A/N: Hello everybody, I'm back! It's been a few months but I'm starting to settle in my new life. Things are still a bit messy but little by little it seems that me and my partner are finding a spot for ourselves in the world.

I wanted to say that (if everything goes well) there should be only two more chapters left of this fanfic. After that I will fix some mistakes/re-write some parts that I'm not happy with and, after that, I will start writting part two of the story. I'm really excited for that, but let's take it one day at a time. First, there's this new chapter. I hope you enjoy it :)

The next two days flew by faster than Harry would have expected.

On Friday, he woke up late and well-rested from a night free of nightmares. After a quick shower to remove the remnants of his sleep, he dressed in comfortable clothes and headed downstairs towards the kitchen. Kreacher wasn't there, which wasn't as surprising as once would have been. The elf had made a habit of leaving the house more and more lately and Harry was glad for it. He deserved something akin to a normal life, especially after years of living alone in Grimmauld Place, with only dust, memories and a screaming old lady inside a portrait to keep him company.

With no one else around to talk to, Harry started to work. Slowly, methodically, he prepared an abundant meal. He wasn't sure if it could be considered breakfast or lunch, judging by the time. But whatever the case, it looked delicious. His stomach growled with the passing minutes until he could finally taste it, humming appreciatively with each bite.

Harry had always been skilled at cooking. Maybe it was Aunt Petunia forcing him to prepare breakfast as soon as he was able to hold a pan, yelling at him whenever he made a mistake. Or perhaps it was that he enjoyed keeping his mind busy, focusing on each step of the recipe and achieving one thing after the other, like a game he was allowed to play without Dursley ruining it. He didn't know the reason behind it but, as he ate his meal in the quiet of the empty kitchen, Harry felt proud of himself. If Kreacher had been there, he would have showered him with compliments, eating and praising his abilities with an exaggeration born from years of slavery and worship. It could be a bit too much sometimes, in Harry's opinion. But the elf was learning to tone those reactions down and, at the end of the day, it felt nice to be appreciated.

As Kreacher wasn't there, however, the kitchen was quiet and empty, the silence only broken by Harry's chewing and the clank of the spoon against the plate. It could feel lonely and scary, And, perhaps before, immediately after the Battle, it would have been. But now, Harry realized, he didn't mind the solitude at all. He actually enjoyed those peaceful moments. When everything was quiet, the particularities of Grimmauld Place shone through the silence.

The creaking sounds of the wooden floorboards beneath his feet, as he walked up and down the hallway. The characteristic smell of cleaning products and spells that filled the whole house, with that faint scent of dust and old furniture still lingering underneath. The sudden gushes of wind that seeped in through the window shutters, causing the summer air to run through his hair, making it even more unkempt. The mark of his own footsteps on the soft green carpet of his bedroom, and how it kept his feet warm even on cold nights. The way the light shone on the kitchen counter, reflecting his silhouette on the black marble…

Harry blinked, looking up from his own reflection as realization hit him. Without planning it, in a short amount of time, Grimmauld Place had become more of a home than Private Drive had ever been. Considering that his relatives' house had been hell for him, it wasn't surprising. But still. If someone had told him a few years ago that being alone in Sirius' old family house, back then full of dirt, dust and creepy objects, would provoke in him warm and comforting feelings, he wouldn't have believed it. But here he was, thinking of Grimmauld Place as home, one where he belonged to. Somewhere to call his own. Of course, nothing could ever replace the spot that Hogwarts, or even the Burrow, occupied inside his heart, that much Harry was sure of. But knowing that he had a place for himself, slowly filling with his personal belongings, was without doubt a nice feeling.

And it was, indeed, filling with his personal belongings.

During the past couple of weeks, Harry had brought over all of his earthly possessions. His clothes, books, and few surviving pictures had gone from the bottom of Hermione's beaded bag to his room up the stairs. And the Weasleys had made it their mission to give him many things that he didn't know he needed, but now couldn't imagine the house without them.

In the living room, right on Harry's favorite couch, rested a nice, warm blanket, courtesy of Mrs. Weasley. He had made a habit out of sitting there most afternoons, wrapped in the soft material, drinking tea while he read.

In the kitchen, half a dozen knives, new and sharp, were stored inside their wooden cases on top of the counter. All except one, which Harry had just used to prepare breakfast. As he rinsed it under the faucet, his face broke into a smile remembering where it had come from. One day, while eating lunch at the Burrow, he had made a comment about how rusty and unsharpened all the knifes in Grimmauld Place were. Less than twenty-four hours later, Charlie Weasley had shown up at his door, handling him a box of brand-new cutlery. Harry hadn't expected it, but now, every time he cooked, the cold and sturdy metal between his fingers filled his heart with affection.

