Kingsley Shacklebolt arrived at Hogwarts before most of the rebuilding teams. He had a presence that didn't shout but made people straighten; when he moved through the courtyard, heads turned more out of habit than expectation. He wore no ministerial sash. He wore work-roughened robes and a face that looked as if he had forgotten how to sleep. He moved from one knot of people to another, asking precise, short questions and accepting short, solid answers.
McGonagall met him at the main entrance, and they went straight to the temporary command table set up under the antechamber. A map of the castle lay spread across it, pins marking unstable arches and wards that needed reinforcement. Flitwick hovered nearby with enchanted measuring instruments that chirped and patted at the map like curious birds. Slughorn had arrived, unwilling to stay away from students, and was quietly organising food and morale, though his hands trembled at times.
Kingsley's voice carried a calm urgency. "We need a clear plan. Temporary housing first, then structural integrity, then wards. The Ministry has volunteers ready, but we can't rush the wards—they must be precise."
"Agreed," McGonagall said. "The protections are strained in places. We will need specialist long-form weaves. Flitwick, have you any idea on the timeframe?"
Flitwick adjusted his robes. "It depends on what we prioritise. We can stabilise the central keep in a week if we allocate two teams. The outer walls will take longer."
They discussed logistics—schools nearby that could house younger students, the druidic runes that controlled certain staircases, the restricted books that might help restore a damaged ward. The conversation was practical and small in its steps: lists, names, timelines. It refracted the enormity of the work into manageable things.
Harry listened, not taking notes but catching key phrases. The list of repairs read like a curriculum. He felt strange and faintly relieved; lists were human, precise, bounded. He liked the clarity, the way the problem could be tackled one item at a time.
A representative from the Department for Magical Law Enforcement arrived with a thin stack of papers and a face like weathered stone. He didn't speak more than necessary and left most decisions to McGonagall and Kingsley. The Ministry was already stretched thin, dealing with displaced families and a dozen other pressing matters, but this meeting at Hogwarts mattered because it would set the tone for recovery.
"Careful with the wards near the library," the Law representative cautioned. "We can't risk miscasting and breaking any more. The magical artifacts there—some are… old. Handle with care."
McGonagall's jaw tightened. "They must be handled. The library is more important right now than many people think."
"Indeed," Kingsley agreed. "We'll schedule a protective schedule. And if there are artefacts that pose danger, we'll secure them."
They moved through practicalities: who would catalog the damaged texts, how to divide labor between Ministry volunteers and Hogwarts staff, whether certain sensitive sections should be closed. Only occasionally did the conversation spill into policy—small, tentative questions about how much to share with the wider community and whether the Statute of Secrecy should be maintained more strictly for a while.
"We must not be alarmist," Kingsley said. "Victory changes the public's attention quickly. We must keep the focus on rebuilding and support."
"People will read whatever they want into the silence," McGonagall replied. "Best to give them reason to read something true."
Outside, a small knot of students—older ones—stood with wands and enchanted brooms. They worked methodically, the steady rhythm of effort a counter to repair the earlier chaos.
Later that morning a messenger arrived from the Muggle Liaison Office with a polite note: a request for information about the events at Hogwarts. The language was formal and careful, asking for a briefing that would reassure the Muggle government that there was no ongoing public danger. It was the first official Muggle inquiry Harry had seen. It read like a diplomat's draft—concerned, not accusatory; polite, not demanding.
Kingsley read it aloud quietly and placed it on the table. "We will reply," he said. "But we will reply carefully. A brief summary, assurances of safety, and an offer to consult further if they have urgent concerns."
"That sounds reasonable," McGonagall said. "We will not invite a press circus, but we must acknowledge them. Their citizens sensed something here. Whatever we say needs to be measured."
Harry listened to the measured words and felt the world bunch tighter around him. The existence of the note added a layer of reality he had not wanted yet—people beyond the castle walls were paying attention. They were not panicking, but attention could bend to panic quickly if mishandled.
