A/N: Sincerest apologies for the lack of posts lately. Life has decided to be difficult, so I haven't felt motivated to edit. But I almost got out of bed today, so let's take that as a win and get this done! I hope you won't mind some more Harry introspection. This chapter really sets up what's coming next for the golden trio. See you in a bit.
Chapter Fourteen: Fresh Start
Wednesday, May 13, 1998: Early Morning
MALFOY AND MALFOY SENTENCED! DASTARDLY DEATH EATERS DETAINED, FINALLY ROTTING BEHIND BARS.
It was a chilly morning, the first rays of sunlight only just beginning to peek through the Great Hall's high windows. Harry was sitting hunched over at the Gryffindor table, the thick yellow pages of the Prophet spread out in front of him. He was finishing off the coffee Kreacher had brought up from the kitchens fifteen minutes earlier. Black, one sugar. He wasn't sure where the elf kept finding the time to personally deliver everything he didn't know he needed, while also making sure the castle's other occupants were always fed and happy.
The historically ill-tempered creature had maintained an uncharacteristically chirpy demeanour ever since the pair of them had reunited at Hogwarts. Harry wasn't complaining, he was glad that his godfather's final gift had taken the drastic change in scenery and ownership in stride. He had considered freeing the elf, but the Death Eaters in Azkaban coupled with Kreacher's fickle nature made him hesitate. He may be content now, but what if the elf decided to start working for the Malfoys or something? Definitely better not to risk it. He didn't like keeping the elf enslaved, and Hermione looked at him disapprovingly whenever Kreacher was around, but he didn't really have a choice.
As pale sunlight washed over him, Harry's train of thought came to an abrupt halt. He was alone in the massive room, and he shivered as a gust of wind blew across his face. His unfortunate habit of waking up absurdly early was likely a product of his time on the run, but that didn't make him any less tired as a result. The nightmares had become less frequent, but those that remained still kept him up most of the night. It was a little after seven. The men who shared his dormitory, along with everybody else, were probably still in bed. There was no real reason to be awake this early. Hogwarts was almost completely restored. There wasn't any more work to be done. Life would soon be returning to normal, the cogs of peace and mundanity beginning to turn once more.
But here he was, weighed down by a bone-deep tiredness that drained what little energy he had. His body felt weak and shaky, the many wakeful nights finally catching up with the resilience of his youth. His eyes hurt, and the beginnings of a migraine had been lurking on the edge of his awareness for days. Ron and Hermione insisted that he visit Madam Pomfrey, but he didn't want to waste the matron's limited time. Merlin knew there were far more pressing matters worthy of her attention. Why should his headache take precedence over an actual injury or affliction? They kept telling him to relax, but it was all he could do not to scream or break something. Isn't this what he wanted, to go back to how things were? Wasn't he looking forward to his final year at Hogwarts?
The talk with Andromeda last week had been good. Strangely pleasant, all things considered. But that felt like ages ago now. Time had been working funny ever since he killed Voldemort. There were moments where it crawled with agonising slowness, and others where it ladled itself out in great dollops, disorientating his already frayed nerves. He fought to remain present in every day that passed, but despite his best efforts, the world slipped by without any fanfare or memorable events to fill in the gaps.
Maybe he was waiting for something to remind him that life went on. For Professor Flitwick to set them all three feet on the Protean Charm, or to be scolded about being out too late. But there never was, and no one dared tell off the chosen one. People continued to treat him like he was some great hero even after his task had been completed, after his life's purpose had been fulfilled. But now he was just Harry, just another student at an ancient magical school. That is how he perceived it anyway. But as things so often ended up, the wizarding world had other plans.
An unfamiliar barn owl had been waiting for him when he stumbled into the Great Hall almost an hour earlier, its amber gaze shifting to his lightning-bolt scar as he drew close. There was a copy of the Daily Prophet attached to its leg, and it clicked its beak impatiently as it stuck out the bundle of parchment. Relieving the messenger of its burden, Harry unrolled the Ministry-controlled rag without caring much about its contents. It lay open in front of him as he watched the bird take flight and soar out through one of the Great Hall's high windows, quickly losing sight of it as fluffy white clouds obscured its shrinking form.
Could the delivery really have been for him? There had been no coin pouch or anything similar attached to it, no way the messenger could receive payment. The creature had simply flown off the second Harry let go of its leg. He rummaged through the Prophet, looking for something, anything, that might give him a bit of clarity about the bizarre event.
As he thought about it however, the list of possibilities began to evaporate like dew beneath the rising sun. The massive room had held no other occupants apart from himself, and the large owl had been perched at the head of the Gryffindor table. When he decided to eat with everyone else, Harry usually found himself in that spot. He often lamented the attention his preferred seat garnered, but not enough to find a new place to sit.
