There were many changes that occurred immediately after the Battle of Hogwarts and defeating Voldemort. For example, I went from Undesirable No 1 to became everyone's darling, quite literally overnight.
There were many things that stayed the same too, like still feeling incredibly socially awkward and clumsy, especially when it came to sodding interviews and formal bloody functions at the Ministry for Magic, and generally in large crowds.
These two aspects, more than anything, were in direct conflict with one another. Yet I was expected to be the face of the Ministry and the New World going forward. I really would have preferred that it wasn't the case, but it became my life and it seemed I couldn't fight that one anymore...
Immediately after the battle, the demands put upon me by the Ministry and Press and public escalated to a point of ridiculousness. I hated it. I thought, more than once, that doing heroic things was far easier than being a 'hero' after the event. Perhaps because in those moments I was just focused on the task in hand, not what others thought of me or how I had to behave or what was the right thing to be wearing in front of the Wizengamot, or what the etiquette was regarding all those bloody different rows of cutlery at the fancy meals that I had to attend with various ministers and high-profile people. My biggest dread was when the day came that I'd be asked to attend a Gala Dinner or a Ball. It brought on anxiety flashbacks about the Triwizard Tournament and dancing in front of everyone at the Yule Ball. It was enough to bring me out in cold sweats because I knew I couldn't dance and how the hell was I supposed to remember the steps and dance a traditional quadrille when I clearly had two left feet?
There was a horrible personification of being the hero that I had to perform and had to pretend I loved. I did it because it was expected. It came with the territory of what I had achieved. But the truth was I felt uncomfortable and wanted to be 'just Harry'. I was not some amazing hero who was all suave and sophisticated and who swanned in a saved the day. I was a nearly eighteen-year-old kid who wanted life to leave me alone. I already felt like I'd had to grow up too fast, too much had been taken away from me, and now it seemed that wasn't going to change. I tried to turn down interviews and reduce the number of visits to the Ministry; it didn't always work. I also avoided going out in the Wizarding World. I didn't know if that made the hero worship better or worse. It certainly meant that every time I did appear in public, everyone gawped at me like I had three heads or something. And that made me even more self-conscious than I already was.
At first, I had gone back to The Burrow, hoping I might find familiar comfort there. Besides, Molly insisted and it was very hard to refuse Molly Weasley when she insisted on anything. Well, I thought so anyway. She scared me more than Voldemort, especially after the way she'd dealt with Bellatrix. One thing was certain, you didn't piss Molly Weasley off.
Once there, I stuck it out there for exactly four weeks, two days, eleven hours, and twenty-six minutes. What with grieving, and third-wheeling, and ex-girlfriends, and trying to avoid explaining exactly why I had split up with Ginny and why I wasn't going to be making the expected alignment between the Ancient House of Potter and the Weasley family (not that it had been formally discussed); it was all very uncomfortable. That, and the addition of Molly's hugs and sudden tears about just the slightest mundane and normal aspect of living; anything from the family sitting together at the dinner table to appearing in the kitchen for a cup of tea. I got it. I really did. Molly was relieved and grateful and grieving. And probably suffering from PTSD. There were a hundred emotions that we were all experiencing every second of the day immediately after the war.
And then there was Molly mothering us all too, when she wasn't in tears or hugging the life out of us. Let's face it, I've never been mothered beyond the first fifteen months of my life and I can't exactly remember that time. And, more recently, I'd been on the run for nine months and answering to no one but myself (if I ignore that Hermione probably being in charge bit). It wasn't exactly going to sit right if I was expected to answer every bloody query about my whys and wherefores and divulge my innermost bloody feelings at any one time, just to make sure I was okay with my thoughts. Even a trip to attend a Wizengamot hearing was an interrogation nightmare because she wanted to know my plans for every forthcoming second of the day that I would be away from The Burrow; she wanted to ensure I was safe at all times. I felt smothered and after a month of just about coping with it all, I ran for the hills.
Quite literally. I left Britain and disappeared for almost three years, backpacking around the world, odd-jobbing as I went, experiencing different magical cultures, especially remote ones, learning what I could from a practical aspect. I stayed in contact with people, of course I did, but I escaped the pressures that everyone put on my shoulders and the questions about my future and what I planned to do next. Not that I got any answers on my travels but it helped to just be me for a while without the title 'Saviour' hanging over my head every minute of the day.
