War Is Over

by Pitry

In the morning after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry felt tired. In the morning after the morning after, he was downright exhausted. The war may be over, but there are still battles to be fought.

2. Ceremonies

A/N- A couple of scenes in this chapter may be familiar to those who read my story What's Past Is Prologue. You'll have to indulge me - they were written with both stories in mind, Prologue just got finished first!

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War Is Over: Chapter 2/17 - Ceremonies

Harry was slightly disoriented when he woke up, not long after the break of dawn. He had become so used to sleeping in strange beds, or strange places, that he wasn't quite sure where he was for a moment - surely he couldn't be sleeping in Ron's room? After all, the Weasleys - were no longer in danger, now that Voldemort was dead, he remembered, and for a moment felt true relief.

And the indecision of last night became a decision. It was like Aberforth had told him - there were some benefits to being the hero who had saved the wizarding world, and he was going to enjoy a specific one this morning. The temporary Minister for Magic will listen to what he had to say on the subject of Draco Malfoy. So he got up and dressed up as quietly as possible, and tiptoed out of the room beneath the attic and down into the kitchen.

The kitchen was still empty. It was too early in the morning, even for Molly. Last night's dinner dishes were all dried in their place, except for one big plate - fresh pieces of toast jumped into it all on their own after their time in the toaster. The floor was being swept by a broom, and in the corner, a small column of garden gnomes were trying to escape the cat.

Harry smiled to himself at the sight. Even after all these years, he never stopped being surprised by this magical kitchen. He walked for a moment outside of the kitchen, to look at the equally quiet living room. On the wall, right outside of the kitchen, his gaze met Molly's magical clock, and his smile died out.

Eight hands were resting on the word 'home'. Only eight. The ninth was gone, never to be seen again.

It was wrong.

"I'm of half a mind to get rid of this damn thing," Harry jumped when he heard the voice behind him. It was only Arthur, all dressed up and ready for work, who had gone down to the kitchen in search of breakfast. "I can't stand to look at it myself, and Molly starts crying every time she sees it. It's more trouble than it's worth."

Harry had nothing to say - he, too, thought it might not be a bad idea. He followed Arthur back into the kitchen, where he grabbed a piece of toast from the toaster and applied generous amounts of butter on it, and they ate in silence.

Harry and Arthur used the Floo network to get to the Ministry. The Floo network was open again, opened so soon after the fall of the previous Minister, Voldemort's puppet. Pius Thicknesse was now being interrogated by experienced Aurors, claiming to have been put under the Imperius Curse by the hands of Voldemort himself. Arthur sighed when he told Harry this, as they were walking down the hall, where the ugly statue put by Voldemort's regime was yet to be taken down - the Ministry had more important things on its mind.

"It's just like last time. So many people are coming out now, saying they were under his influence. And just like last time, we haven't found the method yet to sort them all out."

"So what are you doing?"

"Looking for inconsistencies. Everyone's busy with that, that's why that thing - " he pointed at the big statue, on which the words Magic is Might were clearly visible - "is still up. No one has the time to take care of it, we're all up to our ears in work. But we should get to it soon. It gives everyone the chills, and if we want to make sure everybody knows we're starting a new page, we need to do symbolic things as well as useful things. I've told Kingsley that yesterday, we've got time until that Skeeter woman gets bored with praising us and starts looking for a sensational headline, and we'll be giving it to her if that thing is still up."

"Don't worry. When Rita Skeeter gets bored, she finds something to write about, and it wouldn't matter at all whether that statue is there or not."

"True enough," Arthur scowled in dislike, just as they reached the security wizard.

"Good morning, James," Arthur greeted him, and earned half a greet in return, which turned in mid-sentence to spluttering and shocked staring as the guard noticed Harry.

"Good morning, James," Harry repeated Arthur's greeting, and earned a half choked "Good morning, Mr. Potter" before the wizard jumped from his seat and shook Harry's hand enthusiastically. "And I just wanted to say, from all of us here in the Ministry... thank you, Mr. Potter. Thank you."

Harry mumbled something and tried to get himself out of the handshake. When he finally succeeded, he and Arthur continued down the corridor, Arthur doing his best not to laugh. He stopped being amused a short while afterwards, as the same scene played over and over again, and their short journey towards the office on the first floor had become ridiculously long. They were stopped by every person they passed in the corridor - every Ministry employee, every guest to the building, they were all shocked to see Harry, all enthusiastic, and all failed to consider that maybe the person before them had reacted the same way, and the person before that one, too.

"Maybe you should have brought your invisibility cloak with you, Harry," Arthur whispered after they were stopped for the fourteenth time. "I have to tell you, I think you're doing the right thing, going with Hermione." They had told the Weasleys of their plan the night before, and although Ron seemed to want to go with them, he understood why it was better he stayed and Harry went.

"I'm getting a bit less sure," Harry whispered his own reply. "If they're like this now, how would they be if I'm gone for a couple of weeks."

