A/N: Hello m'dears… I hope 2015 has been good to all of you! Just an FYI, but this is likely the final chapter of this story. I'm not exactly sure what I'd cover next since Harry's life after Hogwarts is largely unknown.

I'm again taking liberties with things...please don't kill me!

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Whoever thought that war was an easy solution to solving a problem between two opposing factions was a blithering idiot. As Harry stood there staring at the number of bodies that were lying in deaths' sweet repose, he couldn't help but feel that the second great magical war really hadn't been worth it. How can war be worth it when so many good people have died? was his question. The answer that kept repeating in his head? Never.

Nausea rolled greasily in his belly as he stared around the expanse of the Great Hall. There were dozens of faces-friends as well as Death Eaters that he recognized lying there. Lupin and Tonks, Collin Creevey and Lavender Brown. Fred. The guilt and anger mingled with horror and grief as the bile clawed its way up into his throat, and filled his mouth with burning foam. So many dead, was all he could think. So many injured. And for what? What did we really accomplish with this?

The only answer that came back was a paltry, You stopped Voldemort.

Teddy Tonks was going to grow up without his mother and father, the Weasley's had lost a son and seen another two maimed, the Browns had lost a daughter, and it was all to stop Voldemort from achieving his end goal of being the best wizard in the world?

It wasn't worth it.

It simply wasn't worth it.

Harry's fingers bunched into fists at his sides. Just thinking about everybody who had died, been injured, or otherwise had their lives changed by the war with Voldemort had raw, powerful emotions pumping through him. He was edgy, his every nerve ending feeling like it was about to shoot sparks all over. He simply felt… too much. Any second he expected the toxic spew he'd been holding back to burst from his mouth. The explosion came in one long, wretched gagging sound a few seconds later. Collapsing to his knees by the entrance into the Great Hall, he emptied what little contents were in his stomach into the remnants of a flower pot. When there was absolutely nothing left for him to throw up, he sat back, panting and wiping his sweaty face with a hand that trembled violently.

"Here," he heard that familiar voice that was always as soft as a midsummer rain say from behind him. He turned his head to the side and found himself staring at a plastic bottle full of water. The hand holding the bottle was large and calloused, as familiar with wielding a large shield as he was with his wand. Steve? he thought, his brow feathering with his surprise and confusion. But... how? How was instantly replaced by another one word question: why?

He found himself searching for the answer to his questions as he lifted his head and stared into that somber face. The only thing he saw, the only thing that really and truly mattered to him at that moment, was the understanding and compassion darkening the depths of those aqua colored eyes.

"Steve?" he rasped in a voice choked by smoke and unshed tears. "What are you doing here?"

"I had a feeling you might need a friend when everything was all done and over with," he replied gently. Steve crouched beside Harry and pushed the bottle of water into his still shaking hands. "Here, sip this. It will help settle your stomach."

Harry cracked the cap and took a few tentative sips before saying, "I still don't understand why you are here." He glanced over to where Ron and Hermoine stood talking with Luna and Neville. "I have friends here..."

"Yes, you do have friends here," Steve agreed with a smile. "You have excellent friends, in fact, Harry. But you've all endured the same trauma. You've fought in the same war. You've lost the same friends, teachers and classmates. You've all endured the personal hardships that war tends to deliver. So," he said on a long breath fraught with his own dark memories. "I figured having a friend who has seen a different side of war and death, who has buried more than his share of friends..."

The last ended on a throbbing sigh. There were things alive in his voice; upon his face that spoke to Harry louder than words ever could. A voice in the back of his mind subtly reminded him about how Steve was a true war hero. He'd fought in a war which had chosen bombs and tanks and guns rather than magic as its weapon of choice. A war which had encompassed the entirety of the world and saw millions of people-soldiers as well as civilians die. Steve had given up seventy years of his life to that war...

And lost his best friend, Bucky.

The truth hitting him hurt Harry far worse than the Cruciatus Curse ever could. He understood why Steve was there at Hogwarts now. He came because he was afraid he might have lost me, he realized with a small tingle of shock. And Ron and Hermoine.

And that made perfect sense. Because Harry knew that for all his dedication to defending the world and people-all people, not just muggles- from attack, for all his bravado and courage, for all his heart and passion, Steven "Captain America" Rogers was still one thing at the root of it all: a muggle. He was allowed to be plagued by the same self-doubts Harry was. He was allowed to feel the weight of his own memories pressing in on him. He was allowed to question why he'd survived when his friend had not. He was even allowed to question what the purpose was for his being spared and wonder about why so many other people hadn't been given the same option. He was allowed to get sick of all the fighting, of all the violence, and all of the loss.

He's allowed to fear losing someone else he cares about...

"Steve..." he began but Steve cut him off by placing his hand on his shoulder and lightly squeezing.

"I'm okay, Harry." He glanced at him for only a second, but it was long enough for Harry to see the sheen to his eyes. "Just got lost in my own memories, I'm afraid."

Harry looked out over the bodies lying in a neat row once more. Many, like Lupin and Fred, he knew that he would never be able to forget. And that he'd never stop grieving the loss of. "It doesn't get any easier, does it?"

"No, Harry, I'm afraid that it doesn't." Harry had already suspected that was going to be the answer. "However," Steve said as he slowly stood to his feet. "I will make you one promise right here and now."

"What's that?"

"I promise I will write you one letter, every day, until the day I die."

It was, Harry knew, a Hero's Promise.