AN: This is not the longest fic that I've ever written, but it is the one that has taken me the longest. Working on this got me through an extremely difficult past year, and it's mostly complete but I need to finalise the final chapters to make the rest suitable to post.
Lambeth, 3 May, before sunrise.
It was an absolutely unremarkable cup of tea, served in a plain white mug with a chipped saucer. But it was hot; and provided a small bit of warmth against the pouring early morning rain battering the windows. Two other people were in the café, each ignoring him completely as he sat and watched the busses go by. Sunday morning in the city was very quiet, the streets empty save for a few hospital workers huddled together under brollies that weren't quite large enough to cover from the rain, cigarette smoke fighting to rise against raindrops. A block from St Thomas' A&E, two blocks from St Mungo's, just over twenty-four hours after the war, and the apathy of the muggle world was refreshing.
Harry played with the wrist cuff of his jumper, trying to slowly stretch it over the cuts on his hands as he sat there. He was desperately tired, the feeling of grittiness in his eyes and a dull ache in his chest becoming more and more pronounced. His schedule was all mixed up, after sleeping for so long yesterday afternoon at Hogwarts (was it only yesterday?) that he was starving at 5 am, but didn't want to trouble with a full English. The two biscuits that came with the tea would have to do for now.
The bell above the door clanged and a whoosh of street noise and dampness came into the café. Harry's eyes snapped up, his hand tensing and reaching for his wand instantly. A drunk teen stepped in, face full of a sloppy grin as he asked around for a cigarette. Harry relaxed, shaking his head no when the question came at him, and watched the teen leave.
His pocket warmed, and Harry drew out a few coins of change into his hand. Several British pence, and a worn galleon, with flashing markings on the side. The coin warmed again, a flash of heat against his hand for only a second, and Harry winced at the scrape of the chair against the floor as he rose to step back out into the rain.
…
It had been a few years since Harry had been to St Mungo's but the interior hadn't changed much from its dirty beige walls, mismatched plant pots, and tired old magazines laying around on tiny tables between rows of seats. The waiting room was full of worried parents, relatives, friends; all demanding information at once. Several of the wounded from Hogwarts had been brought there, those cases that had overflowed the infirmary, or were too critical to be cared for at Hogwarts. The previously-imperiused were starting to show up as well, which Harry knew would strain the mediwitches and wizards working on memory hexes and curses.
The fourth floor was a little quieter, and Harry's footsteps echoed as he passed by the mediwitch station, looking for 408. A light flickered overhead in a smaller waiting area, in no discernible pattern as it shone over a row of hard plastic chairs against a wall.
"Are you looking for help?"
Harry stilled, his grip on his wand tightening as he processed the words. A younger mediwizard stood in a doorway staring curiously at him, and Harry realised that he was still wearing his grubby, torn jacket that had seen him through the battle.
"I'm fine," Harry replied, putting his wand back in his pocket. It seemed like forever ago that he'd been in the forest, in the Great Hall, but he still wore the bruises and cuts plainly on his skin.
"Are you sure? You've got a burn, there," the mediwizard asked, pointing toward Harry's collar.
"Yes," Harry replied, twisting his head a little and shifting his collar. "I've had worse."
His hand brushed against the centre of his chest as he pulled his jacket protectively over the hollow feeling he refused to think about, and he kept walking. It spoke of how inundated St Mungo's had been that the mediwizard hadn't recognised him, as Harry's lightning bolt scar was only partially covered by his hair and while he'd wiped most of the blood and dirt from his skin, he looked terrible and his glasses were a distinct giveaway. Grateful for the escape though, Harry strode with purpose toward Fred's room.