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment they heard other voices - Kingsley Shacklebolt and another wizard were arguing down the corridor, next to Kingsley's office.

"What do you mean, it's gone?" Kingsley asked sharply.

"We put it in the vault, like you said, and this morning someone went to check, and it wasn't there," answered the wizard, looking thoroughly miserable.

"You're sure this is where you've put it?"

"Yes, Minister. It's - well, I suppose it's possible goblins got in here and took it, but - "

"I hope you're not suggesting the Ministry of Magic is so ill protected that unknown guests can walk in, take whatever they like, and get away unnoticed?"

"I... I mean, we don't... it shouldn't be, there's no sign..."

Kingsley sighed and lifted his head. His exasperated face lightened up considerably when he saw Harry and Arthur. "Harry! Arthur! Come in. We'll finish this later," he told the wizard in front of him, who seized the opportunity to vanish.

"I heard you were coming," Kingsley told Harry with a smile. "Three different people asked me by now what you were doing here."

"What did you tell them?"

"That you were planning on becoming the next Minister," Kingsley joked. "Come in, come in."

Harry had never been to the office of the Minister himself. Unlike the Ministry building, it wasn't meant to impress, but to be functional. There was no sign here of grandiose design of the great entrance or of the courtrooms. Just a big desk - full of paperwork, Harry noted, and couldn't help feel sorry for poor Kingsley - some chairs, and pictures on the wall. Some were portraits - by the inscription underneath them, paintings of old Ministers, snoozing inside the frames. But Harry suspected they were not really asleep. At Hogwarts there were portraits like these, of old headmasters, and the old and powerful wizards had a tendency to stick their noses into matters that didn't belong to them even after their death, offering advice and making comments. Harry had no doubt this lot were very much the same.

But not all were portraits - some were simply photographs. Soon, Harry realised why - those were the Ministers who were still alive. Near the bookcase, in front of the fireplace, he could see the photograph of Cornelius Fudge, even as just next to him stood a portrait of Rufus Scrimgeour.

Rufus Scrimgeour was not feigning sleep. Instead, his portrait looked directly at Harry, a smile on his face. Despite their differences when he was alive, Scrimgeour did not seem to hold a grudge against Harry in death.

After Scrimgeour, though, there was only an old painting of the tiniest of wizards, with no inscription on it. Pius Thicknesse was not recognised by this office as a Minister for Magic.

Behind Harry, Arthur walked in, and Kingsley closed the door. Harry turned to look at him. "I'm glad you're here, Harry," Kingsley said, and offered the both of them chairs. "There were a couple of questions I wanted to ask you."

Harry looked at him in confusion. "You wanted to ask me?" he asked, unsure what to make of that statement. Surely whatever the Ministry wanted with him in the past was irrelevant now?

"I remember talking with - several other people, as it happens, and hearing that you wanted to become an Auror."

"Yeah, I wanted to," Harry answered without thinking, and Kingsley looked at him closely.

"Have you changed your mind? Or do you still want to be an Auror?"

Harry was about to open his mouth and say that no, he hasn't, but then stopped. Has he changed his mind? He had done nothing in the past year but fight dark wizards and their schemes. Was this really what he wanted to do with his life? He wasn't quite sure, but what he did know that there was nothing else he could think of that he could do.

"Yes," he said, and believed the word.

"Good. You know quite a lot, no doubt about it, and obviously you have proved yourself in quite an amazing fashion, but I think going through the Auror training course would have its benefits, even for you. We are starting a course in September, as the Ministry is in dire need of Aurors, and we would be happy to have you enrolled there. Ron already said he will join us, too - I talked to him yesterday. Oh, don't worry, I know he said nothing - " Kingsley added, interpreting Harry's expression correctly - "we asked him not to talk to you about it, as I wanted to ask you personally. I wasn't quite sure you'd still be interested, you see, and I didn't want young Mr. Weasley to put any unfair pressure on you on the subject."

Harry couldn't help but smile. Yes, this was Kingsley. If he stayed Minister for Magic, things might actually work out for once.

"You said you wanted to ask me a couple of things?" he asked, now completely at ease.

"Oh, yes. I was hoping you could help me with a small riddle. You wouldn't know anything about a disappearance of a body from the Hogwarts dungeons, would you?"

Kingsley's piercing eyes looked straight at Harry. He knew. Of course he knew.

"I think," Harry said carefully, "that it's one of those things that are better left as a mystery." It wasn't much of an answer, but then, Kingsley wasn't really curious. And he seemed to accept this answer, smiling in response to Harry's words.

"It will be... a mystery, then?"

"Yes," Harry said decidedly and stared at the wall above Kingsley's head. Kingsley didn't pursue the matter any further.

Instead, he offered Harry a cup of tea. "Sugar?" he asked.

"Just one, thanks."

Kingsley handed him over a cup of tea, and then looked at Harry for a moment. "While I would be flattered if you came all this way because I had something to say, Harry, I'm assuming you came here with something you wanted?"

