To Harry

Minerva McGonagall raised her goblet to the others in the center of the table. "To the lost and fallen," she said, echoing the toast passed around the circle. Beside her, Filius Flitwick nodded in agreement; on her right, Hagrid sniffed loudly. Horace Slughorn patted the gamekeeper's back and drained his drink in one straight shot. Aberforth Dumbledore filled his own empty glass before sliding a murky bottle of Firewhiskey across the table for Horace.

"And to those who survived, as well," added Poppy Pomfrey, sipping at her Gillywater. Pomona Sprout nodded sadly in agreement. Septima Vector handed her a tissue, and they both dabbed their eyes. Aberforth snorted and set down his drink.

"Speaking of survivors," barked the cantankerous old barkeep, "where the hell was Potter this afternoon? Bit dodgy slipping out on a big day like this, especially when it's all due to him."

Minerva sighed, wishing he hadn't brought it up, but knowing it had been inevitable. It was probably being discussed at each and every gathering across the country that night. It was the fifth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, and Harry Potter had not attended the memorial ceremony at the castle. The Hero of Hogwarts had been nowhere to be found when his turn to speak had come.

God bless Hermione Granger, who had stepped forward almost immediately and spoken for him. Minerva knew Hermione had had little time to prepare and hated speaking in public, but she had done a fine job nonetheless. The crowd had grumbled at first, obviously confused and upset that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had not seen fit to attend the ceremony held in part to honor him. Yet Hermione had spoken of Harry with such heartfelt words that most, if not all, of the witches and wizards had left the grounds with a nod, a smile, or even a tear in their eye, their hero's transgression temporarily forgiven.

Only Minerva knew exactly where he was, and she was guarding that secret closely, for it was almost too heartbreaking to share. Harry had appeared in her office the night before, a bleary-eyed, bedraggled wreck of a man. He had been thin and unshaven, with deep hollows under his eyes that his glasses could not hide, his hair uncut and messier than ever. It had been obvious that he was suffering both physically and mentally--and even more obvious that he was strung out on an endless series of Invigorating Draughts and Revitalizing Charms.

She had heard that Harry worked far too hard--too much, too fast, and too long--for his own health, diligently if not overzealously tracking down every last Death Eater or Dark wizard he could bring into the Ministry for trial and sentencing. The Daily Prophet had written about his incredibly steadfast commitment to his work, praising him as the best Auror since Alastor Moody, well on his way toward becoming Head of the Auror Office. Yet Minerva had heard whisperings from friends and colleagues that Harry was almost obsessed, channeling some deep inner pain into an infatuation with work. No one really knew how he had managed to keep such a pace for so long, particularly as he had isolated himself from his friends more and more. He had grown distant, and they had grown concerned, but still he continued to overtax himself to the point of collapse.

Minerva knew how he had managed now, and she alone also knew that he had reached the breaking point, that dangerous apex where his body simply did not respond to the Invigorating Draughts or Revitalizing Charms because there was nothing for it to respond with or to: he had exhausted his body and soul. No charm could piece together his broken psyche any longer, and no draught could heal his broken body.

After a long, heated talk with Dumbledore in which Minerva had been shocked almost to tears as she listened to Harry vent his sorrow and anger at the headmaster's portrait, Harry had collapsed on the sofa, eyes staring blankly into the fire, completely and utterly spent. Minerva had finally tucked the Chosen One under a blanket and cast the most powerful Sleeping Spell she could to ensure a full night's rest free of nightmares. And first thing the next morning, she had taken him by Floo to St. Mungo's under the strict secrecy of his invisibility cloak. Now he was resting once more, under the watchful eyes of Healers who could treat the wounds left untouched for so long and begin to bring back the man he was meant to be.

Poppy was watching her closely and reached forward to pat her hand. "Is he all right, Minerva?" she asked, her keen insight reading the thoughts floating across Minerva's face. "Just tell us that much, so we don't worry."