As for the new sheets on his bed, they were a gift from Ginny. During the first night that the girl had stayed over, Harry had apologized for the scratchy and suffocating old covers. Ginny had shaken her head, then, telling him not to worry, that it was fine. But when she had shown up again a few days later, there had been a bundle between her arms and a wide smile on her face. The sheets she had brought weren't new and the color was a bit faded in some areas - she probably had asked Molly for them - but for Harry it was more than enough. The soft fabric reminded him of the Burrow, and he loved how Ginny's scent lingered on them even when she wasn't there, helping him fall asleep.

And these weren't the only gifts scattered throughout Grimmauld Place.

A beginner's kit for Potion making, one that Harry strongly suspected was designed for kids, occupied the smaller second kitchen. It had been the place where house elves used to cook for themselves, once. Now it served as a makeshift laboratory where Harry could practice his newly obtained skills. The kit had been Snape's present after he had agreed to give him brewing lessons.

"So you don't forget the basics." He had said. "I will not repeat simple processes over and over, but you should practice them on your own. You will probably need it."

Harry had ignored the sarcasm and accepted the kit for what it truly was: Snape's first gift to him, and a sign of trust. One that showed that the Potions Master believed him capable enough to not blow himself up.

Yes, the cauldrons were smaller than usual, the tip of the knifes looked slightly rounded and he was sure that the Bunsen lighter had some kind of security measure to turn off after a few seconds of inactivity, or - Harry wouldn't admit to knowing that last part – if it came into contact with something that it shouldn't… But still, the fact remained that Snape had given it to him, and that the professor's mouth had curved into a little smile when he had done so, filled only slightly with sarcasm.

Another gift that he hadn't expected to receive was a matching house gown and slippers courtesy of Mr. Weasley. He had never needed them in Privet Drive, there hadn't been any time to relax there. But they had proved quite useful in Grimmauld Place. Some rooms had marble floors that were cold to the touch, and it could get chilly at certain hours of the day where the sun didn't hit the building straight.

The higher floors of the house, Harry had found out, kept the heat in without problem.

He had felt it in his own skin a few days back, when he had gone to search through Sirius old room. The curtains of the windows were drawn then, and the midday sun had been hitting hard against the dark red of the floor and walls. But sweating through the heat had been worth it. More than worth it, in fact. Harry had entered his godfather room with half excitement, half guilt. He knew that Sirius wouldn't have minded him being there, taking whatever he needed, but he still couldn't help the pang of sadness. He only owned Grimmauld Place because his godfather had died, after all. Once he had started to search through the room, however, that little voice in his head had gone quiet.

It hadn't been hard to find what he had come for, all thanks to Andromeda's good memory. The old witch had mentioned a secret spot in her letters. A safe place from when she and Sirius were kids. The moment Harry had read about it, he had come straight to his godfather's room. After a few seconds of search, following her handwritten instructions, Harry had pulled gently at the specific floorboard. There, underneath the dusty wood, was a small box. He didn't know what he had expected to find inside it, but it was even better than what he could have imagined. A bunch of glorious, new pictures of the Marauders and his mum covered the bottom of them box. And laying on them, reduced in size by magic, there was something that looked like an old muggle guitar. Suddenly, Harry had a vision of Sirius sitting there, in that same room, his long black hair falling over his face as he played the instrument. Careful not to break it, amazed that it was still in one piece after all those years hidden away, Harry had passed one finger across the strings, earning a soft, off-key note. Sitting on the floor of empty room, hands trembling with emotion, no song had ever sounded more sweet.

Now, the guitar rested against the wall of Harry's room, returned to its full size by an enlarging spell, with the promise that one day he would learn how to actually play it. The pictures he had also brought back down the stairs, and carefully placed on the photo album that Hagrid had gifted him so many years ago. He had written back to Andromeda that same day, using the owl that she had sent. Words couldn't do justice to what finding those treasures had meant to him, but he knew that the old witch would understand.

More than a week had passed since that little trip to the upper floor, and Harry still felt a rush of emotion whenever he thought about it. With a deep breath, he forced his mind back to the present. His senses took a few seconds to readjust to the empty kitchen and the dirty plates he was in the middle of cleaning. He pondered using magic then, as a flick of his wand would do the job much faster, but he decided against it. The cold water against his skin and the smell of soap on his nose were strangely calming and he needed some minutes to calm his mind again. Besides, there was something satisfying about doing the dishes the muggle way.

Once the kitchen was spotless, though, Harry knew that he had lingered long enough. It was time to start working on the task Snape had given him. The books they had bought yesterday were not going to read themselves and he had to be prepared to assist with George's ear.

Before starting, however, he was going to need some tools.

Light streamed in through the half-opened curtains of the dining room, illuminating the dust particles that rose from the green carpet with every step he took. Approaching the table at the center, Harry breathed in deeply, feeling the heat against his cheeks. The sunshine that warmed him also shone against the desk. The dark wood came alive with the light, bringing out shades of brown and red, beautiful even after some many years abandoned to time and solitude.

