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The taste of the dust as it settles over Hogwarts’ broken grounds leaves a dry taste in Harry’s mouth. Chalk-like and gritty, he grinds his teeth, rolls his tongue, and tastes the brunt of his actions. His destructions.
Harry makes his way to the great hall, seeing the blood-lined tables being used for medical triage, and the wrapped tarps covering the dead. An emotion swells in his chest—he doesn’t quite know what it is. Something like sadness, something like relief. A horrid mix of the two, maybe.
Eyes scanning the hall, he finds Ron and Hermione detached from the rest of the Weasley family, who’ve stuck close to Fred’s corpse. Fred’s… corpse. Harry pinches his eyes shut, and pushes a heavy breath out through his nose, trying to block out the thoughts of ‘you did this,’ ‘you’re the reason the Weasley’s have lost a son,’ and ‘you didn’t save him.’
Hidden under his cloak, he makes his way towards his two friends, not putting effort into keeping his steps light. He doesn’t have the energy to.
“Psst,” Harry hisses, getting the attention of them both. “Meet in Gryffindor tower?”
A ragged, soft hum from Hermione is all he needs before he turns and makes his way to his first home.
Gryffindor tower looks the same as it always had, save for a knocked over chair or two. Peoples’ things remain, like they didn’t have enough time to collect everything before they evacuated. ‘They probably didn’t,’ Harry realizes. The wreckage hasn’t reached here. No cracked walls or broken windows. It’s like a time-capsule, before.. before Cedric, Sirius, Dobby, Remus… everything.
Harry trudges his way up the stairs to the seventh-year dorms, his eyes prickling at the two perfectly made beds, untouched by their intendeds. His and Ron’s, Harry realizes. He knows the other Gryffindor boys, those who remained, stayed in the room of requirement—but even so, their beds don’t have the manufactured-perfection of a house-elf; a sheet is wrinkled, a pillow off center, or quilt completely twisted. Life was there, on those beds.
He flops on the bed intended for him, nearest the drafty window. He doesn’t bother getting under the covers or changing. He lays there, breathing. Living. He doesn’t know how much time has passed before Ron and Hermione find him there, his invisibility cloak disrupted just enough that they can see his head and feet.
“Mate, I know it’s an invisibility cloak, but it never gets any less weird to see your disembodied head and feet,” Ron muses without humor.
“Disembodied,” Hermione chuffs, “that’s a big word.”
Ron shrugs, not having the energy or mood to banter with Hermione.
Harry forces himself to turn over and face his friends, though his body protests. They all look like hell.
“We need a good bath,” Hermione says, “I know we just got here, but—” she pauses for a second, contemplating. “I think we should go to the prefect bathrooms and washup.”
Ron groans, “I would kill for a proper bath.”
Harry agrees with a hum. “I’m all for it. but you may need to carry me. I don’t feel like moving.”
Hermione scoffs, “We’re wizards, Harry. That isn’t a problem.”
Hermione casts a levitation spell on him, and they make their way to the prefect’s bath. No password needed—the castle seems to understand that some things are a little more important than the sanctity of an exclusive bathroom.
Hermione sets Harry on his feet before moving to turn on the taps, a sweet, lavender aroma coming from the water.
The steam rising from the bath looks heavenly. It’s been too long since they’ve had a hot bath. A real, genuine bath. While their stay at Bill and Fleur’s was more comfortable than what they were used to, their water ran perpetually cold.
Harry wastes no time stripping and sliding into the bath as soon as the water level is risen to the top. He dunks his head underneath the water, shaking his hair out, dust and dirt and blood and debris erupting like a cloud in the water.
Hermione and Ron aren’t far behind him, climbing into the large basin. It doesn’t feel odd to share the bath, Harry notes. He’d shared the quidditch showers with Ron, before, but hasn’t been in this same situation with Hermione. ‘I suppose a month’s long camping adventure erases some boundaries.’
Hermione accios bars of soap and tubs of shampoo and conditioner and moisturizer for them to use, and Harry wastes no time scrubbing at himself with the barsoap, peeling away the layers of blood and dirt and dust.
They all sit in comfortable silence, bathing themselves, the water just the right side of scorching. Harry can’t help but compare the experience to that of a phoenix being reborn from hot, hot flames.
“Mate,” Ron whispers after who knows how long, “when’d you get that one?” Nodding to his chest, a lightning pattern erupting from the center of his chest.
Hermione answers for him, her eyes averted, “It was my severing charm, from when the locket—”
“No,” Ron cuts her off, “not that one, ‘mione,” he whispers, voice hoarse.
Hermione’s eyes snap to Harry, scanning his face and then locking on his chest. Harry doesn’t try to shrink from his friends’ gazes. They’ve been there with him through everything. He’s not going to hide this from them.
“The killing curse,” he answers. “I died, in the forest.”
“What?!” Hermione gasps. “You… you died? How is that possible, I—”
“I don’t know,” he rasps, “I really don’t it was all so confusing, I was there, with him, and then it was all white—” he heaves in a heavy breath.
Hermione moves closer to him and grabs his hand from across the basin,“Tell us from the beginning, Harry.”
Harry squeezes her hand, “Alright, um. You know how Snape died?”
They nod.
“Right, so his memories. In the vial—I went to Dumbledore’s office, to use the pensieve. In the, um. In the hour he—yeah. The hour between.” Harry swallows. “So, it turns out I was also a horcrux.” He hears a light gasp from his friends, pushing on before they can interrupt him. “He didn’t mean to, I don’t think. It was an accident, from the night he, um. Killed my parents.”
