Luna thinks that this is perhaps the most beautiful funeral she's been to, aside from Professor Dumbledore's, of course. The sky is a clear, cloudless blue and the sun shines on the small groups clustered around the graves. There is birdsong nearby and somewhere insects chirp happily at the coming spring.
The caskets themselves are a stunning polished dark wood. Draped over them is an amazing array of roses in every color imaginable. The mourners around the caskets are discreet, with no more gnashing of teeth or wailing than is deemed proper by modern polite society. Luna hopes that her own funeral will be this lovely when she dies.
This is the first time she's really seen anyone since the wedding and the fire. There are so many people here that she knows, that know what she's been through. She feels calm, the panicky feeling that has been pervading her life since the attacks on Ottery St. Catchpole dissipating. Even though she hasn't said anything to anyone and no one has said anything to her, she feels at ease.
The wind lifts her curls on the breeze as she stares out over the cemetery. Fleur's family has come, of course, and Luna watches as her little sister—Gabrielle, she thinks the girl's name was—dabs at her eyes with a linen handkerchief. There is a warm hand on her shoulder and she turns around to find Neville standing there. He looks surprised to see that it's her, but smiles his shy little gap-toothed grin anyway. "Hi, Luna," he says, and something warms inside her.
"Hi," she responds. She finds herself walking with him and talking about nothing in particular. When he asks to see her again tomorrow, she smiles for the first time since her father's death and says yes.
::
Draco's fingers are cold, so he buries them beneath Harry's warm shirt. It makes perfect sense to him, and as he snuggles in to Harry's chest, he hears a contented sigh above him. "What comes next?" Draco asks, pressing his face against Harry's chest.
"I don't know. It's almost spring, for real this time," Harry replies, running his fingertips over the ridges of Draco's spine. "Do you want to stay here?"
"No," Draco shudders at the thought of staying after everything that has happened. "I don't want to stay here."
"Do you want to move in with me? I'm thinking of going to get a flat," Harry asks, tugging gently on Draco's shirt. He peels it off before pressing himself into his warmth again, and Harry continues to pet him like a cat.
"Only if your flat lives up to my expectations," he murmurs muzzily. "I expect to be pampered, Potter."
"Anything you want," Harry's laughter is quiet. "I'll give you anything you want."
"Anything? Oh, Potter, you know just how to spoil a boy," Draco puffs softly in silent chuckles across Harry's chest. Harry grins down at him, then pulls him up for a kiss. It is soft and sweet and slow, and nothing like any other kisses before this one. The heat builds up between them then, and Draco pushes up against him. This sweetness is a little frightening, so he changes it, nipping at Harry's bottom lip with his teeth and sliding his cupped hand between Harry's legs. The hardness he finds there makes his breath come faster, in short little pants, as he traces the seam of Harry's trousers over the bulge. Someone groans, and Draco doesn't know who it is. It doesn't matter, as Harry's hand is on the button at his waist and then the zipper and then pressing inward.
His pulse pounds heavy against Harry's hand—he can feel the vein in his cock throbbing as fingers slowly and mercilessly tease him to aching. He can do nothing but gasp and groan and feel, and it is all too soon when he feels his orgasm rushing up on him. He tries to push against it, but Harry grips harder and pulls faster, and Draco is shuddering against him, lips stretching into a cry as his eyes screw up against the feeling. He can feel the muscles in his legs twitching and his toes are curling, and when the sensations wash over him, everything goes white for what seems like hours as Draco pulses, hot, slick, and sticky, all over his pants, shirt, and Harry's hand. He can feel Harry rutting against his back and his spent cock twitches in interest.
His laugh is breathless as he pulls at Harry's hair to tug him down for another kiss. "You're rather good at that," he says as he rolls over. He is faced with the rumpled front of Harry's trousers, wrinkled from grinding into Draco's arse. There is a wet spot on the front, and after a brief moment of hesitation, he reaches up to pop open the button. His own open trousers begin to slide down his legs as he wriggles on his belly to find a comfortable spot. Harry braces himself on his shoulder as he lifts his hips and yanks his pants and trousers down. His cock waves in Draco's face, and he feels like laughing, but he can't do anything but grin widely and wrap a hand around the base.
"I've had a lot of practice. On myself, of course," Harry amends, his ears going red. His eyes are riveted to Draco's face, there between his spread knees, and when he licks his lips, he feels more powerful than he did when he first got his wand.