Like in the rest of Grimmauld Place, there was a stillness in the air, a characteristic quiet to the house. But, in that particular room, it was amplified. There was the undeniable feeling of somewhere in which no one had set a foot in quite some time. And, in fact, no one had.

Harry hadn't avoided the room on purpose, not consciously at least. But he didn't get many visitors, except for Ginny and the occasional Weasley. And he preferred to eat in the kitchen or on the sofa of the living room, rather than at the long, empty desk now in front of him. It hadn't been empty before, Harry remembered. But the mess of scattered parchments, dirty teacups and plates that they had left behind, almost a year ago, was gone now. Instead, carefully placed over the dark wood, there were two piles of documents.

The first one consisted of blank, empty leftover papers, with bottles of unopened ink and about a dozen quills laying on top of them. Those writing supplies were the reason why Harry had entered the room in the first place. The second pile was bigger than the other one, an asymmetrical tower composed of different shaped documents. His eyes rested on it for an instant but, once they did, Harry couldn't look away anymore. His attention got stuck there, the writing supplies forgotten. Suddenly, he felt a strange force pulling him forward, making him raise his hand towards the pile. His fingertips trembled slightly as he grabbed the first piece of rough parchment.

It was a detailed map of the Ministry. The entrances and exits, as well as different floors and departments, had been drawn on it. Harry remembered memorizing them for days, knowing that taking a wrong turn somewhere could be fatal. If he tried, he was sure that he could still recall most of it. With a lump in his throat, he moved the map away. He didn't need to look to know what was underneath. More and more documents that him, Rom and Hermione had used to prepare to infiltrate the Ministry.

And there they were: pages and pages of similar size met his eyes. On them, every single part of their plan had been written in Hermione's handwriting. Harry could still see her with a quill in her hand, scribbling furiously. Some words had been underlined in red and, for a second, her voice full of urgency sounded in his ears, reminding him of key steps, of important parts and details that he shouldn't forget.

Harry's heartbeat quickened as the same fear he had experienced almost a year ago rushed through his veins. For a moment, he felt as if he was still back there. With Voldemort at the height of his power, invincible and terrible. And him stuck in Grimmauld Place, cut from contact with the rest of the Order, trying to succeed in the monumental task that Dumbledore had entrusted him with, planning a suicidal mission to enter the Ministry, all the other Horcruxes left to find and destroy, with no clue of where they could be… Anxiety and terror filled him, and he had to grab onto the table for support. He breathed in deeply, trying to come back to the present. Then, in between the fog of memories, the hint of something beat against his ribcage. Something different from the fear. A spark of sadness. Of nostalgia.

Harry frowned, suddenly angry at himself. Where had that come from? He was surely not missing the way things had been. It had been a terrifying, hopeless moment in his life. It would be stupid to wish to go back to that time. And yet - his traitorous heart reminded him - a year ago, many people who were now gone were still alive.

Harry stayed still, letting that thought fill his mind. That dangerous, longing feeling, which was rapidly overcoming his anger. Before he knew it, his mind started dwelling in what could have been. In the fact that, a year ago, all the outcomes were possible. Dying at Voldemort's hand, sure, but also saving as many people as he could. His heart beat hard against his chest, painful and raw. And the need to go back to that moment, to change things, to fix them, was overwhelming.

In the middle of the solitary room, Harry knew that he had to do something about it. Trying to take control, he breathed in slowly, letting the air enter his lungs. It was supposed to ground him, but instead it just made the situation worse. The smell that he had associated with home minutes ago was nowhere to be found. He couldn't feel the characteristic scent of Grimmauld Place nor the safety that it brought. Now, the air just tasted of loss and melancholy. Of emptiness.

Rationally, Harry knew that it was because the room had been closed for too long, unused. The air that flew around the rest of house hadn't been able to slip in through the door. Emotionally, however, he could sense the documents on top of the table taunting him. Making him feel alone and reminding him of his mistakes. Of what he had lost.

It was painful, and a few weeks back he might have curled onto the floor, flashbacks of the Battle paralyzing him. But he had grown since then. He had learned. And, today, he refused to break. Grabbing onto the desk, knuckles white, Harry forced himself to stop falling into that dangerous game. He tried to visualize the positive things that remained in his life. His family and friends came to mind, but it was something smaller, something more concrete that appeared in his mind. All the little objects obtained from his loved ones, scattered around the house, showing that he had a place in the world, a place where he belonged. They were mere meters away from him. In the kitchen, in the living room, in his bedroom upstairs… Feeling himself come back from the edge, Harry breathed in once more. This time, there was a spark of home in the air, and he knew he had broken the spell.

He released the hard wood of the table, the blood flowing back onto his grateful fingers. Still breathing slowly, he methodically put everything back on top of the desk, not really looking at the content of the documents between his hands. When he was done, the second pile was as organized as he had found it. Then, only when he had finished, Harry allowed himself to look at the papers. He knew he would not be able to throw them away today. He wasn't ready yet. But he would do it soon, he promised himself.

