The Weasley family had claimed one of the unused classrooms on the second floor as their temporary gathering space. McGonagall had offered them private quarters, but Molly had insisted they needed to be together—all of them, in one room, where she could see everyone and know they were safe.
Or as many as could be. Fred's absence was a wound that bled into every corner of the space.
Harry stood outside the door for a long moment, the Starheart warm on his finger, and tried to find the courage that had carried him through the battle. Facing Voldemort had been easier than this, somehow. That had been about survival, about doing what needed to be done. This was about facing the grief of people he loved and knowing there was nothing he could do to fix it.
*You can be present,* the Starheart murmured. *Sometimes that's enough.*
"Here goes nothing," Harry muttered, and pushed the door open.
The room fell silent immediately.
Arthur Weasley sat in a conjured chair by the window, his face drawn and gray. He'd aged a decade overnight, lines deepening around his eyes and mouth. His hands were folded in his lap, and he kept twisting his wedding ring—a nervous habit Harry had never seen before.
Molly was beside him, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. She'd been crying for hours, Harry could tell. Her hair was disheveled, her robes rumpled, and when she saw Harry, her face crumpled all over again.
Bill and Fleur sat close together on a transfigured sofa, Bill's scarred face expressionless in that way that meant he was holding himself together through sheer force of will. Fleur's hand was locked in his, her usually perfect composure shattered. Her eyes were puffy, mascara-stained.
Charlie leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, looking anywhere but at the empty space where Fred should have been. His dragon-handler muscles were tense, coiled, like he was ready to fight something but didn't know what.
Percy sat apart from the others—not quite integrated back into the family yet despite everything. He'd killed the Death Eater responsible for Fred's death in a fury of magic that had left the corridor scorched black. His robes were still bloodstained. His hands shook when he thought no one was looking.
George was in the corner. Not sitting, not standing, just... existing in a space that was too large without his twin. His eyes were hollow, vacant, like someone had scooped out everything that made him George and left only the shell behind. He hadn't spoken since they'd carried Fred's body out of the rubble. Hadn't cried. Hadn't reacted at all except to flinch when anyone tried to touch him.
Ron sat on the floor near George, keeping vigil, ready to catch his brother if he finally broke. His face was blotchy from crying, but his jaw was set with determination. Someone had to stay strong for George. Ron had decided it would be him.
Ginny was curled up in another chair, knees drawn to her chest, staring at nothing. She looked younger than her sixteen years, fragile in a way Harry had never associated with fierce, fiery Ginny Weasley.
And Hermione stood near the door, as though she'd been waiting for Harry to arrive. Her hair was pulled back severely, her expression carefully controlled. But Harry could see the cracks in that control, the grief she was holding at bay through sheer intellectual force of will.
"Harry," Molly said, and her voice broke on his name. She stood, wavering slightly, and crossed the room in three strides to pull him into a crushing hug. "Oh, Harry. My dear boy. You're alive. You're *alive*."
"I'm alive," Harry confirmed, his own voice rough. He hugged her back, careful of the Starheart's power, aware that his emotions could manifest as constructs if he wasn't careful. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Weasley. I'm so, so sorry about Fred."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Arthur said, his voice surprisingly firm despite his grief. He'd stood as well, moving to join the embrace, one hand on Harry's shoulder. "Fred died fighting. Protecting the school. Protecting people he loved. That was his choice, Harry. His *choice*. You didn't make it for him."
"But if I'd been faster, if I'd fought differently—"
"Then you'd have died," Bill interrupted, his voice rough. "Harry, we saw what you did. Everyone saw. You took on Voldemort alone and *won*. You kept him distracted, kept him from killing dozens more people. Fred would have been the first to tell you that you did exactly what you needed to do."
"He'd have made a joke about it," Charlie added, and his voice caught. "Something about Harry always having to be the center of attention. Always stealing the spotlight."
George made a sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. It was the first noise he'd made since they'd entered the room, and everyone turned to look at him.
"He would've said—" George's voice was a rasp, unused and broken. "—would've said Harry looked ridiculous in that green getup. Like a Christmas decoration got into a fight with a disco ball."
