The Great Hall of Hogwarts was alight with the flickering glow of thousands of floating candles, their golden light illuminating the enchanted ceiling above, which reflected the stormy night outside. The hall was filled with students reveling in the merriment of the All Hallows' Eve feast, their laughter and conversation blending with the occasional pop of a Filibuster Firework or the delighted shrieks of first-years as enchanted bats swooped overhead.
Artemis Lovelace, now a third-year, sat among her housemates, her plate nearly untouched. The laughter, the flicker of enchanted bats, and the warmth of the feast all felt a world away. She toyed absently with the edge of her sleeve, her mind miles away from the celebration around her. Tonight was the night. The night the world would remember, the night the Potters would be lost.
She swallowed hard, pushing away the gnawing guilt that had lodged itself in her stomach. Months of agonizing, of questioning every choice — every word — had led her here. What could one girl do against the weight of fate itself?
Artemis had prepared for this. She had known she couldn't stop the inevitable, but she could still change things. She had spent the last few weeks drafting letters, messages that would reach Dumbledore in the wake of the Potter tragedy. Messages that, she hoped, would alter the course of events just enough to save a few more lives.
She had chosen her words carefully, crafting five different letters, each containing cryptic prophecies that hinted at the dangers yet to come. Each message was designed to nudge the right people in the right directions.
One letter detailed the treachery of Peter Pettigrew and urged immediate action to prevent Sirius Black from being wrongfully imprisoned. She did not know how it would play out, but at the very least, Dumbledore needed to know the truth before it was too late.
Another spoke of the impending attack on the Longbottoms, a vague warning about a young couple who had defied the Dark Lord three times and whose suffering was not yet over. She did not have a clear date, but perhaps, just perhaps, the right nudge would prevent Frank and Alice from their horrific fate.
A third letter subtly warned of the corruption in the Ministry—the incompetence of Millicent Bagnold, the arrogance of Cornelius Fudge, the insidious nature of Dolores Umbridge, and the unchecked ambition of Barty Crouch Sr. She included an ominous line about his son, a reminder that some dark secrets lurked even in the highest ranks of authority.
The fourth letter detailed the escape of Igor Karkaroff, urging vigilance in the handling of captured Death Eaters, knowing that many would later claim the Imperius Curse as a shield for their crimes. She hoped this warning would be enough to expose those who remained loyal to Voldemort even after his fall.
The final letter hinted at Voldemort's inevitable return. She wove warnings of false security, of Death Eaters still active in the shadows, of plans set in motion long before his defeat. She could not reveal too much, but she could plant the seed of doubt in Dumbledore's mind, enough to ensure that preparations would be made for the storm that would eventually come.
Each letter had been devoid of magic, carried by the safest hands she could find, leaving no trace that could lead back to her.
Fenny, her loyal house-elf, had already been dispatched with the letters earlier that evening. It was done.
And yet, her heart felt heavy.
A peal of laughter rang out near her, bringing her back to the present. Across the table, Rosaline and Eliza Dawson were playfully arguing over a pumpkin pasty, their faces bright with joy. Nearby, Magnus Kane was boasting about his latest Quidditch maneuver while Iris Lawrence and Vivian Delacroix listened, amused. Sol Moonfall was attempting to balance a spoon on his nose, much to the delight of the younger students watching him. Henry Bell was talking to his fellow students.
They were happy. They were safe, for now. But Artemis knew the world beyond these walls was about to shift in ways none of them could yet comprehend.
She picked up her goblet of pumpkin juice, staring into its surface as if seeking answers in its depths. Tonight, the Potters would fall. Tonight, the war would change. And all she could do was hope that the ripples she had sent out into the world would be enough to make a difference.
She raised her goblet in a silent toast to James and Lily Potter, to the future that had been stolen from them, and to the small boy who would unknowingly carry the weight of their sacrifice.
"May the stars guide you, Harry Potter," she whispered — a prayer no one would hear. And with that, she took a sip, the taste of guilt bitter on her tongue, even as the world around her celebrated the night of ghosts and monsters.
Far beyond the Great Hall's golden light, October 31st, 1981, unfurled in chaos, wonder, and fear. The echoes of Lord Voldemort's fall reverberated through every corridor of wizarding Britain and beyond, shaking the very foundations of its institutions. The wizarding world had been held in a vice grip of terror for over a decade, and now—impossibly, miraculously—that grip had been shattered. But the question remained: how?
The offices of the Auror Division were never quiet, not even in the darkest hours of night, but on this evening, an unnatural stillness filled the air. Aurors were used to being summoned to battle, to death and destruction, but when the enchanted parchment flashed red with a single word—Voldemort, fallen—the disbelief was palpable.
