Reconstruction

Ceridwen and Cei

The war is finally over. Without a purpose, the Boy-Who-Lived and now Savior-of-the-Wizarding-World is an alcoholic wreck whose only solace comes from his dreams. Draco Malfoy has lost everything, even the will to use magic, and has labored for the past six months to gain back his place in the wizarding community. A chance reunion at the Hogwarts reconstruction site could be just the thing to save them from themselves, and lead to a journey of self-discovery, redemption, and something bigger than either of them had in mind.

Chapter One.

Harry stood on the edge of a cliff, oblivious to the rain, or rather, he was the rain and nothing more. War waged on below him, incessant hexing and cursing and screaming, but the battle cries were silent, and every body that fell was silent, and he was silent. The flaming castle lit the grounds, blinding in its devastation. Countless classmates died, but Harry remained, Harry and the rain and the overwhelming futility of it all, until suddenly he was running, no longer on the cliff but in the midst of the battle. He yanked his wand out of his pocket and began casting spells in every direction, but nothing worked; he looked down into his hand and found he was not holding his wand, but the sword of Gryffindor, dripping with someone's—he didn't know whose—blood. He swung it blindly, slashing at anyone within reach, though no one seemed to feel their skin tearing open. They just fought on. Finally, Harry ran up to a cloaked figure and stabbed, stumbling back as though a blade were being stabbed into his own chest. Lunging forward with an alarming sense of urgency Harry ripped off the Death Eater's mask, and to his horror saw it was Dumbledore, looking up at him with empty eyes. Harry screamed.

"Harry! Harry, wake up!"

Harry groaned as he awoke, rubbing away the sleep from his eyes as they focused on a familiar face surrounded by a halo of curly brown hair. Hermione sat back, breathing a sigh of relief. She had been smart enough not to shake him awake this time. Ron sat by her side on the kitchen floor, examining the array of empty bottles with a mixture of awe and repulsion. Harry pushed himself into a sitting position, cracking his neck and searching for his glasses, which Hermione promptly handed to him.

"Harry, you have a problem," she said, concern etched all over her face.

Harry laughed dryly, looking around the dreary room. It was still dark except for the dim golden light from the window above the sink…a fake window, as there had been none and Hermione felt it would make the kitchen feel more cheerful. Harry agreed—twelve years spent in a cupboard was enough to make anyone appreciate a view of the outside world, magical or not. However, he wasn't feeling very cheerful now, nor had he been for quite a while. They had been living in Number 12, Grimmauld Place for six months, which was still headquarters for the Order, although most of the members were away at Hogwarts for the reconstruction or out hunting down the remaining Death Eaters; however, that mainly entailed pulling them from their hiding places and shipping them off to Azkaban, and he was not needed. Nothing particularly horrible had happened since Voldemort was killed. He almost wished it had.

"Hermione's right, mate." Ron cautiously placed a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back into reality. "You broke George's drinking record twice in one night."

Harry ignored him, standing up slowly. The room spun for a moment, and Hermione quickly grabbed his arm in case he was going to fall unconscious again, but the dizziness passed and he shrugged her off. He walked over to the cupboard, peering inside. It was full of food, but he wanted none of that. He rarely ate anymore.

"Harry, we got rid of it," Hermione stated nervously.

"All of it?" Harry asked, agitated. He slowly turned around to face her, watching her stiffen for a moment and then trade glances with Ron.

She straightened up and with underlying frustration, replied, "Yes, Harry. All of it."

Ron wisely kept his mouth shut. He realized this wasn't really his element; Hermione was better at getting Harry back on track, as she had shown during their years of school, and their year on the run. He would be here for moral support, and if things got too ugly, he could easily step in and be the mediator. But for now, he decided it was best to stay out of the unfolding chaos.

Hermione continued her tirade, pointing her finger in Harry's face. "This is the fourth night this week you've passed out drunk on the floor, Harry. Last week Ron had to cart you home from the bar because you were too drunk to apparate five feet in front of you, let alone to Grimmauld Place! You haven't visited Teddy in two months, and haven't left the house but to the bloody bar and back!"

Hermione's hair cracked with electricity, and magically seemed to grow as her voice got louder. "I am tired of making Sober-Up potions every two days! I am tired of the smell of alcohol in this house! I'm tired of seeing my best friend passed out drunk all the time, and I HAVE HAD ENOUGH!"

Her face was red as she finished, her chest heaving with anger.

Harry looked at her… and promptly threw up all over the floor.

Hermione threw her hands up. "THAT'S IT! HARRY YOU ARE GOING TO GET YOUR ASS OUT OF THIS HOUSE, AND DO SOMETHING, OR BY MERLIN, I AM GOING TO DRAG YOU OUT MYSELF! YOU WILL GET A GRIP AND PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER! STARTING NOW!"

"Hermione…" Ron interjected, avoiding Harry's gaze. "Where's he supposed to go? He can't go two feet without being trampled by the press…" They all fell silent, remembering the incident with Rita Skeeter. Harry hadn't been able to wash the lipstick off his face for days. Harry heaved a sigh, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Hogwarts," she said firmly. "He can help with the rebuilding. Go pack your bags, Harry."

"I'll help him," Ron said.

"Oh no you don't, Ron. Clean this up."

"Damn."