He rarely ate with the others. Months spent camping with Ron and Hermione had left him craving privacy whenever he could get it, but he planned on joining his friends again in the near future once he could comfortably bear his own company. There had not been an issue of the Prophet for several days. The only reason Harry knew this was due to Hermione's frequent complaints about the matter, usually accompanied by furious glances out the nearest window as she cursed the Ministry under her breath. She had quickly become dissatisfied with what little news Arthur was able to divulge on his irregular visits to the castle in favour of something more substantial and concrete.
Harry wasn't surprised at the lack of news, and was honestly grateful for the chance to focus on himself for a while. He decided against sharing his thoughts on the matter lest Hermione jump down his throat as well. The Ministry could hardly be expected to know what was going on in its current state. The Wizengamot had been holding trial after trial for each and every Death Eater in Azkaban, and there were surely countless casualties whose positions needed filling. But that brief period of flux appeared to be over. The front page was all about Voldemort's downfall, and Harry was disgusted to find that the dead man was still being referred to as 'You Know Who'. He sat for a time, not thinking much of anything. He simply allowed time to drift like clouds in a sunburnt sky, his head blissfully empty for a change.
"A mug of wake-up potion for Master," said a croaky voice at his elbow.
Harry looked down to see Kreacher standing there, the rags he wore cleaner than ever. The old elf placed the steaming mug of coffee by Harry's right and bowed deeply.
"Thanks, I needed this." He gave Kreacher a warm smile, and the elf beamed back before vanishing with a loud crack. He had taken to referring to coffee as 'wake-up potion' as it was one of the only things that gave Harry the ability to function these days. With the elf gone, Harry was once again alone.
He surreptitiously flipped through the Prophet, his eyes glazing over as the trial sentences continued to dominate every inch of space. He probably should care about this, should want to know who had evaded the Ministry's capture, but reading was beyond him at the moment. Wasting time was all he could manage. Almost halfway through the paper, a startlingly familiar name caught his eye. He had been about to turn the page, but his fingers fumbled the parchment, refusing to cooperate with his sleep-deprived brain.
Malfoy? Why did that name keep coming up? First the interview with Robards, than Andromeda inviting him to Lucius' trial, and now this? The rest of the headline finally registered with him, and he spat out the sip of coffee he had just taken. He couldn't believe the words printed right in front of his eyes. Something inside him fell away, tumbling down a deep hole whose fathomless depths swallowed all completely and without trace.
They had been bitter enemies at school. Draco's insults, though hateful and racist, were a product of his blood-supremacist father's disgusting beliefs and values. He was loathed to absolve the ferret of his hideous behaviours and actions, but not everyone could fight the pervading influence of one's parents. Especially those with as much power as Draco Senior. He pictured his old school bully sitting in a tiny cell, filthy rags clinging to his emaciated form while he sobbed into his thin pillow. The image would have once conjured a pleasant rumble in his belly, but now he just felt sick.
He had never liked the jealous, smarmy git. In fact, there were few people he hated more. But did his crimes really constitute a seven-year stay in Azkaban? Probably, he decided after thinking for a moment. If anything, it was rather a light sentence considering all the murder attempts and Unforgivable Curses. Still, he didn't like the idea of Malfoy behind bars. House arrest perhaps. In all honesty, Harry was shocked Azkaban still existed. The Dementors were no longer under Ministry control, and he didn't think Kingsley would have allowed such a barbaric practice to carry over from before the war.
Why did he even care? Draco deserved to spend the rest of his days rotting in Azkaban for everything he had done over the past two years. But there was a part of him that wanted the bastard to be free. Free to live the life he had always craved, not the one his father had forced on him. Why couldn't he just forget about the wannabe Death Eater and move on with his future? But nothing was ever that simple, was it?
He was glad Lucius was wasting away in his piss-soaked cell of course, though he'd much prefer the man dead. Harry didn't know what a person like that was capable of when they had nothing else to lose, and he would rather not find out. But Draco… that was different. He wasn't really evil, just a pathetic racist moron. He didn't have that innate drive to harm others like the other Death Eaters. Though Harry hated giving him any amount of leniency, he had to admit that, more than anything else, Malfoy had been caught up in something far beyond his true desires. Ruling Hogwarts, bullying Harry and his friends, that was all he had ever wanted. At least, that was how Harry saw it.
He still thought back to their terrible confrontation in the bathroom at the end of sixth year from time to time. Draco's face, grey in the chipped, dirty mirror with more lines than any sixteen-year-old should have to bear. All his bravado that year had been a front, it was obvious now. And the moment they had shared right after the battle. Malfoy had returned his wand, and there had been something strange in his expression. Harry still couldn't figure out what it meant exactly, but there was definitely more to his former enemy than the standard school bully. Everything was so different now. It was silly to even acknowledge it at this point. Madam Malkin, midnight duels, Quidditch. It all felt so juvenile after what they had all experienced. What was a bit of name-calling really?
