Year 7-29: Heroes and Villains

Harry could not recall a time where he felt so at peace.

He awoke in a warm haze, feeling fully rested and stress-free for the first time in years. It was the first night of uninterrupted sleep he'd gotten in longer than he could remember – no nightmares, no waking up in cold sweats, visions of Voldemort in his mind. This was a blissful sensation he felt he could get used to after years of non-stop stress.

He could not say he would miss the feeling of hospital cots, however. The one he was in now was coarse and scratchy compared to his bed back at Grimmauld, and the florescent lighting overhead pierced his eyelids, giving him little reprieve. But when he opened his eyes, rather than the sterile white wards of St. Mungo's or the drafty halls of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing greeting his vision, he found himself in a humid and cramped room, almost feeling like a closet. In fact, that's exactly where Harry believed he was...boxes were piled high all around him, and his was the only bed in sight. There was a small monitor on the table beside it, which was currently whirring and blinking red.

The door opened, and Dahlia walked in, still dressed in her white Healer robes. His heart soared at the sight of her safe and sound. "Hey, idiot," she greeted him, tapping the monitor with her wand to silence it. "How do you feel?"

"Alive," Harry mused, checking himself for injuries. He was sore all over from fatigue, but most of his bumps and bruises had been healed, and his limbs all seemed to be intact. "It would appear that I have legs again."

"Yes, we managed to re-attach them just after the battle," said Dahlia. "I know that fancy wand of yours could have grown you new ones, but I figured you'd appreciate keeping the originals."

"I do," Harry agreed. "As fun as crafting new limbs can be, I'd rather not be Darth Vader for the rest of my life."

"Who?"

"Never mind," Harry chuckled. His sister was woefully uninformed on Muggle pop culture – something he'd have to rectify in the years to come. "What's been happening? Is it...is it actually over?"

"Yeah," Dahlia smiled, looking more relaxed than Harry could recall her seeing in years. "It's over."

A smile spread across Harry's face as well. It hadn't just been a wonderful dream after all. He had actually ended it. Voldemort was dead. He was free.

"Sorry for sticking you in a closet," Dahlia remarked, gesturing around the cluttered space. "I figured you might be nostalgic for the Dursleys, and wanted to make you feel at home."

Harry gawked at her for a moment, then cackled with surprised laughter at the dark humor. "You're such a brat," Harry laughed, swatting her arm playfully as she giggled mirthfully. "But seriously, why am I in here?"

Dahlia's face fell slightly before answering. "Actually, er, some of the other injured fighters took offense to you being in the main triage area," she admitted. "They said it should be reserved for 'actual heroes' of the war, not turncoats."

Harry's sense of elation lessened significantly at this revelation. "So people still don't trust me or Dad, then?" he sighed. "Even after seeing us fight Voldemort?"

"The consensus seems to be that you only fought back because you lost favor with him," Dahlia groaned. "Utter rubbish, of course, but resentment still runs deep after the past year of hardship."

"Right," Harry sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. He'd always known there would be a need to clear things up once the war was over. Now a new challenge had emerged: convincing people that he was always on the side of the Light, and never willingly followed Voldemort or his teachings. But compared to the threat of Voldemort himself, that ought to be a cakewalk.

"I'll let the others know you're here," said Dahlia. "You need a couple more days' rest before you're free to go."

"I'd prefer to rest at home, thank you very much," Harry chuckled. And ignoring her protests, he swung his legs over the bed and stood to his feet; a moment later, he was flat on his face on the cold ground, groaning in pain. Apparently his newly-attached legs still had some recovery to do.

"Are you done being a know-it-all now?" Dahlia giggled, as she helped him back onto the bed. "Why don't you let the experts handle things for a little while?"

"If you know any experts, I'm all ears," Harry fired back with a grin. He and Dahlia had not enjoyed this kind of rapport in ages...he'd missed it dearly. "What's got you in such a good mood, anyway?"

"You're alive," Dahlia said simply. "And so is Neville. I don't know what you did, but Nev made it sound like he owes you a great debt. So, thank you." And she leaned down to kiss Harry on the forehead before exiting the room.

So Neville remembers what happened in purgatory, then, he thought. He wasn't entirely sure until now if it had been an elaborate dream, or just a figment of his imagination. The deal he'd struck with Death felt like many lifetimes ago, even though it had only been two or three days since the battle. He still had not fully wrapped his head around its ramifications, and he wasn't sure he wanted to right now. That could wait until he'd properly celebrated their victory.

Minutes later, the door opened again, and Harry's heart warmed even more at the sight of James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, Damian, Dahlia, and Fleur entering the room. It quickly became cramped in the confined space, but Harry didn't care – he wanted them all there at his side. He never wanted to be apart from them again.

"We did it," Harry smiled as he accepted the hugs from his family.

"You did it, by the looks of things," Sirius chuckled. "Neville got all the credit for killing the Dark Tosser, but he swears up and down that it was your doing."

"Yeah, I kinda placed Neville under the Imperius at the end there," Harry chuckled. "Ironically, even though I used an Unforgivable on him, I have a feeling he will forgive me for it."

"But 'ow did you beat him?" Fleur asked. "Voldemort did not block ze Killing Curse cast against him...why not?"

"Because he was using my wand," said Harry simply. "I did not allow him to."

"But...he took the wand," Remus frowned. "After killing you. Wouldn't that make it his?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Harry chuckled humorlessly. "But the wand chooses the wizard, doesn't it? And it chose me. Voldemort thought he defeated me with my death, but I could not die, so I kept its loyalty."

