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SIYE Time:21:59 on 28th March 2024
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The Weight of the After
By Paperyink

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Category: Post-HBP, Post-DH/AB
Characters:Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley, Severus Snape
Genres: Action/Adventure, Drama, Romance
Warnings: Mild Language, Violence
Rating: R
Reviews: 14
Summary: As the trials against those complicit in Voldemort's regime begin, Ginny Weasley must come to terms with the worst year of her life- on record. But not every war story should be told.
Hitcount: Story Total: 12890; Chapter Total: 1886
Awards: View Trophy Room




Author's Notes:
Thank you for reading! Please review and reblog I subsist on feedback xx




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Chapter 4: The Tempestuous Balance Between Prosecution and Defense is a Little Disgusting

There was a solace in magic, a preciousness that Ginny hadn’t recognised or cared about, at least not at first. Magic had bloomed in her early, even for her family, and the moment she first felt the strands of power reverberating through her, she had acted as if it had always been there, like turning grass blue and making bubbles pop out of her ears was something she’d always had the power to do. From the beginning, magic had been no more than a feature of her body, no different from the freckles on her face and the stubborn cracking sound her ankle always made.

So it was funny, Ginny had always thought, that it took the near-decimation of her soul for her perspective to change.

She’d fought so hard, for months and months, only for the single droplet of life that remained in her to slowly drain away as she lay in that chamber, the brutally handsome boy looming over her becoming more and more solid with each passing moment. And then there was nothing at all, and then Harry Potter was grabbing her arm and calling her name, swathed in the brilliant golden light that she used to imagine when she pictured him. But he was real, he was there, and as the diary became nothing more than a clot of dirty, wet parchment with vile black ink bleeding from its wounds, her magic surged back into her in a transcendent rush. She had never been taught how to be religious but it had felt like a benediction, more holy than she’d thought possible, and nothing like the way it had been before.

It was an impossible fight, crawling back to the natural way she’d had with her magic before. She’d resolved to protect it at all costs, wrapping herself in layer after layer of every powerful spell she could find until it was a cocoon, until it was a fortress. She had somehow, by the grace of something, been allowed to keep the gleaming brilliance that was magic, and the endless ways she could use it astounded her, warming her soul even in the most wretched of times.

Now, tied to a wooden chair by a circling Amycus Carrow, wand unreachable, right eye swelling and lip bleeding sluggishly, she couldn't help but, for the first time in her life, resent magic, and the endless ways it could be used against her.

"My my," Amycus sneered in his oily voice, stopping his vulture-like path and facing her, leaning so close they were almost nose to nose. "You been a careful one, ‘aven't you? Slippin' through our fingers for months. But we got you now, hmm? Red-handed." He knotted his fingers in her hair when he said "red," and laughed to himself.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ginny said, gritting her teeth in equal parts anger and pain.

"Oh no?" Amycus mocked, cocking his head to the side. "Caught out after hours, dilly-dallyin' outside the kitchen?"

"I was hungry." Ginny shrugged, not caring if he believed her. He laughed, and the hair on the back of her neck prickled in disgust.

"No, I don't think so," he growled. "What were you doin’ down there? Sneakin' some food to the Mudbloods you're keeping hidden away?"

"Mudbloods?" Ginny asked, angrily, adding an ounce of despair for performance flair. "There’s not a single drop of Muggle-born blood left. And the ones you didn’t hand over are the ones you already killed. Isn't that what you told them? Or is that another pathetic lie? I know your master doesn’t like it when you lie." Amycus's smug expression faltered, if only for a moment, and she went in with the advantage. "I've even heard that you're keeping one, for fun. Such a shame, Carrow, for that poor Muggle-born to be at the mercy of someone as embarrassing as you." He snarled with outrage and struck her hard across the face.

She spat out the resulting blood, coughing slightly. "I don't know if any of them are alive," she told him, "but I know for damn sure I'll find them before you do."

"So no Mudbloods then," Amycus straightened back up, veering away from the subject quickly. Ten points for her. "Tryin' to turn the filthy little house elves against us? Poison our food?"

Ginny actually laughed at that, which earns her another heavy blow. "No," she said, and she shook her head once she regained her bearings. "I told you, I was hungry." His dim interrogation tactics were already failing; it was only a matter of time before he threw one more cruciatus at her then let her go. She was already planning her mission report to the D.A. in her head when Amycus's mouth dragged up, slowly, into a malicious leer. Her stomach dropped– 

"Ginny!"