A small team was set to draft the brief. Hermione, who had come early to help, hovered by the edge of the map and offered quick, utilitarian points. She moved through the adult plans as if she were shifting through files—purposeful, practical. Ron stayed near her, helping where he could but mostly watching. Harry appreciated the steadiness of their presence.
As the day wore on, people trickled in: local wardens, volunteers, a representative from a International magical schools offering temporary housing for first-years. Nothing dramatic. No proclamations. No sudden decrees. What they did was stitch the world back together with small, deliberate actions.
By late afternoon, an official from the Ministry's publicity office arrived. She was young, somewhere between mystified and exhausted, clutching copies of a draft statement. "We recommend a short release," she said. "Something that thanks the staff and students, and emphasises that Hogwarts will be rebuilt."
McGonagall accepted the draft and made one alteration. "Include the names of those who helped evacuate the students," she said. "Their acts must be recorded. That is important."
"It will be done," the publicity officer promised. "And… we suggest that it may be helpful if some familiar faces are present when we limit access to those areas. To help calm any concerns."
Kingsley and McGonagall exchanged a look. "Which faces?" McGonagall asked.
"Student leaders," the officer said. "Harry Potter, of course. Also, representatives of staff and alumni. Just to show continuity."
Harry's stomach dropped. He had expected many things in the weeks after the war: seating with families, calls from old friends, interviews even. He had not expected to be named on a Ministry memo as a calming presence.
"You don't have to do that," Hermione blurted before he could reply. "They can use portraits or—"
Harry cut her off with a small hand. "I'll do it," he said, more firmly than he felt. "If it helps."
The publicity officer smiled gratefully. "Thank you. It will help."
When the planning finally wound down, Harry wandered outside and sat on a chunk of broken wall. The courtyard felt like a place where time had been tampered with—patches of scorched grass, a statue half-melted, footprints leading away in frantic, uneven patterns. The sun felt lower than it should have been for the time of day, as if the world was trying to be polite and not intrude upon mourning.
A small group of first-years walked by, whispering about classes and their futures. Their voices were bright with raw, unvarnished hope, and Harry felt something close to envy. Not for the childhood he had missed, but for the naturalness of their worry. They worried about exams and Quidditch tryouts; his worries were heavier and often older.
When he returned to the command table, Kingsley had a note from the Prime Minister's office—a quiet request for a short, private briefing. The note was polite, measured. It asked for reassurance.
Kingsley read it and folded it into his palm. "We'll arrange for a brief. Not a press event. A small group. We'll maintain discretion."
"That seems wise," McGonagall said.
Harry understood why. The world beyond Hogwarts had senses and levers he did not know. A shrewd, small reply could prevent unnecessary alarm. A heavy-handed one could turn politeness into panic.
The meeting dispersed with no fanfare. People left with lists and names and the first tentative dates for repairs. Nothing had been decided on a global level, no international council had been convened, no proclamations demanded new laws. It was mundane work, the kind that fixed things without drama.
Outside, as dusk gathered, a few students gathered their things to return to temporary housing. News of the briefings and the rebuilding plans drifted among them in small, measured pieces. The story of what had happened at Hogwarts would become a thousand different tales in the coming weeks, but for now it remained an immediate, practical concern—tables to be mended, wards to be measured, places that needed hands.
Harry stood, shoulders folding in on themselves, and felt the pressure of external expectation settle. He had been asked to be a symbol—something neat and stabilising in a chaotic world. He had agreed because it was practical. He had not expected the weight of it to feel like a new kind of burden.
He walked away from the map and from the table, and for the first time in hours he let himself think of small things: the next book he might read, a class he had never completed properly, a lecture he might sit in on not as the Boy Who Won but as a student. They were tiny, almost frivolous thoughts against the larger work being done around him. But they were his.
They were where he wanted to begin.