Fic: Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect for lyras
Title: Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect
Author: xylodemon
Recipent: lyras
Character(s): Minerva McGonagall, Dumbledore's Army
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2,700
Summary: Over a month had passed, but Hogwarts still smelled of blood and dust and smoke.
A/N: For lyras, who wanted a little something about picking up the pieces after the war. Thanks to FB for the beta. Title from The Decemberists.
Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect
Over a month had passed, but Hogwarts still smelled of blood and dust and smoke.
The front doors hung crookedly on their hinges, the wood splintered in places and badly scorched, and most the windows on the ground floor were shattered, their ragged frames empty, staring out toward the Forbidden Forest like hollow, unblinking eyes. Trees had been uprooted and gardens had been trampled into stretches of dirt. Broken stones littered both courtyards, and ruined suits of armour waited in twisted, crumpled heaps, many still clutching their swords in defiance.
An ancient fountain shaped like a flowering Flitterbloom rested on its side, still bubbling quietly and snapped cleanly in two; Minerva had often studied in its shade as a student.
"This is no time to grow maudlin," she told herself sternly, picking a slow and careful path toward the Great Hall.
Dark magic often left behind a shadow, an unsettling itch in the air, a certain staleness on the tip of the tongue; Minerva could feel it if she closed her eyes, could taste it if she tried.
She didn't look at the place where Fred had fallen, where Neville had left bloody footprints on the stairs.
--
"We will need to make solid plans," Minerva said crisply, "if we have any intention of opening in the fall."
The Three Broomsticks was quiet this early in the afternoon; Rosmerta busied herself behind the bar, humming softly as she Charmed smudges from the tumblers and tapped corks into the bottles, and the pub's two or three permanent residents were already starting to nod into their drinks. Minerva had chosen a table far from the front door, casting a quick Muffilato as the other professors had taken their chairs.
"We must open in the fall," Filius said, his mouth pulling tight at the corners. "The events of last term left many of the students behind."
"I rather don't see how we can," Pomona argued, frowning into her glass of sherry. Her voice was bruised and thick; the greenhouses had all but been destroyed. "The damage is far too extensive."
Aurora and Septima exchanged uncertain glances, and Bathsheba took a long, silent sip of her tea. With Kingley's help, Minerva was presently arranging a time and place to hold the OWLs and NEWTs the students had missed, but she had doubts on how well the students would score. Severus had been forced into a narrow curriculum last term, and the Carrows had filled the students' heads with little but rubbish and fear.
Minerva thought, quite suddenly, of Harry -- of the dirt that had streaked his pale face, of the way his tired voice had cracked as he'd cast a Shield Charm to protect Molly Weasley from Voldemort's rage.
"We will open in the fall," she said firmly. "We will simply have to find a way."
--
Hogwarts was nearly one thousand years old, had been raised with spells forgotten centuries before anyone living had been born, and ancient magic was often difficult to work with, could be temperamental after long periods of domancy. The worst damage had been suffered on the ground floor, but the magical disruption had caused other problems to spring up like weeds -- a slow leak in the Slytherin dungeons, a slight lean to Ravenclaw Tower, a certain drift in a handful of the staircases.
Minerva trusted Kingsley, but the Ministry was still a shambles so soon after Voldemort's death, was still peppered with workers sympathetic to Fudge and Scrimgeour. Kingsley needed to keep the people he trusted close, and Minerva didn't want gawkers or loiterers or people just looking to get their names in the papers.
She spread the word quietly, with whispers and nods and carefully worded letters. Filch swept the floors and Pomona planted new seedlings and Poppy put fresh sheets on the hospital beds, and Minerva Banished rubble from the Great Hall and straightened the balustrade on the Gryffindor stairs while she waited for responses, for returned owls and familiar heads in her Floo.
"I am trying, Albus," Minerva said quietly, stirring her seventh cup of tea. A dull, sullen ache was throbbing across her temples. "I am doing my best."
Albus shifted in his frame, restless even as a portrait. "I am not worried. Your best has always been more than enough."