The room held its breath.
Then George crumpled, and Ron was there instantly, catching him as he fell to his knees. The sobs that tore from George were terrible, primal, the sound of something fundamental breaking. Ron held him, and Charlie crossed the room to join them, and then Bill, and then Percy—hesitant but determined—until all the Weasley brothers were holding each other and crying.
Molly and Arthur joined them, and Fleur, and suddenly the whole family was a tangle of grief and love in the middle of the room, holding each other because there was nothing else to do.
Harry stood apart, feeling like an intruder on something too private for outsiders. But then Ginny's hand found his, and she pulled him into the mass of Weasleys, and Hermione was there too, and they were all crying together.
*Family,* the Starheart whispered. *This is what you fought for. This is what makes the sacrifice meaningful.*
They stayed like that for a long time—minutes, hours, Harry lost track. Eventually, the sobs subsided into hiccups, then into shaky breathing, then into exhausted silence.
"Right," Molly said finally, her voice thick but determined. "Right. We're alive. We're together. And Fred—" Her voice caught, but she pushed through. "—Fred would be absolutely *furious* if we spent the whole day moping. So we're going to sit down, we're going to have tea, and we're going to talk. About Fred. About the battle. About what happens next. Because that's what families do."
"Mum's right," Bill said. "Fred would haunt us if we fell apart."
"He'd haunt us anyway," George said quietly. "Just to be annoying."
It wasn't funny. Not really. But several people smiled anyway, because it was *so* Fred.
They arranged themselves around the room with the awkward efficiency of people who had practiced emergency gatherings too many times. Molly conjured tea—too much tea, enough to drown in—and distributed cups with the focused intensity of someone who needed a task to keep from breaking down again.
"So," Arthur said after they'd all taken a few sips. "Harry. You wanted to talk to us?"
Harry set down his tea. The Starheart pulsed on his finger, and he realized everyone was staring at it—this glowing ring that had transformed him from a student to something else entirely.
"I'm leaving," Harry said. No point in being subtle. The Weasleys deserved honesty. "For three months. The Justice League—they're superheroes, muggle ones mostly—they want to train me. Train me and Luna properly. She got a ring too, a Blue Lantern ring. We need to learn how to use them without accidentally blowing up half of Britain."
Silence.
"Leaving," Molly repeated faintly. "Harry, you just defeated Voldemort. You just *won*. Surely you deserve to rest, to—"
"I can't rest," Harry interrupted gently. "Not yet. Mrs. Weasley, this ring—" He held up his hand, showing the Starheart. "—it's one of the most powerful artifacts in the universe. And I have no idea how to control it properly. Everything I did during the battle, that was instinct and panic and luck. If I'd made a mistake, if I'd lost control even for a second, I could have killed people. Could have brought the whole castle down. Could have done worse than Voldemort ever dreamed."
"But you didn't," Ron said.
"This time," Harry agreed. "But Ron, I felt it. The power. It responds to will, to emotion, to *belief*. And right now, I'm grieving and exhausted and traumatized, and those aren't exactly stable emotional states to be wielding cosmic power." He looked around the room, meeting each person's eyes. "I need training. Real training, from people who understand this kind of power. And the Justice League is offering that. Three months on a planet called Oa, with the Green Lantern Corps."
"Outer space," Hermione said quietly. She'd been silent until now, processing. "You're going to outer space. For three months. To train with alien police officers."
"When you say it like that, it sounds barmy," Harry admitted.
"It *is* barmy," Ginny spoke for the first time, and her voice was sharp. "Harry, you just finished a war. You're seventeen. You should be here, healing, not flying off to another planet to learn how to be a superhero."
"I'm already a superhero," Harry said, gesturing at the ring. "I just need to learn how to do it without killing anyone by accident."
"He's right," Arthur said slowly. Everyone turned to look at him in surprise. "What? He is. I've been reading about these Justice League people—Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman. They're not dark wizards, they're not trying to use Harry. They're heroes who want to train another hero properly. And frankly—" He looked at Harry. "—I think it would do you good to be around people who aren't connected to all this. Who don't see you as the Boy Who Lived or the Chosen One or the boy who defeated Voldemort. Who just see you as Harry."
