AN:

I have once again been inspired by this wonderful film. The extras on the DVD have a half an hour or so long doc on the end of the Harry Potter series and it brought tears to my eyes. So, I wanted to write something about endings and having recently left school myself I thought that Harry's feelings on Hogwarts would be nice. Here we go. I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER.

June 1998, Hogwarts

The funerals that were to be had had already been and Harry had attended every single one. There had been over sixty casualties in the battle, besides close friends. The appearance of Mr Potter and his comrades had been welcome at all the ceremonies, but it had been draining to say the least. Today was now a day for rejoicing more than for mourning and for that Harry couldn't help but be grateful. Hogwarts had been painstakingly restored to its former glory, with the exception of a few battlements here and there. With the debris swept away and all heroes laid to rest, the new Headmistress McGonagall had felt it only right to hold the celebration there. As she had worded it in a message to Harry:

'Now that the dreadful events of the past are almost done, it is only right that Hogwarts become a place of happiness once again. Those who died for our cause and for our school would never wish it to become a place of darkness. We owe it to them to bring light into these halls again and banish the shadows that lesser men brought.'

Harry, after some reluctance, had agreed. And so every person he could think of, who had survived this terrible war, had been invited to the castle for the night. It was a gathering tainted by sadness and by the recent ghosts of events gone by, but nevertheless each and every person present wanted nothing more than to make Hogwarts, the place that had been a school and home to nearly everybody, a land of good memories once again. Tonight was, more than anything, an effort to replace bad memories with new and to remember those lost as they would wish to be remembered – by reminiscing on the laughter and the life and not the death and the tears.

In an effort to steel himself, Harry dressed in his old Gryffindor dormitory. The beds were still there, the hangings, the walls, the floors: all the same. The common rooms seemed to be the only places undisturbed, save for a few broken windows. In a bizarre moment of wondering, he'd thought he might look too casual for tonight (as if it mattered) so he'd been standing observing himself in the mirror longer than usual. He was in Muggle clothes. After their months of hiding, robes seemed oddly foreign to him now, yet he questioned fleetingly whether it might have been better to wear them. More wizard-like. He'd hardly had time to consider whether it was completely idiotic of him to be thinking about clothes at a time like this, with all that weighed on his mind, when there was a knock on the door that almost threw him from his skin:

'H-hello?' He asked, dumbly and he saw an elegant hand wrap around the door:

'Potter?' If he'd have felt better in himself, Harry might have smiled. Some things never changed.

'Yes, Professor?' She peered in then, glancing rather uncharacteristically around the frame before she came through.

Her tired eyes surveyed the scarlet and gold surroundings with a flash of pride and a familiar love for this wonderful woman surged through Harry. He'd never been to an ordinary, non-life-threatening Muggle secondary school, thank God, so he couldn't compare. But he didn't imagine he'd have had as close a bond with the strict yet kind Scottish witch if they hadn't, just weeks before, shared the load in a fight to the death – if they'd just had a 'normal' teacher/student relationship.

The path to this moment, to peace, had been littered with so many obstacles and she'd been behind him, guiding him, however severe he might have thought it, every step of the way. He thought about saying 'thank you' but knew it would sound absurd – thank you just didn't have the weight for what she and others like her had done to help him.

She was, like Hagrid, Dumbledore and even Snape, a part of Hogwarts that was irreplaceable. She was part of his childhood and, like so many of the figures in his orphaned life, a foster parent. One day he might tell her all that, but now it seemed she had other things on her mind:

'Potter, people are arriving. You're greatly missed down there. Weasley and Miss Granger have been greeting people in your place.' She gave him a look then that made him feel instantly eleven, lips pursed.

'Right. Um, right, Professor. I'll – I'll be down soon.' She nodded but didn't move. 'Was there something else, Professor?'

She looked at him, almost through him, in a faraway haze.

'We haven't had a chance to talk, since – since everything, Potter. I just wanted to say that if you have any doubts whatsoever, any doubts, about what happened, whether it was right or wrong or fair, I have a word of advice.' She had cut straight to the core of his insecurities and he slumped on the bed. Robes swishing (back to their emerald green now, instead of dreary black) she lowered herself far more gracefully and gingerly touched his shoulder. 'I've lived through two wars now, Potter. And the things that wars teach you are both terrible and good. But the one resounding thing is, and this is going to sound horribly patronising but I feel like someone has to say it – life isn't fair. There are people who live, people who die, people who are wounded. There are people who lose everything and people who come out unchanged and it's not because they were better or braver or kinder, it's just the roll of the dice. You can't change what happened, Potter. What happened happened because to win this war we unfortunately had to make sacrifices – none of this, I repeat, none of it, is down to you. The victory, however, well I think we can firmly say you had a rather large hand in that.'

She finished with a large, heaving sigh and loosed her arm from around him. She stood, brushing invisible dirt from her robes as he tried desperately not to cry, looking down at his scuffed shoes.

'Now,' she cleared her throat and for a second he thought she was about to cry too. He didn't think he could bear it if she did, 'I will tell the people you'll be down shortly, yes?' He nodded, still not meeting her eyes and she moved to leave. He took his moment while he had it:

'Professor?' she turned at the door, one hand on the ancient wood. He thought of everything she'd ever done, the courage she'd shown, the loyalty, the caring and compassion. 'I – you were great too, you know.' He cursed himself for his lack of eloquence.

'Potter,' she smiled and the look instantly made her years younger, 'I have marked your essays since you were eleven years old. You pay far too much attention to how you word things – so much in fact you forget what you meant to say. A simple thank you would have done quite nicely. That just sounded awkward.'

He smiled back and discovered muscles he hadn't used in a while.

'Thank you, then. For everything.'

