ONE
The Scottish highlands seemed to stretch endlessly beneath the Hogwarts Express, painted in autumn's early brushstrokes of russet and gold. Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived, sat motionless by the compartment window, his breath creating small patches of fog on the glass. Every turn of the wheels brought them closer to Hogwarts, and with each mile, the knot in his stomach grew tighter.
A year.
It had been a full year since the Battle of Hogwarts.
A year of funerals and rebuilding, of nightmares and healing, of learning to live in a world that somehow kept turning even after everything that had happened. Try as he might, he still couldn't shrug off the feeling that many faces he'd gotten used to seeing at that old place that had been a home to him as long as he could remember- he would never see again. Sirius. Remus. Tonks. Fred. Colin. Dumbledore. Cedric. All on the other side of the veil.
Now, at eighteen—nearly nineteen—he was returning to complete his education. He wasn't sure why (Hermione had forced him to come). Perhaps it was an act of defiance against the Dark Lord even after his death. Voldemort had always tried to scare Harry at every turn, playing games with his mind and making him questions everything and everyone around him. Living life on the edge had become something routine for Harry- and now, all of a sudden, it was not.
The thought still felt surreal. A few years back, he wasn't sure he'd even be alive. And now- his greatest fear (besides being ambushed by rogue Death Eaters) was the NEWTs. After living a life of fear for so long, with so many years of fighting a war that never should have involved him in the first place; it almost felt wrong to be worried about something so…mundane. Exams? Schedules? Prefect Rounds? Harry never had to worry about things like that before. He didn't have the liberty to.
Going from a state of constant vigilance to a some-what detached calmness was new to him, and Harry fought more ghosts from his past that he usually felt comfortable telling others. At least, the meditations and deep breathing the other million books Hermione had bombarded him with had helped- a bit. He'd dealt with his trauma decently, he liked to think. It didn't help that the prophecy that had haunted him for most of his life, foretelling his death for practically all accounts, had instead resulted in so many of his friends and family dying but not him. A sort of sick question that he wasn't sure he was ready to answer yet.
It had taken a lot of time- he'd spent most of the year in isolation, thinking- but at least he felt a little better now. At least, alright enough that when Hermione sent him a howler (I swear Potter if you don't apparate to the Burrow RIGHT NOW I will find you and hex you!) he found himself back there, with people who helped him. And now he was on the somehow still functional Hogwarts Express. Heading back for schooling.
Simply dreadful.
The compartment creaked as Ron shifted in his seat, the sound drawing Harry's attention. His best friend was attempting to appear casual, but Harry noticed how Ron's fingers drummed restlessly against his knee. Beside him, Hermione sat with a book open in her lap—Advanced Transfiguration—though she hadn't turned a page in the last hour. They were all nervous, Harry realized. It wasn't just him.
"Do you remember," Hermione spoke suddenly, her voice soft, "our first time on this train?"
She closed her book, keeping one finger between the pages. "I was so excited I barely slept the night before. Had memorized all our textbooks. Was probably insufferable, really."
"Was?" Ron quipped. "You're even smarter now, 'Mione. Just wait till you start talking about spells I haven't the foggiest idea about!"
Hermione sniffed and swatted his shoulder, but Harry noticed them exchange fond smiles. He turned right and watched a raindrop trace its way down the window, remembering that first journey. How everything had seemed magical and new. How his greatest worry had been whether he'd fit in and how he'd wash his smelly robes.
Just then, a group of younger students passed their compartment, their excited chatter filtering through the door. One glimpsed Harry through the glass and stopped dead, mouth falling open. The others quickly followed suit, pressing their faces against the window until an older prefect shooed them away.
"That's the fourth group this hour," Ron observed, reaching for another chocolate frog. Harry slouched lower in his seat, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "You'd think after a year, they'd have gotten used to it."
"They're just excited, Harry," Hermione said diplomatically, though her expression suggested elsewise. "It'll settle down once term starts properly."
The train began to slow, its wheels screaming against the tracks. Through the growing dusk, Harry could make out the familiar silhouette of Hogsmeade Station. His heart gave a peculiar lurch—part anticipation, part dread. The shrill whistle from up front reminded everyone to begin packing their bags, and Harry complied.
As they gathered their things, he caught glimpses of other returning eighth-years through compartment windows. Dean Thomas helped Seamus Finnigan with his trunk, both of them moving with the careful awareness of those who'd learned to watch their backs. Parvati Patil sat with her sister Padma, their heads bent close in conversation. So many familiar faces, all bearing the subtle marks of what they'd lived through. He wasn't the only one affected by the war.
Of course, a lot of people had told him the war wasn't his fault. And that they were happy to give up their lives for the greater good. Both excellent points, but he still had a hard time accepting it sometimes. It wasn't easy to see the effects of war around him and not be affected by it. Hermione said that was what made him human, what separated him from Voldermort.
The platform was in a state of chaos as students poured from the train, their excited voices creating a familiar cacophony that almost—almost—felt normal. But there were differences. As he gripped the handle to the exit, his eyes couldn't help but caste a perfunctory glance at the people around him. A part of him knew he was safe, but most of him doubted.
It didn't got unnoticed. The way the older students' eyes automatically scanned for exits. How groups stuck closer together, wands readily accessible in sleeve holsters. The small air of unfamiliarity- especially against those whose families had sided with the Death Eaters or been neutral in the past war. It was the little things.
"Harry." Hermione's voice was gentle. "We can take a moment if you need."
"Yeah mate," Ron agreed. "Don't break that door handle just yet, they just rebuilt this carriage."
He shook his head, forcing his fingers to relax. "I'm fine." At her skeptical look, he managed a small smile.
"Really. Just… taking it in. You know what?" he took in a deep breath of the cold air. "Let's just go. Final year, right?"
