Kingsley Shacklebolt, Acting Minister of Magic, took a swig of Wakey-Wakey Potion to wash down another Emergency Pepperup Tablet.
He had been on the go for eight hours, delegating dozens of tasks to Aurors and other Ministry officials who had come out of hiding or Imperius.
The doors of Azkaban had been flung open, and the innocent victims of the Dark Rule escorted home.
Immediately, a new set of guards and a new regime had been installed, as death eaters were rounded up and delivered via the Sweat Spells.
The Ministry and its provincial outcrops had been jury-rigged to set the wizard economy on an immediate path of recovery after the year of disruption. Mundungus Fletcher, after submitting to a Spell of Poverty, had been placed in charge—he knew how to get anything and move it anywhere.
Stephen Jorrocks had returned from his castle in the Urals, ready to restore trade connections to the Muggle world.
Arthur Weasley, temporarily abandoning his mourning and rejoicing family, took over the Obliviators, who, supported by reinforcements from around the world, had mounted the largest Muggle operation ever seen.
An emergency edition of The Daily Prophet had been printed and freely distributed. Kingsley demanded that it should contain only plain facts, and no opinions, editorial or otherwise, be included.
The relatives of the dead had been comforted and given practical support in moving the corpses to Wizard Undertakers. A grieving widow had told Kingsley: It's just Fate.
Fate, he thought crossly, was more spiteful in real life than fiction. He remembered the Muggle novels that he had loved when there was time for reading. Little Nell . . . Joe the Crossing Sweeper . . . Little Paul: their deaths had been of psychological and structural importance. Today, Fate seemed to have sat down with tea and toast and happily decided: Let's kill him . . . Let's kill her . . . Let's kill them . . . Let's kill him. . .
With a mental effort, he dismissed negative thoughts. It was time for what he regarded as the most important mission of the day: to talk to Harry Potter. Kingsley believed that it had been Harry's victory, and that it should be Harry's peace. Important, yes, but also pleasant: Kingsley had always liked and admired the boy. Now, after his seven years of forced struggle against Evil, during which his ethical integrity had never wavered, Harry was surely the wizard to steer the whole country towards a cleaner morality.
He asked around. Nobody had seen Harry since the small hours, but Ernie Macmillan, an exhausted-looking prefect, reported that Harry and Damian Fay had been talking together after the great climax. Harry might have sought some peace and quiet in Damian's room. He led Kingsley up to the seventh floor.
They found Damian's sitting-room and bedroom empty. The bedcover was thrown back, and the sheets were heavily stained.
"Someone's been here, anyway," said Kingsley.
"Usually I'd say it could be take your pick from half the kids in the school," said Ernie, "Damian's like that. But maybe he lent Harry his bed today. You'll find Damian in the Herbology area."
Kingsley went down the stairs with Ernie; was diverted into making a few decisions for people; and finally strolled out towards the greenhouses.
He saw Damian with Professor Sprout and another mature woman. Neville Longbottom was working hard, as were several unknown boys and girls. Some of them were Juniors; they must have come in specially. That was the kind of public spirit that Kingsley hoped would seize the magic world from now on.
He waved a cheery hello, and called Damian over.
"Hello it's Damian, isn't it?" he said, shaking hands.
"Pleased to meet you Mr Shacklebolt," said the other.
"Kingsley, please."
Close-to, he found Damian a pleasant-looking young man. They had never met, but Kingsley had noticed him at Dumbledore's funeral, and had heard many tales about the Tower of Strength that was Damian Fay during Hogwarts' last dreadful year.
"We're the first lot to start rebuilding," said Damian.
"The plants don't recognise the change of circumstances," said Kingsley.
"No, and neither do the greenhouses: straightforward repairs are ten times as slow as they should be because so much of the destruction was done by Dark Magic."
"I won't take up your time. I was looking for Harry, and people seemed to think you might know."
"I left him asleep. He planned to go down to the kitchen when he woke up. He wanted a bit of privacy. I'll show you the way."
"No need, Damian; I can still remember. Is it still the pear that you tickle?"
"Yes, but every door in the place seems to have been blasted open anyway."
Kingsley said goodbye, and walked into the Castle and down to the basement.
Damian had been right: the kitchen door was hanging on its hinges.
