Anew

Author note in header: I waited a long time for a good idea for a story to hit me. I wanted to have a JK Rowling moment when the perfect idea came crashing into my mind unexpectedly, leaving me with fevered creative energy and, eventually, a brilliant final result; at five am, it woke me from my sleep: Why not stick to cannon? Why not continue where Rowling left off? Why not fill in the holes, create a future, tell a story everyone wants to hear? So, this is what happens after, this is what no one has written: a story from the end of the war and lasting for nineteen years. These are the answers to all the questions, as canon as ever, with my own special twists. You will find no clichés here, no painful grammar or laughable plot lines. All that is here is a story of the characters you have followed for years, and the years unwritten... until now.

Disclaimer: There is no way I am creative enough to come up with the original idea for Harry Potter-- and I'm not being modest; there is actually no way I could have done that. However, the plot of my story is my own; it merely leads up to the epilogue from Deathly Hallows. I also feel the need to mention that I have an assortment of quotes from books, other fanfiction, and even television shows filed in my brain, and I tend to take some out every now and again. When I use quotes, I will reference them at the end of the chapter, but if you notice any unreferenced quotes, just let me know and I will add them.

Chapter One: Broken Dawn

What is left?

Those cracks of what once was, those edges of memories

Of loss, of pain, of death

Of war

What is left?

Look, look-- the cracks

What comes through?

Light: dusty and new

It shows their paths

Untraveled and long

Here is what is left

Here is the broken dawn

***

"So... what do we do now?"

Harry heard Ron's voice on his right and noted, dimly, that this was a very good question. They had descended down the revolving staircase that led to what was once Dumbledore's office-- although, Harry thought, he could not imagine it being anyone else's-- and were now standing next to the cracked remains of the gargoyle, debating their next move.

After so long of preparing, traveling, waiting, and fighting, he could not grasp the fact that the battle was over, Voldemort was over, and he could do what he pleased. He still felt unsettled, like he had traveled through a dark forest for so long that when he reached the place where the trees fell away, the sun blinded him; he was not used to it.

"We should go back," Hermione said, addressing both of them. "To the Great Hall, I think."

Harry sighed inwardly, exhaustion threatening to creep over and smother him with every breath. All he wanted to do was go up to his dormitory and sleep for several days until everything was remade, rebuilt, and normal again. Now that the war had ended, he just wanted things to go back to the way they were. The very last thing he wanted to do was go back into the Great Hall, that room of death and grief where he would be swarmed by people he did not have the heart to ignore.

Ron agreed, so, shoving from his mind the thoughts of a warm bed and the comfortable weight of blankets, he nodded and began walking down the corridor.

Having been in a sort of adrenalin-induced high on his way to Dumbledore's office, he had not fully taken in the effects of the war on the castle. Walking from it now, he noticed what he previously had missed: Paintings were blasted apart, their occupants destroyed--casualties few would acknowledge or care about. Huge holes in the castle walls let in the sun, casting both shadows and light onto the stones. Suits of armor lay on the ground, cracked and unmoving. Some wands were strewn across the stones; Harry wondered who they belonged to.

Despite the wreckage, there were no bodies-- which he was thankful for. He had seen enough death in this castle to last him a lifetime.

As he moved through the familiar hallways, he glanced at his friends out of the corners of his eyes, searching for the signs of war. He found them: Ron looked wretched. His hair was disheveled and there were cuts on his face, hands, and arms; his robes were ripped in several places.

Glancing past him, Harry looked at Hermione on Ron's right. She had looked up from the ground and, catching him watching her, smiled at him and then took Ron's hand in her own. Ron squeezed her hand and Hermione beamed at up at him. Harry focused his eyes back towards the corridor and smiled inwardly.

They had walked for perhaps five minutes in comfortable, pensive silence when a shout ripped through the air. Reacting instinctively, all three drew their wands and revolved on the spot, searching for the noise.

"Brave fellows! Walking the field of the war-- survivors! Survivors of such a plight, my commendable warriors!"

"Sir-- Sir Cadogan?" Hermione asked, bewildered, as they all turned to face one of the few intact portraits on the wall, stowing their wands back into their robes.

