The characters, settings, world of Harry Potter do not belong to me. I gain nothing by writing these stories other than the pleasure of further exploring their lives and times.
Chapter One
He woke suddenly, forgetting where he was in that brief moment between sleep and rousing.
Dawn had not come yet, though there was light enough to barely make things out. It was eerily quiet, and cold; a pre-dawn breeze strong and chill blew through the broken windows, masking the soft sounds of sleep.
The room was a blur; he scrambled for his glasses, shocked when his hand struck the solid cold of the floor he lay upon. Sitting up was painful – bruises, cuts and over-taxed muscles complaining at the sudden movement. He fumbled for his wire-rims, found them, and took in his surroundings.
He was in the Great Hall of course, now that he was awake enough to remember. Students lay all around him - some rolled up in blankets or jumpers, others just in their robes - all oblivious to the hardness of the floor, sound asleep after the long battle.
The truly dead, those who had not survived in their fight against the Death Eaters, had been removed to the Slytherin common room. Located in the dungeons, this room and adjoining dormitories were virtually untouched by the previous day's battle. Displaced Slytherin students were told they could sleep in the Great Hall with the others; some had done so, but most had disapparated with their parents at their earliest opportunity - an easy matter now that all the protective charms which once surrounded Hogwarts buildings and grounds were gone.
Dead Death Eaters - those they had found so far - had been removed to the edge of the Old Forest behind Hagrid's hut. No one protested this arrangement - no one really cared. Surviving students and staff had far too many burdens as it was, to add one more.
Harry stood carefully, unsteady on his feet, and looked around. Though hastily magicked moderately clean of rubble and gore some time after midnight, the large room still bore stark evidence of the long battle that had taken place there. Stained glass windows were gone, their stonework frames blasted apart. The walls were scored and pitted, tables and benches seared or burnt to ashes. Tapestries that once hung from the ceiling were tattered and scorched or missing altogether, and the roof was riddled with holes, the charmed ceiling destroyed.
Though the light was still dim, he was pretty sure Ron and Hermione weren't among the slumbering students. They would be down in the Slytherin Common Room with the rest of the Weasley family, keeping watch over Fred until they could arrange to take him back to The Burrow. There was a hitch in his breathing as Harry's all-too-vivid memory played back his first sight of Ron's brother lying still on the stone floor of the Great Hall, but he suppressed it, fought it down, knowing instinctively that if he let that memory - all the memories - begin to play back, he would be unable to control himself.
He would go down to the Weasleys. He could do that, concentrate on that, and keep all other thoughts at bay. Carefully, he stepped over and around students, making his way to the doors leading into the Entrance Hall. Both were askew, blown off their hinges, and the hall beyond was still strewn with blasted stone, wood, and bits of armour.
The dizziness was persistent; the room seemed to move under his feet, and more than once he was in danger of falling onto somebody. He straightened up from yet another stumble and saw, in the increasing light, a person standing to the left of the doorway, watching him.
It was Professor McGonagall.
ooOOoo
"Professor McGonagall, I . . ." Harry felt as if something had sucked all the air from his lungs. His old Transfiguration teacher leaned against the wall, her wand out, staring at him as if she had never seen him before. Her robes were singed and torn, her cheek was bruised and streaked with dried blood, and her deep-set eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion. Grief lined her features, and there was a tremor in her voice when she spoke.
"Harry." She took a faltering step toward him and collapsed.
He caught her, easing her to the floor, holding her against him until the faintness subsided. She felt frail in his arms, which startled him. He had never thought of the stalwart Scotswoman as frail, even when she had spent time in St. Mungo's. "Did you get any sleep last night, Professor?"
"Not enough, apparently," she said, struggling out of his arms. Harry stifled a smile - that was more like the Professor. "Help me up."
Harry assisted McGonagall onto a fallen stone and sat beside her. She looked at him for some time, taking in his long hair, his overall scruffiness - Harry knew he must look very different from the robed, book-carrying boy she had taught in her classes.