"That's the other thing," Lily muttered. "We were certain you were dead. How did you survive the Killing Curse? And how did you come back?"

Harry hesitated before answering. He knew there was a difficult conversation ahead of him about Death and purgatory, but it would come uncomfortably close to the truth about his past. He was not sure he was ready to taint this wonderful moment with such a dangerous topic.

Fleur ultimately came to his rescue. "It must be because 'Arry became Master of Death," she remarked. "We theorized that uniting ze Hallows would prevent 'im from dying. And we must 'ave been right."

"Er...yes," said Harry. "I was able to bring myself and Neville back from the other side."

Nobody questioned this explanation, which Harry was grateful for, since he wasn't in the mood to elaborate. A dark silence followed his words as everyone contemplated the gravity of what had transpired, and how close they'd come to total defeat. Harry felt Fleur's curious gaze upon him, as though suspecting there was more to the story, but she thankfully did not ask for more details.

"Who else did we lose in the battle?" Harry asked.

"Andromeda died at the hands of Voldemort himself," Sirius sighed heavily. "We almost lost Cedric the same way, but he healed well and just got discharged last night, along with Tonks. A few students in your year died who stayed to fight, and we lost several hundred fighters from overseas, but most of our closest allies survived."

"Angelina Johnson died protecting me in the air," Damian said sullenly. "Swooped in and took a Blasting Curse that was meant for me...she fell a hundred feet to her death."

"Yes, Fred Weasley's quite torn up over it," James grimaced. "I believe the entire Weasley family will be at her funeral this Saturday."

"I'd like to go, too," Harry said at once. He wasn't as close with Angelina in this timeline as the last, but he had played a season of Quidditch with her in his fourth year, and felt he ought to pay his respects.

"That...might not be such a great idea, Harry," Sirius said hesitantly. "You're a bit of a controversial figure in the British community right now."

"Still?" Harry groaned. "Even after fighting Voldemort to the literal death? After proving my allegiances?"

"People are looking for anyone to blame for their shattered lives right now," Remus said diplomatically. "And you were the poster child of Voldemort's regime. It will take time and effort to rectify that perception of you."

"Then I should be out there, telling people what really happened!" Harry insisted. "Not hiding away from the world! Doesn't that make me look more guilty?"

"We have to be very cautious about our public appearances in the coming days and weeks," said James. "No need to fan the flames while emotions are running high...the wounds of the war are still raw."

"Perhaps it would be best if we waited things out abroad, then," Lily said in a strained tone. "What's the point of remaining in Britain if we can't show our faces in public?"

"Because Britain is our motherland," James said stubbornly. "Because we risked our lives fighting for her and deserve to be a part of shaping her future."

"All the same…" Lily sighed, but she did not belabor the point.

Harry got the sense that this was an argument his parents had had multiple times over the past few days. And he could see the logic in both viewpoints: why not let tensions cool off in Britain and regroup elsewhere? But at the same time, it felt cowardly to just leave, to run from their problems. The Potters had not run from Voldemort, after all – why run now from a little bad press?

"We will be attending Andromeda's funeral, of course," Sirius said firmly. "Tonks is technically the one organizing it, but Andy was our family, too. We have as much right to be there as anybody."

Harry nodded in agreement – of course he would be there. Andromeda had been a critical ally in the resistance movement, helping him craft a plan to retrieve the Cup from Gringotts. He hoped she would be vindicated in Britain one day, rather than going down in history as the disgraced former Minister's second wife.

"There will be time to go over everything later," said Lily. "For now, you should rest. We want you healthy and back on your feet as soon as possible."

The family said their good-byes and filed out of the cramped room. Only Fleur remained behind; she climbed onto the tiny cot beside Harry and snuggled in next to him. It was a tight fit, and Harry's repaired legs screamed in protest, but he did not complain, relishing in her comforting touch.

"I watched you die," Fleur muttered quietly. Harry heard the pain in her voice, the trauma that lingered from the battle, and his heart ached for her.

"I did die," Harry sighed. And he told her everything that happened after he was struck by the Killing Curse, including the encounter with Neville and Death at King's Cross. Fleur listened intently, sighing and muttering under her breath at all the appropriate points of his tale. She actually laughed when Harry explained his gambit to save Neville, threatening not to return unless he could come back too.

"You really would 'ave done it?" Fleur asked. "Remained in purgatory forever, rather than come back?"

"Probably not," Harry shrugged. "Death was right about one thing: I could never live with myself knowing Voldemort was out there terrorizing people. But Death needed me badly enough that it couldn't afford to call my bluff."

"And Death just let you and Neville return?" asked Fleur. "Just like that?"

"Er...yeah," said Harry hesitantly. "Just like that."

He did not tell her the full extent of the deal: agreeing to another lifetime of service to Death in exchange for Neville's return. He felt slightly guilty, knowing that Fleur would want to know such a significant sacrifice that he had made. Maybe he would tell her someday in the future, but part of him felt that it was his business alone. Why ruin the promise of a happy future with such a grim detail?

"Does Neville remember everything that 'appened there?" asked Fleur. "Or was 'e merely a figment of your imagination?"

"Dunno; I haven't been able to talk to him yet," said Harry. "But I have a feeling it was real. Dahlia mentioned that he seemed grateful to me, so he must have some memory of it."

"He is quite ze heroic figure at the moment," Fleur remarked. "Making public appearances and attending funerals of ze dead nearly every day."

"Good for him," Harry muttered. Though deep down, that thought nagged at him somewhat, and Fleur picked up on it at once.