"Yeah. I heard you have Draco Malfoy in custody."

"He is a Death Eater. We are rounding up all the remaining Death Eaters, for the trials."

"He didn't want to be a Death Eater."

Kingsley sighed. "I realise he was a classmate of yours, Harry - "

"We've hated each other from the moment we've met," Harry cut across him. "We were never friends. I'm not trying to cover up for him."

"He has the Dark Mark on his arm."

"It wasn't his choice."

"Harry, many people really were put under the Imperius Curse. We're aware of that. But those who were branded with the Dark Mark, those who became Death Eaters, they didn't act under anyone's control. What he did - "

" - Was stupid," Harry stopped Kingsley again. "And not his choice. He couldn't kill Dumbledore, even though he was supposed to. And he didn't tell them who I was, even though he could. He saved my life, Kingsley. Voldemort would have got me sooner, with no way for me to defend myself. It wasn't his choice."

Kingsley got up from his chair and paced around the room. He stared at the pictures that decorated the walls. Right before him, Cornelius Fudge looked smugly down at the new Minister, his picture taken at his hour of glory, not long after Ireland's victory in the Quidditch World Cup.

Kingsley looked at the picture for quite a long time. And then he turned back to the room, and his eyes were fixed on Harry's.

"He'd have to stand trial," he said, and there was no room for argument.

"Can I at least see him?" Harry asked, annoyed with Kingsley's refusal to understand.

"Yes, yes, of course. He's in Azkaban, I'll arrange for him to be transported - "

"There would be no need, Minister," Harry said coldly. "I can go there myself."

If Kingsley noted Harry's changed tone of voice, or his use of the title of Minister instead of his name, he didn't comment, but just continued to talk in a cheerful, helpful voice. "Of course, of course. I'll write to them immediately, tell them that you're coming and to let you talk to whoever you want."

"Thanks." Harry got up to leave.

"Oh, and Harry," Kingsley said, and Harry stopped in mid-movement to look at him. "You wouldn't know about how Gringotts came to look like a battle zone, would you? The goblins are insisting we pay for re-building it. And get them a new dragon. I'm not quite sure who should get the bill."

Harry looked at Kingsley in confusion, then in slight horror - and only then he noticed the edges of his mouth quiver.

Kingsley didn't want them to part on bad terms, to let this disagreement come between them. And maybe that wasn't such a bad idea. He laughed, and Kingsley allowed his mouth to open into a smile.

"Thanks, Kingsley," Harry said again, and this time he meant it.

"No problem at all," Kingsley said quietly, and they shook hands, and Harry and Arthur left the room.

"You've put him in a very difficult position, Harry," Arthur said quietly as they were walking away from the office. "It's not that Kingsley doesn't understand where you're coming from. He does. And so do I. But you need to understand where he's coming from."

"And where's that?"

"Draco Malfoy has the Dark Mark. He's been identified as a Death Eater. The people out there don't know about how he saved you, how he had the chance to make sure you're dead and didn't take it. They don't know that he was given the task to kill Albus Dumbledore, but didn't follow on that one as well. All they know is that he was a Death Eater. We can't let Death Eaters walk free without a trial. No one will stand for it. Not even if you backed that decision up yourself."

For some reason, instead of calming him down, these words just made Harry angrier. "To hell with what everyone thinks," he said hotly. "These are the same people who allowed Thicknesse and Umbridge create the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, and that wasn't even a year ago."

"And a lot of them did fight in the end, on our side!" Arthur was getting just as angry. "I don't want any of them to walk out without a trial, either. They're all going to get a fair trial, and if he's found innocent, he will walk free. And if not, he will be in Azkaban. Personally, I think you're giving the Malfoy boy too much credit. But he will get a fair trial, and that's more than they gave..." Arthur's voice trailed in mid-sentence.

Harry didn't push the subject further. He didn't want to fight with Arthur Weasley, a man who had been like a father to him. Instead, they walked in silence until they reached the lifts, where Harry bade him goodbye and went down back to the Atrium, while Arthur went up to his office.

Once at the Atrium, he wished once again he would have brought his cloak. After the fifth person had stopped him to shake his hand, Harry sneaked into a small and almost deserted corridor, looking to get away before the bulk of Ministry employees walked through the gates and saw him.

It turned out to be the wrong corridor to hide in. It could not have been cleaned for ages - there was a sickeningly sweet smell in the air, as if something was rotting. And on the walls, the portraits were gaining dust. Harry looked at them without much curiosity, just to kill the time as Ministry employees walked past in the Atrium, chatting merrily. They were of portraits of old Wizengamot members. Gregory Merchant, 1734-1865. Griselda Fairbanks, 1755-1892. Prospero Sebastian McCallum, 1765-1823. Harry's heart started pounding - perhaps, could it be... he walked down the corridor, the Ministry and its people all forgotten. And there it was - Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, 1881-1997. But the frame was empty. Dumbledore must be back in his portrait at Hogwarts.

