Chapter Seven.

Harry returned to Hogwarts two days later.

It had only been a few days since the battle, but the school looked, at least at first glance, like the fighting had never taken place. Shattered windows had become whole, stone pillars had regrown their limbs, staircases weren't missing any more stairs, and the Hall had a roof again. Most importantly, small groups of students stood chatting everywhere, excitedly and playfully, as if it were just another day at Hogwarts.

Still, Harry couldn't feel any gladness.

He stood in the school's entrance for a while, watching swarms of students glide over staircases and into other rooms, and briefly met Cho's eyes, before he turned away from her hopeful glance. He'd hoped to walk undisturbed, but his wish was unfulfilled.

'Harry!'

Harry looked to his left and found Seamus hurrying towards him with a big smile on his face.

'Good seeing you, Harry!'

'You too, Seamus'

'It's looking good, isn't it?'

'Very', Harry agreed.

'McGonagall is Headmistress, now. Have you heard?'

'Not officially', Harry admitted. 'But that sounds right.'

Seamus smiled. 'Sure does. She's the best choice, really. I mean… Flitwick just doesn't quite know how to-'

'Terrify.'

'Ha, right!', Seamus laughed.

They were quiet for a while, watching the faces glide by. Harry spotted Nearly Headless Nick drifting up a set of stairs, whistling joyfully.

'Anyway', Seamus started. 'McGonagall wants to see you in her office.'

The Headmaster's Office. It still felt odd to Harry that he would never see Dumbledore there again.

'Thanks, Seamus.'

His friend nodded, turned, and ran back into the Great Hall. Harry headed towards the Office.

When he entered, Professor McGonagall was sitting behind her desk, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose, her feather-pen racing across a scroll of parchment as long as Harry himself.

'Professor', Harry said, glancing briefly at the portraits on the office wall. 'You wanted to see me?'

McGonagall looked at him from over the bridge of her glasses. 'That's right, Potter. Sit!'

Harry sat down on the green velvet chair across from her.

McGonagall put down her pen and glasses, folded her hands, and regarded him closely.

'How are you feeling?'

Harry tried to smile, but he knew it looked poor. 'Good, professor. Thank you.'

'No serious injuries? No loss of memory? Insomnia? Any remnants of darkness?'

'No, I'm alright. And I've been sleeping quite well, Professor. Better, actually.'

McGonagall nodded as if she understood, but looked at him as if she was studying him, or digging through his mind for anything that would tell her otherwise.

'Truly, Professor. I feel fine.' Harry tried to sound as cheerful as he could.

'Good, good', she said finally, whisking her hand through the air as if waving the subject away. 'Well, then, Potter, I have two important messages for you.'

Harry frowned. Letters? Who-?

'Firstly, I've got a message for you from Kingsley Shacklebolt. He's been appointed Minister for Magic, as expected, and has an open position at The Auror Office, which he would like you to apply for. He wishes to see you in his office next week.'

Harry's eyebrows shot up into the air. He was stunned. For a while, he said nothing.

'You do still wish to be an Auror?', McGonagall asked, seemingly slightly confused by Harry's silence.

'Oh, yes!', Harry said quickly. 'Absolutely. It's not that, Professor, it's just… it takes some getting used to.'

McGonagall smiled ruefully.

'It must be strange', she started. 'To be able to well and fully start living after all of these years of looking over your shoulder.'

Harry forced a smile. He then remembered something.

'But Professor, I haven't even completed my N-'

'Your N.E. ', McGonagall agreed. 'Yes, we are quite aware, Potter. But the endurance, bravery and skill you have shown on May second will more than suffice. You may need to undergo some training for official approval, but you will not need your N.E. '

An Auror, thought Harry. That's what I've wanted for years. A warm sensation spread through his chest. Yes. That's something I could do.

'Potter', McGonagall continued, more quietly. Harry wasn't quite used to the soft, almost concerned look on her face. It made him slightly uncomfortable. 'On behalf of every soul at Hogwarts, their loved ones, and myself… thank you. You have saved us all.'

