Chapter Two Rebuilding the Castle

The next day dawned clear and sunny, with small white patches of cloud dotting the sky at intervals. When Harry arrived in the Great Hall for breakfast that morning, he found that many were celebrating, even those whose families had suffered loss. Festive decorations covered the walls, and brilliantly colored streamers hung from the ceiling. The golden Headmaster's chair had been kept purposefully empty and was adorned with a gold cloth dotted with silver stars, similar to the robes Dumbledore often wore at the start-of-term feast. Many people stared at Harry as he entered, fighting to shake his hand and to get a closer look at their victor. Harry could not quite bring himself to enjoy these moments as he shook hands with so many who had lost at least one family member or close friend during the war. A small, black cloud pervaded his sense of relief, and he could not help thinking that if he had only went to Voldemort sooner, just after he'd destroyed that last Horcrux, he would have saved at least one more life.

Harry pushed these doubts away as he found a seat among the Weasley family, taking a bowl of porridge. Despite the atmosphere of celebration and victory, Harry felt slightly empty, as though he had somehow lost. George turned to Harry and clapped him on the shoulder.

"You did it!" He said enthusiastically.

"No, we did it," Harry corrected dully, doing his best to smile. At that moment, the morning post arrived, and Harry looked up to see a stream of owls headed for his table. They dropped their letters wherever they could find space, some knocking into sugar bowls and juice pitchers as they passed. Harry gazed, open-mouthed, at the many envelopes that seemed to be addressed to him.

"Well, if you weren't famous before, you're definitely famous now!" George said with a little smile. Deftly, Harry began scooping the letters into his bag. He would read them later in the evening, he decided, when he had nothing else to occupy him. It would give him an excuse to leave the celebrations, he decided. After all, what was there for him to celebrate? It was true that he had made it through alive, but at what cost? It seemed that everyone he had ever cared about had died except Ron, Hermione and Hagrid.

Harry did his best to push these dark thoughts back beneath the surface. He could not allow himself to think this way, he told himself, when so many others had faced loss, and still more were healing from injuries. At least he had come out of the battle unharmed. He had saved more lives, he told himself, than had been lost, and that was the most important thing. Harry was determined to find Draco Malfoy and return his Hawthorn wand to him. He had contemplated keeping it as a backup should his Holly and Phoenix-feather wand break again, but he was determined that this should not happen, and he wanted to find Malfoy before he left the castle. He found him with his mother and father in a corner of the Great Hall after breakfast. They were dressed in traveling cloaks and seemed to be preparing to leave. As he approached, Lucius Malfoy glared coldly at him and attempted to usher his wife and son out of the room. Harry waved to Malfoy, who pretended to ignore him. "Malfoy, I want to talk to you!" Harry shouted at his retreating form.

"What, come to gloat about your victory, Potter? Well if it wasn't for my mother you'd never have stood a chance!" Malfoy spat back over his shoulder.

"Yeah, I know that," Harry faltered. "And no, actually. I want to give you what's yours, but if you don't want it, I'll keep it," He retorted.

Malfoy turned abruptly. "What're you talking about Potter?" He demanded fiercely.

"Your wand. Do you want it?" Harry asked.

"You mean the one you stole? You mean to tell me you're actually giving it back? As if it were yours?" Malfoy spat, continuing to glare at Harry malevolently. "What're you playing at, Potter?"

"I don't have anything against you anymore, Malfoy," Harry sighed impatiently. "Take it if you want it. I mean, it is a pretty nice wand, I could keep it."

Malfoy moved forward eagerly. "I want that back Potter!" he demanded fiercely. Harry dropped it at his feet, a trace of amusement crossing his face. Malfoy snatched it up greedily, an excited gleam in his eye.

"So, do I get any thanks for that, Malfoy?" Harry asked casually.

"Yeah, I s'pose, Potter," he said reluctantly, turning away from Harry and pretending to examine the opposite wall with deep interest. "But you know what I've been wondering? Why in the bloody hell did you save my life back in the Room Of Hidden Things? I should have died. I would have done, if you'd been anyone else, I mean a sane wizard."

Harry almost laughed, but restrained himself with great difficulty. Of course, many people had told him he was not a sane wizard. Much of his life was fraught with dangers no sane fully qualified wizard would have faced. He thought of how best to answer Malfoy's surprisingly deep question and composed his face into what he hoped was an unreadable mask. "Because unlike Voldemort-"

Malfoy turned abruptly to glare at Harry and flinched at the name, but Harry continued.

"I have a soul and a heart. I don't get enjoyment from the pain and suffering of others, as I know he did. I may think you're a bully and a prat, but I know you're afraid of the Dark Arts, probably more than the two idiot cronies you called your friends."