The Knight greeted her with a salute. "Indeed, my fair lady! It is I, noble Sir Cadogan, greeting you and your gents after this grave peril!"

Harry remembered Sir Cadogan from his third year. The overly enthusiastic knight had a tendency to shout at passersby and challenge those lucky few to a sword fight. The time he had temporally replaced the Fat Lady as the Gryffindor house portrait was quite the experience; never before had the password been changed thirteen times a day nor the members of the house driven near to tears at the sheer insanity of the situation. He also, Harry recalled, had had a very fat, very angry grey pony that he was on rather poor terms with, yet was rarely seen without. Now, however, they seemed to have reached an agreement: Sir Cadogan was riding the pony and every now and then the pony would turn its head to the heavily armored knight on his back and would promptly be fed a carrot. Munching happily, the pony dripped foamy orange drool from its mouth down to the painted grass.

"Nice," observed Ron.

Shooting him a reproachful look (some things never change, Harry thought), Hermione asked, "How are you, Sir Cadogan?"

"Very well, my lady, very well! Luckily my portrait was unharmed and Hamlet was fearless in his fighting, as was I!"

"Er, Hamlet?" asked Harry.

"The noble steed," answered the knight, unabashed, patting the pony on its thick neck. Hamlet snorted, spraying carrot remains across the ground.

"Right," said Ron tactfully. Looking down the hallway that lead towards the Great Hall, he continued, "Well, very nice to see you again, but we have to get going so..."

"Say no more!" shouted Sir Cadogan. "Tend to your injured, weep for the dead--"

All the color drained from Ron's face.

"--for they were valiant in their efforts until the very end--"

"We have to go," Ron interjected hoarsely. "We-- we should go."

Hermione looked as if she was about to cry. Nodding, she waved the hand not holding Ron's at the portrait and began walking with him, murmuring something in his ear as they went.

Harry turned back to the knight. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he said, "Er... good to see you again, Sir Cadogan."

Sir Cadogan saluted him. "Farewell! And may your bravery be unending!" Kicking the pony, he galloped out the side of his painting, shouting, "Make haste, Hamlet! There is much at stake in war!"

Harry quickened his pace down the corridor to catch up to Ron and Hermione and thought: But the war's ended, it's over. And despite repeating it in his mind as he caught up to Ron and Hermione, walked side by side with his friends in the now quiet castle, he could not make himself believe it.

Feeling resigned, Harry continued on, his steps mingling with Ron and Hermione's to create something that, he thought wildly, resembled muffled war drums. Shaking his head as if to clear off flies, he heard the dull sounds of people; they were close to the Great Hall. His heart started to pound rapidly inside his chest and his breathing quickened; his pulse beat a violent tattoo against the inside of his throat. He had just started to prepare himself for the onslaught of reality, when he heard someone from his left call out.

"There you are!"

They all turned in unison towards the source of the voice; a ghost had just glided through the wall nearest them and was hovering several inches off the ground, her transparent eyes fixed upon Harry.

"The Grey Lady," breathed Hermione very quietly, looking awed and slightly wary. "I've never even talked to her before."

Helena drifted up to them, her voluminous robes spilling around her, and spoke to him again, ignoring Ron and Hermione entirely.

"I have been looking for you," she said. "You were not in the Grand Hall."

"Great Hall," corrected Hermione, unable to help herself.

Helena shot her a look. "That was not what it was called in my day, but then again time changes all that can not change time."

Ron blinked. "Er, come again?"

"She means that things that can't change time-- which is everything because nothing can change time-- change over time," Hermione clarified.

The ghost stared at Hermione for a long moment and then said, "You give away your wisdom so freely. Is it because you feel you have so much of it?"

"No," answered Hermione, drawing herself up to her full height at the veiled insult, "I don't think wisdom is something you can measure or give."

Helena cocked her head at Hermione, continuing to stare at her; Hermione met her gaze unblinkingly. After a moment, Helena smiled genially. "Your robes are red and rightly so, but there are other colors in your heart. It is a wonder you were not in my house."

