Shadows of Justice
The trials had begun, the air heavy with a blend of hope and vengeance as the wizarding community came together to confront its scars. Harry watched from a distance as the courtroom filled, the faces of the public tense and expectant. It was clear that the Ministry and his council had carefully structured the order of the proceedings, beginning with the most grievous offenders, the ones whose guilt was blatant and whose crimes were unspeakable. Those Death Eaters who showed no remorse, whose atrocities were evident and who wore their dark allegiance proudly, were the first to face their fate. The crowd needed to see justice served quickly, to feel the satisfaction of a Dementor’s Kiss or a life sentence without parole for those who had torn families apart and stained the magical world with fear.
Harry understood that this was more than a strategy; it was an act of mercy for the wizarding world. These initial verdicts would be a balm, a reassurance that the darkest threats were being addressed swiftly and with severity. It was a way to ease the fury and grief, to allow space for the community to breathe before tackling the complicated cases—those who had been coerced, the young followers of Voldemort who were barely adults themselves, or those who claimed ignorance. For now, justice was focused on the most unforgiving, and the people responded with fierce approval.
Despite his responsibilities, Harry had taken the weekend to visit the Burrow. Being around the Weasleys felt like a reprieve from the darkness that hovered over the trials. They were some of the only people who continued to treat him like the young boy they had first met, as if he were still the scruffy eleven-year-old who’d stumbled into their lives with wide eyes and wonder. That sense of familiarity was a rare comfort, and he appreciated the warmth of their unchanging acceptance.
Over breakfast, Ron sat beside him, enthusiastically recounting stories from Auror training. "I swear, mate," Ron chuckled, "the drills they put us through are mad! I’ve already got bruises from learning new defensive spells."
Harry grinned, though he felt a twinge of envy. "I can imagine. I’ve always thought I’d end up there too, y’know? Us, tackling dark wizards side by side. But...things just turned out differently."
Ron placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. "You’re right where you need to be, Harry. The trials—you’re doing more there than any Auror could."
Just as Harry was about to respond, George joined them, his mischievous grin a refreshing sight in the midst of such grim times. "Alright, Harry," George began, clapping his hands together as if preparing for a sales pitch. "I’ve been thinking—if the world ever needed a laugh, it’s now. People need a way to forget, even if it’s just for a few hours. So, how about we take the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to some new height, have some new ventures with it? I’m thinking comedy shows, magic pranks, events… what do you think? Interested?."
Harry laughed, appreciating George’s usual spark. "You really think people would go for that?"
"Oh, absolutely!" George replied. "Humor is healing, mate. Just like that time I turned Ron’s room into a miniature swamp." He nudged Ron, who rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide a grin. "People need that escape, especially now."
"Well," Harry said thoughtfully, "this sounds like exactly what we could all use. I’ll bring it up with Kornug. He might actually be impressed that I’m taking a closer look at the vault and putting it to better use."
Harry was assigned a new, trusted goblin to manage his finances—one who brought along some significant changes in Gringotts' management. The new policies were progressive, impressing Harry, who was pleased to see that the bank was evolving in a way that aligned with his own vision for the future.
Mrs. Weasley came bustling over, brushing a stray hair back as she placed a stack of freshly buttered toast on the table. "Eat up, Harry. You’re looking too thin! And don’t think I’ve forgotten—you need to take care of yourself."
Harry smiled, warmth flooding through him at her concern. "Thanks, Mrs. Weasley "
She patted his shoulder, then gave him a serious look. "I know you’re bearing a lot of burdens, dear. But remember, we’re all here for you. Don’t carry it alone."
As the morning passed, the conversation flowed effortlessly, a comforting blend of laughter and easy camaraderie that made Harry feel almost like his old self again. It was the kind of moment he cherished—surrounded by people who cared for him, who reminded him that he was still part of something, still connected. But despite the ease of the moment, something stirred uneasily beneath the surface.
His magic—unpredictable and volatile ever since the war—seemed to have a life of its own now. One moment, just like in this moment Harry might be engaged in a cheerful conversation, and feeling a rare sense of calm and normalcy, then next thing, he would feel an unsettling surge of power course through him. It wasn’t like the magic he had always known—the controlled, disciplined force he’d learned to harness. This felt wild, almost uncontrollable, like an electrical charge building up inside him, growing stronger with every second.