--
Neville was the very first to arrive, trudging slowly up the walk as Minerva wasted every repairing Charm she knew on the front doors. She was covered in dust well past her elbows, and the sky was still heavy and grey.
"Good morning, professor," Neville said brightly, a bulging rucksack slung over his shoulder. "I hear you could use some help."
"All we can get," Minerva admitted. "The greenhouses are in rather poor shape. Professor Sprout will be pleased to see you."
"I reckon she will, at that," Neville said, patting his rucksack. He seemed taller than Minerva remembered, perhaps because he'd forgotten to slouch. "I brought some cuttings from my garden, and I borrowed a few old Herbology books from my gran."
She tried an Alohomora on the stubborn doors; they creaked loudly and shuddered a little but did not open.
"That's all right," Neville said, Levitating his rucksack over the low courtyard wall. "I'll just cut through this way."
Minerva watched him as he scrambled over the wall; she could almost think she'd imagined that pudgy, nervous boy who'd needed a Remembrall to keep track of his toad.
--
"Hogwarts: A History has three full chapters on the Founding," Hermione said, her voice wilting around the edges. The book was still in her hand, closed around her finger. "But it doesn't give any details on the magic the Founders used."
Minerva straightened up slowly, wincing as a sharp pain welled in the small of her back. She'd been wasting more repair Charms -- this time on the Flitterbloom fountain in the courtyard -- and mud caked the tops of her boots, darkened the hem of her dress. The afternoon sun was high in the sky, bright and relentless; Hermione's hair was trying to escape a hasty bun, curling wildly where it wasn't stuck to her neck and forehead with sweat.
"I am not surprised," Minerva said hoarsely. Dust coated the back of her throat and tickled the inside of her nose. "The Founders were the most talented witches and wizard in magical history. It is very likely they built Hogwarts with spells of their own creation."
Half the fountain rolled toward Minerva's foot, landing in the mud with a thick squelch.
"I think we should owl Bill Weasley," Hermione said, prodding a broken chunk of stone with her foot. "He must've worked with far older magic in Egypt."
"I already did," Minerva said tiredly. "We're expecting him tomorrow morning."
--
She saw Harry for the first time late in the evening, dredging the dungeons with Ron, Ginny, and Aurora. Filius and Septima had finally worked out the patchwork of Charms and equations needed to close up the leak in the wall, but not before two supply cupboards had flooded and the Slytherin common room had taken nearly a foot of water. Everything smelled damp and mouldy and stale; Ron was soaked to the skin, and Ginny had sodden weeds tangled in her hair.
"It's good to see you, professor," Harry said, his glasses crooked and his trousers wet to the knees.
"It's good to see you," Minerva said, smiling softly. "Are you well?"
"Well enough."
He seemed thinner than Minerva remembered, had shadows under his eyes the colour of a bruise, but he also seemed happy -- happier than Minerva had seen in some time. She thought, briefly, of Hagrid crashing through the Forbidden Forest with a bundle in his arms, of the tight pain that had flared in her chest when Hagrid had laid Harry's body on the grass.
"I'm -- I'm sorry, you know, for all the stuff I said after Dumbledore died," he said quietly, tapping his wand against his thigh. "You only wanted to help."
"It's quite all right," Minerva said, patting his shoulder. "Albus was never the easiest man to work for."
--
"Have you been to Egypt, professor?" Bill asked.
Minerva shook her head. "No, I haven't."
"There's magic in everything there. The Pyramids, the Sphinx, the Valley of the Kings -- it's all fairly crackling with it," Bill said, taking a long sip of pumpkin juice. "You can almost touch it. The Muggles even notice it, they just don't know what it is. They put it down to mirages, or heartburn from the local mesa'a'ah.
A tired breeze curled through the courtyard, barely stirring the sluggish air. They were resting under one of the few trees that hadn't been uprooted; Bill was sprawled out on the grass, and Minerva was sitting on a squat, three-legged stool she had Transfigured from a twig. It was a miserable, scorching afternoon, but the pumpkin juice was chilled and the tree gave a neat patch of shade, large enough that it nearly stretched to Bill's feet.
