The Great Hall felt colder than the morning outside. Not because of weather—Hogwarts somehow protected itself from the worst of that—but because the room still carried an echo of what it had seen only hours ago. The long tables were pushed aside, leaving empty space that made every footstep sound too loud. The ceiling showed a muted gray sky, as if even the enchantments were tired.
Harry stood at the entrance longer than he meant to. He had never liked being stared at, and the Hall had always been a place where the eyes of hundreds could fall on him at once. But today it wasn't looking eyes he feared—it was memory. His own.
He took a breath and walked inside.
The smell of smoke lingered faintly. Some of the benches still had scratches burned into them from stray spells. A few students, mostly younger ones, were gathered at one corner, helping Madam Pomfrey sort through potions. They whispered when they noticed him, but their voices were soft, not invasive. It felt different now. Almost… respectful. Harry didn't know what to do with that.
He didn't know what to do with much of anything.
"Harry!" McGonagall's voice cut through the Hall. She stood near the staff table, looking older but more solid than anyone else in the castle. "A moment, please."
He made his way over. She watched him carefully, as if measuring whether he'd break or stand firm. Harry wasn't sure which one she expected. He wasn't sure which one he wanted.
"Professor," he greeted.
She nodded. "I imagine you're exhausted."
"Not really," Harry said honestly. "I don't think it's… settled in yet."
McGonagall's gaze softened just a fraction. "It will, when your mind stops running on necessity."
Harry didn't answer. Necessity had been his only constant for months. Maybe years.
McGonagall continued, "I've arranged temporary dormitories for any students who wish to remain at Hogwarts until the Ministry stabilizes the Floo Network. I assume you'll be staying?"
He hesitated. Part of him wanted to leave everything behind—to sit somewhere quiet, somewhere without reminders. But another part of him, the one that had walked the grounds at dawn, felt tethered here. Hogwarts had always been the first place he chose, not the place he was forced into.
"I'll stay," he said finally.
"Good." McGonagall's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "I believe it's best if you're nearby. People will want answers. And you…" she paused, searching for the right words, "…you need time to understand what comes next."
Harry swallowed. What came next. He didn't know. The war had taken up every corner of his mind; he hadn't let himself imagine a life outside survival. Without Voldemort, the future felt big and empty—too empty.
McGonagall placed a hand on his shoulder. "If you ever require my help—or simply a place to sit without interruption—my door is open."
He nodded, unable to speak for a moment. McGonagall wasn't Dumbledore, but there was strength in her steadiness. A less dangerous kind.
"Thank you, Professor."
She released him with a small squeeze and turned back to the staff table. Harry stepped away, feeling oddly lighter.
He didn't see Ron until he reached the middle of the Hall. Ron was hunched over a makeshift breakfast table Hermione had charmed into existence, picking at a plate of toast without actually eating it. Hermione sat beside him, a parchment spread out between them—some early rebuilding plan that she was already dissecting with careful precision.
They looked up when Harry approached.
"Merlin, you took forever," Ron said, pushing aside his toast. "We thought McGonagall was giving you extra homework or something."
Harry managed a real smile—the first since sunrise. "No homework. Yet."
Hermione brightened a little. "Well, she might, actually. If we decide to finish our N.E.W.T.s. And I still think we should."
Ron groaned. "Hermione, can the world rebuild first? Just a week? Or a day?"
Hermione opened her mouth—probably to present a clearly structured argument—but she stopped abruptly, her expression softening. She closed the parchment. "All right. A day."
Harry sat down across from them. "You really want to go back to classes?" he asked quietly.
Hermione tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Yes. And no. I want normalcy. But I also think… after everything that's happened, we'll need people who understand magic properly. Not just how to use it, but how it works. The Ministry is in chaos." She looked at Harry, her eyes searching. "You could do so much good with a real education behind you."
Harry looked down at the table. He felt something in his chest shift—a tiny, uncomfortable truth surfacing.
He had held himself back in school. Not because he couldn't do better, but because doing better meant separating himself from Ron, meant becoming more like Hermione, meant becoming someone people expected even more from. Someone who stood out more. Someone who might lose the few people he loved.
At Hogwarts, being average had been a shield.
And now, with Ron joining auror training soon and Hermione preparing for Ministry work… that shield was gone. For the first time, he didn't need it.
He didn't say any of this aloud. Not yet.
He just said, "Maybe I'll repeat seventh year. Or study on my own. I'm not sure."
Ron grinned. "Mate, if we all go back, you know Hermione's going to drag us into every elective she can."
Hermione huffed. "Only the useful ones."