For now, however, he had to get out of there and start his day. Snape might like him now, but he'd rather face Voldemort again than tell the Professor he had not read the books. Well, almost.

After casting one last look at the pile, Harry grabbed what he had come for: the spare parchment and writing supplies. Then he closed the door and went upstairs, back to his room and to reality.

Harry's bedroom was quiet too, just as the dining room had been. The light that came from the window illuminated the place in the same way, bringing out the colors, showing the floating dust particles. Despite this, the air felt different, and the boy was calm. Here, the stillness meant safety and peace. A space to himself, to call his own. It didn't bring thoughts of loneliness and sorrow. On the contrary, it felt warm, welcoming and safe. It felt like home.

As the sunshine touched his skin, Harry set everything he had gathered on the desk by the window. The street in front of Grimmauld Place was visible from there. The midday sun brought the square underneath to life, rendering it beautiful and sharp. The white stones of the nearby buildings shone like marble, and the windows shutters were dark as ink against them. The blue sky above the street had almost no clouds, and at this point, Harry felt nearly as relaxed as he had minutes ago, before he had entered the dinning room.

He knew that episodes like the one downstairs were bound to happen, considering everything he had gone through. But he felt stronger and optimistic at knowing that he could contain them. The last time he had gotten completely lost in the memories had been in Snape's laboratory, while cutting ingredients. The professor had been really nice about it, and had assured him that, in a sense, it was a normal thing to experience. But, to Harry's relief, such a strong event hadn't occurred since then. Even if they were less intense, however, moments like those still had the ability to affect him. The most recent proof was the empty space in front of h Timhe sight made a small smile spread across Harry's lips. He had forgotten to grab the books before sitting down.

With a small groan, he stood up again and went over to his bed. A pile of clothes laid next to it, right on the floor. Harry had been so exhausted the night before that he hadn't been able to put them back inside the closet. The sight made echoes of Aunt Petunia's annoying voice rang in his ears, but he ignored them as best he could. After rescuing his cloak from under his shirt and trousers, he rummaged through it until he found what he was looking for: his extended bag.

Harry put his hand inside it, checking blindly for the books as objects brushed against his fingertips. Then, as he was about to grab the first volume, something unexpected touched his skin, making him pause. He grasped the unknown object, trying to decipher what it was. It felt like a small, rounded pebble. Wondering how on earth had such a thing ended up there, Harry put it out of the bag and onto the light.

For a second, he didn't understand what he was looking at. It was a small rock, as he had predicted, but it felt strangely familiar. Harry brought it closer to his eyelevel and noticed that there was a carving engraved on it. A carving he knew all too well. The Deathly Hallows sign reflected against the sunlight, dispersing it in strange patterns. The realization hit him then, and he couldn't help but let out a gasp of surprise.

He had forgotten about the Resurrection Stone.

The mattress let out a soft thump as he fell on it, but his ears barely registered the sound. The pebble between his fingers kept the focus of all of his senses. How could he have forgotten about the Hallow? And when did that even happen?

He recalled the last time he had offered someone to use it, during Remus and Tonks' funeral. The Stone had been inside the pocket of his robes at the end of the night, of that he was certain. The rest of the memories, however, were blurry and disjointed. He had been half drunk in whisky and grief, exhausted by the long day, by having to say goodbye to his lost friends, by the conversation between Snape and himself, sitting together on the bench by the swaying grass... Harry vaguely remembered going back to the Burrow and putting his pajamas before stumbling onto his bed, falling onto a deep sleep. He guessed that it must have been then, in that change of clothes, when he had removed the Stone from his robes and put it inside the extended bag. He supposed he should be grateful that his past self-had retained a modicum of wisdom even in that state, but still… That didn't explain why he hadn't thought about it since then.

And he could have done that plenty of times. The situation minutes ago would have been the perfect opportunity for it. But the thought hadn't even crossed his mind.

Harry remembered how it had been before, when he had retrieved it from the forest. The Hallow had been too important to lose, too precious. He had carried it with him at all times, whether in his trousers' pocket or even sleeping with it under his pillow. It wasn't just the magical properties it possessed that made it so valuable, but the sense of purpose it had instilled on Harry. He could easily recall how horrible the idea of losing that feeling, that reason to stay alive, had been. What he couldn't not do, however, was pinpoint the exact moment in which that situation had changed.

Closing his eyes, he browsed through memories, trying to understand.

His fight with Snape came to the surface almost immediately. Their disagreement about the Stone, about Harry's intentions with it. Is that what you're planning on doing with your life, Potter?, the Potions Master had said, looking at him from across his chambers. Wandering the Earth for the next hundred years? Using the Stone on every person who has lost someone? For a second, Harry felt the same sadness, anger and shame at those words as he had back then. It wouldn't be noble, Potter. It would be stupid. And a waste. You don't have to throw away your life carrying the burden of other people's pain. It's not your fault that people die. He remembered trying to push those truths aside, not wanting Snape to get inside his head, especially after the nasty argument they had just gone through. But it had been pointless. The idea had already sparked in his mind.

