Harry woke to the sound of rain tapping gently against glass.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The ceiling above him was white and smooth, threaded with faint golden runes that pulsed softly in time with his breathing. The air smelled of antiseptic potions and something sharper beneath, old magic, woven deep into the walls.
St Mungo's.
His body ached in a distant, manageable way, like soreness after a long flight on broomstick rather than the raw agony he half-remembered from the graveyard. He shifted slightly, testing himself. Bandages pulled across his forearm and chest, but nothing screamed in protest.
A healer noticed him stirring almost immediately.
"Ah...Mr Potter," she said briskly, peering down at him over half-moon spectacles that made her look faintly owl-like. "Good timing. You're being discharged this morning, assuming you don't do anything foolish like fainting dramatically."
Harry managed a small smile. "I'll try not to."
She flicked her wand, and the runes faded. "You'll continue the Pepper-Up regimen for another three days. No elemental magic, no transformations, and absolutely no dueling."
Harry opened his mouth.
The healer raised a brow.
"—Fine," he said, closing it again.
She nodded approvingly and swept out, already muttering about reckless children and the things she'd had to heal since the war began stirring again.
Harry sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. His clothes, clean, repaired, lay folded neatly on the chair beside his bed. Beneath them rested his wand.
The moment he touched it, magic hummed faintly in response, steady and familiar.
Still here, he thought. So am I.
The door opened before he could dwell too long on it.
"Oi!"
Ron's voice hit him like a Bludger, welcome, loud, and unmistakably alive.
Hermione followed close behind, eyes bright with relief, and Ginny just behind her, arms folded but lips curving despite herself.
"You're vertical," Ron said, grinning like he'd personally performed the miracle. "Good sign."
Hermione swatted his arm. "Harry, how do you feel?"
"Like I've been trampled by a hippogriff," Harry said honestly. "But… better."
Ginny stepped closer, studying him in that quiet, perceptive way she had. "You're really coming back?"
Harry nodded. "Dumbledore's arranging it. Today."
Ron let out a low whistle. "Blimey. Hogwarts must feel boring after, you know, graveyards, Dark Lords, and elemental earthquakes."
Harry snorted. "I'll take boring."
They helped him pack, Hermione fussing, Ron trying to sneak an extra chocolate frog into his bag, Ginny intercepting with practiced ease, and soon they were walking out together, the sterile white halls of St Mungo's giving way to London's grey morning.
The air outside felt different.
Sharper.
Freer.
When the Portkey activated beneath Dumbledore's hand, Harry barely felt the tug this time, just a brief lurch, then the familiar cool stone of Hogwarts beneath his feet.
He was home.
Word must have spread.
The moment Harry stepped into the Entrance Hall, conversation stopped.
Students turned. Whispers rippled outward. A few people froze mid-step, staring as if he might vanish if they blinked.
And then,
"Harry!"
Someone clapped him on the shoulder, Seamus, grinning like mad. Dean followed, then Neville, who looked as though he might cry from sheer relief.
"You're back," Neville said, voice thick. "Professor McGonagall said you would be, but…"
Harry smiled at him. "Told you I'd be fine."
Neville nodded fiercely, as though committing the moment to memory.
They escorted him toward the Great Hall like an informal honor guard, Ron talking a mile a minute about how much he'd missed and Hermione reminding him to let Harry breathe.
The doors swung open.
And the Hall erupted.
Applause rolled through the room, not polite, not restrained, but raw and overwhelming. Gryffindor was on its feet in an instant, cheers echoing off the enchanted ceiling. Hufflepuff joined in, followed by Ravenclaw.
Even some of the Slytherins clapped, though more cautiously.
Harry stopped just inside the doorway, stunned.
His ears burned. His chest tightened.
Dumbledore rose from the staff table, smile gentle and proud, and inclined his head. McGonagall's eyes shone. Sprout beamed openly. Flitwick applauded so enthusiastically he nearly toppled off his chair.
Snape did not clap.
But he did not look away, either.
Harry swallowed and raised a hand awkwardly. The applause softened as he made his way to the Gryffindor table, sitting down amid a flurry of pats on the back and relieved laughter.
Food appeared.
Harry ate like someone who had not truly eaten in days, hunger grounding him as much as the noise and warmth around him.
Then the owls arrived.
A hush fell as dozens of birds swooped in through the high windows, dropping newspapers onto tables.
The Daily Prophet landed squarely in front of Harry.
The headline made his stomach drop.
MINISTER DENIES DARK LORD'S RETURN
POTTER AND DUMBLEDORE ACCUSED OF MANIPULATION
Ron read it aloud in disbelief. "He...he's actually saying you made it up?"
Hermione snatched the paper. "This is absurd. He's contradicting his own Aurors, look, he's claiming memory tampering!"
Murmurs spread through the Hall as students read.
Anger flared.
"He's a coward," someone hissed.
"Typical Ministry."
Harry stared at the article, strangely calm.
He had seen this before, not in Britain, but on Pandora. Leaders denying truth to preserve power. Lies wrapped in authority.
"It won't work," he said quietly.
Ron looked at him. "How d'you know?"
Harry folded the paper. "Because people were there. Because the truth has weight. And because fear only lasts so long."
Hermione watched him carefully, something like awe in her expression.
The rest of the week passed in a blur.
Classes resumed, subdued and watchful. Professors treated Harry with careful normalcy, though more than one lingered a moment too long, as if reassuring themselves he was real.
Students stopped him in corridors, not all to praise, some simply to look, to ask quiet questions, to thank him.
The smear campaign grew louder.
Harry ignored it.
He trained lightly under Dumbledore's guidance, focused on control, on restraint. He spent evenings by the lake with his friends, the castle reflected in dark water, the future pressing close but no longer suffocating.
And then it was time to leave.
The Hogwarts Express steamed and hissed, scarlet against the green. Students piled aboard, voices rising with the relief of summer.
Harry took a compartment with Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Seamus, and Dean crowded, warm, alive.
As the train pulled away, Harry watched the castle recede, spires shrinking against the sky.
He felt… ready.
London came too soon.
The platform buzzed with noise, families reuniting, laughter and shouted names. Harry spotted the Dursleys immediately Petunia stiff, Vernon red-faced, Dudley shuffling awkwardly.
They saw him.
And hesitated.
Sirius leaned down. "Remember," he murmured. "You're not alone anymore."
Harry nodded.
He stepped forward.
And for the first time in his life, he did so knowing exactly where he stood, and who stood with him.
Whatever awaited him at Privet Drive, it would not be the same.
Because Harry Potter had changed.
And the world, whether it liked it or not, was already changing with him.