Chapter Text
May 3, 1998
Harry's eyes opened slowly, sluggishly, and struggled to stay that way. The blurry familiarity of his surroundings sent a jolt of fear ripping through him, but only for a moment before the rest of the last two days caught up with him. He fumbled for his glasses as the canopy of his old four-poster came into focus again.
It was finally over. Seven long years of heartache, danger, and the relentless weight of being The Chosen One were behind him. The battles he'd fought—the war itself—had culminated yesterday in that final confrontation. And now, at last, it was done. No more enemies to face, no more destinies to fulfill. He had thought he might feel triumphant, even relieved. Instead, he felt...hollow.
Fred. Tonks. Remus…
But he had survived. Against all probability and likelihood. "Neither can live while the other survives." That meant it was time to live, right?
"But how?" he whispered into the empty room, wincing at the jagged rasp in his voice and throat. Things were starting to hurt now that adrenaline and exhaustion were out of the way.
For more than two years now, the future had been some abstract idea, something he hardly let himself imagine. Something out of someone else's life, he'd called it. Every thought beyond that inevitable clash with Voldemort had felt like tempting fate. Now, with that future staring him in the face, what did living even look like?
Survival and living were two very different things. He knew that well enough.
He sighed deeply, stretching out—and immediately regretted it. Pain flared everywhere. His body, battered and bruised, protested every movement. His muscles ached, his joints felt stiff, and a persistent twinge in his right knee sent a sharp reminder of the physical toll. Cuts and bruises mapped his skin, each one a marker of survival. But the worst of it settled in his chest and shoulders—a thick aching stiffness blooming from right over his heart.
He thought back to the clearing. He could still see the flash of green light, feel the strange, weightless sensation as it hit. It hadn't hurt then.
He thought of Ginny, that blazing look in her eyes, and the feeling of her lips on his, though it had been months since they last touched.
He thought of her now. Now that he had the luxury of it. Where was she? Was she still nearby? The thought brought him comfort, more than anything else his restless mind could offer. He clung to it, using her memory as a shield against the darker thoughts he knew were circling just beyond. Thoughts of Fred, and Tonks, and Remus; of Teddy Lupin, his godson who he had never met; of the Weasleys and how they'd given up so damn much to help him get to this point: alive and mostly whole and fully free for the first time; of everyone he loved sitting somewhere in this castle.
Victorious and grieving.
Harry's stomach growled. Loudly and viciously. He twisted, not yet ready to leave the quiet safety of his old bed. His movements were sluggish and stiff, and sent pain shooting through him.
Another sigh. Another wince of pain. But he swung his legs out onto the floor and pushed himself up. The world wobbled for a moment before he was able to steady himself, and he was briefly tempted to let it wobble him right back into bed. It seemed infinitely more inviting than the hard cold stone under his feet and the reality waiting for him outside of Gryffindor Tower.
But he was alive now. He was living . And he had living to do.
Harry found a change of clothes folded nearby. His clothes, though he wasn't sure how they were there. He wasn't going to question it. Magic , he supposed. He reached for them, but noticed the blood and dirt on his hands. With yet another resigned sigh, he limped his way to the bathroom and stripped away the clothes he'd literally fallen into bed with.
He found the bathroom mirror and dared to look at himself. He'd scrubbed away some of the dried blood on his face, before he'd collapsed into bed. But he was a few days from healing. There was a dark bruise under one eye, and a scabbed-over abrasion across the opposite cheek.
He barely recognized himself in the cracked mirror of the bathroom. The last time he'd stood here, he'd been lean but solid, years of Quidditch lending him a wiry strength. Now, that strength was a memory, worn away by months of near-starvation on the run. His reflection was a ghost—gaunt and hollow-cheeked, his shoulders hunched beneath a frame that was little more than skin stretched over bone. His arms, once firm with muscle, hung limply at his sides. His ribs jutted out starkly beneath the dark, livid bruise that dominated his chest.
It was monstrous—an angry sprawl of purple and red, like spilled wine soaked into parchment. It bloomed from just above his heart, a grotesque blotch that swallowed what was left of his pectoral muscle. Veins of discoloration crept outward, crawling up to his collarbone and snaking down to the curve of his lowest rib.
One last gift from Voldemort.