Malfoy looked startled for a moment, and then regained his composure and arranged his face into a sneer. "Why would I, one of the followers of the darkest wizard this place ever saw, be afraid of the dark arts!" He asked indignantly.

Harry thought for a moment about what to tell Malfoy. He was not sure he wanted to tell him about the scene he had witnessed in Voldemort's mind where the Muggle Studies teacher had been tortured and killed. He thought for a moment of suggesting to Malfoy that he only joined because he had to live up to the family name, but this might cause Malfoy to become even more resentful toward him, and he did not want to lose this moment of softness. A sudden recollection provided the answer he needed, and he hoped dearly that Malfoy would be satisfied with the simplicity of it. "When me, Ron Hermione, Dean, Luna and Mr. Ollivander were being held prisoner in your cellar, your mum told you that if you couldn't kill, just "leave them outside" and it would be taken care of. You didn't seem very happy then."

"Well, no! I had to do the dirty work while they kept their hands clean," Malfoy spat furiously.

"So you call the torture Bellatrix put Hermione through clean then, d'you?" Harry retorted bitterly, fighting to restrain the rage that boiled to the surface all too often of late.

"Cleaner than killing!" Malfoy shot back, drawing his wand.

Harry brandished his own and muttered a silent full body-bind curse. Malfoy's arms snapped to his sides and he stood frozen, eyes widened in surprise, but looking unafraid. "I will release you only if you agree not to jinx me," Harry said calmly. "If you want to talk about this, I'll talk, but I don't want to fight. There's nothing to fight for, and you really don't want to be in more trouble than I'm sure you already are."

Malfoy blinked his ascent, and Harry lifted the spell. Malfoy stowed his wand with an ere of defeat.

Harry decided to give Malfoy one more recollection that would not cost him his deepest and most painfully vulnerable secret. "What about the bathroom? I know you were crying then? Was that about Dumbledore's death then and you were frustrated because you couldn't figure out how to fix that cabinet? Or maybe you knew you wouldn't be able to kill him?" Harry asked coolly.

Malfoy's face grew hard. "Enough, Potter! I've heard enough lies from you!" He sneered. Then, as if the memory had resurfaced, his face slowly changed. He became anguished, blinking back sudden and uncontrolled tears of emotion. He looked at Harry for a few moments, seeming to struggle with thoughts he could not express. Finally, coming to a decision, he took a tremulous breath and composed his face into an unreadable mask. "How could you face him? I mean, I didn't dare tell Dumbledore that night on the tower, but I couldn't kill the man. I just can't kill! I don't know why, haven't got it in me I s'pose. My father tried to plead with the Dark Lord, but he is not easily persuaded. The Dark Lord threatened me with things-" he shuddered, unable to continue. "But when my whole family got on the wrong side of the Dark Lord, my father didn't dare oppose him further."

Harry thought in silence for a few moments, attempting to process everything that Malfoy had said. Had the man who had protected his son in the last truly pleaded with Voldemort for his safety? Was this, perhaps, why Malfoy had worked so hard to become a Death Eater, to stay alive? Everything about the strange behavior Malfoy often demonstrated during their days at school suddenly seemed to make sense as Harry thought. He decided to stow these questions at the back of his mind—they could wait. "I dunno how I could face him. I guess because I had to. I had loads of help, though, from Dumbledore. I guess by the end I realized if I didn't, more people would die. My friends would have died for nothing. More innocent people would die because they stood in his way, and I figured it'd be because I hadn't finished it. He'd keep looking for me and then I'd die anyway," Harry said dully.

Malfoy turned away, staring at the wall again in deep thought. "Yeah, well, er, thanks Potter," he muttered, walking away.

After a few moments, Harry walked toward the great oak front doors, hoping to take a walk around the lake before assisting the many officials that had remained behind with the repair of the castle. As he approached, he saw the Malfoys ahead of him. On an impulse, he walked beside Narcissa and motioned her aside. She halted briefly, looking sideways at her husband and son.

"I wanted to say, er, thanks for that lie you told in the Forest," Harry muttered.

Narcissa nodded curtly and turned to leave. Abruptly she stopped and turned to face Harry. "Thanks for saving my boy," she said quietly. Then, without another word, she rejoined her family headed out of the castle gates.

Harry walked slowly around the lake, gazing thoughtfully into the rippling water. The last two days felt like a dream. The war could not be over, he thought. Lupin, Tonks, Fred, and Snape, all couldn't have died, could they? And all for him! No, he corrected, to stop Voldemort! Briefly he wished he were with them. Who did he have to live for, he thought. Sirius, his mother, his father, Dumbledore, Snape, all of the adults in the world it seemed that he had trusted most had died, had abandon him. No, he thought furiously, kicking a stone into the water and watching it make small ripples across the surface as he continued his walk, they had not abandon him. He was walking blindly now. His feet seemed to know the path well as they wandered slowly around, but his mind was far away from the beautiful grounds.