I did this, Draco thinks, looking up the length of the body splayed before him. The thighs tremble with his breath, the chest jumps spasmodically with little, hitching gasps, the eyes are wide and dilated. This is all because of me, he wonders, and turns his attention back to the task at hand: Harry's cock. It's longish, he supposes, but not overlong. It's thickish, perhaps wide enough to stretch his jaw a little, but not enough to make the task unsightly or make him drool everywhere. It's purpling at the top, where the blood is pooling, and the entire thing bobs in the open air. He finds himself smiling uncontrollably at the expression of lust on Harry's face, but he's never sucked cock before—despite what Weasley might say—so he carefully sticks his tongue out and licks a small test swipe up the underside, along the crown.
Harry's groan is sweet, so he does it again and again, until the tip of his tongue is dry. Then he wets his lips and stares at the little bead of fluid at the top of Harry's cock. He's not really sure he wants that in his mouth, but he can't keep going without doing it and he really wants to keep going, so after a moment he puts his tongue flat on the purple, oozing head of it and licks across the drop. He registers two things at once: the fluid is bitter and salty, and makes him gag, but Harry's entire body shakes when he does it. Grimacing against the taste, Draco braces himself on his elbows and pulls the head of it into his mouth.
It's a bit like sucking on someone's elbow, he thinks, all fleshy and tasting like skin, and if someone's elbow dripped messy ejaculate onto his tongue. But no one's ever let out the unholy groan that Harry does when someone's sucking on their elbow. He smirks around the flesh and dips his tongue into the little divot on the top. Harry's fingers scrabble at the sheets beneath him, and when he arches up, hips bucking, Draco thinks he's going to choke but it's alright because Harry's seed is filling his mouth and Harry himself is slumping bonelessly to the bed. His eyes water and he spits the bitter, alkaline substance into the palm on his hand, wiping it on the side of the mattress, then nuzzles into Harry's stomach. The room reeks of sex and sweat and boys, but he cannot bring himself to care when Harry looks at him with brilliant green eyes and that sexy smile full of promises on his face.
When they kiss, Draco is surprised to find himself turgid against Harry's thigh, and when Harry moves down his body, kissing a line down his chest, he feels himself swelling again. His fingers dig indentions in Harry's shoulders as he urges him toward his goal. Harry's breath is warm against his cock, and the first swipe of tongue makes him jump. Harry barely breathes laughter over him as he is engulfed in warm, wet heat. It's like nothing he's ever felt before. Draco throws his head back and makes a keening cry in the back of his throat. He's glad that Harry wanked him earlier, because he wants to savor every amazing second of this. He's sure that nothing could ever feel as brilliant as the suction around him until Harry starts to bob his head, and suddenly he's not so sure that taking the edge off has helped as much as he thought it did. He mewls helplessly, his chest burning for air as Harry does wicked, wicked things with his tongue at the base of his cock. He's of half a mind to ask Harry where he learned to do this and if he'd mind giving lessons when the all-encompassing white sneaks up on him again.
As he comes down, he registers Harry's warmth next to him, pressing comfortably against his side. Harry presses kisses against his brow and he lifts his chin, asking silently. Their lips meet in a slide of tongues, and Draco feels himself begin to drift off.
"Move in with me," Harry says, his fingers carding through Draco's hair. He suddenly feels closer to this boy with bad eyesight and messy hair than he has ever felt with anyone else in his life. It's a frightening feeling, like the floor is dropping away and the roof has been ripped away at the same time. There's nothing to keep him from falling, he thinks, and he clutches at Harry's shoulder.
"I'm not a good person, Harry," he says. "I'm bigoted, mean, and when I don't get my way I act like a prat."
"Oh, is that what that is?" Harry's chest shakes with laughter. "I always thought it was because you were a rich, spoiled brat." The word were is key in the sentence, and instead of feeling hurt or angry, the unnamable emotion swells in his chest.
"I don't want to move too fast," Draco tells him, and he knows that this sounds odd with the taste of Harry's come in his mouth and sweat cooling between their bodies. Harry understands though, somehow, and no more is said as they curl closer together and drift off to sleep.
::
The wedding comes as a surprise to exactly no one. They've all been waiting for it for the past year, but Remus still feels butterflies in his stomach whenever he looks at Tonks and thinks, "That's my wife."
