The dark crown

Chapter 5

Silent Witnesses

The air was heavy with apprehension, charged by the silent questions and wary glances that followed Harry and Amelia as they walked through the winding hallways of St. Mungo’s Hospital. Faces peered from behind doors, some hesitant, others hostile. Harry could feel the weight of each gaze, each pair of eyes waiting for him to falter, to make the wrong choice so they could condemn him for it. Internationally, too, the pressure was immense—foreign leaders, influential wizards, and skeptical media figures were all watching his every move. But Harry was resolute. If there was to be true change, he would start by healing his home and his people.

The silence was broken by the faint murmur of Amelia’s voice beside him. “They’re hurting, Harry. And anger is the only way some of them know how to cope right now.”

He nodded, grateful for her presence. Amelia Jordan had proven herself invaluable, not only as an advisor but as a pillar of calm and insight. They had been working together tirelessly, visiting hospitals, orphanages, and communities that had been ravaged by the war. They were places where grief ran thick, where people gathered because they had nowhere else to go and no one else to turn to. Harry believed that being here in person, showing people that he understood, was far more important than making grand announcements through the media.

Their tour through St. Mungo’s had taken them through several wards, each one heavier than the last. The ward for spell-inflicted injuries was crowded with those still suffering from curses cast in the final days of the war. Some wounds had never healed, despite all magical efforts, and others bore psychological scars that would likely never fade. Harry paused at the bed of a young girl, her face gaunt and her eyes hollow, who had lost her family and nearly her life to a Death Eater’s spell.

As he bent down to speak to her, she looked up with an expression of distrust, as if unsure whether to see him as a hero or a symbol of the war that had taken everything from her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice low, barely more than a whisper. He wanted her to know he meant it—not as a hollow apology, but as a deep acknowledgment of the collective pain they all carried.

Beside him, Amelia spoke with a soft intensity to a group of nurses, explaining the new policies and programs for war survivors. “The Restorative Justice initiative isn’t meant to ignore the suffering of victims,” she said, her words carefully chosen to ease the discontent she sensed among them. “It’s a way to help us rebuild. To address the damage—not by seeking endless punishment, but by finding a path forward.”

Yet outside these walls, the public’s reaction had been unforgiving. Since news of the initiative broke, there had been a constant wave of backlash. People felt betrayed, as if justice was being denied to those who had suffered most. Many could not understand why former Death Eaters and sympathizers were being given any chance at redemption. They felt this policy was not justice, but betrayal.

For weeks, Amelia had become the face of the initiative, giving interviews, attending community forums, and even engaging in live debates. A day earlier, she had been on The Wizarding Review, a popular news program. The interviewer, a wizard known for his ruthless questioning, had wasted no time in putting her on the defensive.

“So, Ms. Jordan, let me be clear. You’re asking the public to support grants and programs for those who suffered from the war’s effects. But there are those who feel that counseling or, dare I say, a few good spells could be just as effective. Why should the public’s funds be used for something some might consider… indulgent?”

Amelia remained calm, her voice unwavering. “Healing from the trauma of war isn’t as simple as a spell or a charm,” she replied. “People’s lives were shattered. Many lost loved ones, others suffered injuries that can never be fully healed, and still more are grappling with memories that haunt them every day. This isn’t indulgence. It’s acknowledging that true healing requires time, resources, and yes, a community that’s willing to invest in its people’s wellbeing.”

“But couldn’t it be argued,” the interviewer pressed, “that focusing on the war’s survivors in this way is a misuse of funds that could go toward other issues?”

Amelia’s eyes flashed with an inner resolve. “How can we build a stable future if we ignore the wounds of our past? These programs aren’t just about the survivors; they’re about everyone. We’re setting a foundation, showing that we as a society care about those who were left behind. If we ignore them now, we’ll be dealing with the consequences for generations. This isn’t about indulgence—it’s about responsibility.”

As the program aired, Harry watched from his office, feeling both pride and sorrow. Amelia was fighting to explain something profoundly necessary, but so many people were not ready to understand.

The next day, they visited a village where many families of war survivors had relocated. The place bore signs of hardship, but also resilience. The people had created a memorial garden in the village square, filled with flowers and small trinkets representing lost loved ones. As they approached, a woman with gray-streaked hair and weary eyes stepped forward, her gaze steady.

“My husband was taken in the war,” she said, addressing Harry directly. “He fought until the last day, and we’ve had nothing since then. No reparations, no help. Just… silence.” Her voice trembled with restrained anger, and Harry could see the frustration and pain that had festered for so long.

Harry took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her grief settling on him like a mantle. “I can’t undo what happened,” he replied, voice thick with emotion. “But I promise you, we’re not going to let it be forgotten. We’re putting systems in place to support people who have been through what you have. I don’t want anyone to feel abandoned.”

The woman nodded, her expression softening just slightly. “We’ll hold you to that,” she said quietly. And Harry knew she meant it.

As the weeks passed, Harry remained steadfast by Amelia’s side, standing with her in the face of relentless scrutiny as they defended their vision for a new future. Together, they addressed the simmering discontent—a blend of sorrow and fury from the war-torn. In crowded halls and open forums, they faced the shouts of angry crowds, who saw leniency for former Death Eaters as a betrayal. Each time they stepped forward, they were met by skeptical journalists pressing for answers, demanding to know why public funds were being spent on rehabilitation when so much damage still lay untouched.

But it was the families—the haunted, broken families—that struck Harry hardest. There were mothers clutching fading photographs of lost sons, fathers who looked through him as if he were a reminder of what they’d lost, and children, too young to grasp the magnitude of their pain, staring up at him with solemn eyes. They wanted justice, they wanted security, and more than anything, they wanted a reason to believe again.

No speech or decree felt adequate to soothe their pain, yet Harry kept showing up. His presence, he hoped, was a testament to his commitment to rebuild—not just buildings or laws but the very spirit of the wizarding world. Every visit to the hospitals, orphanages, and grief-stricken communities reminded him that there was no true sanctuary in power. He would rather face the pain head-on, confronting the ghosts of war with an open heart, than hide behind the walls of the council chambers.

Most nights, when he returned to his quarters, memories of Sirius haunted him, his mind replaying the moment of his death—a memory that had seared itself into his heart. He couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that maybe this loss was a sign, that perhaps he was never meant to have a family of his own. Sometimes, he felt the same impulse as his harshest critics: to lash out, to assign blame, to crave vengeance. But he knew he couldn’t give in, because he no longer belonged solely to himself.