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This work of fiction consists of characters, settings and other plot elements from the Harry Potter series, written by J.K. Rowling. The author of this work of fiction claims no ownership of the properties of J.K. Rowling, and Warner Bros. Entertainment. The author's only claim pertains to the plot, as well as original characters created by the author.

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Content Advisory:

The narrative of this fiction may contain content that is not suitable for young readers. Throughout the story there may be references to the following:

Alcohol, Drug and Tobacco Use

Sexual Innuendo

Acts of Terrorism

Depictions of Violence and Warfare

Reader discretion is advised. No reader under the age of 13 should be permitted to view this fiction without adult guidance.

Harry Potter and the Concept of Freedom

By ReDrew89

Act I

Chapter I

Of Dreams and Memories

For the first time in years, Harry Potter's dreams were not filled with images of Lord Voldemort's thoughts and memories. He was standing on a hill top, over-looking wide, sweeping plains; the sun setting over the distant horizon. He was alone, and he felt such a warmth and comfort within him as he stared at the bands of scarlet and gold, fading into a deep purple night sky. A gentle breeze stirred around him, and he was no longer alone. He felt it before he saw her, his mother, warm and alive, by his side. He turned and looked into her eyes, a mirror of his own. And she spoke.

"Harry, you are so brave," she whispered, and Harry was aware of another presence. His father was now standing on his other side, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"You've done remarkably well, my son," he said, and Harry turned to face him.

"It's over now," said Harry. "I'm finally free, aren't I?"

"Yes," said Lily, "Free to live your own life. We will watch over you always, Harry. Don't be sad for us anymore. Please, no matter what, always be that happy boy we fought to protect."

Harry felt his mother's lips against his cheek, and a tear fell from his eyes. He wasn't sad. Quite the opposite, he felt such peace within him that he had not felt in living memory.

"Now," said Lily. "Open your eyes, and begin your new life."

When Harry opened his eyes, he found himself in his familiar four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower. He stretched and sighed, and looked out the window over the grounds. The normally pristine lawn was still scarred from the previous night's battle. The bodies were gone, but his mind could still see them scattered among the rubble, countless friends lost. He brushed the thought aside, as he turned his eyes upward toward the forest, and the horizon beyond. It had been after dawn, when Harry had retired to rest in his old home, but he was still somewhat surprised to find that it was nearly nightfall. He set about dressing himself, suddenly aware of how tight and painful his muscles were. He made a mental note to take it easy for the next few weeks, before setting to what he would do next. And then another thought struck him, as he pulled a sweater over his head.

What do I do, now?

The answer was not readily available, but he knew one thing. Whatever he did from this point onward, it would most certainly be with Ginny. This was the thought that warmed him from within, like Butterbeer. Ginny. With Voldemort finally beaten, he and Ginny were free to be together. The prospect was intoxicating, and he nearly laughed aloud. He, Harry Potter, who had previously charged into so many terribly dangerous tasks and situations, was now planning for his future. The idea would have seemed preposterous had it occurred to him hours earlier, especially given that he had considered himself destined to die. Harry felt his insides squirm at that recollection. Now knowing that he had been host to a piece of Voldemort's soul almost made him feel unclean, and he pushed that thought aside with so much force that he cried aloud with shock when the door behind him opened.

"Oi!" said the voice of Ronald Weasley, a look of concern on his face as he stepped fully into the dormitory, "Sorry to startle you, mate. I was just coming up to check on you. Professor McGonagall wants to see you."

"I'm okay, Ron," said Harry, smiling despite himself, "I guess I'm just a bit jumpy…"

"Yeah, can't blame you," said Ron, "Everyone's still a bit on edge. Mum's been acting like I might disappear again if I leave her sight for more than five minutes. But, given what's happened…" He trailed off. Painfully, the memory of Fred, lying cold on the stone of the Great Hall, came back to Harry. He still felt partially responsible, and he wished he could think of some way to repay that deepest debt. However, he also knew that Fred had given himself willingly to defend his loved ones, in just the same way that Harry had, when he had ventured into the Forbidden Forest alone that previous night.