Harry only smiled, not quite knowing what to say, and not quite understanding what she would thank him for. He suspected there were quite a few 'loved ones' who wished he hadn't been born at all.

McGonagall seemed to pick up on his confliction and quickly changed tone.

'Secondly, then!'. She opened a drawer to her right, pulled out a sealed envelope, and slid it across the desk's dark surface towards Harry. 'A letter from Miss Granger', she said. 'Quite urgent, I'm afraid.'

Harry frowned and took the envelope. He looked at Professor McGonagall, but her face betrayed nothing. When he peeled the red seal from its paper, she hastily waved her hands about.

'Oh, no. Open it outside!', she said quickly. 'We will speak later.'

Harry nodded quickly, thanked her, stood up, and turned to walk out the room. He heard McGonagall's pen scribbling before he had made it to the door, and suddenly remembered something important.

'Professor', he started, turning around slowly.

McGonagall looked up.

'I was thinking…' Harry glanced at the wall of portraits where all former Headmasters and Headmistresses hung, watching Harry with wise, patient eyes. Only one was missing. 'Professor Snape should be up there', he said finally.

McGonagall's face betrayed no surprise or curiosity, but Harry saw her eyebrow twitch.

'There's a lot I need to tell you', Harry admitted, and the Professor smiled carefully.

'I will see you soon, then?'

Harry nodded, turned again, and left the Office.

He then walked, not quite knowing where he was going until he had arrived at Gryffindor's Common Room. There was only one other student, sitting by the window with a book, but he didn't acknowledge Harry's presence, or even blink at the draught coming in as he entered. Harry sat himself down on the red couch before taking Hermione's envelope from his pocket. It had been sealed with red wax, engraved with 'HG'. Harry opened it quickly.

'Harry,

Meet me in Godric's Hollow.

H.'

Godric's Hollow? Harry checked again, but that was really what the letter said. Why? Him and Hermione hadn't been in Godric's Hollow since last winter, and it hadn't been a particularly pleasant experience. Still, McGonagall had said that it was urgent, and a part of Harry longed ardently to be near Hermione.

He arrived mere hours later to find Godric's Hollow completely changed. He remembered it white and covered in a cold blanket of snow, and empty apart from two wizards that came stumbling drunkenly from a bar. It had been dark, and cold, and there'd been a feeling of impending doom hanging in the air, thickening it like thunderclouds and making it harder to breathe.

Now it was bright, busy, and warm, the way early May ought to be. Children were playing in the streets as parents watched on and chatted merrily, and the pubs and teashops were booming with business. Laughter and flower petals drifted through the air in equal measure. A soft pink petal landed on Harry's shoe.

He didn't have any memory of Godric's Hollow that wasn't bad, so Harry felt dumbfounded to see it now, welcoming and glad. He felt a strange sensation of homecoming, and simultaneously felt like he didn't belong there. Before he had the opportunity to make sense of himself, however, someone did it for him.

'Harry Potter?!'

Harry looked to where the sound came from, and an old man with tufts of hair sticking from his ears came rushing towards him, a wooden cane wrapped tightly in his right hand as his legs tried to keep up. The old man nearly crashed into Harry when his legs finally gave out.

'My God, Harry Potter, is that you?', the man stammered, staring at him with silver, bulging eyes.

'Hello. Yes', Harry said quickly, reaching out to keep the old man standing.

'What a wonder!', the old man cried, lifting his papery-skinned hand to touch Harry's face, as if he couldn't quite believe it otherwise. 'You have saved us all, young man. Thank you, thank you, thank you.'

Harry, immediately uncomfortable, stammered a 'my pleasure' and thought in the meantime of ways to get out of the conversation, but the old man talked plenty.

'It's quite nice what you've done with the place, my boy! Truly wonderful! And it was about time, I agree. It shouldn't be a ruin forever. It needs warmth, and gladness! Like any home, really, though-'

Harry's interest piqued. 'With what place?'

Surely, the old man couldn't be crediting him with the influence of spring on Godric's Hollow.

'Why, the Potter home, of course!'

