Harry arrived at Hogwarts just after dawn, the sky still a pale-blue blur smudged with the pink of early morning. The wards shimmered faintly around the castle grounds, stronger than usual—renewed only days ago by the combined effort of the staff and several volunteer aurors. Even after victory, Hogwarts breathed as if recovering from a wound.
The courtyard stones under his feet still held scorch marks. Some windows were boarded. Vines regrew along a collapsed corner of the Defense Against the Dark Arts wing, clinging stubbornly to debris as though the castle itself was trying to heal.
He wasn't sure why he'd been summoned. The letter had been brief and unmistakably McGonagall's—neat handwriting, no unnecessary flourishes.
Mr. Potter,
When you have time, I would appreciate a brief conversation.
— M. McGonagall
Harry had reread it twice just to make sure he hadn't missed something. There was no urgency, no explanation. He wasn't exactly afraid, but uncertain—uncertainty always felt heavier these days.
Inside the Great Hall, the long tables had been removed, leaving stacks of books, parchment rolls, and crates of replacement materials. A few enchanted quills hovered and sorted letters. Even with half the roof still magically supported, the Hall felt warmer, calmer. Familiar.
McGonagall stood at the far end, checking a list with Madam Hooch. When her sharp eyes found Harry, she excused herself with a nod.
"Mr. Potter," she said, her voice carrying the same composed firmness it had always had. "I trust you received my note without difficulty."
"Yeah. Everything alright, Professor?"
She gave a small pause—one of those moments where her expression softened just by a fraction. Anyone else would miss it, but Harry didn't.
"Things are progressing," she replied carefully. "Slowly, but progressing. However, a matter concerning you has come up."
Harry blinked. "Concerning me?"
"Yes." She gestured for him to walk with her. "It relates to your… current living situation."
"The Burrow? I wasn't planning to stay forever, but Mrs. Weasley said—"
"I'm aware," McGonagall interrupted, though gently. "Molly Weasley would house you until you were a hundred if you allowed it. But that is precisely my concern. You cannot remain indefinitely as a guest."
Harry frowned. "You think I'm imposing?"
"I think," McGonagall said levelly, "that you deserve a home of your own. And you already inherited one."
She didn't need to say its name. Harry felt a heaviness press down over him.
"Grimmauld Place…" he muttered.
"Yes."
"But I thought—after everything with the Fidelius Charm—after the Order—"
"It remains yours," she said. "Some protections have faded, others remain strong. The house is still, for all intents and purposes, your property."
Harry's throat tightened. He hadn't stepped inside since Sirius died. The place was a museum of grief and old shadows.
McGonagall must have noticed the hesitation because her tone softened again—still stern, but touched with something gentler, older.
"Mr. Potter," she said quietly, "a home is not merely bricks or wards. It is a place to gather yourself. To breathe. To think. You will never get that at the Burrow—not truly. Not when every day, someone will ask how you are coping, or whether you've eaten enough, or whether you've slept."
He gave a half-hearted shrug. "They mean well."
"I did not say they did not," she replied, brisk once more. "But you need space. And, frankly, independence."
Harry didn't argue. He couldn't—not when she said it like that.
"And," she added, "the Ministry has already inquired about the legal status of the property."
He groaned. "Of course they have."
"Nothing invasive. Standard protocol after the war. But I would prefer you address matters before they escalate into something bureaucratic and irritating."
Harry chuckled despite himself. "You really think I'm ready to live there?"
"No," she said simply. "But readiness is rarely a luxury any of us have. And after recent events, I believe… you should at least see it. Decide for yourself."
Harry exhaled slowly. "Alright. I'll go."
McGonagall's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but the shadow of one.
"One more thing," she added before he left the Hall. "You may bring whomever you trust. And if the house proves unpleasant, Hogwarts will always have space for you, Mr. Potter."
The words warmed him more than the Firewhisky he'd had the night the war ended. Hogwarts would always be home. But a part of him understood what she meant—that he needed something of his own too.
The Floo network connected him directly to the old basement kitchen. Dust drifted from the stone ceiling as he appeared in a swirl of green flames. For a moment he couldn't move.
The kitchen looked… almost exactly the same. Heavy iron pots. Long table. Cabinets of worn wood and brass. The same air—cold, slightly damp, untouched.
But there was no hostility. No sneering portrait. No house-elf muttering curses.
Kreacher wasn't here. He was still at Hogwarts, helping the elves with repairs.