At first, he thought it was linked to his emotions, that his magic was simply reacting to his feelings. But as time went on, he came to realize he was wrong. His emotions weren’t the trigger. His magic had a mind of its own, it seemed—no longer bound by any limits or rules he once thought he understood. It surged within him, defiant, demanding to be released, regardless of whether he was ready for it. There were no boundaries, no restraint. It wasn’t playing pretend, nor was it cooperating with his attempts to keep it contained. It wanted out, and Harry couldn’t ignore it.
Every time the magic flared up, it left him feeling unsettled, as though his very core was at war with itself. He could feel it pressing against his skin, an invisible force he couldn’t control. And the worst part was that it wasn’t just a momentary thing—it lingered. Like a storm gathering strength on the horizon, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Sensing the shift, he quickly excused himself, managing a smile to reassure them. "Just need a bit of fresh air. I’ll be back in a bit."
He stepped outside, breathing in the cool morning air as he tried to calm himself. But his magic wouldn’t settle, flickering at the edges of his control. He walked further, putting distance between himself and the Burrow.
He hadn’t gone far when he heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he found Ron standing there, hands in his pockets, his expression both curious and concerned.
"Harry...you alright, mate?" Ron asked softly.
Harry forced a smile, though it was weak. "Yeah. Just...sometimes it feels like everything’s building up, and I don’t know how to keep it all in check."
Ron nodded, his gaze understanding. "You know, you don’t have to keep it all to yourself. We’ve got your back, Harry. We’ve always had each other’s backs."
He nodded at Ron, offering a gentle smile that spoke volumes. They lingered in a comfortable silence for a while, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Finally, Harry broke the stillness. “I’m all right now,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “Let’s head back inside.”
Ron clapped him on the back, and the two of them made their way back to the Burrow, a little lighter, their bond as strong as ever in a world that seemed determined to pull them apart.
---
Back at the Ministry, the trials raged on with a fierce momentum, relentless in their pursuit of justice—or what the public believed to be justice. Each day brought with it a new face, a new name, and fresh evidence of the pain left behind by the war. The air was thick with tension, the voices of both protestors and supporters echoing through the halls. The weight of it all was crushing at times, and Harry could feel it pressing down on him like an invisible force. Every accusation, every trial felt like another ripple in the waters of the wizarding world, pulling them further from the peace they desperately sought.
But despite the burden, Harry found strength in the quiet moments of support from his unwavering council. They were the ones who helped him find balance, reminding him that this wasn’t a battle he was meant to fight alone,—with this Harry found the strength to carry on, even when his own resolve wavered.
Between the most grievous offenders' trials, there were those that didn’t fall into the simple categories of right or wrong. Yet, the public had little tolerance for the nuances of these cases. They wanted swift justice, an end to the suffering, and retribution for the crimes committed. Harry always reminded everyone that these trials weren’t so easily defined.
The Death Eaters standing trial were no longer the faceless monsters they had once seemed to be. They were individuals, many of whom had once been part of the world everyone had loved—friends, family, even allies. Some had been manipulated, forced into allegiance with dark forces beyond their control. Others had willingly followed the path of destruction, driven by power or fear. Regardless of their motivations, they had all contributed to the same devastating war, and now it was Harry and his council’s responsibility to determine their fates.
The weight of that decision was crushing. Each trial represented more than just the pursuit of justice—it was a chance to redefine what that justice meant in a world that had already suffered so much. Some of these people would face harsh sentences, but Harry understood that for others, the path forward would be more complicated. The burden of deciding who deserved forgiveness and who would be condemned was a constant reminder of the delicate balance he had to maintain between the past and the future.
Outside the Ministry, the crowds grew louder, their cries for justice reverberating against the walls. The pressure was unrelenting, the scrutiny from both inside and outside the wizarding world overwhelming. But Harry stood firm, knowing that this was more than just a trial. It was a moment to reshape the future, to prove that there could be something more after the destruction—a world where people, even those who had once been enemies, could find redemption and healing.