Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling created and owns every character, place, and thing from the Harry Potter stories. I own nothing.

Author's Note: This is my take on Harry's life after his victory over Voldemort, starting in Dumbledore's office and concluding on Platform 9 and 3/4 nineteen years later. This first chapter shows Harry extremely moody and depressed, but that might just change down the line. Please review, and to quote Lester Bangs in Almost Famous, be "honest, and unmerciful."

Harry strode out of the circular office through the oak doors, receiving one last thunderous round of applause from the Hogwarts Headmasters as he exited. As he turned around to close the doors behind Ron and Hermione he gave a small wave of acknowledgement to the portraits, and as he did so his eyes glanced over a smaller painting that he had not yet noticed. In all of his weariness and fatigue, he had never let his eyes stray from the large ornate portrait of Dumbledore to the smaller portrait to its right. He stared in surprise from across the room into the deep black eyes of Severus Snape, who alone of all the painted professors was not clapping, but sitting with his arms clearly folded across his chest, unwilling despite his possibly contented look to publicly acknowledge Harry's triumph.

Harry paused, unwilling to close the doors just yet. Ron and Hermione turned and followed his stare right to the small oil canvas. Ron's eyes raised in shock and Hermione's lips parted as though to speak, but she refrained. Harry stood dumbstruck, unable to conjure up any words that could express his conflicting emotions to a man who he had hated for so long. His opinion of Snape was now so warped and twisted he no longer knew what to think, knowing only that it would likely be some time before he pieced together everything he had learned from his time inside his old Potions Master's memory. Nothing could change the fact that Snape had never treated Harry with anything but contempt and bitterness, and that he had consciously attempted to bring additional misery to Harry's life. However, as Harry stared into those black eyes, which he had always, until now, found so cold, he realized that he finally knew the whole story now, and could see how, from Snape's point of view, his hatred could be justified.

Snape's expression on the canvas was as unfathomable as it had been in life, but his eyes never lost sight of Harry's green ones, the last reminders of his life's one great love. Harry wondered if the portrait Snape was attempting to invade Harry's mind as he had done so often before, but Harry did not attempt to defend himself. Snape could gain nothing from Harry but conflicting emotions, feelings that likely felt quite familiar, as he probably felt the same way, if portraits could feel at all.

Harry's overriding sentiment at the moment, however, was one of gratitude, though he was not quite sure how to express it. Even had Snape lived, Harry would undoubtedly have never reconciled with him, for the experience would have been too painful and awkward for either of them, but Harry had no qualms about showing his appreciation for the incredible sacrifices Snape had made for him. "Thank you," he said, clearly and boldly, and everyone staring at him knew exactly to whom his statement was addressed. "Thank you for everything."

Snape did not respond verbally, but he did not have to. He inclined his head, first in a twitchy sort of jerk but then in a more formal, dignified fashion, and Harry knew that was all the response he would receive. Though Harry did not notice, Dumbledore was beaming from within his own frame, his brilliant blue eyes swimming with sparkling tears behind the half-moon spectacles. With a nod of his own, Harry closed the office door on Snape and Dumbledore one last time.

The trio followed the moving stone staircase down the tower in silence, unable to vocalize their current emotions. As they arrived at the base of the tower and strode across the threshold into the hall, they looked at each other with a note of apprehension, unsure of where to go from there. For the first time since the battle had ended, Harry realized just what a toll the struggle had taken on his best friends. Hermione was sporting two gashes down her right cheek and the ends of her curly hair were singed badly. Her robes were even more tattered and frayed than they had appeared after the escape from Gringotts, which, Harry realized with a start, had occurred less than a day earlier. