Morning sunlight filtered through the enchanted glass panels of the temporary Ministry tents, casting soft gold lines across the rubble-littered courtyard. Harry made his way through the columns of stone and canvas, feeling the low hum of movement around him. The Ministry was rebuilding slowly, carefully—almost cautiously—like a wounded creature testing its limbs.
People stepped aside for him without being asked.
Some greeted him openly, some with solemn nods, others with awkward half-smiles that said they didn't quite know how to behave around him. Harry tried to return every gesture, though he still felt strange wearing the reputation forced upon him. Fame after defeating Voldemort was different—heavier, quieter. Less glitter, more expectation.
He passed a group of junior clerks huddled over scattered files.
"…another arrest in the Midlands—caught trying to flee through an old Floo point…"
"…still no sign of Dolohov…"
"…Minister wants the reports by noon—no exceptions…"
A month ago, words like arrest or Dolohov would've tensed his muscles. Now they floated around him like echoes of a fading storm. The battle was over, but the cleanup had only begun. Voldemort's fall didn't magically erase his followers. Some ran, some hid, and some blended back into society hoping the world was too tired to look closely.
Harry pushed through the flap of Kingsley Shackelbolt's temporary office. The noise lowered instantly—one of the perks of having heavy privacy charms woven into the canvas.
"Harry," Kingsley greeted warmly, standing from behind a makeshift wooden desk covered in maps, reports, and half-eaten toast. "You're early."
"I didn't sleep much," Harry admitted, dropping into the chair opposite him.
Kingsley chuckled. "You'll fit into the Ministry perfectly."
Harry cracked a smile. "I hope not."
Kingsley's amusement lingered only briefly. His expression shifted to the more familiar version: calm, thoughtful, carrying the weight of an entire government on shoulders that looked too broad to break but were still human.
"I received last night's Auror reports," Kingsley said, sliding a parchment toward him. "Three more captures."
Harry scanned the names. None were high-ranking. All minor soldiers—men and women who'd fought under Voldemort without holding any significant position.
"They tried disguising themselves as Muggle factory workers," Kingsley explained. "Used forged papers. That alone gave them away."
"Because they had the Dark Mark?" Harry asked.
Kingsley nodded slightly. "Two of them did. One didn't."
Harry leaned back, absorbing that. He had been expecting the answer, but it was different hearing it confirmed.
"So checking arms helps," Harry said, "but it won't solve everything."
Kingsley steepled his fingers. "Exactly. Maybe a third of Voldemort's followers ever bore the Mark. Some Death Eaters never earned—or wanted—his trust. Others served in silence, kept themselves clean so they could operate in places Voldemort needed… Ministry offices, public positions, foreign networks."
Harry frowned. "And without the Mark, how do we find them?"
Kingsley sighed. "Slowly. Carefully. And sometimes, not at all until they betray themselves."
It wasn't alarming the way Kingsley said it. It wasn't meant to be. It was simply a fact—a truth of war's aftermath. Harry appreciated that. Honesty was better than false reassurance.
"We're checking suspected groups, tracing financial movements, comparing witness statements," Kingsley continued. "But justice is a patient creature, Harry. And we must be even more patient, or we risk becoming what we fought."
Harry nodded, understanding. The Ministry couldn't drag random people in for interrogation. They couldn't storm homes because a neighbor whispered that someone looked suspicious. They wanted peace, not paranoia.
Kingsley took a slow sip of tea. "You should know something else. Some groups—very small groups—have begun to call themselves traditionalists."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Traditionalists?"
Kingsley's mouth tightened. "Old families. Isolated ideologies. People who resent the changes. Some fear Muggle cooperation. Some fear losing… well, their version of the world."
Harry didn't comment yet. He let Kingsley speak.
"They aren't violent," the Minister added quickly. "Not organized. Not dangerous at this stage. Just whispers. Meetings. Statements." He paused. "It happens after every war. Some people cling to the past harder when the future begins to shift."
"And you're not acting on it?" Harry asked.
Kingsley shook his head. "Not until there's something to act on. People are allowed to disagree with the government. They're allowed to grieve their old normal. We intervene only if they cross a line."
It felt… right. Balanced. Exactly what Harry wanted from the Ministry: strength without aggression.
A rustle outside the tent made them look up as Hermione entered, hair slightly frizzy from wind and cheeks flushed. She held a stack of papers nearly the size of her torso.
"Morning," she said brightly before nearly tripping over a box of confiscated wands.
Harry caught her arm. "Careful."
She huffed. "Why does every temporary workspace look like it was organized by garden trolls?"
Kingsley hid a smile. "Good to see enthusiasm hasn't dimmed."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Sir, enthusiasm is all that's keeping most of your junior staff awake."
Harry snorted. Hermione shot him a look that wasn't truly annoyed.
"Kingsley," she continued, setting down her stack with a thud, "I've compiled the list of potential ministry employees who were in key positions during the height of the war. Some of them might have been coerced, some threatened, but we need to interview them—quietly."
"Quietly," Harry echoed.
Hermione glanced at him. "Yes. We don't want panic. Or distrust. And we definitely don't want innocent people punished because rumors spread."
Kingsley said, "Agreed."
Harry looked between them—Minister and student, leader and volunteer—and felt something settle inside him. Stability. Direction. The world wasn't fixed, not yet, but people were trying. Genuinely trying.
And he wanted to be part of that.
A soft tapping at the tent announced a messenger.
"Minister," the woman said, "another report from the field teams. Two more captures—one near Leeds, one near Bristol. Both minor offenders. No resistance."
Kingsley dismissed her with thanks.
Harry leaned forward. "Looks like it'll continue for a while."
"Oh, months at least," Kingsley confirmed. "Possibly years for the more elusive ones."
Harry's eyes lowered to the reports. Years. Voldemort's war wouldn't fade—it would bleed slowly out of the world, drop by drop.
Hermione spoke gently. "This is how it works after wars. It's not glamorous. It's not fast. But this is the part that matters."
Harry nodded. He felt that truth sink deep.
Kingsley pushed another parchment toward him. "And I'd like your help. Not as the Chosen One or symbol or anything the papers want. Just as Harry Potter. Someone who knows what we're dealing with."
Harry felt something warm and steady fill his chest.
He gave a simple answer.
"Yeah. I want to help."
Kingsley smiled, a rare full smile that reached his eyes. "Then we start small. Quiet. One step at a time."
Outside, the courtyard buzzed with cautious energy. Workers lifted stone, clerks sorted letters, Aurors moved in teams, rebuilding the world piece by piece. And Harry felt himself being rebuilt with it—not into a hero, not into a leader, but into someone who could choose his place.
Someone who wouldn't run from studying or responsibilities anymore.
Someone who, slowly, chapter by chapter, would become more.
But not yet.
For now, he stood, rolled the stiffness from his shoulders, and joined Kingsley and Hermione at the desk as they began sorting through the next stack of quiet, steady tasks required to heal a world.
War had ended.
Rebuilding had begun.
And Harry was ready to move with it—gently, patiently, step by step.