Seven Photographs

i.

In a castle filled with brutal chaos, the end came with strange, merciful silence.

Remus was cornered, despite his best efforts. Dolohov, flinging spells and venomous laughter in equal measure, had struck upon a terrible strategy: manipulating the curse in Remus' blood to make his limbs disobey him, his control over the wolf begin to waver regardless of the moon. The man was laughing, laughing, and wasting time with taunts; a weakness of the Death Eaters, Remus thought, but he had no strength to take advantage.

"Pitiful," sneered Dolohov. He bent close, his wand jabbing at Remus' racing heart. "Perhaps I'll call your old friend Fenrir to finish this off."

He pulled back to point his wand high, which spat out a chain of vicious red sparks. Remus, his spasming hands filled with pain, felt sick at what was to come; but then another burst of light split the air, and he stared in surprise at the figure who'd just struck his attacker. Dolohov hit the ground, struggling to breathe.

"What --" he gasped, for the woman stepping over the Death Eater had pink hair of a nearly neon shade even in this sick light, and he'd know that face anywhere, that beautiful, dear face --

"I couldn't not do this," she said, kneeling down beside him. "I'm an Auror, it's my job."

"Tonks --"

"And I couldn't leave you."

One of her hands took his. Remus, gasping, wanted to recoil, for he wasn't himself, and he couldn't bear for her to touch him like this -- his bones half-split, his joints struggling to stay human. But she held on, her eyes fixed upon his, and even though she didn't let go of her wand -- sensible girl -- she released two fingers from it to stroke hair back from his face. "I couldn't leave you."

The sound of the battle continued all around them, beneath them, shuddering through the floor of the tiny, sheltered alcove where Remus had been driven. He took a shaky breath. It was hard to think of the world beyond, but one tiny, precious image from it wouldn't leave him even here. "Teddy--"

Tonks leaned forward. "He's safe."

She said it with such conviction that even in the midst of all this, Remus believed it. He let loose the breath he'd been holding, and with wonderment saw that Dolohov's curse had gone with it, for his body was relaxing, no longer fighting itself, and the hand Tonks was holding was human again. He was weak, but whole. He looked up at her and met her laughing eyes, beginning to smile.

He didn't see where the attack came from. A crowd had ascended the stairs, some friends and some foes, in what combination he did not know; but he saw the light and felt searing pain debilitate his limbs and heard Tonks scream, falling against him. Her hands spasmed, and the wand clattered to the floor. Another blast of magic shattered it.

"I'll have you both," snarled the terrible, too-familiar voice of Remus' nightmares.

There was the sound of shouting voices countering him. What Remus could see around the trembling form of his wife, however, was bitter: his defenders were being taken down one by one by the other werewolf. Remus fought one hand to rise to try another spell, but he hadn't enough strength now for more than a faint Patronus, shielding them for just a moment, just one last quiet moment.

He pulled the wand back against his chest. Tonks, who'd tried to stand and couldn't, clasped her hand over it instead. He could see blood scored across her skin and his: shrapnel, he realized, from the broken wand. It looked like claw marks. It looked like what the wolf could do.

"Please," he rasped. It almost hurt too much to talk. "Don't let him take me."

Tears were running down her face. The wand bridged the space between his heart and where her other hand gripped his collar, resting just against the curve of her wedding ring. She'd only have the strength for one more spell. He knew what she was about to do.

"Nymphadora," he whispered.

He felt her shake with one faint laugh. "Speaking of Unforgivables--"

Remus knew he should be thinking of greater things, of the battle and its participants and the fate of the world, but right now the world felt very, very small: Tonks in his arms, and that last sound of sweetness on her lips. He pulled himself up to kiss her, feeling it linger over the pain and the sound of screams.

"Teddy's safe," she murmured like a mantra against his lips. "Teddy's safe...."

There came a triumphant roar behind them. Tonks pulled back, searching out his eyes as if for permission. Remus gave it silently. There was a moment of utter silence, and then she spoke the words.

Green light arced from his heart to her ring, and the pain vanished.

The Patronus fell just as Fenrir came forward. Dolohov was standing now, rubbing at his throat and still gulping for air, but when he saw what laid before him, he started to laugh. The werewolf only growled and shoved him to the stairs.

"Get on with you, then," he said. "There's more of them to kill."

The other Death Eaters departed. Only Fenrir remained, deprived of his bloodsport and furious. Finally he snarled and took his own advice, vaulting away before the last few Order members on the way could stop him.

In the hallway, all was quiet. The last wisps of magic above Remus and Tonks drifted into the vast expanse of the ceiling, unnoticed by all but the castle ghosts, who might have seen two canine forms loping free at last before they vanished.

---

ii.

The battle did turn, in time.

It felt strange to preside over the Great Hall in victory when the losses were so clear, the bodies resting just yards away, but Minerva knew what must be done; and so she stayed with everyone, spreading news and giving commands and exchanging owls fast and furious with Kingsley Shacklebolt so the brutal decisions could be made -- what is to be done with Voldemort's body? Who will tell the families of the deaths here? How do we convince everyone what has occurred here, the truth of it? -- and then speaking to people, speaking to everyone, until most had gone or fallen into exhausted sleep, and she sat awake in a silent chamber, at last giving herself to the inevitable shock and thinking of little at all.

