Before You Read !
◦ *˳༄ note i: I highly recommend you read this chapter using standard mode and NOT dark mode. Dark mode will make everything look a little odd.

◦ *˳༄ note ii: the prologue ended up being really long (think ~8k words?), so I've split it into two chapters for a better reading experience, I guess. I also think I packed in a lot of exposition and foreshadowing in these chapters, so sorry if its overwhelming or confusing... idk guys, I tried something different for this chapter.

◦ *˳༄ note iii: the prologue is told in a series of snapshots spanning 5 years, and includes short scenes, newspaper/magazine clippings, radio segments, etc. (particularly in the next half of the prologue). The prologue has a different format (and writing style) from the rest of the book, which has a more book-like feel to it. If this ends up not being your cup of tea, I would request you to maybe give the other chapters a go?

And with all that said, happy reading!!!
p.s: don't forget to vote and comment
to indulge this needy writer :)

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◦ *˳༄ OF PAPER CLIPPINGS AND PUB CRAWLS
❨ prologue. ❩ ━━━ part i.

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1998
◦ *˳ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ˳* ◦
❨ May 3rd. ❩

    THE wireless was humming in the background when Harry awoke again. Barely clinging onto consciousness as sleep threatened to take him under once more, Harry lay still for a long while, keenly aware of the slightly musty smelling blanket draped over him. He wondered whether it was Ron or Hermione who had managed to find the blanket for him - or rather, managed to find him - but he could spare the thought no more of his fragmented attention.

    As time trickled by, Harry's senses slowly but surely focused more and more on his surroundings. First, and only after blinking roughly against the grit in his eyes, Harry managed to open his eyes enough to register that it was nearing daybreak; the night sky's darkness was slowly evaporating in a way he'd become so attuned to during all those midnight watches he'd taken while on the run. The sight made something twist inside him, and he tried to swallow the lump clogging his throat, only to find his mouth dry, his body aching still from the injuries inflicted upon it earlier that day.

    The next thing he noticed was that there was someone else in the room with him, those shallow breaths so familiar after so many months of having shared a tent; her stifled sobs too were altogether, and painstakingly, too familiar to him by now. Trying to not give in to the storm raging within him, Harry looked around, his gaze falling on the slightly ajar window to his left, which allowed in not just the cool, smoke-leaden night air but fragments of raucous singing as well. Somewhere, not far from his dingy room at the Hog's Head, people were still celebrating, singing tunes in jarring pitches which, had it been a different lifetime, Harry was certain he would have found humorous.

    And all the while he noticed these tiny things, sounds and smells and his own heart thrumming against his chest so rhythmically, these sensations he thought he'd never know again, the wireless continued whispering.

    Eager to listen to more, he shifted his head as surreptitiously as possible and freed his other ear to better listen to the voice pouring from the wireless, which he soon recognized as the deep timbre of Lee Jordan's.

    ". . . have been asked to remain home and on guard. The war may have reached its brutal conclusion in the early hours of yesterday, but the danger has not yet passed. Several known and dangerous Death Eaters are at large, and we insist everyone continues taking the necessary precautions and remaining vigilant. As a reminder, only certain Ministry officials and family members of the deceased are currently permitted entrance into the village of Hogsmeade until further notice. We implore all our listeners to not try and attempt to get into Hogsmeade or Hogwarts until it is deemed safe to do so. Cooperation by each and everyone is vital during this time of chaos and uncertainty."

    "On another note, after much deliberation by what remains of the Ministry, Kingsley Shacklebolt, decorated Auror and an integral figure in the fight against You-Know-Who, at half past 3 this morning assumed the position of Minister for Magic, making him Britain's 36th Minister for Magic," Lee Jordan's voice was saying. "We wish him all the very best as he begins to lead the Wizarding World of Britain into a new era of peace and prosperity."

    Harry had barely taken in the fact that Kingsley Shacklebolt was now the Minister when the door creaked open. Long, heavy strides followed.

    Ron.

    Someone turned the wireless off.