"Professor?" he asked softly, hoping his old headmaster would show up. But there was no response. Whether Dumbledore knew he was there, or just preferred snoozing in his beloved school, Harry didn't know. After a couple more seconds, he turned his back to the empty portrait and left the corridor. Time to go to Azkaban.

Azkaban! The name that made some of the bravest wizards he had known shudder in fear, and that was where Harry was going. Harry had never seen the infamous wizard prison until now, but he still shared that shudder in the spine when the name was mentioned. A place ruled by the Dementors, holding the worst of the wizards - but no, this was no longer the case. The Dementers were gone, having joined Voldemort's side. And many of the prisoners - or ex-prisoners - had either died in the Battle of Hogwarts, or were in the process of being rounded up now.

But as he was approaching the fortress, standing at the edge of a small island in the middle of the sea, he realised he was wrong. A dark mood fell on him as he saw the towering fortress, no windows above the floor ground. A shudder came over him as he saw the heavy gates, locked not with a key but with spells, and a feeling of utter despair engulfed him. The feeling of Dementors.

Dementors - were they still in Azkaban? After all the pain, after everything that had happened, after their betrayal, and they were still there. It was true, then, that some things never changed.

A tiny guard approached him from the other side of the gate, muttering incantations to open the gate. "Mr. Potter!" He fluttered and grabbed his hand. "I was told you were coming, but I couldn't quite believe it! It's such an honour to meet you, I can't tell you how much..."

"Thanks," Harry mumbled, looking around for a sign of Dementors.

"I was told you came to question a prisoner?" the tiny guard asked, and Harry nodded. "Come, then! We're moving him to a secure room. There will be Dementors there, of course - "

"No," Harry said firmly, and the guard looked at him in surprise. "What are Dementors doing here, anyway?"

The confusion in the guard's face became more apparent. "Surely you know they guard the cells of Azkaban, the - "

"I know that's what they used to do," Harry interrupted him. "But then they crossed sides and joined Voldemort. Why are they still here?"

"But we have the most dangerous prisoners in the country! Someone must guard them! After all, if we let them..."

Yes, Harry thought angrily, no longer listening to the man. The most dangerous prisoners in the country. An 18-year-old who hasn't finished his studies and had spent the past two years in perpetual fear and imprisoned in his own house. Did no one actually look at their prisoners?

" - And at any rate, this is the kind of decision that is made at the highest levels. You will have to ask the Minister."

"I will," Harry said, and an awkward silence came between them. Trying to avoid any further awkward moments, the guard ushered Harry into the prison and towards the special interrogation cell they had devised. A grey room, with grey walls, and a Dementor that despite Harry's insistence was still patrolling outside the door.

And at the centre of the room, sat a lone figure, chained to a chair.

Draco Malfoy was not wearing the expensive robes Harry had grown used to see him wear. Rather, he was wearing striped prisoner uniform in black-and-white. The sleeves of the shirt were short, to reflect the warming weather and the arrival of spring, even though none of the warmth of the sun had ever reached Azkaban or its prisoners. There was no spring here. On Malfoy's exposed left arm, the ugly tattoo of the skull and the snake was already fading, but still visible, the same tattoo Harry had argued about with so many people slightly more than a year ago. He didn't feel any triumph now that he had proof of its existence.

"What do you want, Potter?" Malfoy asked in defiance. He stared at Harry, dark bags under his eyes. He looked just as tired as Harry felt.

"I wanted to ask you some questions."

"Not trusting your Auror friends to get the whole story?" Malfoy attempted to sneer, but his heart wasn't in it. His voice seemed to waver mid-sentence and become quiet and exhausted. Harry didn't need to ask what had brought on the change. Only two days in Azkaban had changed Malfoy, the company of the Dementors getting into his every thought. The change was almost frightening, but not unexpected. Harry knew that Malfoy had many bad memories to think of in here.

"I got some questions to ask that don't interest them," Harry answered, and sat down in the chair in front of Malfoy. For a moment, Malfoy was taken aback, but immediately returned to his earlier position in the chair, trying to feign indifference. Harry didn't comment, but kept his eyes directly on Malfoy. "Back in the manor house," he said. "You recognised us. Ron, Hermione and me. You knew who we were. I know you did."

"Yes," Malfoy shrugged.

"But you didn't tell your aunt."

Malfoy didn't answer. Encouraged by his silence, Harry continued. "Just like on the Astronomy tower. You didn't kill Dumbledore. You couldn't."

The colour seemed to return to Malfoy's face. Harry, who was used to Malfoy's pale face, did not realised until now just how pale his face had become. It was like he had no blood left until that very moment, and all of a sudden it all flowed back into his face, all at the same time.

"There's no need to remind me I'm a coward, Potter," he spat.

