The weeks following the great battle dragged on for eternity. What was only a few days seemed like months, and weeks were like never-ending years. The buzz of what had happened was still vigorously circulating throughout the school grounds, however, each day a new addition seemed to be added to the tale. Surprisingly, Hogwarts seemed rather unchanged - second years still bickered about who was better at performing levitation spells - Slytherin students still bullied all the others (showing a particular joy in pushing Hufflepuff first years down the sloping hills of Hogwarts) - and the trio still spent every moment together. Harry, Hermione, and Ron sat sprawled across the lawn on the Saturday before their last week of courses, in which they would undergo their N.E.W.T exams. Harry sat inspecting the newly scarred cut on his right forearm, while Ron carelessly thumbed through a Quidditch magazine, periodically shuddering with pain when he moved his strained arm the wrong way. Hermione lay on her back staring dreamily at the clouds, forgetting about studying for the exams that would take place on Monday morning. So much had changed for all three of them, so much had changed for the entire wizarding community, yet it seemed as though life at Hogwarts ticked on without hesitation, and therefore Harry, Hermione, and Ron had to do the same.
They sat in strained silence for a few more minutes when finally Hermione roused from her stare, “I suppose they’ll need a new Potions master for next year, I mean, not like it’ll matter to us but still …” she said tentatively, somewhat afraid how this question would be met.
“I guess they would, wouldn’t they?” answered Harry half-heartedly, somewhat touchily. His tone showed no extreme emotion, but the fact that he was still shaken by the happenings was quite evident. Hermione knew this subject was not one of choice for Harry, or any of them for that matter, but it was clear that it had to be discussed. The truth was that Harry felt guilty for all the slurs he had made over the years about Snape being a filthy, lying, sneaking git . The only way he knew how to deal with it was by ignoring it. At least that was all he could bear to do now.
“Yeah, yeah, I wonder who it’ll be. And what about Dumbledore? I do hope he is okay, I heard McGonagal talking to Flitwick yesterday in the corridor by the hospital wing. Of course he isn’t there, but I suppose they had just talked to Madame Pomfrey. Flitwick seemed to be quite sure that he was recovering well.” No one made an effort to reply, so she continued, “he is very strong for someone his age, you know.”
“Yeah well anyone who thinks Dumbledore won’t make it through this is mad. He wouldn’t let a few spells take him down,” added Ron as he continued to read his magazine.
Harry stirred uncomfortably. He knew all of this wreck was not really his fault, but still somewhere deep down he couldn’t help feeling that he was responsible for a good amount of it. Snape’s death, Dumbledore’s fatal injuries, and the fact that he had jeopardized the lives of so many he loved was eating at him. He remembered how he had felt when Sirius had died because of “his need to be the hero,” as Hermione had once said. He didn’t think he had felt this horrible since that time two years ago.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, mate,” reassured Ron, looking up from the pages, noticing Harry’s elevated level of distress.
“Really Harry, if it weren’t for you, we’d all be in real trouble. Everyone knew about the prophecy… if you didn’t do it, no one would have been able to. Everyone who got hurt or killed, even Snape… they were all willing to risk their lives.”
Although this did raise Harry’s spirits, he wasn’t looking for pity or even compliments. He understood all of this, that he had to kill Voldemort, or else no one else would. He knew he was lucky to come out of it alive, with his best friends at his side, but for some reason he just couldn’t convince himself that he was a hero or that he should be celebrating.