Why the main character is not an objectively good person: I had a lot of depression and personal anguish after the Capitol Riot on Jan 6 in 2021. I went back to HP for comfort and kept wondering about Death Eaters, prejudice, anger, and identity (what if I'd been a rioter? I grew up in a red state; it isn't unlikely). Pretty soon I needed an outlet and considered writing a small fanfic. The main character took shape and stuck with me for several weeks, then one night I had a weird dream where my OC was standing silently with a canon character at night near a forest. A dog ran up to them but swiveled around, running back to the trees. I took this as some kind of sign and began writing.

Here's to my therapy fic.

May 2, 1998

The Dark Lord is dead. His body lays before all of us in the Great Hall—Aurors, Death Eaters, the students, and everyone else who joined the fight.

The masked Death Eater beside me turns, flees into the red morning light, and others, those who weren't injured during battle, do the same. Should I run as well, or stay and hope for clemency as the Malfoys appear to be doing?

The Malfoys . . . I can't believe they're all alive after everything that's happened; still harder to believe that I haven't killed one of them, yet. . .

My breath pauses as I avoid looking further about the Hall. My bones begin to hum and buzz. My hands tremble and hang stupidly at my sides. What's—what's going to happen now?

I turn and walk from the Great Hall.

There are people rushing towards the Hogwarts gates; some notice me walking in the opposite direction; they give me odd looks. Can they smell it—all the death on me?

I feel numb, like all those other times something terrible and sudden occurred, and I couldn't comprehend how the world was still turning around me, so ordinary and indifferent to the turmoil inside me. I hear the noises in the castle behind me, hear the crunch and crackle of the ground from my steps, but none of it reaches me. . .

As I continue through the village, a Death Eater sprints across my path, running fast—fast—as two wizards go after him. He probably lost his wand and can't disapparate. I hear the two wizards catch him; gravel crunches loudly, clattering against a building as they tackle their prey in an alley.

I could disapparate now, but where do I go—the apothecary? Malfoy Manor? Wales? Do I hide, or do I flee? I'm good at hiding, but where? Where do I hide, and what will happen to those I'm responsible for?

At the edge of Hogsmeade, beyond an old fence, the land is stony and wooded. I stop, the sight of the dark, cool pines taking hold of me. My wand is pine. They say owners of pine wands tend to live long lives, but where's the truth in that? After everything that's happened, after all the things I have done, what will happen to me? I realize now that a war doesn't end—truly end—until the punishments are meted out and the Ministry says, 'Right—back to business as usual everyone!'

I don't know what to do.

I hear the earth grinding softly beneath their boots, the ones approaching me from behind. I keep my eyes on the trees. Are they two or three?

"Who are you?!"

They see me, they must, in my long black robes, torn and dusty; in my solitude at the end of the village, whilst those on their side have all gone to the school.

"Who are you with?!"

A feeling slowly wells up in me; from the Dark Lord's death until now, I've felt nothing. The wizard behind me—commanding and in control—shouts again.

"Show me your wand!"

Suddenly, I can hardly breathe. Realization tears into my brain, filling my heart, my lungs, my stomach with dread. What will happen to me now?

"SHOW ME YOUR WAND!"

I can't move; my body trembles, quaking like a poplar in a breeze, or a pine that has grown too tall in a glen. . .

The shouting wizard gives an order to his mate, and I hear the crack of a disapparating human.

"DON'T MOVE!"

Perhaps if I were of sharper mind, I would wonder how a person could shake so hard without breaking apart. Perhaps if I were of clearer conscience, I would not be as I am now.

There are more wizards approaching. I hear their steady footsteps.

"D'you recognize this one?" asks a different wizard from the one whose been shouting, somehow less commanding, and yet, just as.

"Yes, I do" says a third voice, and this one breaks me. The pine forest swims in my vision.

"SHOW ME YOUR WAND!"

As I reach into my pocket, breath returns to my body, but it's like an angry spirit clawing at my throat.

I wish my tad were here; my mam—even her.

"DROP IT! KEEP YOUR HANDS HELD OUT!"

I let my wand fall as I spread my arms.

"KNEEL ON THE GROUND!"

As soon as my knees touch the dirt, I hear footsteps approach.

"Don't do anything . . ." warns a witch's voice.

Two different sets of arms seize my wrists, one binding them behind me with their wand.

"Up on three! One, two, three, up!" The witch and her companion haul me to my feet, turning me in the same direction as them, and I see him.

Lucius Malfoy stands unbound between another witch and wizard, their wands gripped tightly in their hands. Their eyes follow me as I'm taken—to where, I don't know.

Malfoy's eyes stay on me; his face shows an odd mixture of—regret? Indifference? Smugness?

You ruined my life. You brought this on me.

All the pain and fear I've held in my gut spreads to the rest of me, to my heart, to my head, to my blood, to the very marrow of my bones, for as I look into his eyes—his cold, gray eyes—everything is brought forward. The choices I made—I made those choices; the things I did—I did those things, but he led me here. . .

Didn't he. . .?

Random inspo movies: Frozen River (2008); Sweet Country; Wuthering Heights (2011); Sami Blood; Layla M.; Mustang (2015); Theeb (2014)