Chapter 3: Without a Doubt, You Are a Wizard

When the charges are ambiguous, when the evidence can be interpreted both ways, the crux of the verdict rests not merely on the facts, but on the nature of Roger Virgil himself—and whether the precedent set by his judgment might imperil the wizarding community as a whole.

On this point, Dumbledore made his choice: he placed his trust in the child, and by extension, in his own judgment and ability.

As the Wizengamot began to disperse, a figure slowly approached Dumbledore.

"Dumbledore, you’re about to face some trouble," said the man, draped in the formal robes of the Wizengamot. He was wizened and ancient, his age rivaling Dumbledore’s own, and his tone was grave.

"I’m prepared," Dumbledore replied, already knowing what his longtime friend referred to.

The American Magical Congress had never been particularly invested in Roger Virgil’s case. Their priorities did not always align with the broader interests of America itself; their scrutiny was opportunistic—seeking only openings for their own advantage, which, in Dumbledore’s estimation, made them easy enough to handle.

The real complications lay in the Middle East. One of Roger’s alleged crimes was posing as a religious prophet during the war—but the truth was, he genuinely was a prophet. In fact, some within the wizarding world of the Middle East firmly believed Roger was the prophesied religious figure. While wizards appeared isolated from the Muggle world, their territories were still demarcated by Muggle political borders, and every year a number of Muggle-born children, whose magical power erupted in youth, joined their ranks.

Some pure-blood wizarding families even held titles of nobility bestowed by Muggle governments. Despite the International Statute of Secrecy, the boundaries between the wizarding and Muggle worlds were not as sharply drawn as they seemed.

And in a world where most countries were religious by nature, a significant portion of wizards were influenced by religion—some due to Muggle parental upbringing steeped in church tradition, others because their wizarding families harbored resentment towards the church, remembering the witch hunts of old.

In the Middle East, both sides of the divide counted those who truly believed Roger to be a prophet among their number. Some sought to help him; others wanted him dead.

The case was relocated to Britain partly because Roger was British by birth, but also because the infighting in the Middle East had reached an impasse—no one could convince the other, so the responsibility was passed along.

Now, with the Wizengamot’s final verdict, and Dumbledore’s silent endorsement, Roger Virgil was declared not guilty by a vote of thirty to twenty and acquitted on the spot. But the matter was far from over.

The old wizard had known Dumbledore for many years. He understood the soft yet unyielding nature of the headmaster—having once intervened to save Roger, Dumbledore would see it through to the end.

It was likely, then, that the British and Middle Eastern wizarding worlds were in for some turbulence.

Hearing Dumbledore’s calm acceptance, the elder wizard asked nothing more. He nodded and took his leave.

Since Dumbledore was prepared, there was nothing to fear. After all, he was the Headmaster of Hogwarts—the cradle of all British wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and the greatest wizard of the century.

He believed his old friend could overcome any adversity.

...

At that moment—

Standing at a busy London crossroads, with one of the entrances to the Ministry of Magic disguised as a telephone booth behind him, Roger felt a profound sense of unreality.

He had braced himself to be sentenced to Azkaban, to endure the torment of Dementors, to scavenge every scrap of magical knowledge from fellow inmates, to bide his time for seven years, waiting for Voldemort to reappear and for the Death Eaters to be freed—seizing his chance to escape in the chaos.

He’d never read the Harry Potter novels, and had only watched the movies up to the Order of the Phoenix. He’d found the later films so different in tone from the early ones that he’d lost interest, only ever glimpsing brief clips on short video platforms.

But since the Death Eaters returned, surely it meant Voldemort had granted a general pardon? Roger wasn’t certain, but one must always cling to hope.

He had not expected, when all seemed lost, for a new path to open before him.

He was acquitted—just like that.

"How does it feel? Do you feel lighter, as if a weight’s been lifted from your shoulders?" came a gentle voice beside him.