Chief Auror Scrimgeour was hunched over a battle map when the message arrived. His usually keen eyes, sharp as a hawk's, faltered as he read the words, his hand tightening over the parchment.
"Impossible," he murmured, before rounding on the nearest Auror. "Get confirmation. Now."
Within minutes, dozens of patronuses and emergency Floo calls were dispatched to operatives in the field. Reports flooded back in a chaotic storm: Death Eaters in disarray, dark marks flickering and vanishing from the sky, enchanted locations crumbling as their master's magic unraveled.
Gawain Robards, his face pale with unspoken hope, met Scrimgeour's gaze. "If this is true—if he's really gone—then what in Merlin's name could have killed him?"
The answer, when it arrived, was even more absurd than the rumor itself — an infant.
The room erupted. The cacophony of voices rose like thunder—disbelief, awe, even fear.
"A child?"
"Lily and James Potter's boy?"
"The Killing Curse rebounded? How?"
Scrimgeour's voice cut through the din. "If this is true, the entire wizarding world will demand an answer. And we need to get ahead of it." He turned to the nearest Aurors. "Double security at Azkaban—this will send the Death Eaters into a frenzy. Contact Bones, we need damage reports. And someone get me Bagnold. The Minister will want to address this before sunrise."
Deep in the bowels of the Ministry, where time itself was studied and controlled, a group of Unspeakables stood gathered around a massive scrying pool. In the Department of Mysteries, nothing went unnoticed. The moment Voldemort's soul was torn from his body, the Veil of Death had shuddered, the Hall of Prophecies had erupted in whispers, and the Department's most secret instruments had recorded a shift unlike any before.
A robed figure, face obscured by shadows, turned towards the Head Unspeakable. "This is unprecedented," she whispered. "The Killing Curse does not fail. And yet—"
"It did," her superior finished. His gloved hand hovered over a floating silver orb, the runes around it flickering in wild agitation. "And not only did it fail, but something more occurred. Magic itself has changed."
Another Unspeakable hesitated before speaking. "There are legends," he said slowly, "of a power older than the Unforgivables. Something beyond wandlore and spellcraft."
The Head Unspeakable did not respond immediately. Instead, he turned towards the shimmering prophecy shelves, where a single orb now pulsed with an eerie golden glow.
"Ensure this knowledge does not reach the public. Whatever happened tonight is an anomaly. And anomalies are dangerous."
The British Ministry was not the only government shaken to its core. In France, in Germany, in the Americas, magical councils met in emergency sessions, their representatives receiving garbled accounts of the Dark Lord's destruction.
In the opulent halls of the French Ministère des Affaires Magiques, the Minister paced, a goblet of wine forgotten in his hand. "Le Seigneur des Ténèbres… défait par un enfant?" he muttered. "This is either a miracle or the greatest deception in history."
Meanwhile, in the vast underground city of MACUSA, President Samuel Green listened as his aides presented the facts—if they could be called such. A child had survived a Killing Curse. A Dark Lord had been vanquished with no known spell. Even the No-Maj world's astronomical instruments had detected an inexplicable magical fluctuation.
"This will change everything," Green murmured. "And I don't think the British are ready for the consequences."
While the political world reeled, St. Mungo's was facing its own crisis. Scores of patients bearing the Dark Mark had been rushed through its doors—Death Eaters, former supporters, even unfortunate civilians who had been coerced into servitude.
"Every single one of them is in magical shock," Healer-in-Charge Miriam Strout informed her staff. "Some are unresponsive, others are convulsing. It's as if… as if their master's magic was sustaining them."
Healers bustled through the ward, attempting to stabilize the afflicted. In one bed, a woman convulsed violently, the Dark Mark on her arm flickering between solid black and pale scar tissue. Another patient, a middle-aged wizard, wept openly, clawing at his arm as if trying to tear the fading mark from his skin.
A junior Healer turned to Strout, fear evident in her voice. "This is just the beginning, isn't it?"
Strout exhaled slowly. "Yes. And we have no idea how bad it will get."
Not everyone celebrated. In the darkened alleys of Knockturn, in secretive pureblood parlors and hidden cellars, fear gripped those who had pledged their lives to Voldemort's cause. The Dark Lord had promised them power, dominion, revenge.
Now, he was gone.
A grizzled smuggler in Borgin & Burkes slammed a bottle onto the counter. "You don't understand," he hissed. "If He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could fall, who do you think they'll come for next?"
