The final battle was over. The war that had torn the wizarding world apart, that had shaped Harry Potter into something he had never wished to become, had ended. Voldemort was dead. The Death Eaters were defeated, scattered, or locked away in the deepest corners of Azkaban. The world was supposed to be safe again.
But Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was done with being a hero.
It had been years since the dust had settled. Harry had spent the first few months of peace as the figurehead, the celebrated savior of the wizarding world. The gratitude was suffocating. The endless parades, the speeches, the calls to become an Auror—it all felt hollow, meaningless. He had given so much of himself, sacrificed so much of his soul, for a war that had left him scarred, broken. The heroes were supposed to be celebrated, but all Harry saw when he looked in the mirror was a man who had seen too much, endured too much, and had been given too little in return.
The weight of the title "The Chosen One" sat heavy on his shoulders. He could feel the expectations of the entire magical world bearing down on him, each breath he took like a shackle pulling him back to the place he had always loathed. The Ministry wanted him to become an Auror, to use his fame for the greater good, to continue fighting for justice. But Harry knew better now.
There was no justice in this world. There never had been.
The wizarding world was broken, filled with lies, corruption, and power struggles. Harry had seen it all—the cowardice of the Ministry, the greed of those who claimed to protect the innocent. He had watched as countless lives were ruined, as people he had once called friends turned their backs on him. It was all a game, a show of false hope. And Harry was tired of playing.
"I won't be your hero anymore," he whispered to the night, standing on the balcony of Grimmauld Place, the Black family mansion now his sanctuary. "I'll be something else."
He didn't want to fight for the peace that would never come. He didn't want to clean up the mess Voldemort had left behind. No, Harry Potter would rise higher than that. He would take the power that had always eluded him. He would become the one who controlled the world, the one who shaped the future. He would conquer.
It began quietly, as all great movements do. Harry didn't need to declare war. He didn't need to announce himself with speeches or empty promises. He knew the world too well for that. No, Harry Potter's rise to power was a subtle thing. It started with whispers in the dark corners of the wizarding world—the ones who were tired of the Ministry's ineptitude, who saw through the façade of peace and yearned for something more.
He built a network of followers, loyal to him in ways they had never been loyal to Dumbledore or anyone else. He didn't need to bend them to his will. No, Harry was something far more dangerous. He was a symbol. A dark reflection of the hero the world thought it knew.
The first step was simple. He took control of the most powerful families in the wizarding world, twisting their loyalties with promises of power, wealth, and security. The Malfoys, once a proud family of Dark wizards, bent the knee, their ties to the Ministry useless now that Harry was in control. The Lestranges, once known for their blind allegiance to Voldemort, found themselves aligning with a new, stronger force.
Harry did not need to be the snake or the lion. He was both and neither. He was the shadow in between, the inevitable force of nature that nothing could stand against. His enemies, when they learned of his rise, believed they could fight him, just as they had fought Voldemort. But Harry knew how to play them like a puppet on strings, carefully dismantling their defenses one by one.
He didn't stop there.
The Ministry, once the supposed beacon of order and protection, had lost all credibility. The chaos after the war had left it vulnerable, and Harry knew that the first step to true power was to take control of the heart of the system. The Ministry's leaders were too complacent, too naive, and Harry watched from the shadows as they made mistakes, one after another.
A series of calculated strikes—quiet assassinations, blackmail, and coercion—brought down the Ministry from within. Those who had once celebrated him were now terrified of the very name they had revered. They didn't understand how the boy who had vanquished Voldemort had turned into something far darker. But Harry didn't care about their confusion. He cared only for the world he would control.
The magical law enforcement was easily corrupted. Once under his thumb, they enforced his will with fear, not justice. The Aurors, those who were meant to fight for peace, now bent the knee to him, their former ideals crushed under the weight of the new order.
And when the Ministry finally fell, when its halls were empty of the last of its so-called leaders, Harry Potter stood at the top, his eyes cold and calculating. He didn't want to rule the world. He wanted to own it.
The next step was the most important. The British Isles were the heart of the wizarding world, but Harry knew that true power came with loyalty from the masses. It was time to expand.
Harry's influence spread like wildfire across Europe. He made alliances with dark factions in other countries, promised them strength, and crushed those who dared to oppose him. The magical communities in France, Germany, and Italy bent the knee before him, their leaders either coerced into submission or eliminated.
The Dark Lord of the past was nothing compared to Harry Potter. He was no longer the boy who had lived, the hero of the prophecy. He was something else entirely. He was the ruler. The Emperor of the British Isles. The Dark King of a new world order.
Every rebellion, every whisper of dissent, was stamped out with ruthless efficiency. His followers, once scattered, now flourished under his reign. They swore loyalty not just to Harry himself but to the vision he had promised—a world of power, of strength, where the weak would serve the strong, and the foolish would be crushed beneath the weight of the new regime.
Those who resisted were made examples of. Those who joined him were rewarded. And Harry's grip on the world grew tighter with each passing day.
Years later, the magical world knew only one truth: Harry Potter ruled it. The British Isles had fallen to his will, the Ministry dissolved, and the world had learned that there was only one law: Harry's law.
The Aurors, the Ministry officials, the rebels—they were nothing but pawns in a game that Harry had already won. No one was safe. No one was beyond his reach.
But Harry didn't care.
He had what he wanted: the world at his feet. And no one, no matter how brave or foolish, would ever take it from him.
For Harry Potter was no longer the boy who lived. He was the dark lord who conquered.