Roger turned; Dumbledore had appeared at his side, still dressed in the robes of the Chief Warlock, as if he hadn’t had time to change. There was none of the stern authority from the courtroom in his expression—only the warmth and kindness of a grandfather next door.

"Indeed, this freedom is intoxicating," Roger replied honestly.

"Professor Dumbledore, words cannot express my gratitude. All that you have done for me, I will never forget." Roger looked up at the tall, imposing man—over six feet in height—with solemn respect.

If Dumbledore was truly the man Roger had seen in the films, it was only natural for him to help, given his character. But Roger never took anyone’s assistance for granted.

He would remember this debt.

Seeing Roger’s sincerity, Dumbledore merely smiled and gently ruffled his silky blond hair. "You’re only eleven, still a child. Don’t always be so serious—try to live as other children do. You’re free now, you’re safe. If you can, I hope you’ll live a normal life, laugh more, and just be a boy."

Roger lowered his head, silent.

Live like a child? After all he’d endured—so many brushes with death—he doubted he could ever live like other children, or even like most people.

Seeing this, Dumbledore’s hand paused, then withdrew. He changed the subject.

"Roger, what are your plans now?"

Just as the old Wizengamot member predicted, Dumbledore would not simply save Roger from prison and abandon him to the streets. He would see it through.

Britain was a peaceful country, but not so peaceful that a child could roam the streets without worry—there were always dangers: vagrants, illegal immigrants, gangs, smuggled wizards, magical creatures, and so on.

"First, I’ll try to contact my mother’s relatives. My father was an orphan; I have no one on his side. My mother’s business was based in Kuwait, but the destruction of her assets and the penalties for unfulfilled contracts will likely bankrupt the company."

"If I inherit anything, it will probably be debt. After the age of seven, I lived in Kuwait, so I haven’t seen my relatives here for nearly four years—I have no idea how they’ll feel about me now."

He spoke of his fall from wealthy Roman noble to penniless outcast without the slightest tremor in his voice.

To him, it mattered little. The greatest treasure he possessed was the knowledge in his mind.

Knowing the course of future events, he was certain he’d find a way to make money if he wished.

Besides—

"Even if they don’t want me, they’ll at least take care of my mother’s affairs. I brought a little money from Kuwait—not much, but enough to handle the funeral arrangements."

"As a minor, there’s much I can’t do alone; I’ll need their help. After my parents’ funerals, I’ll devote myself entirely to one thing."

"And what would that be?" Dumbledore asked, watching Roger’s contemplative expression, sighing inwardly at how far this child was from living the carefree life of his peers.

"To confirm whether or not I truly am a wizard."

"If I am, I’ll find a way to learn magic."

Yes, now that he knew this was a world of magic, that was the most important thing—far more so than wealth.

Dumbledore was momentarily taken aback. "Hmm?"

Roger guessed his confusion and explained, "Although everyone says I’ve committed all sorts of magical crimes, I’m not entirely sure I can actually perform magic, or that I’m truly a wizard."

"From what I’ve learned in custody, a young wizard’s magical outbursts are usually very brief—not like my situation. Aside from a sense of impending danger, I have no other abilities."

"So sometimes I wonder: is this ‘ability’ really magic? I’ve heard the world is home to other beings with special gifts—ghosts, centaurs, vampires, trolls..."

His expression darkened as he spoke.

After all he’d been through, Roger keenly understood the importance of power—and what it was he truly desired.

To be denied magic now would be a crushing blow.

"You think too much, child," Dumbledore said with a trace of exasperation.

"If the Ministry of Magic accused you of these crimes, then they must have had irrefutable evidence."

As he spoke, Dumbledore produced a pristine envelope and pressed it into Roger’s hand.

"Children born in Britain and who have lived here for a time—if they show magical ability, their names appear on the Hogwarts admissions list by magic itself."

"This is your Hogwarts acceptance letter."

"Roger, without question, you are a wizard!"