The echoes of battle had begun to fade. She could still hear them, though, as if they'd soaked into the stones and intended to linger. Maybe they would. Minerva sighed and stared into the quiet stars above. They'd dimmed, perhaps out of respect, but still remained. They always did. Three great wars she'd seen now: the battles with Voldemort and the one before, the one almost everyone here now was too young to remember: the second World War, the Muggles had called it, and the shadow beneath it, the battles with Grindelwald... she could still hear those voices, let alone those of the ghosts who'd died tonight. Arran. Felix. Gwyn, still laughing. The castle remembered them all, and so did she. Minerva sighed, suddenly feeling terribly old.

"Oh, Albus," she murmured. "What I could tell you, if you were here...."

She got from her chair and began a quiet walk down the length of the Hall.

Really, Minerva thought, she ought to be better at absorbing these things by now, but here she was spinning in memories and overwhelmed thoughts. Voldemort was dead. The plague of two generations, the Dark Lord, the man gone elsewise who'd nearly conquered them all was dead. Harry had done it: turned the Killing Curse back on its caster and ended it. She'd seen it with her own eyes and still couldn't quite believe it was true. But it was quiet, almost peaceful, and the stars shone undisturbed. Minerva brushed back her hair -- still hanging loose, she realized with shock; even after all these hours, she'd not yet tended to it -- and turned once again to look at the whole of the room.

She froze there as she realized ghosts were gathering in the hall.

The first was the Grey Lady, inclining her head in silent respect. Nearly Headless Nick walked beside her. As the Fat Friar and the Bloody Baron followed, Minerva drew in a sharp breath to see that they were not alone. Four more shapes slowly formed behind them, which the House ghosts turned to, then genuflected and carefully backed away.

It was as if Minerva were seeing faces beneath deep water. These ghosts were old, older than even the castle, and they'd been long at rest, left undisturbed. They barely pierced the space around them. Still, their faces were discernible: one welcoming, one leonine, one wise, one cunning. Minerva knew them at once.

"Headmistress," Godric said.

Even in the midst of her awe, and the uncertainty of whether to bow or stand firm, the word struck her. She hadn't even thought about it. "I suppose I am," Minerva murmured.

"We must commend you," he said. "A great victory has been won this night."

Minerva pulled herself tall, but still felt regret. She heard the lost echo of Fred's laugh, imagined little Colin Creevy falling, and briefly shut her eyes. "Much that is precious has also been lost."

"Such things occur." Helga's voice was gentle. "We regret their passing and honor them."

"And now?" Minerva said, looking across their faces. "What has called you here?"

"It is critical at such a time to lead strongly," said Rowena. "Other evils can follow in the wake of one lost -- followers and opportunists, those disregarded... and those who need to learn which path not to follow."

Minerva thought of past wars, remembered Arran smiling before his plane fell, remembered those she'd respected once before dark choices took them away. She said none of it aloud, but Godric nodded.

"We know we may entrust this to you," he said. "You have already chosen well."

"Perhaps not perfectly," Minerva said.

He smiled. "Which of us does?"

Only the man to her far left had not spoken. Minerva felt his presence, and knew he could speak if he chose. She braced herself for his voice. Soon enough, it came. "I must also tell you to mind that all of us have something of the four ways in us," said Salazar, although his eyes flicked scornfully for just an instant in Helga's direction. "All may become great. Prejudices must not taint this, or tarnish any of the noble houses."

"Obviously," Minerva said, knowing full well what he meant. Her voice had regained a bit of its edge. "Tell me, do you return to motivate all new headmasters in this way?"

Godric looked amused. "Only those we find interesting," Rowena replied.

Minerva's eyebrows raised. "Interesting." Rowena gave an elusive smile, but none of them took the bait. "Well."

It looked as if the ghosts were already beginning to fade. Minerva realized she was thinking fast, a whole cloud of questions rising in her mind -- but Godric had moved forward, and a strange, fierce look had taken his eyes, one that sent an incredible shock through her before she saw the sympathy at its core. The enormity of who this was had finally sunk in, and she found she couldn't say a word.

"Remember not only grief, Minerva," he said, and touched two spectral fingers to her forehead.

She gasped to see a cavalcade of images: Harry living, his friends and compatriots celebrating, the Great Hall filled with smiling students, year after year.... she recognized them all. Tonks at seventeen, her hair ridiculous and her laugh infectious. Red-haired pranksters shooting glorious bursts of fireworks everywhere. Those boys who'd called themselves the Marauders, conferring in gleeful secrecy. And then, with a shock, a young girl with a long, thick braid, her eyes bright and attentive, her new friends gathering around her on the train....

Those same eyes opened as Minerva called out wordlessly, but the ghosts were fading. She stared as Godric bowed his head to her, as Salazar stepped away sideways and simply vanished, as Helga waved as she went. The last to depart was Rowena. Minerva wondered if she meant to say something more, but the truth was simpler: the Grey Lady, Helena, was reaching one pale hand to her mother for the briefest of touches before Rowena vanished.