    "Is he up yet?" Ron's whisper carried through the sparsely furnished room. Hermione must have shaken her head, because a moment later, Ron sighed, "Oh... good. Kingsley was looking for him."

    "Why?" came Hermione's whisper.

    Harry hoped against everything that Ron wouldn't answer. He didn't want to know what it was that Kingsley wanted to speak to him about, what anyone had to say to him, or tell him.

    "Dunno," answered Ron. "When I saw them, him and dad were talking about... well, they were talking about what to do with all the - the bodies, you know?"

    Harry shut his eyes tightly.

    "I'm sure they don't need Harry for that," answered Hermione in an altogether too familiar, clipped tone she usually reserved for when Harry and Ron did something she disapproved of. But despite it's welcoming familiarity, the slight crack of her voice, and the sigh that followed did not go amiss by Harry.

    "That's what I said too, but Kingsley said he still wanted to talk to Harry. Said it was important."

    Neither of his best friends said anything more, and Harry had nearly drifted off to sleep again when Ron swore loudly.

    "Ron!" hissed Hermione. "Be quiet, please."

    "Right," came Ron's muffled voice, "sorry."

    A loose floorboard creaked as Ron paced the room, his heavy footfalls magnified in the silence of the room. "I'm going to go tell them he's asleep," Ron said finally, and Harry vaguely wondered if his two best friends had ever realized that they weren't very good at whispering. "They can work out themselves whatever it is they needed him for, can't they? Reckon he's done enough as it is. They can manage, yes."

    There was a brief silence, during which Harry felt sure Ron and Hermione were communicating silently.

    "I'll go," Hermione offered, her voice a soft whisper once more, "No, listen! You look like you could do with some sleep too, and I've been here for hours. I can go."

    There was some shuffling, more murmuring which he could not hear this time around, and then the door shut with a soft click. Harry strained his ears for sounds of movement. There was a long moment of quiet, then some scuffling, a heavy sigh, boots thudding to the floor, the sound of the bed springs creaking. The sheets rustled as they were pulled back, then silence descended upon the room once more.

    Save for their breathing or the occasional fragment of conversation seeping in through the doorway, the room lay exceptionally quiet for what seemed like ages.

    Then Harry spoke. "Thanks, Ron."

    His throat was parched, dry, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar to his own ears.

    Ron didn't sound any better as he replied, "Anytime, mate."

    Neither of them said anything more, and neither had fallen asleep by the time the first golden rays of dawn broke across the ash-strewn, bloodied sky outside.

✦

❨ August 15th. ❩

COMMEMORATING THE HEROES OF THE WIZARDING WORLD
—By Cliodhna Cresswell

On what may well have been the year's last, perfect summer's day, the Wizarding community of Great Britain congregated for a sombre ceremony to commemorate the heroes of the Wizarding World - those who have fallen defending our country, and those who survived the terrible ordeal. The ceremony, held on the sunlit grounds of Hogwarts which, after weeks of tireless rebuilding around the clock, largely been restored to its former glory, was followed by a sombre but peaceful reception within the Great Hall, writes Cliodhna Cresswell, the Daily Prophet's special War Correspondent.

Members and alumni of the Hogwarts choir group opened the brief ceremony with a heartfelt rendition of My Love Is Always Here, after which the new Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, took the opportunity to address the Wizarding community of the United Kingdom and urged everyone to remain vigilant during this time of unrest and confusion (a full transcript of the speech can be read on page 11).

Head Auror, Gawain Robards, then commenced the brief award ceremony that over 300 witches and wizards had gathered for, with Minister Shacklebolt presenting the awards to all recipients. An Order of Merlin, First Class, the highest honor bestowed by the Ministry of Magic, was presented to a handful of notable witches and wizards for their contributions towards the War, including the new Hogwarts Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, resistance leaders and reinstated Aurors Axel Cresswell and Constance Burton, and, of course, the savior of the Wizarding World himself, Harry Potter (whose brief appearance at the memorial attracted much attention) and his close friends, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger.

