This is one idea of what might have happened after the war ended but before the epilogue. There are a million of these, but this one's mine. Canon-compliant.

"Harry? Harry, are you up there?"

Harry Potter opened his eyes to the distant sound of Ginny Weasley's voice. Every muscle in his body protested his movements as he rose from his four-poster to open the door to the boys' dormitory.

"Hi, Ginny."

She was standing at the foot of the stairs, her pale face blotched with pink. "Ron said he couldn't wake you."

Harry considered this for a moment, and he made a face. "What in Merlin's name woke Ron before me?"

Ginny allowed a slight grin. "Mum," she replied. They stared at each other for a moment, until she looked away. "Um . . . Supper is over, but I could probably get Winky to bring you something to eat."

"Supper?" questioned Harry, who was then caught by a yawn. He avoided stretching since he knew it would hurt. "Have I really been asleep that long?"

Ginny nodded. "I think it's about nine o'clock." Harry rumbled something as he gave in to another violent yawn, but she couldn't make it out. "Are you hungry?"

He evaded her question. "Did you eat?"

"A little," she replied, which was a more honest answer to the same question asked by her mother.

"Why didn't Ron wake me?" he asked, padding gingerly down the stone steps.

"Mum told him not to. I think she's trying to give you some space," said Ginny. "Apparently you vanquished a Dark Lord or something."

He smiled a little at her dry remark. "I wish I were happier about it." He took a moment to look around the beloved common room, and then moved to sit down on a care-worn sofa.

Ginny sat down next to him. "I think, eventually, you will be."

Harry turned to look at her. Her face was like stone; Harry knew that she was struggling to maintain her composure. When a tear slipped down her cheek, he gently said, "Ginny . . . I'm sorry about Fred."

More tears glimmered in her eyes. "I've never seen George so quiet. It's weird. More than that – it's . . . I dunno. Unsettling."

"What about your parents?"

"They're numb, I think," she replied. "Less exhausting to feel nothing, I guess. Mum's anxious to get home."

Harry nodded, not surprised that she or anyone else would want to be at home. Especially when home was the Burrow – all mismatched furniture and scattered teacups, half-read books and smiling pictures, afghans and quilts made by hand, and the rolling apple orchard just beyond the back door. "I miss it," he murmured.

She looked up at him. "Home?"

"Yeah. The Burrow . . . always felt like home." He was quiet a moment, staring into the cold fireplace grate. "I s'pose I'll have to find one now."

"Find what?"

"A home," he replied. "Not like the Dursleys want me back."

"We do," said Ginny, reaching out to take his hand. She met his eyes and he could see the sincerity in them. "We do, Harry."

He scooted toward her just a little more, and she did the same. To encourage him, she moved her free hand to his knee.

"You're safe," she said. "We're all safe now."

He put his free hand on her cheek gently, and as soon as he did he knew it wouldn't be enough. He slipped his fingers up to her ear and then into her hair and around the back of her neck, and pulled her head down to his chest. Her hair didn't smell of flowers, the scent that he'd dreamed of for so long, but he didn't care because she was there, in his arms. Safe, like she said. Overwhelmingly sad, by equal measures relieved, and safe.

Ginny's arms had snaked their way around Harry's waist, and they held him gently for a moment, until, moved to hold him tighter and comfort him, she shifted her position and tightened her arms around his chest.

Blinding pain suffused through his upper torso and he reacted immediately with a yell of pain. Startled, she let go and backed away. "Harry! What's wrong?"

He tried to answer, but he was struggling to breathe and stay conscious, doubled over on the sofa.

"Harry?"

He tried to move and was mildly successful in taking a deep breath and sitting back. "That hurt," he croaked.

She put her hand on his knee. "I was just giving you a hug," she replied.

"Yes . . . I know," he replied, "and I don't meant to discourage you, at all, but I sort of got hit with a Killing Curse not very long ago, and it turns out those twinge a bit when they don't kill you."

She was quiet for a moment. "You got hit with a what?"

