1991, London.
"Mr. Roger Virgil, your trial is about to begin. Come with us."
The lead warden's expression was cold and his tone mechanical, full of official formality. But the slight tremble in his pupils betrayed a nervousness not shown on his face.
…So the day has finally come.
Roger, fully aware that a major turning point in his life was approaching, struggled to calm the storm inside his heart. Still, he stood up from the bed and walked steadily toward the cell door.
Whether what awaited him was hope or despair, all he could do was face it head-on.
Aside from confronting it directly, any other irrational action would only worsen his situation.
Four wizard wardens surrounded him—one on each side—escorting him like a dangerous criminal.
Though he was just an eleven-year-old child who hadn't even enrolled at Hogwarts yet, the guards treated him as though they were transferring a Death Eater from Azkaban.
Surrounded by the four, Roger Virgil couldn't help but recall everything that had happened to him over the past half-year.
Originally, he was just an ordinary person born under the red flag of a peaceful nation.
But fate had decided to play a little joke on him. An accident had closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he had become a ten-year-old child.
Had it only been that, it might've been a blessing. Though he now had blond hair and blue eyes, the chance to grow young again and relive life could be seen as a great fortune.
He had even returned from the 21st century to the year 1990—a golden opportunity.
With knowledge of surprise World Cup outcomes, Bitcoin, the fall of the pound, and the rise of real estate, internet companies, and game industries, he could easily ride the wave to become a billionaire.
But before reaching those heights, Roger Virgil had one small issue to deal with.
His rebirth location was... a bit off.
As he looked at the bloodied corpses of his parents, Roger touched his left arm. It was wet—not from water, but from blood.
Inheriting the memories of the body's original owner, Roger pieced together the truth of the situation.
He was now a citizen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. But this was not the British mainland.
In this life, Roger had become the child of a British family with a comfortable life. His father was an engineer, and his mother came from a wealthy business family.
After marriage, his father helped manage the foreign trade business passed down from his mother's side.
The couple had moved overseas for work, hoping to raise their child together in a stable family environment.
Then the war began.
On paper, it shouldn't have mattered much. They were in the capital of a country, and as foreigners—especially from one of the world's five permanent members—they could leave if things got too dangerous.
After all, global calls for equality aside, the truth was that the average citizen of a powerful country had more protection than someone from a third-world nation. Even if they were just ordinary people.
But fate had other plans.
They were in Kuwait.
And the year was 1990.
Everything happened too fast to react.
In the early morning of August 2, 1990, under the coordinated assault of the Iraqi Air Force, Navy, amphibious forces, and special operations units, three divisions of the Republican Guard crossed the border into Kuwait and launched a surprise attack.
By the end of the day, they had taken the capital.
Troops kept pouring in. In total, about 200,000 soldiers and over 2,000 tanks flooded Kuwait.
Kuwait had been wiped off the map almost overnight.
Iraq claimed it as its "19th province."
During the chaos, Roger and his family were caught in the turmoil and lost their lives. That was when Roger Virgil, reborn, took over this body.
Once he understood his new reality, he had to figure out a way to survive.
As a ten-year-old child caught in the opening chapter of the Gulf War—the event that would allow the United States to flex its global muscle and shift the world order—Roger needed a plan.
He had no desire to be one of the 500,000 children reportedly killed by war and sanctions according to UNICEF.
Driven by a fierce will to survive, Roger began taking action. After narrowly avoiding death several times, he finally discovered a way to survive this war:
.
"Posing as a religious prophet." The young wizard with short, pale blond hair paused before continuing the list of charges against Roger.
"Exposing and promoting the existence of magic to Muggles. Using magic against Muggles. Using magic to indirectly kill Muggles. Interfering in Muggle wars… Any one of these charges alone is considered a serious offense."
"Will I die for this?"
Roger stared at the man just outside the room—the one claiming to be his lawyer.
Of course, Roger hadn't had the means to hire a wizard familiar with Ministry law. This one had been "assigned" to him.
