Thank you so much for the reviews! I've done my best to answer all of them.

Right, I'm sort of feeling the pressure now... No funny Committees in this chapter.

Chapter Two – A Place to Mourn

Harry did not know who had decided it but he knew he was grateful. He did not think he could face the familiarity of The Burrow now, not when Fred was not breathing any more. And if he found it an impossible prospect, he could not even begin to imagine how the Weasleys were feeling. Therefore, it was with huge relief that he stumbled across the threshold to number twelve, Grimmauld Place after Kingsley who, with a series of complicated flicks of his wand, made the anti-Snape jinxes Moody had put in place disappear, just like that.

Ginny was somewhere behind him, her face pale and streaked with tears. George was ashen-faced, moving only because Percy and Mr Weasley held him upright. Mrs Weasley's scream when Professor McGonagall had coaxed her away from her fallen son's body still echoed in Harry's mind and he hardly dared to look at her as she was led into the hallway by Bill and Fleur. Ron and Hermione, hand in hand, brought up the rear.

It must have been Kingsley, Harry decided as he watched the tall black man advance deeper into the house, the gaslights coming to life as he passed. This seemed important; if he could only occupy his mind with these mundane thoughts, he would not collapse. Kingsley would make a great Minister... Even the Dursleys had exhibited some kind of respect for him. Where were his aunt and uncle now? Harry forced the image of Dudley to rise before his eyes. To think that Dudley had tried to make peace with him. Yes, Kingsley would see to everything...

The door swung closed and taken by surprise, Bill and Fleur staggered under the weight of a suddenly crumpling Mrs Weasley. As if from a great distance, Harry saw Hermione break free from Ron to come to their aid. Ron looked lost without her. Ginny, too, turned to her mother but she seemed incapable of moving. Harry backed into a corner when he really meant to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight.

Upstairs there were beds waiting. Rooms to mourn in. Mr Weasley and Percy were tugging George towards them, and Harry caught Bill glancing at his father and probably judging it a wise decision to follow him.

Little by little, painfully slow, they all made it up the stairs while Harry remained in his corner. He watched how Ginny, her long red hair matted now, her robes torn and dusty, followed her father blindly. He caught Hermione's eye as she passed him. She opened her mouth as if to speak but no words came; she pleaded with him silently instead, her brown eyes filling with tears. Harry only shrugged; he did not need her apologies. Ron had seized her hand again.

At long last, only Harry and Kingsley remained in the hallway and they turned to look at each other.

"Harry," the other man began in his deep voice, "can they stay here for a few days?" Kingsley's robes, too, were torn in places and a deep gash stretched across his cheek. He sounded tired but there was a memory of a determined light in his eyes.

Harry nodded. "'Course."

"Thank you." Kingsley ran a hand across his jaw. "The Death Eaters raided this place immediately after Yaxley discovered its location but... they were disappointed with what little they found..." His eyes bore into Harry's, searching for the truth somewhere in them. He did not look angry or upset that the Order's headquarters had been thus abused by the enemy, but it was plain that he wanted to know what had happened. Eventually, when this tactic earned him nothing, his shoulders dropped and he concluded, "This should be safe enough."

"Yeah..." He did not care. But Kingsley was in charge now and so Harry dragged up some semblance of interest from some well-hidden reserve within. "If Kreacher survived the battle, he can tell me what happened." Until he heard himself say it, it had not struck him that the house-elf, too, might have perished at Hogwarts, but he brutally shoved the thought away and concentrated on the man opposite him instead.

Doubt had settled in Kingsley's features. "Harry, that elf–"

"Is not as bad as you think," Harry cut across him with a faint smile. "He is gravely misunderstood."

"All right..." Kingsley looked far from convinced but he did not push the matter further. "If that is so, then perhaps he can keep house for you." There was more than just a trace of disbelief in his voice.

"I hope so," said Harry.

Kingsley regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before he spoke again. "I must be going, Harry. I think it's safe to assume that chaos is raging at the Ministry. And..." he paused with a sigh, "if Arthur insists on coming to work, tell him again that he is forbidden to set foot within Ministry walls."

"Mr Weasley wants to go back to work?" Harry asked him incredulously, momentarily sidetracked. "But..."

Kingsley's voice softened, "We all deal with grief differently, but I have refused his offer of help for now."

As Harry followed him to the door he pondered his options. Kingsley's unvoiced questions had reminded him that there still was a world out there, on the other side of the door to Grimmauld Place. "Um, will we need any protective enchantments?"

The Auror – Minister, Harry reminded himself – paused with his wand raised and turned to look at him. "The house remains Unplottable," said Kingsley slowly, "and still well-guarded. Of course, we don't know how many of those who learnt its location is still alive... Yes, I'd put up a few additional ones if I were you, as a precaution. Also, Harry, there are bound to be reporters hunting you." He tapped the door lightly with his wand and it slid open a fraction. "I'll drop in as soon as possible."

There was more, so much more, to say but Kingsley left without another word and for this, too, Harry was grateful. Soon enough he would be asked to explain and recount for his year of absence, but if he could push that hour further into the future, he would do so gladly.