"Harry," she began again.
"Yes, Professor?"
"I hardly know what to say to you; you're so different from last year."
"Hah," he barked - the irony of her remark surprising him - and felt a sudden, sharp twinge somewhere deep inside his body; he pressed an elbow to his side and looked away, staring out over the sleeping students. "Aren't we all?"
"Very true," she sighed. "So much will be changed, never the same again - for the students, their families, for the teachers - for Hogwarts. I'm beginning to wonder if our history is finally drawing to a close."
"Close Hogwarts?" Harry asked, his gaze still moving over the still forms on the floor, the open windows. "We never did before," he added, his voice quiet.
"We never fought 'He-Who. . .' - Voldemort - before."
Harry turned toward her and searched her eyes, impulsively covering her hand with his own. "No, we never had. But we did fight him, Professor. And we won."
She hesitated, and Harry thought she was about to say something along the lines of there still being Death Eaters out there, marauding giants to deal with, centaurs and goblins to placate, and so on. But apparently she thought better of it and stood up slowly, squeezing his hand before withdrawing hers.
"You need tending to, Potter," she said, reverting to her classroom manner. "You look a sight."
Her attempt at normality was not lost on him; he smiled at her but grimaced as he stood, the twinge tugging harder inside, burning.
McGonagall, with the close scrutiny bred of years in the classroom, noticed. "And I expect you're hurting a lot more than you let on."
"I'm all right, Professor. Just a little banged up, but who isn't?" He glanced back over the room of students, unmoving in their sleep of the exhausted.
McGonagall wasn't convinced. "Well, I'd tell you to go up to the hospital wing, but half of the ceiling is fallen and Madame Pomfrey is herself injured. There are volunteers helping her; I could probably find someone. . ." She closed her eyes suddenly, fighting her own fatigue.
Harry's eyes crinkled in concern. "Professor, come down to the Slytherin common room with me. I think you need to lie down."
Minerva looked at him, her eyes widening a little, and linked an arm with his. "I think you're right," she breathed shakily, leaning on him as he led her from the room toward the dungeon steps. As they walked, Harry holding her solicitously, she stole looks at him, slowly coming to the realization that Harry was no longer just a schoolboy, a student in her classroom, but someone who had lived a lifetime in his not-quite 18 years. A boy who had proven himself over and over, despite his failings, his immaturity, his young years.
A boy - a man - she could trust.
ooOOoo
Harry and Professor McGonagall were met outside the Slytherin common room by a volunteer, who led them into a smaller room across the hall where Minerva could lie down. She was already dozing when Harry left to cross the hall to the common room. He stood there for a few seconds, closing his eyes and gathering himself, leaning against the door before entering.
Thus taken by surprise when someone suddenly opened the door from the inside, Harry lost his balance and stumbled into the person standing there. His vision was blurred and he wondered for a moment if he had somehow lost his glasses on the way to the dungeons.
"S-sorry, I'm a clod. . ."
"Harry!" He was immediately engulfed in a tight hug, buried in vast quantities of bushy hair. "Harry, I'm so sorry I didn't find you last night! I came down with the Weasleys, just to get them settled, you know, and then Ron was having such a hard time over Fred, and Mrs. Weasley just sort of latched onto me, and then somehow I fell asleep and. . .oh, Harry, I'm so sorry, I. . ."
"Hermione, it's all right," Harry assured her, leaning back from her a little. Her face was tear-streaked, dark circles under her expressive eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked, unconsciously looking at her many bruises and scrapes. Her hand was tied up and there were bloodstains on the wrappings.
"Don't mind this," she said, holding up the hand. "I'll tell you about it later. C'mon."
She tucked her arm under his and walked to the back of the room, farthest from the fireplace. There, on cots, were several bodies covered in blankets, sheets, and cloaks - whatever had been handy. Someone had taken great pains to arrange their limbs, folding their hands together over their chests, their outlines visible under the makeshift shrouds. Some of the bodies were achingly small.