"Killing Curse . . . you know the one . . . your mum used it, quite spectacularly, on Bellatrix a few hours ago. But it's fine . . . I'm fine. Pain is good. Pain is cleansing."

"Killing curses kill people, Harry. Except you . . . you know . . . the one time." She gestured lazily to the scar on his forehead.

Relaxing a little, he sat up as much as he could and pulled up his shirt to show her what he was sure would be a round, angry bruise on his chest. "Twice, actually."

Ginny hesitated before she answered. "There's nothing on your chest."

He lowered his shirt and looked away, a little embarrassed. He had forgotten that the Killing Curse left no mark. "Sorry," he said, his voice small. "Feels like my ribs are all broken."

"I don't understand, Harry."

He met her intense gaze. "I'm sorry," he said. "It has to do with Horcruxes . . . it's kind of complicated. I don't think I can talk about it right now."

Her eyes flashed, but it was brief. "You should go to Madam Pomfrey," she said, her voice soft.

Harry shook his head and offered her his right hand, palm up. She took it. "I missed you, Ginny," he said. When she said nothing, he scooted a little closer. "I know you were angry at me for not backing you up when your mum wanted you to stay in the Room of Requirement."

She shook her head and looked away. "Not really. I mean – at the time, yeah. But . . . maybe it would have been better if I hadn't seen what I've seen." Her eyes brimming with tears again, she looked down at their entwined hands. "What happened?" she asked, running her thumb across one of his many scars.

Harry paused before he replied. "Do you mean . . . since I left, or specifically to my hand?"

She looked up at him, considering the question. "Promise me right now that you'll tell me everything," she said, her voice firm. "Absolutely everything, even the parts you want to leave out."

He didn't hesitate. "I promise. Everything."

"For now, just tell me about your hand."

"We were in Bellatrix Lestrange's vault at Gringotts," he replied. "Everything was cursed. Those are burns. . . . Hermione put dittany on them."

"You should go to Madam Pomfrey," she repeated.

Harry shook his head. "She's got enough to handle without me." Before she could protest, he stood and offered her his hand again. "C'mon. Let's go see your mum and dad . . . and I'd like to speak to George."

Ginny hesitated for a moment before she said, "Don't take this the wrong way, but . . . what could you possibly say?"

"I'm sorry," he replied. "I know I can't make it better . . . I know I can't make it all right. But I owe it to George to look him in the face and at least say I'm sorry."

"Harry . . . no one blames you for any of this."

"I do," he confessed.

Ginny looked away for a moment. "That's why you went to the Forbidden Forest," she surmised. "You thought he'd stop killing us if he had you."

"Yes and no," Harry replied quietly. "Like I said, it's kind of complicated."

She gingerly took his outstretched hand and stood. They walked hand in hand out of the portrait hole and down to the Great Hall. Harry could see students and their parents helping to clear rubble and repair the ancient castle. Ginny found her parents and approached them while Harry waved and went in search of her brother.

Madam Pomfrey had moved her operations to two unused classrooms not far from the Great Hall; one for the living and one for the dead. By this time, most families had made arrangements for their loved ones' remains. The Weasleys were simply waiting for George to be ready to move away from Fred, who lay at the far end of the classroom next to a window where the bright moon shone upon his face.

Harry approached George quietly and stood a respectable distance away. After a moment, he issued a low but audible greeting. George seemed to know that he was there, as he was not startled by Harry's voice.

"Hello, Harry."

"Would you mind if I sat down?"

"No, not at all."

There was silence in the big, cold room for a long while. Harry could only watch George watching Fred, trying to figure out what to say.

"Before we left," said George suddenly, sparing Harry the trouble, "d'you know what he said to me?"

Harry shook his head. "What did he say?"

"He said, 'Name your first born after me.' It's like he knew he wasn't coming back." A tear trickled down his cheek. "I never did anything without him. Even when we were children if he went somewhere without me, I was lost. He was my best mate my entire life, Harry. What am I supposed to do without him?"

Not knowing what to say, Harry placed his right hand on George's left shoulder. "I'm so sorry, George."