The evening air hit them with a crisp September chill as they stepped onto the platform. Overhead, stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky, though the horizon still held the last traces of sunset. The scent of pine and locomotive steam mixed with the musty sweetness of fallen leaves and chocolate frogs. Behind, the Express rested solidly like a constant presence, and Harry found a small smile fighting its way to his face as he looked back at the engine fondly. It had every bit off stubbornness of character as everyone who'd come back to Hogwarts this year.
To his left, another row of first-years huddled together, their faces a mixture of awe and trepidation as they stared up at the distant castle. Somehow there was always another group of first years, each more amusing than the last, every time he was on this platform. Harry remembered that feeling—of standing on this very platform seven years ago, his whole future stretched out before him like an unwritten story. Now he stood here again, older and more scarred, returning to complete what they'd started. Not because he had to, but because he chose to. Because sometimes, the bravest thing you could do was simply keep going forward. He'd learned that time and time again in the recent past.
"Ready?" Ron asked, breaking into his thoughts. His best friend stood tall beside him, freckles stark against his pale face, but his eyes were steady. For a second, Harry blinked away a sudden tear in his eyes. Even now, Ron and Hermione kept asking him how he was- to the point where it was almost like they were babying him. While he'd taken offense at first, he'd understood that it was because they cared about him. He kept needing to remember that he wasn't the only one who'd fought in the war. They had too. And they were ready to move on, it seemed.
Certainly it was easier for them, because they had each other.
He took a deep breath. Forget the past. Keep moving forward.
Harry looked up at the castle in the distance, its windows beginning to glow with warmth against the gathering dusk. Somewhere in those halls, a new chapter was waiting to begin. More magic to learn. More unnecessary essays to write.
More Quidditch matches to win.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Ready."
The path to the carriages wound through crowds of students, their faces flickering in the light of floating lanterns. Harry found himself instinctively moving as he had during the war—scanning faces, noting exits, keeping Ron and Hermione within arm's reach. He might be a new man, but old habits died hard.
"Harry! Ron! Hermione!"
A voice cut through the evening chaos, and they turned to see Neville Longbottom pushing through a group of second-years. He'd grown over the summer, Harry noticed, and there was a new confidence in his stride that hadn't been there before. Funny what a mythical powerful sword did to your personality.
"Neville!" Hermione embraced him warmly. "How was the herbology apprenticeship?"
Some had recovered before him. Including Neville- Harry had to give it to the boy, no, man, he had grit. He'd barely recovered from his injuries when he realized that a Voldemort-free world meant he could spend more time working on his interests. Namely a girl and some greens.
"Brilliant! Professor Sprout's got these fascinating new specimens in Greenhouse Three—some rare healing plants from South America. They're helping regrow the damaged sections of the Whomping Willow." His face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Speaking of which, did you know they're using a combination of herbology and ancient magic to heal the castle's foundations? The stone itself is being—"
"Neville," Ron interrupted, "please tell me you're still planning to at least try out for the Quidditch team this year. We can't lose you entirely to bloomin' plants-"
Before Neville could respond, a dreamy voice floated over. "Oh, the Quidditch pitch has excellent energy this year. The nargles have completely abandoned it."
Luna Lovegood appeared beside them, her radish earrings swaying gently. Her blonde hair was braided with what looked like strands of copper wire, and her wand was tucked behind her ear as always. Harry felt a grin tug at his face. Luna hadn't changed a bit.
"Luna! How was Sweden?"
"Quite lovely, though we didn't find any Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. Dad says they must have migrated early this year."
She tilted her head, studying Harry. He tried not to get weirded out. "You look better. The wrackspurts around your head have decreased significantly."
"Er, thanks?" he managed, as Ron poorly disguised a snort as a cough.
Their progress toward the carriages was interrupted by a small commotion. A group of first-years had noticed him. A tiny girl with pigtails clutched what appeared to be a copy of "The Daily Prophet" featuring a photo of his riding a broomstick…where?
"Mr. Potter?" she squeaked, holding out the paper with trembling hands. "Could you… would you mind…?"
Harry felt his face heat up, but one look at her nervous excitement made him pause. She couldn't have been more than eleven—the same age he'd been when he'd first learned about magic. About Hogwarts. He knew how it was to be a first year and lost. But Hagrid had been great then- maybe he could help out this girl too.
"What's your name?" he asked gently, accepting the newspaper.
"Sarah," she whispered, eyes wide.
"Welcome to Hogwarts, Sarah." He signed the paper with a quick charm Hermione had taught him (after the third time he'd been mobbed for autographs in Diagon Alley). "You're going to love it here."
The girl beamed, clutching the paper to her chest before being swept away by her friends, all of them chattering excitedly. Harry watched them go, feeling a complex mix of emotions he couldn't quite name.
"That was kind of you," Luna observed. "They're quite afraid, you know. The first-years. They've heard so many stories about last year."
Harry hadn't considered that. The thought of children being frightened of Hogwarts—their Hogwarts—made something in his chest ache. No one was supposed to be scared of Hogwarts. At least, not unnecessarily.
"Speaking of last year," Ron began, "did you hear about the Chudley-"
"Ron!" Hermione scowled. "Can we go five minutes without you talking about Quidditch!"
"Oh alright then," his red-haired friend scowled. Harry and Neville laughed.
"Oh yeah laugh it up mate, as if you're any better."
They reached the carriages, where the thestrals stood proud in their harnesses, their skeletal forms visible now to far too many students. He noticed several younger ones pointing, their faces a mixture of fascination and distress. When he was a first year, he was practically the only one who could see them. Now, he noticed, pretty much all of the first years could.
"Beautiful creatures," Luna said softly, reaching out to pat the nearest one's neck. "Misunderstood, but beautiful."
