Disclaimer: I am making no profit out of this story and do not own any characters except for Aurora, Ann, Devin, so forth.
HARRY POTTER AND THE WANDERER'S REALM
Beyond the door to Dumbledore's office, below the winding staircase, he could hear the furtive sounds of the school's stones shifting and moving – making itself right, or as right as it could be after the siege it just withstood. It was strange, having a moment to himself, and the sense of peacefulness which hung over him in spite of the muffled weeping from the courtyard below warred with the guilt and anger that still bubbled up inside of him from time to time.
So many people gone. Fred, Remus, Tonks, Colin..
"And those are only the ones you know about." Harry shivered as he hugged himself, the urge to straighten his glasses second to the need to relieve himself of the guilt that ate at his insides.
Slowly, the peacefulness slowly began to blanket him as the portraits around him spoke to one another in hushed tones, and he relished the moments he had to himself after he had replaced Dumbledore's wand in the white tomb beside the lake.
One hand slowly hovered before his face, and he tentatively touched the scar on his forehead, waiting for some prickling, some pain to sear his brain – but it didn't happen. He had to remind himself that after all these years of feeling the burning ache in it that Voldemort was really dead – his body burnt on a pyre erected in the village below, the ashes scattered to the winds. Yet Harry lived.
The guilt gnawed at his stomach again as a mournful sob trailed up through the opened window of Dumbledore's office.
Resolutely turning his face away from the portrait of the headmaster that sat smiling benignly at Harry behind the ornate desk, he blinked back the burning tears in his eyes.
The sound of stones being moved and the sudden shake of the stones in the office reminded Harry he should be downstairs, setting the school to rights again rather then wait here for Professor McGonagall.
Surprisingly, even after he had been through that past year, he was not tempted in the slightest to raise McGonagall's ire, and so sat where Flitwick had told him, waiting for the stern Transfiguration teacher to appear.
The ache of guilt subsiding a bit, he managed to glance around the office, knowing it would probably be the last time he ever saw it, he was trying to burn the image of it into his memory.
Dumbledore's office had been a flurry of activity after Harry, Hermione and Ron had replaced the wand and sealed the tomb once more, the shock of seeing Dumbledore in repose, as if he were simply sleeping making Harry harbor useless hope in his heart that his old Headmaster would wake. In the end though, Dumbledore did not wake, and Harry sealed the tomb again after one long look at Dumbledore's peaceful face.
When he stepped in to the office, the portraits were chattering incessantly to each other in low tones, wondering how long it would take to correct the damage to school, who would be the new head, what would be happening at the Ministry of Magic now that there were so many dead.
The muted conversations made the guilt and anger eat at Harry's insides again, but he pursed his lips and fought it back even though he had many of the same questions.
Sunlight streamed in through the high arrow slit window, and Harry watched the dust motes dancing in the patch of late spring sunlight dimly, his ear picking up the excited sounds of students as they hurried outside to await the carriages that would carry them to the train station in Hogsmeade.
He felt his eyes grow heavy as the portraits continued to whisper among themselves and cast him curious stares, the heat of the day, the ache in his muscles and the sound of their murmurred conversations lulling him into an almost sleeplike stupor.
Though his eyelids grew heavy, his brain was frantically trying to sort through the bits that crowded it.
He would not be returning to the Dursley's this time, yet he did not want to return to Grimmauld place either. He desperately wished to return with the Weasley's to the Burrow, but couldn't bring himself to look Mr. and Mrs. Weasley in the eye or see the pain on George's face.
Suddenly, the smiling face of Fred popped up in his mind's eye, reminding Harry of the first time he had met the twins, how they finished each other's sentences, how they ended up being like older brothers, and the myriad phrases that invariably spilled from one of their mouths – never at a loss for a joke or something funny to be said.
"Make way for the heir of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through."
Harry smiled as the memory of the twins calling out to students in the hall during his second year echoed in his head.
