Mourning Dawn (A Prelude to The Wand of Elder)

Harry was having a very pleasant dream.

He was holding a slender and supple girl in his arms while she kissed him lightly on the cheek and neck. As her fiery hair sheltered him, she held him tight and whispered wonderful things in his ear. Just as he bemusedly thought it might be appropriate to respond in kind, an imperious voice shattered his night fancy with vituperative indignation.

"Miss Weasley!" barked the voice.

"Professor!" squeaked someone near Harry's ear.

"What?" said Harry groggily. Harry gained a vague sense of awareness as a very attractive, slimly athletic form slipped from his grasp and out of his four-poster. He began groping for his glasses on the nightstand and heard the sound of air blowing angrily through two stern nostrils.

"G-Ginny?" he asked stupidly of his ex-girlfriend's back as she stood erect by his bed. On the other side of her was an outraged Professor Minerva McGonagall.

Harry could see the professor's mouth moving quickly and he dimly perceived that she was reading Ginny the riot act, but he did not seem able to grasp what was being said. Harry felt like his mind was moving with the alacrity of thick mud. He felt as if he had been sleeping for weeks.

"S'bloody hell is going on?!" he slurred irritability.

"And you, Potter!" said Professor McGonagall, her eyes flashing as she raked him with her piercing gaze. The heat of her anger was the heat of a forge; the air moving through her nostrils was air blowing through a blacksmith's bellows. "I was not aware that your recent victory gave you license to turn Gryffindor House into a bordello!"

What with having the full fury of Minerva McGonagall directed at him, Harry's brain suddenly kicked into a low gear. He was half-sitting up in bed, in his pajamas. Ginny was standing nearby, flustered, and she was in her nightgown. None of Harry's roommates were in the room, and Harry had a sinking feeling that Ginny had just been in bed with him.

"What?" he asked blankly, sensing his imminent destruction.

"Please, Professor!" beseeched Ginny. "He didn't even know I was here. He was completely sacked out. I couldn't sleep...and I just climbed into..." She cut off as her face blazed a shade of brilliant crimson that would have made Ron proud.

With a sense of profound regret, Harry wished he had woken up just five minutes sooner.

"Get to your own bed, Girl!" snapped the professor, the briefest flash of sympathy crossing her face. Harry had always thought of Ginny as fearsome and fearless, but at that moment she hiked up the hem of her nightgown and ran.

"What?" breathed Harry again. He watched as Ginny's train of shimmering hair bobbed its retreat. He looked up at Professor McGonagall and blinked like a drunken man. "What?"

"Oh, shut it, Potter!" snorted the professor, but there was not much heat left in her voice. "Go brush your teeth, and splash water on your face. You've been asleep for a very long time, and I expect you are somewhat groggy. I need you alert."

"What?" asked Harry again. "What time is it?"

"I am not really sure myself, Potter," said Professor McGonagall wearily. "It is about an hour or two before dawn on the day after you killed Voldemort." Harry could see deep lines of exhaustion on Professor McGonagall's face, and he suspected she had slept little, if at all, since the battle had ended. "Much is happening, and I need to speak with you briefly. Now, Potter!"

Harry swayed as he jumped out of bed. He reached for his basket of toiletries, and then blearily realized that he had not been at Hogwarts for a year. All of his things were still in Hermione's small beaded bag, which was God knew where at that moment. He did not think this would be a good time to point out such concerns to Professor McGonagall, so he simply made his way to the lavatory.

As he stumbled to the basin and began splashing water on his face, it struck Harry that he had never slept through an entire day before. It reminded Harry of a story Fred had related about Fred's Uncle Bilious after one of the old man's more inebriated and infamous wedding performances. The poor old fellow had slept for two straight days in order to recover. Harry smiled as he remembered the story.

Then the events of the previous days crashed in on Harry like a falling wall. His knees shook, and he slumped onto the loo, covering his face with his hands. He fought back the burning behind his eyelids.