"There aren't nearly as many as there were last night," Hermione said, still holding on to Harry's arm. "Their families must have come to claim them while we were asleep."
"Where's Ron?" Harry looked around him, his eyes smarting; it was hard looking at the forms lying so still, their futures, their hopes and dreams, wiped out because of that egomaniacal serpent.
"Back here." Hermione turned aside and headed for a small door in a corner. She let go of his arm and turned to face him, her back against the door. "They could've taken Fred home last night, you know, but they wanted to wait for you."
Harry's breath caught sharply, another spasm causing him to breathe a little faster. Hermione put her hand on his shoulder. "I know. It won't be easy, seeing all of them in such a state, but they love you, Harry, they. . ."
"I know," Harry said, a little too loudly, shrugging off Hermione's hand. "I know," he said again, more softly. He reached out a finger and touched her cheek. "Let's go in."
ooOOoo
The room was full of shadows, the candles having dropped into their sockets hours ago. Harry could make out Mr. Weasley sitting on a bench, his head fallen back against the wall. His mouth was slightly open and he was snoring softly. Mrs. Weasley lay curled up beside him, her head resting in Arthur's lap. Ginny sat on the floor, her arms crossed over a footstool serving as a pillow, and Percy and Ron lay back to back, wrapped in their cloaks, on an old worktable. George sat in a chair next to Fred who lay on a cot, white and unmoving. Though he saw his friend's body with his own eyes, Harry still couldn't bring himself to believe that Fred was gone.
"Gone," Harry said, not realizing he had spoken. He took a step toward the cot and stopped. He didn't want to push into George's vigil, didn't want to heighten the pain he must be feeling for his identical twin.
However, sensing rather than hearing them come into the room, George turned and motioned for them to come over. Hermione shook her head at Harry and gave him a little push in the small of his back. Harry went to George then, kneeling on the floor next to his brother, locking gazes with him. With a low groan, George looked away, back to his brother, and Harry's eyes followed.
He had never seen Fred so quiet, so white and still. Always vibrant, always full of mischief - full of life. And now all that was gone, snatched away. . .
Harry fought off another bout of dizziness. He reached out a hand and laid it on Fred's folded ones, feeling the absolute cold of death. "Oh, Fred," he whispered.
ooOOoo
There was a stirring; Ginny and Ron woke up, rubbing their eyes and stretching. They saw Harry talking quietly with George and waited, not wanting to disturb them. Soon, with the instinct of parents, the two senior Weasleys awakened and Harry soon found himself pulled up into Mr. Weasley's hand-shake and Molly's tearful embrace. She held him long and fiercely, as if she were trying to convince herself that he was all right, or that somehow holding on to him was like holding on to Fred. Either way, Harry felt himself relaxing, releasing something so deep even he couldn't identify it, something that almost hurt to let go, a deep twisting. . .
"Ow."
"Oh, am I too ferocious, dear? It's just that I'm - we're all so glad - I mean. . ." Molly stuttered, fluttering her hands and rousing Percy with her exclamations.
"Let the boy breathe, Molly," Arthur urged, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry looked up into the tall man's face and saw a myriad of emotions behind the eyes - the appalling disbelief, the unspeakable grief of his loss; the gratefulness for safety for the rest of his family, the defeat of Voldemort - the brutal aftermath of a long battle won at such a price.
"Mr. Weasley, I - " Harry cleared his throat, unable to break away from Arthur's gaze. The blue eyes were swimming now and gleamed in the dim light, holding Harry within their unspoken thoughts. "Mr. Weasley," Harry began again.
"Molly," Arthur interrupted, bringing his head up and breaking the spell. "Percy, Ginny, Ron. George," he added, gently. "It's time to go.
"It's time we took Fred home."
Chapter Two
"C'mon, mate, mum's got breakfast ready for us."