He spent the afternoon aimlessly wandering through the house but staying clear of the upper levels which he guessed that the Weasleys and Hermione now occupied. Occasionally he heard doors open and close and he assumed that was somebody using the loo. He had expected Hermione to come downstairs after a while, but as the day wore on he must accept that she was probably going to stay with Ron, and Ron should be with his family.

You could be comforting Ginny, a small voice in the back of his head whispered. They wouldn't mind your company. Mrs Weasley considers you her son... But he did not want to intrude. What did it matter that he was like a son to Mrs Weasley when she had just lost one of her biological children? Harry could never replace Fred. What if Ginny, when she looked at Harry, saw only death and despair? No, he would stay downstairs, give them some space.

"Reparo," he mumbled for the hundredth time, pointing his wand at a chair that had been overturned with such force that two of its legs had been ripped off. Maybe this was not how he had envisioned the hours following the defeat of Voldemort and yet he could not really think of another way to spend them. He could be here, silently guarding the mourning family upstairs, or he could be the centre of attention, outshining Kingsley himself, at the Ministry. But Harry had never been one to enjoy the flashes of cameras.

Outside, the glorious early summer sunlight celebrated by itself, flooding the tiny, shabby square and bouncing off every shiny surface it could reach. Only a small portion of it made its way into Grimmauld Place and shadows stubbornly clung to every room and hallway. A couple of times he tried to sleep, curling up on the sofa in the drawing room and pulling a moth-eaten old quilt over himself, but every time he closed his eyes, there danced before his eyelids images that did not need any manipulation or Dark Magic to be sinister. Fred's lifeless face twisted into Lupin's; then Tonks' slim form transformed into Dumbledore's broken body, which became the head of Nagini, soaring through the air... only to land with a thud before his feet, hissing, and with eyes flashing scarlet. In his gloomy corner, Harry's eyes flew open and he lay panting with a sheen of sweat coating his brow. It was then that he let the tears come at last, free, maybe for the first time, to really feel, but needing to see no more.

Time crawled by; in this house that held so much history it seemed to pass very slowly. As his breathing evened out, Harry lay listening to it, imagining that if he skipped his next breath, and then the one after that, he'd still be alive somehow. In here, it did not really seem to matter; the walls would soak you up and you would become a part of the house's soul, mingling with its history and living through it.

However, as tempting as that sounded right now, that was not how he intended to spend eternity. Dragging himself into a sitting position, his stinging eyes fell on the curtains which had, two years ago, been infested with a Doxy population. When Sirius was still alive. Without thinking, he directed his wand at them and the heavy, dark fabric turned a pale yellow through which a little more sunlight could filter.

He sat for a long while, simply regarding the alteration. The effect was rather striking: in itself the yellow was perfectly harmless but the way it clashed with the rest of the house was close to alarming. Satisfied, he cast off the quilt, turned his back on them and made his way to the downstairs kitchen.

It was a strange thing to be back. The last time he had seen it, he, Ron and Hermione had been sharing an early breakfast before leaving for the Ministry to retrieve the locket from Umbridge. If the Death Eaters had come here, they would have found their maps and notes, but to Harry's surprise, the large wooden table was cleared and clean-scrubbed; there was no sign of their plotting. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, he pulled out a chair, sat down and said aloud, "Kreacher."

There was a crack and before him stood the old house-elf, a little worse for wear but with a fierce light in his bloodshot eyes. There was a moment of silence and then Kreacher gave a jerky sort of bow. "Master Harry Potter has returned," the elf stated solemnly, his voice at odds with his intense stare. "The vanquisher of the Dark Lord. Harry Potter follows in the footsteps of venerable Master Regulus who perished at the hands of the enemy."

"Er... right," said Harry, a bit overwhelmed by this little speech, "yes, I'm sorry about that. But I'm happy to see you alive, Kreacher, and I want to thank you for coming to Hogwarts..."

But the house-elf was shaking his head and fiercely blinking away heavy tears. "Kreacher had to defend the honour of his master," he croaked.

Thinking it best to refrain from asking whether he alluded to Regulus or himself, Harry leaned forwards. "I'm very grateful for it." Hermione would have beaming with pride had she heard it, he supposed, but he had not said it to please anyone; he was happy to discover that he really, truly meant it. "Listen, Kreacher," he continued, "I have a question for you..."

"Kreacher will try to answer any question of Harry Potter's to the best of his ability," the elf said gravely. The old rag he was dressed in was filthier than ever.

"Um, good." The perfect wording eluded him and so he simply ploughed on. "Hermione and the Weasley family have returned here with me. Fred, one of the twins... died in the battle and... well, they'll be living here for a while. I don't know how long." Saying it aloud for the very first time, actually telling somebody about Fred's death caused him a very real, physical pain. Harry swallowed hard and pressed on, "I'm giving you a choice, Kreacher. Either you can stay here and in that case I will ask you to, er, keep house for us, or I will set you free."

