Hogwarts woke early the next morning to the sound of owls scraping against the repaired windows. Harry blinked awake in a narrow bed he hadn't slept in for nearly a year. The Gryffindor dormitory was still missing its original curtains, and the room smelled faintly of plaster and new varnish. For a moment he stared at the ceiling, confused by the strange mixture of old comfort and new emptiness.
Neville's bed was empty—he'd gone out before sunrise to help Professor Sprout inspect damaged greenhouses. Dean and Seamus were still asleep. Ron had left for Auror training two days ago. For the first time in years, Harry woke in Gryffindor Tower without hearing Ron's half-snore, half-mumble.
Harry sat up, dragged on a jumper, and headed for the common room. A few students were scattered about, mostly seventh-years finishing breakfast before they joined the rebuilding teams. Conversation felt different now—quieter, heavier, but hopeful in an uneasy sort of way.
Near the fireplace, a stack of newspapers lay untouched. Harry grabbed one out of habit. The headline was almost boring compared to what he was used to:
GERMAN MINISTRY SENDS SUPPORT TO BRITAIN
ICW PRAISES HOGWARTS RECONSTRUCTION EFFORTS
Below it was a smaller article:
ANOTHER FUGITIVE CAPTURED IN NEWCASTLE
AURORS CONTINUE NATIONWIDE SWEEP
Harry skimmed it. Some Death Eater named Radford Mulveny—someone he had never even heard of—had been discovered hiding in a drained reservoir. Caught without a fight. It was all handled quietly.
That was good.
He hoped things stayed quiet.
Harry folded the paper and headed down for breakfast.
The Great Hall still looked raw and unfinished. Enchanted scaffolding clung to pillars like metal vines, and certain parts of the ceiling flickered between sky and grey stone. Long tables were set but unevenly spaced, as if no one had the heart to restore them perfectly yet.
McGonagall sat with a stack of letters and a cup of tea that had long gone cold. When Harry approached, she gave him a brief nod.
"Potter. Did you sleep?"
"Enough," he answered.
"Good. We have a long day."
He wasn't surprised.
Rebuilding Hogwarts after two wars in one generation was exhausting in ways he hadn't expected. Physical repairs were one thing. The atmosphere… that was harder. He'd heard first-years whispering that ghosts seemed restless, that the air felt heavier near the Grand Staircase. The professors didn't deny it. Wars left residue in magical places.
As Harry loaded a plate, the morning owl post descended. Dozens of envelopes rained onto the table. McGonagall received nearly a dozen herself.
She opened the first and rubbed her forehead.
"From the Italian Ministry," she murmured. "Again."
Harry glanced at her. "Problems?"
"No. Just… interest." McGonagall lowered her voice. "Europe is watching Britain quite closely. They were caught off guard by the sudden end of… well, everything."
Harry didn't blame them. Even he couldn't fully grasp how fast Voldemort's army had collapsed.
"Are they offering help?" he asked.
"Some are. Some are politely reminding us of long-standing agreements. Some want updates on how stable our borders are." She sniffed. "As if Hogwarts is a volcano."
Harry hesitated before asking, "Are they worried Voldemort will… return?"
"No. They're worried about what comes next."
A student approached her then, asking about new room assignments. Harry took that as his cue to leave.
They spent the morning repairing corridors near the Transfiguration wing. Flitwick coordinated the spells—his calm, thin voice rising above the hum of magic. Harry helped levitate beams into place while students reinforced joints with Reparo and Structural Charm variants.
By noon, the walls looked almost whole.
"Careful with that corner!" Flitwick called. "The wards in this area are old. Very old. A bit sensitive to newer magic."
Harry paused, wand still raised. "Sensitive how?"
"Think of it as… territorial." Flitwick chuckled. "They don't like being disturbed. But they'll settle."
Harry tried not to imagine what "settle" meant when dealing with ancient magic.
To his relief, the wall glowed briefly, then fused properly.
He allowed himself a small breath.
After lunch, McGonagall requested Harry accompany her and Hermione to an appointment. Hermione had come up from her temporary Ministry station to help catalogue old ward records. She looked tired but determined, parchment under one arm, ink smudge on her cheek.
"Where are we going?" Harry asked.
"To the courtyard," she said. "Minister Shacklebolt wants to speak with us."
Harry blinked. "Here? In Hogwarts?"
Hermione nodded. "He's traveling between meetings about the reconstruction. International ones."
