Chapter Text
The war was over, but peace didn’t come easy.
It lingered like the dust in the air—settling slowly, painfully—never quite sure if it belonged. The Battle of Hogwarts had ended in victory, but that word felt too clean, too triumphant, for what they had truly endured. Victory didn’t bring back the dead. It didn’t erase the screaming. It didn’t scrub blood from stone.
Hogwarts was no longer a place of wonder. Not yet.
The castle stood wounded, skeletal in parts, its stone bones exposed. Walls were fractured, ceilings collapsed. The Quidditch pitch was scorched earth, the Forbidden Forest eerily quiet. Ghosts didn’t just haunt the school—they were etched into every cracked tile, every shattered window.
And yet... there was rebuilding.
Harry walked through the wreckage slowly, his shoes crunching against debris, the warm spring sun doing little to dispel the chill that clung to his skin. He wasn’t alone—Ron and Hermione walked beside him, silent, each lost in their own storm of thoughts.
He hadn’t wanted to come back, not yet. But Hermione had insisted.
“It’ll help,” she said. “To see it. To know we survived it.”
Survived. The word made Harry nauseous. It was true, but it felt like a curse. Why did they survive when Fred didn’t? When Lupin, Tonks, Colin... when so many others had fallen?
They found Professor McGonagall near the Great Hall—or what was left of it. Her robes were smudged with dust, her usually sharp hair slightly disheveled, but her presence was unshakable. She looked up as they approached and offered a tired, but genuine, smile.
“Mr. Potter. Miss Granger. Mr. Weasley,” she said, nodding at each of them in turn. “Back so soon?”
“We wanted to help,” Hermione said softly. Her eyes scanned the ruins, lingering at the place where the tables used to sit.
“And to see it,” Ron added, voice gruff. “Didn’t feel right... just leaving it like this.”
McGonagall sighed. “None of it feels right,” she admitted. “But we carry on. That’s what we do.”
They talked. About rebuilding. About loss. About grief.
Harry mostly listened, nodding when appropriate, but his gaze kept drifting—to the broken staircases, to the damaged windows, to the empty corners where people he loved used to stand.
It was too much.
“I’m just going to walk for a bit,” he murmured.
Ron gave him a nod of understanding. Hermione reached out, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. He didn’t say anything more—just turned and walked away.
Hogwarts had changed. Not just physically. There was something off in the air. Magic still clung to the walls, but it felt... muted. Fragile. As if the very soul of the castle had been cracked along with its stones.
He wandered past the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, past the library, and eventually into the upper corridors where the damage was less severe. His footsteps echoed through the empty hallways, each sound a reminder of what had been lost.
He paused near a window overlooking the courtyard.
So many memories.
What if things had been different? he thought. What if I’d made different choices?
What if he had refused to hunt the Horcruxes? What if he hadn’t followed Dumbledore so blindly? Would Fred still be alive? Would Snape have lived long enough to find peace? Would his parents have been proud of who he became?
He rested his hand against the cracked window frame and closed his eyes.
And that’s when he felt it.
A presence.
He turned slowly.
Someone was standing in the corridor behind him. A man—tall, thin, his robes tattered and torn. His skin was pale beneath layers of grime, and his hair hung in clumps over his face. He looked wild, almost feral, but there was no mistaking the wand in his hand.
Harry’s heart jumped. He reached for his wand, but didn’t draw it yet.
“Who are you?” he asked, voice steady.
The man took a step forward. Harry noticed now that his clothes weren’t just dirty—they were scorched in places, like he’d survived a fire. His eyes were hard to see through the mess of hair and shadows, but there was rage in them. Unfiltered, raw rage.
“You,” the man growled. “You ruined everything.”
Harry tensed. Death Eater. There were still many unaccounted for—those who had fled into hiding or scattered after Voldemort fell. McGonagall had warned them that Hogwarts might still be a target, that some might seek revenge.
“I don’t know who you are,” Harry said, fingers closing around the handle of his wand, “but you should leave now.”
“You think you’re a hero,” the man spat. “You think you saved the world. But you don’t know what you cost the rest of us.”
And before Harry could react, the man raised his wand.
“Exsilium Dimensionem!”
The words were foreign—old, unfamiliar. Not a spell Harry had ever heard before. It struck him in the chest like a punch from the inside out, forcing the air from his lungs. White light erupted in his vision, blinding him, swallowing the hallway, the castle, the world.
He heard his own name being shouted—maybe Ron, maybe Hermione—but it sounded distant, underwater.
And then—
Nothing.
No pain. No fear.
Just silence.
And darkness.