Even ghosts may grieve, Minerva thought. Perhaps Helena had heard her, for she looked up at Minerva with a sad smile before she, too, drifted away.

Above the space where the ghosts had stood, in a hall Minerva knew would hold laughter again, the stars had begun to brighten. She stared up into the heart of them, holding close the memories Godric had shown her, and then turned, and left the room, and closed the door.

---

iii.

Worlds away, in a quiet, ordinary Sydney suburb, Monica Wilkins was having a deeply peculiar morning.

She'd been a block from her office when a friendly young woman approached her -- friendly, but oddly urgent, possessed of a certain nervous energy she tried to write off as jet lag. Floo lag, she'd actually said, but Monica had no idea what that was. "Sorry," she said, in a familiar British accent. "Just arrived, barely know what hour it is... I've come with a message."

"A message?" Monica smiled vaguely. "I'm sorry, I don't know what this is about, but I have patients waiting...."

"Their cavities will just have to rot this time," the girl said, and there was something so familiar about her that even such an extraordinary statement brought Monica up short.

That was how she'd found herself back home, sitting on the patio with a glass of iced tea that this strange girl had prepared in her very own kitchen -- she'd seemed to instinctively know how Monica would keep things, how much sugar she'd prefer. Monica stared at the glass and the mobile phone she'd set down beside it. She'd just called Wendell home in the middle of a workday. How exquisitely odd.

"Now, miss," Monica said, still feeling kindly disposed even through her confusion. "I -- what did you say your name was?"

The girl reached for the pitcher. Her fingers trembled for just a moment on the handle, and Monica began to notice the bruises there. In fact, she had bandages, bindings, one hiding under a sleeve she'd pulled down almost to the base of her thumb. Monica leaned forward, feeling a deep worry take her, one that shouldn't be so potent over a stranger.... "Dear child, what's happened to you?"

She looked up, her eyes huge. At that moment the patio door opened. Wendell, as promised, had arrived, and Monica saw a plethora of emotions on his face: perplexity, hassled hand gestures as he loosened his tie, and the start of an understandable complaint on his lips, which died when he saw the girl. She'd lifted the pitcher an inch or two, but it came thunking back to the table in an uneven jolt, sloshing liquid over the side. Monica stared for a moment at the spill. Then Wendell spoke. "You're -- I've seen...."

"I'm Hermione," the girl said. "Hermione Granger."

They both looked at her, then at each other. Wendell looked as if he was trying to remember something. "It's.... on the tip of my tongue," he said, with a brief, apologetic laugh. Then he turned to the girl, this Hermione, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but what's this about?"

"Please just say my name," she said.

Monica, feeling troubled, got from her chair. She was thinking of odd things: the house back in England, half-remembered stories. There was a little child with bushy hair who looked so very like this girl -- and stacks of books and a fiendishly ugly cat and an ever-darkening sky... Monica saw more and more things flash by, and suddenly whimpered. "My head," she said.

Wendell came forward, putting his arms around her, then turned to the girl, temper blazing. "What did you put in that tea?"

Hermione stood up in a rush, clattering the chair backward. "I didn't, I swear--"

"A stranger in our house, upsetting my wife -- what are you after here?" Monica felt him tremble. It wasn't just fear or anger; it was still confusion, too, and something more. "Who are you?"

Monica's head felt too full, as if something else was crowding in amongst her thoughts, demanding space. She thought fiercely of her own life, how she'd been so determined to come to Australia to start one anew, but it felt false somehow; she scrabbled after memories of very recent days and felt them slipping. The whole world felt unsteady, as if she stood on a rocking boat. Then the girl said something -- "Guess I'm doing this the hard way" -- and reached for something at her hip. Monica shrieked. A gun, she thought; I've brought an armed robber into my house -- but all the girl pulled out was a stick, a polished, worn-looking stick, which she spun once quickly in midair even as Wendell demanded that she stop. A brilliant flash of light stopped him mid-word. It was light, nothing more than light, and knowledge, and a sudden clarity, like a curtain lifting....

Monica blinked. In the split second between closing and opening, her mind re-ordered itself.

The light was already gone, although the world looked inexplicably brighter in its wake. The spilled tea still shivered on the table, struck by the shockwave of the receding spell. Ice tinkled against the glass. She could hear breathing, feel her husband's arms around her loosen, then turn her gently to face him. They stared at each other for a long moment. "Do you--"

"Remember," he finished. He took in a breath. His voice trembled on the edge of wonder. "Yes."

Moving as one, they turned to their girl.

Hope had blossomed on Hermione's face. She stood there, wand still held in one outstretched hand, and watched her parents as they fumbled back to the right angle of reality. Our daughter, her mother -- I'm her mother! -- thought carefully, afraid the words alone might break it. She's powerful and brilliant and brave and she's ours....

"Hermione," said Mrs. Granger. "Oh, God, Hermione--"

The spell truly broke. She and her husband rushed forward all at once, and Hermione flung her arms around them both, starting to laugh and cry at the same time. "I'm all right," she gasped. "I'm all right, we won, I'm all right...."

"Hermione," Mr. Granger breathed. "Oh, God, we could have lost you."

"Never again," Hermione said. "Never again."