"Things were very different, back then," Bill continued, rubbing his thumb over the scar on his nose. "People were closer to nature... to wherever it is magic comes from. They didn't use wands. They didn't really use spells, either -- not like we do, anyway. They just," he made a slow, expansive gesture, "had a thought or idea, and used magic to make it happen."
Across the courtyard, Luna knelt in the dirt, patiently replanting one of the ravaged gardens. Her feet were bare and she had twigs stuck in her hair, and she sang as she worked, something soft and lilting and wordless. Behind her, Hagrid and Grawp hoisted a fallen tree, heaving on the heavy ropes looped around its trunk; once it was upright, Pomona and Neville began coaxing the roots back into the ground with a combination of spells, potions, and old-fashioned gardening tools. One of the roots tried to wrap itself around Neville's leg, and Bill laughed quietly as Neville smacked it with a spade.
"It rather feels like the castle is fighting us," Minerva said.
Bill considered this for a moment. "It probably is. Places this old... they develop their own personalities over time, and they don't always respond well to sudden changes. I think we can get it sorted, but it'll take patience and time."
"Both of those things," Minerva said tartly, "are on very short supply."
--
The Great Hall had been cleared of dust and rubble and bloodstains, but it felt strange and cavernous with so few people in it, still showed signs of the battle through the scorch marks on the walls and the chunks of marble missing from the floor. They took supper in the staff room instead, spreading out on the couches and armchairs as the house-elves served chicken sandwiches and pumpkin soup.
Minerva sipped her tea and Bathsheba copied runes onto a scrap of parchment and the Boggart thumped and rattled inside the wardrobe.
After the dishes were cleared away, Luna mixed camomile, lavender, and ashwagandha into a large bowl she Transfigured from a candlestick. It clung to her fingers as she worked, filling the staff room with a sharp, acrid smelled; she told Neville that the castle was angry, that sprinkling these herbs around the doorways and windows would help soothe the castle's nerves.
Minerva didn't think it would help, but she also figured it couldn't hurt.
--
Seamus and Dean showed just before breakfast, followed shortly by Hannah, Susan, Ernie, and Zacharias. They were armed with brooms and mops and buckets and rags, and Minerva set them to a handful of small tasks the castle seemed willing to accept -- sweeping and clearing rubble, straightening portraits and repairing desks. They split themselves into pairs to cover more ground, and they told stories as they worked, things that started with remember when and I'll never forget.
Voldemort's giants had nearly destroyed the Quidditch pitch, but Alicia brought a bag of grass seed when she arrived, and Katie knew enough Gardening Charms to start it growing decently. Angelina tried a few basic woodworking spells on the slowly collapsing stands, and Oliver lectured Rolanda on Puddlemere's defensive strategies as they helped Hagrid and Grawp raise the hoops.
Michael and Justin went up to the Library, where they helped Irma reshelve all the fallen books, and Lavender took the Patil twins to the North Tower, where they helped Sybill pick through the wreckage of her classroom. Lee repaired all the broken statues on the ground floor, and Anthony mended rends in all the torn tapestries. Cho and Terry settled in with Septima in the staff room, and together they tried to work out the equations needed to fix the lean on Ravenclaw Tower.
They took lunch in the Great Hall, the students clustered together at the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, the food appearing in front of them the way it was meant to. Terry spilled his pumpkin juice and Ron threw a roll at Percy and Neville laughed brightly at something Hannah said to Susan. Minerva's hand shook as she stirred her tea; the room was still a bit cavernous and cold, but sound of familiar voices chased away some of the bad memories and most of the dust.
--
"Fenestro Reparo!" Filius said hopefully.
The remaining shards of glass twitched, then slowly -- very slowly -- stretched toward each other, until a single, unbroken pane filled the window frame.
Minerva felt a lump build in her throat, burning sharply as she tried to swallow, the closest thing to hope she'd had since she'd first aimed her wand at the crooked front doors.