"You'd be alone," Molly protested. "Among strangers. In space."
"Luna's going too," Harry pointed out. "To a different planet—Odym, I think it's called—but we'll probably see each other during training. And it's only three months. I'll be back before you know it."
"Three months," George said flatly. "Three months, and then what? You come back and everything's magically better? Fred's still gone, Harry. He'll still be gone in three months."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"George," Bill started, but George shook his head.
"No, I need to say this." George looked at Harry, and his eyes were red but clear. "You're leaving. That's fine. That's your choice. But don't pretend it's just about training. You're running away."
"That's not fair," Ron said sharply.
"Isn't it?" George stood, shaky but upright. "Harry just beat Voldemort. We just won the war. And instead of staying here, helping us rebuild, helping us mourn, he's buggering off to space. Tell me that's not running away."
"It's running *toward* something," Harry said quietly. "George, I get it. You're angry. You have every right to be angry. But this isn't about avoiding grief. It's about making sure I don't become the next threat everyone has to defeat. The Starheart is powerful enough to crack planets if I lose control. And right now, I'm one nightmare away from losing it completely."
George stared at him for a long moment.
Then his shoulders slumped. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. That's fair." He sat back down, suddenly exhausted. "Sorry. I'm not—I'm not thinking straight."
"None of us are," Hermione said gently. "George, it's okay to be angry. At Harry, at the universe, at Fred for dying. It's all okay."
"It doesn't feel okay," George whispered.
"It won't for a long time," Arthur said. "But Harry's right about needing training. And honestly—" He managed a small smile. "—I think Fred would have been thrilled about this. His mate, going to outer space to learn how to be a proper superhero? He'd have demanded hourly updates and a full written report."
"He'd have wanted to come along," Charlie agreed. "Would've tried to sneak into Harry's luggage or something ridiculous."
"Remember when he and George tried to stow away to Romania to see Charlie's dragons?" Bill said, and there was the ghost of a smile on his face. "They made it halfway there before Mum's Howler found them."
"I was *furious*," Molly said, but she was almost smiling too. "Thirteen years old and hitchhiking across Europe. I didn't sleep for a week."
"Worth it," George said automatically. Then his face crumpled. "He'd have said it was worth it."
The room fell quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet now. Not the suffocating silence of grief, but something softer. The beginning of acceptance, maybe. Or at least acknowledgment.
"When do you leave?" Percy asked. He'd been silent throughout, sitting apart, his hands still occasionally trembling.
"Tomorrow night," Harry said. "McGonagall's arranging a portkey to America. I'll meet with the Justice League there, and then they'll transport me to Oa." He paused. "I'll write. I don't know if owl post works in space, but Hal—the Green Lantern who's training me—said the rings can send messages across galactic distances. So I'll figure something out."
"You better," Ron said. "Because if you don't, Hermione will find a way to fly to outer space herself and drag you back."
"Damn right I will," Hermione agreed.
"Language," Molly said reflexively, and several people laughed.
It was a start.
---
They talked for another hour—about Fred, about the battle, about plans for the future. Percy apologized, properly this time, for abandoning the family. Bill and Charlie shared stories from the front lines of the battle. Fleur described using Veela magic to confuse Death Eaters into attacking each other.
George mostly listened, occasionally adding a comment or correction, slowly rejoining the conversation like someone learning to walk again after an injury.
And Harry told them about the Starheart. About the feeling of power flowing through him. About catching the Killing Curse and unmaking it. About the voice of the ancient artifact guiding him, teaching him, choosing him.
"It's weird," Harry admitted. "Having something in my head that isn't Voldemort."
"Is it sentient?" Hermione asked, her academic curiosity momentarily overriding her grief. "The Starheart? Does it have thoughts, feelings, preferences?"
"Sort of," Harry said. "It's old. Really, really old. And it has... opinions. But it's not like it's controlling me. It's more like having a very wise, very patient mentor who happens to live in my jewelry."
"That's either brilliant or terrifying," Ron said.
"Bit of both," Harry agreed.