"Fred," he whispered, closing his eyes tightly. "Remus, Tonks, Colin." How many more had there been? He had not even found out all the names of the casualties before coming up the night (or was it the day?) before. Was that heartless?

Harry raised himself off the loo, and returned to the basin, splashing more water on his face. His Head of House needed him alert and he could at least pay her that courtesy. Mourning could wait. He had years left to mourn. He felt a twinge of guilt about those years that were now available to him, but not to his dead friends.

He looked around the lavatory and noticed how stark it was. Without Harry, Ron and Dean at school the previous year, the communal space would have been largely free of its usual piles of clutter. Plus, Neville and Seamus had been hiding out for weeks in the Room of Requirement. In mute testimony to their more recent absence, two lonely towels, stiff from weeks of neglect, hung on a rack meant to accommodate five.

Preferring to drip-dry rather than use either of the soiled towels, Harry tried to turn to happier thoughts. He took a moment to think of what had transpired while he slept. Ginny had crawled into bed with him! Had that dream been real? Had she really whispered those things?

His heart suddenly lightened considerably, and Harry felt a stab of guilt for the good feeling. Ginny had lain in bed with him, hugging him, whispering to him. He remembered Tonks' and Lupin's faces, peaceful in death. He could still smell Ginny's wonderful flowery scent clinging to his skin. He saw Fred's staring eyes. He saw Ginny's blazing look.

Harry shook his head violently to clear the wonderful and terrible images from his skull. Instead, he let his mind drift, and did not think about anything in particular. As the water evaporated from his face, the coolness cleared the last of the cobwebs.

With sudden rueful realization, Harry murmured to himself, "Are you a wizard, or what?"

He pulled out the newly repaired holly and phoenix wand, which he had stuffed into his pocket before going to bed. Putting it to its first real test since its repair, Harry set about conjuring himself some toiletries as well as a soft, clean towel. While he was at it, he transfigured his pajamas into a set of casual, but smart, wizarding robes. If nothing else, at least McGonagall might be pleased with the additional skill he had achieved in her subject over the past year.

As he emerged from the bathroom, McGonagall stood up briskly from where she had slumped on the edge of his bed. She managed to cover her tiredness well. She looked him up and down quickly.

"Nicely done," she said crisply. "I will be brief, Harry. We will need to sit down after all of the -" she looked uncomfortable for a moment "- all of the to do of the coming days, and discuss things in more detail. Preferably we will do so with Kingsley once he gets a free moment, but of course that could take weeks. The poor fellow has been chased for sixteen hours straight by every bureaucrat in the ministry, and there is still so much to be done!"

"Professor," interjected Harry, "what is there to do? Isn't the war over? Haven't we won?"

"Of course we have, Potter!" said Professor McGonagall, looking down her nose at him as if she had never heard such a stupid question. "I dare say that you were there, were you not?"

"Right," answered Harry sheepishly. "What I meant was, what more could there be to do, uh, since that is done."

"Much to do, Harry," said Professor McGonagall with a shake of her head. "There are trials to be arranged, interrogations to be held, and Death Eaters to be rounded up. In addition, there are many posts at the ministry to be filled to replace the dead or those who've scarpered. That is not even mentioning the arrangements for all of the students, their exams, their transport to and from the school this week. Then there are the funerals and memorials, and we must make arrangements for the orphaned."

"Oh, yeah, right," said Harry, feeling like he had just been hit several times with a bouncing bludger. Suddenly an image swam into Harry's mind of Lupin smiling down at a photograph of his baby boy with purple hair. "The orphaned."

"Anyway, Harry, I am here to ask a favor of you, but it is for your own protection. I need you to give me the wand."

"You want my wand, Professor?" asked Harry, holding up the holly and phoenix wand, but he knew immediately what she meant.

"The other wand, Potter, the other wand," said Professor McGonagall impatiently. "The wand you took from Voldemort."