Ginny jerked in surprise. She turned to Neville as he moved his elbow away from her ribs, where he clearly had intended to jab her. She raised her eyebrows; he shrugged.

"You were miles away. I called your name about five times," he explained, squinting at her in concern. "They're about to do opening statements."

"Oh– I– oh," she said numbly, shaking herself out of her daze. Damn it. Four double doors, sixteen chandeliers, two hundred seats…. 

"Bloody vile, the way Carrow talks to you," Seamus whispered across Anthony to her. "I almost forgot." And Ginny would have none of that, forgetting. 

"Lucky you," she replied.

Across the courtroom, Hestia stood in a sweep of black robes and headed towards the center. With every stride she took, adrenaline rose higher and higher in Ginny, that fight-or-flight instinct that had kept her alive thus far, the one that she both feared and feared she craved. Neville's hand grew sweaty in hers, but she only squeezed it tighter.

Hestia carefully tucked a strand of silky black hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. "Esteemed witches and wizards,” she began, rich voice steady and commanding, “I stand before you with the grave task of opening this historic trial.” She stood at what would’ve been a soldier's attention, if not for the one pointy-toed high heel jutted forward, at an angle; cynically, Ginny wondered if Hestia had ever felt more important in her life. 

"Today, we as a unified confederation of people, as proponents of the rights of man, must condemn beyond redemption the actions of the witch and wizard seated before you. Actions so malignant, so destructive, that neither our world nor the world at large can survive them being repeated. Actions based on beliefs invalidated by progress and truth, carried out to shame and destroy those that are identical to us down to their very bones. Actions that are a shameful representation of humankind, and make a mockery of human kindness."

Hestia paused. Her words simmered, bouncing like the beam of a curse through the charged atmosphere. Had she rehearsed this speech, as if it were lines in a particularly grim political play? Ginny pictured it quite well; Hestia, standing in front of an ornate floor length mirror with those pointy heels on, practicing which facial expression would work best for which child's death she’d be exploiting. At this wild thought, she pulled all the stops and mentally berated herself. Hestia was on their side; even the nastiest voice in her head agreed with that. There was no use in further alienating the people who were supporting her.

"Amycus and Alecto Carrow, Death Eaters and followers of Voldemort," she paused again, but this time it was in order to let the ridiculous, arbitrary gasps and shudders at the name dwindle off, "have loyally served a twisted ideal that has infected wizarding society for far too long, and through their hysteria are responsible for the discrimination, torture, disappearances and presumed deaths of Muggle-borns and so-called 'blood traitors' alike, many of whom have suffered irreparable damage to their bodies and minds, some of whom are gone forever."

Gone forever. Images of everyone she’d lost flitted behind her eyes like a roll of film, before grinding to a halt, randomly, on Colin Creevey. The memory was as bright and blinding as the flashes from the coveted camera she’d found lying next to his body. She shook her head violently, trying to beat away the remnants of the all-consuming dread that had rocketed through her when she’d knelt down and looked into the familiar sight of his unseeing eyes, and her first thought had been that she’d once again become the monster of their childhood. A thought that, in the midst of a battle, had been followed by instant, intoxicating relief when she realised that she wasn't to blame. Not that time. 

Death was everywhere; death, she’d had to handle in spades. But she didn't want to remember that upon discovering the remains of the bright, happy boy she’d grown up with slumped on the floor, a marionette with its strings cut, the only thought she had been able to string together was that, at least, it wasn't because of her.

"Ginny, stop," Anthony murmured. He pressed his fingers to her wrist in a brief, comforting gesture, and she nodded to show him that she was fine. She was fine. Twenty stained glass windows. Five different colours in the glass; purple, yellow, blue, red and green.

“This trial today is not for you to make a decision of their guilt, for we all know, many of us with agonizing, firsthand certainty, that they are. No, what this trial will determine is how light the crosses that we all bear will be going forward.” Hestia clasped her hands close to her heart. "We have arrived, tired and trembling, to the other side of a steep and unforgiving mountain. And as we bury our dead and hold tight to our loved ones, it serves as a comfort to see our tormentors held responsible. But make no mistake, we can never go back. There is no righting this wrong. There can never be reconciliation. And while these wretched souls are unquestionably responsible, the blame is on us all ." As she rounded out her last syllable, the courtroom erupted with murmurs and the sounds of people shifting uncomfortably in their seats. 