"Harry," Hermione breathed, walking over to him and giving him a crushing bear hug. Harry winced, resisting the urge to grunt as he crashed against Hermione. Now was not the time for his own complaints, not with Fred lying motionless in the bed, George clutching his hand strongly. Mr Weasley held Fred's chart in his hand, his eyes wandering rapidly over it as if he was scanning the words and taking nothing in. It was a tiny room, curtains haphazardly pulled over the small grubby window, a small tatty couch that looked like it only might hold people shoved against the corner by the door, only half covering the faded paint shapes that showed where another bed used to be.
"How is he?" Harry asked, once Hermione had released him. Fred looked like he wasn't in pain, covered in a light blanket and Harry could tell that though there was castle dust still in his hair, his skin was oddly clean and bruise-free. Mrs Weasley sat right beside the bed, staring at Fred and mindlessly wringing a handkerchief.
A muttered curse came from the doorway, where Ron had dropped one of the snacks he'd walked in with.
"They've done what they can," Ron replied squatting down to grab the package of biscuits without dropping the rest. The unspoken hung in the air over the room, suffocating like the first mists of an approaching dementor. He still won't wake up.
Harry nodded and tested the couch with his foot before gingerly sitting on it. He knew about comas and such, as muggles suffered from them, but hadn't realised that wizards could as well. If that even was what Fred was currently experiencing.
"Did you get checked?" Hermione asked, taking a seat next to Harry on the couch. It was a cheap, vinyl couch in avocado green, likely from the 70's and revered as the height of muggle home décor. Harry thought it was ugly as hell and uncomfortable to boot, but St Mungo's didn't appear to have the largest budget for its furniture, so he couldn't complain that much. Both she and Ron appeared jittery, and he wondered if they'd been up all night as well, having a coffee or five.
"Yeah," Harry lied. He'd been checked at Hogwarts very shortly after the battle, but it had been cursory and Harry had failed to mention the killing curse mark on his chest.
"You should really get looked over," Ron said, nudging over Hermione so he could fit on the couch as well. "Surviving the killing curse twice…"
Ron shook his head and though Harry normally hated people talking about his surviving the killing curse, he could hear the concern in Ron's voice.
"Spare some luck for Freddie, Harry?" George asked, from his spot at the head of the bed.
Harry knew it was meant as a joke, a fleeting wish, but couldn't help the cold rushing sensation of guilt that washed over him. He'd survived twice, but there was Fred at the end of the room, laying still in a bed and stuck somewhere between life and death. He gave George a pained smile, and stood up.
"I'll see what I can do," Harry said. He promised to be back later, to meet with them at the Burrow, and headed back to Hogwarts to sleep.
…
Dirt and the coppery smell of old dried blood filled his nose, his cheek rough against the cold stone floor and his chest aching enough to steal his breath momentarily. He'd been there only hours ago he thought but no, maybe this wasn't the same place. It was darker, and the rubble and broken wood was still everywhere, but there was no noise and the dead, the dead were gone.
Harry lifted his head a little and saw the massive destruction of the hall, the tattered house flags hanging against the wall and the smashed house points tubes up near the front, up by the final battle ground between himself and Tom Riddle. He stilled, seeing a slim shadowy figure standing by the overturned head table. It was staring down at another lump on the floor, the dirty robes and sallow grey skin giving way to whom it was. Harry blinked, knowing that it wasn't possible, knowing that Voldemort's body had been taken away. He watched the shadowed figure nudge Voldemort's body with its foot, before reaching down and putting its hand overtop the dull grey head. Voldemort's body started to disintegrate, sink between the stones of the Great Hall, and Harry felt his chest burn harder and harder, the renewed fear strengthening whatever injury he'd sustained.
He tried to quiet his breathing at least, keeping his eyes open so he could pretend to be dead again, as the figure approached. He could hear the crunch of the broken stone under the figure's footsteps as it approached, loud and confident strikes against the Great Hall's floor. Harry remained still, though he couldn't imagine how the figure couldn't hear him breathing, and there was no Narcissa to save him this time.
It stopped abruptly next to Harry, the edge of its cape flicking against Harry's cheek and making him involuntarily flinch.