He forced himself away from the mirror and into the shower. He scrubbed himself with an old bar of soap, ignoring the question of whose it was and how that might have put him off at one time. The water bounced from cold to lukewarm but he didn't care. Every shiver just reminded him that he was alive when so many others weren't .
He got changed, forcing stiff limbs to obey and contort to fit into clothes that, by how hard they resisted his efforts, seemed to be made of stiffer material than he remembered. They were also a poor fit for him now. They felt more like Dudley's hand-me-downs than clothes that fit him at one time.
The Durselys came unbidden to his mind. That was one complication he had no issue putting off for the moment.
He grabbed his wand and tucked it into the back pocket of his now loose-fitting jeans. With a grimace and a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with the ugly bruise, Harry Potter stepped out of his old dormitory and the last refuge of his childhood.
Harry stepped out of the Gryffindor common room into a castle that no longer felt like Hogwarts. The corridor was eerily quiet, the usual hum of life replaced by a heavy, suffocating stillness. He was thankful for the last few minutes of solitude; thankful for the chance to pretend just a little longer that there were not entire lives shattered just ahead.
Dust hung in the air, swirling in the morning light that streamed through shattered windows. Pieces of stone littered the floor, and the once-bright tapestries were torn and scorched, their colors muted beneath a layer of grime.
The grand staircase groaned beneath his weight as he descended. Chunks of the bannister were missing, leaving jagged edges that snagged the hem of his robes. In the distance, faint voices carried—a low murmur of grief and exhaustion from those left to pick up the pieces. The castle itself seemed to mourn, its magic flickering unevenly like a dying flame.
When he reached the first floor, the devastation became impossible to ignore. A section of wall near the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom had crumbled entirely, leaving an open wound that revealed the grounds beyond. The scent of scorched wood and stone hung heavy, mingling with something sharper, metallic. Blood, he realized, his stomach twisting.
The closer he drew to the Great Hall, the more signs of the battle he saw. Spells had gouged deep scars into the stone floors, their edges blackened. Portraits hung crooked, their inhabitants missing or too stunned to speak. Suits of armor stood lopsided, some reduced to scattered limbs. Nothing had been spared.
When the Great Hall finally came into view, he paused. The knowledge of what lay beyond set his heart pounding in his chest and hammering painfully against the ugly bruise. Having lived it once, he thought it might have been easier walking into the Forbidden Forest than crossing the length of the Entrance Hall.
Harry swallowed hard, his feet rooted to the spot. The castle had endured, but it would never be the same
"Hi, Harry," a quiet voice nearby ripped him from his brooding, and he spun—as quickly as his aching and tired body would allow—to find himself face-to-face with Luna Lovegood. "You've been resting."
It wasn't a question, and there was something so utterly tired about her voice despite the Luna-ness of it
"You don't look very rested."
"No. Don't feel it much either," he said. He felt utterly exposed
"I imagine not," Luna said. Her wide eyes locked with his own. "It's good you came down though. Everyone is hoping to see you."
"Bit nervous," he admitted. He scratched absently at a scab along his jawline.
"That's not surprising," she nodded. "Sometimes it's easier to let yourself hurt than it is to watch others hurt. It's a bit selfish, really." Harry winced at the accusation. "Oh, that's not a bad thing. Everyone should get the chance to be selfish sometimes."
"Better get on with it, then," Harry muttered. He watched Luna walk off from the Entrance Hall and made his way in, thankful for the bustle and movement of everyone tending to the injured and leaving him unnoticed. The bodies of the dead had plainly been moved since he was last there, and the four house tables returned to roughly their usual positions.
He spotted Ron and Hermione at the far end of the Gryffindor table with the rest of the Weasleys. They were easy to find, even among the two hundred or so people that filled the hall now; students, professors, members of the Order, and citizens of Hogsmeade. The sea of red hair was near impossible to miss
Ron and Hermione sat closer together than he'd ever seen them; Ron's head rested heavily against her shoulder. His eyes were closed but Harry could see the agony etched onto his features
Mr. Weasley had a white-knuckle grip on one of Mrs. Weasley's hands, which she returned in equal measure. She had her other arm around George in a grip that seemed unbreakable. Like she was trying to continuously prove that he was alive . Charlie was on the other side of George, his hands folded in front of him on the table. Bill was across from Charlie with Fleur pulled tight against him. Percy sat by his mother's side. He had a hand on her arm and leaned against her shoulder in a very uncharacteristic display of affection.