Unbidden, the memory of his fourth year and the Tri-Wizard challenge sprang in to his head as the sound of Fred's voice replayed in his memory.
"I thought it sounded a lot like Percy singing. Maybe you've got to attack him while he's in the shower, Harry."
He chuckled even as his eyes filled with tears again, wishing he could stop the ache in his heart or at least turn his brain off for a short while.
"No, I can't go back to the Burrow." He whispered to himself, wishing it were otherwise, wishing that Fred was back among them.
He was dreading his return to the tomblike silence of Grimmauld Place, but it seemed that was his home now, and that would be where he returned to once he left Hogwart's for the final time.
His insides felt hollow and empty every time he thought of Dumbledore and Sirius, the prospect of carrying on when he would never see Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkling in humor or his Godfather's sharp bark of laughter would no longer be heard seemed as impossible as never seeing Fred, Remus or Tonks.
And their son! Harry thought with a punch of sadness in his gut that left him breathless. Ted was orphaned now, just as he had been.
He was so wrapped up in these dreary thoughts that he hadn't noticed the sorting hat had been speaking, reciting another of its poems while Harry sat there immersed in his black thoughts.
The Hero will come from the West,
Weary, but infamous from the Quest,
Tall and noble they will be,
Brave and familiar, you will agree.
Daring to journey where no wizard will dare,
where they have seen death and returned it's glare,
intent on seeking the prize; on capturing the goal,
of returning the lost bodies to their souls.
The only one who has the courage to take the helm,
and journey again into the Wanderer's realm.
Harken, hear my story, for it shan't be long,
til the sun rises, til the morning comes, til the break of the dawn.
Harry spun in his seat to better see the sorting hat on it's high pedestal, but just as he did, the rip near the brim had shut, appearing to be just another wrinkle in the old hat.
"What was that all about?" Harry asked aloud. "What did that mean?"
"It meant that your work may be done, but there might still be much left to do for others." The portrait of Dumbledore said from behind Harry, surprising him. "It should prove to be an interesting summer." The portrait said, almost to itself before rousing to look at Harry once more. "Ron and Hermione are waiting Harry, you may go."
Harry furrowed his brow, confused. "But Professor Flitwick said Professor McGonagall wanted to speak to me - "
"Headmistress McGonagall, Harry." The painted Dumbledore corrected, his clear blue eyes twinkling behind his half moon spectacles, gave a mysterious smile. "I think the Sorting Hat has told you everything you need to know for the time being."
Harry unconsciously rubbed his fingers along the edges of his scar as he sat staring out his bedroom window at Number Twelve Grimmauld Drive.
The rising sun cast streaks of pink, orange and white across the sky as he watched. It had only been a week since he left Hogwarts, his insides twitching with desire discern the meaning of the Sorting Hat's puzzle, even while his heart seemed to be twisting in his chest when he remembered the losses endured in the last battle with Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
In addition to slowly driving himself insane with the internal battles being waged in his heart and head, the memory of the last day at Hogwarts had been nagging at him since he had left, driving him batty as he tried to work out what the Sorting Hat had been trying to say.
He had told Ron and Hermione the entire episode as soon as they were alone on the Hogwart's Express. Not an easy feat now that their small group had swelled to include Ginny, Neville, Dean and Luna. Yet he had managed through a series of whispers as the other three were intently reading the Quibbler.
Recalling how Hermione had blanched and Ron screwed up his face in confusion, Harry was certain Hermione had read something in Hogwart's library that could possibly reveal the answer to the Sorting Hat's impromptu poem.
In addition to the thoughts that kept bouncing round his head like a bumblebee in a jar, he had received a letter from McGonagall on Hogwart's stationary- a form letter Harry was sure - that there was going to be a sort of memorial service for the fallen members of the DA and Order in two days - given by the surviving family members.
Harry glanced at the letter, his heart giving another twist in his chest when he remembered the first time he had seen that familiar 'H' - six years ago, which now felt like a lifetime ago.