"It is done," the figure said, in a curiously bland voice that Harry scrambled to recognise but couldn't.
It waited, clearly aware that Harry had heard it, and finally Harry turned his head up to look. All he could see under the hood was the bare outline of a face in shadow, with no distinguishing features.
"What is?" Harry asked, his voice rough and gravely. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd last used his voice.
…
"Someone is searching for you."
Harry opened his eyes to find Kreacher staring at him, mere inches from his face.
"Fuck!" Harry breathed, sitting up quickly and pulling his blankets up. In his haste to draw back from the voice he knocked over a small, half empty, vial of Dreamless Sleep.
"They're on their way."
"Kreacher! Don't do that," Harry demanded, catching his breath. "Wait, who is looking for me?"
Kreacher didn't reply though, but instead nodded to his side, where Harry saw that food had been brought to him. A freshly roasted turkey sandwich, on a plate with a small salad, and there was a glass of pumpkin juice on the night stand.
"Master Harry is likely hungry," Kreacher said, eyeing Harry's dirty shoes with a look of disgust. He used elf magic to clean them, and while Harry saw that they didn't look 'good as new', they also no longer looked like they were covered in mud from up and down the side of England.
"Don't call me master please," Harry said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He started to focus in on the noises around him, and realised that there were people in the common room.
"But thanks…who is looking for me? Are they in the tower?" Harry asked, digging into the sandwich like he hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours.
"Reporter," Kreacher replied, sounding very bored. He was rooting around the wood supply by the stove, picking up tiny slivers of wood to add to the fire. "Ministry people and nosy adults."
"In other words, leave now if I don't want to be seen," Harry noted, inhaling the sandwich.
"Mister Harry can do as Mister Harry pleases," Kreacher said, snapping his fingers over Harry's clothing as an afterthought, rendering them clean and fresh-smelling. He gave Harry an evaluating nod and then disappeared.
…
Though the leaves were still small and thin with the youth of spring, they were strong enough that the early evening rain strummed upon them, like a soft tap on the door seeking entrance. The forest smelled of death, of peat, of moss, of dew on thick plant leaves, and the perfume of freshly blooming flowers. Though raining, the clouds were light enough to still see fairly well on the forest path that led away from the battered and broken Hogwarts looming behind him. It appeared to have not stopped raining all day, and the mud was washing away footprints from the various creatures and Death Eaters that had wandered through there only a day and a half before.
Harry kicked at a stone as he passed a particularly gruesome-looking tree root twisted into the ground. The war was over and they were supposed to be fine. Good even. Well, if he was honest with himself, he was supposed to be dead. But not the Weasleys, the Weasleys had been through enough and should have had the terror and the fear lifted from them, but instead their chance at relief and joy was suspended in time just as Fred was, following a thin thread of will he or won't he.
There were no trail markers in the forest, no map to guide his way, but familiar knotted trees and scratched stones served as landmarks. Harry didn't need them; he was fairly certain he'd never forget this walk for the rest of his life. Though there were still signs of the war here, scorch marks on boulders, uprooted trees; it had been long enough that the forest had started to heal itself. Feeling secreted away between the trees, Harry pulled off his invisibility cloak and put it back in his jacket.
Dumbledore had never left any instructions for what to do if they hadn't all made it out alive. He'd felt loss before, suffered through grief and sadness and anger, but this wasn't the same, because Fred was still alive. And there was still the chance to save him, though for once not a chance that Harry could lead. As a child he would have still rushed in, run to the library with Hermione and Ron to research and ignored the adults who told him it wasn't possible, that he was too young and too inexperienced to fix things.
Harry paused for a breath, remembering his last walk through the woods, alone. He was older now, and knew there were some things he just couldn't solve.