Eventually, people began to drift away. Bill and Fleur excused themselves to help with recovery efforts. Charlie went to check on his dragon-handler friends who'd fought in the battle. Percy, after a long hesitation and a tearful hug from Molly, left to help Kingsley coordinate with what remained of the Ministry.
George stayed, but he'd withdrawn again, staring at nothing. Ron stayed with him, silent companionship.
Arthur and Molly pulled Harry aside one more time.
"Be careful," Molly said, gripping his shoulders. "Please, Harry. You're not invincible, no matter what that ring makes you feel."
"I know," Harry promised. "I'll be careful."
"And come back," Arthur added. "We've lost enough family. We can't lose you too."
"I'm not family—" Harry started automatically.
"Yes, you are," Molly interrupted fiercely. "You've been family since you were eleven years old. Since you saved Ginny. Since you treated Ron like a brother. Since you risked everything to protect people you loved. You're family, Harry Potter, and don't you dare forget it."
Harry's throat closed up. He hugged them both, careful of the Starheart, and tried to memorize the feeling of being held by people who loved him unconditionally.
"I'll come back," he promised. "Three months. I swear."
They let him go reluctantly, and Harry left the classroom feeling both lighter and heavier than before.
Hermione was waiting in the corridor.
"Walk with me?" she asked.
They walked in silence through Hogwarts' damaged halls, stepping over rubble, passing students and teachers working to repair the worst of the destruction. The castle was scarred but standing, wounded but alive.
Like all of them, really.
"I'm going to miss you," Hermione said finally. "These three months. We've barely been apart since the first year."
"I'll miss you too," Harry said. "Both of you. You and Ron."
"Ron will be fine. He has his family. But Harry—" She stopped, turning to face him. "—are you sure about this? Really sure? Because if you need more time, if you want to stay and process everything that happened—"
"I need to do this, Hermione," Harry interrupted gently. "For all the reasons I said. But also because—" He paused, trying to find the words. "—I need to figure out who I am when I'm not fighting Voldemort. I've spent seven years defined by him. By the prophecy. By the war. And now that's over, and I have no idea who Harry Potter is when he's not the Boy Who Lived."
Hermione nodded slowly. "That makes sense. Actually, it makes a lot of sense." She smiled slightly. "Who knew you could be introspective?"
"I've been taking lessons from Luna," Harry said dryly.
They continued walking, ending up near the Astronomy Tower—one of the few places that hadn't been damaged in the battle.
"Hermione?" Harry asked hesitantly. "What are you going to do? After all this?"
She was quiet for a moment. "I'm going to Australia," she said finally. "To find my parents. Restore their memories. Try to explain why their daughter erased herself from their lives and went off to fight a war." Her voice shook. "I don't know if they'll forgive me. I don't know if I'll forgive myself. But I need to try."
"They'll understand," Harry said. "They're your parents. They love you."
"I hope so." She wiped her eyes. "And after that... I don't know. Maybe I'll finish my N.E.W.T.s. Maybe I'll work for the Ministry, help rebuild. Maybe I'll do something completely different. For the first time in my life, I don't have a plan. It's terrifying."
"Welcome to my world," Harry said.
They stood in comfortable silence, looking out over the grounds. The Forbidden Forest was still smoking in places. The lake reflected the dawn sky, peaceful despite everything.
"Harry?" Hermione said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Don't let them change you. The Green Lanterns, the Justice League, whoever you meet up there. You're a good person. Kind. Brave. Don't let them turn you into something you're not."
"I'll try," Harry promised.
"And if you need us—if you're in trouble or scared or just lonely—find a way to contact us. Promise me."
"I promise, Hermione."
She hugged him then, fierce and tight, and Harry held on, trying to memorize this too. His best friend. His sister in all but blood. The person who'd stood by him through everything.
"Three months," Hermione said into his shoulder. "And then you come back and tell us everything. Every single thing about outer space and aliens and cosmic powers. I want a full report."
"You'll get one," Harry said, smiling despite the tears on his face. "Complete with citations."
"Proper APA format," Hermione demanded.
"Obviously."
They pulled apart, both laughing and crying at the same time.