"You are resentful of him," she deduced.

"No," Harry denied. "Not exactly. Neville deserves to have good things happen to him after all he's been through. I just...I wish it wasn't so one-sided."

Fleur hummed in understanding. It definitely wasn't fair that one boy should be so lauded and lionized while the other was forced to recover in hiding due to his tainted reputation. Especially considering that one had done the majority of the work towards Voldemort's defeat.

"People will understand one day," Fleur reasoned. "It may take some time, but ze Potters will be vindicated in Britain. I am sure of it."

"I hope you're right," said Harry. "But enough about me. What else has been going on since I've been here?"

Fleur filled Harry in on what else was going on since the battle concluded. All of Voldemort's sycophants in the Ministry had fled the country after his defeat, leaving the government in a state of chaos. Sebastian Delacour had wisely appointed some of his men to defend the Ministry while it reorganized itself, heading off several power grab attempts from the wealthy pure-blood families. A new acting Minister of Magic had not yet been named, but the Wizengamot planned to convene in the coming days to appoint one.

"What is the Prophet saying about all of this?" asked Harry. "Are they taking sides?"

"Not really," said Fleur. "They are mostly just reporting ze facts, I think. Though they are talking a lot about ze heroes of the battle, especially Neville and Cedric. They haven't mentioned the Potters at all."

That made sense to Harry. For the first time in a long time, the newspaper had no overbearing forces breathing down its neck to push a particular narrative, leaving them to interpret current events for themselves. The default position in that case would be to play into public sentiment and satisfy their readership, which meant celebrating the spotless heroes and ignoring the more controversial figures in the war effort. They would wait until public opinion on the Potters solidified until taking a firm stance on the matter.

"What about the rest of the world?" asked Harry. "What do they make of what happened?"

"Most other countries are just shocked, I think," said Fleur. "They did not realize 'ow bad things had gotten here. There is some resentment on ze continent about the fighters who died defending a country not their own, but it is minor. Your father is getting most of the credit for leading the resistance...Papa is making sure that 'is contributions are known abroad."

That gave Harry some hope for the future. Even if Britain remained stubbornly opposed to the idea of the Potters being heroic figures, at least the rest of the world would understand the sacrifices they made to enact real change.

"Is your father back in France?" asked Harry.

"He returned two days ago," said Fleur. "Maman was pleased to 'ave him back, according to her last letter. And she is eager for me to return this summer, as I am sure Gabrielle will be too."

"You're going back home, then?" said Harry. A small knot formed in his stomach at the thought of her leaving Britain – leaving him.

"Oui, it 'as been too long," said Fleur. "No offense to your homeland, 'Arry, but Britain is quite dreary and cold compared to France. Veela do not thrive in such conditions."

"I understand," Harry said in a strained voice. "Well, let me know if I can come and visit you sometime."

Fleur blinked at him in confusion. "Visit?" she repeated. "But 'Arry, you are coming with me. I thought zat was obvious."

"I am?" said Harry, hope blossoming within him again.

"We are partners, 'Arry," said Fleur adamantly. "Just because zis war is over does not change that. I am never letting you out of my sight again."

Harry gawked at Fleur, hardly believing his good fortune. Visions of a future with Fleur emerged in his mind – finding a home together. Having children. Raising a family. All the wonderful possibilities of a life he thought he'd been denied felt so tangible now, so real, and he wanted all of it and more. He thought he could die with happiness right then and there.

"I mean…" Fleur stammered, suddenly looking self-conscious and unsure. She must have interpreted his silence as reluctance to commit. "Only if you still want that, of course. I know we 'ave not really discussed ze future—"

Harry responded by wrapping his arms possessively around her, kissing her passionately. Fleur sighed with relief and responded in kind, hungrily kissing him back. The feeling of mutual desire was overwhelming, like being enveloped in her allure; Harry held her close, never wanting this moment to end, wanting to keep Fleur close and never let her go—

"Oh! Er, ahem...we'll just come back later."

Harry and Fleur broke apart just in time to see James and Lily standing in the doorway. They looked stunned by the display of affection, but both wore unmistakable smiles on their faces as they backed out and shut the door behind them. Fleur began to laugh heartily as Harry's face burned red with embarrassment.

"Do not be ashamed, mon chéri," said Fleur, bopping him playfully on the nose. "They suspected all along that we are paramours...why hide it now?"

"I'm not ashamed," Harry grinned. "We Brits just aren't used to showing affection so openly."

"Not to worry, I will train zat instinct out of you," Fleur winked. "I shall write to Papa and tell him we intend to visit soon. He will be glad to 'ave you."

The thought of visiting the Delacours in France again warmed Harry's heart. The last two times he'd been there had been stressful affairs, due to the ICW conferences and horcrux hunt looming over their heads. Now, he'd be able to fully relax for the first time and truly enjoy his time there. The Delacours were starting to feel like part of his own family – and maybe they truly would be soon.

Harry spent the remainder of the week recovering in that closet, with Fleur accompanying him most of the time. His legs mended themselves rapidly, to Dahlia's astonishment. "It makes no bloody sense," she muttered. "Most re-attachments take four to six weeks to heal fully."

"Well, most people haven't undergone multiple illegal blood rituals and stared Death in the face twice," Harry quipped. "Can I please get out of this godforsaken bed now?"

Dahlia finally relented and let Harry leave the confines of the closet, under Fleur's careful supervision. His legs were able to support his weight now, and he hobbled around the triage area of the warehouse, taking breaks every so often to let the burning sensation subside. He brushed off Fleur's attempts for help, though he did appreciate her presence, prepared to help him up if he fell. Just as she always had been.