--
She paused outside Filch's office, turning back as she heard hushed voices at the other end of the corridor. She followed it down a smaller hallway, where she found Harry and Ron surrounded by suits of armour in various states of repair.
"Charlie and George are having a look at that supply cupboard we can't open," Harry explained, when he caught Minerva watching them. "We figured we'd get these sorted while we waited."
"Hermione found a spell for fixing breastplates dented in battle," Ron said, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. "I thought she was mental at first, but it's getting the job done."
--
"It's the students," Minerva said suddenly, looking up from her short-list of potential Defence professors. "I think the castle wanted the students to return."
The staff room was dark and cold; the torches had burned low and the fire was quietly dying.
"We should've thought of that sooner," Pomona said, her teacup paused halfway to her mouth. She had leaves in the collar of her robes and a streak of dirt framing the line of her jaw. "Albus always said this place belonged to the children."
--
"Reparo!"
"Reparo!"
"Reparo!"
"Reparo!"
--
It was a crisp, cloudless morning, the sky bright and clear and the quickly rising sun already promising a blistering afternoon. Minerva stood at the window, her hand twisted in the drapes as she watched Hagrid trudge toward his cottage, a pair of shrubs tucked under his arms. Grawp trailed behind him, his green hair stirring in the breeze; the two halves of the Flitterbloom fountain looked like toys in his huge hands.
The Great Hall still needed a bit of work, but the entrance hall was nearly finished, and every window on the ground floor had finally been restored. The suits of armour were back at their stations and all the desks had been repaired, and only a small handful of classrooms still showed signs of damage. She still needed to find professors for Muggle Studies and Defense, but Slughorn's latest owl had made her cautiously optimistic about Potions, even if he'd strongly hinted that he wanted another raise.
Filch had removed the last of the mould from the dungeons, and Hermione had offered to help Filius with the letters.
Albus' pensive glowed softly in the corner.
"We've done it," Minerva said quietly. "I really think we've done it."
"Of course you did," Albus said, his voice far too cheerful before Minerva's first cup of tea. "I never doubted you for a moment."
*
Author: xylodemon
Recipent: lyras
Character(s): Minerva McGonagall, Dumbledore's Army
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2,700
Summary: Over a month had passed, but Hogwarts still smelled of blood and dust and smoke.
A/N: For lyras, who wanted a little something about picking up the pieces after the war. Thanks to FB for the beta. Title from The Decemberists.
Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect
Over a month had passed, but Hogwarts still smelled of blood and dust and smoke.
The front doors hung crookedly on their hinges, the wood splintered in places and badly scorched, and most the windows on the ground floor were shattered, their ragged frames empty, staring out toward the Forbidden Forest like hollow, unblinking eyes. Trees had been uprooted and gardens had been trampled into stretches of dirt. Broken stones littered both courtyards, and ruined suits of armour waited in twisted, crumpled heaps, many still clutching their swords in defiance.
An ancient fountain shaped like a flowering Flitterbloom rested on its side, still bubbling quietly and snapped cleanly in two; Minerva had often studied in its shade as a student.
"This is no time to grow maudlin," she told herself sternly, picking a slow and careful path toward the Great Hall.
Dark magic often left behind a shadow, an unsettling itch in the air, a certain staleness on the tip of the tongue; Minerva could feel it if she closed her eyes, could taste it if she tried.
She didn't look at the place where Fred had fallen, where Neville had left bloody footprints on the stairs.
--
"We will need to make solid plans," Minerva said crisply, "if we have any intention of opening in the fall."
The Three Broomsticks was quiet this early in the afternoon; Rosmerta busied herself behind the bar, humming softly as she Charmed smudges from the tumblers and tapped corks into the bottles, and the pub's two or three permanent residents were already starting to nod into their drinks. Minerva had chosen a table far from the front door, casting a quick Muffilato as the other professors had taken their chairs.
"We must open in the fall," Filius said, his mouth pulling tight at the corners. "The events of last term left many of the students behind."
"I rather don't see how we can," Pomona argued, frowning into her glass of sherry. Her voice was bruised and thick; the greenhouses had all but been destroyed. "The damage is far too extensive."
