All was well? When George Weasley, nineteen years later, still couldn't quite look into mirrors, still flinched at his reflection in windows, still paused sometimes as he made a joke, waiting for someone else to end it?
All was well? When Harry Potter woke up almost every night, feeling suddenly, inexplicably cold and couldn't get warm no matter how many tea he drank or how many blankets he wrapped around himself, remembering white clean walls, a train, dying.
All was well? When Ginny Weasley's right hand still itched for a pen to write, still had a slight ache between thumb and finger, as if a quill had been pressed between those two fingers for far too long, still sometimes paused as she wrote something in her journal; waiting for the letters to disappear. Still had to stop and sit down sometimes, to go over her waking moments, to carefully catalogue all her memories, to check for blood on her fingers, to listen closely for voices in her head.
All was well? When Bill Weasley looked at Fleur's pale neck and wanted to bite, to tear apart, to kill. When he had to distance himself from her, when her beauty hurt his eyes too much, when he couldn't look at his own face in the mirror.
All was well? When Draco Malfoy's left arm burned, when his whole body felt far too warm, as if flames were nipping at his clothes. When he still expected two friends to be following him, but he looked back and saw one, or more often none. When he ran his fingers over the cobwebs of scars on his chest, when his Father and Mother casually slipped mudblood in the conversation as they ate dinner and he shivered all over, and had to excuse himself because he felt so cold.
All was well? When Andromeda rewrote her last name over and over, told herself this is my birthright, this name does not make me a murderer. When Teddy woke up wailing and her old bones creaked and ached and her joints refused to move. When she held him and he still wore Remus' face, Tonks' eyes, and looked nothing at all like her. She didn't know if this saddened or relieved her, because she dreaded the moment she would pull her wand on him, seeing only her sister's face.
All was well? When Minerva McGonagall looked at the new children placed in her care, coming into the Great Hall with eyes filled with wonder and couldn't remember how it felt to see this place as home and not as a battle ground. When every nook and cranny reminded her of spilt blood, when she still couldn't walk past the astronomy tower without remembering a broken body on the ground, the start of war. When she still couldn't look Albus or Severus' painted faces in the eye, not quite, angry at their manipulations and games and lies and the way they had used Harry as a pawn. When she looked at the elder children and saw the way they still flinched at sudden movements, the way they looked at the carriages (no longer pulled by invisible Thestrals) and thought I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.
All was well? When she still saw the Marauders whispering in corners, laughing so hard they cried, hushing the others when they saw her coming and looking far too innocent to fool her. When she still saw Fred and George, preparing a new trick in empty classrooms, bathrooms, secret passage ways, two identical faces of mischief. When she still saw Lily Evans, terrible at transfiguration, but a master in charms and potions, charm her tea cup so it would change colours and appear to be a moving mouse. (She had given her twenty points for Gryffindor, along with three books to read, two essays and lots of practice.)
All was well? When Nevillle Longbottom's parents still didn't recognise him, when his hand still felt as if it had just been wrapped around the cold hilt of a sword. When he still heard screams echoing in his ears.
All was well? When Sybill Trelawney dared not look into her crystal ball, fearing to unleash a third war. When she looked into her tea cup, these days, she only saw death. When she dreamed, she dreamed of the past, not the future. She remembered a girl with a bunny as pet and sparkling nails and a passion for divination and butterflies in her hair. She remembered that same girl, with her throat torn out, twitching on the ground until she no longer moved. She came out of her tower even less, these days.
All was well? When Hermione Granger still encountered prejudice almost everywhere, still had the tangible reminders of torture on her throat, still felt the cold metal of a knife pressed to her skin. When her parents couldn't quite look her in the eyes anymore, and flinched every time they saw her wand.
All was well? When Luna Lovegood came home to a house destroyed and a father she still loved deeply, but was unable to forgive. Luna quietly admonished him for giving up her friends, and couldn't understand how this man that had almost helped the wrong side win a war was the same loving man she knew as father. Luna learned the truth, hard and bitter and lovely and wonderful, and did not spent the rest of her life looking for imaginary animals.
You don't get away with writing an epilogue nineteen years later, giving all these people kids and jobs and telling us they ended up just as their parents were before. These kids fought a war, they didn't leave it unscathed. People died, people were murdered, and they had to go on with this loss in their bones the rest of their lives, with a flinch at every sudden sound and sudden movement, with a cold rattling in their lungs; they had to learn to live again.
I want to read about a Harry that quits auror training because he has seen too much war. I want to read about a McGonagall being a better headmistress that Dumbledore ever was; about her searching out kids that are forced to live in bad situations and housing them in Hogwarts until the amount becomes too ridiculous and the ministry is forced to provide orphanages because she simply will not quit.
I want to read about Andromeda fighting viciously for werewolf rights, who else fighting next to her than Hermione Granger? I want to read about these kids overthrowing the ministry again and again, until finally Kingsley Shacklebolt is elected and he does things right. I want to read about Harry tearing down Grimmauld place, the place his godfather was so unhappy, and rebuilding it brick by brick. A Harry understanding how Sirius felt in his fifth year. A Harry that can't sleep for weeks, so they enlarge a bed and Ron, Hermione and Ginny take turns curling up next to him- Ginny sleeps badly too, afraid of stolen moments, used to a life as a war general.
I want to read about Neville Longbottom, uncertain in his Professor robes, teaching with Remus Lupin's kindnesses in his spine. I want to read how he'd seek out the shy kids, no matter which house, and believe in them until they go crazy with it and start to believe in themselves only to get him of their back.
I want to read about Draco Malfoy, telling himself quietly but firmly that his son will never be the boy he was. Spoilt, prejudiced and misguided. I want a Draco that will bump into Hermione and apologise, and I want a Hermione that in turn will write Marietta Edgecombe, heal her face and take her out for awkward tea. Hermione, finally able to understand that not everyone has the same choices in life. Able to understand that people can be scared, and can trust into authorities, and that ruthlessly deforming them is not the answer to a world that is not as black and white as she'd like it to be.
I want to read about a Pansy Parkinson that learns to forgive herself in a world that still hates too easy. A scared seventeen year old wanted a chance at peace, so she pointed at a boy, ready to deliver him. She was scared. I want to read about how she got hate mail the rest of her life but finally learned to burn it. I want to read about a world in which they learn to be less prejudiced of Slytherin's, and not label them all as bad, evil, scum.
I want to read about a George Weasley that learns to live without his brother, slowly and very angry at the world. I want to read how he and Harry sometimes just hold screaming matches on roofs. I want to read how Ron helps him through, takes up part of the slack in the shop. I want to read about a Percy Weasley trying so hard to make up for the war, unforgiving of himself when all his family has already forgiven him. A Percy that thinks bitterly it should have been me.
I want to read about a world where all was not well, not even close; a world these kids rebuild with the tools they have in hand, until they make it something that could be, just maybe—
Well enough.