"I don't think you were being a coward, Malfoy. Your parents were afraid. All they wanted to do was to turn us in and see us murdered by Voldemort." He ignored Malfoy's wince. "Then the war would have been over, your side would have won, and only pure blood wizards would have mattered. You can't tell me you were more afraid of me than of Voldemort," he said, and couldn't help but feel a bit of pleasure at seeing Malfoy jumping again at the name. "I think you were less of a coward than you think," he added, trying to be kind.

Malfoy didn't seem to appreciate the compliment. "If I did tell them, I wouldn't have been here now," he said bitterly. Harry had nothing to say to that - it was the truth, after all. Had Malfoy not hesitated to identify him, Voldemort would have been summoned and it would have been him, Harry, rather than Voldemort, who would have died.

"Thank you," he said softly. Malfoy didn't respond. Harry got up to leave.

His hand was already on the door handle when Malfoy talked again. "Did you tell him the truth?" he asked. "Was Snape really on your side?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "He's always been in love with my Muggle-born mother." And curiosity made him turn to look at Malfoy, and he saw something that looked like despair in the grey eyes. He stepped out of the room.

It was that look that remained in Harry's mind all the way back to the Burrow, and all through that afternoon. It wasn't just the despair brought up by the Dementors, he thought. Malfoy, he realised, still didn't know whether he did the right thing. Perhaps even regretted his actions, those same actions Harry had thanked him for.

The others felt the questions within him - when Harry returned to the Burrow, Ron seemed all ready to start a shouting match on the subject, but with one look at Harry's expression, he remained quiet, and offered his friend tea instead, which Harry accepted gladly. He wasn't sure what he wanted, but he knew he didn't want to fight. Not with Ron, not now, not over Draco Malfoy. It wasn't worth it. He just wanted to sit there with his friends, and enjoy the quiet afternoon, passing slowly, not a hint of danger in sight.

The quiet, happy mood changed drastically when Arthur returned home for dinner, with the news that Remus and Tonks were to be buried the next day, after the ceremony at the Ministry. That night was accompanied by a lot less laughter than the previous one, and a lot less banter, as the thought of that funeral and the funeral that was scheduled to the day after loomed over everyone's head throughout the evening, into the night, and until the next morning.

They didn't go directly to the funeral that morning. Before, there was the Ministry. Harry, of course, was reluctant to go. His first venture to the Ministry was not the best experience, and he did not cherish the idea of repeating it. But this time, Kingsley insisted: they were re-instating all of the Muggle-born Ministry workers, and it was absolutely essential, he said, that the people who had fought for them show up.

"Please, Harry," Hermione interfered at this point. "Do this for me." So he did.

It was a long, long ceremony. Each of the Ministry's former employees, those who had to run and those who were imprisoned because of their blood status, had gone up to the stage, shook hands with Kingsley, and said a few words.

The highest ranking Muggle-born wizard was Will Jones, who had been in charge of the Improper Use of Magic Office until last August. He had spent the war in Azkaban, sent there by Umbridge and her commission. And when he got up to the stage, he looked like a man who had grown old in a very short period of time - what little left of his hair was grey, he was thin, and in his eyes Harry could see only pain and sorrow.

Will Jones was also the only one who had got on the stage with a photograph.

"I am here, today, for my wife," he said, showing the picture to the audience, the picture of a beautiful woman laughing. "Anna Jones, who cannot be here today. She did not make it out of Azkaban," he said, and his voice threatened to break, but then he fixed his eyes at the audience. "And for her I promise this, that no one else will die like her, in Azkaban, innocent. From this day on, no Muggle-born will ever have to hide who they are. From this day on, things will forever be different!"

The room exploded with applause.

Kingsley was right about one thing - Harry's presence in the ceremony did not go unnoticed, from the many people who queued to shake his hand, to the whispers during the ceremony, and to Will Jones, who looked directly at him for half of his speech. After the ceremony, Mr Jones caught up with Harry. "Mr Potter! Excuse me, Mr Potter!" Breathless, he pushed his way to where Harry was, and grabbed his hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

"Mr Potter, I'm so glad I caught you. I wanted to thank you personally. For everything you've done for us."

Harry mumbled 'thanks', unsure what to say, but it didn't seem Mr Jones minded. Neither did he want to let Harry go, and it was only after Harry told him he had to go to a funeral that Jones had let go of his hand.

"Of course, of course. But we must meet again soon," he said his farewell. Harry turned to leave, but failed once again - before he could go to yet another place he didn't really want to see, he was stopped once more - and this time, not by a wizard.

It was a centaur. He was familiar to Harry - it didn't take him more than a couple of seconds to recognise the centaur as Bane, one of the centaurs who lived in the Forbidden Forest, one he had encountered several times. The one who was always against wizards, and had never taken any action to save Harry's life, even when he could.

"Harry Potter," Bane said now, in his weird sort of centaur greeting - or so Harry assumed.

"Hello," he answered cautiously. "What brings you here?"