The warehouse was mostly empty now, as most of the resistance fighters had returned to their homes abroad. Only a hundred or so remained – those still nursing injuries or waiting to attend the funerals of their fellows before leaving Britain. A few of them looked up warily as Harry shuffled past, still uneasy in his presence. They'd all seen what he was capable of now against Voldemort, and even those who trusted his motives now viewed him with fear. Such was the price of victory, he supposed: he was now the biggest magical threat in Britain, if not the world, and that came with its fair share of suspicion.

Fortunately, not all were as alienating. One morning, Harry and Fleur were walking a lap around the deserted barracks when they suddenly heard applause coming from nearby. Harry turned; the Weasley twins were watching him from afar, a small group of Brits around them.

"There he is!" Fred grinned. "The Hero of Hogwarts!"

"Back on his own two feet again, against all odds!" George quipped.

"Hey, guys," Harry smiled, limping over to greet them. "Though I dunno if anyone calls me 'the Hero of Hogwarts' anymore."

"Well, they should," Fred insisted. "Considering we'd all be toast if not for you."

"Neville told us what really happened, you know," George winked. "Or an abridged version, anyway – something about Death and Hallows and Unforgivable Curses that seemed way above our pay grade. Point is, we know who the real hero is."

"Er...thanks, I guess," Harry said sheepishly. He wasn't one for public praise, but it was nice knowing that at least some people were aware of what he'd done. The other Brits in the circle eyed him warily, no doubt nervous like the others but at least not outright rejecting him, either. "Where is Neville, by the way?"

"Probably off at some public event or other," said Fred. "Everyone in Britain wants him to come to their parties, their fundraisers, their funerals. He's the biggest celebrity of the hour, after all."

Once again Harry felt a small pang of jealousy at Neville's good fortune. It wasn't the boy's fault, of course, but it still nagged at him to have to hide away from the public while his counterpart basked in the glory of a victory he didn't achieve. He forced the feeling aside, resolving to talk to the boy about it at a future date to clear the air.

"Well, if you see Neville, let him know I'm looking for him," said Harry. "And listen, Fred...I'm so sorry about Angelina. I know you two were close."

A look of sadness crossed Fred's features at the reminder. Harry knew the pair had dated briefly at Hogwarts and wasn't sure if that had continued after graduation, but clearly he'd been fond of her, and the loss wounded him deeply.

"Not your fault, mate," Fred said in a strained voice. "She died a hero, from what Dursley told us after. She wouldn't have it any other way."

"I'm sorry about missing her funeral," said Harry. "You know I would have been there if I could."

"Yeah, 'course we do," said George, suddenly looking evasive. "Listen – we'd better run. You get yourself healed up, yeah?"

Fred and George departed in the direction of the exit, where Harry could see Arthur and Molly Weasley waiting. They were both eyeing Harry from afar, still with that suspicious look in their eyes that most others regarded him with. He would always lament the rift that had grown between him and the Weasleys in this timeline, as he'd considered them his own family in his past life. He hoped that one day soon he'd be able to sit down with them and explain things, and perhaps mend that bridge between them.

The next morning, Dahlia finally discharged Harry and allowed him to return home to Grimmauld Place. The entire family greeted him and Fleur upon arrival: James, Lily, Damian, Remus, Alessia, Sirius, Amelia, and Cassie. It was a tight fit in the cramped townhouse, but Harry didn't mind one bit, nor did the others. They were all together and safe at last, and they wanted to enjoy each other's company at last without the threat of war looming overhead.

The following days were as care-free and blissful as Harry had ever remembered – sharing meals, laughing over celebratory drinks, and generally luxuriating in one another's presence. There was no mention of the war and the lingering trauma it had caused – there would be ample time for that later. They all understood that they would go their separate ways again soon and wanted to enjoy this time together while they could.

Only one absence lingered in between them, and that was Andromeda. She wasn't technically a part of their family, but Harry had grown accustomed to her presence over the past year and missed having her around. Sirius seemed the most affected by her loss than anyone...he'd always called her his 'favorite cousin by far', and the lone tolerable member of the Black family. Harry hated to see his godfather so torn up over the loss, and went out of his way to try and cheer him up whenever he could.

That weekend, the entire group got dressed in their finest and headed to the cemetery for her funeral. It was a quiet affair – only a small handful showed up to pay their respects. Harry hoped that the public would understand her contributions to the war one day and give her the respect she was due. For now, he would take the opportunity to grieve and comfort those she'd left behind.

Cedric and Tonks were in attendance, flanked by a handful of Aurors that Harry suspected were there for security more than anything. They eyed the Potter clan warily, but luckily, no one protested their appearance. Cedric looked tired, like he hadn't been given the chance to process his own trauma from the war yet amidst the parade of public appearances. Tonks looked more muted than Harry had ever seen her, dressed in all black, her hair its natural shade of brown as she prepared to bury her mother just a year after her father.

Tonks gave a short and clipped speech beside the grave before returning to her seat. Sirius also got up to say a few words, sharing a few childhood memories with his 'beloved Andy', before he too broke down in tears and could not continue. He and Tonks shared a tearful hug afterwards, which Harry took to be a good sign that there were no hurt feelings between them.

As the proceedings continued, Harry took notice of a hooded figure lurking in the treeline, watching from afar. He kept the Elder Wand ready at all times, wary of some kind of ambush, but the figure did not appear to be a threat. They simply watched in silence as the casket was lowered to the ground and covered in earth, then turned to leave when the ceremony concluded. Harry caught a glimpse of familiar, bleached blonde hair beneath the hood as the figure retreated.