Harry squinted against the morning sun. His reply to Ron was nothing more than a grunt, but it seemed to satisfy his friend, who had already left the room and was clattering down the steps. If anyone else had been asleep in the house, they weren't any more.
Sounds of people stirring in the old house - along with the smell of coffee - urged Harry out of bed. He sat on the edge of the cot which had become an old friend over the years, set up for him in Ron's room whenever he had spent time with the Weasleys, and put on his glasses. The room hadn't changed much, though it seemed smaller. The ghoul was quiet for a change, probably happy to have the spattergroit spell removed. With a pang, Harry realized all the boxes marked "WWW" were gone, too.
And then he thought of Fred.
Fred, who came into his thoughts in sharply defined memories. Fred and George, inseparable, riding their brooms away from Hogwarts after their victory over Umbridge. Fred, hovering over his brother, trying to help his mother staunch the blood from his severed ear. Fred, killed seconds after hearing his newly-restored brother Percy actually telling a joke. Fred, his coffin being lowered into a grave in the magically-hidden family cemetery in a small wood behind the house.
Harry took a deep breath, trying to shake the renewed feelings of grief, knowing he could not allow himself the luxury when he came into Molly's kitchen. There had been many losses in his life, for which he felt deep and lasting remorse: his parents, Sirius, Hedwig, Moody, Dobby, Remus and Tonks - so many. If there was a reason why he dwelt so much on Fred's death, Harry didn't know it. He was too drained, his head in too much of a muddle to figure it out right now.
His weariness continued to weigh on him. He'd slept more in the last three days than he had in as many months. He rested after breakfast, rested after lunch, went to bed early. But still the tiredness lingered. Hermione and Ron were picking up physically, though they both still grieved for Fred. They often went on long walks together, sometimes asking Harry to accompany them, but he usually declined, feeling too tired to go along.
This morning, as he tried to hurry, he felt sluggish: no pain exactly, but there was a nagging misery deep inside him he couldn't shake. Coming down the steps, he made an effort to hide it. Molly was waiting for him, pan in hand, serving up bacon and eggs onto a heated plate. The sight of her, carrying on as best she could when he knew the loss of Fred was an almost overwhelming pain in her heart, melted his own.
Everyone but George was at the table; they all greeted Harry in that warm, un-prepossessed way he had come to know and love. Even Percy was back to his old, pre-Umbridge ways.
"Sit down, dear, and tuck in. You need a bit of feeding up."
"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley."
"Now, as to that," Mr. Weasley spoke up from the end of the table, "Molly and I have been discussing it, and we feel it's high time you called us by our Christian names."
"But I - " Harry felt all eyes on him, and stuttered as he tried to explain. "It wouldn't - I mean, it isn't. . ." He took a breath and blinked, the room darkening for a second. "It's just that, well, I could never call my mum and dad by their Christian names. I wish. . ." He swallowed, waves of exhaustion washing over him again, his body growing heavier as if someone were piling stones on him. "I wish I could explain. . ."
But everyone looked as if they knew exactly what he was trying to say to the two people who had treated him, from the very first day they'd met, with kindness and fondness: that calling them by their first names would, in Harry's eyes, take away from the deep respect and affection - the deep love he felt for Arthur and Molly Weasley.
Molly's eyes filled with tears and she reached over to hug Harry from behind, laying her cheek against his. "We understand, dear, don't we Arthur?"
Mr. Weasley, his heart full, simply nodded, reaching over to pat Harry's arm.
ooOOoo
The walk to the family cemetery was a short one, just to the small copse of ancient evergreens behind the house. Emotionally, Harry dreaded the walk, recalling the pain of three days ago when he followed the casket – carried, not levitated – to Fred's last resting place. The finality of the grave, the lowering of the box, the rich, dark dirt shoveled on top; the clean, earthy smell of it and the trees, was so achingly poignant Harry was amazed none of them were brought to their knees. Physically, Harry was glad the walk was short, because the path ambled across an uncut field concealing dips and hillocks that made him stumble. The heaviness he had felt during breakfast grew stronger, and he found himself concentrating on just putting one foot in front of the other. He looked up from the path only when he felt the coolness of the shade of the trees.
