All Rowling's. None mine.

Harry Potter awoke with a start. He had no idea how long he had been sleeping, or even where he was. All he knew was that there was a bright light blazing through his closed eyelids. He opened them, noting for the briefest instant that he was still wearing his glasses. He must have fallen asleep with them on.

The young man did two things at once. He sprung up from the bed - barely registering that he had, in fact, been sleeping in a bed - and reached for his wand. Grabbing his wand from the bedside table and adjusting his glasses, he turned about the room wildly, looking for the source of the light that had awoken him.

Slowly, his location became clear to him. He recognized the five four-poster beds of the Gryffindor boy's dormitory, red and gold hangings draped innocently and invitingly.

"Hogwarts, then," Harry muttered to nobody.

Still searching for the source that interrupted his first good sleep in months, he looked towards the window.

The sun had just peaked over the edge of the Forbidden Forest, starting its climb for the day. Harry realized what the source of the light must have been-the rising of the sun. Sheepishly, he walked towards the window and looked out. He had not seen this view in just under a year.

Crossing over to the window, he looked down at the expansive grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His eyes were immediately drawn to Hagrid's hut, just at the edge of the forest.

Or rather, his eyes were drawn to what remained of Hagrid's hut.

Where the great cabin once stood was nothing more than a smoldering ruin, with wisps of smoke billowing upwards in the early morning light. The garden out front was nothing more than a crater, with mounds of dirt splayed out in all directions. With a pang of guilt, Harry realized that some great battle must have occurred on this spot. I wonder which of my friends was killed there, Harry thought bitterly.

Now that he was properly awake, the events of the previous forty-eight hours were brought back to Harry's mind. He had no idea how he had ever gone to sleep-all he could picture now was the ride on the back of a blind dragon, crawling through a secret passage to the Room of Requirement, dueling Voldemort for the final time.

Voldemort.

Harry's mind caught up with the present, and he staggered backwards a step. For the first time in months, years really, his mind was free. No sudden twinge of pain from the lightning scar on his forehead, no surge of emotion that was not entirely his own. It was as if a small part of him had died.

Harry laughed suddenly, which hung in the empty air. A small part of him had died, and it was a part he did not mind dying at all.

Harry looked around the dormitory room. It was musty, looking as though it hadn't been slept in for weeks. He looked over to where his best friend Ron Weasley's bed was, and saw a thick layer of dust on the sheets. His fellow Gryffindor Dean Thomas's bed had the same look. Obviously, Harry thought. They hadn't been back at Hogwarts in a year either.

But something about this seemed odd. He knew that neither Neville Longbottom nor Seamus Finnigan, the other two Gryffindors in Harry's year, had slept in this dormitory for the previous few weeks, as they had been driven into hiding in the Room of Requirement during the school year. But their beds didn't look nearly as dusty as Dean's or Ron's. Harry looked at his own sheets, but his had no dust on them at all.

Harry frowned. He thought the Hogwarts house elves would have kept everything clean, even without the students. The obvious lack of care must have been the house elves' own private rebellion against Voldemort's regime, headed by Professor Severus Snape.

Snape.

Harry's mind fast-forwarded again, but this time it was an acute feeling of sadness. This altogether surprised him, as Harry had personally wished death on his former teacher hundreds, if not thousands of times. "But never like that," he whispered softly, though no one was around to hear. He deserved better.

Deep in thought, Harry walked back towards his bed. A plate containing the remnants of a sandwich and a long wand lay on the bedside table. Harry's eyes lingered on the wand for a second before flicking to the sandwich. The sandwich was better, he thought bemusedly.

Harry reached for his clothes, which he had unceremoniously dumped at the end of his bed. Pulling on a pair of socks, Harry looked around the room.

As he was tying the shoelaces on one of his trainers, another blinding light burst through the closed door. Harry jumped up again, clutching his wand tightly in his hand, eyes searching for the new threat. As he had managed to only get one shoe on, he found himself unbalanced and fell to the floor.

Thank Merlin that Ginny wasn't around to see that one, he thought.

He looked over the edge of his bed at the light, which had resolved itself into a silvery cat. The Patronus glare at him. Harry knew that glare.