An Order of Merlin, Second Class was posthumously awarded to several members belonging to Albus Dumbledore's resistance movement called the Order of the Phoenix. Recipients included notable names the likes of Dorcas Meadowes, Benjy Fenwick, Emmeline Vance, Ellis Harte, James and Lily Potter, Sirius Black, Alastor Moody, and Remus and Nymphadora Lupin. Moreover, an award for Special Services to the Wizarding World of Great Britain - a new honor established in light of recent events - was awarded to all witches and wizards who participated in the Battle of Hogwarts. A comprehensive list of recipients for all awards can be found on page 3.

Details from the press conference that followed the memorial, which included information regarding the reestablishment of the Ministry of Magic, the Death Eater war crimes trials which will commence on the 21st of November, the proposed new security system of Azkaban, and the reopening of Hogwarts, have all been detailed on pages 2 through 10.

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❨ September 1st. ❩

    THE four Aurors stood together with the Minister for Magic, silently observing the two recruits who were walking at  a distance from everyone else. Their retreating forms - the mop of black hair and the shock of red beside him instantaneously recognizable by now - drew the gaze of nearly the entire office, many of whom had comically halted mid-action to gape openly at the two recruits. But the boys kept their heads low and followed the Auror leading them to the airy lobby of the MLE.

    Once they had disappeared and the office had resumed its normal hubbub, to no one's surprise, it was Dawlish who broke the silence between the five men.

    "You can't be serious about them, Minister?"

    "Who?" asked Kingsley airily, although Senior Auror Cresswell was certain the Minister knew the answer to this question.

    "Potter and Weasley," bit out Dawlish. He held up his neck and, with a deep breath, said, "You can't let them join the program."

    "I think I need glasses," replied Kingsley warily, "Must've missed the part in the damned contract where it said you had the authority to tell the Minister what to do, Dawlish."

    Proudfoot snorted at the look on Dawlish's face, and even Savage managed a wry grin.

    Cresswell shook his head. "Seriously, Kingsley," he added quietly as they walked away from Dawlish and Savage, who, muttering under their breaths, returned to their cubicles. "Those boys... they're, well, boys. Yes, I know who they are! Doesn't change the fact that they don't have half a N.E.W.T between them. And besides, they're too young, too reckless, too stubborn."

    "Most are when they join," countered Kingsley, leading them across the Auror Office, "But we all learn it in the end, how to put aside that recklessness youth brings and do things the right way."

    "Potter doesn't strike me as someone to bend to rules," observed Proudfoot, "neither does Weasley, come to think of it. Plus their record does nothing to satisfy concerns regarding their conduct."

    "Precisely my concerns," nodded Cresswell, "their record for breaking rules practically stretches from London to Aberdeen."

    "And what of it? Their record's colorful, I agree, but that's only because they tried to do the right thing when no one else would. Besides, shouldn't you two be more concerned about catching all those Death Eaters still at large? Or rebuilding the Auror ranks? Or if you want, how we're going to fix our relations with Albania, France, Greece... Plenty of other problems these days to worry yourself over."

    Cresswell and Proudfoot stared stonily at the former Auror, now Minister, who sighed loudly but made no further comments about his decision to hire Potter, Weasley, and a bunch of their sidekicks despite none of them having any proper qualifications, and all of them being far too young. That was Proudfoot's main argument, if Cresswell were being honest; himself he believed accepting boys as impulsive but experienced in the Dark Arts as them could only spell disaster for the entire department.

    Kingsley, apparently, had no such qualms.

    The Minister led the two men in silence to the Deputy Head Auror's office and pushed the door open.

    Cresswell, grasping at straws in the hopes of making the Minister listen which, as a part of him had always known, would not happen, sighed heavily, "He's barely 18."

    "Why's Goshawk not here?" asked Kingsley distractedly, pouring himself a splash of firewhisky from a bottle left on the mantelpiece. He turned to the other Aurors, "You know his father was also just 18 when he got accepted into the program?"

    Proudfoot's brow furrowed. "Goshawk's?"

    "Potter's," clarified Kingsley, then he grimaced, "How old do you think I am? Pfft, knowing Goshawk's father. As if..."