Almost three years to the day after the war, I returned to England. I ended up back at Grimmauld Place because where else was there to go?
In contrast to the chaos of The Burrow and the freedom and noise and colour of travelling, Grimmauld Place was desolate, silent, and grim. No one had visited since Ron, Hermione, and I had been there while on the run.
My first job was to get rid of Albus Dumbledore's apparition that covered me in dust every time I entered the house. And I swore to myself that the Order of the Phoenix would not be coming back because the house was, without doubt, mine now. It was all I had that gave me a meaningful connection to the past and I wanted to hold onto that. I suppose it was some sort of crisis about my identity and who I was going forward because I was fucked if I knew. And if the Order wanted to reunite, I decided they could fuck right off and find their own bloody headquarters.
The second job was to organise with the Ministry a connection to the Floo Network because I knew that every time I used the front door, I risked exposing the Unplottable nature of the house as I came and went. I didn't change the Wards though and I made sure the Floo was open to those closest to me, just in case anyone fancied visiting. Ironically, that meant number twelve, Grimmauld Place was still accessible to all the members of the Order who'd survived, purely because they were also my friends. My only friends. And I felt that more after being away.
I thought about Sirius a lot in those early days back at number twelve. I thought of Sirius trapped in this awful untouched and immoveable time capsule because Grimmauld Place was a cobwebby and dark, dank dump. I moped around for a bit but was too used to being active for that to last. I decided would change Grimmauld Place for Sirius as much as for me. It was a strangely laid-out town house because it was so tall and narrow. It meant there were only two main rooms on the first four floors and a split-level room halfway up the stairs. It was odd but I saw the potential. Besides, the idea of keeping busy seemed almost like I would be expelling the repressed anger of the past, ongoing grief from the losses, and the persistent trauma after the war because it all still lingered, more so since returning to London. If I stayed, things had to change, starting with the house. That thought helped. I felt like I was cleansing my soul and starting afresh. That's what I kept telling myself anyway.
Of course, my return to England brought renewed calls for interviews and meetings at the Ministry. The fame seemed worse than before; their allusive hero returned. But between the demands, I spent my spare time clearing out stuff with Kreacher's help because I hated it all. I started to clear each room to virtually empty, only keeping furniture or belongings that I liked or thought might fit in somewhere or be useful alongside anything I'd brought back from my travels. The dining room became a dumping ground and the bedrooms beyond the Master Bedroom remained untouched; I doubted anyone would be staying until the house became more habitable on an everyday level. It was satisfying, to say the least, when I ticked off a room as complete. But the journey was going to be a long one, Grimmauld Place had twenty-two rooms over six floors, including the attic that was rammed with crap. That didn't include the boiler room and Kreacher's Den, which was a space I felt I couldn't touch. Nowhere else was off limits, nothing was precious, and everything was in dire need of an overhaul.
I started with a clean canvas in each area, first in the master bedroom and en suite, which I claimed as my own, and then moving onto the basement kitchen area. Even with magic, I focused on the long kitchen-diner for nearly three weeks, mostly because I needed to research the right spells to make the changes I wanted. The DIY with Magic book became my bible and was staple reading material between the demands by the Ministry. My reading list grew to include all sorts of books about old Magical houses and dealing with renovations and unexpected artefacts, curses, or unwanted guests from the Magical World.
The other reason I took my time with the kitchen was because it was the most important room to me, more than anywhere, mostly because I still liked to cook but also because it had been the heart of Order whenever people visited or there'd been meetings. I wanted to retain that and needed a place where I wouldn't be embarrassed to sit with my friends when they came calling. Kreacher and I redesigned the space together, it had to be a space for both of us. He reluctantly accepted that I wanted a thoroughly clean, light, fitted-kitchen in whites and greys that epitomised a complete modernisation of the dark cellar it had been before.
The day I'd finished the kitchen was the first day Ron and Hermione came visiting after a number of failed attempts to meet up and the first time that I'd seen them since my return. Mostly because I'd been avoiding going back to Otterly St Catchpole. It turned out they were to be the first visitors of many at Grimmauld Place over the next few months.
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