Then there was Ginny, sandwiched between Bill and her father. His heart hammered painfully in his chest again, this time for an entirely different reason. It had been months since he'd seen her. Spoken to her. Months since he'd been able to do anything more than stare at her dot on the Marauders' Map and hope against all hope that she was safe
No one spoke. They barely even moved. The Weasleys looked as hollowed-out as he felt. He could feel the grief rolling off of them, the way they sat so close together, as if they were afraid to lose sight of anyone else for even a moment
He walked towards them, fighting back a wince with each half-limping step of his right leg. It wouldn't do to make a fuss over his injuries now. Each painfully-slow step that brought him closer to them seemed to draw the sound and breath out of the room. The silence rippled through the Great Hall in a wave and Harry was distinctly and uncomfortably aware that he was at the center of everyone's attention once more
The silence was deafening except for his uneven footfalls. Everyone else had even stopped moving to stare at him. He was a few paces away before any of the Weasleys noticed.
"Harry." It was George that spoke first, surprising everyone. His eyes were red and puffy but there was an alertness to them that Harry had no frame of reference for.
And then they were all on their feet and moving towards him. Ron reached him first and pulled him into a fierce hug that sent a wave of pain tearing through his chest.
" Bloody hell !" Harry gasped, pulling back and grasping painfully at the bruise under his shirt. He lost a bit of his footing and let himself stumble onto an empty seat at the table.
"You good, mate?" Ron asked worriedly. There were concerned glances all around, making Harry distinctly uncomfortable.
"I'm fine," he lied. There was a chorus of eye-rolls. "Just sore."
"Let me see," said Hermione. She pawed at his shirt collar, but Harry gently brushed her away
"I'm fine."
"At least go see Madam Pomfrey," Hermione insisted.
"Yeah I don't fancy going to the Hospital Wing today," Harry muttered. "I think she might bloody well kill me if I did."
"It's been almost a year since you've had a stay," said Ron, scratching at his chin. "I bet she's missed you."
"Ha," Harry deadpanned, still rubbing at his chest. But he was thankful for Ron's attempt at humor.
"You gave us a right scare, Harry," Mr. Weasley said. He put a hand on Harry's uninjured shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze. Harry gave him a tired smile, and was grateful for Mr. Weasley's effort to return it, even though the smile didn't fully reach his eyes. "I'm afraid I have to ask you not to do that again."
"It's not on my list of things to repeat," Harry muttered. He struggled back to his feet and forced himself to face them; the family that had treated him almost like one of their own for years. He'd gotten them pulled into all of this. "Mr. Weasley, I—" He glanced helplessly between them all. "I'm so—I—"
And then he found himself pulled into a Weasley hug for the second time that morning. He bit back on his pain and let it happen this time.
"None of that," Mr. Weasley whispered, drawing back after a moment and looking Harry in the eyes. He shook his head and gripped Harry's shoulder's tightly. "What you did—" he glanced at Hermione and all the Weasleys, "What you've all done. I am so proud of each and every one of you."
Harry thought he held Percy's gaze a split second longer than the others
"And no one who—" Mr. Weasley took a shuddering breath to steady himself. "No one we lost would want you or anyone else to apologize." His hand found Mrs. Weasley's again. "We all came here knowing what we were risking. Knowing what we were fighting for ." His gaze swept over the room, filled with both grief and quiet pride.
"On that note," Hermione said, breaking the heavy silence. She leaned forward and slid a freshly folded copy of the Daily Prophet toward Harry. "You should see this."
Harry's eyes dropped to the front page. Splashed across it in enormous, triumphant lettering, were the words:
The Man Who Won: Voldemort Vanquished
By Barnabas Cuffe, Editor-in-Chief
The wizarding world awoke this morning to an extraordinary new dawn. Lord Voldemort, the self-styled Dark Lord, has been defeated. In a dramatic turn of events at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry late yesterday, Harry Potter—long celebrated as "The Boy Who Lived"—has emerged as "The Man Who Won," decisively ending Voldemort's reign of terror. In a fierce showdown witnessed by hundreds, Potter faced Voldemort in a duel that has already become the stuff of legend.