Two house-elves barred Kingsley's way.
"Who are you?" demanded one.
"Kingsley Shacklebolt; I'm looking for Harry Potter."
"The Great-Hearted Defender of House-Elves and Warrior for Good is not to be disturbed."
"If you tell him I'm here, he might see me."
"Who did you say you were?"
"Kingsley Shacklebolt, Acting Minister of Magic."
"Where's your green hat?"
"No, no," corrected the other elf, "That was Cordelia Fugg. I'll go and see Master."
It turned out that Harry was willing to see the Minister.
Kingsley found Harry seated at a desk, quill busy on a parchment.
"Letters of condolence, Harry?" he asked?
"Something more important, Kingsley," said Harry, "Please wait a mo while I finish it. In the meantime, you look in need of nourishment. I can recommend the sausage rolls and coffee."
Kingsley recouped his strength while Harry scribbled.
Finally he handed his work to Kingsley:
Severus Snape: Hero
As we mourn our dead and set about the task of reconciliation and recovery, one of our first duties is to restore the reputations of two much-traduced men: Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape.
Of Professor Dumbledore there are many far better-qualified than me to speak; but I believe that, with Dumbledore dead, I alone know the truth about Professor Snape—hence this article.
The headline must have struck most readers as daft. Snape a hero? But Snape killed Dumbledore.
The truth is that Dumbledore was infected with a fast-acting, fatal curse, which Snape's Potions skill converted into a slow-acting, fatal curse—but fatal nonetheless.
Snape's strict command from Dumbledore was to kill him at the right moment.
For Snape was taking instruction from Dumbledore, and had been faithfully following Dumbledore's instructions for seventeen years.
In his youth, Snape had been attracted to the Dark Arts, and had been a keen supporter of Voldemort when he first came to power.
Then came a terrible day when Snape discovered that he had caused the death of the only person he had ever loved.
He threw himself on Dumbledore's mercy, and Dumbledore, knowing that Voldemort would return, imposed a fearsome ordeal on Snape: far from screaming out a public repudiation of the person he had fatuously called the Dark Lord, and condemning everything he stood for, Snape was to pose as a loyal death eater, awaiting his master's return, while teaching at Hogwarts; simulating a fanatical support for Slytherin House; displaying a cruel nastiness.
Truth to tell, he was not acting totally out of character, but his task must have become infinitely stressful when Voldemort did indeed return: Voldemort thought that Snape was his double agent in Hogwarts; in reality, he was Dumbledore's triple agent.
Every hour of the day, Snape had to dissimulate; to make impossible decisions; to balance his credibility with Voldemort against the possibility of doing real harm.
For two years he had Dumbledore's support; but then Dumbledore ordered his own death, just at the moment when Snape's credibility seemed lost.
The consequence was that Snape was once more trusted fully by Voldemort, and over the last year, did much good—including saving the writer's life, incidentally.
Then, typically, when Voldemort had no more use for his supposed servant he sought to destroy him—but Snape's life was saved by the very people who had most cause to hate him.
I would ask the magic world to leave Professor Snape in peace while he makes what we hope will be a full recovery; and afterwards to support him while he attempts the difficult transition from a nasty persona to genuine humanity. Who knows? One day we may come to like Snape, as well as admiring him.
"I want that published in the Prophet," said Harry, "No cuts; no crafty edits; no snide editorial comments."
"It shall be done," said Kingsley.
"How are things going?"
Kingsley gave Harry a summary of affairs.
"No wonder you look whacked," said Harry.
"I would say the same to you, Harry, except that, apart from needing a haircut, you
look remarkably fresh."
"A reunion with my great love has worked wonders,"
"Ah yes: Ginnie Weasley."
"No. Damian Fay is my soulmate."
"Damian Fay?"
"Don't look surprised. There's no longer a need for secrecy. Damian and I've been shagging each other all night—all day, I should say."
"I am surprised, and I wish you both well . . . though . . ."
"You wonder how the public will react."
"Yes, Harry. I want you to be a symbol of hope; a focus of regeneration within the Ministry and throughout the wizarding world."
"I'm at your service, Kingsley; and as for my gayness: that can seep out as people come to accept gayness in general—most young people are already comfortable with the concept."