    "But James Potter never finished training, did he?" remarked Cresswell, carefully watching the Minister.

    "Because the department was in shambles at that point, and he'd joined the Order of the Phoenix," Kingsley pointed out, "then he was hunted down and murdered within the next two years. My point is, James Potter qualified young, and he showed great potential. Mad-Eye himself said so."

    "Is that so?" asked Cresswell dryly, not caring in the least about what a good Auror Potter's father might have made.

    "Mhmm. And if Potter's half like his father - and mind you, I've known the boy for longer than you have, so I can say he is very much his father - I have no doubt Potter will make an excellent Auror, mark my words. So will Weasley. Grades and letters of recommendations be damned."

    Cresswell and Proudfoot exchanged a long look, then, seemingly reaching the same conclusion, decided to let the topic rest. At least until those boys joined training anyway.

✦

1999.
◦ *˳ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ˳* ◦
❨ April 10th. ❩

Dear Ron and Harry,

I hope your training has been going well. Parvati heard from Padma yesterday; she said Padma mentioned how one of the raids last week went terribly wrong. Are you both alright? How come neither of you said anything about it? Is Neville really at St. Mungo's? And Harry, what's this I'm hearing about you getting into trouble with the senior Aurors? I want to say it's all just bathroom gossip, but knowing you Harry, I wouldn't be entirely surprised if it were true. I don't think rumors of Seamus losing an arm are real though... are they? You two really need to keep updating me! I hate having to hear such news from others.

There's a Hogsmeade weekend on the 2nd of May. Any chance the two of you can make it? We'll grab lunch at the Three Broomsticks. Or the Hog's Head if we want somewhere quieter. Let me know as soon as possible.

With love,
Hermione

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❨ May 2nd. ❩

     ALTHOUGH much of the cover was taken up by a simple charcoal sketch of Hogwarts, tiny glowing spheres hovering above each of its many turrets, there were certain oddities - like the fact that there was no text on the cover, or the presence of strange symbols running down its spine - which gave Harry a good idea of what magazine lay waiting beneath the cover, subdued but quirky as it was. There was also a tiny, scowling caricature pacing the bottom edge of the back cover, his dark hair and round glasses comically familiar.

    "Have you seen this?"

    Smiling wryly as he flicked through the magazine Hermione had pushed across the table, Harry shook his head. He glanced down to spot an article about the increase in the Erlking population along the western coast of England due to the return of the Blushing Banshee, the cold war waging in Atlantis, and an op-ed regarding the Ministry's newest ploy to take over the House of Lords in the Parliament of the United Kingdom. All in all, Harry thought, the outlandish content seemed pretty decent by Quibbler standards.

    "See page 16," said Hermione, adding a small thank you to Ron, who had just returned with three dusty bottles of Butterbeer. "There's a piece in there you might want to read."

    "What's this about?" asked Ron, dropping unceremoniously into the seat beside Hermione. He pointed to the back of the magazine and added, "Reckon I've seen that midget with glasses somewhere before..."

    Harry snorted, then turned to Hermione. "What're you on about?" he asked quietly, waving the Quibbler before her.

    "You'll find out if you read it."

    Harry threw her a quizzical look, but Hermione merely sipped her Butterbeer and gestured towards the magazine clutched in his hands. Fighting the impulse to roll his eyes, he began flipping through the magazine to find page 16 before setting it down on to the table so both him and Ron could read the short article.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

THE HALL OF ETERNAL LIGHT
by Parvati Patil

Deep within a castle whose walls itself are imbibed with magic and memories, ancient and eternal as time itself, can be found a hallway that shall never again see the dark.

Along the Seventh Floor at Hogwarts, all but a turn away from the place where lay the heart of the resistance which kept Hogwarts alive during the 1997-1998 school year, one may find the newly established Hall of Eternal Light. Lit not by floating candles or enchanted fire, the hallway derives its name from the hundreds of ever-lit wands that line its vaulted ceiling. Crafted by acclaimed wandmaker, Ollivander, the wands are exact replicas of the ones once held by all those who lost their lives during the Battle of Hogwarts. Further enchanted by Hogwarts' own, renowned Charms professor, Filius Flitwick, the wands have been lit so as to never extinguish. It is Hogwarts' tribute to those who defended it, a homage to the courage and resolution of the world it serves, and a testimonial to its strength and belief in good.

