise spellwork. That progress required strong wizards to keep pushing forward.
The chamber held both sides of the debate.
Under the pressure, Roger answered:
"Mental patients who lost their minds to war, scum trying to exploit the chaos, Iraqi invaders, and American soldiers who would sacrifice anything for strategy—I killed 54 who wanted to kill me."
"The other 44 wanted to kill those around me."
"Do you believe it's a crime to strike down someone wielding a blade, to save the person they were about to kill?" Roger finished with a calm question of his own.
"If you think it is… then I have nothing more to say."
He knew they'd soon ask about those who had died indirectly because of him.
So he answered it preemptively.
Murmurs broke out across the Wizengamot.
But Dumbledore didn't give them time to discuss. He immediately followed up:
"Roger Virgil, after taking so many lives, do you feel guilty?"
Roger had expected this.
"No."
His tone was unwavering.
"Those who take lives must be prepared to lose theirs. The moment they picked up their blades, they should've known what lay ahead. I understand—they may be someone's son, husband, father, sister, or brother. Someone may grieve them. They may not have seen themselves as evil. They were fighting for their homes, their countries."
"But that doesn't give them the right to slaughter others without consequence."
"I feel no guilt."
"Life is priceless. One life is not more precious than another. A hundred lives are not worth more than ten. Nor the reverse. Life cannot be weighed on scales."
"If someone hates me for killing them, let them come. I won't apply a double standard. From the moment I began fighting, I accepted the possibility of death."
"But no matter how just their reasons or deep their hatred, I will never show mercy to someone who raises a weapon against me."
As he spoke, Roger noticed some members of the Wizengamot frowning.
Clearly, his stance was too extreme for some.
But he didn't care.
And Dumbledore noticed too. A flicker crossed the old wizard's eyes.
Then came a question that didn't seem to have much to do with the case:
"Mr. Roger, you spoke with your lawyer before the trial, yes? You know that if found guilty, it will be a heavy sentence. You'll likely be sent to Azkaban."
It seemed like a strange question, but Roger caught the hidden meaning.
His gaze wavered for a moment, then steadied.
"I know. I'm just a child. Weaker than anyone here. You wouldn't even need magic—one of you could pin me down with a single hand. If I cried or begged, it might help my case."
Roger realized: this white-haired wizard—so often portrayed as a schemer in his past life's theories—was subtly trying to help him.
He felt it.
But he still chose his own path.
"But I won't do that."
"This is the Wizengamot. You are the most powerful wizards in Britain, with legislative and judicial authority. To sit in those seats, you must possess extraordinary qualities."
"Vast knowledge. Ancient lineage. Brilliant minds. Immense power. Expansive networks. I do not believe such people can be easily deceived. And I despise lies."
"You've asked me many questions. But my answer has always been the same: during the Gulf War, I did everything I did to save myself, to save those who believed in me, to fulfill my promise."
"I regret nothing. Even if you find me guilty, even if you gave me a chance to go back in time—I would still choose to fight."
"My answers are all from the heart. Not a single lie. If you have any method of reading thoughts or detecting lies that won't harm me—use them. Verify it all."
Silence fell.
Every wizard stared at that small boy with unwavering eyes.
Though weak in body, his soul was forged in fire.
A soul that had clawed its way back from the dead.
Even Azkaban might not break such a will.
Technically, Dumbledore still had questions.
But at this point, he felt it didn't matter.
Roger had answered everything already.
"Then…"
Sitting at the center, Dumbledore hesitated a moment, then spoke:
"All those who agree with the guilty verdict—raise your hands."
Some raised their hands.
Others didn't move.
Curiously, many of those who had initially wanted to convict Roger kept their hands down.
While some who had wanted to acquit him now voted guilty.
And many others looked toward the center of the courtroom—toward Albus Dumbledore.
And Dumbledore…
Remained perfectly still.