Hermione beamed as if she had just received top marks on an exam.

Ron rolled his eyes.

Harry grinned.

With a last approving look, the Grey Lady turned from Hermione and addressed Harry. "I was wondering if you ended up finding the lost diadem of my mother's. You gave the impression that it was imperative, although I did not fully understand your quest."

"Yeah," answered Harry, "we found it. And thanks, for telling me what you knew. It helped a lot."

She nodded. "It was no trouble," she told him, her hands twisting in front of her nervously. "...Can I see it? I don't want to use it," she added hastily. "It... it reminds me of my mother. You see, I have nothing else of hers."

"I'm sorry," Harry told her, feeling a small twinge of guilt he knew was pointless, "it was destroyed in the battle and--"

She laughed. Harry, not expecting it, almost jumped at the sudden sound. Still chuckling, she shook her head at him reprovingly. "You underestimate the power of my mother's diadem. It would take a force of extreme magical power to--"

"Fiendfyre," interjected Hermione regretfully. "It got caught in it. I'm- I'm sorry."

Helena sighed and her gaze drifted to a nearby window. She appeared lost in thought, staring at the dawn. After a long pause, she said, "It is probably better this way. Wisdom is, after all, earned over the years of a life, not worn like a trophy for the whole world to bear witness to."

Harry was not sure how to respond to this. He continued watching the ghost's robes ripple slightly in the air, the folds undulating like waves of flowing silver water.

"That sounds a bit dodgy to me," said Ron unexpectedly, breaking the silence.

Helena took her gaze from the window and focused it on Ron instead.

"I mean," Ron continued, looking slightly intimidated, "a crown that anyone can put on and become all cunning all of a sudden? It just sounds...off. Sorry," he added as an afterthought, "didn't mean to insult your mum or anything."

Harry expected the ghost to reproach Ron, tell him off for his statement and lack of tact. To his surprise, however, a slight smile touched her pale lips.

"You know," she said, confidingly, "I did have my doubts. My mother was known for her brilliance, but few remember her wit. She would have thought it greatly amusing to create a myth about an object to grant wisdom: something so few people, her among them, possessed, and something so many fervently desired. Yes...I have my suspicions. But," she added, smiling sadly, "those are just the workings of an old, old mind. Perhaps I am mistaken."

"The oldest minds are always the smartest," Harry told her, memories of twinkling blue eyes overwhelming him. "That's what I've learned." He shifted his feet against the stone and tried to look her in the eye. It was hard; she had that unnerving effect of being able to see right through him-- an ironic talent, considering he could do the same to her, although perhaps not in the same way.

Helena inclined her head slightly to him, still smiling, and, with a last amiable look towards Ron and Hermione, she drifted down the corridor. After a moment, Harry turned back to the corridor, Ron and Hermione following suit. They had barely resumed their walking when she called to them again from the end of the hall:

"You have, I think, learned a great deal. Do not forget it. Ignorance is, after all, the greatest evil, knowledge the greatest good, and the battle between them, unending."

There was long pause when all three of them merely looked at each other, and then back to the corridor-- but the Grey Lady had vanished.

Ron raised his eyebrows. "Definitely dodgy."

"The diadem?" asked Hermione, tearing her eyes from the end of the corridor to look at him.

"The ghost."

"I like her," said Harry, after a moment, still staring down the hall.

"Yeah, well, you've always had a thing for ghosts," said Ron, a grin flitting around his face. "First Myrtle, now the Grey Lady. Soon it'll be Peeves."

"I did not have a thing for Myrtle, or any other ghost for that matter."

"Technically, Peeves isn't a ghost," said Hermione. "He's a poltergeist."

"Doesn't change the fact that he's made up some lovely poetry for Harry over here," Ron insisted, grinning at him.

"Stuff it. They were songs anyway."

"They were beautiful."

"So was a certain necklace I remember," said Harry. "What did it say again, Ron?" He knitted his eyebrows together as if in thought. "Oh yeah, it said--"

"Pouncy git," muttered Ron.

"No, no I don't think that was it."

"Very funny," Ron said. "Real witty."