“Harry, I’m not going to lie. How does this equal you dying?” Ron probes.
“With the prophecy, Dumbledore knew. He knew one of us would have to kill each other. We always just assumed it would be me killing him. Not… not the other way around. But with the piece of his soul inside of me… that part needed to be killed. I was just… collateral damage, I suppose,” Harry says lowly.
“So,” Hermione starts, contemplative, “Dumbledore intended for you to die, to kill the piece of him inside of you as well, knowing that he’d find and destroy the rest of the horcruxes, and then eventually be able to kill Voldemort, what, himself?”
Harry nods, “seems that way.”
“Wow,” Ron says. “That’s absolutely fucked.”
Harry snorts, “Snape told Dumbledore he was ‘raising me like a pig for slaughter.’ Saw that in the memories.”
“Never thought I’d agree with Snape on something,” Ron murmurs.
“So, what?” Hermione questions, “How’d you survive, a fluke?”
“Well, yes. Voldemort hit me with the AK, but since in fourth year he resurrected himself with my blood, which had that—that love magic from my mum—it rebounded, somehow,” Harry summarized.
“Confusing,” Ron notes.
“Sure is,” Harry agrees.
Harry takes a deep breath, “I woke up somewhere white. It looked like King’s Cross. And… Dumbledore was there. Told me I had the choice to move on, or stay. Obviously, I stayed. But I really, really wanted to go.” A tear slipped from Harry’s eyes, and he began shaking, silently sobbing.
Hermione pulled Harry into a gentle hug, uncaring about their state of undress.
“The snitch—‘I open at the close’—” Harry sniffed, “It meant my death. It opened as I was in the forest, about to die. It held… it held the resurrection stone. It showed me mum, dad, Sirius, Remus…. Mum said she was proud of me.” Harry broke down into heavy sobs. “But I knew, I knew I had to come back. Finish things. So, I couldn’t go to them, yet. But, Merlin, guys, I wanted to. I wanted to so bad.”
Ron rubbed soothing circled into his upper back. “It’s okay, Harry. I—we understand.” Hermione nodded in agreement.
“The worst part was when I woke up, back there, in the forest. I hurt all over, and I was cold. The floor was so hard. It was just… the complete opposite of where I just was,” Harry whispered.
“But now you’re here,” Hermione said kindly, “Voldemort’s dead, and you’re in a nice warm bath. Clean. Nothing else standing between you and whatever you want to do.”
Harry scoffed, “Just me and the hundreds of dead people on my hands.”
“No, Harry,” Hermione said firmly, “it is not your fault those people died. It’s Voldemort’s, and no one elses.”
“But I brought the battle here, to Hogwarts—”
“No, Harry,” She reprimanded harder, “We would have had to come here anyway, for the diadem. It was inevitable. There was nothing you could do.”
“Yeah, mate,” Ron comforted, “it’s not your fault. Not your fault that Fred chose to fight and—and ended up passing,” his voice choked up at the end of his sentence. He cleared his throat before continuing, “we don’t blame you. No one blames you.”
The reassurances only made Harry cry harder—all the pain and guilt and grief of the past months—years—was pouring out of him.
Eventually, his tears dried up, nose runny and eyes puffy.
“You guys are the best,” Harry said, voice hoarse and barely audible.
Hermione patted him on the shoulder with a small smile on her face. “Why don’t we all get dried up and dressed, head back to the tower, and eat something?”
Harry nodded, “Yeah. That… that sounds nice.”
“Then we can sleep for a day straight!” Ron added.
“Oh, god, what I would do for a proper bed right now,” Hermione moaned.
“Yes, yes, let’s get out of the bath and make that a reality, yeah?”
Hermione scoffed, “yes, Ronald.” She pulled herself out of the bath, wrapping a towel around her and then grabbing another for her hair. Harry quickly followed, as did Ron.
The trio made it back to the dorms, dressed in soft, clean clothes a house elf must have left for
them. Ginny was fast asleep on one of the couches, her hair messy, face dirty.
“Ginny,” Harry breathed, rushing to her side, shaking her awake.
“Harry?” Ginny blinked, “Harry!” She sat up promptly pulling him tight to herself.
“Where have you been?!” She asked.
Harry shrugged, “bath.”
Ginny finally noticed Ron and Hermione. “Together?!” She scandalized.
Hermione shrugged. “Boundaries do not exist after eight months in a tent. We’ll be upstairs, join us when you’re ready for food. I was thinking we’d call Kreacher up?”
Harry nodded, grabbing Ginny’s hand, hauling her up. “I don’t know about Ginny, but I’m starved.”
Ginny nodded, “I would die for some kidney pie right now.”
“Please don’t,” Harry teased, “Kreacher would be happy to—Kreacher!”
“Masters is requesting Kreacher?” He croaked.
Harry smiled, “do you think you could get us some kidney pie?”
“And maybe some sandwiches?” Hermione added.
“And some sandwiches.” Harry amended.
Kreacher puffed with pride, “Kreacher would be happy to,” he announced before apparating away.
“With that sorted,” Hermione said to no one in particular, “I want to lay in a bed,” she finished, grabbing Ron’s hand and hauling him up the steps.
“Good idea,” Ginny smiled, dragging Harry along as she followed Hermione.
An emotion settled in Harry’s chest. Happiness, Contentment. Greif, still. But he knew he’d have his people, right here with him, every step of the way. He Squeezed Ginny’s hand as he trailed behind her.