Harry Potter: The Greatest Assassin

A few days had passed, and with them came the trial.

The courtroom was full—buzzing with murmurs, the press barely held back by court officers. This wasn't just a child custody case. Not anymore. Not when Harry Potter was involved.

On the right side of the courtroom stood Tristan Weasley, In his officer outfit, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. Beside him was a child Officer Worker, as she smilred, similarly dressed, her stance poised, her expression calm but icy. With them stood their lawyer—a tall man with slick black hair, sharp eyes, and a perfectly tailored business suit. A silver pin, shaped like a coiled serpent, gleamed on his collar.

He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who never lost.

Across the aisle sat Petunia and Vernon Dursley, their expressions twisted between forced calm and growing anxiety. Their lawyer, however, didn't share their discomfort. He sat with a lazy confidence, lounging in his chair, arms stretched over the backrest like he owned the room. His smirk never faded. He barely had any documents in front of him—and he didn't seem to care.

He'd done this before. And he expected to win.

The jury sat quietly, eyes flicking between the parties. Among them was a particular woman who looked deceptively ordinary—elegant posture, perfectly controlled expression, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. But anyone who stared long enough would notice something… off.

Her smile never quite reached her eyes.

And for just a moment—so quick it could be missed—those eyes shimmered a familiar shade of green, mirroring Rosa's exactly. She took a slow sip of her drink, adjusted her seat ever so slightly, and continued to smile.

The trial was set in motion.

At the far side of the courtroom doors, the press had gathered, whispers spreading like wildfire even before a verdict had been passed. Child abuse wasn't something often seen in courts like this—not openly, not with someone like Harry Potter at the center of it.

To most of them, he was just a boy. An odd name, maybe. But something about the case felt different. Important. Like someone wanted this case known… like something powerful stirred beneath the surface.

The judge, an older man with graying hair and sharp glasses, adjusted his robe and cleared his throat. His gavel struck once.

"Court is now in session."

From the plaintiff's side, the lawyer stepped forward.

He was tall. Composed. Radiating authority. That snake pin on his lapel glinted under the court lights.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he began, voice smooth and firm. " We are here for something very human. Much very real."

He paused, letting his words settle.

"We are here because a child—a boy named Harry James Potter—was found unconscious in the middle of the night. With cracked ribs. With healing scars across his back. With bruises consistent with prolonged physical neglect."

A few murmurs rippled through the room. The press behind the court doors were already scribbling.

"And while the defense may attempt to dismiss these injuries as 'accidents' or 'exaggerations,' we will provide medical records, photos, and—most importantly—a timeline. A timeline that shows that this abuse was not a one-time incident. It was sustained. It was concealed. And it was allowed to happen under the roof of Vernon and Petunia Dursley."

He turned to face the jury more directly now.

"I will prove that this boy was not merely neglected. He was punished for simply existing. Locked in a cupboard. Isolated from others. Starved of affection and, quite literally, food. And when confronted—finally confronted—his guardians' first thought was not regret… but self-preservation."

He let that hang for a second.

"We are not just here to remove Harry Potter from this house. We are here to make sure no child under the care of this system ends up in that position again."

He stepped back, calm and calculated.

The judge gave a short nod. "Defense may now proceed with opening statements."

The Dursleys' lawyer stood up, slowly buttoning his jacket like it was a fashion show. He gave a polite smile to the jury, as if this was just another small matter before lunch.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, with an overly practiced smile, "I'd like you to forget the drama for a moment. Forget the long speeches and the sad music playing in your heads."

He leaned on the railing.

"This is a case of overreaction. Of government bureaucracy gone wild. Yes, the boy in question was injured. That much we admit. But children fall. They scrape knees. They bump heads. Sometimes, accidents happen. And when the boy was found—let us not forget—he was treated, promptly. Not hidden. Not discarded."

A pause.

"We will present evidence that Mr. and Mrs. Dursley have taken care of their nephew since he was an infant. Without compensation. Without thanks. Out of the goodness of their hearts."