"Oh, come on," Harry groaned. He resisted the urge to throw the paper.
"Knew he wasn't going to like it," Ron said with a wry grin. "In all fairness it is weird calling you the Boy Who Lived now that you're of-age."
Harry rolled his eyes and focused back on the article.
This victory follows nearly a year of Potter's absence, during which his whereabouts and activities were a matter of speculation. Sources suggest that Potter, along with fellow Hogwarts students Hermione Jean Granger and Ronald Billius Weasley, pursued critical efforts to dismantle Voldemort's power. Unsubstantiated reports link the trio to daring incidents, including a Ministry infiltration last autumn and a high-profile break-in at Gringotts Wizarding Bank the day before the battle. Eyewitnesses claim to have seen Potter and his companions fleeing the scene on the back of a dragon—though this remains officially unverified.
Potter's reappearance at Hogwarts late on May 1st set the stage for the battle that followed. By morning, he was reported slain, carried into the castle grounds by none other than Voldemort himself, who declared victory. Yet, in a shocking twist, Potter rose again, proving Voldemort's claims premature and igniting the final act of resistance.
"We'll need to sit down with Kingsley soon and explain what happened," Hermione said, drawing Harry out of the article. "I think it's best he hear it from us."
Harry nodded before turning once more back to the Prophet .
Despite Voldemort's defeat, danger lingers. Several high-ranking Death Eaters remain at large, including Corban Yaxley, Thorfin Rowle, Rodolphus Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, and Fenrir Greyback. Interim Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt assures the public that efforts to apprehend these fugitives are underway.
In a moving statement this morning, newly appointed Minister Shacklebolt reflected on the battle:
"Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley played pivotal roles in bringing Voldemort's reign to an end. But let history not forget the many brave witches and wizards who stood united yesterday, laying down their lives in defense of freedom and free will. This victory belongs not to one, but to all."
As the wizarding world begins the arduous process of rebuilding, one thing is clear: Voldemort's shadow has been lifted. Harry Potter, no longer merely a symbol of survival, stands as an emblem of action, choice, and courage. For the first time in decades, hope reigns.
"So what now?" Ron asked. His eyes danced between his mother and father.
"Between Muriel's and Shell Cottage I think we have enough room for everyone," Mr. Weasley said. He removed his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "At least until we can make sure the Burrow is put together enough for us, yeah?"
"We can go as soon as you want, Dad," Bill volunteered. Harry noticed him give Fleur's hand a gentle squeeze; she nodded as well. "You and me first maybe, just to make sure."
Mr. Weasley nodded. "And then we'll go together. Home."
Harry let that word roll over him. Home . For the first time in nine months he found himself realizing that he didn't exactly have one
"That means you, too, young man," Mrs. Weasley said, as if she could read his thoughts. She cupped his cheek in one hand, tears in her eyes. Not for the first time, the idea that Molly Weasley was a skilled Legilimens crossed Harry's mind. It would explain quite a bit
"You as well, Hermione," she said, wrapping both Ron and Hermione in a tight embrace. "At least until we can get you in contact with your parents. Though maybe we'll spend some time discussing sleeping arrangements?"
There was more, of course. The kind of half-hearted banter that came when everyone was too tired to be properly witty but still felt the need to fill the silence. There were a few moments of light teasing about Ron and Hermione's new arrangement —which, to Ron's credit, he handled with uncharacteristic calm, neither snapping nor retreating into defensive bluster. Harry even found himself tempted to join in, to add his voice to the chorus of " finally " that everyone seemed to be taking turns with.
Everyone except Ginny.
Her eyes found him, and the chatter around them faded into a distant hum. There was something in her expression—something fleeting and unreadable—that caught him off guard. Harry straightened, steeling himself, and limped toward her. Each step was a monumental effort, like fighting gravity.
She was so close now, closer than she had been in nearly a year. It took everything he had not to ignore his aching muscles and run to her, but his shame fought to keep him rooted where he stood. Harry forced himself to meet her gaze. After everything—running, fighting…dying—the only thing that mattered now was that they were there. Alive
He exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper. "Gin."
