Memory
He was staring at Hogwarts, he knew that much. It looked the same. Why did it look the same? He remembered ruins, smoldering stone and collapsed walls, gems scattered across the floor, paintings ripped to shreds. He didn’t remember this or, rather, he remembered it all too well. He recognized every inch of it- it was his home. It was the first place that had ever earned that word for him, and yet he couldn’t feel it anymore. He could only see destruction, hidden just past perfection.
He could feel the others around him beginning to move forward towards the castle. They had all stopped for a moment, taking in the view. Did they all see it as he did? Did they all see the blood that could not be erased from the walls, from the cobblestones?
Hermione pulled on his arm, giving him a small smile before pulling him forward. Right. There was no point in staring at it, nothing was going to change.
They moved forward and he listened to Hermione speaking with Neville about his summer. Something about a new greenhouse? Harry wasn’t entirely sure what words were coming out of Neville’s mouth, he wasn’t necessarily an expert on herbology, but Hermione was nodding along like it all made sense, so he supposed it did. All around them, people were having their conversations, catching up with old friends, and it was familiar, but he didn’t know what to do with it.
Harry James Potter, the savior of the wizarding world, had spent the majority of his summer attempting to wrestle the various curses, stains, and unidentifiable objects out of Grimmauld Place. He had done this alone and, for the most part, in silence. The beginning of the process had been marked by the screams of Sirius’s mother until he had accidentally gotten a little too annoyed at it one day and his magic had just sort of…made her go away. The last few weeks had been lightened by the discovery of some of Sirius’s old records- dusty and a little scratched up but still playable. He had spent long evenings, when sleep was never going to come to him and there was no more work to be done on the house, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the music, and trying not to think.
It didn’t always work.
* * *
The Great Hall was the same, he didn’t know why he expected anything else at this point. The same grand double doors that they walked through. The same thousands of candles floated in the air, setting the room in a warm light. The same velvety black of the ceiling, covered in stars. It was as if nothing had changed.
But that wasn’t quite right, was it?
Where there had once been four tables, lined up in a neat row, there was now a fifth. Their table.
The Eighth Years began to sit down but, as Harry watched, he could see that they would never fill it. There weren’t enough of them left. Too many had died, and too many would never return to Hogwarts. He looked up at the professors’ table, another place that seemed far too empty.
Harry saw Snape’s face losing the little color it had left…
A jet of green light shot from the end of Snape’s wand and hit Dumbledore squarely in the chest. Harry’s scream of horror never left him…
Remus, pale and still and peaceful-looking, apparently asleep beneath the dark, enchanted ceiling.
He was beginning to regret his return. And then he looked over at Hermione, who had never left his side. She was staring at the room as well, with a familiar blank look on her face. A look that he recognized from seeing it far too many times in the mirror. It was the look of someone who was trying to hold everything together, and failing.
The dead lay in a row in the middle of the Hall.
Harry saw Hermione approach Ginny, whose face was swollen and blotchy, and hug her.
No. No, he would not allow himself to get sucked into that. Not right now anyways, there was plenty of time to get lost in the past. A time when he was alone, a time when he couldn’t feel their eyes on him, a time when Hermione wasn’t by his side, just as lost, just as pained. He reached out for her arm and, much like she had done for him earlier, pulled her away. She went quietly, which was rare, to sit by his side at their table. Neville sat down by them. Harry pulled Hermione close to him.
“Breathe, Hermione, just breathe,” he whispered to her.
“I’m fine,” she said back to him a little harshly.
“I know.”
“Completely fine.”
“I believe you.”
She looked at him then, vulnerable in a way that he was not used to seeing her, and he wished that he could take it all away. He was the one who was supposed to die, not their friends.
You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself.
“What are we going to do?” She whispered to him, jolting him out of his mind.
He attempted a smirk, “Usually, I’m the one asking you that.”
She let out a light laugh, “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“I suppose we keep going.”
She looked at him, peering into his soul in a way that was unique to her. She seemed to find something there, although he could not guess what, and he could see her begin to piece herself back together. It was impressive the way she pushed it back. She drew back her shoulders, straightened her back, and tucked her hair behind her ears.
“I really do hope that they won’t be too easy on us this year with schoolwork, I don’t want to be behind,” she eventually said.
“Hermione?”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t give them any ideas.”
She rolled her eyes at him and turned towards Neville.