Disclaimer: All characters, ideas, themes, and places presented in the following that are not of my own creation are the sole property of JK Rowling.

—CHAPTER ONE—

In the Wake of Battle

The echoes of dying screams bounce through Harry's mind, coming to him thick and muffled through the hanging smoke of battle. As hard as he's fought for this day, for this moment, it seems to have come at much too high a cost. Fred, impossibly full of life, young and finally starting to live his dreams. Gone. Remus, complete at last, happy even in the world's darkest moments because he'd finally found a place to fit, a place to be loved. Gone. Tonks, beautiful, smiling, radiant, a new mother. Gone. Colin Creevey and his insufferably snapping camera. Gone. They're all gone.

And Harry's left alone; terrifyingly, frightfully alone. They've died for him, died so that he can live. It doesn't seem right, doesn't seem fair. His world is shattered, ruined, destroyed. It's his fault, all of it. If only he'd been stronger, faster, better in some way, he could have saved them from unnecessary death.

He twists and thrashes in his blankets, sheets tangling awkwardly in his legs. There's nothing he can do for them now; they're gone. He can't save them, can't bring them back. All is lost. A high, cold laugh is building itself in his mind, shattering what's left of his world, blowing it all to bits and dust, scattering everywhere, crushing anything in its path.

A hand shakes his shoulder violently. "Harry, mate, wake up."

The voice cuts through his nightmare like a sword of blazing light. The pieces begin to fit themselves back together, slotting into place until the world begins to resemble something recognisable again.

He wakes with a start, sweat stinging his eyes as he stares wildly around the Gryffindor dormitory. His breath is coming out in wild, terrified gasps, his heart racing. His gaze fixes on the man, unfamiliar for a second, who's looking down at him with sympathy, the expression half-hidden behind the small, watery smile he's attempting. Late afternoon sunlight illuminates his face, making his head look as though it's surrounded by a wildly dancing inferno. The high contrast against his pale skin makes him look more tired than Harry can remember him ever looking, the deep set bags under his eyes giving way to sunken cheek bones and slumped shoulders.

It's Ron, Harry tells himself in an attempt to calm himself down, just Ron. Harrowed by war and exhausted beyond all comprehension, but still Ron. Harry feels his breathing begin to slow, a cautious serenity replacing the unadulterated panic he had felt in his nightmare as the events of last night begin to drift back to him. All is not lost. He's done it, he's finished the task that he's always subconsciously assumed would be his last, and he's lived to tell the story.

"You're okay, mate," Ron says, and his voice sounds even more ragged than he looks. "It's over. We're all going to be okay."

But even as Ron says the words, Harry wants to protest against them, to scream and cry and pound his fists like the petulant child he was never permitted to be. Young, so young, all of them. It's not going to be okay. How can it be, when so many are gone, dead and not yet buried, their bodies still holding the ghost of warmth? He feels his fists ball in the sheets under him, twisting the thin material until it becomes taught under his fingers. His nails cut painfully into the palms of his hands, and very slowly, he begins to feel some small amount of sanity trickling back to him. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he sits up slowly, disentangling his legs with some difficulty, and he scrubs a hand over his face.

"Yeah," he says, his voice coming out rough and scratchy. "We'll make it through this. We will make it through this, right?"

There's a small, hopeless part of him that desperately needs Ron's reassurance. It's the part of him that says they're still so young, only seventeen, and have already seen more horror and bloodshed than most men three times their age, the part that wishes he'd had a choice in all this, the part he's never indulged. None of it seems fair; it isn't right. They don't deserve this.

"'Course," Ron says with a forced smile that looks more like a grimace. "When have you ever not made it through something?"

But therein lies the problem, Harry thinks. He's the Boy Who Lived, and lived again, and kept on living, no matter what anyone threw at him. But others, so fragile, so delicate, like he should have been all along…they were —

"They're having a formal wake," Ron says, interrupting his thoughts and sitting on the edge of Harry's bed heavily, staring at the floor. "Starts in a few minutes. I'm not sure if I want to go or not."