Confirming his suspicions, the cat spoke in Minerva McGonagall's voice. "Potter, now that you are awake, please find me in my office. Don't be seen."

Harry pondered the cat, which disappeared into mist. I wonder what McGonagall wants. Probably what everybody will want-to know what happened.

Harry groaned. He knew he should feel grateful for McGonagall's help. After all, without her, I never would have had the time to find the diadem. Sighing, Harry reached for his other shoe and slipped it on.

He pulled out a long, silvery cloak from the trunk at the foot of his bed. Before slipping it on, he looked at the mirror in the corner.

Harry looked like hell. A large bruise was just visible at the top of his shirt. He realized this must be where he had been struck, for the second time in his life, by the Killing Curse. He felt the injury, but could not feel it. Odd.

There were other scrapes too. A particularly nasty scrape on his forehead buzzed slightly, while his forearms were covered in day-old burns.

Moving closer to the mirror, he looked at the scar on his forehead. The scar that made him The Boy Who Lived. It was shaped like a lightning bolt, and Harry had worn it since he was a baby. However, it looked duller than he had remembered. It looked a little faded to Harry, almost as though it had blurred around the edges. Even odder, Harry thought. Maybe I'm just imagining things.

Throwing his cloak around him, Harry opened the door and headed down the stairs towards the Gryffindor common room.

The common room was just as he had remembered. Circular and inviting, this was one of Harry's favorite rooms in the entire world. Everything about it screamed "home" to him.

This early in the morning, the room was completely deserted. Harry vaguely thought that it was odd that he hadn't seen anyone else yet. The castle is never this quiet. Then again, these are not normal circumstances.

Harry exited through the portrait hole, looking back over his shoulder as he went. The Fat Lady had left, ostensibly to visit some other portrait through the castle. Harry smiled slightly, remembering how she had reacted the prior day when he had turned up and asked to enter. He had been slightly worried, as he hadn't been a student all year and had not known the password.

It hadn't mattered. The Fat Lady had taken one look at him, bloody and exhausted, and had burst into tears. Through her sobs, she had thanked Harry profusely before swinging upwards, allowing him entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

Turning back to the hallways, Harry invisibly took in his surroundings. Now that he was well-rested, he had more room to think about the terrible trauma that the castle had suffered. As if to prove his point, the hallway in front of him was bathed in sunlight from a giant hole that had been blasted through the halls. Harry's mood soured when he saw a dark red stain at the base of the hole, knowing instantly that someone had died here during the battle.

Someone else, some unknown someone, had died because of him. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The list was too long now for Harry to count properly.

Harry reached for the mokeskin pouch tied around his neck. Ruffling through its contents, he felt the round shape of a golden snitch. Ignoring that for a moment, he reached what he was looking for. Pulling an old, worn piece of parchment out, he tapped it with his wand and spoke, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Lines sprouted from his wand's tip on the parchment, illustrating the familiar outline of the Hogwarts castle and grounds. He scanned the parchment, looking for his two best friends. He saw the names Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley in the Great Hall, along with those of hundreds of other people. So that's where everyone is.

Eyes raking over the parchment, he saw Minerva McGonagall's dot in the Headmaster's office. Well, that didn't take long, Harry thought, and he adjusted his course.

Harry noticed that most of the portraits along the familiar route stood empty, and most of the plinths where suits of armor once stood were now empty. He saw more signs of battle as he walked; windows had been shattered, the stone walls had been breached in spots.

Winding his way to the Headmasters' office-no, Headmistress's office-Harry's mood dropped even more. The grand marble staircase was barely standing, and the floor was cracked with the force of many violent spells. Deep marks were scorched into the walls, and even more blood stains scarred the floor.

Can't think about that now, Harry thought morosely.

After a few minutes of carefully avoiding the thoughts that plagued his mind, Harry arrived at a familiar stone gargoyle. Well, it's nice to see that someone has started repairing the damage. The last time Harry had seen this particular statue, it had looked worse for wear.

However, the gargoyle had resumed its post, guarding the entrance to the Head's office. Harry pulled off his invisibility cloak and stuffed it down his shirt. "Dumbledore," Harry stated confidently. The gargoyle steadfastly refused to move aside.