The Hall of Eternal Light stands — as it shall for centuries to come — silent but never forgotten, left in remembrance of the horrors that rained upon the castle that fateful night of May the 2nd, and as a reminder that no matter how dark times may get, light shall always await us in the end.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

    Harry stared at the small photograph at the end of the article. It was one of the corridors on the seventh floor, like the article said, and it was flooded with light due to the hundreds of illuminated wand tips floating near the vaulted ceiling. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled sprinting across the hallway in his search for the Room of Requirement that night. It felt like just moments ago he'd been there, heart thundering and spirit waning as the ancient walls of Hogwarts shook and groaned under the assault of spells the castle was being subjected to, frantic in his search for the horcruxes at Hogwarts, unaware of what lay waiting for him, unsure he'd live to see tomorrow.

    "That's... wow."

    "Yeah, it is."

    The sound of Ron and Hermione's voices drew Harry back to the world around him. He glanced up to find Ron still staring at the photo, while Hermione was peering straight at him from over her bottle of Butterbeer.

    "I think it's a fitting tribute," she said quietly, "nothing too elaborate but..."

    Harry, his mouth dry and tongue tied, could only nod as he tore his eyes away from the photograph and took a long swig of his Butterbeer. He wondered, his eyes sweeping over the eccentric customers trickling into the Hog's Head but not seeing a single one of them, whether the ache in his chest would ever subside. Or if he was condemned to a lifetime of not being able to think of Hogwarts again without falling victim to the feeling of dread that now seemed to surge within him at the mere mention of the place.

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❨ October 31st. ❩

Segment from BBC RADIO 5
On Air: Aliya Carter

"Weather in London, Norfolk, and Essex, which have been colder than usual this October, are not likely to see warmer temperatures this week either. We can expect temperature highs of around 12° C this Tuesday. Expect lows of 5° C throughout the coming week."

"No doubt to the dismay of the masses - and confusion of meteorologists - several counties in England are forecasted to continue seeing the dense fog that has plagued parts of the nation for ten days now, and it currently shows no signs of fading away within the next couple of days. With visibility down to a record all time low in cities such as Oxford, Bristol, and Liverpool, some of the older population has likened the situation to the fiasco that was the London Smog of 1952..."

    AS the newscaster moved on to a report about Heathrow being shut down, the woman at the counter snorted mirthlessly, continuing to twirl a strand of choppy blonde hair around her finger. "What a pathetic summer, eh?"

    "Yeah," mumbled Harry, fishing in his pockets for wads of Muggle money.

    "'Tis a pity, getting all this fog and chill during the only days of the year we see some sunshine. Reckon this isn't exactly what your lot had been hoping for, is it?"

    Harry looked up sharply, one hand stilling over the roughly painted counter where he'd been counting the bills, the other gripping the wand in his coat pocket. A little too roughly, he asked her, "What d'you mean 'your lot'?"

    The woman gave him an odd look. "You know, you college folks. Bet you had plans and all. Know I did, back in me day." She held out a wrinkled hand, and added, "But that was what, 30 years ago? So what do I know..."

    Harry nodded. He could feel his face flushing as he pressed a few notes and pennies into her outstretched hand.

    "Cough up," the woman intoned. When Harry looked at her confusedly, she pointed to the seven large cans at his feet. "That won't come cheap, young man. You seen the price of petrol these days?"

    "What – how much is it then?"

    "2.71 pounds."

    "Not the price of petrol. The bill, total."

    "223 pounds, love."

    "Two hundred?"

    "And twenty three," nodded the woman. "What d'you need all that petrol for anyway?"

    Harry ignored the woman's question. "How much more do I owe you?"