"Go find Ron," Hermione said. "Say goodbye properly. And then get some sleep. You look exhausted."
"I am exhausted," Harry admitted. "But Hermione? Thank you. For everything. I wouldn't have survived any of this without you."
"Yes, you would have," Hermione said. "But I'm glad you didn't have to."
She left, heading back toward the castle interior, and Harry was alone with the sunrise and the Starheart.
*She's wise, that one,* the Starheart observed. *You chose your friends well.*
"I got lucky," Harry said.
*Luck is just preparation meeting opportunity. And Harry? You prepared yourself to have friends like that by being the kind of person they wanted to stand beside.*
Harry thought about that as he made his way back through the castle, looking for Ginny.
---
He found her in the Gryffindor common room—or what was left of it. The battle had damaged several of the towers, and the common room was a disaster of broken furniture and shattered windows. But Ginny was there, sitting on a relatively intact sofa, staring at the cold fireplace.
"Hey," Harry said softly.
She looked up, and her eyes were red. "Hey yourself."
"Can I sit?"
"It's your common room too."
Harry sat beside her, leaving a careful space between them. The easy intimacy they'd once had felt fragile now, uncertain.
They sat in silence for a long moment.
"So," Ginny said finally. "Three months in outer space."
"Yeah."
"Must be nice," Ginny said, and there was an edge to her voice. "Flying off on an adventure while the rest of us stay here and clean up the mess."
"Ginny—"
"Sorry. That wasn't fair." She scrubbed at her face. "I'm not—I'm having trouble being fair right now. Fred's dead. Half my friends are dead. And you're leaving."
"I have to," Harry said quietly. "The ring—"
"I know. I heard the explanations. They make sense. But Harry, I need to tell you something, and I need to say it before you go."
Something in her tone made Harry's chest tighten. "Okay."
Ginny turned to face him properly, drawing her legs up on the sofa, wrapping her arms around her knees. "This year. While you were hunting Horcruxes. I was here. At Hogwarts. Under the Carrows. And it was—it was hell, Harry. They tortured students. Used Cruciatus as punishment. Turned the school into a nightmare."
"I'm sorry," Harry said. "If I could have—"
"This isn't about that," Ginny interrupted. "Just let me finish, okay?"
Harry nodded.
"Neville was here too. You know that. And he was... Harry, he was *amazing*. He stood up to the Carrows when no one else would. Protected the younger students. Reformed Dumbledore's Army. He kept us all sane, kept us all fighting. And we got close. Really close. Because when you're living through hell, you cling to the people who understand."
Harry's heart was sinking, but he kept his face neutral.
"I developed feelings for him," Ginny said, and tears were streaming down her face now. "I didn't mean to. I tried not to. Because I kept thinking about you, about us, about how we'd left things. But Harry, you weren't here. And Neville was. And he was brave and kind and strong in all the ways that mattered."
"Ginny—"
"I haven't acted on it," Ginny continued quickly. "Nothing happened. But the feelings are there, and I can't just ignore them. And I thought—I thought when you came back, when the war ended, everything would go back to normal. We'd pick up where we left off. But then Fred died, and you got that ring, and you're leaving again, and I realized—" Her voice broke. "—I realized I can't keep waiting for you, Harry. I can't keep putting my life on hold for someday, maybe, when things are safe."
"I'm not asking you to," Harry said gently.
Ginny stared at him. "What?"
"I'm not asking you to wait for me," Harry repeated. "Ginny, we broke up for a reason. Because I had to hunt Voldemort, and I couldn't drag you into that. And now Voldemort's gone, but I'm still leaving. Still going off to do dangerous things. And I can't—I won't ask you to wait around while I figure out who I am."
"But I thought—you said—"
"I said I cared about you. I do. I probably always will." Harry took her hand carefully. "But you're right. We can't keep living for someday. You deserve someone who's here. Who can be present. Who isn't constantly running off to save the world or train with space cops."
"You're really okay with this?" Ginny asked, and she sounded younger suddenly. Uncertain.
"I'm not okay with it," Harry admitted. "It hurts. But I think it's the right thing. For both of us. You need to be with someone who makes you happy now. Not someone who promises maybe someday when things settle down."