Her eyes flared at the sound of her name, blazing with a familiar intensity that sent a shiver through him. That look had haunted him and carried him into oblivion. He'd memorized it before they left. Burned it into his mind. It had almost been the last thing he'd seen. He wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. He'd imagined this moment, imagined all the things he could say, but nothing could have prepared him for the weight of it now that it was real; now that they'd survived when so many others hadn't.
"I thought you were dead, Harry," Ginny said, her voice unnervingly calm. He could tell she was struggling to reign herself in. To keep that legendary Ginny Weasley temper in check. "You came back and were here and then gone and I thought you were dead !" Her voice shook and Harry could see the tears in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall
Harry’s throat tightened, guilt ripping through him in waves. “Ginny, I—”
"After everything . After Professor Lupin and Tonks and…and Fred. And then I saw you and I wanted to die . I just
Ginny let out a ragged breath. "I should be so, so…" She couldn't seem to even find the words.
Harry nodded. Her words hit him like a curse, and all he could do was stand there and take it
"I know," he said quietly. Before he could think better of it, the words tumbled out. "I didn't—I don't—I'm sorry," he whispered. The words felt small, inadequate.
Ginny's eyebrow raised ever so slightly, and Harry became distinctly aware of the Weasleys around them falling into a respectful hush. He fought the urge to look to Ron and Hermione for support, realizing that it was no longer about them .
"There's a lot I need to know," Ginny said at last, her voice firm but not unkind. "A lot I deserve to know—about everything that's happened."
Harry nodded again, his throat tightening. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, beating against the bruise. He wanted to tell her everything, but the weight of it all seemed impossible to lift. The idea of letting anyone get close enough to know what they'd been through terrified him. The thought of her looking at him the way Ron and Hermione had when he'd told them about the forest…"I don't…" He swallowed hard. "I don't know where to start."
"Yeah," Ginny said tentatively, stepping closer. Harry could feel her presence, warm and steady, like a tether anchoring him to that moment. Each beat of his heart hammered painfully in his chest, proving to him that he was alive. Her eyes locked onto his, burning with quiet intensity. "No more Dumbledore missions, right?"
Harry exhaled heavily, the faintest smile curling his lips. "There bloody well better not be."
She crossed her arms, her voice fierce with determination. "Because you're not allowed to leave m—us again." There was no missing the slip of her words. There was no mistaking his last chance
Harry's chest tightened. He let out a shaky breath "I wouldn't dream of it." He reached for her, needing to feel her, but something in Ginny's eyes stopped him. His heart tightened, a flicker of panic darting through him along with a stab of fresh pain, but then he saw her eyes sparkle mischievously.
"Did you meet any Veela while you were off doing whatever it was you were doing?"
Harry's lips twitched and he fought the urge to laugh when Fleur cocked her head curiously. "No Veela," he said solemnly. "Though there was a moment when Ron caught me in my underwear—"
Ron snorted, and Hermione smacked him on the arm with a scolding, "Ron
Ginny burst out laughing, the sound like music after the year of silence between them. She punched him playfully on the shoulder, harder than he expected. He winced, clutching his bruised chest.
"Fine," he grimaced, grinning despite himself. "The next Dark Lord is all yours."
"Good," she said softly, her smile finally breaking through
It took his breath away. Despite the ache of his body and the sharper pang of grief clawing at his chest, a reluctant, lopsided smile tugged at his lips.
Before he could find the right words to say, Ginny took matters into her own hands. With a decisive move, she grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him toward her. Harry stumbled slightly but found his footing as his arms instinctively wrapped around her waist.
Then her lips met his, and everything else—the ache, the grief, the exhaustion—melted away. The world narrowed to this single moment, to the heat and electricity coursing through him. Her hands clutched his shirt tightly, pulling him closer as though she were afraid to let go, and Harry knew he’d never felt anything so grounding, so right.
The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative. It was fire—wild and consuming, fierce and unapologetic. It carried all the unspoken words, the months of separation, the worry, the longing, that neither of them had dared to feel fully until now.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Ginny rested her forehead against his, her eyes searching his as if to memorize every detail of this moment.
"You’re not leaving again," she whispered fiercely, her voice cracking.
"Never," Harry promised, his voice just as raw. And this time, he meant it with every fiber of his being.