The memories were back -- all of them. Mrs. Granger felt her daughter's life returning to her, with all its horror and wonder and mystery, and she hugged Hermione back as tightly as she could. She's alive, she thought. Our brilliant, beautiful daughter, she's alive.....

They stood there together until they'd cried themselves out, and the missing bits of the story filtered in. Hermione explained it all, in such detail that by the time it was done, they were exhausted and terrified and exhilarated all at once. "And it's over," Hermione kept saying, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as her parents. "It really is...."

A sudden, harsh rattle stopped her in mid-sentence. Mrs. Granger looked around in alarmed confusion, as if something might be trying to prove Hermione wrong. Then she saw what had caused the interruption. The phone was ringing, rattling away atop the glass table.

Mrs. Granger pulled back and wiped her nose. As she watched the annoying little device vibrate its way nearly into the puddle of spilled tea, she began to laugh. Monica's phone. Monica's life. It had all been an illusion and it was over now, and maybe that patient she'd left this morning really was going to end up decaying in the chair, because even the brilliant Sydney sun wasn't going to be enough to keep her here now -- she was going home.....

"What am I going to tell them?" she said.

"Oh, well," Hermione said, resting her head on her mother's shoulder. Mr. Granger's arm curled protectively around her from the other side, so they could both feel it when their daughter laughed. And Mrs. Granger wasn't at all surprised to see Hermione's hand lift, twirling her wand in a gesture more playful than they'd seen in years. "I guess I can always make something up."

---

iv.

When George entered Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes alone for the first time, anyone else watching him might have had cause to worry.

He looked pale, for one thing, and a little too thin. Although he'd been insisting to his family for days that he was fine, and could go out un-attended-to just fine, Mum, thanks very much, the odd, quivering energy all through him was something new. So was the way he kept rubbing beside his missing ear. It wasn't that it seemed to be paining him. It was as if he were listening for something that he couldn't quite hear -- that if he strained just a little harder, the voice would return.

Verity, the Weasleys' -- no, just George's, she thought -- shop assistant, who was indeed watching all this from the stairwell he'd startled her into, could guess what George was listening for. She felt like crying.

When she'd been hired here, her friends had -- not illogically -- laughed heartily and wished her luck. The store was filled with merrily bizarre hazards from floor to ceiling. Not the least of these was Fred and George themselves, who frequently tried not only her patience and skill at dispelling charms but upon occasion, though she kept this to herself, any sense at controlling her hormones. She wasn't blind or stupid, and their mischievousness was charming. Her first day at work, Fred had winked at her over the aphrodisiac candies and said, "I'd offer you a sample, but that would be horribly unprofessional." The look on his face had been enough to convince Verity that the chocolate wouldn't be necessary.

And so she'd worked there weeks on end, while the atmosphere began to change. While the shop's purpose had been distraction, in cheering people up, Verity could see from Fred and George's demeanors that more serious matters were taking them in. They asked her more and more often to mind the shop in their absence. More than once they excused her from work entirely, saying that others might follow her here -- that it wasn't safe.

When she'd entered that morning, the store had been shuttered for weeks.

Spiders dangled from opportune rafters; several products had simply gone off, leaving messes sputtered across the floor or clinging to the windows. The dummy by the door (dressed as a mummy for kicks: "Is it the dummy mummy, or the mummy dummy?" George had asked; they'd never decided for sure) had long ago been charmed to spout silly sayings at the customers, but it was running down, neglected, only intoning spooky whispers now. Verity, shivering, had shut it up.

For three hours she'd cleaned, with only the sound of the wireless to keep her company. She listened to pronouncements from the new Minister of Magic while she scrubbed down the shelves. (Magic would have been faster; she wasn't in the mood, and attacked the floor next, with similar ferocity.) She heard Harry Potter himself, sounding tired and awkward but very much alive, in a single snatched quote that everyone repeated as if they were the most important words ever spoken. Perhaps they were. I can confirm that Voldemort is dead, he repeated through crackle and static, and at last we're free....

The shop door, if it had been any other, would have tinkled open at that moment. Being the Weasleys' domain, it brayed like a rabid donkey.

Verity gasped and spun. Behind the wavering tip of her wand was a familiar silhouette, one that she knew and loved but wasn't ready for. She didn't know what he'd say. She stumbled backwards, flicked the radio off, and dashed up the stairs toward the stock room, sinking to a stop just out of sight. Below her, George stepped into the store.

Of all the people who never deserved to be at war, the Weasleys were the first Verity could think of. They should have been merry and untroubled forever, not looking this haunted. George moved slowly, his eyes still bright and alert and taking in everything, but they lingered in strange places, and she wondered what he was thinking. Through the slats of the railing, she saw him pause and lift a slender wooden rod. She thought she knew everything their fake wands could do, but perhaps being left alone for a time had affected the spell. This one, which was meant to turn into a tin parrot, metamorphosed into a sparkling silver butterfly before tinkling into pieces.

"Well," George said to himself. He was almost smiling. "That was interesting."

She watched as his head cocked, and he rubbed slowly below his mangled ear before turning, still casting his gaze around for something Verity couldn't see.