When he got closer to the Acromantula Hollow, Harry stopped. He knew that the spiders had come out to fight, but he didn't know how many had returned. It didn't matter, as Harry wasn't intending to go into the Hollow itself. Instead, he found the small clearing aside from the Hollow, where he'd called his parents, Sirius, and Remus forth.
"It's over," Harry said, to the trees. He had his head down, looking at the fallen dead leaves covering the floor. The hope of seeing them again when he looked up was fleeting, and Harry shelved his disappointment. He rubbed his chest, feeling an ache that was borne of emptiness, loneliness, and a weirdly physical feeling of nothingness. The rain continued on; a soft tap tap tap landing on Harry's head.
He leaned down to touch the forest floor, his hand running over some leaves, the old foliage falling apart in his fingers, wet and cold and slightly muddy. The wind shifted almost unnaturally, mood tensing in the clearing, and tingles shot down his spine.
Harry stood quickly, shoving his prize in his pocket, and staring toward the darkness of the forest. He could see the eyes, but the long legs and pinchers held his attention more. Just one spider, so far, but it looked like it had been watching Harry for a while.
"Friend of Hagrid," Harry finally stated, his voice absent of fear and emotion. His wand was within easy reach, but Harry held off drawing it. The events of the battle were a blur at parts, but Harry was fairly certain that the acromantulas had fought for Voldemort, not against.
The spider regarded him carefully, clicking his pinchers twice.
"I know who you are, Harry Potter."
Harry gave a slight nod. The rain hadn't abated, and though Harry had already retrieved what he'd came for, he didn't feel the slightest urge to flee. Was the spider waiting for him to say something else? He didn't feel particularly benevolent toward them, considering the history of their past encounters.
"You speak to the Basilisk," the spider added, regarding Harry and yet still not moving.
"That's right," Harry confirmed, remembering that the spiders feared it. He wondered if they knew it was dead; if Hagrid had filled them in on what had happened. Either way, he hoped the fear of the Basilisk, and his control over it, would keep the spider distant.
A heavier rain drop sounded behind him, either a fat drop of rain that had collected in the canopy above, or a nest that had fallen. Harry turned his head slightly, seeing a shadow in the very corner of his eye, which the spider seemed to see too. It huffed, and turned away, walking slowly back toward the Hallow. Harry checked again behind him, but the shadow he thought he'd seen was gone. Nothing was there but dark, wet forest, empty of birdsong and movement.
The stone in his pocket felt cold and there was mud lining the crack from where magic had tried to kill it, but Harry held it tightly in his fist as he walked back toward Hogwarts. He couldn't solve everything. But it didn't mean he couldn't try.
…
The sun was setting to the west of the Burrow, over the shrubs and hedges that obscured the Weasley home from those out on a constitutional from Ottery St Catchpole. The garden looked peaceful, an occasional gnome darting under a hedge toward Molly Weasley's vegetable patch. As Harry stood by the window sill, dumping the potatoes he'd just chopped into a dented and well-used pot, he glanced up to the far field by Mr Weasley's garage. The distant sound of apparition was unmistakable, and he was still on high alert. They all were.
Charlie, head down and arms wrapped in white bandages, stomped his way through the weeds and dirty path toward the house.
"No change," Charlie said, by way of greeting as he slipped through the garden screen door. He dropped his coat at his chair, something Harry knew that Mrs Weasley, had she been there, would have admonished him for.
"Dinner shortly," Percy told him, in acknowledgement. Percy was wandering around the kitchen table, setting it without magic and fussing with the settings to ensure they were lined up perfectly straight. He didn't seem to be interacting with his brothers, and Harry wasn't sure if it was exhaustion or hesitation for the past years' abandonment that was causing it.
Charlie nodded at them, and headed off upstairs, sidestepping the grumbling little elf that had appeared.
"Cubed, Mister Harry," Kreacher said, stepping up onto a stool to check Harry's work. Kreacher had been collecting ingredients out of Molly's pantry and sounded less than impressed with Harry's potato chopping.