It wasn't an elaborate affair, just a trip to the courthouse and a large dinner made by Molly, but Remus finds himself unimaginably happy to see the simple band on Nymphadora's finger. He can't call her Tonks anymore, he supposes, and it feels odd to call her Lupin, so he supposes she'll have to either let him make up a nickname or settle for Nymphadora. He calls her Nympho once, jokingly, right after the wedding, and she'd pulled him into the bed and not let him up for hours. They're far more careful now, and Remus is considering a vasectomy. He feels a little bit like the stray that is deciding to neuter himself, but if he doesn't dwell on it, it doesn't bother him very much.
He's a bit sad whenever he thinks about her "illness," as they've taken to calling it. It bothers him more than he lets her know, and more than he thought it would, to think of their child—his pup, the wolf snarls—being flushed down the drain. He tries not to think about it often because it leaves him upset, but when he thinks of Harry, and how James got to have his son, even if he wasn't there to raise him, something bitter rises to the back of his throat. It feels like acid but tastes like jealousy, and it always makes him feel like a bad person.
I am the last of the marauders, he thinks, looking out the window at Harry, Ron, Hermione and Draco play outside on the back lawn. They are playing some new game that they have made up, a combination of rugby and monkey in the middle. It's a rough game, and Draco and Ron are using it as an excuse to tough each other up. Hermione scolds them visibly, and Harry laughs, his face so much like James's in this instance that Remus's heart hurts.
He remembers being that age, almost as if it were yesterday. He remembers playing Quidditch in the field behind James's house while Lily played with the rainbows shining from her engagement ring. He remembers lying in bed next to Sirius and listening to him plan their future, and it always involved lots of hot birds with perky tits and living happily ever after. Even Peter brings back fond memories, and when he remembers the time James had sent him to steal one of Lily's bras to wank over, a laugh burbles up, even after all these years. Lily'd stomped on Peter's tail, thinking he was a real rat, and when she'd found out she'd slapped James so hard her ring had fallen off. It had taken them almost a week to make up after that, but then the wedding had had to be expedited to prepare for Baby Harry.
But to remember the good times is to remember the bad, as well, and he can't remember James and Lily's wedding without remembering that Peter and Sirius had fought over who was going to be the best man. It was Sirius, of course; there was never any doubt that that was how it was going to be. From the beginning everyone had known, but when the Maid of Honor, Miss Janella Waterford, had asked Remus to be her date, it was Peter who was sitting on the floor as the four of them—Remus, Sirius, James and Lily—had chattered enthusiastically at the table reserved for the bridal party. At the time, it hadn't seemed a big deal to anyone, but the wedge that had slowly fallen between them grew wider that day, and before long, Peter was busy when they were having dinner at the Potters', and Peter was busy when Sirius and Remus had moved into the flat paid for with Mrs. Black's gold. Eventually they stopped inviting him, and eventually he stopped coming.
Peter was always too eager, Remus thinks. He'd seemed too willing to stand up for his friends. Too willing to agree. Too willing by far to say, "Oh, of course you're right. How could I have ever thought differently?" Compared to the rest of them, who fought each other like children to take what they wanted—Remus is distinctly reminded of the time James had punched Sirius for ogling Lily's bum—Peter is pure and selfless. A saint.
Remus can always look back at it now and connect the clues. He can see perfectly how Peter had worked them, manipulating them expertly into doing exactly what he wanted. But there's no point to this sort of memory. There's nothing he can do to fix it, so he chooses to focus on his happy memories of the five of them together. If some of these bring to mind an unsavory thought, he simply remembers that it is the tragedy of what happened that makes him appreciate the happiness all the more.
::
He isn't really sure what he wants to do, now that he has the freedom to do it. Severus has been the potions master at Hogwarts for so long that he's almost forgotten how to do anything else. For the first time in his life, he has no connections to anything, and it feels simultaneously like the freest and the scariest thing he's ever felt in his life. He has no job, no house, and most of the Wizarding World thinks he's dead, so his options are rather limited, but the knowledge that he can—for the first time in his life—do what he wants is exhilarating.
Even though he knows that he can do whatever he wants, he faintly registers a desire in the back of his mind to teach again. He tells the voice quite succinctly to kindly shut the hell up, and reminds it that the little snot-nosed balls of pestilence are more often than not more trouble than they are worth. A voice that sounds eerily like Albus laughs softly in his ear and reminds him that he, too, was once one of those selfsame snot-nosed balls of pestilence. He summarily ignores it.