"Yes, the blame is on us all," she repeated, raising her voice over the clatter, her face impassive.

"The old story goes that humans never learn, that we are cursed to revolve in a cycle of hatred and pain, in one endless war disguising itself in different names; part one, part two, the great, the terrible… But just as we have made this world, we can also change it. We can break this tired cycle. And the only chance we have to make amends, to set ourselves on a proper path, is justice ."

The murmurs, louder now, continued as Hestia walked back to the prosecution bench.

"Jesus," Anthony whispered. "Where are we?" The others hummed in agreement, and it was warranted; that had been a speech for the ages. But– blame it on a year and a half of first-hand experience with some of the shittiest parts of humanity– she saw the cracks forming, ones that could splinter and spiderweb. She glanced over towards the Confederation; heads adorned with ceremonial caps were bent in quiet conversations, while billowing sleeves of robes fell back to reveal hands cupped over ears as if these people were notorious town gossips and not celebrated leaders of the world.

She leaned over to Neville. "That was a risk, incriminating everyone like that. It won’t win us any sympathy."

He looked at her incredulously. "Win us sympathy?" he repeated in a low voice, "Ginny, these people are on our side!"

"We can't be sure of that," she insisted, shaking her head. Neville’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"But– the war is over. We don't need to be looking around every corner anymore, and this is… this is it, isn't it? Our chance to get everything right. I know it's been a hell of a year, and nearly everyone tried to kill us," he added, and shrugged when she rolled her eyes at that huge, ridiculous understatement, "but we're alive and it's over and, well, we've… we've won ." He seemed to become more and more uncertain about what he was saying as he went on. He gave her a look of a decidedly different kind of confusion. "Haven't we?" he asked.

"I don't know," she answered quietly. “I… I don’t know.” That was it– that was the crux of it. She’d marched through the war like a dutiful tin soldier, convinced that Voldemort’s death would be the bell toll of victory, that the moment his corpse hit the floor would bring chirping birds and angelic choirs, foolish as it sounds. But was this what winning was? Certainly, victory was not supposed to feel like this, and it wasn’t supposed to look like the faces and physical descriptions of hundreds of missing Muggle-borns, spending months on the front pages of all the newspapers– many of them her fellow students, some of them already buried like treasure, deep in her subconscious.

"That’s not what war is. There are no winners. No losers," Anthony said. "Just… people who’ve lost and people who’ve lost more." 

"Merlin, that cheers me right up," Seamus grumbled. 

Anthony didn’t respond. His eyes tracked Dorian Parkinson as he rose from his place to deliver his statement, and Ginny swore they were rimmed with red. 

Guilt slammed into her like a brick; she’d been so selfish, too busy cooped up in her own mind that she hadn’t even thought to ask… but by the look of Anthony’s face, she wasn’t sure if she should even try.

She leaned over to Neville again and said, as quietly as she could, “Has there been any–”

“No,” Anthony interrupted bluntly, catching her out like he always did. “So as far as I know, dead. Just like everyone else.”

“We can't know that yet,” she started to say, but stopped when she heard a hesitant noise from her other side. She turned to Neville, waiting to be filled in.

“It was in last week’s Prophet,” he told her with a weary frown, and she appreciated that he didn’t question why she hadn’t been keeping up with the news. “The ministry’s put a hold on all open missing person cases. They’ve– they’ve moved the muggle-borns that haven’t been located yet from missing to presumed dead until proven otherwise.”

What? ” she said, a sickening panic sinking like a stone in her stomach. “What do you mean? ‘Haven’t been located,’ is almost all of them. Even–?”

“Yes,” Neville nodded, saving her from having to say it.

“But they can’t– they can’t…” Ginny couldn’t talk. She couldn’t breathe.

“It’s been three months,” Neville said reluctantly. “Their logic says that they would have come back by now if,” he swallowed thickly, “you know.”

Despair trickled in through the shock, fuzzy and desensitised. But there was something else lurking behind it that she couldn’t quite identify, some sort of stubborn disbelief of Neville’s words, entrenched in a certainty that had no basis she could find.

“No,” she muttered finally, and her right hand came up, almost subconsciously, to press at her temple. “That isn’t right.”