"Shall I just sit down then?" Harry asked, watching Kreacher use a mixture of magic and manual labour to dice the carrots and add them to the pot.
"Preferably," Kreacher muttered. He took the cutting knife from Harry's hand and shooed him toward the table.
As dinner turned into a bubbling thick stew with meat and vegetables cooking in it, Harry sat down and glanced up as one of the markers shifted on the Weasley family clock. Home, home, travelling, home, hospital, hospital, travelling, hospital, mortal peril.
The house groaned slightly as everyone settled down at the table for dinner ten minutes later. Mismatched chairs fitted perfectly around the extended wooden table, marred with scorch marks from hot pans and rings from wet water glasses. The stew had been portioned out, and Percy used his wand to bring fresh bread from the oven to the table. The normally loud and boisterous kitchen was nearly silent, due to worry, exhaustion, and the jarring disruption to family routine. Bill and Charlie were having a small conversation about Fred's progress and how the hospital had done what it could, but Fred seemed to still be without improvement.
During the quiet, Percy mentioned collecting Mr Weasley's post and assignments at the office so he could take care of them while their parents were with the twins. No one seemed to acknowledge the offer and Percy stared at his bowl, spoon clinking softly against the ceramic.
Harry looked between the family quickly, trying to not make eye contact. Ginny suddenly suggested that they all spend at least an hour a day doing chores around the house for upkeep, and her brothers grumbled in agreement.
Harry poked at the carrots in his stew, the hunger he'd felt earlier slipping away. Ron gave him a look, but Harry just shrugged. The dinner was sombre – sun filtered through the windows and hit their faces, but no one could be bothered to draw the window shades. Charlie seemed lost in thought, idly scratching at his bandaged arms as he ate. Ginny, who sat beside Harry, was also distracted. Harry suspected that the sudden change from tense, guarded, dangerous Hogwarts to a quiet home and singular, focused stress over her brother was quite jarring.
"Hermione's parents are still in Australia," Ron finally said, his spoon clattering in his empty bowl. "I think I'll go with her to help bring them home."
"Now?" Bill asked.
"No, maybe next week," Ron replied. "Hoping Fred's home by then."
Bill nodded, assuming the role of the patriarch now that Mr Weasley was away. "Don't be gone long."
Silence fell over the kitchen again, and Harry pushed his bowl away. He was tired still, despite having napped at Hogwarts. When he'd left under his cloak, he found the common room full of inquisitive people, which told him it was no longer going to be a quiet place to sleep. And now, sitting in the Burrow kitchen, listening to Ron and his siblings pick up the pieces as their brother lay in hospital, Harry felt like his places of comfort had been destroyed.
He was about to leave, to go pack his meagre things and see if he could stay elsewhere for the night, when Ginny looked up and commented that there seemed to be a cloud of owls making their way to the house. Letters could be seen in their mouths, their great wings flapping against the cool evening wind as they headed to the kitchen window. Harry couldn't tell how many there were, but they were all the same type of owl and all seemed to have a maroon Ministry coloured ribbon attached to the letters they were carrying. The Weasleys all seemed to let out a collective breath as the Ministry ribbon became clearer, and Harry realised with a dreadful punch that they'd first thought it was a notice from the hospital.
But there's no post on Sundays, Harry thought to distract himself, remembering his uncle's adamant refusal to allow Harry's Hogwarts letter to be delivered all those years ago. This grouping of owls seemed just as determined to deliver, and as they landed, one by one on the kitchen counter, it became obvious that there was a letter for each of the present Weasleys, for Harry, and one for Hermione who was asleep upstairs.
"Who wants to do the honours?" Charlie muttered, picking out bits of meat from the stew to give to the birds. Harry shrugged and retrieved his envelope, opening it up and flattening out the creases on the table.