Minerva has already told him that if she is still the Headmistress when the war is over, he is welcome to either of his old positions, but he thinks that perhaps he may not take her up on the offer. At least at first, he concedes. He wants to see what happens first. He's always had the idea to go into potions production, perhaps with Wolfsbane or other vital potions that want for a steady hand and a talent for stopping death in a bottle.
For now, though, he is mostly stuck at the Order's headquarters. They are the only people who know that he is not dead, and since Nymphadora's…problem, she has been put on open-ended leave of absence. It is a polite way of forcing her to retire, since the position is unpaid, and after she manages to crawl out of bed again, she sends the Ministry an owl telling them what they can do with their unpaid leave of absence. He is glad to see this bit of spark in her, this glimmer of the girl she'd been when he'd taught her. She'd been awful at potions—almost as bad as Longbottom, he thinks, or maybe Potter—but she'd had more than enough spirit in her that he'd known she'd get whatever she wanted.
Most people probably wouldn't believe it, but Severus remembers almost every student he's ever taught. Some of them he remembers because they were good students—Draco comes to mind, or perhaps that Chang girl who's boyfriend had died in the Tri-Wizard Championship—and some because their potions are so abominable that he wonders they don't poison themselves cooking—the Longbottoms and a majority of his Hufflepuff students. Some he remembers because they are know-it-alls, like Granger, and some he remembers because of the havoc they'd caused, like most of the Weasleys he's ever taught. Some he remembers simply because there is something memorable about them, like Omar Stufflebean's enormous nose or the way Drusilla Quince would chew on her quills during tests. The only one he remembers for his cheek is the famous Harry Potter, and he supposes that only Potter would have dared be mouthy with him; raised by Muggles but wildly famous, Potter is often a strange juxtaposition between the best and worst of the Wizarding world.
He isn't sure what he thinks of Potter's relationship with Draco yet. He knows that Lucius would be furious if he knew, but he also knows that Draco can't base his decisions on Lucius's opinion anymore. He seems to have honestly learned his lesson from the first time, and Severus feels jealous of Draco not for the first time. He wishes wholeheartedly that he'd never gotten caught up with the things he'd done when he was younger. Still, he thinks, of all of the ways things could have turned out, this isn't the most unfortunate outcome. He is finally away from the ranks of the Death Eaters and Draco is safe, so he supposes that things have mostly come out on top.
For the time being, he is content simply to hide himself away at number twelve, waiting for the war to be over. When it is, he will have a few decisions to make, but for now, all he can do is wait.
::
Charlie is glad he's managed to get his old job back. The Romanian air is refreshing after being cooped up so long in England. Working with the dragons is the most fulfilling thing he's ever done, and it's easy to forget that anything is wrong in the world as he leads them from one place to another, keeping an eye on them to make sure they don't escape into the countryside. The bright spring sunshine is like an equalizer, bringing his life back into focus with an unerring clarity he's never had before.
The war is going to begin again, and soon. There's no denying that fact. Every day the Order sends him new reports of Death Eater circles moving around the world. His work with the dragons is beginning to change slightly, as he trains them to guard buildings and places. He suspects they're going to be shipping out a batch to replace the Dementors soon, and he only hopes he's done a good enough job. His work is important in the grand scheme of things, and he never lets himself forget it.
Dad still refuses to talk to him and Mum sends his letters back unopened. It hurts, and he doesn't wonder anymore why Percy refuses to visit at holidays. He hopes that someday he can repair the burned bridges between himself and his family, but for now the wounds are still too raw and fresh. He hasn't seen another Weasley since the funeral, when no one talked to him and he pretended not to be bothered. He'd tried desperately to keep his eyes away from her, but in the sun for the first time, she had been so beautiful she'd sparkled. He'd been almost unable to tear his eyes away from her, even after Fred and George had stepped between them, twin looks of disgust on their faces.
He thinks it'll just take time and that, too, will fade. He remembers the way she'd smiled when the family had gone to Egypt to see Bill, and the way she'd cried when she was seven and Ron had shoved her out of a tree. Charlie thinks about everything he knows about her, and feels lucky that he knows her as well as he does. Not everyone gets the opportunity to know their lover as well as he knows her. Then again, not everyone is sleeping with their baby sister, a voice in the back of his head says, and for once he can't ignore it. Here in Romania, far away from her smile or the almost shy way she would rub against him, it's easier to realize that yes, he was shagging his sister. They'd almost destroyed their family with it, but even this knowledge doesn't make him want her less.