And then there was his conversation with Ginny at the Burrow. The understanding in her eyes, her words honest and to the point. You can't help everyone. Not only it's not your responsibility, but it's literally impossible. She had said, calming his fear and guilt, making even more room for change to happen. Don't you think you deserve to be free? To be happy? Harry remembered her big brown eyes, looking at him from the bottom of the stairs. The weight he had carried on his shoulders starting to lift…

Ginny had also talked about his instincts. About his gut telling him when it was time to stop using the Stone. She had told him that he should follow those feelings. Even if it's hard, even if it's scary, even if you still feel guilty... But it hadn't been any of those things, Harry realized. You have to promise me that you will listen to yourself. That you'll be brave and that you will do the right thing. He had vowed that he would, but the moment to be brave had never come. That hard and painful act of courage, of refusal to keep using the Stone, hadn't actually happened.

Still with his eyes closed, Harry frowned. How on earth had it been so easy to let go of the Hallow, then? To even forget about it? It was supposed to be difficult. Before he could try to make sense of it, Andromeda's face, weary but wise, appeared behind his eyelids. The old woman had been in pain, grief for the loss of her family evident in her expression. But, as she refused his offer to use the Stone, there had been certainty in her eyes. As well as something Harry had been searching for since the end of the war. Peace. And she hadn't needed him nor the Hallow to obtain it. Seeing that, hearing the explanation behind her choice, how sure she was of it, had changed something inside the boy. He could see it now. The final blow that had broken his attachment to the Hallow.

A testament to that was how little thought he had given the Stone since Remus and Tonks' funeral. Not one single moment of wondering where it could be. Nor wishing to use it. It was true that he had been busy, between fixing Grimmauld Place, dealing with the aftermath of the War and his Potions lessons with Snape, he hadn't had that much free time. But before, all of those things wouldn't have mattered. The Stone would have kept a spot inside his mind either way. The fact that it didn't… Well, it filled Harry's chest with relief.

He felt a small smile spread over his face as he opened his eyes to the little pebble on his hand. He had done it again, he thought, running his thumb over the smooth surface. He had thwarted the obsession that the Stone carried with it once more. He no longer felt that pressure on himself, that absolute certainty that unless he used the Hallow to help others, his life would have no meaning. He still felt guilt when he thought about the War, about how many had died because he had decided to fight at Hogwarts. But he was starting to understand that it wasn't his fault. Believing it was some days harder than others, but the fact that he had completely forgotten about the Stone for weeks was a good sign. A really good one.

Harry's thumb passed over the Deathly Hallows' engraving, rough in contrast with the rest of the surface. He traced the straight line representing the wand, then the circle that symbolized the little pebble in his hand, and, finally, the triangle that englobed everything, the cloak his father had left him… It was strange to think that so many people had died in the pursuit of these objects. That they could create such obsessions and drive men and women crazy. The reminder made him feel careless. He couldn't just leave the Resurrection Stone inside his bag where anything could happen to it. He had to keep it safe and hidden. Not because his sanity depended on using it. Not because losing the Hallow would mean losing his purpose. But because he knew its power and the responsibility it entailed.

Standing up from his bed, the Stone inside his right fist, Harry looked around the room. He hoped that, by some miracle, the perfect hiding spot would reveal itself to him. Somewhere only he, and perhaps a few trusted others, would know. Surprisingly, when only a few seconds had past, he found it. The moment his gaze landed on Sirius' old guitar, dusty but beautiful against the peeling wallpaper, he knew what he had to do.

Five minutes later, the floorboard in Sirius' room was filled again with the small wooden box. Only this time, there weren't pictures or tiny guitars inside it, but a small black pebble with a strange sign carved in the middle.

It was a good place, Harry thought to himself. And, if everything went according to plan, he wouldn't have to worry about the Resurrection Stone ever again. Or, at least, until Teddy Lupin came of age. He had promised Andromeda that he would offer him the possibility to talk to his parents. And Harry always kept his promises.

Hoping to be done with distractions for the rest of the day, the boy went back to his room. He was worried that after everything that had happened that morning, he would have the energy nor the will to do what Snape had told him to. But the moment he picked up the extended bag from where he had dropped it, he felt a rush of interest. Maybe he had spent too much time with Hermione, but the idea of learning about fixing dark curses was fascinating.

Sitting crossed legged on the bed, his back against the dark wooden frame, Harry opened the bag once more. He then removed the books one by one until they were spread over the soft sheets. They all looked beautiful and inviting. It would be a shame to have to decide which one to actually read. But Harry knew that he didn't have much time. With only two days to prepare, he would have to prioritize and make some choices.

