Outside the Gryffindor common room, I finally begin to realize the extent of the damage the Battle of Hogwarts had on everyone here—the effect Harry sees every time he thinks about the battle. Parents and students alike are stumbling downstairs from the dormitories. Exhausted, grieving, and dirty, they make their way to the Great Hall for breakfast. Harry holds me tighter as more people join the group, but otherwise seems to be handling it fairly well.
"Excuse me, Mr. Potter?" a young witch I don't recognize asks.
"That's me," he says resignedly, as if he doesn't really want to talk to anyone.
"I know," she gushes. "Everyone knows who you are. I'm Clemencia Rossler, from the Daily Prophet. We'd like to publish your biography in sections through a weekly feature. After that, it could be sold as a book. I'd be the author, and it would only take a few exclusive interviews—"
"No," Harry interrupts. "If a biography is written about me that contains interview information, I'd prefer it was by a close friend. I'm sorry, but I can't talk about this with just anyone."
"But Mr. Potter—"
"He said no," I interrupt. "I think you ought to be going."
"Hold on, Ginny," Harry says quietly. "Clemencia, right? No interviews, but I'll give you a statement right now. Are you ready?"
She nods eagerly as she holds her quill above a little notebook.
"This will be printed word-for-word as I say it. You may not omit or change anything. Got that?"
She nods again, a little less excited, but obviously still happy to be getting this directly from Harry.
"People still insist on calling him He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or You-Know-Who, but Voldemort is dead. Once and for all. I can personally guarantee that he will never return, thanks to Dumbledore's work before his own death. Fear of a name only increases fear of the object itself, and I would ask witches and wizards throughout the world to prove that they no longer fear him, as Voldemort's only real power over us was fear. Don't let the memory of a tyrant control your life; live freely, and remember to love."
"Is there anything else you'd like to add?" she prompts. "What you were doing this past year, or how you felt when he finally died?"
"No," Harry says flatly. She stomps off, and he actually laughs a little bit. "The Prophet has guts, asking me to give them an exclusive interview. I think they realize how difficult they made my life during fifth year, but they haven't made any moves to apologize for that yet."
"You do realize you'll have to share some of this story eventually, before the wrong people tell it?" I ask.
"I know," he sighs. "I was hoping Hermione would do the honors, though."
"What exactly is it that I'll be doing?" Hermione suddenly asks from behind us. Ron, of course, is with her.
"The Prophet just asked him for an exclusive interview to publish his biography," I fill her in. "I think he'd rather that you wrote it and published it separately from the paper, though."
"Harry, is this true?" Hermione demands in her bossiest voice. I can't help feeling sorry that I told her now.
He nods sheepishly.
Her angry face suddenly breaks into a smile, and she lets go of Ron's hand to give Harry a hug. "You are the best friend a girl could ask for!" she says happily.
"What does that make me?" Ron asks, though he doesn't seem upset.
"Oh, Ron," Hermione says, giving him a peck on the cheek. "Boyfriend and friend are completely different, and you are the best boyfriend I could ever want."
He's smiling. Apparently my brother has finally learned that he and Hermione actually fancy each other. "Would you two like to join us for breakfast?" Ron offers.
"We'd love to," Harry says. "But we already ate. Can you believe Ginny had never been to the kitchens, Ron? Besides, I don't want to be near that huge group of people who might ask me for autographs yet. I'll deal with that later."
Ron shrugs. "Suit yourself," he says as he takes Hermione's hand and leads her out of the common room.
"Hermione's happy," I comment as they walk away. "A boyfriend and the chance to write a guaranteed bestselling book."
"She'll know what to include and what needs to be left out," Harry muses. "Some of the things we learned—I don't want to share the secret of Voldemort's immortality, in case someone decides to follow in his footsteps."
We're sitting on a ledge that used to be the top of a staircase, our feet swinging in the open space below us, when the owls start arriving. In less than ten minutes, there's a pile of letters and packages nearly as tall as Harry. He takes the nearest envelope and breaks its seal before reading aloud:
Dear Harry,
Your bravery is inspiring. I would very much like to meet you and have a chance to thank you in person for the great service you have done for all of us.
Sincerely,
Mireille Welz
"She's a Ravenclaw, fourth year," I inform him. "She's had a crush on you for as long as she can remember."
Harry looks at me, puzzled. "How do you know that?"
I look down at my hands. "This last year, it was my job to know every student in Hogwarts. If we heard rumors that something was going to happen to someone, we wanted to be able to prevent it. The Room of Requirement gave us a very complete list, including Muggle photos so they were always there for reference. I memorized that list."
He rips open another letter.
To Mr. Harry Potter,
I've heard you're very famous. I would very much like an autograph of yours, in joined-up writing please. Sign a picture for me, and I'll sign one for you.
From Gilderoy Lockheart
"Am I going to have to deal with all this ridiculous fan mail?" he asks, exasperated. "Mireille wants to meet me, Lockheart wants an autograph. What's next?"
"Harry," I say quietly. "You killed Voldemort. He's actually gone this time. You're going to be regarded as the best wizard in the world until someone does something more impressive. I'll help you answer all the mail, but you can't really ignore it. These people admire you."
He puts his head in his hands. "I didn't ask for any of this. Dumbledore gave me a job, and I did it. I'm no better than any other wizard."
"How many people knew why Voldemort didn't die the first time, do you think?" I ask him.
He shrugs. "How would I know?"
"Of those," I continue, "How many people tried to do something about it?"
"Dumbledore," Harry says belligerently. "And me, because I had to, and Ron and Hermione because they knew what I was doing."
"And of those, Harry, who actually killed Voldemort?" It's strange how less scary he is when I can say his name.
"I did," he mumbles. "But I had help."
"I know," I tell him. "But sometimes people don't want their hero to need help. They want you to be a powerful wizard, the best in the world. And they want to know you're on their side. You give them hope."
"Hope for what?"
"A better life, a safer world. That good is stronger than evil, that love is more powerful than fear. They need that hope, Harry, and you're the one who made it possible."
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