She slid down two steps, moving carefully. George was turning on more lights, trailing his fingers across the labels on the shelves. Puking Pastilles. Nosebleed Nougats. Fever Fudge. Of course they weren't alphabetized; Verity had tried once, but the things seemed to rearrange themselves of their own accord. George lingered over the Ton-Tongue Toffees, smiling strangely. "We did good on these, didn't we?" He paused, then laughed. "Merlin, yeah... she went blue in the face when she found out. Good ol' Mum."

George had cast his gaze to the ceiling. Verity had clutched a hand to her chest and shut her eyes. She was only hearing half the conversation, she realized. Just half.

"There were some ideas we never got to," George said. "Maybe now there's time...."

He turned, still rubbing at his ear. A thoughtful look had crossed his face, and after a minute he spoke, his voice strange. "I know you're there."

Verity tried to breathe. Fred, she thought. He thinks it's Fred. Oh, God--

"Verity," George said, more clearly. "You can come downstairs."

She paused, then swallowed awkwardly. After a minute she pushed herself to her feet and descended, leaving smudges in the dust behind her. My skirt's going to look a mess, she thought, and then wondered why she thought it mattered.

"Why were you hiding up there?" George said, pulling open a drawer full of Spell-Checking Quills. Verity cleared her throat.

"Sorry. Um -- you... startled me." An odd thumping noise from upstairs made them both look up. "And I guess I was planning on getting to that next...."

"Best not do it alone," George said, sliding the drawer shut. "That sounds like the Decoy Detonators run amok."

As if on cue, something made a muffled bang, then fizzed out. Verity cleared her throat. "Er, yes."

George, she realized after a moment, was looking at her quite seriously. "Why did you come?" he said.

She brushed back her short blonde hair, fiddled with her dirty dress and looked at her hands. Soap and dirt under the nails, she noticed. Charming. And she was still worried about looking charming -- even though she'd never admit to George that it was Fred she'd really....

She stopped herself short. "It's my job, isn't it?" Verity said.

"Our job." He tried out the words. Conviction was slow to return. "Yeah."

"Most everyone's so excited." Verity hugged herself. "They're throwing parties, parades -- they'll need their fireworks, right? And other things? Everyone's ready to laugh again, I think...."

George was still focusing on something she couldn't see. "Our job," he repeated, and it was impossible to tell which "our" he meant.

Verity, very carefully, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned to her. For an instant she could imagine both of them, wild and laughing, throwing Hot Potatoes across the room to each other (be the last one to catch it before the timer went off, and you'd get hexed -- Fred had been the recipient of peacock feathers once, and George had grown a tail), shouting announcements about the newest products to every passer-by.....

George kept staring at her, enough that she shivered, and then he suddenly laughed.

"Well, then! What the hell are we waiting for? Get some windows open, and let's get this place in order--"

He strode to the back of the room and flung open the shutters. Verity walked up beside him, taking a look. Below them was the bustle of Diagon Alley, still filled with Ever-Spinning party streamers and cheering wizards and witches. The sound of rising joy jostled something loose in her, something that wanted to join in. George took a moment just to breathe it in.

Above them, something shrieked and giggled, then let off a slow, protracted raspberry.

Verity stifled a laugh. George nudged her and gave her a wink. "Well," he said, looking just like his brother had on that first day. "We'll get this place in as much order as it ever can get, anyway."

Verity tried on a smile. George was already off, his energy returning: a red-haired blur of mischief back in his element. She leaned against the window to watch. Yes, it would be good for him to be back at it, she thought. Good for the soul. They'd get this place back on its feet, for everyone's sake.

And if in the coming days she still caught him listening for a voice that would never come, she'd never betray him by saying so, because she knew she was listening too.

---

v.

[static slowly resolves into voices]

LEE JORDAN: Ladies and gentlemen, wizards and witches everywhere, we bring you your first-ever password-free broadcast of Potterwatch! Might be our last ever broadcast, too, but I'm sure we all know why -- You-Know-Who himself, the Dark Lord... yeah, I'm gonna say it... Voldemort... has finally -- oh, what's the word I'm looking for?

GEORGE WEASLEY: Bit the big one?

LEE: In-bloody-deed, my friend. The Dark Lord is dead, and it's time for us to recap exactly how all this came about. You, our loyal listeners, who've been such an important part of this, deserve to hear the entire incredible story. But first, we'd like to take a moment in memoriam. Some of our own correspondents have given themselves to the fight, along with many others, and we'd like to honor them now.

[LEE reads the names of the departed and leads the listeners in a moment of silence.]

LEE: Thank you all, and thanks, George, for still being here with us under the circumstances.

GEORGE: Of course, River. Lee. Hah, guess we don't really need call names now, do we?

LEE: Kind of a relief not to have to call you Sabre anymore, frankly.

GEORGE: What, you're not impressed by my cutting wit, Mr. Babbling Brook?

LEE: Can it, Letter Opener. Anyway -- we're pleased to present Royal himself, whom we can now reveal as our brand new Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kiiiingsleeey!

[round of cheers and banging on tabletops]

KINGSLEY: Thank you, all.

LEE: Proud to have you with us. Now, we've brought you in to help get our listeners up to date, and of course we are still called Potterwatch -- I understand you met with our young hero just this afternoon?