"Yes; Hogwarts seems to have been Gay Heaven in recent years."
"A precursor of the regeneration that's starting today—talking of which, you look whacked. Why not take a nap? The elves can find you a quiet bed."
"Harry, I haven't told you why I came."
"Oh yeah; I'd sort of assumed you'd come to pick up my Snape article. Shows I'm whacked too."
"Too much bed and not enough sleep, Harry."
The two wizards laughed loudly, and the house-elves twittered, happy that Harry was happy.
"What I want to say," said Kingsley, "Is that I and all the people I've spoken to want you to have first say in how the country should be run from now on."
Harry gaped in amazement; then amusement; then anger. "We're not a primitive tribe," he said, "The man who kills the King doesn't become King himself! Besides, I know nothing about how countries are run."
"You're a decent person, and known to be so. You can and should provide a moral lead. All the rest of the stuff—social, economic, commercial—follows."
"My moral lead is simple: treat other people with, kindness, respect, and tolerance; and you can quote me on that."
"Good in principle, Harry; but what about the detailed issues? For example, there are many calling for the leading death eaters to be executed. Some fierce old wizards want all death eaters executed."
"No!" shouted Harry, "Killing is wrong, so we're going to kill you; we've defeated Voldemort, but it's his system that's going to prevail."
"I knew you'd say that, but the counter-argument is that these people are a threat as long as they're alive."
"What nonsense! It sounds as though you're already on the way to a truly secure Azkaban. And, whatever their crimes, prisoners should be treated with decency."
"The general public won't like that; they expect just retribution."
"There's no such thing as just retribution. And the desire for it makes people nasty—look at the Muggles: their justice system is full of hatred, revenge, victims' rights. Have you ever read a Muggle paper?"
"You're speaking my language, Harry. Speak it to the people and they'll listen. We'll emphasise rewards for the good; not punishment for the bad. You can change the wizarding world with your acceptance speech at the Order of Merlin ceremony."
"You think I'd accept a bauble? Fifty dead people, and I'm expecting to be honoured? I said I was at your service. I'm prepared to be a figurehead, but not to benefit from it in any way."
"I accept your wishes, Harry. Now tell me what you think about the future of Hogwarts."
They talked about Hogwarts for some time, before being interrupted.
A stripy, silvery creature suddenly appeared beside Kingsley and Harry. It was a Bedouin's Tiger—the Patronus of Tiberius Ogden, who, since Five AM, had been Kingsley's Chief of Staff.
Ogden's voice rang out: Controversy in the laying-out room, Acting Minister.
"Nothing you can't handle, Kingsley," said Harry.
Kingsley rose and was about to leave, when a silvery monkey appeared. It waved two fingers at Harry and said: You don't get out of it that easily, Shitface!
Harry rose and said: "Danny's voice has changed!"
"Danny Jorrocks?" asked Kingsley, as the monkey vanished.
"Yeah."
"He's lucky to be alive. His father pulled him out a week ago. He'd got a tip that Voldemort's top priority was to kill Danny—Hogwarts and Potter could wait."
"He got found out in the end, then?"
"Yes, but only after three years of resistance; bless his scruffy little body."
"No comment," laughed Harry, "Let's go!"
They found Ogden at the entrance to the chamber by the Great Hall.
"Oh, Kingsley!" he said, "Such a to-do!"
"Calm yourself, Tiberius," said Kingsley, "What's little Danny up to?"
"Oh, you know he's behind it? Well, it's Colin Creevey: Jorrocks turned up out of the blue, with a dozen Russian boy-wizards. Minister, they want to take the Creevey corpse to Russia. They want to revive it!"
"Impossible with known magic, but if anyone could make it possible, it would be Danny Jorrocks."
"But Kingsley—Minister! Think of those Inferi! We must stop him!"
"Calm down, Tiberius. If Danny's behind it, there'll be no question of making an Inferius out of Creevey. It'll be full restoration of life, or nothing."
"Moreover," said Harry, "If we wanted to stop him, I don't believe we could."
"You defeated Voldemort, Harry" said Ogden, "You could stop this. It's against every canon in Wizard Law. It probably needs Dark Magic."
"Danny would never use Dark Magic," said Harry.
"I must talk to the parents," said Kingsley, "Leave it with me Tiberius. You've got enough to do already, goodness knows."