"Why do you need that wand, Professor?" asked Harry cautiously. Was this the curse of the Elder Wand coming to reality? Would everyone want the Elder Wand like in the Tale of the Three Brothers? He could not think of Professor McGonagall being that type of person.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Boy!" exclaimed McGonagall impatiently. She was tapping an annoyed tattoo with her foot. "I have watched Dumbledore wield that wand for nearly forty years. Do you think that I am so bereft of magical learning that I would fail to realize that the wand itself was remarkable? If I had wanted the wand for myself, I could have tried to take it ages ago. I did not know it was the Elder Wand of legend, but there you have it."

"Why do you think it's the Elder Wand, Professor?"

"Potter, of course you must realize that you had a detailed discussion with Voldemort in front of hundreds of witnesses about the nature and characteristics of that wand before you took it from him." She was looking at him like he was a blithering idiot.

"Right," said Harry. Why hadn't he realized that? How many had heard? They all must have heard!

"You do realize that witness accounts of your duel with Voldemort are already being splashed across the pages of the Daily Prophet? It is only a matter of time until someone mentions that you are now purported to be the master of the most powerful wand ever created." He felt her eyes examining him as he absorbed this information.

This was going to be trouble, he could tell. This was going to be loads of trouble.

"Where is the wand, Harry?" she asked again, holding out her hand expectantly. "I want to take it and store it in the Headmaster's Office until the events of the next few days run their course. I want to ensure its safety, and your safety."

"It's safe," said Harry defensively. "I wrapped it in my socks and hid it under my mattress." He realized how stupid he sounded as soon as the words left his mouth.

"While I am sure the repellant powers of your dirty socks are considerable, I think stowing it safely in the Headmaster's office is a better way to go for now." An uncharacteristically amused expression twitched across Professor McGonagall's face.

Harry felt defeated both by the soundness of her reasoning, and by the fact that he simply trusted Minerva McGonagall. She would not try to take the wand from him. She would not try to best him for it. She had asked for it. She did not want the wand for herself, but she wanted to protect him from those who would seek the wand by force. It took only a few seconds to retrieve the wand and unwrap it from its admittedly stinky protection.

"I was going to bury it with Dumbledore again," said Harry softly, handing Professor McGonagall the Elder Wand. He was not sorry to see it in somebody else's care.

"That is exactly what you shall do, Harry. But I do not think it wise to try it now. There will be many prying eyes here at Hogwarts for the next few days. Later you can take it there. I will come with you and help, if you will permit it."

The idea of Minerva McGonagall needing Harry's permission for anything filled him with a sense of wrongness. Overcome by a sudden urge, and knowing that he would never have the courage to try it again, Harry suddenly hugged his former Transfiguration teacher.

"Oh my," she said softly, and after a moment she hugged him back. When Harry released her, she wore a bemused expression. It was the kind of expression that would fit upon the face of a stern grandmother who had been momentarily taken aback by the innocent ebullience of a small child.

Yet she looked so tired, and Harry suddenly realized just how elderly the indomitable Minerva McGonagall really was. The events of the last few years must have started to take their toll on the poor woman.

"Well now," she said wryly, reaching up to pat his cheek. When she did so, he realized for the first time that he was a few inches taller than the elderly teacher. She had always seemed so imposing to him before!

"Uh...sorry, Professor..." said Harry with apologetic uncertainty.

"It has been quite a love-fest around here for the last day or so. I must admit that I think Dumbledore would have been pleased," said Professor McGonagall with a shrug. Then her normally severe expression returned in a trice and she suddenly stabbed her arm imperiously toward the general direction of the girl's dormitories. "But that does not mean that I ever want to see that girl in your bed under the roof of my house again, Potter."

"Of course not, Professor," said Harry, fighting to keep his face properly repentant.

Professor McGonagall nodded curtly, and turned on her heel to leave the dormitory.

"Professor," Harry called after her. "What else do you and the Minister need to talk to me about?"

"Your education, Potter...and your future."