KINGSLEY: Indeed I did. Young Harry deserves our greatest commendations, for a truly selfless and courageous stand against the Dark Lord at Hogwarts these few days ago.

GEORGE: I tell you what, I was there, and I can back up every word. The kid died for us. Hardcore.

LEE: The Boy Who Lived and Died and Lived Again?

GEORGE: The Boy Who Never Got the Hint With Those Killing-Curse Things.

LEE: So tell us -- how is Harry doing?

KINGSLEY: Considering everything, remarkably well. Just to reiterate, he is alive. The battle hinged on a great act of sacrifice, one that led us all to believe that he -- would not be returning. But I understand that that very act gave everyone enough protection to resist Voldemort's will at the end.

LEE: Amazing stuff.

KINGSLEY: We all owe him immensely. In the short term, all he's asked is some peace and quiet to recover.

GEORGE: What he's not saying is that he's probably using the time to run off and canoodle with our little sister.

LEE: And I'm sure he's thrilled to hear that all over the airwaves.

GEORGE: Just remember, Harry: treat her well or we'll hex you into next Tuesday. And we're both good at it.

LEE: Er, moving on. Kingsley, can you tell us what's going on at the Ministry? I understand it's required an overhaul of personnel.

KINGSLEY: That it has. The Death Eaters became entrenched during Voldemort's rise and made a number of unfortunate changes. I've been overseeing staff issues, trials of the offenders and the rebuilding of certain facilities. There were -- modifications made.

GEORGE: Booby traps?

KINGSLEY: Something of that nature. We've set up temporary headquarters in a secure location until things are back to normal.

LEE: Do you feel that the MInistry will soon be operating at full capacity again, despite the troubles?

KINGSLEY: It's difficult to say. We have to not only restore our previous functions, but we must give everything a solid, thorough re-evaluation. We labored long under dark times, and those led to certain assumptions of what was right and wrong and necessary, often to the detriment of our own liberties. Some of the laws on the books could still be damaging. I intend to take the time to ensure we build a strong, just future for all our citizens, and not perpetuate any of our old mistakes.

GEORGE: Well said, mate.

KINGSLEY: Also, I'm not using my office again until somebody gets the Nargles out of it.

[stunned silence]

GEORGE: You mean they exist?

KINGSLEY: More things in heaven and earth, my friend.

LEE: And with that, we're going to take a brief break. After this announcement from the just-re-opened Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes --

GEORGE: Now featuring a whole new line of WonderWitch products! Stun your beloved senseless, in all the best ways!

LEE: -- we'll be bringing in another good friend to tell us more about the Battle of Hogwarts and what's in store for the school now: Hogwarts' newest Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall!

[more cheers]

GEORGE: Man. Too bad we never had a code name for her.

[in distance] MINERVA: I believe Bast might do nicely.

GEORGE: Sigh. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my regret to announce that our dearest Professor is suffering from delusions of grandeur....

MINERVA: Et tu, Sabre?

GEORGE: I'm never hearing the end of that, am I?

LEE: Not bloody likely. We'll be right back.

---

vi.

With fortunes finally being kinder, Ginny Weasley was too occupied at that moment to hear her brother's joke on the radio at her expense. Unfortunately, she was also missing the subject of the joke, because said preoccupation was with another type of clinging, and a different clingee: little Teddy Lupin, who had, she'd just discovered, a remarkably strong grip. "Ow," she said, and carefully disengaged his fingers from her hair.

Andromeda laughed, as did Luna across the room. "Careful," Andromeda said of her grandson. "He's good at drooling, too."

"I noticed," Ginny said, adjusting the rag over her shoulder, and listening to him hiccup. She reached up to pat his back and smiled.

After the battle and the Lupins' tragic passing, a silent arrangement had been struck amongst the Order and Dumbledore's Army: everyone would pitch in with helping Andromeda take care of her new charge. Harry had been the most vehement of all. "He's never to feel alone," he'd said, brushing back the baby's violently yellow hair. Teddy merely gurgled in response, and the hair shifted back down to an ordinary brown.

"Takes after his mum," Ginny said, smiling as she tickled his foot.

"I know," Harry said. Neither of them said what they'd both recognized: his eyes, which never changed, were just like his father's. "I know."

And so on this particular day, when Harry had gone to what Ginny hoped was the last of the memorial services, it was her turn to join Andromeda in the little house where Tonks had grown up. She'd invited Neville, and Luna had floated in along with: an unexpected but not unwanted guest, for if anything could leaven the still-sad atmosphere here, it would be Luna, Ginny thought, and her own brand of surreality.

"I appreciate your being here," Andromeda said, sounding as if there were other, unspoken words behind it. She'd just eased into a nearby chair, offering cups of tea. Luna murmured her thanks into the cup as she blew it cooler; Neville sipped too quickly, and burned his tongue.

"Of course," Ginny said.

Andromeda watched her a minute and said, "I just hope you're not all feeling obligated."

"Oh, no!" Ginny said. "I enjoy babies, don't worry."

She wasn't lying, either. Some part of her worried about that, because she wasn't at all ready to start evoking her prolific mother, but she certainly didn't mind the occasional babysitting. Even if Teddy had again made a grab for her hair. Ginny carefully prized his fingers loose.