Come to see your sister off, then? Harry thought grimly. He wondered what Narcissa Malfoy – now Black, he presumed – was up to now that the war was over. Her husband was dead, her son in prison, and now her last remaining sister gone as well. Harry remembered the tense stand-off in Gringotts after stealing the Cup of Hufflepuff and the harsh words she and Andromeda had exchanged. Did Narcissa regret those words now? Did she seek to make amends with her belated sister? He supposed it didn't matter much anymore.

James appeared on-edge as the family returned to Grimmauld Place that afternoon. Harry wondered if he'd noticed the hooded figure as well, but that didn't seem to be the case. Lily too picked up on his tension as they shared a meal in the dining room.

"Something the matter, dear?" she asked her husband.

"Nothing, I'm fine," James muttered. Then, after a moment's silence, he admitted, "The Wizengamot is meeting today to appoint an interim Minister of Magic."

"Really?" said Remus, arching an eyebrow. "Any chance they put you back in charge?"

"Not likely," James chuckled hollowly. "I'm far too controversial a figure right now. They'll want someone with a clean track record, someone the public will accept as their leader."

"Ten Galleons says they try to put Longbottom in charge," Sirius quipped. "Or maybe Cedric Diggory. The Prophet has been fawning over the two of them all week."

"I imagine they'll want to choose someone they know," James muttered. "Someone with experience, someone who can put their head down and do the job. I'd be surprised if it wasn't one of their own."

Harry wondered if James had a particular person in mind. Harry certainly did, and he felt too superstitious to bring it up aloud. The unspoken implication was clear as day: how would the new Minister impact the Potters' status in Britain? So far they had gone unnoticed in the commotion of post-war rebuilding, but surely the question remained of what would become of them. And depending on who was named Minister, that question might be answered sooner rather than later.

The family retired to the study that afternoon to relax, though the atmosphere remained tense. James kept glancing up at the clock, and Harry knew that he was just counting down the minutes until the results came in. Finally, at a quarter past five, there was a whoosh in the hallway as the Floo activated; a moment later, Dale Greengrass strode into the room, wearing his official Wizengamot robes.

"Well, it's official," he sighed. "Amos Diggory has been sworn in as interim Minister of Magic."

The room fell solemnly silent at this news. Something told Harry this would not be good news for the Potter family, and based on his father's reaction, James didn't think so either.

"Well, it makes sense, I suppose," said James, failing to suppress a grimace. "His son is being celebrated for leading the resistance to victory, and Amos must have parlayed that goodwill into support of his own."

"Will he be a good Minister, d'you think?" Harry asked.

"Hard to say," said James. "He's generally progressive on most issues, but tends to take a 'my way or the highway' approach to legislation. He'll demand major concessions in exchange for his vote on an issue without offering anything in return. I think he only managed to pass one or two bills of his own in twenty years of service, because nobody wanted to work with him."

"How did he win the vote, then?" Remus frowned.

"Because it is that very refusal to compromise that makes him appealing," Dale sighed. "Most people believe that James bowed the knee to Voldemort in exchange for keeping his power. Amos refused to bow, and he's being rewarded for it now. People need heroes to believe in right now, and anyone with an unblemished record like his are in short supply."

"But he didn't accomplish anything during the war!" Harry said hotly. "The Potters are the one that actually made progress and fought back – he just coasted on our hard work!"

"I didn't say it was fair," Dale said placatingly. "Besides, Amos is far from the worst option we could have had. Lord Selwyn nearly won the vote by positioning himself as a moderate, but it was discovered that he was being financially backed by the Nott and Avery estates, which effectively killed his chances."

"What does this mean for us?" asked Sirius. "Amos had an axe to grind against all of us...will he pursue charges?"

"I'm not sure yet," Dale sighed. "I imagine he has more pressing matters on his plate before attending to the problem of the Potters."

"Maybe we should leave now, before things get worse," Lily suggested, glancing anxiously at her husband. "Wait this out on the continent. It wouldn't do to be caught unawares if he does decide to target us, would it?"

"I won't run from this, Lily," James said firmly. "A Potter does not flee when the going gets tough. I stand by my actions during this war and will gladly defend them before the public, the Wizengamot, and Death itself."

"Well, I hope you get that chance," Dale grimaced. "Diggory's first act as Minister was to order the public executions of Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy, set for tomorrow night."

Harry's stomach lurched at this news. "Why them in particular?" he asked.

"They were the only two Death Eaters captured alive in the battle," said Dale. "The others were all killed. People are baying for blood after what happened, and they are the obvious candidates to lash out against."

"But Draco had nothing to do with Voldemort's rise to power!" Harry protested. "And Snape actively worked to sabotage his efforts over the past two years! We wouldn't have won the war without him!"

"The bastard should have thought about that before he tried to kill me," James grumbled. "I won't shed a tear to see him go."

"He at least deserves a fair trial!" Lily protested. "An execution without a proper hearing before the Wizengamot? It's unheard of!"

"How can you still defend him?" James demanded. "After what he did in that battle?"

"He warned us of the battle in the first place," Lily pointed out. "And he kept me safe throughout the war, not to mention our children. I know his motives were not honest, but that's worth consideration all the same, isn't it?"

"He threw all that out the window as soon as he tried to kill James," Sirius said adamantly. "You come after a Marauder, you lose the right to live. He deserves what's coming to him. Right, Harry? ...Harry?"