"How are you, Ron?" Harry asked, again steering his thoughts away from darker places, "I feel awful about what happened… I just wish-"

"Don't," said Ron, stiffly, "It's not your fault, and don't think otherwise for a minute. Fred knew what he was doing. We all did. Now that it's over, we can pick up the pieces," Ron looked at Harry for a moment, a curious look on his face, "It is over, right?" His eyes darted to Harry's forehead.

"Yeah, it's over," said Harry, firmly, and they left Gryffindor Tower together.

Harry and Ron walked down the corridors of Hogwarts, which were still in various states of damage from the battle. They made their way to what Harry guessed would be the Headmistress's Office. Now that Snape was dead, by Voldemort's own command, Professor McGonagall would have succeeded him as Head of the school. As they walked, Harry spotted several groups of wizards and witches, many of them familiar, making their way past.

"They're working on rebuilding," said Ron, when Harry had asked what they were doing, "McGonagall and Kingsley have set up a volunteer effort to help repair things from last night. Nearly everyone who showed up to fight has stayed to help fix the school. Hermione is still cleaning up in-"

"The Library," Harry finished, smiling to himself, as he imagined the state his other best friend must be in, trying to help a flustered Madam Pince re-catalogue the schools extensive collection. He almost wanted to join her, if only for something to do. This brought him back to that same question.

"So, what do you think we'll do now? I mean, now that Voldemort is gone, we can do whatever we like, right?"

"Yeah, I suppose," Ron he nodded toward a worn, but cheerful-looking Seamus Finnigan as they passed, "I mean, there's going to be the funeral for Fred. Then Hermione needs to go abroad the find her parents."

"Oh yeah," said Harry, feeling foolish for having forgotten about the Grangers-alias-Wilkins's, living somewhere in Australia. "I could go along if she likes, I mean, it would be kind of like a holiday, I guess."

"Well, see…" said Ron, as his ears darkened slightly. "I kinda thought it could just be her and I, you know? Time for the two of us, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, of course," said Harry, feeling even more foolish, "I mean, that's fine, I don't mind, I just… I dunno, I haven't really decided what I'm going to do with myself, now."

"I'm sure you'll be able to stay busy," said Ron, smiling, "You're the hero, now, after all. The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the Master of Death. You've got more titles than Dumbledore, at this rate."

"Knock it off," said Harry, rolling his eyes.

"Well, it's true," said Ron, with a chuckle. "There won't be a single person in the country now, who won't want to meet the Great Harry Potter."

"Well, I've had enough hero worship," said Harry, "And besides they can ask anyone that was here about how I killed off Voldemort. There were only about – what, a couple hundred people watching, right?"

Ron gave another small chuckle, as they reached the stone gargoyle that stood guard outside the spiral staircase leading to the new Headmistress's office. It had been fully repaired from the previous night, yet it still seemed a bit bedraggled as Ron gave it the password.

"Dumbledore," he said, and Harry suddenly realized that the password hadn't yet been changed. This realization made him think of Severus Snape, which made him realize that, apart from the usual loathing he felt with respect to Snape, he now felt something different; part pity and part gratitude. He didn't know at all how to voice this to Ron, and it was too late then, as he was now speeding off in the direction of the library, shouting that he didn't fancy being jinxed by his mother, nor Hermione, in post-war nerves. Trying to straighten his thoughts, Harry stepped onto the spiral staircase, and was swept smoothly upward.

The Headmaster's Office looked much like it had in the days of Albus Dumbledore, not that Harry had expected otherwise. When he was beckoned through the oaken doors, he was greeted by the sounds of the numerous contraptions that Dumbledore had always liked to keep. He allowed himself a moment to take it all in, before taking note of who was present. Minerva McGonagall was seated behind the large wooden desk, rifling through various bits of parchment, while Kingsley Shacklebolt stood near one of the far windows, seemingly lost in thought as he stared out into the grounds. As the door shut behind him, both looked toward Harry.