"Unlikely. The charges are serious, yes, but many parts are up for debate. Even under normal circumstances, sentencing an eleven-year-old to death would cause a significant public outcry."
"And right now, that's even less likely."
"What do you mean?" Roger asked, puzzled.
"It's about the Minister of Magic," the lawyer explained. "The current Minister, Fudge, only took office last year. He's still unsteady on his feet. For any major decision, he consults Dumbledore to get his backing. That way, the lower ranks won't push back."
"Your case involves not just the British Ministry of Magic but also the American Magical Congress and certain Middle Eastern magical factions.
Fudge will definitely ask for Dumbledore's opinion. And Dumbledore, being who he is, would never support a death sentence for a child."
"With that in mind, the Ministry—serving as the prosecution in your case—won't push too hard against you or present overly damning evidence."
The Wizengamot, the court handling Roger's case, was an institution older than the Ministry itself. A mix of judiciary and legislature, it had the power to pass judgment and create laws. If necessary, it could even impeach the Minister of Magic.
If the Ministry of Magic reflected the power of pure-blood families, then the Wizengamot represented the power of strong, influential wizards.
And many had a foot in both camps.
"So…"
Sensing Roger's next question, the lawyer shook his head and continued.
"Don't get your hopes up."
"There may not be a death sentence, but what comes next could be worse."
Roger understood the implication.
"…Azkaban?"
Azkaban was the most secure and terrifying prison in the British wizarding world.
Inmates there were tormented daily by Dementors, forced to relive their worst memories over and over, with their happiness drained away. Many lost their minds within months and came out little better than corpses.
While Azkaban did succeed in deterring many criminals, it was too cruel. Some prisoners deserved punishment, but not such torment.
Before Azkaban had become the primary prison, smaller detention centers had existed across the country. Roger had been held in one of those before.
"Most likely," the lawyer said with a helpless expression.
"Any chance of a lighter sentence? Not asking for full acquittal—just something like a minor conviction and placement in a detention center instead?"
Roger looked into the lawyer's eyes, dead serious.
The lawyer gave a bitter smile.
"Chances are slim. Your charges are too complicated."
"Unless…"
Roger didn't interrupt. He waited in silence for the rest.
"Unless the headmaster of Hogwarts himself steps in and personally vouches for you. But that's almost impossible. You know why."
There was an old saying among wizarding lawyers in Britain:
"The outcome of a trial is not decided in court—but outside it."
The law might appear clear, but society wasn't built on legal principles. That was a scholar's dream. In reality, law was shaped by society.
The laws of the Ministry of Magic were created and enforced by the Ministry's power, reflecting the will of the ruling class in the magical world—designed to protect and promote their interests.
Put simply: The law served the ruling elite.
The Ministry might appear all-powerful as the governing body of British wizards, but that wasn't the full picture.
True power rested with ancient wizarding families like the Sacred Twenty-Eight and legendary wizards like Albus Dumbledore, Newt Scamander, and the great alchemist Nicolas Flamel.
They were the real ruling class.
The Ministry? They were the butlers—the middle and upper management on paper.
When the Minister of Magic lacked authority, he had to rely on people like Dumbledore to stand behind him, or else the departments under him wouldn't obey.
If Dumbledore were willing to protect Roger, this entire case would go much smoother.
Because powerful wizards were the uncrowned kings of the magical world. People respected them.
People *had* to respect them.
Even the law had to respect them.
But the lawyer doubted that Dumbledore would be willing to do so.
Because of one particular charge.
[Using the convenience of magic to indirectly cause the deaths of a large number of Muggles]
Yes, Roger had done it to survive.
Strictly speaking, it was an act of self-defense.
But the problem was—
"I killed too many people," Roger murmured to himself.
During the past six months of war, Roger had directly killed nearly a hundred people.
And the number of people who had died indirectly because of him...
Hearing Roger's quiet words, the lawyer recalled the numbers listed in the case file and involuntarily shivered.
Come to think of it—how many people had the Death Eaters in Azkaban killed? Had any of them even come close to a tenth of what this child had done?