    "You didn't answer me question," the woman said with a mischievous grin, but when Harry simply stared back at her blankly, she rolled her eyes and added, "fine. Seventy three pounds."

    "Right," mumbled Harry to himself, pulling out his wallet and scanning it for extra cash. His heart sank. "Would you... uh, is it alright if I come back and pay you the rest in an hour?"

    "Alright by me. You can pick up your precious cans in an hour then."

    "What, no." Harry stared at her, aghast. "It'll be past midnight by then and I have to - just let me pay... one hundred and fifty now, alright? I'll pay you the rest in an hour, I... I swear I'll come back."

    "That's what me first husband said too the last time I saw him," the cashier yawned, the fluorescent lights overhead reflecting off of her brilliantly pink nails. "Didn't come back though, did he? Took all our money, got in me car to run off with some tart and Bob's your uncle! Here I am, rotting away in this hellhole of a petrol station."

    Harry swore.

    "Look, sorry, but I really don't care about your husband running away," he said angrily, "This is important. I-"

    Harry broke off suddenly as a hand reached around him and slammed a few bills onto the counter.

    Before he knew what he was doing, Harry had seized the arm and twisted around to face whoever stood behind him, his wand finding purchase at the nape of the stranger's neck. Later, he would put it all down as a testament to how frustrated and distracted he was those days for not having noticed someone sneak up behind him like that, or for not finding the right words on time. Then and there, however, he could do nothing but gape at the young woman standing before him.

    "Oi, you let her go, boy," the cashier exclaimed from behind him, all the mirth vanishing from her gravelly voice. Harry, after a moment's hesitation, quickly let go of the girl's arm.

    She stared back at him with a bemused expression, her eyes darting up to his forehead and back so quickly he'd almost missed the action.

    "Sorry," Harry mumbled, still staring at her, the sight of her rendering him speechless. An image of a broken and smoking Great Hall swarmed to his mind. He shook his head. "I..."

    "It's fine," she said coldly, pushing her dark brain, which was coming undone, over her shoulder. Then she leaned forward and peered around Harry, adding to the cashier in a clipped tone, "That cover everything? Lovely. Ring him up and send him on his merry way, then?"

    Harry shook his head, trying to take a step back only to have the marble counter dig into the small of his back. "You don't - I can't let you-"

    "Let me?"

    "That's not what I meant. I-"

    "A simple thank you would have sufficed, mister."

    "You really don't have to do this. I can-"

    "Kindly, do shut up."

    "But-"

    "Listen. I just want to pay for my bread and milk and go home as soon as possible, alright? Can't do that if you hog the counter for ages." She let out a long suffering sigh and glanced up at the ceiling before shuffling away from him. At a distance, the overhead lights let him catch a good glimpse of her morose pallor, the deep shadows under her eyes, the hand thrust deep in one pocket. Wryly, he thought she looked as well rested as he felt.

    Harry glanced over his shoulder to see the cashier jab away at the till. He turned back to the girl behind him.

    "Look, I'll, uh, pay you back."

    "I wasn't expecting you not to."

    "Right."

    The woman behind the counter coughed loudly, and Harry whirled around to see her holding out a receipt. "Know this bird well?"

     Harry felt himself flush and shook his head ever so discreetly as he stepped away from the counter. The girl who'd paid off the rest of his bill moved forward and handed over a loaf of bread and a carton of milk to the cashier who was now directing her questions to the younger girl; Harry noticed she pointedly ignored answering all of them.

    Clearing his throat loudly, green eyes catching brown ones, he gestured to the door behind him. "I'll, uh, wait for you to finish..." he trailed off, unsure of what he had wanted to say in the first place.

    The girl gave him a long, searching look, then shook her head. "There's no need."

    Harry swallowed, walking away to stuff the many cans of petrol he'd just bought into a box that was bigger on the inside than it appeared from the out - a task made difficult by the fact that the old woman behind the counter kept trying to peer around him to watch him struggle.

    Later, when he finally walked back out into the bitingly cold night air - his arms wrapped around the large box, a tin of matchsticks stuffed into his back pocket - he found her waiting for him.

✦