*A/N: I think I wrote something that's not going to be horrifically angsty. It may even *gasp* have a plot! Bear with me, I usually write angsty oneshots. Updates may not be super regular as I try to figure out where this is going (sorry). Also I use second person for a reason, it won't all be in second person, promise!*
You hurry down Diagon Alley, head bowed and fringe carefully flattened over your forehead, trying in vain to be invisible, and cursing Hermione who told you not to use the Cloak lightly.
People whisper, some point as you pass, but few dare to approach after what happened last time. In your head, you smirk in victory. On the outside, you flinch every time another's arm brushes yours. These days, you are terrified of being touched by strangers.
You reach your destination, emerge victorious, with several bottles of Ogden's Finest Firewhiskey and four dozen Butterbeers, stored safely in the ever-so-useful bag that Hermione so cleverly charmed, all those months ago. Tonight you are celebrating.
If an extra couple of the Finest make their way into your own, secretly charmed cloak pockets, well, who has to know?
You make your way back to the Leaky Cauldron's Floo, head still bowed, meeting no eyes, returning no greeting, relieved that so few try.
Around you, people peacefully go about their business. Some forget, scurry quickly, wands clenched in fists, before remembering that It's All Over Now. Everyone smiles. Everyone is always smiling these days, and when the looks turn brittle, the smiles crack, the eyes go glassy, we all look away.
It's All Over Now, and no one needs to be reminded of Before. Not with too many shops still boarded up, covered in graffiti. Not with the endless lists of those still missing, those found dead. Not when the scars still ache.
You sigh in relief when you reach the Floo, gratefully throw the glittering green dust into the fireplace, and clearly call out "The Burrow!" These days, you no longer mutter or choke. You know your way home, now.
At the Burrow, all is chaos. Molly is racing around, a pile of washing hovering behind her and an irate look on her face. Stepping out of the fireplace, you send her a smile, and steer clear. Upstairs you can hear the muffled sounds of an argument, accompanied by the occasional bang, as though a bushy-haired someone has given into to temptation and thumped a certain red-head with a large, heavy book. Accidentally, of course. Or possibly the Ghoul is getting restless in the attic. After his nearly year-long venture into the main house, complete with the comfort of a bed, he was reluctant to return to the draughty attic (though he grunted excitedly at the sight of the spiders on the wall. Ron had fainted at the sight, and had had to be levitated back downstairs).
Wafting through the entire house is a divine smell of roasting meat and baking cake, but a glance in the kitchen reveals Ginny, jabbing her wand at a pile of potatoes viciously. Hovering behind her are several gleaming knives, which occasionally are diverted to massacre unsuspecting vegetables. Trays full of delectable looking miniature chocolate tarts and assorted savouries litter the counters, and your fingers itch to pinch one and taste. Ginny's expression is even more irate than her mother's, though and she seems to muttering curses under her breath. You carefully levitate the bag containing the drinks onto a kitchen counter, and back away. The knives had seemed to jump to attention at your approach, and you rather like all your body parts where they are, thank you very much.
Deciding the atmosphere in the house is far too filled with people who are possibly on the brink of homicide, you wander outside, wondering forlornly when food will be deemed ready, since Ginny is notorious for taking as long as possible when cooking, as revenge for being made to do a chore she despises.
Arthur is standing in the yard, gazing wistfully at his garage, chaotic and full to bursting of all his Muggle bits and pieces. He has been told in no uncertain terms that it must be cleaned, organised and preferably vanished before the guests arrive. Molly has refused to let him back inside until it's done. He seems to have no idea where to start. You consider offering a hand, but decide that after spending the last two months helping with repairs at Hogwarts, you are sick of cleaning up other people's messes. You nod at him and offer a cheerful "Hello!" as you pass. He smiles at you vaguely, before turning back to the chaos, scratching his head.