A smug glance toward the jury.

"And now, because of a few bruises, the government wants to paint them as villains."

He chuckled lightly, returning to his seat.

Rosa—still sitting in the jury, still sipping her "coffee"—narrowed her eyes.

No emotion. But her fingers curled ever so slightly around the cup.

Meanwhile, Harry sat quietly in the waiting room outside the court. He hadn't been called in yet, and no one had told him exactly when that would happen. The white walls around him felt too clean, too empty. Like a hospital. Or a cage.

His left arm itched faintly. The mark—Beelzebub's mark—was dormant, but not silent.

And he could feel it.

Like the sword was listening.

Waiting.

Watching.

"What is happening?".

Harry blinked as he looked at Dudley, who had spoken. "They are talking about me? I think?"

Dudley was a bit confused, as he spoke. "But why?"

Harry looked as he spoke in a defeated way, as if this was more of a small whisper. "Maybe because, someone finally saw me"

Back in the room, the court was still in session

The prosecutors looked at the defence lawyer as he spoke. "While that can be true, it doesn't remove this evidence".

He slammed his hand down as there was a file, as he spoke. "When C.P. Officer went to investigate, they found that the Boy in Question was living in a place where we all keep shoes".

After hearing that hushed murmur and judging glares were given to the family, I gasped and went through the room.

The defence Lawyer looked at him, as he spoke. "Oh really, how do you know that? How are we so sure about that?".

Tristan then spoke. "Because I and My Fellow friend Investigator It".

The Defence Lawyer just sat down, as he smirk, with his eyes meeting him. "Will Mr Officer Weasley, did you have permit to investigate".

The C.P worker then spoke, as she looked at him. "To investigate these places, we don't need. A permit".

The Defense Lawyer gets as he spoke. "Objection!". He said calmly almost like he won. "Really now, where in the law is that state, that the Police can just barge into someone house with our a permit, show me".

The defense lawyer leaned back with a smug little grin, clearly believing he'd landed a clean strike.

"Objection," he repeated, more for the room than the judge. "Really now, where in any part of the law is it stated that police—or child protective agents—can just barge into a private residence without a warrant or prior approval? This isn't some totalitarian state, Your Honour. This is Britain."

He looked to the jury, gesturing politely.

"Imagine if every officer could just walk into your home, claim a bruise was abuse, and turn your lives upside down."

The judge raised a brow.

But before he could speak, the CP worker stepped forward with perfect calm.

"Your Honour," she said, clearly and confidently, "under Section 47 of the 1989 Children Act, child protection agencies are legally required to investigate when there is reasonable cause to suspect a child is suffering, or likely to suffer, significant harm. In such cases, we are authorized to enter and assess the child's living conditions without prior consent from the guardians."

The courtroom went quiet again.

The defense lawyer's smile faltered.

Tristan crossed his arms, not bothering to hide the satisfied gleam in his eye. "In simpler terms," he said, "when a child shows up half-starved, covered in bruises, and flinches when an adult raises their voice… we don't need permission. We act."

Gasps rippled through the press. Pens scratched furiously.

On the jury bench, "Rosa" gently tapped the side of her cup, her Polyjuice potion nearly drained. She gave the defense lawyer a barely visible smirk.

The defense lawyer chuckled dryly, brushing his sleeves. "Well… even if that's true, it still doesn't mean my clients caused those injuries. The boy could've done it to himself."

Tristan blinked once. Then laughed—once, sharp, humorless.

"You ever met a child who breaks three ribs, cracks a collarbone, and gives himself a black eye accidentally… in the span of a week?"

He turned toward the judge.

"Your Honour, we're ready to present the full medical report—including testimony from multiple doctors across three separate visits to emergency care. All of which show consistent patterns of abuse over several years."

The judge nodded. "The evidence will be entered into the record."

The courtroom doors creaked open quietly.