When she shows up one day, her yellow sundress fluttering in the wind and her hair floating around her, he thinks she's quite possibly the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Her limbs are long and healthy again after the family has moved back into the Burrow, and she moves like the seventeen year old woman that she has somehow become. Just the flare of her hips, the inverted comma of the hollow of her back, the dip between her collarbones and the sweat gathered on the nape of her neck make him hopelessly hard for her.
She looks so sweetly out of place in this rugged world of men that Charlie can barely believe she's really here. Her eyes light up when she sees him, and when she rushes over and he wraps her in his arms, it's like he's never been gone. She's not supposed to be here, he knows, but he can't bring himself to ask her how she got here. He's bewildered that she's here at all, and the smell of little white flowers overwhelms him as he clutches her to him.
All in all, she stays a week. That's all the time she's allowed, and even though they both want her to stay longer, she can't. Mum thinks she's visiting Lavender Brown, and if she isn't back at the Burrow on time, that's where they'll look for her. She cries a little before the portkey activates, and she promises she'll try to get Mum and Dad to let him come back for Christmas. She tells him she wants to come back next summer, but he knows that in a little over a year and a half, anything can happen. He tells her not to make promises because things might change: she might meet a boy at school, or there may be an accident. He doesn't want her tied to him because of a promise that she'll regret later. He presses his lips against her eyelids and lets go of her just before the portkey takes her away.
His little house feels empty without her in it. Everywhere he finds little touches that say, "Ginny was here"—there are flowers on the table, his clothes are neatly folded, and the whole bedroom smells like her. He already misses the comfortable, domestic days when they pretended they weren't related, pretended that they were just another happy young couple that has moved in together. They shouldn't get their hopes up; he knows that a relationship like theirs can't last, but he'd tried not to think of it as they'd christened almost every surface in the house.
A small smile tugs at his lips as he begins to count the days until Christmas.
::
Hermione is glad as she shoulders her bag that she is going to finally be seeing the last of Grimmauld Place. She is tired of its cold bricks and the dark and draughty hallways. She's relieved to be putting it behind her, and though she's been asked to help the Order of the Phoenix with its horcrux hunting, she has already made plans to go home. She wants to take her placement exams, perhaps go to University. She's thinking of studying abroad, and getting out of Britain for a while. No one can blame her, after all, for wanting to get away from the slowly building war at home.
Her dad is going to be by in a moment to pick her up, and she stands on the curb outside, basking in the warm spring sunlight. Ron is watching her from the window. They've been on-again off-again for a year now, but Hermione supposes that this time they are truly off. For good. She's got her own life to sort out and he his, and between the two of them they can't seem to settle on a happy medium. That's life, she thinks flippantly, and she hopes she'll meet a gorgeous new guy overseas.
She's already got Harry's new address, and she's made Molly promise to owl if anything important happens or if they need anything. Ginny'd tucked a letter under her pillow last night apologizing for her behavior, and though Hermione doubts they'll ever be close again the way they were in school, at least they're on speaking terms again, something new that's changed since Christmas, when Ginny'd called her a hideous beast and stopped talking to her. She still doesn't know what she did to the other girl to make her dislike her so vehemently, but she supposes that if Ginny's willing to forgive and move on, so is she.
In the Prophet, the cover story is that of the discovery of Peter Pettigrew's body last week. He'd been poisoned, the article states, but as he'd been a Death Eater, there is little to no rush to find his killer. She'd smiled at Professor Snape when she read that and he, to her surprise, had smirked back. He's staying at number twelve, since he really has nowhere else to go. Draco is staying too, but she sees that state of affairs lasting all of a week before he gives in and moves in with Harry.
All around her, everything seems to be coming alive. As the world wakes up from its winter slumber, so do the people in it. There was a Death Eater attack on a small city in Wales two days ago, the first attack since October. She knows she's got only a small window of time to get out before there's no way out. Part of her feels like she's a coward, running away to leave the others to solve everything for her, but more of her realizes that if she stays, her chances of making it aren't good. The Wizarding world will need her later, when everything is over, to help rebuild. Right now, she'd only get herself killed, and if there's anything so pointless as wasted life, Hermione Granger has never heard of it.
Her dad's car pulls up to the curb and her heart flips as she realizes that it is the first time she's seen him since she'd left for Bill's wedding almost a year ago. Her mum is in the front seat, and her eyes are wet with joy and a tiny bit of fear. Hermione slides into the back seat and looks out the window as Grimmauld Place fades from view forever, or at least a little while.