George was quiet a while longer. "At least he didn't die for nothing, eh?" he said, tears now flowing freely down his face. "He died a hero, defending his brothers. Who would've expected that? Last time we were here we left a swamp behind."

Despite himself, Harry smiled a little, remembering that now-infamous day. After another pause, he said, "They say twins share a soul. Maybe that means that through you, Fred will never really die. Maybe . . . I don't know. Fred will always live in everyone's hearts . . . everyone really loved him . . . but in you, maybe . . . he'll live on as a part of your soul."

George said nothing at first; after a moment, he decided on, "That's really creepy, mate."

Harry couldn't help it; he grinned. "Sorry."

"No . . . don't be sorry. Look, I know you're trying to help . . . everyone is . . . but no one really knows how I feel, not even Mum. Not even me, really." He put his arm around Harry's shoulders and squeezed. "I best get back to Mum. She wants to take him home." He then turned to finally look at the man sitting next to him. "Blimey, Harry. You look like hell."

Harry looked back at him. "You don't look so good yourself."

George looked back at Fred one last time. Reaching out to lay his left hand on top of his brother's right, he patted the now-cold skin and murmured, "I won't forget you."

What else was there to say? Harry rose when George did, and followed him out of the classroom.

It was too dark to fully appreciate being back at the Burrow when they finally arrived. Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys all settled into beds and onto cots without much prodding, but the usual silence and settled breathing never descended upon the house. Very little sleep was had that night.

In the morning the silence lingered, even when Mrs. Weasley came down and started making masses of food. Harry had never seen Mr. Weasley do anything in the kitchen, but he stuck with his wife, almost literally, as though they were the glue that held each other together.

Harry could easily guess that Mrs. Weasley was cooking only partly to feed her family; that there was likely comfort in the routine and in being useful. He soon realized, however, that the food would be necessary – as the clock drew just past ten, Hagrid arrived, and after him there was such an influx of people at the Burrow that Harry wondered if it hadn't become a wayside rest between Hogwarts and home for most families. Everyone had come to mourn Fred, to bring food and stories and comfort to the grieving family. They were between tears and elation; there was so much to rejoice for, and yet so much to mourn.

Harry wanted to be as inconspicuous as he always had been there, but it was not to be – once they caught sight of him, everyone grabbed his hand to congratulate him, to commiserate with him, to celebrate with him. He didn't feel right escaping to Ron's room, although that was where he would dearly have loved to go. While Mr. Weasley and George snuck away to tend to Fred and arrangements for his funeral, Mrs. Weasley continued to distract herself in the kitchen.

Soon enough, Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared, and for a while, the attention was drawn to him, away from Harry. Harry used these few moments to seek out Ron and Hermione, who were quietly talking in the sitting room. Both of them smiled wearily at him when he entered.

"I wish I could eat," said Harry, who didn't want to get into deep conversations. It was just too much – his head was swimming, and despite sleeping for hours after the final battle, he was exhausted. "I've really missed your mum's cooking."

Ron smiled at him. "Me too. Although she isn't the only one who wants to feed people – practically everyone's brought something. Apparently we're supposed to eat our grief."

Hermione smiled and chuckled a little; when she looked over at Ron, who was sitting to her left on the couch, Harry noticed that they were holding hands. It made him smile. Before he could comment on it, however, they were joined by Kingsley Shacklebolt and another wizard who was about as tall and built like a brick house.

"Hello, Mr. Weasley," said Shacklebolt, in his slow, deep voice, and Ron and Hermione both stood. Shacklebolt extended his hand and shook the younger man's. "I'm very sorry for your loss. Fred was a good man."

"Thank you," replied Ron, instantly uncomfortable with the attention.

Shacklebolt's eyes shifted to Hermione. "Miss Granger, when do you plan to retrieve your parents from Australia?" he asked.

"After the funerals," she replied, once she'd shaken his hand. "Just a few days – I really don't want to wait much longer than that."