Aurora and Septima exchanged uncertain glances, and Bathsheba took a long, silent sip of her tea. With Kingley's help, Minerva was presently arranging a time and place to hold the OWLs and NEWTs the students had missed, but she had doubts on how well the students would score. Severus had been forced into a narrow curriculum last term, and the Carrows had filled the students' heads with little but rubbish and fear.
Minerva thought, quite suddenly, of Harry -- of the dirt that had streaked his pale face, of the way his tired voice had cracked as he'd cast a Shield Charm to protect Molly Weasley from Voldemort's rage.
"We will open in the fall," she said firmly. "We will simply have to find a way."
--
Hogwarts was nearly one thousand years old, had been raised with spells forgotten centuries before anyone living had been born, and ancient magic was often difficult to work with, could be temperamental after long periods of domancy. The worst damage had been suffered on the ground floor, but the magical disruption had caused other problems to spring up like weeds -- a slow leak in the Slytherin dungeons, a slight lean to Ravenclaw Tower, a certain drift in a handful of the staircases.
Minerva trusted Kingsley, but the Ministry was still a shambles so soon after Voldemort's death, was still peppered with workers sympathetic to Fudge and Scrimgeour. Kingsley needed to keep the people he trusted close, and Minerva didn't want gawkers or loiterers or people just looking to get their names in the papers.
She spread the word quietly, with whispers and nods and carefully worded letters. Filch swept the floors and Pomona planted new seedlings and Poppy put fresh sheets on the hospital beds, and Minerva Banished rubble from the Great Hall and straightened the balustrade on the Gryffindor stairs while she waited for responses, for returned owls and familiar heads in her Floo.
"I am trying, Albus," Minerva said quietly, stirring her seventh cup of tea. A dull, sullen ache was throbbing across her temples. "I am doing my best."
Albus shifted in his frame, restless even as a portrait. "I am not worried. Your best has always been more than enough."
--
Neville was the very first to arrive, trudging slowly up the walk as Minerva wasted every repairing Charm she knew on the front doors. She was covered in dust well past her elbows, and the sky was still heavy and grey.
"Good morning, professor," Neville said brightly, a bulging rucksack slung over his shoulder. "I hear you could use some help."
"All we can get," Minerva admitted. "The greenhouses are in rather poor shape. Professor Sprout will be pleased to see you."
"I reckon she will, at that," Neville said, patting his rucksack. He seemed taller than Minerva remembered, perhaps because he'd forgotten to slouch. "I brought some cuttings from my garden, and I borrowed a few old Herbology books from my gran."
She tried an Alohomora on the stubborn doors; they creaked loudly and shuddered a little but did not open.
"That's all right," Neville said, Levitating his rucksack over the low courtyard wall. "I'll just cut through this way."
Minerva watched him as he scrambled over the wall; she could almost think she'd imagined that pudgy, nervous boy who'd needed a Remembrall to keep track of his toad.
--
"Hogwarts: A History has three full chapters on the Founding," Hermione said, her voice wilting around the edges. The book was still in her hand, closed around her finger. "But it doesn't give any details on the magic the Founders used."
Minerva straightened up slowly, wincing as a sharp pain welled in the small of her back. She'd been wasting more repair Charms -- this time on the Flitterbloom fountain in the courtyard -- and mud caked the tops of her boots, darkened the hem of her dress. The afternoon sun was high in the sky, bright and relentless; Hermione's hair was trying to escape a hasty bun, curling wildly where it wasn't stuck to her neck and forehead with sweat.
"I am not surprised," Minerva said hoarsely. Dust coated the back of her throat and tickled the inside of her nose. "The Founders were the most talented witches and wizard in magical history. It is very likely they built Hogwarts with spells of their own creation."
Half the fountain rolled toward Minerva's foot, landing in the mud with a thick squelch.
"I think we should owl Bill Weasley," Hermione said, prodding a broken chunk of stone with her foot. "He must've worked with far older magic in Egypt."