"Ah, Mister Potter," said McGonagall, and for the first time in Harry's life, he noticed an air of distinct fatigue in his old Transfiguration teacher. "Well, take a seat. We'll try to make this brief then, shall we?"

"Indeed," said Kingsley, who looked equally, if not more worn-down, "I'm due back at the Ministry before long, and I'll have to speak with the Muggle Prime Minister, as soon as possible."

"Very well, then," said McGonagall, and Harry was distinctly aware of how the two of them seemed to be surveying Harry, with equal parts concern and apprehension.

"Right," he said, feeling slightly uneasy, "What can I do for you, then?"

"Well, if you don't mind, Mister Potter, we have a few questions for you, regarding last night's events. But, first, I think it deserves to be asked, what is it that you have been doing these past seven months? I've already asked Mister Weasley and Miss Granger and they've explicitly told me to refer to you on the matter," Professor McGonagall seemed rather flustered by the lack of information she had been given. This momentarily surprised Harry, and he glanced up at the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, which had appeared to have been sleeping up until this point. However, he distinctly saw Dumbledore briefly open his eyes and wink, before promptly resuming his feigned slumber.

"Now that Voldemort is gone, I think it may be safe to share the secret, that, up until now, had been strictly between Dumbledore, myself, and of course, Ron and Hermione," Harry was speaking very carefully, still glancing up at Dumbledore's portrait. It made no indication that Harry should stop talking, so he continued, "It seems that, during his time at Hogwarts, Tom Riddle came across a powerful and dangerous magic; Horcrux." At the word, McGonagall's eyes widened and the color drained from her face. Kingsley seemed to sway slightly at the thought, as well.

"Horcrux?" whispered McGonagall, "And you found it? Destroyed it? That's what Albus put you up to?"

"Yes, and there wasn't just one, but several. Voldemort sought to make himself immortal by creating several horcruxes hidden in locations he imagined only he would know. Dumbledore had asked me to find and destroy these horcruxes, so that one might stand a chance at killing Voldemort himself, when the time came."

"I see," said Professor McGonagall, now seeming to regain some of her lost composure, "That's quite the task, indeed. That explains some of the incredible things I've heard."

"Like breaking into Gringott's," said Kingsley, with a slight chuckle, "You might want to keep an eye out for that. I may be Minister for now, but I can't promise that someone from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement won't be asking you about that, perhaps sooner than I'd like."

"Really?" said Harry, feeling irritated, "After I went through all the trouble of getting rid of Voldemort, you'd think the goblins would be a bit more grateful," Harry recalled the warning that Bill Weasley had given him previously, on the matter of goblins' perception of ownership and payment.

"I can tell you that they aren't happy," said Kingsley, "They want you locked in Azkaban, even despite this past night's events, but I'll see if I can't talk them down a bit. Did you actually use the Imperius Curse on one of theirs?"

"As much as I regret admitting it, yes, I did," said Harry, his irritation intensifying, "I had no choice in the matter, it was crucial that I got into the Lestrange vault to retrieve one of those horcruxes."

Kingsley looked somewhat shocked by the admission, but seemed to shrug it off, saying, "I imagine they're more upset about the dragon you set loose on them, but I'll just keep that between us. Otherwise you might be called into a full Wizengamot over it, and I'm sure you aren't in the mood for it."

Harry felt somewhat glad that he and Kingsley knew each other well, and that Kingsley was now Minister of Magic. Having connections in such high places would be helpful in the coming weeks, what with goblins screaming for his blood in a solid platinum goblet.

"Thank you, Kingsley," he said, "For what it's worth; I plan to live a nice quiet life, from now on. No more bank robbing."

"I'll count on it," said Kingsley, before turning to Professor McGonagall, "I best be off, then. Send me an owl tomorrow morning," And, with that, he strode toward the fireplace, pulled a handful of Floo powder from a pocket in his robes, tossed it into the flames, and was swept off in a roar of green fire.