As their carriage began its journey up the winding path, the castle came into full view. Harry heard Hermione's sharp intake of breath, felt Ron stiffen beside him. Hogwarts rose against the twilight sky, proud and ancient as ever, but now bearing its own battle scars. New stone gleamed lighter among the old, like fresh skin among scars. The West Tower had been completely rebuilt, its architecture slightly different from what he remembered.
"The stonework's incredible," Neville commented, his voice hushed with respect. "They used some sort of advanced transfiguration to make sure the new sections would bond properly with the old magic."
"The NEWT exams will probably cover that," Hermione said, already pulling out a notebook. "Advanced architectural transfiguration is fascinating, really. The way the magical matrices have to align—"
"Blimey, Hermione," Ron groaned, "we haven't even reached the castle yet!"
"Well, some of us like to be prepared, Ronald. The NEWTs are incredibly important for our future careers, and—"
"While you're talking about important things," Ron cut in, "did you hear they've got a new head cook in the kitchens? Seamus told me they've brought in someone who trained in France. Imagine the feast!"
Harry tuned out their comforting bickering. His own thoughts drifted to the Quidditch pitch visible in the distance. He'd missed flying more than almost anything during their year on the run. The freedom of it, the pure joy of being in the air…
"They've modified the pitch," Neville said softly, following his gaze."Reinforced the stands, added some new safety charms. McGonagall insisted on it." He paused. "You'll be captain again this year?"
Harry paused. "If they'll have me."
"If they'll have you?" Ron snorted. "Mate, you're bloody Harry Potter. The only question is how many people are going to try out just to say they flew with you."
The carriage rattled over a small bridge, and Harry caught a glimpse of the Black Lake below, its surface like polished obsidian in the gathering darkness. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called. The sound echoed across the grounds, lonely but somehow hopeful.
He missed Hedwig.
They were nearly at the castle now. Light spilled from its many windows, warm and welcoming against the autumn chill. Despite everything—the memories, the changes, the scars both visible and hidden—Harry felt something settle in his chest.
After a year of running, he was finally home.
The carriage came to a gentle stop before the main entrance, its wheels crunching softly against the gravel. Warm light spilled from the great oak doors, casting long shadows across the courtyard where students were already gathering in clusters. The evening air carried the familiar scent of sweaty robes and smushed candy, mingled now with the tang of new mortar and freshly cut wood.
"I still say they could have kept the secret passage behind the tapestry of Wendelin the Weird," Ron grumbled as they descended from the carriage.
"Honestly, Ronald," Hermione huffed, gathering her bag of books, "the structural integrity of the castle is slightly more important than your midnight snacking habits."
"Says you. A growing wizard needs—"
"If you say 'sustenance' one more time—"
"Actually," Neville cut in, "they did preserve most of the old passages. They just had to reinforce them with new enchantments. Professor Flitwick developed this fascinating charm that—"
"Watch it!"
Harry's reflexes kicked in as someone stumbled on the steps ahead of them. He reached out instinctively, catching a slim arm and steadying its owner. Green-trimmed robes, dark hair falling in elegant waves, and the distinct scent of jasmine—Daphne Greengrass. Someone he was distantly familiar with.
"My hero," she drawled, but there was a hint of…something in her smile. The war had changed the dynamics between houses, and Daphne had been one of the Slytherins who'd stayed to fight, something that still confused Harry. While Daphne hadn't been an outright supporter of the Death Eaters, Harry had still somewhat considered her a sort of foe. A part of him felt glad that she wasn't.
"Still saving people, Potter?"
"Old habits," Harry replied automatically, suddenly aware that he was still holding her arm. He let go quickly, feeling his face warm. Daphne adjusted her robes with practiced grace. Somehow, she looked miles more elegant than him, even though they both practically were wearing the same robes in different colors.
"Well, if you're not too busy with your heroics this term, perhaps we could study together sometime. I hear you're rather good at Defense Against the Dark Arts."
There was a glint in her eye that hadn't been there in previous years. The light caught her blonde hair at angles, making it glow and highlighting the shadow of freckles along her cheeks.
"I, uh—" Harry ran a hand through his hair, acutely conscious of Hermione's raised eyebrow and Ron's poorly concealed grin. His throat felt tight, and he wasn't sure about what to say. Blimey, facing a Death Eater was easier.
"Think about it," Daphne said with a small smirk, before gliding away to join Tracy Davis near the entrance.
"Not a word," Harry muttered to his friends as they climbed the steps.
"Wouldn't dream of it, mate," Ron said, his voice trembling with suppressed laughter. "Though I have to say, your face is doing a brilliant impression of a Gryffindor banner right now."
"The library does get rather crowded during NEWT year," Hermione added innocently. "Study partners can be very… helpful."
Harry groaned. "Can we focus on something else? Like…" He cast about desperately. "Like the new, er, castle features Neville was mentioning?"
Neville, bless him, jumped at the chance. "The reinforcement spells are fascinating, actually. They've integrated some old Celtic warding techniques with modern protective enchantments. See those runes carved into the archway?"
They paused in the entrance hall, necks craned to observe the subtle markings that now decorated the ancient stonework. Of course, Harry couldn't make much of it, but Hermione was gushing about the minor changes in the strokes...or something. Either way, the hall was different- that he had to admit. The space felt both familiar and strange—like returning to a childhood home to find the furniture rearranged. The grand staircase still swept upward in its majestic spiral, but some of the steps were visibly newer, their stone a shade lighter than their weathered companions.
"There's a lot about Hogwarts we don't know, isn't there?" Ron whistled. Hermione nodded. "There are still a lot of incredibly powerful wards based on artifacts around the castle. Ones we're not told about, obviously."
"I'm going to check the kitchen entrance-" Ron muttered.
"It's odd, isn't it?" Harry said quietly to Neville as Ron and Hermione resumed their bickering about the importance of knowing where the kitchen entrance had been relocated. "Being back here. Sometimes I look around and all I can see is… that night."