“Bloody awful, is what it is,” Seamus said. “All those people…” He trailed off, his eyes drifting towards the bench of D.A. members, where Dean had just taken a seat between Susan and Padma.

“No,” Ginny repeated, and she looked at Neville, hoping he’d help her hash out the mental soup that was sloshing about her brain. “That isn’t right.

“Yeah, well. Forget that now,” Anthony said, clearly wanting nothing more to do with the subject. “Parkinson’s about to speak.” Ginny gritted her teeth; she wasn’t ready to let this go, but she turned back to the front with a huff, dragging her hands up and down her cheeks in sheer misery.

(It wasn’t until later that she realised her fingers had come back damp.)

Parkinson made a show of straightening his lapel and tapping his oxford-clad foot in a staccato rhythm against the floor, clearly waiting for the noise to die down. It made a flat, unpleasant sound, like the tearing of cellophane or a moth repeatedly hitting a light. Like Hestia, he cleared his throat before he began, but it resembled the hem hem she loathed to recall but loved to mock from the dreaded Umbridge days. Ginny did a quick run-through of every terrible person she'd ever met, mulling over something; were they all alike? Did they have a secret meeting every other week in which they discussed what sort of mannerisms they should perfect in order to terrorise people in just the right way?

"My dear fellow witches and wizards," Parkinson cut through her train of thought, in a voice that sounded like Mrs. Skower’s cleaning solution personified, all RP and no personality. "I am honoured to be in the presence of people of such profound excellence and eminence, who have done us Britons such a service to come here today, from far across the reaches of the world, to put this deeply troubling matter to rest, once and for all."

"Blimey, laying it on thick for these bastards," Seamus muttered.

“These are politicians; this is how they expect to be addressed,” Anthony sneered, ever a poor man’s revolutionary. But he was right; an elderly wizard and witch in the back row both adjusted their comically large ear trumpets more firmly into place, clearly interested in what such a flattering, proper gentleman like Parkinson could have to say.

"Wizarding Britain has suffered through unconscionable toil in these past three years, devastating its proud people, and its hard-earned global reputation. And as the dust settles, as we as a community try to piece our lives back together again, the tide of hatred has not ebbed, but rather has risen,” he lifted his arms wide as if giving a sermon, “against the noble houses of ancient wizardry in this great nation. There is no denying my clients’ involvement in some relatively compromising misdeeds, just as there is no denying that the Dark Lord created this… difficult atmosphere. But his worst casualties are the meek followers that he has left behind, to take responsibility for his transgressions. Amycus and Alecto Carrow are but victims of his creed."

"Oh Merlin," Neville groaned, wearing the same look of disdain that appeared on at least a third of the faces in the crowd, a look that was no doubt mirrored on her face. And though there were audible gasps and whispers, there was far less racket than during Hestia’s accusation. Interesting. Parkinson seemed to think so too; his lips twitched briefly, before returning to his dramatic, solemn demeanor. He reached one thin hand towards the Carrows, a sympathetic frown pasted on his face as if they were the last two children at a closing orphanage.

“Inherently simple in nature, they have been indoctrinated from birth to follow the Dark Lord's teachings, to adhere to the customs and norms that surrounded them, caught in a current that their feeble minds couldn’t escape even if they tried.” At such an utterly condescending remark, she couldn’t stop from glancing at the Carrows, but what was there left her unsettled: carefully blank faces, without a trace of the defensive snarls that she had been expecting. Amycus was hardly a mastermind, but Alecto… Alecto was righteous, wrathful rage, spitefully punishing to all that dared to look down on her. Ginny’s brain was screaming in resistance (though the first look had been much harder), but she kept her focus on Alecto, searching. And then Ginny saw it, in the slightly angled position of Alecto’s head, in the careful looseness of her hands in her lap.

“And now, the war has been fought, their values have been demonised, and their stories will be immortalised by the victors. But, who are we to cast them as evil? Who are we to say that they were not blank rolls of parchment, corrupted by a force they could not avoid? It serves logic to suggest that these ‘crimes’ we are examining today were simply orders that they were compelled to follow upon the threat of exile, or even death. When the evidence is laid out, it is clear that Amycus and Alecto Carrow bear as much responsibility as those who acted under the Imperius curse, or indeed, any who have found themselves unwillingly possessed by the Dark Lord’s power. Why, even amongst those proclaimed as the heroes of our world, it is a much more common affliction than we are led to believe.”