"The wizards promise a new age," Bane said simply. "We the centaurs are here to see their promise."

Harry considered this for a moment. "And do you think we'll deliver?" he asked.

"Mars is under the shadow of Jupiter," the centaur gave his answer, which was no answer at all. Harry sighed.

"Well, have a good time," he said and left before the centaur could say another word, and before any other wizard could stop him. He had more important things to do, and didn't feel like playing the centaurs' games now, in addition to everything else.

Andromeda Tonks did not organise a big funeral for her daughter and son-in-law, not the funeral of heroes they deserves. But perhaps it was better. The people who stood above the two fresh graves on that Thursday morning did not regard Lupin and Tonks as sacred heroes in their death, just as they did not regard them as outcasts, werewolf and wife in life. They were all friends, the surviving members of the Order of the Phoenix.

The cemetery was not a wizard cemetery. The Tonks family had lived in a small town, with a large population of Muggles, and a few, well hidden wizarding families. The cemetery reflected it well - in between many regular, Muggle names, Harry could spot the odd tombstone with a name that did not seem to belong in such a town.

And a couple of rows behind the two new graves, Harry could read another name, engraved on a tombstone that was so new that it did not have time to get dirty in the rain, and understood another reason for Andromeda's wish to keep this ceremony away from the eyes of the magical public, and away from a wizarding cemetery. Two rows behind the graves of her daughter and son-in-law, Andromeda Tonks, née Black, had buried her sister, Bellatrix Lestrange, quietly and alone. She noticed him looking in that direction throughout the funeral and looked at him coldly, tense, looking almost identical to her dead sister. But Harry just nodded, and turned his eyes back to the procession, and she relaxed. He was not going to challenge her for a last act of kindness to her kin, whoever they may be.

The rain poured down hard as Kingsley stepped up to say a few words, then Arthur, then Andromeda, her eyes swollen and red. Harry wanted to say something as well, but when he came to speak, his voice betrayed him.

He made a false start, then a second, and everyone looked at him with understanding in their eyes, as if to say, it's okay if you don't say anything. We know what you want to say.

But deep inside, he couldn't help but feel that they didn't. Because every time he opened his mouth, he saw, not the living Remus Lupin, with the grey, thinning hair and the pained, lonely look. And not even the soft, calm expression on his face as he was lying there, dead. But rather, that much younger, ghost-like vision he had seen that night in the forest. Those last words no one knew he had spoken.

"Wherever you are," he said at last, "be at peace."

He did not know if anyone present would understand. What happened in the forest was unknown to all but him - even Ron and Hermione, who had heard almost everything that had transpired that night, did not hear of what happened to Harry as he was going to face Voldemort. He was not yet ready. But this was the man he had seen before his eyes all through the funeral and even now when Rose, Ted Tonks's mother came up to say that while she did not know or understand that magical world of her son, her granddaughter, and the people around her, it did not stop her from being proud.

Harry should not have been surprised that even she, the Muggle, knew his name. As he came to give Andromeda his condolences in person, after the ceremony, he was introduced to Rose, who immediately recognised his name. "Dora talked about you," she informed him. "Said you were their biggest hope." She gave him a penetrating look, as if finding him somewhat disappointing in real life. "Looks like they didn't die for nothing."

"No, Mrs Tonks," he reassured her. "They didn't."

"Andromeda tells me you were named Teddy's godfather," she said sternly.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, seeing as Teddy is already looking like Dora when she was a baby, Andromeda will probably take care of him most of the time, to get him used to this world of yours and all. But I wanted you to know that when he is with us, you are always welcome, too."

"Thank you," he told the old woman.

"And... Mr Potter?" she said. "One last thing. My daughter-in-law has lost this year her husband, daughter, and son-in-law," she said that quietly, trying to control her own grief. "Take care of her, too. She never opened up much to us. I don't want her to be alone."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Tonks," he said in earnest. "I will."

And then he left with the Weasleys. They had another funeral to take care of.

Fred Weasley's funeral was nothing like the small, private ceremony for Lupin and Tonks. Arthur, being a Ministry employee, and the known position of the family with the Order of the Phoenix, had brought almost the entire wizarding world to pay their last respects to Fred Weasley - even some of the Gringotts goblins were there, and far at the back, Harry could see a centaur or two. Arthur and Molly had decided to bury their son behind the Burrow, where he will be close to them, and the fields surrounding the big house were so full of people and noise that Harry feared they were bound to be noticed by the Muggles from the village close by.

Here, too, people talked, shared their memories of Fred Weasley and what they thought was the meaning of his death. But while the eulogies at Lupin's and Tonks's funeral were short and brought a smile to Harry's face, the many eulogies given to Fred Weasley failed to catch his attention. After a while, it felt as if most of the speakers didn't even know Fred, and Harry's anger rose every time he paid attention and realised that his name was mentioned more often than George's.