"I enjoy babies too," Luna said, in her usual dreamy voice. "But I don't suppose I'll have many."

Neville peered at her. "Why not?"

"It's just a feeling." She looked at Neville, eyes round. "Do you think you want more?"

Neville sputtered, looking as if he couldn't quite guess whether or not she meant that as a proposition. Ginny hid her mouth behind one hand and laughed.

"Not, um, right away," Neville said. "Maybe later. I don't know yet."

Andromeda looked thoughtful. "So have you all decided what you want to do next?"

Ginny looked at Andromeda. It shouldn't seem so strange a question, but suddenly, asked so baldly, it made Ginny wonder. She'd been so consumed by the building war, and by trying to find ways to fight when everyone else just wanted to keep her protected. She'd done everything that she could. So what did one do when the battle was done?

"I think I'll continue my father's work," said Luna, stepping blithely into Ginny's silence. "I always did enjoy research. We'll be following the Snargleblatt migration next week, now he's feeling better."

Andromeda looked slightly perplexed. With as much subtlety as Ginny could muster with her hands full of baby, she made a silent gesture not to ask. Andromeda caught it, stared, and nodded just once, still bemused.

Neville might have looked more serious himself if he weren't sitting with a cup of tea in one hand and a stuffed toy Snitch in the other -- Harry had left that, Ginny remembered. Typical. "After finishing up my exams, I'm -- thinking of staying, really," Neville said. "Becoming a professor."

Ginny wasn't at all surprised. "Herbology?"

He nodded vigorously. "I've even been talking to Professor Sprout. She's said she's not staying forever, after all, and she'd put in a good word for me...."

"I think the whole wizarding world would put in a good word for you, Mr. Longbottom," said Andromeda. "We've all heard about how you destroyed that snake."

Ginny watched Neville then. It was strange to see the look that crossed his face. This was Neville, after all -- shy, bumbling Neville -- but he'd been something different in the battle and before; he'd been brave and proud, and something fierce. She wondered at it, for it lingered still, and she saw it in his eyes when he didn't quite retreat from the praise as he might have before.

The Snitch in his hand still squeaked, however, squelching the moment of dignity, and Teddy twisted around to reach for it. Neville's face broke into a smile.

"I'll take him," he offered. Ginny got up and gently handed him over, watching Neville maneuver the tea away and Teddy into his arms. The baby gurgled happily and clutched at the Snitch until it squeaked again. Then with a mighty wave of his chubby little arm, he threw it across the room, where it bounced harmlessly off a photograph of Tonks. She ducked, laughed, and teasingly shook her finger.

"Silly," Ginny said. "Seekers are supposed to catch the Snitch, not get rid of it...."

"He's got time to figure that out," Andromeda said, looking wistfully at her daughter before turning back to Ginny. "And you?"

She sat back. With Teddy gone from her lap, she felt suddenly exposed, bereft of excuses. She settled in beside Neville's chair and thought about it. "Finish school, I suppose," she said at last. "Should be ever so much better with Professor McGonagall in charge."

"And then?"

The words were gentle, but they provoked a deep thread of thought. "You know," Ginny said, "I really have no idea."

Andromeda sat back, sipping her tea. Tonks was still waving merrily from another family photograph across the room. It showed Andromeda, Ted and Tonks together, two out of three now gone. "My Nymphadora always knew," Andromeda said, almost to herself. "She meant to be an Auror. So determined... just like you've been." She glanced at Ginny. "But it's a different world now, isn't it?"

Ginny nodded. Andromeda sighed. "I wish she'd been able to see it," she said.

The moment lingered, quiet and respectful, until it was broken by an anxious, determined sound. Teddy was beginning to wriggle in Neville's grip, not at all interested in his grandmother's introspection. Ginny cast a glance around for his other toys. She wondered whether the stuffed kitty or the knitted Pygmy Puff -- she suspected her own mother had had something to do with that -- would be a better distraction. "Try the elephant," Andromeda suggested. "He loves the elephant."

Ginny fished around for the indicated toy. "Here y'go," she said, dangling it in front of Teddy's nose. She grinned. "One floppy elephant, coming right up--"

Teddy seized the elephant, laughed, and stuffed one oversized ear into his mouth.

"You're good with children," Andromeda observed.

"Helps to have ordered my brothers around for years," Ginny said. The older woman chuckled.

"You never know. That skill may yet come in handy."

"Oh, no," Ginny said, even as Luna laughed. "Not yet!"

"People are placing bets, you know," said Luna. "On how long exactly it will take you and Harry to get together for good."

"Who?" Ginny asked, feeling pained. Neville was smothering a laugh.

"Your brothers," said Luna with a smile.

Ginny said a word unfit for Teddy's hearing, slumped back to the floor and glared at the ceiling. Andromeda was still chuckling, louder this time. "Don't talk to me," Ginny said.

"Ron's abstaining," Luna went on. "Says he doesn't want to know. There's tea," she added, as if the offer would make it better.

"Aagh," was Ginny's only reply.