"Are you kidding me!?" Harry yelled at the stone face. "That was the password yesterday!"

The gargoyle smirked at Harry in a way that only solid stone could do. "The password changed once the new Head took office," it informed Harry, all too smugly.

"Oh yeah?" Harry could feel his temper rising. "Well the new Head summoned me here, and she will not be happy when she finds out her door refused to let Harry Potter-" The gargoyle moved aside suddenly.

"That worked?" Harry asked, incredulously.

"You said the password. I just did my job."

Harry's face burned. He was the new password? Great, he thought. This did not bode well for his future in the wizarding world.

Shaking his head, Harry stepped onto the revolving staircase. He rapped the griffin-shaped knocker, fuming slightly to himself.

"Enter," came Professor McGonagall's voice. Harry gathered his wits, opened the door, and stepped into the Headmistress's office.

Professor McGonagall looked up from some parchment on her desk at the visitor. "Potter! It's good to see you among the living!"

If only she knew. "You wanted to see me, Professor?"

"Yes, Harry, I did." Harry recognized the concern in her voice, and registered the use of his first name. The last time she had called him Harry was after...

As though he could read Harry's thoughts, the portrait behind McGonagall's desk spoke up. "Now, now, Minerva. The young man has just been through the ordeal of a lifetime. Do be gentle." Albus Dumbledore gazed out from his golden frame, his blue eyes twinkling behind the frames of half-moon spectacles.

Harry's mood lightened, and a sudden wave of affection for his former headmaster swept over him.

Professor McGonagall looked over her shoulder at the portrait of Dumbledore and sighed heavily. "I am the one who will be gentle. It is everyone else that I am worried about, Albus."

Harry scowled again.

McGonagall turned back to Harry, and he noticed that she too looked the worse for wear. He had not had the time to see her properly before the battle, but he was fairly certain that her hair had not been that gray the previous year. She too was sporting a large bruise, though hers was on the side of her face.

Harry remembered the cause of it, and the image floated into his mind of her, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Horace Slughorn flying through the air, blasted off their feet by the force of Voldemort's curse.

Harry's demeanor changed. Despite her stern look, she had fought for him. She had almost died for him. For Harry. For the Boy Who Lived. He looked at McGonagall questioningly.

"Harry, I need to know..." Harry cut her off. "Professor. I know that you need to know. Everyone will need to know. I expect that the next twenty years of my life will be telling people who need to know what happened yesterday."

"Potter!"

Harry registered the use of his surname again, and the tone of her voice suggested that her patience was going to wear thin rather quickly.

"I'm sorry, Professor. There's just a lot to process."

McGonagall looked at him sharply. Her green eyes met his, and her manner softened.

"Harry. I need to know how you are coping." That is not what I was expecting.

"I know that Professor Dumbledore had sent you on a mission. What happened last night can wait. I am certain that you don't want to relive that right now." Thank Merlin.

"Too true, Professor."

"Well?"

"I'm fine, Professor." McGonagall's eyebrows arched upwards, always a warning sign. "Honestly."

McGonagall looked at Harry for a good minute before responding. "We both know that is not the case, but I won't press further. Just remember that there are things you should not bottle up..." McGonagall paused. "Things that no one should face..." McGonagall paused again. "Things that no one should face alone."

Harry could sense McGonagall remembering something painful, and Harry looked down at the desk between them. He wished he was facing a hundred Voldemorts rather than his Professor's moment of weakness.

"If you will not speak to me, I am certain that Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be more than happy to commiserate together. After all, they too will need to digest... all that has happened here." Harry looked back up at her, noticing a single tear forming at the corner of her eye.

Dabbing at it, McGonagall continued, "After all, both have lost friends here. And Mr. Weasley lost..." She broke off again.

Harry knew that McGonagall was thinking of Ron's older twin brother, Fred. Another one who died because of me, Harry thought bitterly. He was surprised to see McGonagall dabbing away another tear. Harry had loved Fred, as he loved all the Weasleys-well, maybe not Percy-but he knew that McGonagall had suffered years as Fred's Head of House. Then again, she mourned for my dad too, and that must not have been the best relationship either.

The two sat in silence for another few minutes, until the portrait of Dumbledore spoke. "Harry, Minerva, there will be time for celebrating those we have lost later. There is business to attend to."

