January 5th, 2004 – Tribunal for High Treason
"Captain Potter, for the abuse of your regency over our new Empire of Britannia, resulting in the deaths of more than three hundred innocent magicals, in an act of treason against Her Royal Highness, Empress of Britannia, how do you plead?"
The court's bated breath was audible. All eyes – hateful, confused, shocked, apathetic – turned to the weary visage of the man at the defendant's podium. Dull green eyes, once a sparkling emerald hue, but now aged and vigilant surveyed the speaker with careful calculation. With the finality of a condemned man and the mechanical slowness of injury, Captain Harry Potter, dishonoured officer of the Empire of Britannia, raised his head in defiance to answer.
December 26th, 2003 – St. Mungo's High Security Ward
"The attack has left Her Majesty severely injured, Sir," the healer spoke with the grimness of an experienced doctor, the full understanding of said injuries weighing heavily on his stooping shoulders, "She will recover, given time. Full use of her right arm may never return, but thanks to you, she is alive at the very least."
With a tired nod, the addressed man sat heavily in the vacant hallways of St. Mungo's. Despite having been awake for nearing thirty hours, he felt as awake and alert as if he had just returned from a refreshing shower. The haze of tiredness had faded in the rush of activity following the attack. Steady streams of people had now subsided to an emptiness that the man only ever associated with hospitals. The complete absence of activity could only occur here and now, at the 'Witching Hour', in the tightly secured lower levels of St. Mungo's. Achingly, he pulled the stiff military jacket from his shoulders, letting it drape smartly over the arm of the hospital chair, before stretching his leaden legs out and toeing off his tough, black boots. Finally in a more comfortable position, the Captain's mind drifted to matters of importance – contingencies in case of any more disasters, plans of retaliation, making public statements, appointing a regent for the following weeks or months. Clear ideas fell into place; patroni whispered off to distant locations, informing various people of new orders, protocols, and chains of command. By the time the winter sun had risen, the Empire of Britannia, a nation previously known as Great Britain, had fallen under martial law, allowing the sure and steady hand of Captain Potter to guide the nation in its retribution.
December 27th, 2003 – Imperial Palace Front Steps
Tumults of people, old and young, scrabbled for a view of the front steps. Upon the top step stood a tall, imposing figure – one of strength, pride, and defiance. With complete authority, the figure raised on gloved hand, effectively silencing the rambunctious crowd. As the gathered reporters and loyal subjects quieted, the figure on the steps straightened, gazing out across the throng of curious faces, and opened his mouth to speak.
"People of Britannia, I greet you with a warm heart. The unyielding support of this nation is an encouraging expression of the strength of its people. Firstly, and with top-most priority, I have come to inform you of the state of your Empress, Her Majesty, Hermione. She is resting in this palace, surrounded by trusted, skilled, and familiar servants. Despite her injuries, she is expected to make an almost full recovery, and will return to the public eye in a matter of weeks. In the meantime, please, be assured that she thinks of you all, as she is cared for by the nation's best medical practitioners," the initial statement clearly seemed to assuage many of the doubts and fears of the people, though many faces still showed a great deal of uncertainty and fear, "I'm sure many of you have many unanswered questions. I regret to say that I cannot answer as of yet. This attack has caused an immeasurable amount of damage within our ranks, and the cowardice with which the attackers have harmed us will not be allowed to stand. With your blessing, and that of the Empress Herself, I stand to take the mantle of Regent. It will be my duty and honour to bring justice for you Empress and our people, and I will not rest until those who continue to undermine the effort of the honest majority are brought to heel. Do I have your blessing in this duty?"
Roars of approval, of righteous fury, cheers of vindictive glee and shouted praise rained down. Fists were raised in support of the new Regent – Captain Potter – the most loyal and hard-working of the Empress' subjects. Wizarding salutes shot into the sky, burning brightly against the overcast winter sky. With a final imperious nod, the newly anointed ruler turned and entered the regal building, leaving a joyous crowd to celebrate the good news.
December 31st, 2003 – Bracken Beacons, Wales
"Our informant said their wards are about one hundred meters in that direction, Captain," the young sergeant spoke in hushed tones, intensely aware of the impending violence.
"Thank you, Sergeant, have your men stand back. Your jobs are to apprehend any attempting to escape. If you think there will be any escapees, cast to kill," the curt reply was heeded, and swiftly repeated to the collection of soldiers surrounding the heavily warded encampment. A small pop of displaced air was the only sign that the Captain had disappeared.
