… he turned away from the painted portraits, thinking now only of the four-poster bed lying waiting for him in Gryffindor Tower, and wondering whether Kreacher might bring him a sandwich there, "I've had enough trouble for a lifetime."
"You can bloody well say that again, mate," Ron said with a snort.
Hermione gave him her classic, disbelieving look, and Harry started to giggle. In seconds, Harry was laughing uncontrollably. His friends gave him concerned looks, which just made him laugh harder, bordering on hysterics. He was pushed over the brink, and he was suddenly sobbing. He felt their arms wrap around him, and for an indeterminate amount of time they stood there, clinging to each other. When Harry lifted his head, he saw that his friends, too, were unashamedly wiping their eyes. His ears told him the portraits had begun to excitedly discuss the day's events, leaving them a modicum of privacy.
He gave them a weak smile, and cleared his throat, "Thanks..." He faltered, failing to find the appropriate words, but they both just squeezed him tighter. After a minute, in unspoken agreement they left the Headmaster's Study and descended the spiral staircase together. As they reached the bottom, Harry saw Ron take Hermione's hand in his, and pull her gently toward the Great Hall. Harry made no movie to follow, and Hermione held back.
"Coming, Harry?" she asked.
He shook his head, "No..." he said tiredly, looking for an excuse, but she simply nodded, and let Ron pull her away. Harry smiled at their departure, grateful that at least they, his friends, understood. He couldn't return to face the mourning and the heartache. Even worse were the admiration and the gratitude. How could they thank him while their loved ones lay among the fallen? But most of all, he was tired.
As he trudged toward Gryffindor Tower, the guilt welled up inside of him. There were more than fifty dead, and they'd all fought for him. Their faces seared their way into his mind. Tonks. Lupin. He thought about their son, Teddy, who would grow up without them. He clearly remembered the sadness in Remus' eyes down by the forest, despite his words. Colin, enthusiastic little Colin Creevey, too young to fight but too stubborn to leave. Why had he ever let Colin join Dumbledore's Army?
Fred. Oh God, Fred! Harry stopped in his tracks. He could feel his tears falling freely again, and he had to brace himself against the wall to keep from falling. His breath came in gasps, and he slid down to a sitting position, burying his face in his arms. He could picture the Weasleys, as before, sobbing over Fred's body, and once again he lacked the courage to stand with them. How could he face Arthur and Molly, who had their son ripped away from them in an instant? Or George, who lost the one person he couldn't imagine himself without? They'd seen their family finally reunited, and been forced straight back to grief.
And Ginny, beautiful Ginny. He almost hadn't been able to turn away from her on his way to face Voldemort. Ginny, crying in his arms in the Chamber of Secrets. Ginny, her eyes full of tears as he walked out of her bedroom. Ginny, in Hermione's arms as she mourned her lost brother. Ginny, eyes wide, as she narrowly dodged Bellatrix's curse. Ginny's voice, full of fear and pain as he lie still in Hagrid's arms. Harry! HARRY!
"Harry."
It was so quiet that for a moment he thought it still came from his memories. It was only as he came back to himself, and was again aware of his surroundings, that he realized it hadn't. He quickly pulled his shirtsleeve across his face, and looked up.
She was standing there, not ten feet away, eyes still-puffy eyes fixed on him. He pushed himself back up into a standing position, trying to hide the effort it took to stay upright. He failed, and she sucked in a breath. He dropped his gaze.
"Ginny, I..." he trailed off, unable to find the right words. He seemed to be doing that a lot in the past hour. He needed to explain how exhausted he was, and how he didn't want to go back to the Great Hall. He wanted to say how sorry he was, and how guilty he felt, both for Fred's death and for leaving her behind. But before he could say anything she was moving closer, and practically launched herself at him. It took a moment for him to process that she wasn't pummeling him, and instead had her arms around him, hugging him as tightly as she could.
"I thought you were dead," she said quietly, tears soaking into his filthy shirt. He didn't respond, but held her gently for a minute as she shook and stroked her back. He tried to think up a way to explain. He hardly noticed when she stopped crying and looked him in the face. He was still having trouble jump-starting his brain when she pulled away, and took his hand, leading him down the corridor. By the time he had finally formulated a protest it died in his throat. He realized she wasn't taking him back to her family, and they were climbing the staircase to the Gryffindor common room.
The Fat Lady was clearly very tipsy, and she and her friend Violet giggled as Harry and Ginny approached the painting. Harry squinted at her, and a thought forced it's way past his increasingly fuzzy thoughts. "We don't have the password," he said thickly, which just made the portrait's occupants giggle even more.
"What else could it be, dearie?" the Fat Lady slurred.
Harry was at a loss, but Ginny squeezed his hand and gave a small smile.
"Harry Potter Lives."
Harry blinked in surprise as the portrait swung outwards, admitting them into the plush common room. It was still deserted, which he should have expected, and he made toward one of the couches. However, Ginny's grip on his hand was firm, and he groaned in protest as she pulled him away toward the stairs to the dormitories. She shushed him, and they made their way up to the room that he had considered his first real home up until this year.