Harry grinned.

Hermione looked from one boy to the other. Shaking her head incredulously, she said, "Honestly." And with that she marched off to the Great Hall, dragging both of them along with her.

***

The fact that most of the people in Hogwarts were congregated inside the Great Hall explained the noticeable absence of life in the surrounding corridors that allowed Harry, Ron, and Hermione to enter the Great Hall without meeting anyone beforehand.

Upon passing through the huge double doors, Harry gave up trying to prepare himself for what he knew had to come next. The fact that he had Ron and Hermione with him made the walk to where the Weasley family was congregated slightly easier, if not by much.

As they moved towards them, Harry looked around the Great Hall, the images of narrow red eyes, a breaking dawn, and silences so long they almost snapped in half flashing through his brain in quick succession, interrupted by the reality around him: a woman crying over a body as another adult tried to comfort her, smoothing back her hair to no avail; Firenze up and moving gingerly, a student on either side of him acting as braces incase he stumbled; and people, so many people crowded throughout the hall, crying, hugging, embracing, talking, or, as in the case of the Weasleys, sitting in silence as grief swept over them ceaselessly, wave after unbearable wave.

They were sitting on the end of one of the four long tables. Harry looked at Ginny first. She was not in his direct line of sight, but his eyes seemed to gravitate towards her nonetheless. She was sitting down on the bench, her head resting on the table with her arms cradled around it, brilliant red hair spilling over the wood tabletop. Mrs. Weasley, sitting next to her, was smoothing her hair back gently.

Harry heard Hermione make an odd sound-- something between a sob and a gasp-- before striding quickly over to the pair. He watched as Hermione sat down next to Ginny and exchanged a grief-stricken look with Mrs. Weasley. Ginny looked up when Hermione touched her arm gently. She raised her head, her face red and blotchy. She took one look at Hermione and chocked a little, her breath hitching. Harry saw a tear run down Hermione's face, and before he knew what had happened, the two girls were hugging, clutching at each other as if they might otherwise break apart. Mrs. Weasley watched them sadly. Still hugging Ginny, Hermione reached over with one hand and briefly grasped Mrs. Weasley's, which was resting on the table, in her own. Mrs. Weasley gave a Hermione a weak smile, smoothed her daughter's hair once more, and stood up to meet Ron and Harry.

Harry averted his eyes, feeling uncomfortable. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were now taking it in turns to hug Ron, who had stepped away from Harry towards them. Bill and Charlie had gotten up as well to embrace their brother. Harry kept back, not wanting to interrupt.

He watched Ron go over to Ginny and Hermione and whisper something inaudible to them. Hermione nodded tearfully, but Ginny kept on crying, no longer holding onto Hermione, her face in her hands. Ron sat down next to her and put his arms around her, taking his mother's seat.

Harry shoved his hands deep inside his pockets, his feelings of discomfort even greater. He had always felt most at home with the Weasleys-- certainly more than he had ever felt at the Dursleys', but there was something so intimate, so private about what he was witnessing, that he felt like he had no right to be here or take part in it. He had felt like this only once before with the Weasleys, but that was years ago, when Mr. Weasley had been attacked-- and that time he had been able to share the discomfort with Sirius. This time he was a lone intruder upon the family grief. A memory bobbed to the surface of his mind unexpectedly from the previous year: "...it was a lucky day for the Weasleys when Ron decided to sit in your compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Harry." Harry looked around the grief-stricken family and something seemed to tighten in his chest.

He did not think they were lucky to have met him at all.

It was on this rather depressing thought that Mrs. Weasley moved towards him, slightly unsteady. Her face was tear-stained and swollen from crying and her hand shook when she reached out to touch his face.

"Harry," she said, hiccupping slightly. And then she was hugging him as though she might never get a chance to hug him again. He buried his head in her hair and twisted his eyes shut, trying to ignore the burning feeling behind their lids. He had never had a mother, not really, only when he was too young to remember. Aunt Petunia certainly had never been his mother. But Mrs. Weasley was. She was the only real mother he could remember. She was one who could cook the best, who had kind eyes and a warm house that was more a home than Privet Drive ever had been. As she hugged him, the pressure around his chest seemed to lessen slightly.