He knew by the twisting of the small face into an expression of pure disgust that he had managed to offend the elf despite his good intentions. "Leave the noble and most ancient house of Black?" spat Kreacher. "Master Harry Potter would send Kreacher away!"

"No, no!" Harry hurried to say. "No, not against your will! But if you'd prefer being free..." He trailed off as he realised he was not making things better.

"Kreacher would never leave the house of his mistress!" cried the elf in an unusually high-pitched voice. "For generations, Kreacher has served the Black family and if Harry Potter–"

"OK!" Harry cut across him. "I get it. You can stay! In fact," he produced a weak smile, "I'd be grateful if you did because I don't think I'm a good cook and we can't all survive on air."

This admission had an effect on Kreacher as magical as any command or wave of a wand. The old house-elf rounded on him with a suspicious glare. "Harry Potter needs Kreacher to stay?"

"Yes, I do." said Harry quickly. "I don't think Mrs Weasley will be in any state to... to..." He finished with an awkward gesture. "You know..."

The house-elf nodded, oddly calm and solemn once more. "Kreacher knows how the loss of a son will pain a mother."

As Harry looked into the bloodshot eyes, he felt a great breath escape him. He sank down deeper into the chair. "Will she survive it?" he asked quietly.

For a moment, the elf appeared not to have understood him. "Master Harry Potter is asking Kreacher?"

"Yeah," Harry felt another pale smile curve his lips, "I guess I am."

The elf was quiet for some time. When he spoke again, his voice, too, had dropped a few notches. "Mrs Weasley has many children. She must live for them," he grunted.

Harry opened his mouth to answer but found no words. He looked down at the elf he had once loathed. "Thank you," he managed.

Kreacher only huffed in response and shuffled over to the stove. Neither of them said another word while the house-elf produced a steaming pot of tea and a minor mound of sandwiches. Not until he had been offered his share, Harry discovered that he was, in fact, hungry and he dug in eagerly. When he glanced over at Kreacher again, the rest of the sandwiches were gone and Harry guessed they had reappeared in the rooms above.

"Kreacher will dust," the elf announced gruffly and he left Harry alone in the kitchen.

The hours dragged by and still there was no sign of Hermione or any of the Weasleys. Harry had half hoped that Kingsley might make an appearance that night, but of course the new Minster for Magic, albeit temporary, had too much to do at the Ministry. He did not see Kreacher either but around dinnertime, found a bowl of chicken soup and some bread on the kitchen table.

Driven at last to a bookcase, he picked out something that Madam Pince would immediately have shoved away into the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library without deigning it a second glance. When he opened it, the book gave a rumble but did not attack him so he brought it with him downstairs and settled in the dining room, and by the light of a few candles began to pretend to read.

The light faded around him as evening wore on and his thoughts strayed unbidden back to the battle. Only twenty-four hours ago he had been walking to his death. Now he was in Grimmauld Place, trying to comprehend.

This was freedom. This was what is was like being free from a curse and a doom.

This was what is was like having not to fear.

Voldemort was no longer, and Harry was lonely.

Something, a shred of a memory, or the flicker of a dream, raced through him. He sat up a little straighter, blinking in the sudden darkness. The candle flames were hesitating; they seemed to shrink, grow paler and then, were completely swallowed by the night.

With his heart pounding, Harry got to his feet. Letting out an angry hiss, the book flapped closed without his aid. He ignored it; his skin was prickling, but not like his scar used to do. This was different. An icy draft sifted through the drawing room to twine around his spine and make him shiver. He had not heard the door open and no one could Apparate into the house unless the enchantments prohibiting just that had somehow been lifted. The questions he should have asked Kingsley rushed over him: did he think that any surviving Death Eaters would come looking for Harry? Was there a chance any of them was still out there, bent on coming to take him out, to avenge the death of Voldemort? He had been foolish to not want to talk about it. If not dead, where was Yaxley now?

No sound came from the hallway. With his wand in a strong grip, Harry edged towards the doorway. The darkness was now so compact he could not even make out his own feet but he did not dare to risk a little light; if he could not see, he – hopefully – could not be seen. He crept closer and closer to the doorway, grateful for his earlier half-hearted cleaning session; there was no more broken glass on the floor and almost every chair and table had resumed its usual place.

The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he peered out into the hallway. Then, as though he had been deaf before, he now heard the sound of shallow breathing. Had he survived everything only to walk straight into the arms of some waiting henchman of Voldemort's? With his blood pounding in his ears he raised his wand, a jinx already on his tongue, when the candles in the drawing room burst into life again and the light of the street lamps outside poured in through the windows and carried all the way to where Harry stood; and the light fell upon a face, almost completely drained of colour, but so familiar that the sight of it stabbed Harry like a blade.

"Sirius?"

He barely knew he had opened his mouth, but the whisper echoed tauntingly down the hallway. The memory of something silvery-blue, of a gentle smile that was almost like a promise raced across his mind.

As though it pained him greatly, the man that might have been the very shadow of Death looked up, but when his grey gaze fell on Harry there was a flicker of life in it and Harry ran straight into the outstretched arms.

TBC