"I already did," Minerva said tiredly. "We're expecting him tomorrow morning."
--
She saw Harry for the first time late in the evening, dredging the dungeons with Ron, Ginny, and Aurora. Filius and Septima had finally worked out the patchwork of Charms and equations needed to close up the leak in the wall, but not before two supply cupboards had flooded and the Slytherin common room had taken nearly a foot of water. Everything smelled damp and mouldy and stale; Ron was soaked to the skin, and Ginny had sodden weeds tangled in her hair.
"It's good to see you, professor," Harry said, his glasses crooked and his trousers wet to the knees.
"It's good to see you," Minerva said, smiling softly. "Are you well?"
"Well enough."
He seemed thinner than Minerva remembered, had shadows under his eyes the colour of a bruise, but he also seemed happy -- happier than Minerva had seen in some time. She thought, briefly, of Hagrid crashing through the Forbidden Forest with a bundle in his arms, of the tight pain that had flared in her chest when Hagrid had laid Harry's body on the grass.
"I'm -- I'm sorry, you know, for all the stuff I said after Dumbledore died," he said quietly, tapping his wand against his thigh. "You only wanted to help."
"It's quite all right," Minerva said, patting his shoulder. "Albus was never the easiest man to work for."
--
"Have you been to Egypt, professor?" Bill asked.
Minerva shook her head. "No, I haven't."
"There's magic in everything there. The Pyramids, the Sphinx, the Valley of the Kings -- it's all fairly crackling with it," Bill said, taking a long sip of pumpkin juice. "You can almost touch it. The Muggles even notice it, they just don't know what it is. They put it down to mirages, or heartburn from the local mesa'a'ah.
A tired breeze curled through the courtyard, barely stirring the sluggish air. They were resting under one of the few trees that hadn't been uprooted; Bill was sprawled out on the grass, and Minerva was sitting on a squat, three-legged stool she had Transfigured from a twig. It was a miserable, scorching afternoon, but the pumpkin juice was chilled and the tree gave a neat patch of shade, large enough that it nearly stretched to Bill's feet.
"Things were very different, back then," Bill continued, rubbing his thumb over the scar on his nose. "People were closer to nature... to wherever it is magic comes from. They didn't use wands. They didn't really use spells, either -- not like we do, anyway. They just," he made a slow, expansive gesture, "had a thought or idea, and used magic to make it happen."
Across the courtyard, Luna knelt in the dirt, patiently replanting one of the ravaged gardens. Her feet were bare and she had twigs stuck in her hair, and she sang as she worked, something soft and lilting and wordless. Behind her, Hagrid and Grawp hoisted a fallen tree, heaving on the heavy ropes looped around its trunk; once it was upright, Pomona and Neville began coaxing the roots back into the ground with a combination of spells, potions, and old-fashioned gardening tools. One of the roots tried to wrap itself around Neville's leg, and Bill laughed quietly as Neville smacked it with a spade.
"It rather feels like the castle is fighting us," Minerva said.
Bill considered this for a moment. "It probably is. Places this old... they develop their own personalities over time, and they don't always respond well to sudden changes. I think we can get it sorted, but it'll take patience and time."
"Both of those things," Minerva said tartly, "are on very short supply."
--
The Great Hall had been cleared of dust and rubble and bloodstains, but it felt strange and cavernous with so few people in it, still showed signs of the battle through the scorch marks on the walls and the chunks of marble missing from the floor. They took supper in the staff room instead, spreading out on the couches and armchairs as the house-elves served chicken sandwiches and pumpkin soup.
Minerva sipped her tea and Bathsheba copied runes onto a scrap of parchment and the Boggart thumped and rattled inside the wardrobe.
After the dishes were cleared away, Luna mixed camomile, lavender, and ashwagandha into a large bowl she Transfigured from a candlestick. It clung to her fingers as she worked, filling the staff room with a sharp, acrid smelled; she told Neville that the castle was angry, that sprinkling these herbs around the doorways and windows would help soothe the castle's nerves.