He opened each one of them, looking through their table of contents. Some words and topics he knew well, others he barely recognized and a few he had never heard before in his life. After he was done, however, he had some idea of what each book talked about. And, in turn, which ones he should read.

Straightening up on the bed, Harry picked up the two tomes closest to him. They were a pair of identical ones, the Herbology books he had bought for Neville and himself. Making a mental note to remember to send the copy to his friend, Harry placed Neville's tome to his right. That would be the pile of discarded books, he decided.

With a small nod, he placed his own copy onto the left pile, ready to be read. He had seen different chapters that could be useful for dealing with George's ear. The most interesting one was called "Plant species used to treat magical wounds", with a subsection he would pay extra attention to, named "When Herbology and Potions mix, common ingredients to brew restorative and healing draughts". All in all, it was a large chunk of the book. But Harry predicted that, given how much of the information he already knew from his Hogwarts' education and tutoring with Snape, it shouldn't take him more than a few hours to read through it.

Moving on to the next subject, Harry grabbed the Charms volume. He looked at it for a few seconds, checking once more through the chapters to be sure. After a few seconds on hesitation, he finally discarded it to his right. He liked the subject and knew that some enchantments could be useful in case of being hit by a dark curse. On the top of his head, he could think of using a water or freezing charm to fight off fire, for example. But he would have to search through the entire book for those, thinking of specific situations where they could be applied. It would take way too long and waste precious time that he did not have. After this weekend was over, he promised himself that he would eventually read the book at his own pace.

The next decision was an easier one. Snape would kill him if he even thought of discarding the Potions volume. With a little smile, he placed it to his left side. He had seen more than a couple of promising chapters there and, while reading them thoroughly would take days alone, he expected to be able to grasp the main concepts quicker than that. His knowledge in Potions had increased significatively and he should be familiar with most of the topics. He hoped.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts books were the last two remaining. The first tome was the one Snape had wanted to buy from the beginning. Most of the counter curses he would witness in two days' time would be found there, he knew. He didn't need to think about it before placing it in the left pile. The second volume was trickier. It had been more of a bonus, he recalled. Something to keep him busy and expand his knowledge if he wanted too. After a moment of hesitation, he decided to leave it in the right-hand pile. He would only delve into it if he finished reading everything else before Sunday.

Happy with his thought-process, sure that he had made the right decisions, Harry carried the left pile to the table.

The sun was high on the sky, and he knew that he shouldn't waste any more time. The scary moment downstairs was a mere afterthought now, and finding the Resurrection Stone had done nothing but lift his spirits. He was ready to start now.

After grabbing an empty parchment, Harry dipped the quill in the dark ink. Then, with excitement bubbling up in his chest, he wrote: Herbology, Page 1.

He continued reading for hours, his brow frown in concentration, his hand quickly moving through the parchment while he took notes. The white pages glowed, reflecting the rays coming in through the window and the fresh blue ink on them. As the hours passed, Harry moved on from Herbology to Potions. Then, sooner than he had expected, the light grew dimmer and dimmer, and when he looked up again, the sun was beginning to disappear over the horizon. He considered going downstairs to get a quick dinner, but decided against it for now, not wanting to lose his focus. Instead, he flicked his wand, lighting up the candle by the desk, and told himself that he would go after finishing the section he was on. But that one quickly led to another one and then another, and then another…

It was a knock on his door that made him look up again, after a few more hours of concentration. The only light left was the candle to his left, the rest of the room was engulfed in darkness. Harry's heartbeat increased in a way that it hadn't since the War had ended. With a swift motion, he got up from the chair and grabbed his wand tightly between his fingers, pointing it towards the sound.

"Who's there?"

The door opened slowly, as a voice Harry immediately recognized said:

"It's me, Master Potter."

"Kreacher!" Harry sighed with relief. He lowered his wand as the house-elf entered the room, bowing slightly towards him. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, sir. Everything is alright." The elf said. "Kreacher was just wondering why Master Potter hadn't left his room all day. Kreacher wanted to check on him, sir."

"Thank you, Kreacher, that's kind of you. I was just studying." Harry said, sitting down again. Then something in the elf's words made him frown. "Wait, how did you - ? Were you here the whole time? Why didn't you let me know?"

Kreacher looked alarmed at the question.

"Kreacher arrived shortly after lunch time, sir. Kreacher didn't want to bother young Master, so he stayed quiet."

Harry sighed, rubbing his tired eyes with the tips of his fingers.

"You don't bother me, Kreacher. This is your house as well; I've told you before. You can tell me when you are back. I would prefer it, actually," he said with a little smile, "it would save me the heart attack."

Kreacher looked around room, and Harry immediately recognized the same expression that Dobby had carried on his face so many times before. The house elf was looking at something to punish himself with.

"Don't." He warned him, knowing that old habits die hard. "Don't even think about it."