Neville nodded, understanding in his eyes. "I know what you mean. But then I look at the first-years, see how excited they are, how full of hope-" He gestured to where a group of younger students were whispering excitedly about the enchanted ceiling visible through the Great Hall's windows. "Makes me think maybe that's why we came back. To help make sure they get to have the kind of school experience we should have had. You know, without all the dying and whatever."
Harry found himself smiling despite the weight of memories. "When did you get so wise, Neville?"
"Probably around the time I started carrying a sword and leading a rebellion," Neville replied with a grin. "Though Gran says it's just because I finally started listening to her lectures about responsibility and proper wizarding behavior."
Their laughter echoed in the corridor to the entrance hall, joining the general buzz of excitement as more students filed in. For a moment, Harry forgot the scars—both visible and hidden—that they all carried.
The great oak doors of the Hall swung open, releasing a wave of golden light and familiar chatter. Harry paused at the threshold, momentarily overwhelmed by the rush of memories. The enchanted ceiling above rippled with starlight, wisps of clouds drifting across its magical expanse like thoughts through a Pensieve. Countless candles floated overhead, their warm glow catching the edges of newly restored stonework and making the seams between old and new dance in the flickering light.
"Come on, mate," Ron murmured, giving Harry's shoulder a gentle nudge. "Seamus is waving us over."
They made their way down the familiar aisle, passing clusters of students caught up in animated conversations. At the Hufflepuff table, Hannah Abbott was showing Susan Bones what looked like healing crystal configurations—she'd spent the summer apprenticing at St. Mungo's. Justin Finch-Fletchley sat nearby, trying to tease Terry Boot who was flirting with a junior.
"Did you hear about Anthony?" Justin called out as they passed. "He's been accepted into Wandmaking for Dummies. Starting next summer with Ollivander himself!"
The normalcy of it all—career plans, summer stories, everyday achievements—felt both jarring and desperately needed. Like drinking water after a long thirst.
They reached the Gryffindor table where Seamus, Dean, and Ginny had saved them seats. The warm scent of beeswax candles and old wood wrapped around them like a familiar blanket.
"There's our celebrity," Seamus grinned, though his eyes held understanding. "How many autographs today, then?"
"Shut it, Finnigan," Harry replied good-naturedly, sliding onto the bench. A second-year at the next table goggled at him before being shushed by an older student.
"Only three marriage proposals so far," Hermione supplied helpfully. "Though that might pick up once classes start properly."
Dean snorted into his empty goblet. "Better than last week in Diagon Alley. Remember that witch who tried to slip you Amortentia in your butterbeer, Harry?"
"How could he forget?" Ron demanded. "'Mione's detection charm went off so loudly the whole bloody tavern thought we were being attacked!"
The laughter that followed felt healing somehow, like spring rain on parched earth. Ginny launched into a story about her summer training with the Holyhead Harpies' youth program, her hands animated as she described a particularly spectacular save. Harry half-listened to her, focusing instead on the way her eyes light up when she spoke about Quidditch. He was glad Ginny had finally found something she could build her life around.
"The scout said I might have a real shot next year," she finished, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "Course, I'll have to survive NEWTs first."
"Don't," Ron groaned, "you're starting to sound like Hermione."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Hermione sniffed, though her lips twitched.
Above them, the enchanted ceiling shifted, revealing a streak of shooting stars that drew appreciative gasps from the first-years. Harry found his gaze drawn upward, remembering his own first glimpse of this magical sky. How it had seemed like the most wonderful thing in the world.
"Still beautiful, isn't it?" Hermione said softly, following his gaze. "No matter how many times you see it."
Harry nodded. Another group of first-years at the end of the table were pointing excitedly at the ceiling, their faces filled with pure wonder. One caught Harry watching and quickly looked away, blushing furiously.
"Were we ever that young?" Dean wondered, a touch of wistfulness in his voice.
"Younger," Seamus replied. "Remember when our biggest worry was whether we'd get detention with Filch?"
A number of groans covered the table as everyone recalled unfortunate run-ins with the old Hogwarts caretaker. Harry was no exception, as he too got lost in thought. A comfortable silence fell over their group, broken only by the general buzz of conversation around them and the occasional clinking of goblets. And the ever present sounds of Ron eating.
Then McGonagall rose from the Headmistress's chair—Dumbledore's chair—and the Hall gradually quieted. Harry felt a sudden, sharp ache in his chest.
The seat she occupied had always belonged to someone else in his mind—someone with twinkling blue eyes and half-moon spectacles, who somehow heard him when he whispered but not when he shouted. The empty perch where Fawkes had once sat seemed to emphasize the absence. The phoenix had disappeared after his companion's death, never seen again.
McGonagall's voice, when it came, was strong and clear. Harry had to give it to her- she was fitting into her new role well.
"Welcome, students, to another year at Hogwarts." She paused, her gaze sweeping the Hall. "While this past year has brought changes and challenges, it has also shown us the incredible resilience of our community…"
Under the table, Hermione's hand found Harry's and squeezed gently. On his other side, Ron shifted closer, their shoulders touching in silent support. Around them, their friends—their family, really—sat together, sharing this moment of remembrance and hope.
They were different now, all of them. Changed by what they'd lived through. But maybe, Harry thought as McGonagall continued her speech, that wasn't entirely a bad thing. Maybe they could build something new from these changes, something stronger.
Something involving lots of Quidditch, preferably.
McGonagall's voice faded as Professor Flitwick carried the Sorting Hat to its familiar stool. The Hat looked more weathered than Harry remembered, there were definitely a bunch of new patches on it. Yet when it opened its brim to sing, its voice still rang clear and strong.
"Some things never change," Ginny murmured beside him.