Harry's head turned slowly to the left, towards his first home. The old man chattered on about primroses and how they 'sure do brighten up the place', but Harry wasn't listening. His heart thumped in his chest about three times too fast. 'Excuse me', he said, interrupting the old man rather crudely. 'I have to go now. It was a pleasure!' Harry started off. 'Really, a pleasure!', he yelled, glancing over his shoulder only briefly.

Harry's quick pace turned into a jog, and a run, and then he ran the last few metres, down the street, to the left, and stopped abruptly, breathing hard.

His home, the one that he had lived in with his parents, the one in which they had died, and the one he had found ravaged and broken down last Christmas, was now… not broken.

Its garden, dead and frozen last winter, was now full of lively, breathing plants and flowers. Harry spotted the primroses that the old man talked about under the rustling green leaves of a strong tree. The first floor, which had been torn to pieces just a few months prior, was now intact, ceiling and windows and all. Small tufts of smoke drifted from the house's chimney, and a set of white curtains flowed from between an open window on the ground floor. The house had walls, a ceiling, and intact beams and windows, as if nothing had ever happened to it.

Harry stared. He felt utterly dumbfounded. Who-

But then the door flew open, and none other than Hermione came out. She hurried down the cobble path, separating one piece of perfectly soft grass from another, opened the wooden gate, and flew into Harry's harms.

'Harry!'

When she let go, she looked at him with a mix of pride and nervousness, and said: 'And? What do you think?'

Harry's eyebrows had raised into the air. He had no idea what he felt. 'I… I-'

'We thought', Hermione interrupted, far too nervous to let him finish his thought without a proper explanation. 'We just thought that now that you can live a… more… normal life, you'd also need a normal home. Especially after Grimmauld- Well…'

We? Harry's heart filled with hope at the thought of his ginger-haired friend waiting inside, but out of the door came Luna, a dreamy smile spread wide across her face. 'Hello, Harry.'

'Hi. Luna, what-'

'Is it too much?', Hermione burst out excitedly. 'You don't have to come in if you don't want to, of course, but-'

'No, I- I just don't know what to say… that's all', Harry stammered, looking bewildered at the front door. The wood was intact, unscathed, even shiny.

'Well', Hermione said, glancing from Luna to Harry. 'Shall we?'

Harry swallowed, considered it for a moment, and then nodded.

Hermione gently led him through the gate and towards the front door. Before they could enter, Luna cleared her throat quietly.

'I'll get going, then', she said, glancing from Hermione's eyes to Harry. 'Welcome home, Harry.'

Harry nodded, still in a daze, and Luna left.

'Just one thing', Hermione said, almost shaking with nerves. 'Before we go in, I just want you to know that we've changed the lay-out of the house, just in case-'

Harry interrupted, not unkindly: 'I can handle it, Hermione.'

She nodded solemnly, stepped aside, and allowed Harry to enter.

When he stepped into the house, his heart beating loudly, he was immediately surprised by the warmth of bright sunlight radiating onto a dark wooden floor. Looking through an archway on his left, Harry saw a living room with a stone hearth and a set of comfortable red chairs. The couch was made from supple brown leather, and was decorated with a set of red, comfortable-looking cushions. Against the walls stood bookcases that reached to the ceiling, and Harry spotted his schoolbooks among the dozens and dozens of leatherbound backs. On top of the hearth's wooden ridge stood a framed picture of himself, Hermione and Ron at the Quidditch World Cup, with Arthur's thumb proudly in the right corner, obscuring Ron's awful red bowling hat. Next to it stood a brass candle holder, candle included and softly burning, and above the hearth hung a painting of the Great Hall. The scene inside it emitted warm orange light, the figures moved slowly and calmly.

On the other side of the room lay a large Persian-looking rug with tassels around its edges. On top of it stood an old but charming wooden desk, equipped with a pile of books, an inkpot and feathered pen, and pieces of parchment, ready to be used. On a table stand against the wall stood a picture of Harry and Sirius, smiling brightly, with next to it Harry's Golden Snitch, flying around in a glass encasement. Harry noticed then that the desk featured an emerald green, velvet chair, much like the one he had sat on in McGonagall's office, and he became suddenly aware of the conspiracy against him. Still, he couldn't possibly be angry.