Kreacher dropped his ears.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Kreacher, you are no longer a slave." Harry told him seriously. "You are free to come and go as you want. It wasn't an order, and you didn't make any mistakes. I just wished you would have let me know you were back, that's all."

The elf nodded slowly but still kept an eye on the spare chair, which would make the perfect hitting tool.

"So, what have you been up to?" Harry said, changing the topic quickly. "It's been a while since I've seen you around."

At that question, Kreacher's ears perked up again and his attention returned to the boy.

"Kreacher has been busy, young Master. Meeting with the other house elves, planning what to do..." He was obviously proud of that. His expression had changed into something resembling a smile full of wrinkles. "And this morning Kreacher and others had a meeting with Headmistress McGonagall."

That was a surprise.

"McGonagall?" Harry repeated.

"Yes, sir. The situation is difficult for my kind. Not for old Kreacher, of course. His good Master lets him stay at this house and has even offered him a job when he should not have to."

Harry waved a hand at the compliments, but Kreacher continued before he could say anything.

"For others, it's harder. Their Masters got killed during the War or are in prison. Most house elves have nowhere to go. No family to serve and no place to live."

Harry nodded gravely. The majority of house elves were owned by rich, pure-blood, wizards. Those type of people were most likely to have supported Voldemort and, in turn, died or lost their possessions after the War. It was a difficult situation indeed. But it still didn't explain what McGonagall had to do with it. Before he had time to ask, Kreacher answered his unformulated question.

"Luckily, the Headmistress had been providing help for Kreacher's kind."

"Has she?"

Kreacher nodded, his big eyes serious and proud. More sane than Harry had ever seen him.

"A job at Hogwarts for now. Rebuilding the school. And maybe helping at the kitchen when the year begins."

"That's good." Harry said. "I'm glad that she is doing that."

Kreacher nodded.

"Yes, sir. And Headmistress McGonagall is not the only one. The Ministry is trying to find a solution too. Mr. Kingsley Shacklebolt has met with us a few times."

"Kingsley?" Harry's surprise increased.

The man certainly was the type to help other magical creatures, but he wondered how on Earth was he able to do that with all the other problems he had to deal with already. As the temporary Ministry of Magic – at least until things calmed down and the magical community could vote again – Kinglsey had needed to deal with way too many things. Capturing the remaining Death Eaters and putting them on trial, making sure that no more threats were lurking around, fixing international relations and rebuilding the wizarding world, both physically and emotionally…. Added to that, thought Harry with a rush of second-hand anxiety, now there was the issue of what to do with dark magical creatures such as giants, werewolves and dementors, or even neutral ones like house elves, goblins and merpeople. Voldemort's reign had affected every single corner of the Wizarding and muggle world, and Harry couldn't imagine what being Kingsley right now must be like. He wouldn't want to do his job for all the gold in Gringotts.

"Yes, sir." Kreacher's voice took him out of those thoughts. "Mr. Shacklebolt has offered other positions for my kind. At Sant Mungo and the Ministry itself, sir. And not only cleaning and helping people, no sir. Mr. Shacklebolt said 'House elves' magic is powerful and different', he said. And now…" Kreacher's voice got lower, like he thought someone else could hear him. "Now, some of us are helping with… secret projects, sir."

"Secret projects?" Harry found himself whispering back.

Kreacher nodded.

"Kreacher doesn't know exactly what, sir. And Kreacher doesn't want to. He is happy staying here in the noble house of Black and Potter, yes, he is. But some elves that Kreacher knows have worked in the projects. And…. And Kreacher has seen them when they come back, sir. They look… strange. Tired and sad. And house elves don't tire or get upset easily, sir."

Harry frowned. That was odd. He knew how resilient house elves could be. And how powerful too. They possessed magic that wizards didn't know about. He wondered if the Ministry was investigating those powers, trying to understand them. It was possible that they were working with the Unspeakables, he thought, remembering the things he had seen down in the department of Mysteries. Or maybe even with the Aurors. Harry didn't doubt that Voldemort and his followers had left horrible dark magic around the world. The Ministry probably needed help removing it, and house elves might be able to pass through curses or enchantments that normal wizards couldn't. Kreacher had been able to escape Voldemort's magical cave after all. Whatever it was, though he trusted Kingsley, he would ask Mr. Weasley on Sunday if he knew anything about it. Just in case.

"I will try to get more information on those projects." Harry promised. "But for now stay away from them, okay?"

"Not a problem, sir." Nodded the elf. "Kreacher doesn't want another job. He is happy here."

"I know." Harry smiled. "But if you ever decide that you want to do something else or live away from here, that is fine by me too. I would just wait until things settle down, though. Laws will be made about house elves and their rights. But until then… Well, McGonagall and Kingsley are good people. But other wizards might try to take advantage of you."