Ron nudged Harry. "She thinks taking Ancient Runes is 'relaxing.'"
Hermione folded her arms. "It is! And after what we've been through, deepening our understanding of magic might help us avoid… well… another war."
Ron didn't argue this time. He just stared at his hands, jaw tightening.
Harry felt the atmosphere shift again—subtle, but heavy. So much loss. So much exhaustion for people their age.
He reached across the table and grabbed a piece of toast, more for something to do than actual hunger. "The castle's quieter today," he said, trying to ease the tension.
Ron nodded. "Most people went to Hogsmeade to help set up shelters. Kingsley gave a speech this morning."
Hermione added, "They're forming temporary councils—joint groups of students, professors, Ministry volunteers. It's going to be messy."
Harry wasn't surprised. When two worlds collided—even magical ones—the result was always messy.
"Kingsley wants us to visit the Ministry later," Hermione continued. "Not for politics. Just… to be seen."
Harry stiffened. "I'm not ready for that."
"You don't have to do anything," Hermione said quickly. "We'll go if it feels right. And if it doesn't, you can wait."
Ron stretched his legs out. "Honestly, I think showing up might help people calm down. You know—'Harry Potter walked through a corridor, nobody panic.'"
Harry snorted. "That's not reassuring at all."
Ron shrugged. "Better than 'Harry Potter disappeared for ten months, guess we're doomed.'"
Hermione shot Ron a look, but Harry found himself laughing despite the grim tone.
After a moment, Hermione leaned forward. "What do you want to do today, Harry?"
He thought about it. Really thought. And the answer surprised him.
"I want to go to the library."
Ron's head snapped up. "What? Why? Are you feeling all right?"
Harry shrugged. "I don't know. I just… I kept thinking about spells last night. Ones we never learned. Ones we should've known. Everything felt out of control for so long. Maybe I want to understand how it all works. Properly."
Hermione's expression softened into something proud, almost relieved. Ron looked bewildered, but not judgmental.
"Well," Hermione said, standing, "then we're going with you. At least until I'm called to help in the Transfiguration wing."
Ron sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if the library falls on us, I'm haunting both of you."
Together they left the Great Hall. It was the first time since the battle that the three of them walked the corridors in silence without tension. Not normal—but familiar.
The castle felt different. Alive in a lower hum. Harry didn't read too much into it; Hogwarts had always reacted to emotions, to crises. The walls were absorbing grief the way wood absorbs water. Slowly. Patiently.
When they reached the library, Harry paused at the doorway. Rows upon rows of shelves stood untouched, the air thick with dust and parchment. A few chairs were overturned, a reminder that even this sanctuary had not escaped chaos. But under the wreckage, there was something comforting.
Knowledge survived the night.
Hermione immediately began repairing chairs and straightening books. Ron wandered off to find the "mildly dangerous" section, which he insisted must exist. Harry made his way toward the older shelves—the ones few students bothered with.
He pulled out a book on magical theory, its spine cracked from age. He sat near a broken window where the light fell clean and bright, and opened it.
Words swam before his eyes for a moment—too dense, too academic—but then something clicked. He leaned forward. Slowed down. Started tracing the logic behind wand movements, the connection between will and structure, the ancient principles that underpinned modern spells but were rarely taught.
The world narrowed to parchment and ink.
For the first time, reading didn't feel like schoolwork. It felt like uncovering something that had been waiting for him.
Ron eventually wandered over. "You look disturbingly focused," he said.
Harry looked up. "It's interesting."
"Interesting," Ron repeated slowly. "Harry Potter finds a textbook interesting. Should I get Pomfrey?"
Hermione appeared behind Ron, arms full of repaired books. "Leave him alone. This is good." She offered Harry a small smile. "You're allowed to want more than surviving, you know."
Harry closed the book halfway. "Maybe I do."
Hermione's smile widened. "Then we start here."
Ron groaned. "Brilliant. He's becoming her."
Hermione flicked a quill at him.
Harry turned back to the page. He didn't know where this road would lead—whether it would make him strong, or simply keep him sane. But for the first time in years, he felt something steady inside him. Not excitement. Not ambition.
Possibility.
When he closed the book an hour later, he whispered almost to himself, "There's so much I never learned."
Hermione touched his shoulder. "Then we learn it now."
Ron nodded reluctantly. "Yeah. Together. Like always."
Harry swallowed. "Yeah. Like always."
He didn't notice the faint shiver that ran through the library shelves. A sympathetic vibration. A subtle acknowledgment from the castle itself.
But he would. Eventually.
Because the quiet beginning of understanding—the beginning of change—had just taken root.
And it was only the second chapter.