He looked at Hermione in astonishment, who was frowning at the room, scrutinizing it still.

'Hermione-', Harry started.

'Do you like it?', she asked quickly, drawing her eyebrows together anxiously.

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Hermione suddenly declared that he hadn't yet seen the kitchen, and dragged him to the hall and through the archway on the right.

The kitchen wasn't large, but the windows were big and let in a perfect amount of natural light. One of the biggest windows, facing into the garden, had a seat in it, and another pile of the same red cushions. The wooden kitchen table held four wooden chairs with fiddle-shaped backs. Brass pots and pans hang from the beams above the cooking area, reflecting the sunlight throughout the room and making it dance on its panelled walls.

'It reminds me of-'

'The Gryffindor Common Room', Hermione agreed, smiling proudly. 'And The Burrow, perhaps. We wanted it to reflect your favourite places.'

'I don't know what to say', Harry admitted quietly.

Hermione swallowed and produced another, more careful, smile. 'Just say what you feel, Harry.' She wrung her hands anxiously before adding: 'And if it's too morbid, I completely understand. You don't have to live here, or even like it, but I just felt deeply that, after all this time, you should have a home.'

Harry looked from the antique-looking stove back to Hermione and swallowed hard in an attempt to fight back his surge of emotion.

He didn't recognize it, this house. He didn't recognize it one bit, but he loved it. It felt warm, and safe, and familiar despite its strangeness. And, contrary to what he had first suspected, and what Hermione was so afraid of, it wasn't morbid. This was his home, and his parents' home, before it was the scene of a murder. It was warm, and safe, and loved, before it was destroyed, and it was filled with laughter and friends before it was cursed. And Harry felt suddenly and strongly that, by reclaiming this essential piece of his life, he was shedding a final layer of Voldemort's lingering existence.

As Harry considered all of this, Hermione's mind raced. Oh God, she thought. He hates it. What have I done? Should I apologize? Run? Maybe I should Obliviate him… and just pretend that this-

'I love it', Harry said, putting a sudden but welcome stop to her anxiety.

Her eyebrows shot up in relief. 'You do?!'

Harry chuckled. 'Yes, Hermione, this- this is brilliant. It's absolutely wonderful.' He walked over to the kitchen table and ran his fingers across its streaked surface.

'Oh… great!', Hermione said, finally breathing out. 'We've also changed the rooms upstairs, by the way. It's a three bedroom, now, it used to be a two, b-but the third's a study… It could also be a guest bedroom, if you want. It can be anything, really.'

Harry shook his head and smiled. 'Hermione, stop! It's perfect. Whatever it is, it's perfect.'

Hermione shut up.

After he had assured her three more times that it was all splendid, Harry spent ten more minutes upstairs, walking around, touching walls and doors, picking up and putting things back. He'd just come out of the study and halfway down the stairs when he saw Hermione, waiting patiently by the front door, her coat on.

He stood still immediately.

'Are you going?', he asked.

'Well, I've got some things I need to sort out…'

Harry's heart sank a bit, and he became suddenly aware of how big the house was in comparison to him. Yet, despite his desire for her to stay, he couldn't seem to open his mouth and say it.

Hermione waited a while, staring at him in what seemed like anticipation. Finally, after two minutes, she smiled weakly. 'Enjoy it, Harry', she whispered. 'You've deserved it.'

Harry nodded, slowly, and watched her turn and shut the door behind her. He stared at it for a while, at the dark walnut wood and its brass knob, and felt a pressing weight on his shoulders. Arthur's words floated through his head and his feet, which had been glued to the ground, loosened slowly, walking and then dashing towards the door, out onto the cobble path and through the gate.

'Hermione!'

She turned at the end of the street. He ran to catch up and looked her in the eyes, clenching and unclenching his jaws as she waited patiently. He swallowed, remembered the words, and spit them out before his brain could tell him otherwise.

'Will you stay?'

A warm smile spread across Hermione's freckled face.

'Of course.'