Three days ago he had stood here with the Weasleys; the minister – an old friend of the family – said some very comforting words. Father Breandan, though not exactly a Squib, had very little magical ability. But what he lacked in magic was more than made up for by his big heart. About Arthur's age, he had been present for every special family event – births, christenings, and weddings – Arthur and Molly's the first, and Bill and Fleur's the most recent. Harry first met Father Breandan – in disguise – at that wedding. Father Bren, as the family called him, was surprised to meet Harry again without the disguise; it took a little explaining before he realized the spectacled person whose hand he was shaking was the same un-spectacled one he'd met under the wedding tent a year before. Their conversation had been brief, however, the reverend's time taken up with the immediate family and, especially, George.
Now the family gathered around the grave again, Molly holding on to Arthur's arm, Ginny and Harry holding hands, Ron and Hermione doing the same. Bill and Fleur were in London, having left the day before – as was Percy. Charlie was still in Romania, not able to leave due to the escape of several dragons who were wreaking their own havoc in that area. Just because Voldemort was dead didn't mean there wasn't much work to be done.
George was conspicuously absent. Harry had asked after him at breakfast; Arthur answered for Molly, who struggled to hold back tears and was unable to speak.
"He's taken his broom and gone off, just at daybreak. Our boy's in great pain, Harry. It's as if half his heart has been ripped out. I suppose, in a way, that's the very thing that did happen. I don't think he's gone far; I saw him walking around near the old Lovegood ruins yesterday. It's secluded and quiet, and a stream runs nearby where he can sit and think."
"Best to leave him to it for a few more days," Molly managed to say, her eyes shining, her smile brave.
Harry took a deep breath, willing away the thoughts, the ever-present grief that hung over him. The group stood silently, looking at the new headstone. It bore Fred's full name, dates of birth and death, with the simple inscription, "Killed in the Great Battle". There would never be a need for further explanation; many graves would bear similar dedications.
What struck Harry the most was the Celtic Knot below the inscription. It was cut neatly in half, the left side engraved in the granite – the right side missing. Harry knew where the other half would be some day – in the fulfillment of time – when George joined his brother there, in the quiet under the trees.
Ginny and Hermione removed the fading flowers, replacing them with fresh ones. Molly stretched her hand toward the headstone, touching it. Then, lifting her chin, she turned away and walked toward the house, out into the sunshine. Everyone followed her example, Harry last.
"Fred," he murmured, and stood there a few seconds with his hand resting on the headstone, the slow burning deep inside increasing sharply, the heaviness almost unsupportable. "I never wanted. . ."
"Coming, Harry?" Ron called, standing with Hermione and Ginny in the sunlight.
"Yeah, I'm. . ." Harry turned to follow the path out of the woods, but the pain hit him hard and his sight failed him.
His friends ran towards him as he fell to the ground.
Chapter Three
Was he awake?
Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?
It was a struggle to open his eyes; everything was white, and for a moment he thought he was back in King's Cross Station, with Dumbledore.
But the noises around him were definitely not King's Cross, imagined or real. He grimaced, unwilling to open his eyes to the brightness, and swallowed dryly.
"He's waking up! Mum, I think he's waking up!"
Harry felt a gentle hand on his brow, its coolness welcome.
"Harry. Harry, dear, can you hear me?"
With effort, he managed to open one eye and saw a blurry Molly Weasley bending near, Ginny standing close behind.
"H'lo," he croaked.
"Ginny, get that glass of water – just there – thank you, dear."
Harry felt the glass pressed against his lips. He took a sip, then a gulp, reaching jerkily for the glass. Some of it spilled onto the pillow case, but Ginny cleaned it up with her wand.
"Not too much just yet, dear, healer's orders, you know."