Minerva didn't think it would help, but she also figured it couldn't hurt.
--
Seamus and Dean showed just before breakfast, followed shortly by Hannah, Susan, Ernie, and Zacharias. They were armed with brooms and mops and buckets and rags, and Minerva set them to a handful of small tasks the castle seemed willing to accept -- sweeping and clearing rubble, straightening portraits and repairing desks. They split themselves into pairs to cover more ground, and they told stories as they worked, things that started with remember when and I'll never forget.
Voldemort's giants had nearly destroyed the Quidditch pitch, but Alicia brought a bag of grass seed when she arrived, and Katie knew enough Gardening Charms to start it growing decently. Angelina tried a few basic woodworking spells on the slowly collapsing stands, and Oliver lectured Rolanda on Puddlemere's defensive strategies as they helped Hagrid and Grawp raise the hoops.
Michael and Justin went up to the Library, where they helped Irma reshelve all the fallen books, and Lavender took the Patil twins to the North Tower, where they helped Sybill pick through the wreckage of her classroom. Lee repaired all the broken statues on the ground floor, and Anthony mended rends in all the torn tapestries. Cho and Terry settled in with Septima in the staff room, and together they tried to work out the equations needed to fix the lean on Ravenclaw Tower.
They took lunch in the Great Hall, the students clustered together at the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, the food appearing in front of them the way it was meant to. Terry spilled his pumpkin juice and Ron threw a roll at Percy and Neville laughed brightly at something Hannah said to Susan. Minerva's hand shook as she stirred her tea; the room was still a bit cavernous and cold, but sound of familiar voices chased away some of the bad memories and most of the dust.
--
"Fenestro Reparo!" Filius said hopefully.
The remaining shards of glass twitched, then slowly -- very slowly -- stretched toward each other, until a single, unbroken pane filled the window frame.
Minerva felt a lump build in her throat, burning sharply as she tried to swallow, the closest thing to hope she'd had since she'd first aimed her wand at the crooked front doors.
--
She paused outside Filch's office, turning back as she heard hushed voices at the other end of the corridor. She followed it down a smaller hallway, where she found Harry and Ron surrounded by suits of armour in various states of repair.
"Charlie and George are having a look at that supply cupboard we can't open," Harry explained, when he caught Minerva watching them. "We figured we'd get these sorted while we waited."
"Hermione found a spell for fixing breastplates dented in battle," Ron said, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. "I thought she was mental at first, but it's getting the job done."
--
"It's the students," Minerva said suddenly, looking up from her short-list of potential Defence professors. "I think the castle wanted the students to return."
The staff room was dark and cold; the torches had burned low and the fire was quietly dying.
"We should've thought of that sooner," Pomona said, her teacup paused halfway to her mouth. She had leaves in the collar of her robes and a streak of dirt framing the line of her jaw. "Albus always said this place belonged to the children."
--
"Reparo!"
"Reparo!"
"Reparo!"
"Reparo!"
--
It was a crisp, cloudless morning, the sky bright and clear and the quickly rising sun already promising a blistering afternoon. Minerva stood at the window, her hand twisted in the drapes as she watched Hagrid trudge toward his cottage, a pair of shrubs tucked under his arms. Grawp trailed behind him, his green hair stirring in the breeze; the two halves of the Flitterbloom fountain looked like toys in his huge hands.
The Great Hall still needed a bit of work, but the entrance hall was nearly finished, and every window on the ground floor had finally been restored. The suits of armour were back at their stations and all the desks had been repaired, and only a small handful of classrooms still showed signs of damage. She still needed to find professors for Muggle Studies and Defense, but Slughorn's latest owl had made her cautiously optimistic about Potions, even if he'd strongly hinted that he wanted another raise.
Filch had removed the last of the mould from the dungeons, and Hermione had offered to help Filius with the letters.
Albus' pensive glowed softly in the corner.
"We've done it," Minerva said quietly. "I really think we've done it."
"Of course you did," Albus said, his voice far too cheerful before Minerva's first cup of tea. "I never doubted you for a moment."
*