For some reason, the knowledge that others are hurting hits Harry like a brick. He's been so caught up in his own spiralling thoughts that he hasn't even paused to wonder how the rest of the world is faring in the wake of the war. He's beginning to feel guilty that he slept while others had clearly spent the past however many hours cleaning up the trail of damage he left behind him. He's not sure if he wants to go either, not sure if he can face them all after he nearly caused so many of their deaths. The mere thought of Mrs Weasley blaming him for the death of one of her sons…it's inconceivable. He wants to pull the blankets over his head and never come out again. He doesn't want to see the mess he's made.

But then a small part of him, meek and cautious, the part that used to scream out at any injustice, a piece that feels injured and bruised after a full year on the run, tells him that it wouldn't be right to hide from the people who had laid their lives on the line for him. He has to go down there, if only to say goodbye to his fallen friends, to make peace with the people still living who, like him, aren't sure what life is going to look like now that so much has been torn to shreds. He suddenly can't imagine staying in bed for another moment.

"No," he says, so firmly that Ron startles and looks up at him. "You're going. If you don't you'll never forgive yourself for not saying goodbye to…to them."

The unspoken name hangs between them like a physical presence, twisted and raw, wounds that are too fresh being sliced open again, and he can't make himself say Fred. You need to say goodbye to Fred. Somehow, he knows that if he says it aloud, it will make it all too real, too painful for either of them to handle.

Ron nods grimly. It doesn't need to be said. They both understand; Ron always understands. "Then we should probably get down there," he says hoarsely. "Mum sent me up here to find you."

Harry nods but doesn't speak as he gets out of bed. There's nothing to be said. He knows he looks like a wreck; he'd slept in the same clothes he's been wearing for a week, and his hair is greasy and caked with mud, sticking up at odd angles even more than usual. Ron doesn't look much better, though, so Harry just slips into his shoes and starts down the steps, Ron following behind him silently.

He tries hard not to look at the once familiar common room as they pass through it. The fireplace that used to crackle cheerfully is now extinguished, dark and oddly bare-looking. The vivd red sofas and squashy arm chairs that they spent so many evenings in are now muted in colour by the dust of the blasted castle walls that's settled on them. There's a hole five feet high and at least ten feet wide where the entrance to the girls' dormitory had been just days before. It's all ruined now, destroyed beyond recognition.

Harry feels his hands clenching into tight fists as he pushes the portrait hole open and climbs through, holding back the angry tears that are threatening to fall. They walk side by side through the half-intact corridors, and it all seems so wrong. He had won, so why does it feel like he's lost so much in the process? There's the spot where he'd succeeded in tricking Peeves during their first year, but now it's nothing more than a pile of rubble. The staircase with the trick step that Neville always forgot to skip, but it's missing its railing. The tapestry that once hid his favourite secret passage, now reduced to thin shreds of material hanging limply over the sad-looking entrance to a dark corridor. And worst of all, so bad that he almost turns tail and runs all the way back to Gryffindor Tower, is the marble staircase into the entrance hall, one side completely blasted away and unusable, the other still slick with the blood of the fallen.

The doors to the Great Hall stand open, a soft light emanating from them, and Harry hears the muted sound of hundreds of hushed voices. He and Ron make their way into the room, and a heavy silence falls over the groups of people as they pass, most of them turning to stare, some nodding in solemn respect, all with eyes stung red with tears. A few that Harry knows stop him to share their condolences and words of congratulations, pulling him into tight embraces. One man that neither of them recognise places a firm hand on Ron's shoulder and, looking between the two of them, says, very seriously, "Thank you, boys," before turning back to his family. Another man, dressed in a long black cloak, bows so low as they pass that his hat topples off his head.

Harry spots the Weasleys, gathered in a thick cluster, almost the same as they'd been when he'd last seen them standing over Fred, and he nudges Ron gently, pointing and making his way through more and more people, endless families mourning the loss of their loved ones. This time, he's prepared for what he'll see when he reaches them, but there's still a part of him that cries out, inconsolable, at the sight of Remus and Tonks lying there lifeless. He knows, though, that this is not the time to turn and run; he's not the only one who's lost, and he isn't the only one feeling this ache.

"Mrs Weasley," he says softly when they reach the family. He wants to comfort her most of all, the woman who's been like a mother to him for seven years. Fred had been as good as a brother to him, and he wants to say something profound and heartfelt, but all that comes out is, "I…I'm so sorry."

