The smoke had begun settling by dawn, but Hogwarts still smelled like fire.
Harry stepped over a collapsed stone archway, boots crunching on ash and broken glass. The battle's noise had faded only hours ago, yet the silence felt heavier than any curse he'd ever faced. The corridors were dim, lit only by flickering torches the teachers had restored after the fighting. Every few steps, the wall bore a scorch mark or a half-melted sconce, reminders that victory had come at a price far too large to comprehend.
He had walked these halls for years, but now each corridor felt unfamiliar—like the castle itself was holding its breath, unsure whether to rejoice or mourn.
Harry wasn't sure either.
His wand hand trembled slightly, though he kept it hidden inside his sleeve. A habit from years of pretending he was fine when he wasn't. He didn't want anyone to see—not Ron, not Hermione, and definitely not the professors trying to keep their exhaustion from showing.
He passed the entrance to the Great Hall. The doors were propped open, and a faint breeze carried the smell of burnt wood. Inside, the long tables were half destroyed, the enchanted ceiling still struggling to recreate a morning sky. The gaps in the illusion flickered between sunlight and smoke.
A group of students and teachers lingered near the front, murmuring softly around makeshift beds. A few were crying. Someone was trying to repair a shattered bench with shaking hands.
Harry couldn't bring himself to enter. He didn't want sympathy. Or questions. Or the weight of being "The Boy Who Won" pressed on him when he barely understood how he was still standing.
Instead, he turned down a corridor that had always been quieter during school hours. Now it felt abandoned.
The stones were dusty under his fingers as he traced the wall lightly. It felt strange touching something so constant after everything else had been torn apart. Hogwarts had always felt indestructible—an anchor in a shifting world. But even the castle had cracked.
He stopped at a shattered window overlooking the courtyard. Rubble covered the grass, and the Whomping Willow stood unnaturally still, as if stunned by the night's events.
Harry exhaled shakily. He didn't feel relief. Just a hollow ache. The kind that didn't fade with victory.
A part of him had expected something to change inside him now that it was over. Some kind of release, or clarity, or… something. Instead, it felt like he had simply traded one weight for another.
The prophecy was gone. Voldemort was gone.
But the guilt wasn't.
He pressed his forehead lightly against the cool stone beside the window. "It's over," he whispered. The words didn't feel real. Didn't feel earned.
A piece of ceiling tile shifted somewhere behind him and crashed to the ground. Instinctively, Harry spun, wand raised—before he forced himself to lower it again. His heart hammered. Too fast. Too sensitively tuned to threats that no longer existed.
He closed his eyes and breathed, feeling foolish for reacting to rubble. "Get a grip," he muttered.
But the castle gave no comfort.
Instead, he felt the exhaustion tightening around him, trying to drag him down. The weight of the dead. The wounded. The families who would never get closure. Fred. Remus. Tonks. The names flashed through him like sparks that refused to die.
He pushed himself off the wall and continued walking, because standing still felt worse.
The next corridor led toward Ravenclaw Tower, though the staircase had collapsed. It forced him to turn again, retracing his steps until he found a path that hadn't caved in. He wasn't sure where he was going—he only knew he needed to keep moving.
He ended up near the entrance to the old Charms corridor. The classroom doors were cracked open, chairs overturned as though students had fled during the attack. A broken window let in a draft of cold morning air.
He stepped inside.
The room was a mess—parchment scattered, feathers crushed under debris, one desk split neatly in half. But something about the familiar layout eased the tension in his shoulders a fraction. He remembered sitting here years ago, trying to get Wingardium Leviosa right while Hermione corrected Ron's pronunciation. He remembered laughing. Arguing. Being ordinary.
He hadn't felt ordinary in a long time.
Harry moved toward the teacher's desk, brushing some rubble away. He didn't know why he bothered—there was no neatness left to save—but the small act helped him steady himself. He had always tried to keep moving when things got too heavy. This was the closest he could get.
"You're up early."
Harry turned. Hermione stood in the doorway, looking exhausted but trying to hide it. Dirt smudged her cheek, and the collar of her shirt had a tear, but her expression was steady.
Ron leaned beside her, arms crossed, an attempt at casualness undermined by the hollow look in his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept at all.
Harry offered a weak smile. "Didn't feel like lying around."
Hermione stepped inside, surveying the room with a tight breath. "Hard to believe this was where we complained about homework."
Ron snorted, though it lacked humor. "You complained about homework. We complained about you making us do homework."
Hermione shot him a tired glare. Harry felt something loosen in his chest. This—this familiar bickering—was grounding.
"Where've you been?" Ron asked. "We looked in the dorms."
"Just walking," Harry said.
Alone.
The unspoken part hung in the air.
Ron opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Hermione placed a hand on Harry's arm, gentle and brief, not wanting to crowd him.
"We're here," she said simply.
Harry nodded. It was all he could manage. Gratitude and guilt mixed together and made it hard to breathe.
Hermione glanced around. "McGonagall wants everyone to meet in the Great Hall once they've rested. She said… she said they're going to start… arrangements."
None of them needed to clarify what that meant.
Harry swallowed. "I'll come in a minute."
Hermione hesitated, then nodded. She squeezed his arm again before stepping back toward the hallway.
Ron lingered. "We'll wait outside for you, mate."
Harry appreciated that more than he could say.
He remained in the Charms classroom for another minute, letting the silence settle around him. Out the broken windows, the sky was lightening. The smoke clouds were thinning. The first soft colors of dawn touched the castle stones.
He didn't want to face the Great Hall. The grief. The faces. The weight of expectation from people who saw him as something he wasn't sure he could be.
But he forced himself to move anyway.
When Harry stepped outside the ruined entrance of Hogwarts, the air was cold and crisp, brushing against his face like a quiet reminder that the world still existed. The courtyard stretched before him—charred in places, but open. Honest. Real.
He walked to a piece of broken wall and sat, elbows on his knees, watching the sun rise slowly over the horizon.
The ash in the air glowed faintly in the early light. It looked almost peaceful, drifting lazily across the grounds like remnants of a night the world was trying to forget.
Harry watched silently.
For the first time since the battle ended, he allowed himself to feel tired. Bone-deep tired. Like the fight had been wrung out of him completely.
He didn't know what came next. School? The Ministry? A future he hadn't planned for?
All he knew was that the war was over, and the dawn felt unfamiliar.
Quiet. Heavy. Waiting.
Ron and Hermione stood a short distance away, giving him space but staying close. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
Harry watched the sun finally break over the hills, the first true morning after Voldemort's defeat.
A new beginning.
One he didn't understand yet.
One he wasn't sure he was ready for.
But it was here.
And he would face it.
One step at a time.