But Harry was deep in thought. Something about the way Sirius framed the issue gave him pause. The irony was not lost on him: in his last timeline, Sirius had gone after a fellow Marauder, and he too had been sentenced without a trial by the Wizengamot. It didn't sit right with him.

"He still deserves a fair trial," Harry muttered. "If he's found guilty, then that's that. But people deserve to know all that he did for the war effort. He shouldn't die a villain."

"Unbelievable," James scoffed, throwing up his hands in disbelief. "And what if he walks free – what then? Am I supposed to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life?"

"He won't come after you again," said Harry. "He only did so because he thought he still had a chance with Mum. The second she chose you over him, he gave up. He knows now that it's finished between them."

"I really thought he was over me," Lily said softly, looking troubled. "He admitted that he had a crush on me in our younger years, but he never once made an advance over the past year. I suppose he was just trying to get me comfortable, to get me to care for him organically. But I only ever saw him as a friend...I thought he knew that."

"In any case, it doesn't matter," Dale pointed out. "If they've been sentenced to death, nobody will dare question it. No one wants to be seen voicing support for a known supporter of You-Know-Who, not in this hysterical political climate."

"Then that's that," said James, clapping his hands decisively. "We will speak nothing more of it."

But Lily still looked troubled by the development. Harry knew what she was thinking: that despite all the mistakes Snape had made, this was too cruel a punishment. And Harry was inclined to agree with her. He was being made the scapegoat for the crimes of others, and it didn't sit right with him.

Draco's fate bothered him even more. Harry had spared the boy's life intentionally in the battle, in the hopes that he would take the opportunity to grow and change as a person. Now, that opportunity was being snatched away from him. He was being punished for the crimes of Lucius and his ilk, and would forever be remembered as an accomplice in a war he wanted nothing to do with.

"You 'ave that look in your eye," Fleur remarked later that afternoon, as they sat quietly together in the library. "You are plotting something. What is on your mind?"

"I was just thinking," Harry muttered thoughtfully. "If Draco and Severus might have better luck at a fair trial overseas. An international court of law...maybe your father could help arrange something like that."

"Not on such short notice, surely," Fleur frowned. "If zey are to be executed tomorrow, it will be too late."

"True," Harry shrugged. "Unless they aren't here to be executed at all."

"Come again?" asked Fleur. "Why would they not be here?"

The seeds of a crazy idea were starting to take root in Harry's mind. And the more he thought about it, the more he began to seriously consider it. "I'm thinking about breaking them out of Azkaban," he said.

"What?!" Fleur exclaimed. "You can't do that!"

"Why not?" Harry shrugged. "I've already done plenty I could be arrested for. Besides, I reckon I could get away with it without being seen."

"But it is among the most heavily-guarded prisons in ze world!" said Fleur.

"Didn't stop me from getting into Nurmengard," Harry pointed out. "And that was without the Hallows to help me. Besides, how many guards do you think they can afford to spare after such a bloody battle? I bet there's no more than three or four Aurors watching the place."

"What about ze dementors?"

"They don't scare me anymore," Harry laughed hollowly. He couldn't explain how, but he somehow knew that the dark creatures would not affect him anymore. He'd already laughed in the face of Death itself and lived to tell the tale...what could a dementor even hope to scare him with now?

"Even so," Fleur groaned, "is it truly worth ze effort? Both men 'ave reason to want you dead...you killed Malfoy's father, and Snape tried to kill yours."

"Call it a gut feeling," Harry shrugged. "But I still think there's good in them. They've both had to make hard decisions to survive the war...maybe they deserve the chance to choose something different."

Fleur searched Harry's face, as if trying to decide if she believed him. "I do not believe zis is a wise course of action," she eventually sighed. "But I support whatever you decide. As long as you keep yourself safe and return to me in one piece."

"Always," Harry grinned. He leaned forward and kissed Fleur deeply; she sighed and melted into him, setting his heart aflutter. He had a long future ahead of him, and he wanted Fleur to be at his side every step of the way. He'd vanquished a Dark Lord...a few guards at Azkaban couldn't dream of stopping him now.

So that night, as the rest of the family went to bed, Harry got dressed in his warmest clothing and grabbed his Firebolt before sneaking down to the landing and Apparating away. He arrived on the shores of the Yorkshire Coast, looking out over the pitch blackness of the North Sea. He knew Azkaban was somewhere in that direction, hundreds of miles off-shore, with no way of discerning its exact location. But he nonetheless mounted his broom and rocketed off over the stormy waves, in search of the infamous prison.

Harry flew for what felt like hours, but was likely less thanks to the blistering speed of the Firebolt. He could barely see where he was going through the darkness, but was guided by an unmistakable pull of magical energy, somewhere far over the horizon. The prison was undoubtedly protected by hundreds if not thousands of enchantments, which made it secure but also easily detectable thanks to his heightened sense of magic. So he continued blindly following the radiating thrum of power towards the source.

He knew he'd arrived when he felt himself bump up against an invisible barrier of magic, preventing him access. But the wards would be insufficient to keep Harry out. He drew the Elder Wand and began to mutter incantations under his breath, guided by the arcane knowledge stored within the wand to disrupt the enchantment field. Eventually a small pocket of un-warded space opened up for him, and he slipped through undetected.

And there before him lay the rocky isle housing the prison of Azkaban. It was a formidable sight indeed...a great black prism rising to the darkened sky, heavy waves crashing into the rocks below. Harry felt a chill of foreboding at the sight.