Ginny laughed wetly. "When did you become so mature?"
"About thirty seconds ago," Harry said. "I'm winging this entire conversation."
She laughed again, properly this time, and leaned against his shoulder. Not romantic—just the comfort of old friends.
"I do care about you," Ginny said quietly. "Just so you know. If things were different—"
"But they're not," Harry finished. "And that's okay. Ginny, go talk to Neville. Tell him how you feel. He's brilliant. He's brave. He killed Nagini and saved everyone. And he deserves to be happy. So do you."
"What about you?"
Harry looked at the Starheart, glowing on his finger. "I think I need to figure out what makes me happy first. Before I can be that for anyone else."
They sat together for a while longer, watching the dawn light fill the common room, and it felt like closure. Not the ending either of them had planned, but an ending nonetheless.
Eventually, Ginny stood. "I should go. Mum needs help with funeral arrangements." She paused. "Write to me? Even from space?"
"I will," Harry promised.
She kissed his cheek—sisterly, affectionate—and left.
Harry sat alone in the destroyed common room and let himself feel the loss. Not just of Ginny, but of the life he might have had. The normal teenage existence where the biggest worry was exams, not Dark Lords and cosmic power rings.
*You grieve well,* the Starheart observed. *Many wielders try to suppress their losses. You acknowledge them.*
"Doesn't make them hurt less," Harry said.
*No. But it makes them *meaningful*. Every loss shapes you, Harry Potter. The question is whether you let them break you or refine you.*
"I'm choosing refine," Harry said firmly. "I have to."
*Good,* the Starheart said, satisfied. *That's why I chose you.*
---
**Hogwarts, Temporary Detention Cells**
The castle's dungeons had been repurposed as holding cells for captured Death Eaters. Forty-three of them, to be exact—everyone who'd been at the battle and survived. They were bound with heavy chains, their wands confiscated, their magic suppressed by wards that made the air taste like copper.
In a separate cell, heavily warded and guarded by no fewer than six Aurors, sat Tom Marvolo Riddle.
He looked diminished without his wand. Without his snake. Without his Horcruxes to anchor him to immortality. Just a man—thin, pale, snake-faced from decades of dark magic. His red eyes were dim, lacking their usual malevolent shine.
But he wasn't broken.
Not yet.
"Bring it in," Kingsley Shacklebolt said to the Aurors.
They levitated something wrapped in black cloth into the cell. When the cloth fell away, Voldemort's eyes widened.
Nagini.
Or what was left of her.
The massive snake had been Voldemort's final Horcrux, the last piece of his soul bound to a living creature. Neville Longbottom had killed her during the battle, using the Sword of Gryffindor pulled from the Sorting Hat in an act of courage that would have made his parents proud.
The snake's body was still magnificent, even in death—twelve feet of muscle and scale, her head severed cleanly. But she was unmistakably, irrevocably dead.
"We thought you should see," Kingsley said coldly. "See what's left of your immortality."
Voldemort stared at the corpse. His hands, bound in chains, trembled.
"Nagini," he whispered. It was the first word he'd spoken since being captured.
"Your last Horcrux," Kingsley continued relentlessly. "Destroyed by a boy you mocked. By Neville Longbottom, whose parents your bootlickers tortured into insanity. He pulled a legendary sword from a hat and cut off her head. Quite poetic, really."
"Impossible," Voldemort said, but his voice was hollow. "I would have felt it. I would have known—"
"You were too busy being beaten by Harry Potter," another Auror said—Dawlish, recovered from being Imperiused and eager to make up for lost time. "Too busy crying in that green cage to notice your last tether to immortality being severed."
Voldemort's face contorted with rage. He lunged at the bars, but the chains yanked him back, and he fell to his knees with a crash that sounded painful.
"That's enough," Superman's voice cut through the dungeon.
The Man of Steel ducked through the doorway—the dungeons hadn't been built for beings his size—followed by Wonder Woman and Zatanna. He looked at Voldemort with something like pity.
"Tom Riddle," Superman said. Not a question. A statement.
"Lord Voldemort," Riddle hissed from the floor.