It was the first time they'd properly spoken since their mutual decision to end things after the war. Her voice held a warmth that made Harry's chest ache with remembered affection, but the pain was duller now, more nostalgic than raw.
"And some things do," he replied quietly, catching her eye. There was understanding there, and a fondness that had matured into something different but no less valuable.
"Thank Merlin for that," she smiled, nudging his shoulder playfully. "Can you imagine still being the awkward teenagers we were?"
"I mean," Harry pointed out. "We're still teenagers-"
"Sod off, Potter."
The tension Harry hadn't realized he'd been carrying eased. He'd been dreading their first conversation, for some reason. But those fears had been baseless. They would be alright, he and Ginny. Different, but alright.
His conversation was interrupted by thunderous applause as the Sorting began. Harry found his attention drawn to the staff table, where the evening's candlelight played across unfamiliar faces among the familiar ones. McGonagal. Flitwick. Sprout. Filch. Fleur Delacour. Vector.
Wait a minute- Fleur Delacour? What was the Beauxbaton's Champion doing here?
Harry shook his head to make sure he wasn't seeing things. But as clear as day, there she sat, beside the tiny Professor Flitwick, her silvery-blonde hair catching the light like moonlight on water. Her teaching robes were a deep midnight blue that made her pale skin glow. She looked older than Harry remembered—not in years, maybe, but in the subtle gravity she carried now. Harry felt a slow pit of dread cross his stomach. Was she teaching here?
Fleur gave the room a furtive glance, and Harry quickly averted his eyes. The war had left its mark on her too.
While Harry hadn't really spoken much to Fleur in person, besides that whole deal with the Triwizard Cup, he'd found himself strangely to be one of the few people she was in regular correspondence with. She'd taken up a stint of work at Gringotts's, and Harry used to exchange letters with her from time to time. Mostly formal, but definitely caring in nature- Fleur was nice enough to keep checking in on him even after he'd tried to isolate himself in the past year. A large part of that, he had to admit, was because Fleur's owl- Émeraude- was just as stubborn and snappy as Hedwig had been, and Harry had almost lost his fingers on several occasions when he tried to refuse the delivery.
"Now coming to the topic of new faculty," McGonagall announced, and Harry found himself suddenly paying attention. "May I introduce you to Professor Fleur Delacour, our new assistant professor for Charms!"
The Great Hall burst into applause with a few I love you!s and several marry me!s while Fleur stood up and bowed curtly. Harry found himself able to look at Fleur without the overwhelming daze her Veela heritage usually induced in others. Maybe it was his Occlumency, or maybe just his maturity (that was what Hermione said), but while he could appreciate her beauty, it didn't cloud his thoughts as it seemed to be doing to many of the other students.
"Blimey, it's Fleur" Ron breathed, earning himself a sharp elbow from Hermione. "Ow! What? I'm just saying it's unexpected, seeing her here."
"If you'd bothered to read the letter about staff changes—" Hermione began.
"Oh, give it a rest, 'Mione. Not everyone memorizes school teacher lists over summer hols."
Their conversation was interrupted by a collective sigh from several girls nearby as Professor McGonagall introduced "Professor Ethan Graves, who will be assisting with Defense Against the Dark Arts."
The man who stood was tall and striking, with dark hair and features that wouldn't have looked out of place on the Roman statues scattered throughout Hogwarts. He couldn't have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four, and his smile held a charm that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Lockhart—though there was something sharper behind it, something that made Harry's instincts prickle. He was definitely going to break a lot of hearts, that was for sure.
"Worried about the competition?" Ginny teased, and his mind snapped back to the present.
"What? No, I just—"
"Speaking of competition," Ron cut in, his voice unusually hesitant, "heard about Bill and Fleur?"
Harry's attention snapped back. "What about them?"
"Broke up about two months ago. Mum's still in a right state about it. Apparently they just… couldn't make it work after everything." Ron shrugged, trying to appear casual though his eyes held concern. "War changes people, I guess."
Harry found his gaze drawn back to Fleur almost against his will. As if sensing his attention, she turned, and their eyes met across the Great Hall. For a moment, he glimpsed something vulnerable in her expression. Then she offered him a small, quick smile that felt more genuine than any of the polite ones she'd been directing at her fellow staff members.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice held a note of curiosity. "You're staring."
He quickly looked away, feeling heat creep up his neck. "Just… surprised about Bill and Fleur, that's all."
"Mmhmm," Hermione hummed, in that knowing way that made Harry want to sink through the floor. She did that every time he stared at someone from the opposite sex, no matter who it was. Except for her, obviously.
Above them, the enchanted ceiling shifted again, stars finally completely emerging from behind drifting clouds like secrets slowly being revealed. As the last first-year was sorted ("Zabini, Aurora" to Slytherin), Harry found himself wondering what other changes the year would bring. He risked one more glance at the staff table, only to find both Fleur and Professor Graves looking his way. Fleur quickly turned back to Professor Flitwick, but Graves held his gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Something about that look made Harry's hand twitch instinctively toward his wand-but it disappeared just as quickly as it had come.
Back in the front, the Headmistress cleared her throat, drawing Harry's attention back from the staff table. Something in her expression had softened—a hint of the warmth she usually kept hidden beneath her stern exterior.
"And now," she said, "I have two announcements that I believe will interest our returning students particularly." She paused, her eyes sweeping the Hall. "First, I am pleased to announce that this year will see the return of the Inter-House Quidditch Cup."
The Great Hall erupted.
Harry felt the explosion of sound more than heard it—a wave of cheers and whistles that seemed to make the enchanted ceiling tremble. Even the first years, some of whom had probably never heard of Quidditch before in their life, were yelling their heads off. Beside him, Ron let out a whoop that nearly deafened him in one ear.
"Brilliant!" Ron's face had lit up like Christmas had come early. "Did you hear that, Harry? We're back in business!"