But it wasn't just the sight of the prison that disturbed Harry. It was also the hundreds of cloaked figures, hovering menacingly around the building. Dementors. His father had banned the use of the creatures shortly after becoming Minister, but Voldemort had brought the dark creatures back to the isle during the war. And apparently Minister Diggory had no qualms about continuing their usage.

But there was no time to ponder the ethics of the matter now. Harry dipped his broom handle down to fly low over the waves towards the prison. He landed on a rocky outcropping, at the tip of a pitch-black island jutting haphazardly out of the sea. The wind chilled him to the bone, massive waves lapping up at him from below. He threw the Invisibility Cloak over himself and strode forward purposefully towards the towering prison before him.

A few dementors sensed Harry's arrival, though invisible, and swooped down to greet him. But almost immediately they were repulsed, flying away to keep their distance from the newcomer. The creatures fed on pure souls, those that feared the severing of their connection to their earthly hosts. They wanted nothing to do with Death's Emissary, whose soul straddled the divide between the living and the dead. Harry's soul was not theirs to take.

Harry marched straight up to the front gates of the prison, where two human guards stood watch. They each had a Patronus hovering overhead to keep the dementors at bay, yet they both looked miserable all the same, forced to co-exist with such miserable creatures.

Both guards suddenly snapped to alert as Harry approached, triggering some kind of proximity alarm. "Halt, intruder!" one shouted, wand aimed into the darkness though neither could see him. "You are in a restricted area. Identify yourself, or you will be—"

Harry lazily flicked his wand, and the two guards fell unconscious to the ground. He allowed their Patronuses to remain, standing guard over their fallen forms so the dementors would not come to feed on them. He was not here to take lives today. He was here to save them.

Harry entered the prison, glancing up at the vaulted ceilings and the rows upon rows of cells. "Hominem revelio," he whispered, sending a pulse of magic through the cavernous space. Only two blips registered from his scan...two souls, confined to separate cells at the very top of the prison. The only two enemy survivors from the terrible battle.

Harry leapt off the ground, his magic carrying him upwards through the center of the prison to the top level. He alighted upon the catwalk and stalked forward to the end of the row. All dementors in the vicinity scattered, clearing his path and lightening the oppressive darkness and cold. He reached his destination and paused, looking down into the two cells at their inhabitants.

Draco Malfoy was whimpering quietly to himself, curled up in a ball in the far corner. He was clearly suffering mightily from the effects of the dementors, mumbling incoherently, too mentally weak to resist their terrible effects upon his mind. Severus Snape, on the other hand, merely sat sullenly upon his bed, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Dementors preyed upon people's hope, and this was a man who had none left.

Snape was the first to realize they had a visitor. "Come to put us out of our misery?" he asked weakly.

"Not today, Severus," said Harry. He removed his cloak, and both Snape and Draco looked up towards him.

"P-Potter?" Draco muttered, as though not believing his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"He's come to finish the job," Snape said sullenly. "His father was too good a man to kill us, but Harry doesn't like to leave a job unfinished, does he?"

"That's not why I'm here," said Harry. "The Minister of Magic just signed your death warrants this morning. You will both be executed in front of the public tomorrow."

Draco gave a pitiful whine at this information. "Without a trial?" he whimpered. "B-but it isn't fair."

Snape, on the other hand, appeared unconcerned. "Amos Diggory always was the vindictive sort," he mused. "It stands to reason he'd want to use us to put on a show. After all, there's no one left to punish but us."

Harry had recently made the same grim realization himself. He had done such a thorough job of purging Voldemort's inner circle that there was virtually none left alive. They had either been felled by the Phantom over the course of the past year, or killed in the Battle of Hogwarts thanks to Harry's warning about the Dark Marks. Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape were the only Marked followers of Voldemort, besides Harry, that had survived the war.

"I d-don't want to die!" Draco sniffed. "I d-didn't want to be a part of any of this!"

"Take solace, young Draco," said Snape calmly. "Diggory will want it over with quickly. They'll make a show of us for a while, but our deaths will be swift. No more suffering. Only peace awaits us on the other side." This did not seem to comfort Draco, who only began to sob harder.

"That's not going to happen," Harry said firmly. "I've come to break you out. We're leaving."

"Leaving?" repeated Draco, his quiet sobs ceasing for a moment as he looked up with a glimmer of hope. "But where?"

"To the continent," said Harry. "You will be placed in international custody, awaiting a proper trial. You will have the opportunity to plead your case and have your fate determined fairly."

Draco's eyes went wide at this prospect – at the opportunity to plead his case. Snape, however, appeared unmoved.

"What's your angle, Potter?" Snape demanded. "Why try and protect two people who were your enemies in the war?"

"I figure I owe it to both of you," Harry shrugged. "You both knew I was the Phantom and chose not to sell me out to Voldemort. And Severus, you kept me alive after I killed Dumbledore, and facilitated the final battle, even if your motives were compromised. That counts for something, I reckon."

There was little time to argue the finer details. Harry swiped his wand, causing both cell doors to swing open. He Vanished the heavy chains pinning the two prisoners to the walls, freeing them. "Get up," he barked at them both. "Time to go."

Draco struggled to his feet at once, limping out of his cell to stand beside Harry. Snape, however, remained where he was, not even looking up at his opened door.

"Now or never, Severus," Harry urged him. "The Aurors will be here soon."

"Let them come," Snape muttered. "I care not either way."

"You won't be given a fair trial here in Britain," said Harry. "At least in an international court, you'll be given the chance to plead your case, to prove your contributions to ending the war. To live."