"Hi."
Harry jumped, spilling the last few drops of coffee on the sleeve of his grey T-shirt. He whipped around, unceremoniously torn away from his reminiscences by the new arrival. "Oh," he said, letting out a long breath. "It's just you. Hey."
Hermione sat next to him, staring down at her clasped hands. Her eyes widened when she noticed the new issue of the Prophet, but turned to face Harry with a look of determination on her tired face.
"I miss you," she said softly, placing a hand on his arm.
"What? I haven't gone anywhere," he replied, tilting his head to one side. "I've been here, haven't I?"
"You've been here," she agreed. 'But you haven't been here. Not really. No one has. We're all still in war mode, still processing. But… I don't know, I miss existing without obligation. I can't remember the last time I didn't have something to do, something I had to do. We have the final step in the ward reactivation today, and I just want to lie in bed forever. I want to talk with you and Ron and Ginny about something that isn't going to get us killed. I hate that I even have to want this, I hate that our lives have been anything but safe." At Harry's hurt look, she went on. "I wouldn't hesitate to do it again, I don't regret my choices for a second." Her eyes clouded. "Well, most of them anyway. I just wish everything didn't have to be so… life or death."
After she finished speaking, Harry just looked at her for a while. Really looked at her. At the bushy hair and brown eyes that had seen too much, at the scars that would never truly heal and the lost innocence she could never reclaim. "It's hard, isn't it?" he said, placing his hand on hers. "But it's all over now. Just a matter of time before everything falls into place." He gave her hands a little squeeze. "We just need to hold on a little longer. Then life will finally be…"
The last word died in his throat. How could things just go back to normal after all that had happened? Remus, Sirius, Mad-Eye, Dumbledore, Tonks, and everyone else were gone. He wasn't ready to face that dark and empty world. "Maybe not quite normal," he went on, "but life will go on. We're still here, and that's just going to have to be enough."
Hermione nodded slowly. "You're right. I just can't… can't believe what our lives are becoming. Everyone's gone. So many people I love are either dead or as good as." She looked away, gazing around the hall as if for the first time. "I can't be here anymore. I've been thinking. What if we rented a flat instead of staying at Hogwarts for our seventh year? Even if it's just for the weekends, I think I need a place outside of this. Somewhere I can exist without the awful memories I won't let myself forget. Somewhere that's at least partially mine."
"What? A flat?" Harry asked, taken aback. "Like a Muggle flat?"
"Yes," said Hermione, her eyes bright. "It's not like travelling will be difficult. We'll just need to connect it to the Floo network, then we can get from there to here in no time!"
"You realise that we'll actually have to find a flat right?" said Harry, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "We can't just 'rent a flat'. There's more involved."
"I know that," she replied, an exasperated edge to her voice. "But if we start looking now, we'll definitely find something before term starts. Do you really want to spend another year in this place? I know you miss being here, but we've grown a lot in our time away, and I think it's time we moved on. You know, started acting like proper adults."
"Why do you want to do this? The real reason." Harry's voice was low and gentle, but insistent. Her reasoning made sense, and he knew that everyone dealt with their trauma differently. That was one of the many things he was starting to figure out. Better late than never. And though he would love to spend another year in the sprawling castle, a new home base wouldn't really be such a bad idea. Their adventures had taught him that it didn't matter where he was if his two best friends were with him.
"I want to get away from the people we were, from the lives we lived before the war. I need that more than even I can possibly know. A fresh start, and I want to do it with you and Ron. I've already spoken to him and he's on board with it all."
"I'm surprised you don't just want to move in with Ron, seeing as you're… you know…"
"That's what I wanted to do at first, but it felt wrong leaving you out of it, and this year can be a sort of trial run to see what living with him would be like. Camping doesn't count," she added quickly, seeing the look on Harry's face. "We were stressed and moving around constantly. It's hardly the same thing."
"Well, I suppose we could try it, if it's something you have your heart set on. It'll be a new experience, and my life won't be in danger for once. Merlin knows that'll be a nice change."
"Really? You'll do it?" He nodded, and she threw her arms around him with a shriek of joy. "Thank you, Harry! I'll start looking for places right after we work on the wards. This is going to be so much fun! I'll wake up Ron and let him know. Thank you!"
She shot to her feet and dashed out of the Hall. Bleary-eyed survivors began to trickle in and sit around Harry, and the young man told himself that he had made the right decision. Perhaps one day he would believe it.
A/N: Perhaps I just like the idea of friends living in an apartment together because of How I Met Your Mother nostalgia. In any case, it's happening. It's probably just an excuse so I can write the occasional fluff chapter. Where will this tale go next? I don't know either. The woes of being an uncreative pantser.