Harry, standing there beside the usher, stepped in, uncertainly. His green eyes darted around the large room, then locked on the Dursleys.

Petunia's lips thinned.

Vernon's face flushed a dangerous red.

The jury stared.

Even the defense lawyer hesitated for a second.

Because there, in front of them, stood a thin, pale boy with old bruises and hollow eyes—his shoulders hunched as if the weight of years pressed down on them.

For the first time since the trial began… the jury saw him.

Not a report.

Not a file.

Not a legal pawn.

But a child.

A real one.

And that made all the difference.

Tristan noticed something, most of the room when tense when Harry cane in, the ones that didn't, were definitely hidden wizard and probably people just like Tristan, even the Judge kinda stand stilled

Harry sat in the witness chair, small and fragile against the towering backdrop of the courtroom. His feet didn't even reach the floor. The judge gave him a moment to breathe, to settle.

"Mr. Potter," the judge began gently. "Can you tell us, in your own words, what life was like for you at Number 4, Privet Drive?"

Harry hesitated.

He glanced at the Dursleys. Vernon looked like he might explode. Petunia's expression was frozen—thin, cold, unreadable. Dudley didn't meet his eyes.

Harry's gaze flicked to Tristan.

Then to the CP worker.

Then to a woman in the jury—Rosa, though he didn't know her—who gave him the faintest nod.

And finally… to his own hands.

He spoke quietly. "I didn't know it was wrong."

The room went still.

Harry looked down. "When I was younger, I thought all kids lived like that. In the cupboard. With the spiders. Without proper food. I thought... I was just unlucky."

One of the jurors—a middle-aged man—frowned deeply.

Harry continued. "They used to say I was unnatural. That my parents were drunk drivers who got what was coming. That I should be grateful they took me in."

He looked up, blinking hard. "But I don't think they liked me. They never said they did. They never hugged me. Or smiled. Or… asked if I was okay."

His voice trembled.

"They gave Dudley everything. And gave me nothing. Just chores. Just punishment. And if I made a mistake—"

He stopped.

Swallowed.

"I'd get the belt. Or... locked in the cupboard for days. With no food."

Gasps echoed. One juror covered her mouth.

Tristan looked down, his jaw tight.

The defense lawyer stood. "Objection, Your Honour. The boy is clearly emotional and confused—children often exaggerate when—"

"Overruled," the judge said sharply. "Let the child finish."

Harry looked at him with wide eyes—startled by the support.

The judge gave him a small, patient nod. "Go on, Mr. Potter."

Harry nodded slowly. "I didn't tell anyone. I thought... no one would believe me. Or they'd send me somewhere worse. But when the officer found me—when I passed out in the park… it was the first time someone looked at me like I mattered."

He looked up again, this time directly at Tristan.

"Even when I didn't understand why… he helped me."

Tristan didn't move. But behind the quiet mask of the officer's face, his eyes glistened.

The courtroom was silent. Heavy with the weight of truth.

The judge cleared his throat and addressed the defense.

"Do you still wish to cross-examine?"

The defense lawyer looked like he'd swallowed something bitter. "...No, Your Honour."

"Very well." The judge turned to Harry. "Thank you. That will be all."

Harry stood shakily. A bailiff gently escorted him back to his seat beside the CP worker. She whispered something kind. He didn't hear the words, but the warmth helped.

Then…

From the back of the courtroom, the door creaked open again.

In stepped someone unexpected.

A woman in green robes.

With a sigil of a serpent woven into her sleeves.

The same logo that had been on Tristan's lawyer's briefcase.

The press murmured. The Dursleys blinked in confusion.

And Rosa, in the jury box—still Polyjuiced—straightened.

Because the real Lady Slytherin had arrived.

The courtroom just didn't know it yet.

The judge leaned forward, clearly thrown off by the sudden appearance of the regal woman in green. "And who might you be, ma'am?"

Lady Slytherin gave a gentle nod, her voice calm and composed, but every word cut through the courtroom like silk-wrapped steel. "No one important… merely a witness."