Ministry of Magic
Division of Magical Law Enforcement
Auror Department
3 May 1998 Dear Mr H. Potter, We thank you for your service in the Battle of Hogwarts, which occurred at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry on the 2nd of May. Our records indicate that you also played a major role in the pre-battle time period from June 1997 onward. The Ministry of Magic is compiling a report on all activities leading up to the defeat of You-Know-Who, and are therefore issuing you this Witness Summons to appear at the Ministry of Magic on Tuesday, May 5th, 1998. Please proceed to the 10th floor courtrooms, where the investigation of the second Wizarding War will be taking place. Thank you and best regards, John Fitzgibbon
Acting Head Auror
"You played a role, did you?" Ron asked. "Absolute rubbish."
"Probably a template letter," Harry guessed. "Suppose there will be investigations, loads of people claiming they've been imperiused, I suppose."
"Probably," Bill told him, sitting back in his chair and sending his bowl floating through the air to the sink. "Don't go until you can speak to Dad about it. Any of you."
A bit of warmth filled the dull pain in his chest, that though he'd been feeling slightly out of place, the Weasleys still seemed to consider him one of them.
"I'm off to the hospital again," Bill said, standing up and scraping the floor as he pushed his chair back in. "At least two of you here at all times. You know the wards."
"Yeah," Charlie replied. "Are you going to Shell Cottage after?"
"I'm not sure," Bill told him. "Perce, Dad wants to see you later tonight."
"Of course," Percy responded. Percy's tone had none of the arrogant confidence it held in the years previously, when he'd been steadfast in his support of the Ministry.
Charlie slipped away himself, and Ginny stayed to help Harry clean up the kitchen, to the irritation of Kreacher. Drifting off into thought whilst doing the washing up, Harry wondered how long the limbo would last over the family.
…
Harry knocked quietly on the plain wooden door, as he wasn't sure if Ginny was expecting him, already asleep, or just in her room wanting alone time. When he opened the door, he found her sitting on her bed in comfortable pyjamas with a photobook beside her, and a quill in her hand as she wrote a letter. Pigwidgeon was sitting on the windowsill, his head twisting around at weird angles as he tried to eat a firefly.
"Hi Harry," she told him, putting aside the quill. "Ron kick you out?"
"Yeah," Harry said, closing the door behind him. There wasn't a lot of space in Ginny's room, but the desk chair was clear and he sat down there. "Guess we have some time to catch up now."
She gave him a curious look, noticing him grimace and rub his sore chest for a second. His hands, though no longer blistered from the Lestrange vault, were very red and dry. She glanced at those too, but didn't stare for too long.
"I feel like the good news of the war being over is being overshadowed," she finally said.
"I never thought any of you would be so hurt," Harry admitted. Ginny had her old Care of Magical Creatures book on the floor under her desk, and he used his foot to idly stroke the spine.
"I don't think any of us realised how big this war would become, in the beginning," Ginny told him.
"That's true. I'm looking forward to seeing our world without that fear overhead." Harry stretched carefully, not putting his arms out too wide so that his chest wasn't over stretched. It was only half eight, according to the clock on Ginny's desk, but not having a set task to do now was making him both restless and tired.
"Listen, Harry," Ginny started, and his eyes snapped up. She looked contrite, like she'd wrestled with what she was going to say next for a while. "I don't know if you thought the last year was a full break, or just a pause, but…I've started seeing someone."
"Have you?" Harry asked. He fought off a yawn, because he was definitely not disinterested in the conversation, but his body was starting to betray him. It had been a tough decision last year to let Ginny go, in order to pursue the horcruxes, and he honestly didn't begrudge her. He'd felt guilty for not longing for Ginny so much when he was away, but the guilt was starting to loosen its grip as she continued.
"You had Ron and Hermione," Ginny pointed out, her back straightening as she sat taller. "I was looking for my own form of support, and it just sort of happened." She looked slightly defiant at the end of her sentence, as if she was daring him to be upset.
Harry, instead, gave her a small smile. "Who's the lucky bloke?"