Once inside his old room he headed straight toward his four-poster bed, but once again was diverted by Ginny. He started to argue, and she shoved him into the showers. Once inside, she left him to peel off his clothes and clean up, and as the hot water pounded his sore muscles into submission, he had to admit he was glad she had insisted. He heard the crack of a house elf's apparition, muffled by the door, and a quiet conversation between Ginny and Kreacher. He stayed under the hot spray for a long time, only shutting off the water for fear of falling asleep while standing. He dried himself lazily, and was still damp when he threw on the clean shirt and underwear Kreacher had brought for him.
Ginny was blushing when he emerged for some reason, but she guided him to his bed all the same. His bed looked so inviting that he would have veritably thrown himself into it had he the energy, but all he managed was a tired flop. Ginny pulled up the covers around him, and began fussing with his bedside table. She was still blushing, and he couldn't figure out why. He was pondering the mystery when his eyes began to drift closed, and he could have sworn he felt the soft brush of her lips just before sleep claimed him.
Harry woke groggily, and reluctantly. His sleep had been dreamless and peaceful – everything he could have wished for after nearly a year of running and fighting. Still, he could already sense it wasn't going to be enough. He wouldn't be awake long; He felt like he could sleep for the next year. As he opened his eyes he was greeted with the familiar sight of his closed curtains, and he pulled them slightly open.
His reached out his hand and found his glasses, and was surprised to see his invisibility cloak on his bedside table. He picked it up, and noticed the three wands and very recognizable scrap of parchment that had been hidden underneath. On the floor next to his bed was a pile of clean clothes, complete with a jumper. He silently thanked Kreacher for providing him with everything he needed, and thanked Ginny too.
Ginny. It all came back to him then. She'd taken care of him. She'd understood what he needed. She hadn't asked for an explanation, or at least, not yet. Those weren't the actions of a woman scorned, not even of an ex-girlfriend. He allowed himself a tiny bit of hope. Maybe it would be enough. But why had she been blushing?
He started to get out of bed and caught glimpse of himself in the mirror. Dumbstruck, his ears began to burn. Because you were in only your pants, you prat! Flushing, he quietly stood and started dressing. In an attempt to forget his embarrassment, he looked around the room, and noticed he wasn't the only occupant. The other four beds seemed to house their usual occupants, though he could only really be sure of Seamus and Neville, who hadn't managed to close off their curtains all of the way. Seamus hadn't even changed his clothes, and his hair looked slightly crispy. Neville had at least managed to clean himself up as Harry had. Ron and Dean weren't visible.
Harry stared at Ron's bed a moment, and then did a double-take. There were two wands on his bedside table! The spare was definitely Hermione's. His blush returned. A small smile on his face, he gathered up is own wands, threw the cloak over himself and snuck out of the room.
He carefully shut the door, and tiptoed his way into the common room. It was empty again, though it showed signs of having been inhabited. Someone had lit a fire and it had burned low, and there were the remains of some food on the tables. He had assumed some of the survivors would stay at Hogwarts, and figured the Weasleys, at least, had taken over the Gryffindor dormitories. He glanced out the window and realized it was now nighttime. He had slept through the entire day.
His stomach reminded him it had been well over a day since he had last eaten, and who knows how long since he'd had a proper meal. He found some sandwiches on the table with a note that said "For Harry" in Molly's neat script, and mentally added her to the list of people to eventually thank. He pocketed half a sandwich and wolfed down the other half, and quickly decided it was the best thing he had ever eaten. But thinking of Molly led him back to Fred, and the sandwich turned to ash in his mouth.
He chewed mechanically as he left through the portrait hole. He was too hungry to ignore it, though the rising guilt tried its best to ruin his appetite. He choked the food down as he prowled through the empty corridors. He pulled out the Marauder's Map, and activated it. He didn't appear to need his cloak, but as he continued onward he didn't remove it, just in case. Occasionally he passed some rubble or a torn painting. At one point he even had to skirt the grisly remains of an acromantula. What surprised him the most, however, were the bloodstains he found occasionally around the curse-marks; he had thought the Killing Curse was a Death Eater favourite, and was horrified to realize that many of the deaths wouldn't have been nearly as bloodless. These remnants of the earlier violence shook him thoroughly.
The corridors seemed to go on forever. Harry tried not to look, but by now each curse-made scar was telling him its story, coming all together to provide one massive memory of chaos, destruction, and death. He could hear his breathing speed up, his heart beating faster. In an attempt to blot out the impending panic, he focused on the Map, and on the one person in particular he needed to find. The sought after person appeared to still be awake.
As he encountered the Great Hall, he came to a stop. The map showed people inside, mostly Hogsmeade residents, though it was clearly nighttime. Despite his morbid thoughts, he peeked around the slightly open door.
His breathing slowed, and he calmed down. The occupants of the Great Hall had clearly been celebrating the victory. Or mourning the fallen. At least it looks like most of the students made it to a Common Room, he thought to himself. Regardless of their intent, among the discarded bottles of butterbeer and firewhiskey many of the Battle's survivors were strewn haphazardly about the place. Even as he watched, Harry saw House Elves start moving people to cots.