"Harry!" A girl shouted, pulling him out of his dark reverie. He stopped, turning to look for the source of the voice. Ginny was walking toward him, her red hair playing in the soft breeze that filled the warm summer air. Harry smiled slightly. Yes, he did have people to live for. Ginny, for one, but Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid. The image of Hagrid carrying his limp form when he believed him dead came unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He could almost feel the giant tears washing over him once more, could almost hear the sobs. No, he would not put the poor man through that again.

"Hello Ginny," Harry said, making an attempt at enthusiasm.

"I was just wondering if maybe you'd want to help me and George. We've started on some of the fixing," she asked tentatively.

"Yeah, sure," Harry replied dully, following her back toward the castle.

"What's wrong? You seem, I dunno, different today. Well, these past couple of days, but then we all have been I suppose," Ginny faltered.

Harry shrugged. He was not sure he wanted to share his deep grief with Ginny. He sighed. "It's nothing, I'm just glad this is all over," he muttered. Ginny nodded, giving his arm a comforting pat.

For the remainder of the day, Harry was kept extremely busy with George, Ginny, and a little ministry official on the fifth floor. While Harry, George and the ministry official (called Oscar) summoned, levitated, and repaired a variety of portraits, statues, and pieces of wall, Ginny cleaned blood and grime from every surface. Professor McGonagall supervised and organized the efforts, flitting from place to place to assist where needed and to stop Peeves from wreaking too much havoc. By midday she had become so frustrated with the little poltergeist that her temper flared.

"If you do not make yourself useful, I can promise you I will have you thrown out!" She shouted hoarsely as Peeves threw a box of chalk at a newly cleaned portrait.

He blew a raspberry and zoomed off, reappearing beside George, who began to show him how to have fun being "useful". Harry had even forgotten his grief as he watched Peeves perform a variety of entertaining antics as he helped them repair statues and portraits along the corridor.

At dinner that evening in the Great Hall, Harry sat at a table with George, Ginny, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Fleur. Charlie had returned to Romania to resume his work with dragons, and Bill had returned to Gringotts to assist in restoring order to the bank. The goblins had been sufficiently basified, it seemed, and were willing to begin exchanging gold as normal. Luna and Xenophilius joined them, having come from the castle grounds. They, among many others, were among those who resided at Hogwarts because their homes had suffered destruction at the hands of the Death Eaters. Chatter of victory parties and celebratory holidays could be heard throughout the hall, and Harry was approached by several people inviting him to their own separate celebrations throughout the week. Harry gave noncommittal answers to all of them, feeling more exhausted than ever.

"I wonder how Ron and Hermione are getting on," Ginny asked conversationally.

Harry shrugged. The truth was, he had not thought about them since they had left the previous evening. "I expect they will have set about finding Hermione's parents," he said.

Ginny nodded, taking a mouthful of soup. Mrs. Weasley looked up from her plate and glanced over at Harry appraisingly.

"How are you, Harry dear?" She asked kindly, attempting a faint smile.

"Fine," Harry replied, not meeting her gaze. He could not help being reminded of how the boggart she had seen rise from the desk at Grimmauld Place had transformed into a dead version of each member of her family. He could not help feeling somehow tainted, like he had caused the death of Fred and George's injury. Ginny seemed to sense his discomfort and made another attempt at light conversation. "So what do you think will become of that Umbridge woman? I mean, she wasn't a Death Eater, but she was working for them," she mused.

Harry shrugged again. "I dunno, I suppose she'll be tried or something," he said, eating a piece of treacle without really tasting it.

Harry decided to avoid the celebrations that evening by attending to the mound of letters awaiting him in his room. Ginny offered to help him, since people would most likely be looking for thanks or supportive responses, but he shook her off, telling her that he would be fine and that she should probably be with her family. He had not had a moment to himself since the morning.

He sat at the study desk and pulled the pile of letters from his bag. The first envelope he read appeared to be addressed in bright gold lettering and was from Dennis Creevey. With a sigh, Harry tore the letter open and began to read:

Dear Harry,

You did it! You finally beat him forever! I heard it from the Daily Prophet as soon as it was all over. I had to explain everything to my parents before they saw my brother, you see. They don't understand how a whole group of people can be at war when the country's not, what with the whole Muggle secrecy thing. Anyway, I'm sending a picture Colin took of the two of you. Do you think you could sign it? I know he would have loved that. Thanks!