George Weasley was sitting in the first row, looking at the grave unblinking, saying nothing. It was the first time Harry got a good look at him since he had arrived at the Burrow, and he couldn't help but notice how tired George looked. And how lonely.

He wasn't surprised then, that George was nowhere to be found after the burial. Leaving Ron, Hermione and Ginny, he sneaked into the house undetected, and climbed the stairs to the twins' old room. He wasn't wrong - George was sitting there, going over pages and pages written in Fred's small, organised handwrite.

"Hey," Harry said.

George raised his head and gave a weak smile. "Hey," he mumbled back.

"You're busy?" Harry asked, and walking into the room, sitting on the bed opposite George.

George shrugged in response. "Not really. Just going through all of these designs, trying to figure out what we should - what I should do first. For the shop."

"You're going on with the shop, then?"

"Yeah. Fred would kill me if I let it down now. We worked too hard for this."

Harry nodded. He was glad, in a way. Fred's memory will always be alive, as long as the shop would still be there.

"It's not your fault, you know," George said suddenly.

"I know," Harry said automatically.

"No, you stupid - I meant the circus down there," George said with distaste in his voice, and Harry looked at him in surprise. How did he know - ?

"I saw you, becoming angrier and angrier every time someone started going on about how Fred died for the cause and for you, and then started going on and on about Voldemort, blah blah blah, you know. Who was the last one, Williamson? You looked like you were going to jump him. I don't blame you. They shouldn't have been here, anyway, but Dad felt - well, you know. The Ministry and all. I had half a mind to throw some fireworks at them."

"Or a portable swamp," Harry suggested.

"Yeah, can you imagine that?" George got all excited. "A swamp appearing in the middle of the rows of chairs. If Fred was - He'd be disappointed with me," he said morosely. "That his funeral was so respectable."

"Well, almost everyone's still around, if you got a dung-bomb or two we could - " but Harry never got to suggest what they could do with those dung bombs, because a soft tap on the door made them both raise their eyes and see Angelina Johnson.

"George?" she said, her eyes puffy from crying. "Your mother said you're here."

"I'll leave you two alone," Harry said and got up.

"Good to see you, Harry," Angelina told him.

"You too," he reassured her and left the two alone. They must have had a lot to talk about.

But still, he did not want to go downstairs. The noise and commotion could be heard all the way up, and Harry could tell from the funeral it would only get worse if he went downstairs. The room there was full of people who would be eager - too eager - to meet him, and go through the whole ritual again. It's an honour, Mr Potter. This is so exciting. I can't tell you how grateful I am.

Harry couldn't quite take it. He needed to go somewhere - anywhere that wasn't crowded, or full of wizards. He thought of the village, Ottery St Catchpole, full of Muggles who had never heard his name or Voldemort's. He sneaked out through the back door and walked far enough on the path leading towards the village below, but then changed his mind about his destination and turned around on the spot. He wasn't quite sure where he was going until he got there, but when he did, he couldn't realise how he didn't think of it before.

In a way, it was the most natural place in the world to be.

-X-

Dudley Dursley stood at the door of his parents' house in Little Whinging and stared at the neighbours' cat in boredom. It had been only three days since the Dursleys returned to Privet Drive. Their neighbours had all been told well in advance that Vernon Dursley had accepted a temporary position abroad, and the entire family was relocating for an unknown period of time. It had been a lie, of course. They had spent most of the past year in hiding. After all that time cooped up inside, Dudley enjoyed the fresh air, even when the day was uncharacteristically hot for July and the sun was still baking him, this late in the evening.

Right now, he was most of all trying to avoid his parents' friends and relatives, now that Petunia Dursley had had the chance to re-arrange the house to her complete satisfaction. That is, to make sure any gossip by the neighbours and friends who would see the house would be one of jealousy, not gloating - or worse, pity. Once she was assured of that, she made sure to throw the biggest party she had ever had. Dudley, then, was not allowed to go out with his friends as he did the past couple of nights since coming back, but was expected to stay at home for the party. Frankly, he was going mad with boredom.

He took his eyes away from the cats for a second, finishing up the piece of cake in his hand and looking for something to wipe it on. Failing to find anything usable he reached for his trousers, when a surprisingly familiar voice made him jump.

"Hey, Big D," Harry was now standing right in front of Dudley, where a second ago only the empty streets and cats could be seen. "Catch."