"No," Diana corrected sharply. "You were Lord Voldemort when you had followers and power and Horcruxes. Now you're just Tom Riddle. A man who made terrible choices and is about to face the consequences."
Voldemort pushed himself upright, chains rattling. "You dare—"
"We dare a great many things," Superman interrupted. "Mr. Riddle, I've been reviewing your history. The orphanage. The murders even as a child. The dark magic. The genocide. And I want you to understand something very clearly: you're not special. You're not unique. I've dealt with dozens of would-be tyrants who thought they were above consequence. Who believed their power made them untouchable."
He stepped closer to the cell, and even through the bars, even bound and wandless, Voldemort flinched back.
"They were all wrong," Superman said quietly. "Every single one. And so are you."
"Where are you taking me?" Voldemort asked. Despite his bravado, there was fear in his voice. Real, genuine fear. "Azkaban?"
"No, you won't," Diana said. "Because you're not going to Azkaban. You're going to the Phantom Zone."
Voldemort went very, very still.
"The what?" He asked sharply.
"The Phantom Zone," Zatanna explained. "A dimensional prison created by Kryptonian science. It exists outside normal space-time. Those trapped within it are frozen—not aging, not dying, but unable to interact with the outside world in any way. They can observe reality, but never touch it again."
"A fate worse than death," Diana said, watching Voldemort's face. "Which is fitting, considering you've spent your entire life running from death. Now you'll have eternity to contemplate it."
"You can't," Voldemort said, and his voice had gone high with panic. "You have no authority. No right. I'm a wizard, I answer to wizard law—"
"Wizard law has agreed to turn you over to us," Superman said. "Acting Minister Shacklebolt signed the authorization an hour ago. Mr. Riddle, you're not just a threat to the wizarding world. You're a threat to everyone. You've killed thousands. You've created weapons designed to make you immortal. You've proven, repeatedly, that no conventional prison can hold you." He paused. "The Phantom Zone can."
"When?" Kingsley asked.
"Now," Diana said. She produced a crystal from her belt—Kryptonian technology, glowing with pale blue light. "The sooner he's gone, the safer everyone is."
"No," Voldemort said, and he was backing away now, chains dragging. "No, you can't do this. I am Lord Voldemort. I am immortal. I am—"
"You are a broken man," Superman said, not unkindly. "Who hurt thousands of people because you were afraid. And now you'll have all the time in the world to think about that."
He activated the crystal.
The cell filled with blue light—cold, sterile, absolute. Voldemort screamed, lunging for the bars, but the light caught him mid-motion. His body flickered, becoming translucent, and for a moment he was caught between states—solid and not-solid, real and not-real.
"I'll escape," Voldemort shrieked, his voice distorting. "I'll find a way. I always find a way. I'll kill you all. I'll kill Harry Potter. I'll—"
light that spiraled into the crystal. His screams cut off abruptly, leaving only a ringing silence in the dungeon.
Superman held the crystal up. Inside, barely visible, was a translucent figure—Voldemort, frozen mid-scream, his red eyes wide with terror and fury. He was moving, but infinitely slowly, trapped in a moment that would last forever.
"It's done," Superman said quietly. He looked at Kingsley. "I'll take this to the Fortress of Solitude—my base in the Arctic. From there, it will be transported to the Phantom Zone projector. He'll be categorized, logged, and stored with the other prisoners. And I give you my word: he will never escape. He will never threaten anyone again."
"Good," Kingsley said, and his voice was rough with emotion. "Good. That's—that's what he deserves."
"What will he experience?" one of the Aurors asked, morbidly curious. "In there?"
"Time," Diana said. "Endless time. He'll be aware. He'll be able to see out, to observe the world continuing without him. But he won't age, won't need food or water or sleep. He'll simply *exist*, forever, watching life go on while he remains frozen in that single moment."
"Watching everyone he tried to kill live full, happy lives," Zatanna added. "Watching the wizarding world rebuild without him. Watching Harry Potter grow up, become a hero, possibly have children and grandchildren. All while Voldemort stays exactly as he is now—powerless, defeated, alone."