Deciding the bright afternoon is just perfect for a leisurely stroll, you meander through the meadows surrounding the Burrow. Everything is post-card perfect, bright green grass and endless blue sky. For three weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts, it had rained, non-stop. The sky stayed an eerie grey-green, and the ground turned to mud. At the funerals you attended, everyone was huddled miserably under cloaks and umbrella charms, clutching each other to stop slipping. It was frigid too, the air dank and icy, with intermittent bursts of hail, weather more suited for November than June.
It had passed though, as weather must, and afterward the air seemed lighter, the sun brighter, without the taint of Dark Magic that had coated the horizon like smog for the previous year. Since then, the summer had been golden, warm and wonderful. With September drawing close, flecks of red and orange had begun to appear, a slight chill in the night. But the days still bloomed, a riot of colour and heat surrounding a world finally free from war, from fear.
You stand at the top of a hill, just watching the sun as it slowly begins to set. As the sky begins to purple, you turn and walk back the way you came, thinking of treats that are sure to be mouth-watering, if ungraciously prepared. Thinking of being surrounded by your loved ones, seeing them filled with joy. You got your Hogwarts letters today, invitations to return as "8th Years" and complete your education. This year, term will begin on October 1st, to ensure the castle is safe for everyone to return, and to give everyone a chance to grieve, and to heal. Professor McGonagall has been re-instated as Headmistress, and most of the Hogwarts teachers have elected to return. The thought of those who will be absent makes you ache, all those empty spaces that should be filled. You banish the thought though, determined that tonight will not be filled with sadness, like so many before.
Tonight you celebrate the fact that, thanks to months of hard-work, Hogwarts is able to open its doors. Celebrate the fact that the Wizarding World is moving on, prospering once more. Tonight is for joy.
As you walk back into the Burrow, you are greeted by a blast of light and noise. Bill is there, with a just-starting-to-show pregnant Fleur, who seems to glow even brighter. Behind her, Ron is looking slightly dumbstruck, but he shakes it off, giving you a grin and shouting "Oi! There he is! Told you he was just skiving off from chores!" Molly glances over at you, smiling fondly. Bustles up to you, platter of shortbread in hand. She passes you a piece and you bend and kiss her cheek, apologising for leaving everything. Patting your cheek, she dismisses you. "Oh Harry dear, don't be silly. You went to Diagon Alley for supplies, and I know how much you dislike it. You did your bit."
Wandering further into the crowd, you greet everyone, exchanging handshakes or backslaps. You nearly get bowled over by Luna, who embraces you so fiercely you have to catch your breath. Wearing bright turquoise robes, she looks luminous, even with the radishes cheerfully dangling from her ears. She snags you one of the mini tarts you had been eyeing earlier, and the pastry melts in your mouth.
Luna natters on about how excited she is to greet the Thestrals again, having missed them in the months since she has been at Hogwarts. "Although," she sighs, suddenly serious, "they'll be sad to see how many more can see them now. They do so love making new friends, but it upsets them, knowing why. They're very sensitive creatures, Thestrals." Her big eyes are misty, and impulsively you lean down and hug her. She smiles up at you, saying "Thank you Harry, you are always so lovely. The Thestrals think so too you know." You straighten up, laughing. Take a drink from your Firewhisky, throat tightening as you suddenly realise how many more "friends" the Thestrals will have this year.
The alcohol burns all the way down to your suddenly nauseated stomach. You feel strange. Your head starts to spin, your heart lurches and your hands begin to shake. The glass you're holding tumbles from your hand, and your vision blurs. Dimly, you hear Luna repeating your name, in rising panic. You think how strange it for always-calm Luna to sound panic-stricken, before your world turns black and you hit the floor.
Miles away, in a silent, freezing Manor, Draco Malfoy wakes gasping, fingers still outstretched to catch a glass, seconds away from smashing on the floor. He can still taste the burning glow of Firewhiskey in the back of his throat. Gazing unseeingly into the dark, he raises a hand to his forehead, convinced for a moment he can still feel the imprint of a lightning bolt scar on his skin.
*A.N: Constructive feedback highly appreciate! Not at all used to writing in this style, so feedback and thoughts appreciated :) *