A football was thrown at him, and Dudley caught it by instinct, and then proceeded to stare at his cousin for a moment with his mouth slightly open. Deep inside, he never expected to see Harry again. After all, the Dursleys and their nephew had never been on good terms, and with each passing year Harry spent less and less of his summer in Privet Drive, practically saying he couldn't wait to be rid of his family once and for all. But it wasn't just Harry's reappearance on the Dursleys' doorstep that had shocked Dudley. Harry looked significantly different from the last time they met. He seemed thinner than he'd ever seen him before, his usually messy black hair longer than it had ever been and somehow even more messy than usual, his eyes had black bags underneath, and he had a general air of tiredness radiating from him. It wasn't very hard to guess why, of course. The last time they saw him, Harry made it quite clear he was in mortal peril, chased by the same man who had murdered his parents. He must have been in hiding himself, on the run from that psychopath until that time the wizards told the Dursleys they were finally safe. And now he was standing there, looking tired but still wearing a small smirk, and Dudley remained with his mouth open, unsure what to say in response. None of the things that came to his mind would work. He seemed unable to think of a single thing he could say to his cousin that didn't sound terrible to his own ears. So, Harry, I take it the psychopath who was after you is gone. Hi, Harry, how was your year? We were in hiding! Say, did you kill anyone lately?

Eventually, it was Harry who broke the silence. "So, feel like a game of one-on-one?"

"Sure," Dudley said, clinging to the one part of this encounter he could make sense of, even if the two of them had never done anything together in their lives.

They played for a while in the setting sun, and he soon learned Harry wasn't very good at football, at least compared to him. He easily blocked most of his cousin's attacks on his goal post, and scored almost as easily against him. When they stopped for a quick drink from the water fountain and to get rid of the sweat-drenched shirts, throwing them next to Harry's discarded wand, it occurred to him his cousin might not be playing to win at all.

The early spring sun was now almost gone, but as far as they could tell, it might as well have been high in the sky. The grass was still wet from yesterday's rain, and the sun's rays seemed to be reflected from it instead of absorbing the heat. Dudley could have sworn it was radiating it at the two of them. The last sun-rays themselves seemed relentless, determined to bake them until the very last moment. It felt too hot for May, too hot for just a game of football. But neither one of the two teenagers seemed to care: Harry was running without pause all over the grass, trying to score, or - as Dudley later suspected - trying to find a reason not to stop running. Dudley was also playing brutally, taking advantage of his cousin's complete lack of strategy and using every chance he had to reach the opposite goal.

Eventually, both of them had run out of energy. With the last rays of the sun gone into the horizon, the two collapsed on the grass in exhaustion, breathing heavily.

"You know, you're rubbish in this game," Dudley said once he caught his breath, and immediately wanted to kick himself. It was the force of habit, more than anything else - he didn't really know how to be nice to his cousin. Whenever he tried, he ended up not saying a word.

"Yeah, well, it if was Quidditch, I would have kicked your arse," Harry replied, but with a touch of humour in his voice. He seemed to realise Dudley didn't intend to be mean.

"What's Quidditch?" Dudley asked.

"A bit like basketball. Only not really. And you play it on broomsticks."

"Broomsticks?"

Harry gestured vaguely at the sky. "In the air."

"Ah."

They stared at the darkening sky in silence for a bit longer. Dudley couldn't help but sneak a glance at his cousin - in addition to the familiar lightning-bolt scar, he seemed to have acquired something nasty and squiggly on his right hand - almost like handwriting, Dudley realised, except that he couldn't tell what it said. And then, on his neck, something that looked like a white-hot chain was pressed there, or perhaps a burn from a thin line choking him. Harry must have noticed he was looking at the new scar, as he turned away and put his soaked shirt back on. "It's a..." he started saying, but something must have caught his eye. He stared ahead for such a long time that Dudley was beginning to think he had forgotten all about the sentence. But eventually he said "... Long story. It's a long story." Dudley smiled at him, trying to end the awkward moment, and Harry got up on his feet.

"Time to go. It was nice seeing you, Dudley."

"Wait," Dudley said, getting to his feet as well, and not quite sure what he wanted to say. Harry looked at him for a moment, expecting him to explain, and Dudley eventually settled for "Mum and Dad are having a party, there's some pretty good cake."

Harry still didn't say anything, and it suddenly crossed Dudley's mind that perhaps, after all these years, he wasn't quite sure he was understanding Dudley correctly. "Want to drop by? Have a piece? It's a really good cake," Dudley clarified, and Harry smirked.

"Yeah, I don't think Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would be very happy to see me eating their cake," he said.

"Yeah. I know. All the more reason to come," Dudley answered, and Harry's smirk turned into a full blown laughter. Dudley joined him.

"Better not, I guess," he said when the laughter died down. "But thanks for the offer." He picked up his wand and his bag.

"Where are you staying now?" Dudley asked.

"Here and there..."

"Oh," Dudley said in response to the non-committal response. "How far is it, I mean, this time of day you're bound to be stuck in traffic somewhere," he said awkwardly, and Harry laughed again.

"Wizard, remember?"

"Right. It probably takes you people five minutes."

"More like five seconds," Harry said. "Watch this." He then turned on the spot, and disappeared. Dudley stared for a while in amazement at the place where his cousin had been standing not a moment ago, and shook his head in laughter. He then put on up his own shirt, and kicked the football all the way home, feeling surprisingly lighthearted.

Back in the Burrow, Harry found Hermione. "Let's go first thing tomorrow morning," he said, and she nodded in understanding.