She turns at his touch, face stained with tears, and for one brief, horrible moment, Harry thinks his worst fears have come to fruition, that Mrs Weasley is blaming him for Fred's death. But then a new wave of tears wells in her eyes, and she pulls him into a strong hug, her short arms wrapping around him securely.

"Oh, Harry, dear," she mutters into his hair, kissing his temple gently. "I'm so happy you're alright. I don't know if I could have handled losing two sons in one night."

At her words, something in him seems to break, and it's like a dam has been released. Suddenly, everything is flooding out of him in a giant, wracking sob, and he collapses into her, tears streaming down his face, his hands fisted fiercely in the bright crochet of her mud-stained dress. She supports his weight easily, her hand rubbing soothing circles into his back, muttering words of comfort to him and telling him to let it out, that it's okay. He stays there for a long moment, feeling safe for the first time in a long time. When he's finally collected himself enough to stand straight, he pulls back and stares at her, tears still leaking down his cheeks.

"Look at you, face covered in dirt," she scolds with a shaky laugh, swiping her thumb under his eyes. "You're going to be alright, dear. We all are."

Harry glances down at Fred's cold body where George is crouched, clutching his brother's hand and staring helplessly at his face as if hoping Fred will come back to life just for a moment, if only to tell him what to do, how to live now that he's the last half of something that had once been whole and perfect and easy.

Mrs Weasley squeezes his shoulder one last time and gives him a smile before turning back to her husband. Harry makes his way to Remus' body, refusing to look at the people that are staring, dumbfounded, at the sight of The Great Harry Potter breaking down like he just did. Instead, he sits cross-legged near Remus' head, alone, and reaches out a shaking finger to trace the lines of the old scar on his cheek.

"Remus, I — I'm scared," he admits in a low voice, staring at his friend's lifeless face. "What do I do now that you're all gone? First my parents, then Sirius, and now you…" He shakes his head, wiping at the tears that are still falling down his face. "You were one of the first people that loved me. You were the last piece of my dad. And now you're gone and Tonks…and Teddy's never going to know how amazing you both were."

He stops for a moment, feeling the sting of tears beginning to form again as he fingers the tattered material of Remus' robes. "I'll tell him," he says finally, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat. "I'll tell him that you were a great man, that his mother was beautiful and full of life. He won't grow up like I did. He'll know where he comes from. I promise. I…it's the best I can think of to remember you by. And if anything ever…ever happens to Andromeda, I'll be there for him. I'll take care of him, just like I know you or Sirius would have done for me."

He's silent for a long while, his tears drying themselves out as he stares down at Remus' face, transfixed. He's about to get up to leave when he hears a loud wail echo over the crowd of quiet mourners. His head snaps up, as do many others, searching for the source of the noise.

Draco Malfoy, hair tangled and all over the place, dried mud caking his normally pristine clothing, is flung over a body, loud sobs coming from him, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Pansy Parkinson is threading her fingers through his hair with a broken look on her face, Narcissa crouched near him, whispering the words of a mother in his ear, while Lucius stands nearby, looking on disapprovingly.

"Blaise, no," Draco's crying, beating his fist weakly against the other boy's chest. "No, you can't be gone. Please, Blaise, please."

Narcissa raises her head after a moment, looking to Lucius in a silent plea, apparently at a loss for how to comfort her son. But the man merely raises an eyebrow and looks away, and Narcissa's gaze roams helplessly around the room as she rubs Draco's back slowly.

Her eyes fall on Harry, and she seems to startle when she realises he's staring back. Something in him coils and springs, unfamiliar in the context of the Malfoys, but recognisable nonetheless. Pity. Malfoy has lost one of his best friends to a war that Blaise hadn't really even taken sides in. Harry can't even begin to comprehend the hole he would feel in his chest if he had lost Ron or Hermione. He frowns slightly at the surprising realisation that, as much as he doesn't get along with Malfoy, the boy is not a cold, unfeeling, inhuman shell. Even if he normally tries to hide the fact that he's just like everyone else, pride and decorum hold no place in a situation like this.