Gasps of disbelief and indignation rose through the courtroom, scattered, piling on top of each other. But Ginny barely heard them over the furious throb of blood that surged through her body, pulsing viciously from her wrist to her eardrums. The pressure of it all was almost painful– and then, without warning, a current of wrathful energy barreled through her arms and into her hands. Alarmed, she clamped her fists shut, her nails piercing half-moon cuts into her skin, and it took all of her strength, every thread of control she had, to keep the energy there. Thankfully, no one was paying attention to her. In fact, many people in the room had swivelled in their seats to ogle at Harry. But there was no doubt in her mind that Parkinson’s cattle prod was all for her, no doubt that it was an attempt to hit her where it hurt. And it did, like a charm. Among the fiery mess inside her head, the only structured thought she cobbled together was god, Pansy Parkinson’s got a big fucking mouth.

“These poor, wayward souls do not deserve to be locked up for the rest of their lives for being swept under someone else's misdeeds, like leaves carried away in the wind. No, what they truly deserve is rehabilitation, reeducation, and reconciliation.” Parkinson turned and faced the courtroom, and made a point to slowly scan everyone present from left to right, his accusatory expression aimed at one and all. “And let us remember as we make our judgments that in this bright, new, tolerant world of ours, we must have perspective. And we must consider the question: under the same circumstances, would any of you have done any different?"

He bowed his head in the tight, practiced way Ginny had seen every Slytherin pureblood work to master since the age of eleven, and made his way back to his seat, ignoring the glares and– to her horror– deep looks of consideration that followed him along the way. Disappointment hooked into her spine; one of these days she’d have to learn not to be constantly let down by human beings.

"Never mind," Anthony said, clearly going through the same range of emotions as her but making a more successful attempt at looking simply annoyed. "Still in bloody Kansas."

"What does that even mean?" Neville asked absentmindedly, not taking his glare off Parkinson.



"Well. That wasn’t surprising at all." Ginny said, her voice strangely calm to her own ears. "Alecto’s still running the whole game."

Anthony growled. “It’s a classic defense is what it is. They were just following– they’re too simple to know be– I mean, Christ .” He was rambling, more to himself than anyone, as rattled as a bird in an upturned cage. “It’s ‘the banality of evil.’ A page right out of the bloody book. Though,” he let out a hysterical half-laugh and shook his head, “fifty quid says he didn’t read until the end.”

Ginny, Neville, and Seamus stared at Anthony.

“Well, I dunno what the bloody hell you’re on about because all I heard was straight shite,” Seamus groused, shuffling down in his seat with pure disgust on his face. “I mean, ‘deeply troubling matter,’ ‘difficult atmosphere’… barely pretending like we don’t already know that he’s a snake shagger. But his hard-on for himself is what did me in. D’you reckon he recited that while wanking off last night?”

Neville wrinkled his nose at Seamus. “You’ve always had such a way with words.”

In another life, this was where Ginny would’ve joined in, pulled an outrageous face and deepened her voice to imitate Seamus. Instead, a cold shiver trickled down her back, accompanied by the same churning in her stomach that she used to get when she didn't study for History of Magic exams. Only that had been Before, when the world was only a little bleak and fraught with terror, and this was the After, where she woke up in the middle of the night to the echoes of young voices screaming. None of them really knew what they were about to do. None of them were even in the right state of mind to handle this. That was clearer than ever, with her tolerance window for looking in the direction of the Carrows teetering at fifteen seconds. 

"I– I don't think we know what we're in for,” she said quietly. “We haven’t thought this through."

Seamus snorted unhappily. “Glad you’ve finally arrived at ‘the panic zone.’ I’ve been here the entire time. Wait five minutes and I’ll forget why I’m even in this fucking room."

She looked at Neville. His jaw was set, already prepared for battle, but he shrugged. “You make the calls, Ginny. If you say go, we’ll go.” Anthony and Seamus nodded in agreement. “But we didn’t know what we were in for during the war either, so I don’t think we can walk away now. We have to do this.” And Ginny didn't care what anyone said; Neville Longbottom was the bravest man she’d ever known.

“The prosecution summons Seamus Finnigan, Anthony Goldstein, Neville Longbottom and Ginny Weasley to the stand.”