"Young Master is wise." Kreacher nodded. "Some house elves have complained about that. They left their jobs and have decided to work for Headmistress McGonagall instead."
"That's good." Harry said. He was going to add something else when a yawn blocked his next words.

"Master Harry is tired." Kreacher pointed out. "He should go to sleep."

"I will. Just need to finish this last chapter first. I'm almost done."

"Master Harry should also eat some dinner, Kreacher thinks."

Harry sighed. Once Kreacher started liking you, he was even more fierce than Mrs. Weasley when it came to your well-being.

"I'm not hungry, Kreacher." Harry said. "I appreciate the concern, but I am fine."

The elf ignored him and instead clicked his fingers. A cheese and ham sandwich immediately appeared out of thin air.

"Master Harry will eat." He said. It sounded worryingly like a threat. "He needs energy for his brain."

Harry sighed again.

"Look, I will eat it later, okay?" He stood up to pick up the floating plate and put it down on the desk, next to the open Potions book.

But Kreacher was still looking at him, waiting.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake." Harry took a small bite, chewing it and shallowing before turning to face the elf again. "See? I am eating." Now that his stomach had gotten some nutrients, Harry could feel how hungry he had actually been. Without planning too, he started taking another bite, and then another. After a few moments, there were only a few breadcrumbs left on the plate.

Kreacher looked very pleased with himself.

"That is good." He said. "Now Master Harry has enough energy to finish the last chapter." The way he said that word also sounded like a threat. It was lucky that there was indeed only one more chapter left.

"Yes, thank you, Kreacher."

The elf nodded, accepting the thanks.

"Kreacher will leave now, sir. Unless Master needs anything else."

Harry started to shake his head.

"No, that's all, Kreacher, thanks again." Then his eyes laid on the discarded pile of books on his bed. "Actually, I do have a favor to ask. Do you know Neville Longbottom?"

Kreacher nodded.

"Mistress Bella used to talk about the Longbottom family, sir."

Harry felt an old flash of hatred towards Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Right, eh… Just don't mention her to Neville, okay?"

"Understood, sir."

"Alright." Harry stood up once more, picking the second copy of Herbology and passing it to Kreacher. "I don't… have an owl yet. But I wanted to give this to him. It's a present. Do you think you could manage?"

Kreacher took the book and nodded.

"Kreacher knows the address. Does Master Harry want me to deliver it now?"

"What? No. No, Kreacher." Harry hurried to say. "It must be well past midnight. His grandma would kill me. Wait until a more reasonable hour, please. But there is no hurry, really. If tomorrow you are busy, it can wait."

Kreacher shook his head.

"Kreacher will deliver it first thing in the morning."

"Thank you, Kreacher." Harry said. "I really appreciate it… Wait! I almost forgot." He went back to the desk and picked up a spare parchment. After writing down a couple of sentences and signing it, he passed it to the elf. "There. Give him this as well, please."

Kreacher took the note and put it inside the book. Then, he bowed slightly.

"Kreacher will go to bed now." He said. "And so should Master Harry."

"I will. I just have to finish that last chapter."

The old elf narrowed his eyes.

"Kreacher will be checking on Master."

That made Harry chuckle.

"You don't have to. I will go soon. I promise."

The elf looked at him for a few seconds, clearly skeptical.

"Kreacher hopes so."

"I'll see you tomorrow." Harry said, going back to the desk. "Have a good night."

He heard Kreacher sigh slightly before answering back.

"Have a good night, Master Harry." Then he closed the door, leaving him alone once more.

Harry had just sat down again when a soft crack sounded right next to him and the plate disappeared. After recovering from the surprise, he couldn't help but smile at the elf's antics. It was nice to have him around, even if sometimes he worried needlessly. Kreacher didn't know it, but it wouldn't be the first time that Harry had gone without eating or sleeping for a while. He could handle it.

Still, as he tried to focus his weary eyes back on the pages, he realized that he did feel tired. Pushing his brain for much longer wouldn't be a good idea, he knew. There was only so much he could learn and remember at this point. If he kept going, he would just be wasting time. Luckily for him, he had told Kreacher the truth and there was only one more chapter left to finish.

Half an hour later, with a soft groan but satisfaction in his chest, Harry stood up from the desk. His movements were slow and heavy as he walked towards his bed and changed into his pajamas, but he was pleased with the work he had done during the day. Blinking slowly, eyes red with tiredness, he did one last effort to put the discarded pile of books on the floor. It was rapidly becoming full of objects, but that would be a problem for the next morning. Right now, all he had energy for was flicking his wand, tuning off the candlelight in an instant, and entering the sheets with a satisfied sigh. Harry closed his eyes, immediately relaxing against the softness. He took a few deep breaths, expecting his brain to take a while to shut down after all the information he had absorbed during the day, but before he knew it, he was snoring soundly, fast asleep.

A/N: And that's it for this chapter. Please let me know if you like it or if you found any typos/mistakes. Thank you! I will see you in the next one :) Take care!