Harry stared at the portrait of Dumbledore. Business?

McGonagall seemed to collect her thoughts and smiled at Harry. Well, the corner of her mouth twitched at Harry, which he supposed was the most he could expect from her. "You are correct, as always, Albus. Harry, we need to discuss your immediate future."

Harry gawked at McGonagall. "My future?" He thought back to his disastrous career advice session from two years prior and cracked a grin.

Professor McGonagall noticed this, and seemed to know exactly what had made Harry laugh. "No, no, I don't mean your future career. Though, I will always offer advice there if you desire. I do think that your prior advice in that regard ended rather abruptly."

Harry actually laughed. The corner of McGonagall's mouth twitched again.

She continued, "I mean, what will you do? You've been missing from the wizarding world for quite some time. We have been worried to death... The Order knew that you, Weasley, and Granger had gone off together after Mr. Weasley and Miss Delacour's wedding last summer, but we have only had the slightest hints of your whereabouts since then. The wider world has had even less."

"The world has changed." McGonagall's lip twitched for a third time. "You're going to be famous..."

Harry laughed again. "I wonder how I would ever cope with being famous, Professor. This is uncharted territory for me!"

McGonagall actually laughed, and Harry gaped at her. He had never actually seen her laugh, and the thought that she was actually laughing with him rather alarmed him. "Oh all right, Potter. You will be even more famous..." Harry grinned. The portrait of Dumbledore behind her beamed at Harry.

"But in all seriousness," she continued, as the moment passed. "You have just defeated the gravest threat to our world, and nobody knows how you did it. Even if Albus never properly explained what kept Voldemort alive all those years, the fact that a seventeen year old wizard was able to defeat him once and for all will surely be the cause of some … fanciful … rumors."

Harry registered the tone of annoyance at Dumbledore keeping secrets. Apparently I'm not the only one he kept things from. Harry frowned.

"You need to be careful, Harry. You can remain at Hogwarts for the rest of the term, as I expect you don't really have anywhere else to go." Harry frowned again.

"Potter, don't worry. We obviously will not be having classes for the rest of the year, as most of our classrooms are currently poorly conducive to learning." She knows me way too well.

"Professor, what will happen to Hogwarts?"

At this question, McGonagall leaned back into the throne-like chair and sighed. "Potter, I honestly do not know. This is truly unprecedented in our history. The fact that the school was under the control of a madman and his cowardly lieutenant..."-Harry drew in a sharp intake of breath at those words-"...for almost a year has never happened in our history. There are the bodies, and the damage, and we lost several professors yesterday..." McGonagall seemed to age another ten years before Harry's eyes, and it hit him again just how much everyone had lost in the battle because of him.

"Hogwarts will go on, Professor. It has to." Harry's voice was full of confidence at this fact, despite the fact that he had no idea whether or not it was true.

"I do hope so, Harry, I do hope so." McGonagall sighed again. "So, will you stay?"

Harry considered her offer for a moment. He knew that Number 12, Grimmauld Place would be safe again now that the Death Eaters had been defeated, and he always would be welcomed at the Burrow with open arms. But he didn't know what state Yaxley and the other Death Eaters had left his godfather's house in, and he definitely did not want to overburden Mrs. Weasley now, not with Fred's death hanging over all of their heads.

Harry's eyes flicked up to Dumbledore's portrait, which nodded slightly. He's reading minds again. His eyes settled back on McGonagall. "Yes. For a few days, at any rate. I expect that I'll be needed."

McGonagall considered him for a moment, and said softly, "Harry, you have done your part already."

Harry snorted at these words. "Professor, I highly doubt that. I have always had to come in and clean up others' messes ever since I first stepped foot into this school." Harry fully expected a sharp reply, knowing that he had likely crossed some invisible boundary. The reply he got surprised him.

"Harry. You have won. We have won. It is over. You have earned all the rest in the world." Of all of things she could have said to him, this was not what Harry expected. "We will rebuild. All of us."

McGonagall stood, and Harry followed her movement. Hesitantly, she walked over to Harry, looked at him, and gave him a hug. That was definitely not what I expected. Not at all.