"Seamus."
"Hah!" Harry blurted, a warm smile spreading on his face. "No kidding, is it really?"
She looked both embarrassed and hopeful, and Harry could see in the photograph on her bed that Seamus had his arm around Ginny in the photo.
"Yes. What of it?"
"Nothing. That's fantastic, I really mean it," Harry said, his smile growing wider. "You'll make a great couple."
"Shut up," she said, flicking a hair band at him. "He keeps me on my toes."
"I'll bet," Harry laughed, dodging the band. He still felt tired; but joking with Ginny gave him the normality he was looking for. "So, the big question now is: can I still kip in here, or am I relegated to the couch?"
She threw a pillow at him and Harry had his first real laugh since before returning to Hogwarts to fight.
…
Ottery St-Catchpole, 4 May, just before 5 am
Harry gasped awake and for a split second was still in the forest, shadows of tree branches wavering above him, the smell of mud and pollen and forest floor invading his senses, whispers of Death Eaters surrounding him ('The boy…is he dead?'). Harry forced himself to blink rapidly, the room coming back into focus, the branch shadows becoming fairy light strands illuminated by the moon through Ginny's window, the whispers not of Death Eaters, but rather gnomes in the garden. Ginny slept on beside him, but Harry could feel his heart racing and couldn't get used to the shadows in the room. On Ginny's bedside cabinet a worn Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle clock told Harry that it was just gone half four in the morning. It had now been forty-eight hours since he walked to the forest to die, and though he felt like he should have had a weight lifted (it was finally over), his chest felt heavy still. Unsettled, Harry slipped out of bed and took his blankets downstairs.
The kitchen was dark, but looking back up the stairwell, he could see a light from the third floor. Percy, maybe, or Charlie. He paused at the top of the last set of stairs, glancing toward the attic, but couldn't hear anything other than the ticking of a clock and snores from somewhere above. But Harry hadn't lived with the Dursleys for sixteen years and not learnt how to be silent moving about the house. He slipped down the stairs and into the living room, finding that there were, inexplicably, several blankets already on the couch.
The Weasley clock gave soft, apologetic ticks to mark the passing of the night, as if aware of the reason that one of its markers would possibly never move again. Pre-summer dawn had fallen over Ottery St-Catchpole, a fading of countryside stars, light wind, and an eerie calm. Damp misty air had rolled in over the garden outside, seeping into the nooks and crannies of the house and chasing the lingering warm air to the upper floors of the Burrow, where it swirled around the snores of Bill. Downstairs the now quieted living room was dimly lit by a lone candle on the coffee table and a gathering of fireflies by the large front window. The embers of that evening's fire had died down mostly to ash, but a single salamander curled up into the deepest recesses of the burnt wood.
In the corner of the room on an old wooden post, Pigwidgeon stood sleeping on the left side of the post, leaving a large gap to where Hedwig normally was. Harry's breath caught a little as he saw the empty space, his heart sending a jolt of hurt to his stomach that lasted only a second, but left an imprint.
There was a letter in the basket below, addressed to Harry, and Harry realised why he'd not seen it until then. Someone else's owl had delivered to the Weasley's post box outside.
Harry worked open the seal on the envelope, a claw mark in melted golden yellow wax, sitting back on the cushions and putting his feet up to read the letter. The day's Daily Prophet fell to the floor, both the 'Death Eaters in the Ministry!' headline and the rest of the paper ignored by Harry.
Mr Potter,
It is with peace that I hope my letter finds you. I would like to arrange a meeting, at your convenience, at my office north of London. I believe the Ministry has been in contact with you regarding interviews surrounding your experience during the war. My department and colleagues also have a vested interest in ensuring that the most dangerous aspects of this war are documented safely, perhaps with more due diligence than the aurors. I understand that you are perhaps occupied with tasks at Hogwarts, along with post-war social obligations, but I believe you will find that time is of the essence in these matters.
