Drarry One Shots

Possibilities

A/N I was having a sort out and came across this story, it actually ended up morphing into part of a larger story and those of you who have read my story 'The Golden Snitch' may recognise some parts. I still like it as a one shot, so I decided to post it. It doesn't go anywhere, but holds a whole host of possibilities for the future in it for you to imagine. It was inspired by the image above (called 'Solitude' by Elentori).

WARNING: it refers to self-harm. If you may find this triggering, please don't read.

Contains swearing.

As not all the students had returned to finish their N.E.W.T.s after the Battle of Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall had provided the year eights with a special area in the castle which made up their dorms and common room as one collective. Amazingly, it seemed to capture the best elements of each house combined into one area and it sort of felt like home again, sort of. Classes were the same, sort of, the Great Hall was the same, sort of, and Quidditch was the same, sort of. But the friendships weren't: everyone was slightly wary of each other; the groups huddled closer to each other; the whispering was more hushed; the younger students looked at the older ones with awe, and a little bit of fear; the staff smiled knowingly, were a bit kinder, and nodded sympathetically in the corridors to the students who had lost parents, siblings, friends, after the battle.

For Harry, things were no different. People still stared, still watched him, still pointed. Whispers of 'That's the famous Harry Potter' still followed him. But for the others, it was a new phenomenon. Some found it too awkward, like Hermione, who blushed wildly whenever people whispered about the cleverest witch of her age. Others appeared to revel in it, like Ron, who grinned from ear-to-ear and too loudly offered his autograph to any who would like it. But even Ron found it hard, the false bravado would slip and more than once Harry found him numbly staring at a photo of Fred.

For Harry, the weight of the war was often too much, he could only think of the dead, of Remus and Tonks, Fred, Colin, and then of Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, Dobby, and Snape.

His true escape was his Quidditch. The year eights weren't supposed to partake in the house cups but he couldn't stop himself from helping with the Gryffindor coaching on alternate Saturday mornings. And McGonagall seemed to have turned a blind eye. Madame Hooch also asked him help with some of the first years' lessons, when he had a free period. The first time he turned up it caused quite a stir but things eventually settled down. Harry wasn't the only one to have found himself helping out with lessons, Neville spent more and more time in the greenhouses with Professor Sprout. In fact, Neville found himself teaching some of the older years Herbology because he was so gifted and it was even rumoured that Professor Sprout had only promised to stay on at Hogwarts until he had qualified and could take over from her.

On the Saturdays when Harry wasn't training with the Gryffindor team he would rise early, take his broom and go for a ride, often stopping on an island on the Black Lake near the one where Dumbledore was buried. He couldn't quite bring himself to stop at Dumbledore's island: it still held incredible, wrenching sadness for him, but there were also questions, questions that, if he thought about them too much, would make him angry. Snape's memory kept playing and the words 'you've raised him to die' kept ringing in his ears.

Sometimes he wanted to run away from it all, at those times he would go to the library where he would take comfort in the musty smell of old books and the quiet stillness. Often he wouldn't even glance at a book, he would sit on the window seat in the large library window staring out over the grounds or watching the starry night. Other times, his comfort was sitting by the fire in the slightly hushed quiet of the year-eight common room, sunk deep into the sagging sofa, staring at the flames in the hearth. At times like this, he would pull out the Golden Snitch that Dumbledore had bequeathed to him and it would hover around him, gently fluttering near his shoulder, and if he got too morose it would nudge him and bump against him, like it wanted to play. It seemed to understand him, to connect to his heart.