Harry awkwardly returned the hug as McGonagall spoke again, "I expect that you don't believe me. But I remember the last time that Voldemort fell. Enjoy the good times, remember the bad. You are far braver than any other Gryffindor I have ever met." McGonagall broke away from Harry at these words, stepping backwards towards the desk.

The tall witch appraised Harry, and continued, "Go down to the Great Hall. Find Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley. Celebrate this victory with your friends and loved ones. There will be time to mourn, a time to remember all that we have lost. Today is not that day."

Harry considered this for a moment, shoving aside the many emotions that were battling for space in his head. He made up his mind. "Yes, Professor."

McGonagall motioned towards the oak door behind Harry, and he recognized his dismissal. "There will be time for you to tell what really happened last night, on your own terms." The portrait of Dumbledore twinkled madly.

Harry turned towards the door and opened it. He looked back, and...

"Professor McGonagall?" he asked

"Yes, Harry?"

"Snape was not coward, Professor. He may have been the bravest man I have ever met." Seeing the stunned look on McGonagall's face, he turned on his heel and walked out the door.

As he closed it behind him, Harry heard Phineas Nigellus drawl, "See Minerva, I told you..." Harry smiled to himself, in spite of it all.

Harry made his way down the stone staircases towards the Great Hall, avoiding the steps that were still crackling with some unknown dark magic. He could hear the castle waking up all around him, knowing that his solitude would not last. Harry briefly considered wearing the invisibility cloak, but thought better of it.

After all, I can't hide forever.

The walk from the seventh floor down to the Great Hall took longer than normal. Harry had to double back when he realized that several staircases had simply ceased to exist. Hoping that they had merely decided to take the day off, rather than the more sinister alternative, he had to double back several times and take several of his well-traveled shortcuts to get down to the Hall.

Pulling out the Marauder's Map, Harry looked for Ron and Hermione. They were still in the Great Hall, along with the rest of the Weasley family. Minus one. Harry sighed, wondering when the deep feeling of guilt would end. They all died for me. Fred. Tonks. Remus.

"Mischief managed." Harry stowed the old parchment in his mokeskin pouch, drawing the string tightly. Eyes burning, Harry opened the door to the Great Hall and stepped over the threshold.

A large chunk of the wall by where the high table would have sat was missing, and the early morning sunlight blazed through hole, illuminating the odd scene before Harry. Someone had removed all of the long house tables.

The hall seemed divided into three sections. The first, close to the door, was full of comfortable looking sleeping bags, scattered haphazardly around the floor. A glint of silver caught Harry's eye, and he saw Neville Longbottom asleep in one of the bags near the wall, the creeping sunlight dancing merrily on the sword of Godric Gryffindor. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, Harry's dorm mates were in their own sleeping bags nearby.

The next section of the hall seemed to be a makeshift infirmary of some sort. All of the beds from the hospital wing had been magicked down into the hall, and a harried-looking Madam Pomfrey bustled along, tending to the injured. At least some things never change, Harry thought ruefully.

Madam Pomfrey was joined by several wizards in the lime green robes of St. Mungo's Healers. As there were about fifty or so beds, each with an occupant, Harry figured that Madam Pomfrey could use all of the help she could get. It is not your fault.

The final section of the hall was separated from the other two by a large black veil that was magically suspended in the air. A breeze came in through the hole in the wall, making the veil flutter, reminding Harry painfully of another veil in another large chamber.

Harry knew what must be behind that veil, and that's where he headed. Walking carefully through amongst the sleeping bags, Harry could see some people murmuring in their sleep. As he passed Parvati Patil, he distinctly heard her muffled shout of "No! Lavender! Lavender!"

With a start, Harry realized that these people were not having a restful sleep. They were reliving the battle, thinking of the ones they lost. It is not your fault, Harry. Not your fault.

Harry quickened his pace. As he wound his way past the Healers, Madam Pomfrey looked up from the sleeping form of Horace Slughorn and nodded at Harry. He looked over at Slughorn and noticed a great gash across his head, which Harry knew had been from Voldemort's second-to-last curse blasting him off his feet. At least he's still alive. He didn't die because of you.

Finally, Harry made his way to the black curtain that separated the living from the dead. Steeling himself, he pulled back the veil and stepped inside.