Minerva shook her head and forced herself to concentrate on their private gathering in honor of the battle. "No…no, he's not. But I think he will be." I hope so, she thought to herself. She couldn't imagine a more tragic end to Harry's story than for him die a young, broken hero, lost to the untamed monsters within as pain and anger claimed his soul in a far worse way than Voldemort had ever done. She hoped with all her heart that Harry found peace after the difficult trials of his Hogwarts years; he deserved more than anyone to live the life he had earned, in the world he had saved.

"'Course he'll be okay," stated Hagrid, setting down his mug with a frown. "I never met a stronger, braver boy than our 'Arry."

"He's not a boy anymore, Hagrid," Minerva pointed out. "And we've always said that he was forced to grow up far too soon, with far too much responsibility."

"You mean there are consequences to everything he's gone through," murmured Poppy, and Minerva nodded sadly.

"Indeed there are," she said. "It has taken its toll." She thought back to Harry's wasted frame, the dead look in his eyes, the desperate shouting at the portrait on the wall the night before. She had seen Harry at his best and at his worst and she had never, in her life, thought to see him--or any man--in such a state as that; it still broke her heart and chilled her soul. "I fear for Harry, more than I ever have before."

Aberforth snorted into his glass. "If Potter can put down a demon like Tom Riddle, he can damn well conquer his own. He'll figure it out."

Minerva raised her eyebrows at the disgruntled barkeep. "So sure, Aberforth?"

"As a matter of fact, I am," he said. "And as the oldest of you lot, I speak from the most experience." He offered the Firewhiskey once more, but no one took it up. With a shrug, he poured himself another glass. Minerva had always suspected that in spite of his gruff exterior, deep down Aberforth Dumbledore was a strong, caring man. Though she rarely saw him during the year, she always saw him on this, the anniversary they toasted each May, though somehow this year was different. It felt more bleak, as if the future was uncertain, knowing that Harry stood on the brink of sacrifice once more.

"Would you care to share your experience with the rest of us, then?" Minerva asked, somewhat sarcastically. She hated to admit it, but she had her doubts about Aberforth's words. The Healers had warned her that Harry's body alone would face a long and difficult recovery; it was possible he would face lifelong physical consequences from the damage he had wrought through overwork and overuse of magic. Emotionally, Harry faced an even more daunting challenge in working through whatever unfathomable issues had driven him to such punishing extremes. It was possible, they had told her, that Harry could be with them for quite a while.

Aberforth was watching her intently, as if waiting for her to come back from her thoughts. When she gave him her full attention, he grunted in acknowledgement. "Every man must walk through the darkness in order to find the light," he stated, earning a few surprised glances from around the table; Aberforth Dumbledore was not known for his philosophy or for his eloquence. "I did it, my righteous arsehole of a brother did it, we've all done it in one way or another. Potter will do it too, and he'll make it through even if he stumbles a bit. He's a fighter."

"As long as he doesn't give up the fight," murmured Poppy, and Minerva nodded in agreement.

"That is my fear," she said, gazing down into her glass. "A man can only walk so far before his feet can carry him no further, Aberforth. I'm afraid he has stumbled quite hard this time."

"Then so what if he needs to lie down and rest a bit," snapped Aberforth. "He's earned it. But mark my word: Potter will get up. It was the one thing in this world my brother was most sure of."

Everyone was silent as they thought about what Aberforth had said: about Albus Dumbledore, about Harry Potter, about all they had lost yet still held onto because of both of them. Minerva held back another sigh, wanting to believe Aberforth, but he did not have the strength of conviction that his brother had demonstrated so strongly, nor had he seen Harry the night before, so broken and defeated.

"I trusted one Dumbledore brother and I'm trusting another," said Hagrid all of a sudden into the thick silence. "He'll be all right, just like he was at Hogwarts, even at the end. To 'Arry," he finished, raising his glass again.

He sounded unexpectedly confident, stronger than Minerva would have thought when earlier Hagrid had been the one holding back a loud sniff at the table. Yet his faith in Harry encouraged the others: Horace echoed Hagrid's toast, and the sentiment traveled around the table, until at last Minerva raised her glass once more.

"To Harry," she whispered. "May he stand and find the light."

* * *