"I'm s--sorry," he managed to get out.

"No, Harry," she said fiercly into his ear. She pulled back to better meet his eyes. "Look at me," she commanded, her voice still shaking nonetheless. "You have nothing to be sorry about. Nothing. You hear me? Nothing." She smiled at him as he raised his eyes from the floor to her. Chin trembling, she brushed a bit of hair back from his face. Harry saw a tear fall down her cheek. "You saved us," she said quietly, still brushing back his hair, "you saved us all."

Harry could barely stand her gratitude. Fortunately, Mr. Weasley had taken that particular moment to gently pry his wife off of Harry. "Come on, Molly, let him breathe... that's it." Mrs. Weasley hiccupped again and, with one last watery smile, moved back towards Hermione, Ron, and Ginny. Ron let go of Ginny, gave Hermione a brief kiss on the forehead, and hugged his mother once more before moving off to join his brothers. Harry saw Hermione close her eyes and touch the spot where Ron had just kissed her with her fingertips, a faint smile on her lips.

"She's right, you know," said Mr. Weasley, and Harry shifted his focus back to him. "We are..." He seemed to struggle for the words for a moment. "...very grateful, Harry." With what seemed like a great effort, he regained his composure and clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder.

It was then that Harry noticed something. Only Bill, Charlie, and Ron were here; there were two sons missing. He scanned the table in front of him and then, for good measure, the rest of the Great Hall. No, George and Percy were definitely not here.

"Mr. Weasley?" he asked, feeling a strong sence of foreboding overwhelm him. "Where--" He swallowed and tried again. "Where are Percy and-- and George?"

Something seemed to darken in Mr. Weasley's face. When he spoke, his voice was oddly void of emotion. "They have taken the dead to a room off the Hall," he informed Harry quietly, glancing quickly at his wife and then back to Harry. "George and Percy are there with--" He broke off and cleared his throat, before continuing. "They are there, if you wish to see them. We'd just returned from there from you came in."

Harry nodded, unable to say anything. With one last grateful look, Mr. Weasley moved off to sit with his sons. He looked at them, sitting in silence, at Mrs. Weasley and Hermione, talking and crying together as they put their arms around each other, as they comforted Ginny. And as his eyes moved around the scene, he could not help but stare at her.

Ginny was sitting quietly, and it took him a moment to realize she was still crying. She was just sitting there, seemingly oblivious to Hermione and her mother. She had closed her eyes for a moment, and tears were still spilling from under her closed lids. Harry watched her for what felt like a long while.

And then her eyes opened abruptly, locking onto Harry's.

The light of the dawn emanating from the ceiling was sudddenly cast onto her face, reflecting the mother-of-pearl sheen on her cheeks, illuminating her deep brown eyes. Its rays were golden and bright, and they hurt-- he wondered how he could not have noticed how painful the day was when he first walked into the Hall.

His heart hammered inside his chest as she looked at him, and all of a sudden he could not stand it. He could not stay there anymore; the Hall felt like it was getting smaller by the second, closing in. He couldn't stand there and watch the Weasleys now, watch Ginny, when he couldn't go to her. He wanted to go to her, wanted to put his arms around her, burry his head in her sweet-smelling hair and pretend Death had not closed its arms around the school-- but he couldn't.

With a ragged breath, he turned and walked out of the Great Hall. If someone called to him, he did not hear it.

***

References:

I wrote the poem at the beginning of the chapter-- just a little branch of writing I'm experimenting with (critiques are appreciated!)

Hamlet-- Shakespeare's Hamlet (shocker, but I thought I might reference it just the same) and the characterization for Hamlet came from an actual pony named Trigger, whom I adored.

"Ignorance is the greatest evil and knowledge the greatest good." - Socrates

"Death had closed its arms around the school." - From a poem regarding the 1999 Columbine shootings

Next chapter: Harry finds himself facing the casualties of war and tries to escape the newness of the day-- but even darkness has an end if you travel far enough into it.