"To what end?" Snape scoffed. "I've nothing left to offer this world. I cannot procreate, and I will not be welcomed in wizarding spaces any longer. The only person who would tolerate me has turned her back."

"You'll have to live for something more than my mother," Harry said firmly. "She loves my father, and that's that. There are other women in the world, Severus."

"Not for me," Snape said sullenly. "I died the moment she rejected me on that battlefield. There will never be another."

Harry groaned internally. He'd known Snape was smitten with Lily before, but this was just pathetic. Was he really so obsessed with her that he could see no future without her? Had every action he'd taken throughout this war been for the sole purpose of claiming her as his own? Harry thought the man had more complex motives, but perhaps he'd been mistaken all along.

"You would willingly fall on the sword?" Harry asked. "Even when given the chance at life?"

"My fate is sealed," said Snape. "I shall not run from it. If am to be executed tomorrow, it will be a blissful release from my agony. I shall bear the weight of my sins, and give Britain the villain they crave to satiate their bloodlust."

Harry was torn between disgust at Snape's lack of survival instinct, and begrudging respect for his courage at subjecting himself to the fate he knew was coming. Not only would he be killed, he would be reviled. The nation would use him as an outlet to project their frustrations, their anger at the past year of misery he'd subjected them to. He would forever be remembered as a traitor, no matter what he'd done to aid the war effort. It was almost honorable, if it wasn't for such pathetic reasons.

"I will ensure your sacrifices won't be forgotten," Harry promised the man. "We would not have won the war without your help."

Snape merely shrugged in apathy. He didn't care about the outcome of the war. The only outcome he cared about – Lily – had escaped him. Severus Snape was a defeated man, and Harry wouldn't waste his time saving someone who lacked the will to save himself.

He turned instead to Draco and offered his arm. The blonde hesitantly took it, and Harry Apparated them away, directly through the wards of the prison. They appeared on a quiet cobblestone street in Paris, the roads deserted, not far from the magical district and the Ministry.

"So what's your plan here, Potter?" asked Draco, looking around the place dubiously.

"Er...to be honest, I hadn't planned this far ahead," Harry admitted. "I figured I would contact Sebastian Delacour and have him arrange custody of you. The French Ministry will probably take you in."

There was a moment's silence as both he and Draco contemplated this prospect. "Not to sound ungrateful or anything," said Draco slowly. "But who's to say the French Ministry won't send me straight back to Britain? I've committed no crimes against France."

Harry considered this. In the eyes of an international Ministry, Draco may not have even committed any crimes whatsoever. They might simply extradite him, back into the waiting arms of Amos Diggory, who would be all too happy to send him straight to the gallows. That was not an outcome Harry would be satisfied with. It left him with only one alternative.

"What would you do if I set you free?" Harry asked aloud.

Draco's head jerked towards him in surprise. "Come again?"

"Where would you go?" Harry insisted. "What would you do?"

Draco pondered the question for a moment. "Go to Gringotts, I suppose," he muttered, glancing wistfully towards the magical district. "Access my father's vault – my vault, that is – and find my way back to my mother. From there? I've no earthly idea."

"Would you come looking for me or my family again?" Harry demanded.

"What?" Draco stammered. "Why would I?"

"I killed your father. You would not harbor a grudge against me for it?"

Draco swallowed hard at this reminder. "My father's mistakes were his own," he said quietly. "He deserved what he got. I just want a chance to become my own man."

Harry nodded slowly. He knew it was a big risk to take, but it would save everyone a lot of time and hassle. His conscience could not abide Draco being irreversibly punished for the crimes of his father.

So he released his hold on Draco's arm and stepped back. Draco could not believe his good fortune, understanding for the first time what Harry was implying. He took a testing shuffle backwards, as though seeing if Harry was just pulling his leg, eyes wide as he realized he was well and truly free.

"Just know this," Harry warned. "If I ever see you again, I will not hesitate to kill you."

"Trust me, the last thing I want is to ever see you again," Draco chuckled nervously. "I will never seek you or your family out again so long as I live. You have my word, from the heir of one noble House to another."

Harry nodded his approval. Draco's entire demeanor had shifted, as he realized that he was actually getting a second chance in life. A chance to start over fresh. But still, something nagged at him, preventing him from accepting this gift at face value.

"Potter?" he asked. "Why did you spare me? I mean...I thought you hated me."

"I used to," Harry admitted. "But we were just kids then. No one ought to be judged for how they behaved as a child. From now on, I'll judge you by the adult you become."

"Even after everything that happened between us?" asked Draco. "All the grief my family caused yours?"

"Lucius has already paid his penance," said Harry. "And I promised him I would not punish you for his transgressions. As long as you don't repeat them, I think we can lay our feud to rest."

"Thank you, Potter," Draco said earnestly. He extended his good hand forward; Harry hesitated, then shook it. "I don't know how to repay you."

"You can do it by not getting caught," said Harry. "And if you ever find yourself in a position to do some good in the world, try paying it forward."

Draco nodded thoughtfully. He turned and began shuffling down the empty boulevard towards salvation. Harry watched him go, mixed emotions running through his head.

You oughtn't leave a potential future enemy alive like that, the Elder Wand whispered discontentedly in his mind. Admittedly, Harry wasn't sure if it was the right decision either.

But he figured the boy deserved a second chance at redemption. Like him, Draco had been forced into difficult decisions from a very young age with little chance to decide things for himself. Now, he would get to choose his own life.

And if he chose wrong? Well, Harry would be watching, and he would not be so merciful the second time around.