::
Harry is lounging on the futon in the middle of his apartment, Draco's head on his stomach and his fingers combing through the soft blond hair when the owl arrives. It's carrying an official-looking letter of heavy parchment, and he only recognizes it as one of the school's owls when he takes the letter from it and wanders into the kitchenette to fetch it one of Hedwig's owl treats.
He stares at the letter indecisively for a minute before he decides to open it. The inside is written with the same green ink that he remembers from when he was eleven. Draco's eyes are on him as he reads it.
"Dear Mr. Potter," the letter begins.
"In the face of shadows and adversity, often it is the comfortable and familiar that suffers the first penalty, and it is these things—the restoration of them—that bring our confidence. For over one thousand years, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has been a shining beacon of hope when all is lost. We have never closed our doors to those needing help, and have always striven to provide shelter, both physically and emotionally, throughout the storm—with one exception."
"Last year, the security wards at Hogwarts were breached and several students were injured. Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster and a professor that I'm certain has touched thousands of lives, not least yours and my own, was killed during a battle between supporters of He Who Must Not be Named and the staff over ownership of the castle. Hogwarts' esteemed Professors, with the noted assistance of our young pupils, were victorious, but at heavy cost. We were forced, in the interests of safety and our students' well-being to close our doors for the first time since our four founders first opened them."
"As elected Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I would like to invite you to the opening of our doors on Tuesday, September 1st, 1998 at 11 a.m. There will be a brief ceremony and we would like all students of Hogwarts—past, present, and future—to attend. Afterward, there will be a reception in the Great Hall and visitors are invited to wander through the Awards Room to remember their days at school or dream of coming adventures. There will be a reading from Hogwarts: A History, to remind us all of where we have come from, and speeches given by this year's Head Boy and Head Girl to show us where we are going."
"It has been a long, cold winter, but Hogwarts' torches will always be a light to remind Wizardkind of the sun."
"Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry"
Harry feels his hands shaking as he finishes the letter, and he closes his eyes. When he opens them, they are blurry with tears. A small slip of parchment falls from the letter, and when he picks it up, he finds it written in the same spiky hand that graded his Transfiguration essays in school. It mentions briefly that all students who missed their NEWTs because the school was closed are invited to sit their exams next spring, with the current seventh year students. He smiles through his tears and brings the letter to Draco, who curls against him to read it. There's no way to know where he'll be in a year, but he hopes it'll be at Hogwarts, taking his tests. After that, no one knows, but he hopes to at least finish things the way they should end.
He takes Draco's hand in his own and Draco murmurs distractedly against his arm. So many things have changed in the last year that he feels like he's been spinning on a merry-go-round that is finally beginning to slow. When Dumbledore had died, if someone had told him that a year later he'd be playing house with Draco Malfoy in a flat in the suburbs of London, he would have laughed in their face. He'd been so hurt and angry with everyone that he'd run off, a habit he has to sheepishly admit he's indulged in too often in the past year.
As he looks at Draco in the fading light of sunset, he still sees Alexandre in there somewhere, but he realizes that he doesn't need a disguise to forgive someone. He doesn't need to pretend that Draco didn't let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, just as he doesn't need to pretend that Snape didn't kill Dumbledore. To hide behind lies and pretend you can't see them is stupid, and any forgiveness given by someone who blinds themselves like that rings hollow. He knows that Draco still has nightmares about that night in the Headmaster's office, and he knows that Snape will never forgive himself for what he has done. It's not his place to make them feel bad for things that they did in the past, because heaping hate on someone can't fix what's happened.
He wonders if this is what it feels like to grow up, and some mornings when he looks at himself in the mirror to shave, he sees a grown man looking back at him that he can barely recognize. This man looks happy, and it brings a smile to their faces as Harry thinks that perhaps he may have found that little piece of himself that he's been looking for. Sure, some things haven't changed. It's still not safe for him to leave the flat often, and Draco isn't allowed to leave at all. He received a death threat yesterday from someone claiming that it was his fault Voldemort was still out in the world killing people. He doesn't pretend that tomorrow he might not be attacked and killed by Death Eaters because it's possible. Anything is. There's a long road ahead of them all, filled with Death Eaters and horcruxes, danger and possible injury or even death, and pretending it isn't going to happen to him only leaves him unprepared for when it does.
He just feels like he's coming out of a long, strange winter's nap, and he feels more refreshed and ready to face whatever happens than he's ever been before.