He tore his eyes from the Elves and the sleeping revelers, and checked the Map again. The scene reminded him to check an area of the school he'd been mentally avoiding: the Hospital Wing. Summoning his courage, he scanned the parchment. His first thought was that the names listed were blessedly few, though he guessed nearly every bed was full. His eyes caught on one name in particular. Lavender Brown.
Harry remembered running past Lavender in the commotion. She had fallen from the second floor, at least 10 or 12 feet. He, Ron, and Hermione had barely had a chance to register the crack of a breaking bone, when Grayback was upon her. Hermione blasted him off, and... And he got hit with a Crystal Ball? It was a vague memory, and he couldn't be sure. He did know, with gut-churning certainty, that they hadn't stopped to help her. He desperately hoped she was alright. He didn't want another life on his conscience, and definitely not, well, a friend. It was a relief to remember the Map never showed the names of dead people. At least she's alive.
He was glad to see he'd arrived at his destination. The gargoyle by the staircase had been straightened out, and looked much better. He pulled off his invisibility cloak and said hopefully, "Albus Dumbledore?" For the third time in the past 24 hours, he walked up the stairs to the Headmaster, er, Headmistress' Study.
As he approached the top of the stairs he clearly heard one of the portraits say, "Harry Potter is here to see you, Minerva," but he didn't recognize the voice. He crossed the circular room and couldn't help but slump into an armchair. He felt exhausted once again, though he had only walked down a few corridors. After a moment, he looked up.
Minerva McGonagall, who had been staring with her usual impassivity, was smiling at him faintly. Harry had a brief memory of her heart-rending shout just before his final duel with Voldemort, and an even hazier recollection of her giving him a big hug after it was all over. Neither one of those memories seemed to suit the stately witch in front of him, and he was glad. The real McGonagall didn't hug or scream: she gave small smiles and ginger biscuits. It seemed the real McGonagall was back, mind-reading stare and all. He smiled at her ruefully.
"Hello Harry," a deep voice said.
It was a testament to his time on the run that Harry was standing on-guard, wand out before he was even conscious of his change in orientation. His brain caught up to his ears, and he peered around the Headmistress to see Kingsley Shacklebolt's head nestled in the flames of the fireplace. The Acting Minister chuckled. "I apologize for startling you, Harry. Though to be fair, the Acting Headmistress and I were in the middle of an important conversation," he said wryly.
Harry flushed and mumbled an apology.
"No matter, Harry. It is good to see you up and moving again," Kingsley continued.
"Mr. Potter seems to have something on his mind, Acting Minister," McGonagall interjected, "I think we should discuss it before Miss Weasley drags him back to the Gryffindor dormitories."
"Not a problem, Minerva. Would you mind terribly if I flooed over and joined the conversation, Harry? Minerva?"
Both Harry and Professor McGonagall nodded their acquiescence, and in seconds the flames turned bright green and seemed to part for the tall man, who appeared to be effortlessly in mid-stride. He shook hands with them both and took the available seat.
"What can we do for you, Mr. Potter?" said McGonagall simply.
Harry took a moment to collect his thoughts. He pulled the Elder Wand out and set it on the desk in front of all of them. They all stared at it for a minute, and Harry said quietly, "I'd like to give Professor Dumbledore his wand back, Professor."
Professor McGonagall hesitated only a moment before giving Harry a real smile. "I think that is an excellent idea. Albus filled me in earlier today," she said, indicating the portrait behind her.
"Is this really the Deathstick, Albus?" Kingsley said, stirring. He lifted his eyes to Dumbledore's, and they both seemed to consider the other. Harry tensed.
"It is my old wand, now Harry's wand, and from what I hear, the wand Tom Riddle tried to used to kill Harry again. This, as we know, resulted in his curse rebounding and his own death," Dumbledore's portrait said. Kingsley opened his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore cut him off. "I know, Kingsley. It is a powerful wand indeed, but enough people know about it now, and know who wields it. I do not want to further endanger Harry with a stray word."
"Of course, Albus," Kingsley said. The Acting Minister settled back in his chair, and Harry relaxed.
"Well, since that is settled," McGonagall spoke up, causing everyone to jump, "I think we should get on with it, then."
The trio nodded, and rose to leave.
Kingsley was the last to take his turn to put magical protections on the grave. Harry had replaced Dumbledore's wand and cast a few protective spells. McGonagall repaired the white marble of the tomb, and added a few subtle enchantments to Harry's work. Now Kingsley was proving to be an excellent addition by casting spells more directly aimed at preventing dark magic. When it was all said and done, and all three were satisfied, Harry found himself thinking, I'd hate to be the dark wizard who tries to get through that.
The other two moved away, but Harry was rooted where he was standing by the iridescent grave. The last time he had stood here, a year ago, he had been full of so many doubts and fears, an impossible journey had lain before him. There's still so much that's uncertain, he thought, but this war is over. It's really over. He felt a weight lift off his shoulders, as if he was finally free of the burden that had been hanging over him his whole life. Harry smiled, truly smiled for the first time in what seemed like years. Despite what may come, this was a job he was glad had ended.
"Goodbye, Professor Dumbledore."