"Merlin," Kingsley breathed. "That's... that's worse than death."
"Yes," Superman agreed. "Which is why we reserve it for beings who have proven, beyond any doubt, that they can never be safely contained any other way." He tucked the crystal carefully into a pouch on his belt. "I'll file the report with the Justice League. Officially, Tom Riddle has been remanded to our custody as a cosmic-level threat. Wizarding authorities maintain the right to review his status every century, but I doubt circumstances will ever warrant his release."
"Every *century*?" an Auror repeated faintly.
"The Phantom Zone is for immortals and beings who have made themselves effectively immortal," Wonder Woman explained. "Standard review periods are measured in decades or centuries. Given Riddle's history, his crimes, and his demonstrated ability to return from death, he'll likely remain imprisoned until the heat death of the universe."
There was a long silence as everyone absorbed that.
"Right then," Kingsley said finally. "Well. That's handled. Thank you, Superman. Wonder Woman. Ms. Zatara. The wizarding world owes you a debt."
"You owe us nothing," Diana said firmly. "This is what we do. Protecting people from threats they can't handle alone. Your world has suffered enough. This is the least we can do to help you rebuild."
Superman looked at the other prisoners—the Death Eaters huddled in their cells, many of whom had been watching the exchange with growing horror. "What about them?"
"Trials," Kingsley said. "Proper trials, this time. With actual evidence and legitimate process. Some will go to Azkaban. Some might be offered leniency in exchange for testimony. A few—the ones who were Imperiused, the ones who can prove they were coerced—might walk free." His expression hardened. "But those who chose this path willingly? Who murdered and tortured because they *wanted* to? They'll spend the rest of their lives regretting it."
"Justice, not vengeance," Superman said approvingly. "That's the right approach."
"We're trying," Kingsley said tiredly. "Merlin knows we're trying. But it's hard, Superman. So many dead. So much damage. And half the population is traumatized, the other half is baying for blood, and we're trying to hold together a government that nearly collapsed."
"It will take time," Diana said gently. "Recovery always does. But you have good people. Brave people. You'll rebuild."
"We'd better," Kingsley muttered. "Because I don't think I can survive another war."
Superman and Wonder Woman left shortly after, promising to send aid—medical supplies, counselors familiar with war trauma, engineers to help repair the most damaged buildings. Zatanna stayed behind to continue coordinating with McGonagall and the other professors.
The Death Eaters in their cells were silent now, each contemplating their own fates. Several were crying. A few were catatonic with shock. Bellatrix's cell was empty—she'd been killed during the battle, caught by her own reflected curse. Dolohov was unconscious, his injuries too severe even for magical healing. Yaxley sat with his head in his hands, perhaps finally realizing the magnitude of his mistakes.
In the cell where Voldemort had been held, only Nagini's corpse remained.
Kingsley looked at it for a long moment, then gestured to the Aurors. "Have it removed. Disposed of properly. No trophies, no relics. I don't want any remnant of that creature being used for dark magic in the future."
"Yes, sir," Dawlish said. He paused. "Sir? What do we tell people? About Voldemort's fate?"
"The truth," Kingsley said. "That he's been imprisoned by the Justice League in a facility that makes Azkaban look like a holiday resort. That he'll never escape, never threaten anyone again, never even die because death would be too merciful." He smiled grimly. "Let that be a warning to anyone who thinks about following his path. This is what happens to dark lords in the modern age. The muggles have superheroes now, and they don't tolerate genocidal maniacs."
"Think it'll deter future dark wizards?"
"Maybe," Kingsley said. "Maybe not. But it's a damn sight better ending than letting him escape again." He turned away from the cells. "Come on. We have about a thousand more tasks to handle before sunset. The dead need to be mourned, the living need to be healed, and somewhere in all that, we need to figure out how to run a government."
They left the dungeons, the Aurors following, leaving only the prisoners and the weight of their choices.
In Superman's belt pouch, the crystal containing Voldemort pulsed faintly. Inside, frozen in eternal moment, Tom Riddle screamed silently into a void that would never answer.
He had wanted immortality.
He had gotten it.
Just not the kind he'd hoped for.
---
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