'You are quite welcome – Harry.' The Professor in her faded away for a fraction of a second, but then she ended, 'Now, downstairs in five minutes, Potter. Or I'll be hunting.' With one raised eyebrow she departed and Harry fell back against his bed.

He'd been right earlier on, to find a warm familiarity, a happiness, in her use of his surname. It was comforting to know that some things, in this world of upheaval and aftermath, would never, ever change. Minerva McGonagall was one of them.

By the time he joined the party it was in full swing. Though McGonagall and the other teachers had striven to ensure that the place was as happy and as war-free as possible, there still had to be some sort of remembrance. Erected in the corner, near the door to the trophy room, was a set of candles, much like you'd find at the front of a church. You could light one for whomever you saw fit. It was there that Harry found Ginny:

'Hey,' he greeted, wrapping his arms about her waist. She half-smiled and leaned into him, but continued to stare at the little flames.

'I lit one,' she murmured. 'I didn't know who to light it for and I didn't want to use them all, so I just - lit a communal one, for everyone.' She turned. 'You think that's okay?'

He kissed her forehead and she rested her head on his shoulder.

'Yeah. Yeah, that's perfect.' He pulled back. 'Come on; let's get back to the party, shall we? I think McGonagall'd kill me if she knew we were getting teary-eyed. She's desperate that we all remember this as happy.'

Ginny snorted against his chest but followed him anyway, into the throng of people.

He didn't anticipate how overwhelming yet amazing it would be, to have all these people in one room. The surviving Order members and Hogwarts staff, ex-students, Ministry workers. Everyone that had ever taken a part, either big or small in what had happened was in this room, in the Great Hall, or buzzing around somewhere, wandering. If Harry closed his eyes, he didn't remember the corpse-scattered ground it had become, but what it had once been. A place alive: full of chatter and fun and shouts. Everyday life had begun again, amidst the rebuilding. What the dead had fought for was emerging and it made Harry's heart burst with happiness.

He spotted Flitwick talking with Professor Sprout, Slughorn boring McGonagall to tears. Kingsley was speaking with Mr Weasley, while Mrs Weasley tried in vain to flatten down Ron's hair. Hermione was giggling at his side and George, who looked lost without Fred, even managed a smile at his brother's discomfort. Bill and Fleur were talking to Andromeda, who held little Teddy in her arms. That made Harry pause. Ginny looked at him and excused herself, joining Luna and Neville, while Harry nervously wandered into Mrs Tonks' conversation.

He hated himself for it, but looking at her he still saw Bellatrix. He couldn't help but not. She was almost the twin of her deranged, now deceased sister, who had been buried some days ago he'd heard - in a secret location by Narcissa. The Malfoys had been excused for Narcissa's good deed, but their fortune was all but gone to help the rebuilding and re-establishing of all that Voldemort had destroyed. Looking at Mrs Tonks, smiling at the couple she was talking to, absent-mindedly rocking her grandson, Harry felt more guilt than he had all day.

In Teddy, in this orphaned boy, he saw himself, both parents taken away by the might of something so much bigger than themselves – but for a cause they believed in: Their son. Being able to speak to Remus had made him feel better, but it didn't help to ease the searing guilt which coursed through him as the baby with Tonks' crazy hair colours and Remus' eyes was there before him.

Bill and Fleur saw him coming and tactfully departed and the gracious smile Andromeda gave him cut him deeply:

'Hello, Harry.' She came forward and kissed his cheek. 'The hero of the hour, what an honour.' He tried to smile but failed miserably and so, much like her daughter, Andromeda turned to humour, a dark humour that Harry admired. 'I hope you like my hair, Harry. I spent hours today straightening it, putting it up. Didn't want to give anyone any reminders if you know what I mean. My hair is probably my most defining, um, Black-type feature.'

An illusion to her sister, the slaughterer of her daughter, all said with a wry smile. How on earth did she do it? When Harry's expression barely changed, Andromeda changed tact instead:

'Now you listen to me, Harry Potter. I know what you're feeling right now and I'm sure you've had enough talks like this to last you a lifetime, but here it goes: I do not blame you. The only person I blame is him and his followers. The idiots stupid enough to carry it through to the end, to die for his wretched cause. Yes, I hate my sister, I loathe her, I wish her the most torturous time in Hell anyone could ever experience and I hate to think I look even remotely like her, but I do, so I have to get over it. It's what everyone's thinking. So it's better that I say it and get it out the way than have them staring at me like I'm going to dissolve into tears. My husband is dead, my daughter is dead, my son-in-law is dead. If this was any fault of yours, Harry, I'd probably have more right to be angry with you than anybody. Except for the small detail that it's not. Your. Fault. Got it?'

He nodded quickly and she perked up.

'Good. Now that that awkwardness is out of the way, maybe you'd like to finally properly meet your godson, hm?'

Harry was struck with the realisation. Of course he remembered Remus telling him at Shell Cottage that he and Tonks wanted him to be Teddy's godfather. But in all that had happened it had slipped his mind. He gazed with a newfound feeling at this currently turquoise-haired child as Andromeda unceremoniously dumped him in Harry's arms.

He looked at this orphaned little boy and saw himself all over again. He swore in that moment, despite being eighteen and ridiculously unsure of where his life was headed, that this boy would always be welcome wherever he was. That this boy would be part of whatever family he had. Teddy was better off than Harry had been. He had Andromeda, one of the best women that Harry knew. But Teddy would also always have a place with him, as he himself should have been able to with Sirius.

Teddy was the future, and suddenly the past dimmed. It was still there in the background. It always would be. And it was so important. But life was for living. All the dead would wish that for them. The life all those sacrificed people had given him, newly gone and long, was for the living, and Harry James Potter would live it – the best that he could.