Harry glanced at the letter again, his eyes becoming unfocused as he reread it, recalling everything the Creevey brothers had done. It was not fair, he thought angrily, that someone so young, so foolishly brave, had to die for him, a hero he barely knew. He took the picture from the envelope and examined it. It was just as he remembered it, with Harry grimacing as Colin leaned closer into the frame. He uncorked a bottle of ink and dipped his quill into it. What could he write, he wondered, that would suffice to express how he felt. Finally, after several minutes, he began to write a reply:

Dennis:

Please send my condolences to your parents. I am sure it must be very hard for them to hear this. I am signing the picture. I only wish that I had been able to do this while he was still alive. Kind regards.

He put the letter and signed picture in a fresh envelope and set them aside. He would send them tomorrow morning before breakfast. The next letter Harry read was from Nadia Vance, a cousin of Emmeline Vance, who also wrote to congratulate Harry on his defeat of "He-Who-must-Not-Be-named". With each letter, Harry became increasingly aware of the heavy burden of sorrow each family must be suffering. He sighed, setting aside the remainder of the letters. They could wait until tomorrow. He had written several hasty replies of thanks and condolences by the time the sky had grown fully dark.

Harry pulled the curtains closed and prepared for bed. He felt extremely exhausted after the day's work. As he lay back on the pillows, he thought of Sirius and Lupin. What might they have told him to write to so many whose families had suffered? As he closed his eyes, his last hope was that the next day, he might be able to enjoy the victory celebrations along with the others.

Harry dreamed he was flying about the Hogwarts grounds in search of something. He circled high above the castle, intent on finding it, but it seemed to be evading his vision. Then he was falling, and distant echoes rang in his ears, growing clearer as he fell. A high cold laugh drowned them out. Harry saw Cedric's body materialize below him, and the echoes were replaced by Cedric's last request. As Harry tumbled endlessly, Sirius appeared in the form of a big black dog beside him, and Lupin's echoing voice told him to trust his instincts. All the while, the high cold laugh pierced the air like the cry of a banshee.

Harry awoke with a start. He could feel cold sweat trickling down his brow, and his mouth felt dry. He did not want these nightmares to return. He had fought so desperately to stop dreaming of the graveyard that it seemed incomprehensible for this to be happening.

He attempted to sit up and felt a wave of dizziness consume him. As he slumped back on the pillows, he wondered what could have brought this dream about. A wave of nausea crashed over him and he retched violently. This could not be happening, he thought. He cursed furiously, fighting back another impulse to retch, but failing. Weakened, he allowed exhaustion and pain to consume him.

After several minutes, slow thoughts began to return to him. Vaguely he wished he had someone he could confide in, someone who would understand the absurdity of what seemed to be happening. He thought about writing to Ron and Hermione, but he had never told them about the nightmares that were not connected with Voldemort, and he wondered if they might just pass it off as "normal" or "natural" and tell him to go to Madam Pomfrey for some potion for Dreamless Sleep or nausea. He sighed, looking down at the pile of sick. He did not know if he had the energy to clean it. If only Dobby were here, he thought. Then he remembered Kreacher.

Crack. The little elf appeared at his summons, looking slightly annoyed, his hands full of soapy water as though caught in the midst of washing. Harry looked at him apologetically. "Could you get me some water please?" He asked weakly.

Kreacher bowed slightly and produced a little goblet of water. As he approached the bed, he mopped up the sick with a look of contempt. "Look Kreacher, I'm sorry, I just can't," Harry sighed, taking the cup from the little elf.

Kreacher gave Harry a puzzled look as he fetched a bowl and placed it on the floor beside Harry. Harry nodded in thanks. "Listen, Kreacher, don't breathe a word of this to anyone, not even another house elf, ok?" Harry asked frantically, wiping the remainder of the sweat from his face with the edge of his blanket.

Kreacher gave another slight bow and disappeared from the room. Harry felt slightly more refreshed, but still felt weak. What had happened, he wondered, to cause him to feel this way? He felt worse than the time he had seen through the eyes of Voldemort's snake. He longed for someone he could confide in, someone who would be able to explain what was happening. He thought vaguely of Dumbledore, who had been plagued with the death of his sister for decades. Did this mean that he, Harry, would suffer for years because he had been the cause of so many lost lives? No, he told himself, he had not been the cause.

He fought to keep his mind on lighter things. Where were Ron and Hermione, and how were they getting on? He thought of the many nights they had spent camping together while in search of Horcruxes and almost smiled at the recollection of Ron's complaints. He wished he could have his friends with him now, if only to distract him. As dawn seeped through the curtains, he hoped that the next day would be easier so that he might, indeed, enjoy the celebrations as everyone else had been.