"About time!" Ginny was practically bouncing in her seat. "The pitch has been ready for weeks, I checked when I flew past this morning—"
"You did what?" Hermione's prefect instincts kicked in automatically.
"Oh, lighten up, Hermione," Seamus called from across the table. "War heroes get some privileges, don't they?"
Several nearby students turned at that, their eyes finding Harry automatically. He slouched lower in his seat, but couldn't quite suppress his own grin.
Quidditch. After everything, they were getting Quidditch back.
McGonagall raised her hand for silence. It took several moments for the excitement to die down. "Yes, yes, I'm sure this news will prompt much discussion. However—" She fixed the Hall with one of her signature stern looks. "I must emphasize that all regular safety protocols will be strictly enforced. We will not have a repeat of 1962."
A few people laughed, but not many. Harry didn't know what had happened in 1962.
"The second announcement," McGonagall continued, "concerns the positions of Head Boy and Head Girl. Due to the… unusual circumstances of this year, with our returning eighth-year students, the selection process will be slightly different. The announcement of these positions will be made next week, after careful consideration of all eligible candidates."
The buzz of conversation that followed was more subdued but no less intense. Harry could practically feel Hermione vibrating with anticipation beside him.
"It's got to be you, mate," Ron said, helping himself to another scone. "I mean, who else?"
Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know…"
"Don't be thick." Ron spoke around a mouthful of pastry. "You're Harry Potter. They'd be mental not to pick you."
Something flickered across Ron's face—a shadow so brief Harry might have imagined it. But he knew his best friend too well.
"Actually," Harry said carefully, "I was thinking of turning it down if they offer. Got enough on my plate with Quidditch captain, haven't I?"
Ron's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "You what?"
"Well, like you said—got to focus on getting the Cup back, right? Can't have Ravenclaw thinking last time was a fluke."
The shadow vanished from Ron's face, replaced by growing enthusiasm, and Harry felt a little better. "Right! Speaking of which, we need to start planning tryouts. Ginny, you're still Chaser, yeah?"
"Try and stop me." Ginny's eyes gleamed with competitive fire. "Though you'll have competition this year, Ron. I heard Stewart Ackerley's been practicing all summer."
"Please," Ron scoffed, but Harry noticed him sitting up straighter. "Like he could—"
"If you lot are quite finished planning world Quidditch domination," Hermione cut in, "perhaps we could discuss something more immediate? Like our class schedules?"
"More immediate than Quidditch?" Ron looked genuinely puzzled. "Hermione, have you met us?"
Their laughter drew curious looks from the first-years seated nearby. One of them—a small boy with sandy hair—was watching their group with undisguised awe.
"Oi," Seamus called to him, grinning. "Want to hear about the time Harry caught the Snitch in his mouth?"
The boy's eyes went wide as saucers. "Really?"
"Seamus," Harry groaned, but he was smiling. The familiar weight of eyes on him felt different somehow when it was about Quidditch rather than the war. One was something he'd worked hard to achieve and was actually proud of.
"First year," Ron continued cheerfully. "Nearly swallowed it, he did. Mind you, that was before he started showing off properly—"
"I never showed off!"
"Course not, mate. You just naturally caught every Snitch in record time while doing death-defying stunts on that Firebolt of yours—"
"Speaking of which," Seamus interrupted, his expression turning serious. "What are you flying this year, Harry? Your old Firebolt was lost during-"
"Got a new one," he said quickly. "Not quite the same, but…"
"Newest model," Ron supplied proudly. "Birthday gift from the whole family. Mum said if anyone deserved it—"
He stopped abruptly, ears going red as he realized what he was saying. But Harry just smiled, warmth spreading through his chest at the thought of the Weasleys—his family in all but blood.
"Yeah, well," he said, "good thing too. Can't have the Gryffindor captain flying anything less, can we?"
"True, but by the way," Ginny said thoughtfully, "did anyone else notice the new stability charms on the pitch? They've added something to the goal posts—some kind of cushioning spell, I think."
"Probably Fleur's work," Hermione mused. "I mean, Professor Delacour. The French are known for their innovative charm work, after all."
Harry's eyes were drawn involuntarily back to the staff table. Fleur was speaking with Professor Vector now, her hands moving gracefully as she explained something. The candlelight caught her hair just so, making it shimmer like—
"Earth to Harry," Ron waved a hand in front of his face. "We're talking Quidditch here. Focus, mate."
"Right," Harry said quickly, forcing his attention back to his friends. "Sorry. You were saying?"
"I was saying," Ron continued, "that we need to start training early if we want to—bloody hell, is that treacle tart?"
"Honestly," Hermione sighed, but her eyes were soft as she watched him. "Is food all you think about?"
"Not all," Ron protested, somehow managing to look wounded while simultaneously stuffing his face. "Sometimes I think about Quidditch. And you." He grinned at her. "Not necessarily in that order."
"Smooth, Ron," Ginny rolled her eyes. "Really smooth."
But Hermione had gone slightly pink, and Harry noticed her hand find Ron's under the table. He smiled to himself.
The conversation around them had shifted to speculation about the Head student positions. Harry caught fragments of discussion—"Has to be someone from DA, doesn't it?" and "But what about the eighth-years?" and "Will they count previous prefect service?" and "Can we still snog at the other cupboard, you think?"
He let it wash over him, content for once to not be the center of attention. His thoughts drifted back to Quidditch, to the feeling of wind in his hair and the thrill of diving after the Snitch. Maybe this year…
A burst of laughter from the staff table caught his attention. Professor Graves was telling some story, his hands moving animatedly. Several female professors were watching him with rapt attention. Fleur, Harry noticed, was not among them. She appeared to be studying the enchanted ceiling with determined focus.
Maybe it was the war. It wasn't easily to creep back to normalcy after something so…significant. Harry knew quite well how that felt. Sometimes, it was all he could think about.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice broke into his thoughts. "You've gone all broody again."