"Now, Mister Potter; about last night," Professor McGonagall was giving Harry one of her piercing gazes.

"What would you like to know?" asked Harry, feeling rather cheerful, despite himself. He couldn't say exactly what he felt, but he wondered if it was perhaps a bit of pride.

"In short, everything," said McGonagall, her voice regaining its usual crispness, "However, we'll start from the beginning. How is it you managed to find your way into the school, last evening? From what I understand, all entries into the castle and grounds have been blocked. I assume it has something to do with Mister Longbottom, based on what your friends told me."

"Yes," said Harry, "but I'm afraid you may want to speak with him about that. I don't quite know the full details on how he managed it. If it puts you at ease, it was the result of magic that has existed at this school for generations, and is not likely to be harmful, from this point onward."

"That does help somewhat," said McGonagall, who seemed to be rather bemused by Harry's cryptic nature, "Now, for the next matter, why were you in Ravenclaw Tower? I understand you were searching for an artifact that had belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw, but I can't think of anything other than—"

"Rowena Ravenclaw's Lost Diadem?" supplied Harry, amusing himself further with McGonagall's look of shocked interest, "Yes, that would be the item I was looking for, and it wasn't as lost as many seemed to think. Voldemort had found it, several years ago, and he had hidden it here in the castle. Rest assured, it has been found, and destroyed, as with every other wayward fragment of the Dark Lord's soul."

"I see…" said McGonagall, looking less bemused now, and more so disappointed. "Such a fantastic piece of Hogwarts history, it's a shame it had to be destroyed."

"Yes, as unfortunate as it was, the diadem would have done no one any good, especially in the state that Voldemort had left it in," said Harry, trying not to seem like he was talking down to his former professor.

"Of course," McGonagall seemed preoccupied with her thoughts. "Was it the last Horcrux?"

"No," said Harry, uncertainly, his eyes darting back up toward Dumbledore's portrait. He had abandoned all pretense of sleeping, now, and was watching the conversation with quiet interest, "There were more, but they have also been destroyed," Now, Dumbledore's portrait spoke.

"If you wish, Harry," he said, "You may tell her the secret that I had kept from you for so long. It was unfair of me to keep it from you, but I felt you might exhibit even more than your usual recklessness."

"Secret?" said McGonagall, her interest sharpening as she glanced at her departed colleague's likeness, "I daresay there are more secrets between you and the boy, Albus?"

"None that are of major concern, Minerva," said Dumbledore, "Apart from what you are about to hear. Go ahead and tell her, Harry."

"Right," said Harry, uncertainly, "It seems that, the night Voldemort killed my parents, something happened." Harry paused again. He felt a curious sensation in his gut as he attempted to find the next words. "A part of his soul detached from the whole, or at least what had been left of it, and latched onto me. This is why I've had such a powerful connection to him. I've been able to see into his mind, and feel what he felt. It was suggested that I had to sacrifice myself, in order to ensure that Voldemort would be mortal again."

It felt like a heavy weight had been unloaded from Harry's shoulders, as he had told McGonagall this horrifying truth. The look on her face was equal parts revulsion and concern. She looked at Harry intently, for several minutes, before speaking.

"So, you went into the Forbidden Forest, to face Voldemort, knowing you had to die?"

"Yes," admitted Harry, "and I fully expected to die, but something happened…"

He stopped there, he hadn't told anyone, not even Ron and Hermione, about what he had seen, lying there in the forest. Neither, the vision of King's Cross station, nor the conversation he had had with what seemed to be the disembodied essence of Dumbledore.

"What happened?" asked McGonagall, sharply. "When Hagrid carried you out of the forest, I was afraid you really were…" she didn't dare finish her sentence.

"I had a near-death experience, to say the least," said Harry wondering if that was supposed to be unusual, "I'm still not sure if it was real, but I have it on good authority that it was."