Harry inclines his head, his gaze still fixed on Narcissa. He doesn't smile, doesn't move to speak with her, but his expression conveys what he needs to say. Thank you.

Narcissa turns back to her son without acknowledging Harry, but when she bends to speak to him again, Malfoy pulls back from Blaise's body, his sobs quieting as he wipes at his tears. Harry watches him nod morosely before he looks away, not wanting to intrude any longer.

A silence falls over the room just then, starting at the front of the hall and continuing back as people take notice of Professor McGonagall standing in Dumbledore's old spot at the podium in front of the High Table. She's waiting there patiently, allowing people to take their time to gather themselves before she begins to speak. When she does, her voice is low and mournful.

"We have fought long and hard for this day," she begins quietly, "and we have lost many along the way. Students, teachers, friends, family. It's been difficult, and I feel obligated to say that it will remain difficult. But our loved ones did not die in vain. They sacrificed so that we, and our children, may have a brighter future. Do not mourn their parting simply because they are gone. Instead, celebrate them as you remember them, and honour their memories by ensuring that we do not repeat our mistakes."

Her voice has begun to shake, and she stops there, bringing a tartan handkerchief to her face. Several people around Harry sniff.

Professor McGonagall takes a deep breath, her left hand still clutching tightly to the scrap of material. "It's been said that only the strong survive, but as I look out at our fallen friends, both here and elsewhere in the wizarding world, I must say that only the brave have fallen." She pauses to allow her gaze to sweep the silent room.

"We've all lost people," she goes on. "Some close to us, some we didn't realise we would miss until they were gone. But all of us, we've got to learn to pick up and move on. I know it won't happen quickly or easily, but it will happen eventually.

"Don't remember them as they are now. They wouldn't want you too, They'd want you to laugh, be happy, enjoy the world that they gave you through their sacrifices. Remember them as they were, when they were full of life and carefree," she says.

Harry feels something inside him breaking a bit, and the tears that had dried themselves out earlier begin to well in his eyes again. He finds Remus' cold hand blindly and clings to it, feeling helpless.

"I know it's a tough thing to do. I've lost people as well, but we'll get through it. I believe in us all. So remember them how you know they'd want to be remembered. Mourn them in the ways they'd want you to mourn. Move on with your lives, but never forget."

The wake ends quietly with people paying respects to their lost loved ones, most taking the bodies of friends and family home to give them a proper burial and to have private ceremonies. Harry is reluctant to leave at first, afraid that he won't get to say a final goodbye to Remus or Tonks. He's sorely tempted to throw himself over Remus the way Malfoy had done to Blaise, but when Mrs Weasley catches sight of him gripping his friend's hand as everyone's prepares to leave, she crosses the room to him and places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"They're coming with us, dear," she tells him softly. "Come on, up you get. There you go."

It takes a great deal of effort for Harry to pull himself to his feet, and he has to lean on Mrs Weasley a bit for support as they make their way back over to the rest of the family. Despite having slept, he's still just so exhausted: emotionally, physically, mentally. He needs to get away from everything, from all the pressure and the stares and the whispers. Harry barely notices Mrs Weasley conjuring two caskets around Remus and Tonks before leading him back across the room.

Hermione hugs him tightly when he reaches the rest of the Weasleys, and Ron places a heavy arm around his shoulders.

"The wards on the castle are still down," Mr Weasley says quietly after a moment of silence. "We can Apparate from here."

They all nod in understanding. "To the Burrow, then?" Harry asks, wanting to get back to the only other place he's ever called home.

Mrs Weasley's hand tightens on his shoulder. "Actually, dear, we're going to the Potter family plot first. Remus requested that he be buried with his closest friends," she says, and Harry feels a lump begin to grow in his throat.

"Right," he says thickly, not quite sure how to voice the things he's feeling. "I…thank you. All of you. For being here for me."

"Don't worry about it, mate. That's what families are for, yeah?" Bill says, his arm tight around Fleur's waist.

Harry looks at all of them, standing in a circle around him, all there to support him. A family. Just what he's always wanted. So many people that care about him, that would do anything for him, just as he would do anything for them.

"Yeah. Family," he says, and for the first time that day, he feels a bit of the pain uncoiling inside him, giving way to something warm and healing.