He could just make out McGonagall's familiar signature at the bottom of the letter, recalling that the service would be held in Hogsmeade, at the Three Broomsticks.
Letting out a heavy sigh that did little to lighten the weight of his heart, he found himself looking for Hedwig in the lightening sky, as if she would be returning from her nightly flight at any moment. He jerked when he remembered that she would not appear, that her snowy white presence would never be there to provide him comfort again.
Harry glanced behind himself at his bed, where the letter he received just last week from Ron lie opened on the rumpled bedcovers.
Harry -
Only have a moment to jot down a couple of quick lines before Mum sees I'm not working.
Loads going on here at home, Mum and Dad are expecting a very important visitor, but they won't let on who it is yet.
Mum's had us all cleaning the Burrow like house elves since our return. I think she is trying to keep us all busy and our thoughts occupied, but it doesn't matter, the house feels a bit off since Fred is gone, though the twins weren't living here with us anymore.
Ron
P.S. We'll be staying at the Three Broomsticks and mum has reserved a room for you as well. Will you meet us at King's Cross tomorrow for the trip in to Hogsmeade?
He threw himself face down on his bed in a fit of despair at having to face the pain and sadness on the Weasley's face once more, then before he knew what had happened, he had fallen fast into a dreamless sleep.
He woke much later that morning, not surprised that Kreacher allowed him to have a lie in.
Though the house elf had been given his freedom after the battle, he choose instead to return to Grimmauld Place with Harry, bringing along Twinky for good measure.
The sight of the little female elf made the perpetual ache in his chest worse, mainly due to the memory of their first meeting and his mistaking her for Dobby.
He rolled over onto Sirius's old bed that he now claimed for himself and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling. The dull ache had worsened because the longer he stared at the cracks, the more and more he could make out Sirius's smiling face right before a bark of laughter would escape.
Harry rolled over onto his side, staring blankly now at the wall and the Muggle women in their bikini clad bodies, smiling flatly out at him as the bright summer afternoon slanted in through the opened curtains behind him. He vaguely wondered how the sun could be shining and the posters smiling when he felt so miserable and dreary on the inside.
He was so lost in his thoughts, his emotions running the gamut of sadness, then anger and finally depression, that he didnt hear the doorbell ring downstairs at first.
It was only when he had heard Mrs. Black's impromptu screeching and Twinky's command of silence! that he realized Kreacher had allowed someone inside the doors.
Though he had not yet received any guests at Grimmauld Place, he lay there staring at the posters, feeling a sort of numbness in his limbs in spite of his curiousity at who could have come calling, he couldn't bring himself to rise and welcome them.
Hopefully, Kreacher would inform the visitor that he was still sleeping, and he could wrap himself tighter in the blanket of gray misery that seemed to fall on his shoulders as he had walked through the torn courtyard of Hogwart's less then a week prior.
Remembering the bodies that lay in the Great Hall when he passed by it on his way to the courtyard, he felt the tears sting at his eyes again and he rapidly blinked to keep them from falling.
"Harry?" There was a gentle knock on the door, and Hermione's voice came to him through the thick wood. "Harry?"
Pushing himself in to an upright position and snatching his glasses from the nightstand, he dashed the tears from his eyes and hoped the redness would be mistaken for just rising from sleep.
"Come in." He answered, watching as the serpent head on his side of the door rose.
"All right Harry?" Hermione asked, peering at him from around the cracked open door.
"Yeah." Harry replied, clearing his throat abruptly and giving her a nod.
"You're sleeping awfully late." She noted with a smile. "No nightmares?"
"No nightmares." Harry gave her a sad smile as he rose and stretched, not wanting to face the day, but aware he could no longer hide himself away. "Just having a bit of a lie in."
Hermione nodded. "I'll let you dress and I'll meet you in the kitchen."
Harry gave her another smile and returned her nod as the door closed, feeling the sadness within him begin to lighten a bit after seeing a friendly face.
Read and Review! I've got chapters lined up but am waiting for signs of life from readers.