The two wizards entered the chamber. There were about twenty bodies remaining—mostly death eaters thought Kingsley.
Colin Creevey lay on a sheet of purple silk. There was a crowd of people around him. Someone spotted Harry, and all the youngsters ran to greet him.
Kingsley identified Mr and Mrs Creevey, who nervously rose to their feet at Kingsley's approach.
"Sit down, Neville," said an old witch who had been sitting, straight-backed as a ceremonial guard, with the Creeveys, "We're not in Muggle church, and young Shacklebolt's not a priest. I remember him disgracing himself in Diagonal Alley once."
Kingsley knew that this was Augusta Longbottom's way of reassuring the Creevey parents. He had been four years old when he had wet his pants in the Alley.
They all sat down.
"I'm sorry for your trouble," he said, "But I understand that it may not be as serious as it seems."
"Oh yes, it's wonderful," said Mrs Creevey, "Danny says he's confident, though he says we'll have to wait at least seven years."
"And he has your approval?"
"Of course! I feel for Alexander's parents, though."
"Alexander?"
"Alexander Bell. Colin's best friend. He wants to be with Colin when he wakes up, so he's going to Russia to sleep. They'll wake up together at the same ages as they are now."
"Which one's Alexander?" asked Kingsley, peering at the mass of boys talking to Harry.
"He's gone with Danny and Dennis to say goodbye to his parents," said Neville Longbottom.
"Don't his parents get a say?"
"No, of course not. Love conquers all."
"How old is Alexander?"
"Fourteen."
Kingsley looked at Colin. Danny Jorrocks was his adopted brother, he remembered. What sort of boy would Danny choose for a brother? What sort of boy could inspire such love in Alexander, a boy three years Colin's junior?
He was musing on these matters when a little boy of about ten years emerged from the huddle and ran up, shouting: "Mum! Dad! I met Harry Potter, and he says they're going to mend Hogwarts and Voldemort's dead and Dennis will be able to go back so please can I go? Please! Please!"
"Of course you can go to Hogwarts, Geoff," said Mrs Creevey, "Can't he Dad?"
"Might have to," said Mr Creevey, "Colin might be back in Geoff's last year. Same form. Geoff can look after him."
While they were talking about Hogwarts reconstruction, Kingsley looked at the Russian boys. In age they ranged from around ten to eighteen; in size from a tiny tot to a knuckle-dragging hunk. In appearance from a pair of twins who looked to have a lot of Tartar blood to a pair of, presumably, brothers with bright yellow hair.
To look at, they were not particularly special, but Kingsley knew that these boys had pulled off some spectacular feats of Group Magic over the last two years.
Simultaneously, the twins and one or two other boys shouted a phrase involving the word Papa.
All the boys turned to face the seated group. Within seconds, three new boys were standing in the gap.
Kingsley knew Danny Jorrocks well, and had no difficulty in recognizing Dennis Creevey as an older version of Geoff.
The third boy, then, was the self-sacrificing Alexander, a tall, fair-haired boy with a slightly sad face, which he immediately transformed by smiling and shouting: "Let's go."
Danny said: "Hi Kingsley! Hi Harry! See-yer Creeveys! See-yer Longbottoms!"
Instantaneously they were gone—Danny, fourteen Russian boys, Alexander Bell, and the body of Colin Creevey.
Geoff and his three sisters ran to hug their brother.
"How are Mr and Mrs Bell?" asked Mrs Creevey.
"It was not about Alex going into suspension," said Dennis, "It was about him being gay. Mr Bell went up the wall. But he shook hands in the end, and Alex got a hug and a See you later from his mum, so it's all okay."
"Time to go home," said Mr Creevey, getting up and offering his hand to help Mrs Creevey, while Neville performed the same service for his grandmother.
Goodbyes were spoken, and Kingsley went down to the basement.
There were no elves on guard, but the first elf who saw Kingsley called out: "Friend of Harry Potter, Friend and Protectore of house-elves!"
Kingsley was quickly surrounded by a dozen elves asking how they could help him.
"Somewhere to sleep, please," he said.
He was led to a dormitory in Hufflepuff.
He thought he might just lie down for a moment before undressing.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, Acting Minister of Magic, was asleep.