If you are amenable to a meeting, please send an owl in return. Oh, and many congratulations on your victory.
Best regards,
N. Scamander
OoM, 2nd Class
Harry read the letter once more, loosely holding the envelope in his left hand and tapping it against his thigh. He was surprised to read that Newt Scamander was still alive, as he remembered from his text book that it had been some decades ago that the book was published. While they'd indeed received an interview notice from the Ministry earlier, there'd been no other real talk of post-war obligations. Instead, there'd been talk at Hogwarts, as he was sitting with his friends in the destroyed Great Hall, about any year sevens going on to become aurors if they wanted. There'd been laughter and talk of what an honour it would be, but all Harry had felt was a sour taste in his mouth at the thought of it.
As Harry crumpled the envelope in his hand, the back kitchen door creaked and a red headed shadow walked in. Harry nodded toward George, who stepped quietly into the house and seemed to avoid the squeaky floor boards out of muscle memory.
"Alright?" George asked, leaning against one of the wooden posts of the central staircase. He'd crossed his arms, and Harry saw that his elbow was resting against some scratch marks in the wood that Harry knew were height markings from when the Weasleys were growing up.
"Alright," Harry nodded. "How's Fred?"
"The same," George said, the words coming out with a sigh. "You were with him, right? You and Ron and Hermione?"
"And Percy," Harry quietly offered. George nodded and Harry didn't add anything else, the memory of cold air and pinpricks of stone and dirt crawling up his arms in the explosion coming to the surface of his mind.
"The mediwizards want to speak to you," George finally said. "See what you remember."
"It's not much," Harry finally admitted, unsure of what else to say. George didn't seem to know what to add either, and turned to leave the room.
His expression was slack, neutral, and his voice quiet, but he still wished Harry a good night as he slowly made his way upstairs.
Harry leaned forward, tossing the envelope in the fire and watching the salamander snap at the flames that erupted with the paper.
He heard George's bedroom door quietly close, and the house returned to its near-silence once more. The salamander looked at Harry, before curling up again in the dying flames.
Harry got himself comfortable on the old couch, pushing away the memories of the wall that had exploded on Fred and the utterly panicked feeling as they'd all thought he had died. Harry drew his wand and whispered a spell to summon Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, which he knew was somewhere on the massive, crooked bookcase in the Weasley's living room. Two copies flew out at Harry, who caught both and winced when the hard edge of one copy smacked his palm.
He couldn't find any news about Scamander in the book, nor in the paper he'd fetched from the floor, about Scamander working in any capacity for the Ministry other than in the Magical Beasts department. Harry had had enough with searching for dark wizards, but he also couldn't fathom himself working with beasts, either. Could he? And would that really be what Scamander wanted him for? Harry wasn't really known for working with animals.
He looked up toward the clock as it quickly winded itself and George's marker moved from 'Home' to 'Bed'. Harry didn't know if that meant George was asleep yet, or just physically had gotten into bed, but he hoped that George could get some semblance of sleep.
Making his decision, Harry flipped through a few sheets of parchment on the table before finding a blank one under a quill.
Mr Scamander - I'd be delighted. My diary is free.
H. Potter.
He put it under his glasses on the table to deal with in the morning and nestled into the couch with a slightly tatty but well-loved knit blanket. Later he'd ensure to write down as many details as he could from that part of the battle, to see if it could help Fred at all. He had something else now to look forward to though, and closed his eyes remembering his classes with Hagrid and Hagrid's own beasts at Hogwarts.
He didn't quite like sleeping out in such an open living room, but the Burrow had comforts of Christmas time and hazy warm summers filled with quidditch and chatting and the feeling of family, which lured him back to sleep. Ten minutes after Harry burrowed in the blankets and finally drifted off, the Weasley clock quietly chimed and the marker for Fred wavered between 'Mortal Peril' and 'Hospital'.