The judge blinked. "And what exactly are you here to testify to?"

Her gaze slid slowly around the room—lingering briefly on the Dursleys, brushing over Harry, and finally meeting Rosa's disguised eyes. Rosa froze in her seat.

Lady Slytherin's lips curved into a soft smile. "The death of the Potters."

Gasps rippled through the court.

Even the stenographer missed a beat.

Tristan's eyebrows furrowed, but he kept his expression neutral.

The judge raised a brow. "The Potters, you say? As in the boy's parents?"

"Correct," she said, reaching into her satchel and pulling out several aged-looking files. She placed them gently on the witness stand. "These are my sworn testimonies, transcribed and sealed in accordance with international witness protocols. Verified. And... magically notarized."

Rosa's eyes widened.

She leaned slightly forward, muttering under her breath, so soft only those tuned in could hear.

"Magic-sealed documents... she's using everything. Even the protections the Wizengamot uses for political witness accounts…"

Unbeknownst to her, Harry—sitting just behind the CP worker—heard it all. His ears twitched. Somehow… he could hear things he shouldn't. Again.

Lady Slytherin continued, her voice firm, unwavering. "I lived on the outskirts of Godric's Hollow. Halloween night, 1981, I saw a man approach the Potter residence. I couldn't see his face, but I heard… the shattering of furniture. A voice—James Potter, shouting, 'Lily! Take Harry and hide!'"

The room held its breath.

Lady Slytherin pressed on. "Then... silence. Then a terrible sound. One I'll never forget. Like a thunderclap, but without thunder. A sound that ended a life."

She paused.

Then continued.

"I waited. Minutes passed. Another noise—similar, but distant. Then silence again."

Everyone was still. No shuffling of papers. No murmuring. Just the slow drip of tension into the air.

Rosa closed her eyes, whispering in her mind with practiced calm:

"That's the Killing Curse. It's the closest thing the magical world has to a gunshot. She's describing it perfectly, without revealing too much to the Muggles. That... that woman is terrifyingly good at this."

Lady Slytherin didn't mention wands. She didn't say "Voldemort." She didn't speak of spells. But the weight of her words, the cadence of her tone—it all told the story that needed telling.

She looked at the judge once more. "I didn't know the Potters well, but I knew them enough. They were not addicts. They were not criminals. They were parents. Who died protecting their child."

Harry's hands clenched tightly into his pant legs. His breathing was shallow. That was the first time he'd ever heard it—what actually happened to his parents. Not a lie. Not a bedtime excuse. The truth.

The judge glanced down at the files, then back up at her. "These… these are very serious claims."

Lady Slytherin nodded solemnly. "And I stand by them. I swore under the oath."

Behind her, the doors creaked open again—and in came a flustered bailiff carrying a sealed envelope. "Your Honour… urgent delivery. It's addressed directly to you. No return address."

The judge opened it carefully.

Inside was a single folded paper, stamped with a silver crest—an ouroboros serpent swallowing its own tail.

His eyes scanned the page.

And then widened.

"I… see," he muttered. "We've just received confirmation from the Ministry of Defence that a background investigation into the Dursley household has found several previously ignored complaints… dating back a decade."

Vernon's face turned grey.

Petunia gripped her seat.

The Defense Lawyer stood up suddenly. "Your Honour, we were not made aware of—"

"You will sit down," the judge snapped. "This court has every right to consider new, verified evidence—especially in a case concerning the welfare of a minor."

The press outside the courtroom door were practically shaking the handles now, trying to get in.

And at the back of the room, Rosa took a long, slow sip of her "coffee"—disguising a hard swallow.

"Of course she had to pull this card…" she murmured under her breath. "She's not just influencing the case. She's putting the Dursleys on notice across all records—mundane and magical."

Beside her, a fellow jury member gave her a confused glance.

Rosa smiled back innocently. "Sorry. Just strong coffee."

To be continued

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