Harry inhaled. The smell of the place—soot, iron, an old lingering scent like wet parchment—hit memories he tried not to touch. The Order sitting at this table. Sirius laughing. Grim warnings whispered over tea. The last time Harry had been here, he had stormed upstairs in anger, refusing to acknowledge the house as anything but a cage.
It didn't feel like a cage now. Just… empty. Waiting.
He took cautious steps through the corridor. A few cobwebs. A layer of dust. But the oppressive aura the house once carried was gone. Something—whether Dumbledore's death, the change in ownership, or simply the defeat of Voldemort—had loosened its chokehold.
On the second floor, he paused outside the drawing room. His hand hovered over the door.
The place where Sirius's mother's portrait once screamed. Where the tapestry of the Black family burned into his memories.
He pushed inside slowly.
The portrait was gone—ripped clean from the wall. The space was still scarred, but silent. The tapestry remained, draped heavily, the faces of long-dead pure-bloods peering out like ghosts.
Harry stared at it for a long time. His own name wasn't on it. Neither was Sirius's. The Black family had disowned their own hopes.
He closed the door and moved on.
Upstairs, he opened Sirius's old room. Faded Gryffindor banners. A smashed model broom. Photos of the old Marauders pinned on the wall, half-peeled but intact.
Harry touched one. His fingers trembled—not in grief this time, but in something gentler. Connection.
"Sorry," he whispered to the empty room. "I should've come sooner."
He stood there until the heaviness eased, replaced with a quiet resolve.
This could be a home. Not now, not instantly—but eventually.
He made his way to the top floor—his old room. The door creaked open. Dust floated lazily in the air. The bed was perfectly made, just as he had left it years ago. A trunk sat in the corner, unopened since the first war preparations.
Harry pictured what this place could be with light, warm carpets, maybe some enchanted lanterns, a few personal touches. Ron had once joked it looked like the inside of a coffin. Harry could fix that.
But he also felt the weight of being alone here. It was different from the solitude he'd felt before—less oppressive but deeply unfamiliar.
He sat on the bed and rubbed his face with both hands.
"Why am I even doing this?" he murmured to himself. "I could be at the Burrow… eating four meals a day… getting yelled at for leaving dishes…"
His voice trailed. Even he didn't believe his excuses.
McGonagall was right. He did need space. And this house—this battered, stubborn thing—could be his space.
A sudden knocking downstairs jolted him. He almost drew his wand, instinctively tense. Footsteps echoed lightly.
"Harry?" Ron's voice.
Harry smiled faintly. "Up here!"
Ron and Hermione appeared at the top of the stairs. Ron's nose wrinkled.
"Blimey, mate. This place smells like—like somebody bottled the air under Snape's robes."
Hermione elbowed him sharply. "Ron! It's been abandoned for over a year. Of course it smells old."
"Old is one thing," Ron muttered. "This is… ancient evil old."
Harry laughed for the first time since arriving. "Guess that means I'll need help cleaning."
Hermione gave a determined nod. "We'll make it livable. Sirius wouldn't want you to keep it as a tomb."
He swallowed hard. "Yeah. I think so too."
The three of them walked through the rooms together. Ron suggested blasting the carpet off the stairs ("Probably cursed anyway"). Hermione lectured about structural charms and preservation spells. Harry listened, half grateful, half overwhelmed.
At one point, Ron clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"You okay being here?"
Harry looked around. Dusty hallways. Cracked wallpaper. Echoes of the past.
"I think…" He breathed slowly. "I think this is where I need to be."
Ron nodded. Hermione smiled warmly.
"Then we'll help you make it yours," she said softly.
By sunset, they'd opened the windows, aired out half the house, removed cursed items Hermione identified, and set up Harry's bedroom with fresh linens from Hogwarts. It still looked worn—but less haunted. More… possible.
Before leaving, Hermione squeezed his hand gently.
"You don't have to stay alone the first night. You can come back with us."
Harry hesitated—but shook his head.
"No. I'll try it. Just for tonight." He managed a smile. "If anything tries to eat me, I'll yell."
Ron grinned. "If the house eats you, Harry, I'm burning it down. No questions."
After they left, silence returned—but not unfriendly silence.
Harry stood in the hallway, looking at the small, flickering lights from the lanterns he'd placed. He felt the house settle around him, like it was adjusting to a new occupant. To him.
He walked to the window of the drawing room and stared at the darkening street.
"Alright then," he whispered. "Let's start over."
For the first time, Grimmauld Place didn't feel like Sirius's past or the Order's headquarters or a lingering shadow of old pure-blood madness.
It felt like a beginning.
A quiet, uncertain beginning—but a beginning he chose.