The Days After
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 too 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 bit 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.
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 at hand. 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 an 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 his 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."