"Really, though," Neville said. "I thought you two were--"

Ginny propped herself up on both elbows, glowering. "There's always something," she said. "Some reason. And I can't even be mad because he's got every real reason in the wizarding world to be distracted, but I thought the war was over, you know? I'm about ready to just tackle him and--"

Andromeda cleared her throat. Ginny smiled sheepishly. "Er, sorry."

"No, no, it's...." She paused, then smiled mischievously. Ginny thought with a start that at that moment, she looked shockingly like Sirius. "It's pretty much how I finally convinced Ted."

Luna looked almost admiring. Neville smiled and blushed. Ginny, for her part, threw her head back again and laughed. "Then I think," she said, "we have a plan."

"Just... don't rush it too much," Andromeda said. "You're still young."

She'd heard that before. "I know."

"And after all," Luna said serenely, "now we have all the time we need."

The words were simple, and for that very reason, they shocked her. Ginny sat up again. The truth of it laid out like that made it plain: they'd succeeded. No more worrying about who would live or die, no more sense of doom and uncertainty... it was over, and they had time. Thanks to what everyone had done, they had time.

Thanks to Harry....

Ginny pictured him then: the glasses, the scar, the iconic image, and then the Harry she knew. She remembered, with sudden relish, kissing him. He'd soon enough be with her again. He'd made it possible, and she'd make certain it was so.

"Are you concocting plans over there?" said Andromeda, and Ginny had to laugh.

We really do have all the time in the world, she thought, smiling again. I'll just have to make sure it doesn't take him too long.


---

vii.

And in the end, where time and truth spun together in a neat, fulfilling circle, it was blessedly quiet.

Harry had come here alone. He'd thought of asking Ron and Hermione, but suspected even after all that had been revealed, they might not understand. Besides, when he'd called on Ron that afternoon, his friend looked so blissfully distracted that Harry had quite a fair idea of how his reunion with Hermione had gone, and in fact exactly what they'd been doing, and that they'd spent no time whatsoever speaking of Australia. Harry smiled to himself, shaking his head. Well, it was for the best. He'd never seen Ron so happy.

If what they'd done had succeeded in making room for that again in the world, Harry suspected it had been worth it.

He walked on alone, thinking of who was waiting for him.

He'd made one little white lie to Ginny: it was a memorial service he was attending, but a private one, a subdued affair but still deserved. It was something a little bit different. It wasn't like the one they'd attended together for Colin, both doing what they could to comfort his weeping parents. It wasn't like the Order service for Lupin and for Tonks, surrounded by their fellow fighters, or the Weasley family gathering, where he'd held Ginny all throughout as she cried freely, letting go only to let Molly take her only daughter in her arms. Harry had had a role to play in all of them: comforter, compatriot, symbol of support. He went to all of them, exhausted but understanding what it meant to everyone that he be there.

This time, no one else's opinion really mattered. It was Harry who had something to say.

He entered the little graveyard in Spinner's End and faced the newest stone.

Most Headmasters of Hogwarts received great, pompous funerals. Harry remembered Dumbledore's well, and all the rows of mourners. Severus Snape had taken his position under much different circumstances and left in no apparent grace, and the world beyond, even after explanations were made, would just as soon forget him. And so he'd come to rest in much more quiet fashion, presided over by just a few. The grave itself was just as austere: only his name and the dates marked it, nothing more. Harry supposed it suited. He stopped at the gravesite, jamming his hands in his pockets against the unseasonably cold weather. He took a minute to think again of what to say.

Eventually, he sighed and cast his fate to the winds.

"For years I hated you," he said, offering the brutal truth. "I think you'd agree you didn't give me reason not to. I probably wasn't always fair, but neither were you. It just... took me a long time to understand why."

The wind blew past, ruffling the short-trimmed grass. It hadn't yet grown over Snape's grave. Harry wondered briefly if it would ever deign to.

"It's still going to take a long time not to think of you as a Death Eater. You were, after all, and you still did terrible things. You had to. That's what being a double agent means." Harry stared at the headstone, collecting himself. "But you were with us, too, and I doubted you when I shouldn't have. I should have known Dumbledore knew what he was doing. That there was a grand plan and he had reason to trust you. I get that, now."

Harry trailed off. There was something bigger here, something that had to be said. He tried to make his way toward it.

"I know you always saw me as my father's son," Harry said. "I just... hope there were times you saw my mother in me, too. Because I love her for all the same reasons... that you did, and I miss her, and I envy all the time you had with her. And I wish... I wish I could have known you like she did, so at least I'd....."

He stopped, looked skyward, and took in a long, deep breath. The words weren't coming easily. At last he spoke again.

"Someone else we lost once told me that she always saw the good in people," Harry said. "For her and for you, I'm always going to try."

He looked down again at the stone. "For her sake, I promise I'll remember."

He stood there silently for a few minutes more, then quietly bent, laid something on the grave, and slowly walked away, back to his life and the living world, and the people he loved who were waiting.

It was finally time to let all the dead rest and begin again.

---

And for years afterward, the grave lay bare and stark and monochrome, a small, strange, haunted place: but the thing that haunted it was beautiful.

What lay there still was a single, fragile lily, its petals ever-blossoming, like a precious memory that would never fade.