"Have not," he protested automatically.
"Have too. You've got that look—like you're plotting to save the world again or something."
"Maybe he's just planning Quidditch strategies," Ron suggested. "Speaking of which—"
And they were off again, debating training schedules and potential recruits, the merits of morning versus evening practices, whether they could book the pitch for extra sessions given their special circumstances ("Really, Ronald, being a final year doesn't mean—" "Course it does, Hermione!"). Harry let himself be drawn into the discussion, pushing aside thoughts of new professors and old wounds. This was what mattered, he told himself firmly. Friends. Quidditch. Normal school things.
But he still couldn't quite shake the feeling that something felt…off.
Above them, the enchanted ceiling shifted, stars wheeling in their ancient dance. A shooting star streaked across the magical sky, trailing silver fire. Harry watched it fade.
"Harry?" Ron's voice broke through his reverie. "You still with us, mate?"
"Yeah," Harry said, turning back to his friends with a smile. "Just thinking about Quidditch."
It wasn't entirely a lie. But it wasn't entirely the truth either.
The feast dissolved slowly, like a dream reluctant to end. Students filtered out of the Great Hall in twos and threes, their voices echoing off ancient stones that had seen a thousand such evenings. A large cohort of nervous first-years went up to the dorms nervous and excited. Harry hung back with Ron and Hermione, savoring the familiar chaos of the first night back.
"Watch it, Potter."
He turned to find Daphne Greengrass practically colliding with him again, this time in the entrance hall. Firelight from the wall sconces caught in her hair, creating dancing shadows across her face.
"We have to stop meeting like this," she said, one eyebrow raised in amusement.
"Sorry, I—"
"Potter."
Another voice, lower and far more hesitant. Draco Malfoy stood a few steps behind Daphne, his pale face drawn tight with something that might have been anxiety. He looked… different. Smaller somehow, without his usual swagger. Not at all like how he used to look.
"Malfoy," Harry replied, tensing automatically.
But Malfoy just gave a short nod, his eyes flickering briefly to meet Harry's before dropping away. "Good summer?" he asked stiffly, as if the words cost him something.
Ron made a choking sound beside Harry. "Did Malfoy just—?"
"Yes, Weasley, I did." Malfoy's voice held a shadow of his old drawl, but there was something else there too. "Contrary to popular belief, some of us are capable of growth."
"And some of us," Daphne cut in smoothly, "are capable of getting to our common room without starting another war. Coming, Draco?"
They swept away toward the dungeons, leaving Ron gaping like a landed fish.
"Bloody hell," he managed finally. "Did that actually happen?"
"Times change, Ronald," Hermione said quietly. "People too."
The trek to Gryffindor Tower felt both familiar and strange. Portraits whispered and pointed as they passed, several calling out greetings to "the heroes of Hogwarts." Even the stairs seemed to behave better than usual, which confused Harry. Since when could they be sentient? Or was it the magic itself?
Thankfully, the common room was still in chaos when they arrived. First-years scattered everywhere, buzzing with excitement and sugar, while older students attempted to herd them toward their dormitories.
"Oi!" Ron's prefect voice boomed out. "You lot! Bed! Now!"
"But we're not tired!" protested a tiny girl with pigtails.
"Course you're not," Seamus laughed from his sprawl by the fire. "Nobody's tired their first night. Doesn't mean you get to stay up."
"But—but that's Harry Potter!" Another first-year pointed, his mouth open wide. "Can't we just—"
"Bed," Harry said firmly, though he couldn't help smiling. "Trust me, you'll want the rest. First day of classes tomorrow."
It took another fifteen minutes to clear out the younger students, during which Harry had to sign three chocolate frog cards and convince one particularly determined second-year that no, he could not demonstrate how to cast a Patronus right then. Finally, the common room held only the eighth-years and a few seventh-years who refused to be shooed away. The fire crackled merrily in the grate, casting warm shadows across familiar faces.
"Mental," Dean declared, sinking into an armchair. "Absolutely mental. Were we that bad?"
"Worse," Neville grinned. "Remember when you tried to get Harry to teach you how to speak Parseltongue?"
"That was different!" Dean protested. "That could be useful!"
"Useful? Speaking of which-," Parvati leaned forward conspiratorially, "remember the Head Student perks? Private rooms."
"Separate ones," Hermione added quickly, catching Ron's expression. "With a common hallway or something."
"Still," Seamus waggled his eyebrows suggestively, "bet that makes prefect patrols more interesting, eh?"
"Honestly," Hermione huffed, but her cheeks had gone pink.
Harry leaned back on his seat, his eyes drawn to the familiar tapestries, the worn armchairs, the window seat where he'd spent countless hours watching Quidditch practice. How many nights had they sat just like this, before everything changed?
"Weird about the new professors both being Ravenclaw, isn't it?" Lavender's voice broke into his thoughts.
"Both?" Harry sat up straighter.
"Oh yes," Parvati nodded. "Professor Graves mentioned it at dinner—he was in Ravenclaw too, just like Fleur was during the Tournament. Said something about 'maintaining house honor' or whatever."
"Bet that's not all he wants to maintain," Seamus muttered, earning himself a swat from Dean.
"He seems… capable," Hermione said diplomatically.
"Capable of what, though?" Ron mused, then yelped as Hermione elbowed him. "What? I'm just saying, last time we had a fancy pants Defense teacher—"
"Last time we had several fancy pants Defense teachers," Ginny corrected. "And they all tried to kill Harry."
"Thanks for that reminder," Harry said dryly.
The fire burned bright, sending sparks dancing upward. Through the windows, Harry could see stars scattered across the velvet black of the sky. The same stars he'd watched during countless sleepless nights in this very room, planning and worrying and wondering if they'd survive to see another year. Around him, and others continued talking. At least, most of them did.