Harry managed to open the other eye, blinking against the too-bright light. Ginny handed him his glasses and the brilliance receded with his ability to see more clearly. He sat up, somewhat clumsily, and with the aid of the two women. Propped up on pillows, he looked around and saw that he was in a glass-walled ward of St. Mungo's. Then he noticed that every bed was filled, more beds and cots were in the halls, and a second tier of beds floated near the ceiling, attended by equally levitated healers and healers' aides.
"What day is this?"
"Oh, the ninth, Harry," Ginny answered, her hand covering his on the counterpane.
One week. One week ago and the Battle of Hogwarts – sometimes called The Great Battle – was raging. One week ago Snape was still alive; one week ago Fred was still alive. . .
"One week," he murmured.
"Sorry, dear? What were you saying?" Molly asked, nervously fussing with the covers on Harry's bed. Harry reached out with his free hand and closed on Molly's wrist, pulling her gently until she sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes focused somewhere over his head.
"Is George here?" he asked, knowing that he wasn't.
"No, erm, no, Harry – he's – he's gone to Romania to stay with Charlie for awhile." Molly cleared her throat and tried to pull her hand away, but Harry held on tighter, stroking her fingers with his thumb.
"Mrs. Weasley, he'll be back. I'm sure he'll be. . ."
"Will he?" Molly snapped, jerking her hand away and folding it tightly in her lap with the other one. "Sure about that, are you?"
Harry darted a look at Ginny, who shook her head slowly. There was a silent agreement between them and Ginny left, making excuse to find Ron, Hermione and her dad.
He turned on his side, feeling sluggish but thankfully no pain, and reached for Molly's hand again. She jumped when he made contact, unaware that they were alone in the room.
"Harry, you shouldn't move about too much; your spleen's just been recently mended and your liver's bruised. You still need potions for internal bleeding. Healer Maricus says you're to be here another day or two and must not overdo. . ."
"Mrs. Weasley, George will be back. He's had a great loss and he's got to muddle his way through. But he will. He and Fr - he and Fred are the most ingenious problem-solvers I've ever known. It will be hard for him to go it alone without his brother, almost his second half, really. But he will manage it."
Harry had released his hold on her wrist, but Molly was holding Harry's hand now, touching the bruised knuckles and broken fingernails, her eyes lowered.
"You don't believe what that ol' boggart showed you in the Black mansion, do you?" Harry asked, tilting his head to look into the eyes of the woman who put women like Aunt Petunia to shame.
"How did you. . .?"
"Just a hunch. I remember how the visions affected you, because they were so real to you. But Mrs. Weasley, Fred's death had nothing to do with those visions. He died because he wanted to defend Hogwarts and his family; he wanted to defeat Voldemort, to play his part. He wouldn't have been happy doing anything else. And George was with him when he died. I think – I think Fred wouldn't have had it any other way."
Harry sighed, tired out by so much conversation. Molly was immediately on mother-hen alert, soothing him and making him lie back on his pillows.
They both turned their heads as they heard a healer's aide at the other end of the hall admonishing Arthur Weasley that only two visitors could be allowed per bed. Molly turned back to Harry and shrugged, drawing a deep breath. She gave a final squeeze to Harry's hand and released it, stood and walked toward the ward door. She stood there a moment, then squared her shoulders and smiled at her adopted boy, a hint of the old twinkle just there, if one knew where to look for it.
Harry knew.
"Life goes on," she whispered, turning away, and started down the hall towards her husband.
Harry settled back onto his pillows, looking up at the levitated bed above him. Ron and Hermione came back in. He smiled at them as they approached his bed.
"Hi, Ron. 'Lo, Hermione."
Ron pulled up a chair while Hermione carefully sat on the edge of his bed. Remarkably, the three soon settled into conversation, enjoying each other's company, a brief respite from the aftermath of the long fight against Voldemort.
Molly was right, Harry thought, his breath hitching a moment. Life does go on.
Fin