Harry moves through the day, shifting between numbness, giddy relief, and crushing grief, so that he alternates between near-hysterical laughter and sobs that catch in his chest or find expression in tears. Molly hugs him hard, which makes him weak-kneed. Arthur's handshake and clap on the shoulder nearly unravel him. George holds onto him and they cry together.

Andromeda Tonks arrives with a turquoise-haired infant, and hands him over to his godfather, who laughs and cries and can't wait to get away, but holds onto the child for dear life. Teddy's hair changes to black. His eyes mirror the emerald of Harry's own, and he screws his face up in the effort to somehow form black-rimmed circles around his eyes, and wails in frustration when he fails, making everyone laugh until Ron distracts him and the black hair shifts slowly to ginger, fascinating everyone. A pleased Ron takes possession of the infant, and Harry is free.

Tension and exhaustion build slowly. He doesn't notice at first - he's too busy. Everyone wants to talk with him - ask him questions, thank him, or ask him to come see someone who is injured. The dead are slowly taken home by family, to be interred or sent up in flame, as suits their tradition, and he talks with each family, listens to their stories, shares their tears, tolerates their anger. At times, his stomach twists in guilt.

McGonagall and Shacklebolt need to talk with him, and monopolize a good bit of his time. The Ministry needs a full account, which takes far too long for one day, and he begs off after a while. They accompany him to the Great Hall and back to his friends, for some sustenance, talking of lighter things, understanding. After the first time, no one asks him his plans, for which he is grateful, since he cannot think about that yet. What do you do, after the war? He doesn't know.

It's all so much - too much, after a while. Luna notices again, as she did the day of the final battle - was that yesterday? It feels longer ago, already... or maybe just hours. "Harry needs some time alone," she says - more direct, this time. "He has to shake the nargles out of his hair. Better do it outside, Harry. You don't want to set them loose in here, just when I've convinced them all to go bother the ghosts." She leans forward conspiratorially. "They don't affect the ghosts, but they're not intelligent enough to know that," she says. She waves Harry off.

Hermione watches him walk toward the exit from the Great Hall, and takes a deep breath before she turns back to Neville, Luna, and Draco - who has attached himself to their group after disappearing following breakfast, for a long discussion with his parents. Ron and Ginny are across the Great Hall, talking with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Professor McGonagall. Hermione scans the room for others she's concerned about, and finding most of them, lets herself relax for a moment.

Harry lets himself out the doors to the castle, nodding at Filch, who stands scratching his head amidst the wreckage and ruin, push broom in hand. It's later than Harry thought. The sun is already sinking toward the horizon, and in the early evening dimness, the Forbidden Forest is starting to fade from view. Hagrid's hut is dark as well, as Hagrid is in the castle behind him, lending his strength to various tasks. Harry smiles at the thought.

He stands on the top step a few moments, then takes the steps down to the field, just wanting to feel some distance, and a connection with the magic underlying the grounds... just wanting to ground himself. A thought occurs to him, and he looks to his left, his eyes searching the horizon, though he knows he's too far away to see even the nearest structures of Hogsmeade, let alone a darkened house at her furthest edge.

Something flickers at the edges of his vision, and he turns...

The doe bounds away from the Shrieking Shack in search of her destination. Her orders are conditional: the recipient of the message must be alone. So, for now, she stands, shimmering but unseen, barely detectable in the sunlit, dust-filled air in the Great Hall, awaiting her opportunity.

It will not be here. Nor any time soon. Her objective continues to move, surrounded by a shifting phalanx of companions, throughout the morning and into the afternoon. The doe follows, slipping from sun patch to sun patch, occasionally stamping her hooves and tossing her head. Her orders are clear, but she worries at the passing time.

At last, as the sun begins to sink toward the horizon, the one she seeks stands alone - and outside, looking over the grounds, toward the place where her master last sat - and sits still, if her senses are true. She approaches from the side, tail flicking, just into his peripheral vision, just outside his reach, and he turns.

They stare at each other. This has happened before. Unblinking, she flicks her tail again, and when he doesn't move, steps closer. Emotions cross his face too quickly for her to read, but when he reaches out a hand and touches her head, she feels it is safe.

"Potter," a voice whispers hoarsely. "Come."