It was a slow walk back down to the Great Hall. Harry felt numb, almost. He wanted to put that cloak back on, to return to being invisible, but was that fair? He couldn't hide for the rest of his life.
"We're with you, Harry," Hermione said comfortingly, putting one hand on his back. He felt a warmth on his other shoulder as well, and looked up into Ron's face.
"Got to face it sometime, mate," he said. Harry sighed, balled the cloak up in his fist, and walked back into the Great Room. Somehow, this was harder than facing Voldemort had been, harder to accepting his own death. Because the noise stopped immediately. For the first time since the battle, everyone was gathered in one place, and Harry Potter was at the other end. He took a deep breath. Should he say something? Was that what everyone was waiting for?
"Hullo," he said, a bit awkwardly. So many sad faces. . .he studiously avoided the side of the room piled high with the bodies, black blankets covering unseeing eyes. There was Neville, grinning at him through the bruises that no one had taken the time to heal, that everpresent faith still brimming. Luna, next to him, eyes dazed and a dreamy smile plastered on her face. The Malfoys, still in their corner. Two sets of parents around Goyle. . .perhaps Crabbe's as well? Dean sat with a group of students at one end of the Hufflepuff table, all of the Muggle-borns who didn't have families with them. And then there were the Weasley's, their bright hair causing them to stand out in the middle of the room.
Most of the Weasley's, anyway. He heard Ron's breath hitch behind him, knew what he was thinking. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill and Fleur, Charlie. There was Percy. There was Ginny, staring at him with all the world in her brown eyes. But George was missing, and Fred was. . .
Neville stood up, the first one. Harry winced, waiting for the inevitable applause. But it never came. Instead he said, quite simply, "Come on, Harry. Sit down and have a bite to eat."
Mrs. Weasley looked up through her tear-stained face and beckoned him over. The three followed, through what was still a frighteningly silent room. And then, a voice, Hannah Abbott's, he thought it was,
"Thank you, Harry."
And another, "Thank you, Harry."
And another, and another. Simple, sweet, nothing much to them. From Susan Bones and Seamus Finnigan, from Cho Chang and Professor Flitwick, from Narcissa Malfoy and even Pansy Patkinson. And then, perhaps more surprisingly, from Lavender Brown,
"Thank you, Ron."
From Cormac MacLaggen. "Thanks, Ron."
From Parvati and Patil, "Thank you, Hermione."
And as they walked through the rows of gratitude, Harry didn't look back at his two best friends. At some point their hands had fallen from his shoulders, and he knew that if he looked back, tears would be coursing down their faces, the same as his.
Mrs. Weasley pulled out a seat and he collapsed into it. Silently, Fleur handed him a plate, heaped high with meats and vegetables. House elves winked in and out, thanked by the wizards, and bowing with a deep respect. His stomach rumbled, and he wondered when had been the last time that he'd eaten. He couldn't even remember food beyond fish from the stream or fungus dutifully boiled by Hermione. But he couldn't eat. Nor, he saw, could any of the Weasleys.
Talk resumed throughout the Great Hall, families reuniting, friends exclaiming over the new freedom from the harsh rules of Hogwarts. A mild disruption occurred when McGonagall abruptly extinguished all of the lamps, during the ensuing silence informing everyone to head to the infirmary so that Madame Pomfrey could see to them. Professor Binns, who apparently had taken the battle as a time to rewrite his class roster, had a list of everyone who had participated in the battle.
"Mrs. Weasley. . .I'm so sorry. . ." Harry finally choked out.
"It's all right," Mr. Weasley said, answering for his wife. She smiled at him, blew her nose on a handkerchief, and said,
"You saved my life, Harry. Why on earth would you be sorry for that?"
"He knew what he was getting himself into," Bill said. "We all did."
As a unit they turned to look, saw George sitting at his dead brother's side, not moving, not doing anything. A tall black girl sat beside him. Harry took a moment to recognize Angelina.
"Mom!" Ginny suddenly exclaimed, her voice filled with a new horror. "Oh, Mom, I almost forgot!"
"What, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her voice perfunctory.
"What about Teddy?"
And there it was again, that reminder that the victory hadn't come without costs. The words came out of Harry's mouth before he'd even had a chance to think.
"I'll take care of him," he said.
"Don't be silly," Mrs. Weasley retorted. "You're just a boy. You're too young to be taking care of a baby."
"I'm his godfather," he protested.
"Andromeda will care for him," Mrs. Weasley said, in a final sort of tone. "And if she doesn't feel up to it, well. . .we've always room in the Burrow."
Harry nodded his head, relief flooding through him. He would be a good godfather, he thought determinedly, he would. A small hand snaked its way into his, squeezed gently. He looked into Ginny's sadly smiling face.
"I know," she said simply.
McGonagall watched the scene with an intense feel of pride. These were her students here, her students who had defeated Voldemort. Not those pansies over at the Ministry, not the Aurors with all of their training, but her students. As she looked out at the torn clothes of the students, she felt even prouder to note the number of maroon and gold robes. Gryffindors, at least a third.
But then there were the Ravenclaws, the Hufflepuffs, and even, she noted, a few Slytherins. Filthy house, she thought darkly, her mind turning to Severus and his betrayal. But she could hardly blame those students for it, though her mind seemed to want to return to a certain platinum-haired family.
There had been casualties, of course, and Minerva found it very difficult to forget that. Remus had been a good friend of hers and, though she would never admit it, Fred had been a personal favorite. She looked at the Weasley clan, all looking as miserable as though a war hadn't been won. And that wasn't right, that just wasn't. But how to remedy the situation. . .well, that she simply didn't know.
"Oh, Albus," she whispered. If he were here, he would know what to do, how to bolster spirits and remind people of how much had been accomplished. But he, too, had been a casualty of war.
Perhaps, she thought grimly, sometimes there wasn't a solution. Perhaps grief was necessary. Her eyes lit up suddenly. Grief. . .remorse. . .of course. Albus had always insisted that what Tom Riddle had lacked was love, and the capacity for love, but that hadn't been it at all. He'd received love. . .even learned to give it, in his own way. But regret. . .pride. . .those were his downfalls.
That, then, was why ALbus had never been ableto defeat him. They'd shared faults, hadn't they, Minerva thought sardonically. Thank goodness Albus had learned to recognize his, to try and avoid them.
As families began to leave to share the good news with friends and other families back home, as Filch found a new joy in forcing reporters from the Quibbler and the Daily Prophet off grounds, as those few who chose to stay in Hogwarts for the evening began making their way up to the dorms, Minerva smiled. For the first time since Albus had died, she left her lips widen, her teeth peer out. There had been losses, but they had won.