The hooded figure across from him said nothing, but beneath the shadows, his hand curled around his wand.
They would not go quietly.
The next day, the news spread like Fiendfyre, devouring every shadow of fear that had long gripped the wizarding world. It began as a whisper—unbelievable, too good to be true. But then, the whispers turned to murmurs, the murmurs to gasps, and soon, the world erupted in joyous pandemonium.
At the great castle of Hogwarts, where fear had woven itself into the very stone walls, the atmosphere changed overnight. The morning post brought newspapers emblazoned with a single, shocking headline: The Dark Lord Defeated! Professors abandoned lessons, students ran through the corridors shrieking with excitement, house-elves peeked out from the kitchens, wide-eyed and hopeful. Even the ghosts, often spectral reminders of Hogwarts' long history, seemed to drift with a newfound lightness.
In the Great Hall, where normally only the clinking of goblets and murmuring of students filled the air, there was an eruption of cheers. Older students cried openly, having lost family to the war. First-years, who had only heard whispers of Voldemort's terror, cheered along, swept up in the tide of relief.
Professor Flitwick stood at the High Table, attempting to maintain order, but even he allowed himself to dance with joy. Dumbledore, ever the enigma, and his loyal deputy was not present. Other professors watched the celebrations quietly, their eyes shadowed with the weight of what was to come, but for now, he let the children rejoice.
Artemis Lovelace and Sol Moonfall were few of those who openly cried the entire week, people thinking they were finally at peace due to their parents being avenged not thinking any other reason behind her sorrow.
In the bustling heart of Diagon Alley, The Leaky Cauldron was near bursting with wizards and witches from all walks of life, crammed into the ancient pub, drinking tankards of mead, firewhiskey, and butterbeer. Tom, the barkeep, had long since stopped trying to serve in an orderly fashion, simply waving his wand to refill mugs as they were emptied.
"I'll tell you, I never thought I'd see the day!" bellowed an elderly wizard, raising his drink. "To the Potters! To the Boy Who Lived!"
"To the Boy Who Lived!" the crowd roared back, and a fresh round of drinks was summoned.
People sang, hugged strangers, and toasted the end of an era of fear. Aurors—some of whom had spent years fighting in the shadows—stood among them, their stiff postures relaxing for the first time in ages. But even amidst the revelry, there were those who huddled in the corners, faces drawn. The cost had been high. Families shattered, lives lost. And for all the joy, there was a lingering question: Was it really over?
Shops that had kept their shutters closed for years flung them open in celebration.
Ollivanders, it's usually quiet and solemn interior, saw customers filing in not just for wands, but to shake the wandmaker's hand and speak in hushed tones of the great victory. Flourish & Blotts announced a special upcoming collection of books on 'The Rise and Fall of the Dark Lords by Aurelia Lovelace'—not that anyone wanted to read anything at the moment. People wanted to live again.
Meanwhile, the effects spilled over into the Muggle world in strange, inexplicable ways. Owls flew in broad daylight, dropping letters of celebration or landing in the middle of busy streets. Wizards in robes forgot to remain inconspicuous, apparating into busy marketplaces, laughing and cheering, utterly unconcerned by the Muggles staring in confusion.
On street corners, Muggle news reporters puzzled over strange lights in the sky, bursts of color and sound that defied all explanation. If one listened closely, one could hear joyful cries of "It's over! He's gone!"—though, to the Muggles, the 'he' remained a mystery.
In houses across the country, witches and wizards embraced their children, finally able to sleep without fear. Mothers who had spent years casting extra protection charms around their homes wept with relief. Fathers who had fought in secret resistance groups clutched their wands, almost unable to believe that they no longer needed to use them in battle.
Yet, there were still questions. Many Death Eaters had vanished overnight. Some were captured, claiming the Imperius Curse to escape Azkaban's grasp. Others had disappeared into the shadows, leaving only whispers of unfinished business.
The celebrations carried on for days. Wizards and witches danced in the streets, bright sparks of magic illuminating the night skies. Yet, in the quiet corners of the world, those who had suffered the most found it hard to rejoice without remembering all they had lost.
For some, it was a day of unparalleled joy. For others, a day of bittersweet relief. And for a very select few, it was a day of quiet, solemn preparation.
The fall of Lord Voldemort was not just the end of a war. It was the beginning of an era of uncertainty. Celebrations erupted in the streets, but behind closed doors, in government chambers, in the minds of those who understood the deeper workings of magic, one fear remained:
It was too clean. Too impossible.
And the wizarding world has never known what to do with miracles.