The vantage point from the witness stand left nothing to the imagination. Now, facing the entire courtroom, she had no choice but to notice everything; every pitying look, every raised eyebrow doubting her story, every sneer, every look of contempt. She longed for the wooden bench that had given her some semblance of ignorance. What was worse, she wouldn’t be able to avoid eye contact with someone she cares about if she tried; not any member of the D.A., not Hermione, not her brothers, and certainly not Harry.

“Mr. Finnigan, Goldstein and Longbottom, Miss Weasley,” Hestia nodded to each of them, “let me first say on behalf of the Ministry that we thank you for being here today, and cooperating with the Confederation–”

“We’re not here for you.”

To some, it might have been surprising to hear Neville, the once timid boy who trembled in fear under much lesser scrutiny, interrupt Hestia like that, in a room splitting at the seams with authority figures. But those people were idiots and must have not known anything about him, not really, not like Ginny did.

Neville’s cheeks coloured at the silent sea of eyes trained on him, but he merely shrugged. “We’re– we’re not here for the Ministry or the Confederation.” He pointed towards the people they had fought back-to-back with, who they’d lied and compromised for, and said, simply, “We’re here for them. And for the people that we left behind.”

“Hear, hear,” Seamus said, clapping Neville on the back. Neville rolled his eyes.

Hestia cleared her throat awkwardly, and replied, “Yes, well… we thank you. Now, if you would please–”

“Wait,” Ginny interrupted, and it came out in the lower timbre that she’d adopted over the past year, a tone she dissolved into as comfortably as if she were climbing into a well-worn jumper. Obediently, all attention shifted to her. That, on the other hand, wasn’t something she’d ever get used to.

“I would like to make something clear.” She paused, preparing for the first real, unadulterated truth to come out of her mouth in ages. And to the masses, no less. “It is important that the world knows what happened to us, but this won't be easy for anyone that is trying to believe that last year at Hogwarts was like any other year,” and she couldn’t help herself, so she didn’t; she stared directly at Harry, meeting his stubborn gaze, “or anyone whose sole takeaway will be that they should feel guilty for not being there. What happened was violent. If you are not prepared for that, then take the opportunity I am giving you. Leave.”

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but the whole room held its breath, until one, two, three, four, five, six people took the lifeline she’d thrown them and hurried towards the door, shoulders bent in a useless effort to blend in. Predictably, and unfortunately, all of the people she expected to remain did so. She’d never seen so many sets of shoulders squared in determination at once.

“Alright, let us begin,” Hestia said, and she cleared her throat again, valiantly trying to regain control of the room. She cast one arm towards the four of them in an oddly aggressive jab, her ornamental robes making an audible swoosh sound. Both she and Neville flinched at the movement, and once she recovered she glanced around nervously, hoping no one else noticed.

“Anthony Goldstein, Neville Longbottom, and Seamus Finnigan were only in their fourth year at Hogwarts, Ginny Weasley only in her third, when Harry Potter suddenly appeared on the stadium grounds during the third task of the Triwizard Tournament in a traumatising scene, clutching the body of fellow student Cedric Diggory, and announcing to the world that Voldemort had returned.” The entire courtroom moved as one body to gape at Harry, who had shrunk low in his seat the moment his name was mentioned.

“They were between the ages of fifteen and seventeen when Albus Dumbledore, arguably the last obstacle standing in the way between relative peace and all-out war, was killed. Sitting here today, all still under the age of nineteen, they have experienced more hardship than many people will in their lifetimes.” Anthony and Ginny glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes: was it that simple? Could all that they’d experienced be so easily compressed into three short sentences?

“These four heroes,” Hestia said– Seamus barely contained a snort– “and many of their schoolmates, valiantly took up the resistance against Voldemort, fighting for Hogwarts and our world at large. Today, they will tell you their stories; the trials, tribulations, and terrors they’ve faced at the hands of the Carrows and others, starting from the very beginning of the Death Eater occupation of Hogwarts.”

There was another beat of suffocating silence. Then, Anthony cleared his throat and raised his hand pointedly. “Sorry, but– you know, with all due respect– terror has surrounded us all for a stupidly long amount of time,” he said, gesturing to the whole courtroom. “And the occupation didn’t start at Hogwarts. It began before we even got there.”
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