"You're doing it again," Hermione said softly.
"Doing what?"
"That thing where you get lost in your head." She touched his arm gently. "We made it back, Harry. We're here."
"Yeah," he managed, feeling out of breath. "We are."
In the firelight, their faces looked both older and younger somehow.
"Right then," Seamus declared, breaking the moment. "Who's up for a game of Exploding Snap? For old times' sake?"
"Oh you idiot- you just had to bring that up," Hermione sighed, but she was smiling as she settled closer to Ron on the overstuffed sofa.
The cards came out, along with contraband butterbeer Dean swore he had no idea how it got into his trunk. Conversation flowed easily, punctuated by occasional explosions and laughter. But Harry's thoughts kept drifting to other things—to Malfoy's strained attempt at civility, to Fleur's changed eyes, to the way Professor Graves had watched him during dinner. He couldn't help but think about all of it.
The lull of warmth of the common room had grown stifling.
Harry felt it pressing against his skin, heavy. He needed air, space, room to breathe. Perhaps not a flight, but-
"Think I'll take a walk," he said quietly, rising from his chair.
His friends looked up but didn't protest. They knew that look by now—had worn it themselves often enough since the war.
"Just…" Hermione began.
"Be careful," he finished with a small smile. "I know."
The castle corridors stretched before him. Harry pulled his invisibility cloak from his pocket—he never went anywhere without it now—but didn't put it on yet. He doubted Filch would catch him either way.
The torchlight painted dancing shadows on ancient stone walls, and somewhere in the distance, a clock struck ten with solemn dignity.
Harry wandered without purpose, letting his feet carry him where they would. Past the library with its sleeping books, past classrooms that held echoes of younger days, past windows that framed the star-scattered sky. Then—footsteps.
Harry ducked behind a suit of armor, fumbling with his cloak. But before he could disappear, a familiar voice cut through the darkness.
"'Arry?"
His heart did something complicated in his chest, from excitement and fear at the same time.
Fleur stood at the intersection of two corridors, wandlight casting a soft glow around her. Her teaching robes had been replaced by something silken and midnight blue, and her silver-blonde hair caught the light like moonbeams on water.
"Pro-Professor Delacour," he managed, then winced at how formal it sounded.
"Please," she waved a hand dismissively, "none of zat. Not after everything." A pause. "Unless you are breaking ze rules, in which case I must be very stern and professional, non?"
Her lips curved in a slight smile, and Harry felt some of his tension ease.
"Just needed some air," he said honestly. "The common room was…"
"Ah, oui. Too many memories, non?" Her eyes held understanding. "Ze castle, she 'olds so many ghosts for us all now."
Silence stretched between them, but not quite uncomfortable. Harry shifted his weight, suddenly aware of how close they were standing in the narrow corridor.
"I heard about—" he started, then stopped. "I mean, Ron told me… About Bill…"
Fleur's expression flickered. "Ah, 'Arry," she said, and her accent thickened slightly. "It is most improper to discuss a lady's 'eart with 'er, especially when you are 'er student." But her tone was gentle, almost teasing.
Harry felt his face heat. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Non, do not apologize." She leaned against the stone wall, silver hair falling like a curtain over one shoulder. "We 'ave all changed since ze war, n'est-ce pas? Sometimes… sometimes ze people we were before do not fit who we are now."
Something in her voice made Harry look at her—really look. The moonlight streaming through a nearby window caught the subtle shadows under her eyes, the slight tension in her shoulders.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I know what you mean."
Their eyes met, and for a moment, Harry felt that peculiar connection again—that recognition of shared understanding. Then Fleur straightened, smoothing her robes with an elegant gesture.
"And what brings you to zis particular corridor, 'Arry?" she asked, changing the subject. "Surely ze 'ero of 'Ogwarts 'as better things to do than wander ze castle at night?"
It was Harry's turn to smile. "Could ask you the same thing… Fleur."
A faint flush colored her cheeks. "Ah, well…" She lifted her chin with dignified embarrassment. "It seems ze castle 'as changed more zan I remembered. I was trying to find ze staff room, but-"
Harry couldn't help it—he laughed. The sound echoed off the stone walls, startling them both.
"Sorry," he said quickly. "It's just… after everything… you got lost?"
"Ze castle is very large!" she protested, but her eyes sparkled with humor. "And everything looks different in ze dark."
"Would you…" Harry hesitated, then gathered his Gryffindor courage. Dad would be proud, he thought. "Would you like me to show you the way?"
Fleur considered him for a moment, head tilted slightly. "Per'aps," she said finally, "it would be useful to 'ave a guide who knows ze castle's secrets, non?"
They fell into step together, their footsteps echoing in comfortable rhythm. Harry pointed out landmarks as they walked—the tapestry that marked the turn to the fourth floor, the statue that always faced the direction of the nearest staircase.
"You know," he said as they climbed a particularly tricky spiral staircase, "I got lost my entire first year here. Used to have nightmares about being late to Transfiguration."
"And now?" Fleur glanced at him. "Do you still 'ave nightmares?"
The question caught him off guard. "Different ones," he admitted quietly.
She nodded, not pressing further. They walked in silence for a moment, their shadows merging and separating in the torchlight.
"'Ere we are," Fleur said as they reached the staff room entrance. She paused, one hand on the door.
"Merci, 'Arry. For ze escort."
"Anytime." The word slipped out before he could think better of it.
Fleur's smile was soft in the dim light. "Bonne nuit, 'Arry Potter."
He watched her disappear through the door, silver hair catching the last gleam of torchlight. Only then did he realize his heart was still racing, as if he'd just pulled off a Wronski feint. Odd, that.
A/N: Reviews about the writing and characterization etc. appreciated
I'm not the most well-versed with HPverse, so forgive some canon inaccuracies.