Good or bad, does it matter?

Hogwarts

With an irritated sigh, Severus waved his hand sharply, dispelling the screen as most of his "spies" vacated the battlefield.

"Never thought I'd have to save their skins," he muttered.

"I might not have saved them…" Nagini said casually. But when she noticed his approaching finger, she quickly wagged her tail in front of her muzzle. "I'm kidding! Don't you understand jokes?" This attempt at levity didn't spare her from a flick on the forehead.

Moments later, the snake glared at the young man, rubbing her forehead in displeasure after the reprimand.

"Okay, what's done is done," Severus murmured tiredly, collapsing onto the pillow and staring at the ceiling. "Though it would have been nice if they had killed each other… Still, it would be better to let her solve her own problems. After that, I could always arrange a few accidents… a couple dozen accidents…"

"Severus…" Nagini's perplexed voice cut through his thoughts. She regarded him with a strange look. "You could at least smile a little more restrained. It feels like you're planning something bad…"

Severus coughed, as if he'd choked on something, and Nagini's gaze grew even more suspicious. "Only you think that."

"Really? Something doesn't seem right…"

"You must be imagining things," he said, awkwardly scratching his cheek and giving her a gentle pat on the head. "Now, it's definitely time to sleep."

"And what about the Ministry of Magic?"

"Everything ended there, too… though I can't say it was all fine…" An image flashed in his mind of Moody lying unconscious on the ground, missing his right leg and left arm. Nearby, several more Aurors lay wounded, some in critical condition, others no longer breathing.

Alastor could have lost his life that day, if not for a chance encounter with an old "Master" who had an appointment with him shortly after his shift and arrived ten minutes early.

The next day, most wizards in Britain were shaken by the news. Such events couldn't be hidden, and many had heard, even seen, what had transpired in Diagon Alley, with traces of battle and blood still evident.

By midday, rumors and newspapers spread the word—though not always accurately. Some stories were greatly embellished, but they at least attempted to explain to the magical community what had happened that night.

Almost none of the ordinary wizards, and few purebloods, knew of the "Black Star," so most assumed it was a clash between the Death Eaters and the Ministry of Magic.

Just yesterday, everyone had been happily preparing for Christmas—decorating trees, houses, and festive tables. With only five days left until the holiday, hopes were high that everything would go smoothly. But this year, that joyful anticipation had been marred.

According to rough estimates from one newspaper, about one hundred and forty-five people had died. Forty percent were Ministry employees; twenty belonged to pureblood families, with two families nearly exterminated; thirty were independent wizards, most of whom were wanted criminals; and the remaining ten were unidentifiable.

While numbers varied across sources, nearly all reported over one hundred thirty casualties, lending credibility to the claims. Still, many awaited an official statement from the Ministry, knowing that newspapers were one thing and the government was another.

Surprisingly, news of the Minister of Magic's injuries never surfaced. The next morning, he calmed the citizens of Magical Britain with reassuring speeches, though rumors swirled, often dismissed as mere tales.

He had not healed completely; the wound was serious. To maintain a façade of control and confidence, Harold had to endure sharp, aching pain for almost an hour, earning him the respect of many, including Severus—he was indeed worthy of his position.

As for Voldemort, few saw him after the retreat. The angry screams, sounds of explosions, and heavy thuds from the second floor made it clear: it was best to stay away if one didn't want to face an avada kedavra.

He had every reason to be angry. When he ordered a retreat, he felt the absence of forty-two marks, which could only signify three things: the mark was removed, which was nearly impossible; the mark was sealed; or its owner was dead.

For Voldemort, all three scenarios felt like death. He doubted any of those marked would bother with sealing or removing their marks; he was convinced they were all dead, a significant loss for such a small organization as the Death Eaters.

Among those he considered unworthy, losses were fewer—only twenty-three. At least one of them had managed to temper Voldemort's fury by suffering alongside him.

The Ministry faced even heavier losses. While Voldemort preserved the backbone of his power, the Ministry had lost five captains and fifty-two Aurors, not to mention twenty-five who were severely injured and unlikely to ever wield a wand again.

Among the injured were Alastor Moody and Richard Brooks, two captains whose careers in the fight against dark wizards were effectively over.

For the Order of the Phoenix, led by Dumbledore, the tragedy had been somewhat distant, affecting only Moody and the Pruett brothers, who had assisted a small group of Aurors and emerged with only minor injuries.

However, this incident became the catalyst for uniting the forces of Britain for the first time in a decade. The Ministry, the Death Eaters, and several gangs—each having suffered greatly—decided to join forces against a common enemy, realizing that alone, they could not defeat them, especially after such devastating losses.

On the second day, a secret magical agreement was signed between nine individuals: Harold, Tom, and the leaders of seven major gangs, forming an alliance until the enemy was eradicated from the country.

Hogwarts. Headmaster's Office.

Two days later.

In a small, rounded office, a sad, elderly wizard sat at a table. In front of him lay an open parchment bearing fifteen names and the seal of the Ministry of Magic.

"Albus… we—"

"No, let it be… At least this Christmas will pass in ignorance." Minerva pursed her lips and nodded silently.

"Notify the other teachers to remain silent about recent events and cancel all owl flights until the twenty-ninth of December." Albus understood well the pain of losing a loved one; he had witnessed his sister's death and had played a part in it.

The list from the Ministry contained the names of students whose parents had perished that night. He wished to protect the children's Christmas spirit, delaying the harsh truth as long as possible.

"And the funerals…?" she asked.

"They'll take place on the twenty-ninth. Don't worry; I will speak to them myself." Normally, Albus was cheerful and optimistic, but after recent events, he felt drained, and memories of his dark past resurfaced.

"Tell me, how are preparations for the ball going?" he asked, attempting to distract both himself and Minerva. She smiled reservedly, though it hardly resembled a smile.

"Everything is fine. Almost everyone, even Mr. Spinnet, learned to dance in half an hour after I paired him with Miss Fane. You should have seen how 'unhappy' he was about the change in partner…" But as she spoke, her smile faded upon seeing "Spinnet" among the names on the parchment. His parents were Aurors, patrolling that fateful night…

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Thank you for reading.

To be honest, many people die unknown and their children suffers and no one knows about them.

One day we will see some news somewhere seeing many atrocities being commited and have a thought, "Ohh, how wrong it is."

But there's not much left in this world to correct, people commit crimes, other watch them commit crimes, recording it in their phone and say that "what can we do?"