Hogwarts did live again, and her stone halls, empty for so long, were once more full of light and laughter. A new generation of students traipsed across moving staircases and secret passages, besides excited portraits and friendly ghosts, and under the enchanted dome of the Great Hall. Where mould had been let grow and dust settle, doors were flung wide and windows opened, as hundreds of children streamed into newly-awakened common rooms and kitchens, classrooms and dungeons, filling them with lively chatter and new stories.
In the hallways, new feuds developed, as they had done for hundreds of years, while teachers frowned (but secretly smiled), as integral a part of the castle as the moving statues or the giant squid. McGonagal still transformed, though her feline form grew grey and weary. Snape still sneered, though mellowed with age, at the unruly rabble who continued to decimate the potions classrooms. Though Professors Granger and Longbottom had replaced Flitwick and Sprout, to most visitors it seemed as though the school had never really closed, but rather continued as it ever did and ever would, merely awaiting the day of the students' return. Indeed, it was believed by some that Professor Binns never even noticed that the students were gone.
Indeed, the whole wizarding world was embracing a glorious return to the days before, the days before the war and death and hatred. The flowers bloomed brightly where bodies once lay, and the broken stones of the ministry were made new again, and the children lived their merry lives with no knowledge of what came before. It was like the war had never existed, as if lives had never been lost, and the wizarding world continued in its merry way for all eternity to come.
One man alone did not share this new optimism and gaiety, this heartfelt belief in humanity. Nay, as he wandered the familiar halls, so full of spirit and laughter and fights and tears, he saw darkness. He saw the blood that seemed to seep into the very walls and floors, tinted with fear and anger and shame. He saw it drip from his own hands, from the hands of all the world, that so blithely ignored its fatal flaws and horrible mistakes.
And the halls of Hogwarts were empty.
For all the snarky comments and angered brawls and measured insults, it was not him. For all the quidditch matches and house competitions and potions classes, it was not him. For what was a quidditch game without the fight, without the struggle for dominance and, yes, even approval? He still flew, but the adrenalin was long gone. And what was the point of a new move or a change of dress, with no snarky comment to reaffirm reality, no competitive smirk to challenge him to reach higher, run faster, go further?
He had always been there, his silver eyes glowing, full of life and righteous anger and Slytherin subtlety, but not hate. No, never hate, for they set each other free. In rivalry, there was life, there was action, there was challenge. When all the world turned on him, or lauded him, or betrayed him, that one thing was constant. One thing, that made everything the same.
And yes, maybe he was obsessed, and maybe he did care too much. But that rivalry had meant more to him than any friendship, any parental figure, any lover. Sometimes, it was the only thing that was real. But it was never hatred. And then the rivalry went too far… he looked at his hands, dripping red even yet, and shuddered before turning away once more. As Snape once stalked, so did he, reminding the little children of fear and death and hatred. With nothing to ground him, there was nothing else left.
For when Draco Malfoy died, so too did Harry.