"Whose?" McGonagall asked. She had abandoned her usual stiff manner, and leaned forward in her seat, barely containing her curiosity.

"Dumbledore's," said Harry, as casually as he could. "I saw him, and spoke with him. He told me that the connection I shared with Voldemort was made stronger the night he regained his physical body. He used my blood to re-create himself, and by doing so, he kept my mother's charm alive within him. I couldn't die while he was alive."

There was a deep silence. It seemed to stretch on into infinity, until Dumbledore's portrait spoke.

"Well, that's unusual. You say you spoke to me, did you? Did I seem well, in the after-life?"

"Well, I suppose," said Harry, unsure of how to react to such casual questioning regarding such a thing. "I can't say I know for sure if I spoke to the actual spirit of Dumbledore, or it if was all just my head filling in the blanks. But, wouldn't you have known?"

The Dumbledore in the portrait chuckled, as if Harry had been eleven years old again, asking the real Dumbledore what he had seen in the Mirror of Erised.

"I'm afraid that my abilities and knowledge are limited to the point at which the living Albus Dumbledore died. I have no spiritual connection with his being, from that moment onward. I am simply oil on canvas, bewitched to contain the whole of his experiences in his life. Try not to think about it too hard, my boy, or you may find yourself pondering the mystery for the rest of your life."

Harry accepted this, but he was concerned with the expression on McGonagall's face. She seemed like she had been rather shocked with the idea that Harry had truly spoken with Albus Dumbledore from beyond the grave. She took a moment to clear her throat, and then said, slowly

"So, you came back, and then you were able to finally defeat Voldemort. There are some things regarding the words spoken between the two of you. Firstly, am I to be under the impression that Voldemort was, and now you are, in possession of the Deathstick?"

"Oh? The Elder Wand?" said Harry, his eyes darting again to Dumbledore's portrait. He was still sitting awake in his frame, and while his expression was a bit dour, he nodded his approval for Harry to share that secret.

"Yes, Potter, the Elder Wand, and I can see you looking up at Albus, my boy," McGonagall said sternly, seeming to regain some of her trademark severity.

"Yes, it is the Elder Wand, and I do have it," said Harry, "And, of even greater importance, it has given it's allegiance to me. However, I have no desire to use it. I think it would be best if we were to return it to the proper place; buried again with Professor Dumbledore."

He took the wand from the moleskin bag around his neck, and looked at it for a moment, before setting it on the desk. Professor McGonagall looked down at it as well, with a mixture of amazement and distaste. She steeled herself, and reached out to pick it up.

"You mean to say that Voldemort stole the wand from Dumbledore's tomb, and sought to use it?" she asked, taking it in her hand, and surveying it closely.

"Yes, however, the wand didn't belong to Voldemort. Draco Malfoy had been the one to disarm Dumbledore the night he was killed. The wand gave it's allegiance to him at that point. And then, I disarmed Draco several nights ago, again shifting his own wand, and the Elder Wand, to my control."

"Yes, I thought I had heard that correctly this morning," said McGonagall, setting the wand back down on the desk, as if she were afraid it would tempt her, "We shall, as you suggested, return the wand to Professor Dumbledore's tomb. I would like to know how he came across it—"

"I am afraid, Minerva," said Dumbledore's portrait, rather loudly, "That is not relevant to our current line of questioning."

Professor McGonagall looked toward the portrait of her mentor with a look of consternation on her face. However, she simply shrugged, looking a bit sour for a moment, and said, "Very well, Albus. There is also another matter I would like to discuss with you, Mister Potter. If you would be so willing, there is to be a memorial banquet to be held for those lost in the battle. It would mean a great deal to everyone if you could say a few words."

Harry was dumbstruck. He hadn't considered being asked to deliver an oration in the immediate future, and was somewhat intimidated by the notion. However, he knew that he wanted to do and say something in the memory of his fallen comrades.

"I would be honored," he said, "And I also have another contribution, if you would be willing to help me."

"I would be honored to assist you in anything you may need," said McGonagall warmly.