Chapter 1
Time is a strange, fickle thing. One day, it’s slow and boring. Another day, it’s fast and rushed. It’s something you chase after and skip ahead of. But it is constant, never-ending. It never stops or waits for you to catch up - it just runs on without a thought to slow down. It’s something that Harry oftentimes finds confusing. After a while, though, it’s easy to forget about it. To get lost in it.
At only 17, he killed the overbearing Dark Lord, Voldemort. He spent the following months cleaning up the mess, fixing Hogwarts back to its old state. Not everything got fixed then, of course. Some stones were missing, lost from the battle, and never to be found again. The courtyard held less grass. The lake had less movement. The halls were less loud. It was empty despite the bodies milling about to repair it. It reminded Harry of a cat who was dying, that walked off to find somewhere quiet to die. The castle was missing the liveliness it had before as if it had died and hidden the rest of its life in a dark, miserable place far away from others.
A finger or two was lost in the battle. The voices were humbled, scared to break the tension that bled through the halls. A handful of people missing here and another handful of people missing there. Blood stained the dry patches of grass near the pathways, urging passersby to examine them for more information. Wood that doesn’t match the trees was scattered across the ground - wand wood broken and splintered every which way.
Yes, not everything was fixed.
Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, the Boy-Who-Conquered, the Boy-Who-Is-Tired-Of-Titles, became more or less of a recluse. Not right away. Of course, not right away. When he wasn’t fixing Hogwarts, he was at the Wizengamot, seeing to the punishments of Death Eaters and helping find reparations for those who needed or wanted them. When he wasn’t doing that, he was staring at the wall in Sirius’ room, at the scruff mark right between the skimpy poster of a girl leaning against a motorcycle and a who-knows-how-old magazine cover of the Chudley Cannons.
Owls left letters on the side table next to the window that was always open. The 0wls who were meant to stay stayed for a week at most with the water bowl and plate of food before leaving with a huff. Knocks at the front door every other day slowly dwindled down from a knock every week to a knock once in a while. The shouts asking for him to “please, just answer it this once, mate!” slowly quieted to nothing.
Harry was not there. He was far, far away, where he couldn’t think of a thing and couldn’t focus on anything. He spoke when he needed to, uttering spells that he could perform without words, and greeting his friends when it seemed appropriate. If you asked him what he did the other day he could recite every step he did and every word he spoke, but ask him how he felt and he would not respond. He was a ghost stuck in a body, a corpse withering away into dust.
So, yes, not everything was fixed.