Harry felt a slight twist in his stomach. International. That meant something serious.
They found Kingsley standing near the ruined fountain outside. A few support staff trailed behind him, carrying files. Kingsley dismissed them with a wave and turned to Harry and Hermione.
"Good afternoon. I'll keep this brief," he said. "The International Confederation of Wizards sent formal messages this morning. They want updates on our security situation."
Hermione straightened. "Are they offering aid?"
"Some. Others are… cautious. They want assurance that the war truly is over." Kingsley's tone held something Harry didn't miss—annoyance. "And they want clarity regarding escaped Death Eaters."
Harry nodded slowly. "There aren't many left."
"No," Kingsley agreed. "But enough. And the ICW ministries want to know where they fled, whether they've crossed borders, and whether we need shared patrols."
Harry frowned. "Do we?"
Kingsley shook his head. "For now, the situation is contained. Small captures, nothing organized. But we can't appear unprepared." He paused. "Hogwarts is a symbol. If Hogwarts stands stable, the world believes Britain is stable."
Harry understood then why he was here. Why Kingsley had come personally. It wasn't about strategy or politics.
It was about reassurance.
Kingsley needed the world to see that the Boy Who Lived wasn't breaking apart, wasn't unstable, wasn't a symbol of chaos.
Harry kept his expression neutral.
"What do you need from us?" he asked.
"Just presence," Kingsley replied. "There may be foreign observers visiting in the coming weeks. They'll want to see the rebuilding efforts. Students working. Professors coordinating smoothly." He lowered his voice. "And Harry Potter helping where he can."
Harry swallowed. The idea of being watched again made something uncomfortable coil in his stomach—but this time, it wasn't fear. Just exhaustion.
Hermione spoke gently. "We can do that, can't we, Harry?"
He nodded. "Yeah. I can do that."
Kingsley smiled, relieved. "Good. I'll handle the rest."
He stepped back as an aide hurried over with more parchment.
Before leaving, Kingsley added, "You'll see more newspapers mentioning small captures. Don't be alarmed. The sweeps are routine. Nothing beyond scattered remnants."
"Are they dangerous?" Harry asked.
"Individually? Not anymore. Most are just running or hiding. But we'll catch them." He gave a firm nod. "Steadily. Quietly."
Harry appreciated that.
Quiet was good.
Quiet meant nothing like last year.
When Kingsley left, Hogwarts felt strangely louder. Students shouted instructions across the courtyard, scaffolding clanked, and sparks from spellwork drifted like small fireflies.
Hermione walked beside Harry, arms full of parchment.
"It's strange," she said suddenly. "Seeing the world react like this."
"React how?"
"Like they're watching us. Like we're a test case." She glanced at him. "After two wars, Britain is… fragile. Ministries abroad don't want the instability to spread."
Harry nodded but said nothing.
A gust of wind blew a few sheets from Hermione's stack. Harry caught them before they hit the ground.
"What are these?" he asked, glancing at the old ink.
"Warding blueprints," Hermione replied. "Some date back centuries. I'm helping Professor Vector sort them."
Harry blinked. "You're reading ancient blueprints for fun?"
She flushed slightly. "I'm… contributing. In my own way."
Harry offered a faint smile. "I'm glad someone understands them."
"It's confusing at first," Hermione admitted. "But once you see the pattern…"
She didn't finish. Instead, she gestured toward the castle doors.
"Come on. There's still a lot to do."
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of stone dust, spell bursts, and tired students. When dinner came, the Great Hall buzzed with low conversation.
At one point, Hannah Abbott passed Harry a newspaper from her table.
"Thought you'd want to see," she said softly.
Another headline:
FUGITIVE CAPTURED IN YORKSHIRE
NO RESISTANCE—AURORS CONTINUE QUIET SWEEP
Harry read the short article. It wasn't dramatic. No injuries. No battle. Just a routine arrest.
He folded it and passed it back.
The world was healing. Slowly, awkwardly, unevenly. But healing.
After dinner, Harry walked alone to the Entrance Hall. He looked up through the open archway at the sky—pale purple, streaked with gold. A few owls flew past, carrying letters to distant places.
Somewhere out there, other ministries waited for reports. Other students read newspapers about Britain. Other families wondered how stable the post-war era truly was.
Harry let out a long breath.
He didn't feel like a hero.
He didn't feel like a leader.
But he felt… present.
And for now, that was enough.