Chapter Two: The Weight of Victory
Harry, Ron, and Hermione stepped into the Gryffindor common room, the familiar warmth of the space greeting them despite the destruction. The walls bore scorch marks, furniture had been overturned, and the air still carried the scent of burnt wood and something darker—magic that had clashed in the battle.
But what stood out most were the people.
Neville Longbottom was the first to spot them. He was leaning against a broken table, talking to Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, but when he saw them, he pushed himself upright with a tired grin.
"There they are!" he called, and immediately, a rush of voices filled the room.
Seamus let out a loud whoop, clapping Ron on the back so hard that he nearly sent him stumbling. "About time you lot showed up!"
Dean grinned. "Thought you'd gone off to sleep for a week."
"Would've if Hermione didn't make us freshen up first," Ron muttered, shaking his head.
Neville stepped forward, his expression more serious but no less warm. "You did it, Harry."
Harry shook his head slightly. "We all did."
"Yeah, well," Neville said, rubbing the back of his neck, "you did more than most. Not that I'm saying I didn't help—because, you know, I did."
Harry chuckled. "You did more than help, Neville. That was a bloody brilliant bit of swordwork with the snake."
Neville grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, well… Someone had to do it."
Harry made a mental note to tell Neville the full story—why Nagini had been so important, why she had to die before Voldemort could be defeated. But that could wait.
"Right," Seamus said, stretching, "as much as I'd love to sit here basking in how heroic we all are, I reckon we should head to the Great Hall. See who's up."
There was a collective murmur of agreement, and together, they stepped out into the castle.
The walk was eerily silent at first. The corridors they had known for years were barely recognizable—rubble was scattered everywhere, tapestries hung in tatters, and the suits of armor stood frozen in awkward, battle-worn positions.
They passed the staircase where Lavender Brown had fallen. The spot where Colin Creevey had once stood.
No one spoke for a long time.
Then Ron, in an attempt to shake off the gloom, muttered, "Bet Peeves had the time of his life last night."
Dean snorted. "Oh, you should've seen him. Right in the middle of the battle, he was throwing Dungbombs at Death Eaters and singing 'Voldy's Gone Moldy' at the top of his lungs."
Neville chuckled. "That might be the only thing I'll miss about the war."
Harry smiled, appreciating the small bit of levity. They needed it.
As they neared the entrance to the Great Hall, a sudden, sharp pain shot through Harry's chest. It was quick but intense, flaring outward from the bruise left by the Killing Curse. He inhaled sharply, pressing a hand to his ribs for just a second before forcing himself to straighten.
No one noticed—except Hermione.
Her eyes flickered to him, brows slightly furrowed, but before she could say anything, he dropped his hand and walked forward as if nothing had happened. After a brief hesitation, she let it go and looked away.
The second they stepped through the doors, the noise exploded.
A cheer erupted, echoing off the enchanted ceiling, which still flickered between day and night, unable to settle. People stood from the long house tables, some clapping, some shouting Harry's name.
He flinched.
They rushed toward him.
Some shook his hand, others simply touched his arm as if making sure he was real. He heard murmurs of "Thank you," "You saved us," and "The Boy Who Lived… again."
He didn't know what to feel.
Part of him wanted to disappear, to slip away into the crowd and pretend he was just another student. But he knew that wasn't possible. Not today.
He forced himself to smile, to nod, to say "It wasn't just me," even though it felt like his voice wasn't his own.
Ron and Hermione flanked him, offering support with their presence.
Then he saw her.
Ginny Weasley.
She was standing a little apart from the group, near the Gryffindor table. Her red hair was tangled, her face pale and exhausted, but her eyes still burned with the fierce determination that was so uniquely hers.
For a brief moment, their eyes met.
Harry felt his chest tighten—not from pain this time, but from something deeper, something he didn't have the energy to untangle just yet.
He gave her a small, faint smile.
She didn't smile back, but she didn't look away either.
Then, someone else clapped Harry on the shoulder, drawing him back into the moment.
Ron broke away, moving straight to his family. Mrs. Weasley pulled him into a crushing hug, fresh tears streaking her already tear-stained face. George, Percy, Bill, Charlie—each of them took turns embracing him.
Hermione stood beside him, offering quiet condolences.
Harry stood frozen.
His chest tightened as he looked at them. The Weasleys had always been his second family. And now, they were grieving because of a war that had revolved around him.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, unsure of what to do.
Then Mr. Weasley stepped forward. Without a word, he pulled Harry into a tight embrace.
Harry felt something inside him crack.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I—I'm so sorry—"
But before he could finish, Mrs. Weasley grabbed him, too. Then Bill, then Charlie. Each of them dismissed his apologies before he could even finish speaking.
"It's not your fault, Harry," Mr. Weasley said firmly. "Never think that."
Harry nodded, but the guilt still sat heavy in his chest.
As the murmurs in the Hall quieted, a new presence approached.
Professor McGonagall stood before him, her face lined with exhaustion, but her eyes were filled with something close to pride. Beside her, tall and imposing as ever, was Kingsley Shacklebolt, still dressed in battle-worn robes, his presence commanding immediate attention.
"Mr. Potter," McGonagall said, her voice softer than usual, "Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger… The two of us were wondering if we might have a word."
Harry straightened, exchanging glances with Ron and Hermione before nodding. "Of course."
Kingsley smiled. "There are things we'd like to understand. What exactly you were doing while on the run. What led to this moment."
Harry hesitated, then made a decision. "I don't want to go over it with the whole world listening. Just a few people."
McGonagall nodded. "We'll keep it private."
Harry took a breath. "Then I want you both there. And the Weasleys. And Neville."
Neville, who had been lingering nearby, startled. "Me?"
Harry nodded. "You were part of this. More than you know."
Neville scratched the back of his neck. "Well… alright, then."
Kingsley clasped his hands together. "Let's meet tonight. When things have settled."
Harry nodded, and the arrangement was set.
As the Hall resumed its murmur of conversation, Harry let out a slow breath. Tonight, he would tell them. The full story.
But for now, he just had to get through the rest of the day.