"The Ministry will assist in whatever way we can," offered Shacklebolt.

Hermione nodded her thanks, and then everyone's attention shifted to Harry.

He swallowed and didn't know why he was nervous. "Hello, Minister."

"Mr. Harry Potter," he said slowly, and in his voice Ron and Hermione could hear the reverence that Harry couldn't. "The Wizarding world owes you a debt of gratitude."

Harry shook his head. "No more than we owe to the people who died at Hogwarts – or anywhere else, for that matter," replied the younger man. "Or Ron and Hermione – honestly, that lunatic chose to hunt me down; I didn't have a say in the matter. But these two – they made a conscious decision to help me, to protect their families as much as they could and follow a hunted man. What's that make them?"

"Lunatics, I expect," replied Ron without thinking. The wizard who had come with Shacklebolt snickered.

Shacklebolt smiled. "I don't disagree with either of you, but I'm not here to debate the issue," he replied. "I'm here because we need a statement from you."

"A statement?"

"Yes," replied Shacklebolt. "We need to know what went on in the year since you left. You've mentioned some very dark things, Harry, and people want answers – some of which they've been waiting on for almost seventeen years."

Harry nodded. "Right. Of course." But he didn't want to think about it any more, he just wanted to be with his lunatic friends and sleep. And then eat. And then, snog Ginny's lips off. Thinking for a moment, nervous under Shacklebolt's kind but unwavering gaze, he sputtered for a moment before he said, "Minister-"

"Don't Minister me, Harry. It's Kingsley."

His face flushed and he nodded again. "Kingsley, then," he continued, "who do I have to give the statement to? Just you?"

Shacklebolt shook his head. "No, Harry. You'll need to speak to the Wizengamot."

In his present grieving and sleep-deprived state, Harry's reaction was relatively violent. "No – absolutely not. The last thing I need right now is to be on trial."

The Minister raised an eyebrow. "It's not a trial, Harry. You'll just be giving a statement."

"It won't be the same as before," said Hermione soothingly, and Harry turned to look at her. "When you almost got expelled. This is different – they need to know what happened. And we'll be there – Ron and me. I expect they want statements from all of us."

Shacklebolt nodded in affirmation. "It'll be a closed session, Harry."

Harry took a breath and considered the matter. "How closed?" he asked.

"Very," replied Shacklebolt. "Top officers only. As I said . . . you and Voldemort talked about some very dark matters."

"Can the Weasleys attend?" When it looked like Shacklebolt might say no, Harry interrupted. "They deserve to know where Ron's been. They're like family to Hermione and me – and, frankly, Kingsley, I only want to have to tell it once."

Shacklebolt paused. After a moment, he nodded slowly. "I'll see what I can do. They'd like to see you tomorrow at ten o'clock."

"I'm not going if the Weasleys can't," said Harry gently. "So we'll all see you tomorrow at ten."

The Minister nodded. "Good enough," he said. "There is another matter that I wanted to discuss with you – with all three of you. This," he gestured to the well-built wizard behind him, who moved closer to the group, "is Gawain Robards, who is presently the head of the Auror Office."

"Hello," said Robards pleasantly, in a voice that was as low as they had expected. "It's a very great pleasure to meet all of you."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione shook his hand, and he continued on. "I'll cut to the chase here, since I'm sure you need to be with your family right now. I wanted to inform you that places have been reserved for all three of you – and some of your friends – in the Auror department."

The three young people looked at each other. "But . . . we haven't got any NEWTs," protested Hermione. "We don't qualify as Aurors."

Robards smiled widely. "You just had a hand in defeating the darkest wizard in recent history," he replied. "What about that doesn't qualify you?" When no one had an answer for him, he pressed on. "Realize that this is not a decision that one enters into lightly, and that I don't expect you to answer immediately. However, we would be quite honored if you would join us."

"Without NEWTs?" asked Hermione dubiously.

"Yes, Miss Granger," said Shacklebolt, amused. "Without NEWTs."

Hope you enjoy it so far - a review would be great! Thanks for reading!