The grey fingers of a dreary morning probed the moth-eaten curtains of the smallest bedroom in Grimmauld Place, illuminating the protective spells around the four poster bed like dust motes in the air.

Harry Potter lay curled up in the thick sheets, which had been freshly washed but were still as grey and care-worn as the rest of the furnishings in his inherited house. It had been almost three months since the death of Lord Voldemort, but in his dreams it had been less that a second. Sleep was haunted by the image of that ghostly face, cracked and burning, the life leaving his eyes like a ghastly spirit fleeing a tomb. Voldemort was dead, but he had left no end of hurt and hardship in his wake.

There was a large, brass bell sitting on the table beside the bed. As the light glanced against its side it rose into the air, trembling with anticipation, and rung itself vigorously with an ear-splitting cacophony equivalent to the roar of a cathedral gong. Harry blustered awake, instinctively reaching for his wand, and as he tumbled from bed the bell fell back into position, its job done.

Harry knelt on the floor for a few moments, head reeling. He stared at the pattern on the threadbare carpet, which drifted in and out of focus before his eyes. Slowly, he got up and reached for his glasses which lay on the bedside table beside the bell, his wand and a stack of paperwork.

For the past three weeks Harry had been spending the majority of his time in the Ministry of Magic, either sitting in or speaking at the Wizengamot, the wizarding court. The war trials had been embarked upon with surprising efficiency, considering that half the ministry was under arrest, but the sheer volume of cases to be investigated meant that they were only halfway through and already Azkaban was groaning at its gates.

This, however, would be his last day in court. Harry looked around for his formal robes, laid out the night before, and as began putting on his socks he felt a bittersweet sense of closure. This marked the final step of the journey he had prepared his whole life for, but now he had an even bigger business to attend to- that of building a life.

For his entire adult life he had been defined by the battle with Voldemort, whether it was a distant threat or a looing certainty. There hadn't been time to worry about the future when the present was holding a wand to his back. Now here he was, almost eighteen and completely at a loss for what to do next.

He finished getting dressed and headed downstairs, pausing briefly by the long mirror at the door to tidy his fringe. He didn't remember the last time he'd cut his hair, and it was almost at his shoulders now. The thick black waves hung around his pale, slightly pinched face, and he thought briefly of Sirius.

He trooped downstairs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and making a point to ignore the portrait of Mrs Black as she embarked on her usual spiel of shrieks and curses. He went into the kitchen and was greeted by the wonderful smell of frying bacon, and the sight of his two best friends sitting around the table.

Hermione Granger was reading a large, black bound book, a pile of further tomes sitting beside her. Since she and Ron had arrived at the house to stay she had done almost nothing but pore through the extensive library, occasionally calling them over to look at some ancient potions recipe or hex that she'd discovered.

Meanwhile, Ron Weasley was absorbed in the pile of rolls, baps and pastries at the centre of the table, which slowly grew as the enchanted stove sizzled away. Harry ducked to avoid a bacon roll as it floated from pan to table, and sat down next to Hermione.

'You're up early.' He said to Ron, who was holding a sausage sarnie in one hand and a croissant dripping with chocolate in the other.

Ron grunted. 'You and your bloody alarm bell!' he moaned. 'Just as well this is the last day, I haven't slept this badly since we were camped out in the woods.'

Hermione glanced up from her book. 'Why don't you just go back to bed then?' She said, with the air of one who had had this conversation before.

Ron gestured to the pile of breakfast, which was now threatening to topple over. 'Might as well make the best of it.'

Harry took a croissant and an iced bun, as a steaming mug of hot chocolate floated over and set itself on the table in front of him. For all its creaks and holes, Grimmauld Place really did have a brilliant kitchen.

'So what's on today?' Ron asked Harry, grabbing a handful of éclairs as they teetered on the edge of Pastry Mountain.

'Narcissa Malfoy.' Harry said, dumping marshmallows into his hot chocolate. 'They've got me on as a witness.'

'What're you gonna say?'

Harry thought back to the night of the battle, when Narcissa had saved him.

'That she was threatened.'

'Threatened?' Hermione said, furrowing her brows. 'You're not just taking her word for that, are you?'

'No.' Harry replied with force. He had forgotten Hermione and Ron hadn't been there on the tower the night Dumbledore was killed. The desperation in Malfoy's voice as he tried to justify himself was as unnerving as the moment Snape had unleashed the killing curse.

Hermione seemed unconvinced, but didn't chase the matter.

Ron snorted. 'Slimy gits, the lot of them. Bet you she's gonna say she was bewitched.'

Hermione looked up from her book. 'Will Draco be there? He was on trial last week, wasn't he?'

'He's been released on probation so yeah, probably.'

Ron almost spat out a sausage. 'They let him go?' he chocked, spattering crumbs. 'Are they mental?'

'He's on house arrest.' Harry said, lamely. He was going to say something else, but held back at the look on Ron's face.

'He tried to kill Dumbledore! He hexed Katie and, unless you all forgot, he almost killed me!'

'I know Ron, he's a slimy little toad, and after the trial we'll never seem him again.' Hermione said consolingly. Her feelings about Malfoy were well known, and she held the distinction of having punched him.

Harry looked up at the clock on the wall, an ancient wooden contraption the looked like a long ruler. Enchanted mice of different sizes scurried along it, a large black one in place of a big hand, a sleeker grey denoting the hour and a small brown dormouse scurrying away the seconds on a wheel at the far end. It was almost half past six, and he didn't feel like defending the Malfoys anymore.

'I'd better go.' He said, keen to avoid the inevitable explosion when Ron found out that Lucius Malfoy, too, had been released from Azkaban on parole.