Slowly, with measured caution, the assembled force backed away, while a lone, solemn figure standing on the hillside overlooked the valley. From his vantage point, the man could see the clearly defined, circular camp, as well as the surrounding circle of Imperial soldiers, wands raised and ready. Deep, rattling breaths puffed into the midnight sky. This attack would mark a new era for Britannia. As 2004 entered, all opposition to the new throne would fall away, leaving only their memory to warn away would-be dissidents. With practiced ease, the Captain drew his wand – holly and phoenix feather.
'I'm sorry, Faux.'
From the other side of the valley, the Sergeant's view of the valley suddenly shifted. The thick darkness was brutally ripped away, as a globe of rippling light burst from the hill opposite. A thick, undulating strand of energy linked the caster to his creation – one of malice, violence, and ill-intent. Phoenix song filled the air, but instead of soft, triumphant tones, shrieks of indignant pain stabbed the air, forcing many of the soldiers to their knees at the unholy cacophony. Above the din, a bellow of effort echoed from the hilltop, where the caster poured vast amounts of magic and will into a spell of desecration and destruction. With a final grunt of force, the spell exploded down to the ground, encompassing the camp in its entirety, and searing several metres of ground in every direction with a wall of heat and light.
Ozone lingered in the air, coupled with ringing tinnitus and a blinding bright spot. As the aftereffects gradually faded, the decimation came into view. Bluebell spells lit up the valley in an eery azure glow. Strew about on the valley floor lay the remnants of the encampment – carbonised shacks, melted stumps of cooking pots and worst of all, countless carbon shadows of vapourised people.
High upon the hilltop, the lone figure stood, bent double, cradling a burnt, crippled hand. On the ground lay a stick of pure carbon, tinted red with blood, the gentle fibres of feather cremated to a fine ash. The figure did not cry out, nor did he weep, nor did he react to the effects of his spell. He gingerly retrieved the remains of his wand, before spinning away.
January 5th, 2004 – Tribunal for High Treason
"Not guilty, your Honour."
The tribunal continued for several days. Evidence flooded in to condemn the doomed man – first hand accounts from every last soldier, from clean up crews, from distraught relatives of the deceased. Magical photos of the aftermath soon surfaced. Then they went public. The leak caused outrage. Riots filled the streets, people fighting in defence of the disgraced Captain clashing violently with the many shocked and dismayed by his actions. Meanwhile, the courts rallied against the former-military leader, throwing brutal, merciless cascades of evidence at the unyielding man. The case was clear cut; justice will out, and Harry Potter, dishonourably discharged Captain, would face his punishment with grace and acceptance.
"This tribunal council finds you, former Captain Harry Potter, guilty of all crimes," the speaker's tone was final. The punishment was decided, "You are hereby sentenced to be thrown through the Veil of Death at this time tomorrow."
January 5th, 2004 – Death Row Holding Cell
"Why, Harry? Why did you do it?" she asked. He merely looked up at her, his expression blank.
"Isn't it obvious, Hermione?"
"No! No, it isn't. Three hundred and twenty-two people, Harry. Two hundred and seventeen adults, one hundred and five children! Why, Harry, why did you do it?"
"Because without drastic action, they were undoubtedly going to try again. Because without wiping out any dissident forces, you were inviting rebellion. Because without brutality, you cannot have ultimate authority. That's why, Hermione."
The woman stood silently in disbelief. This was the boy she had grown up with. The boy she loved like a brother. This was the man she trusted with everything they had built, the same man who said he committed an atrocity in the name of their creation. The worst of it was that she completely understood. She knew that without some brutality, some cruelty, their brainchild would never work, never prosper like they wanted it to. He had made the ultimate sacrifice. He had sacrificed more than his life, or his wand, or his humanity. He had sacrificed his rightful place in history, his place as the staunchest supported, his place as the inventor of the most successful magical nation in history.
All in the name of said nation. All for the Empire. All for her.
"I'm sorry, Harry," tears filled her eyes as she understood the overwhelming finality of the situation.
"I'm not, and I never will be. I love what we have done, and I'd rather see the object of my love turn its back on me in hate than crippled and die in my arms. Goodbye, Hermione," his tone was proud. Proud and sad; proud and resigned; proud and tired; an old knight laying down his sword in submission to death.
"Goodbye, Harry…"
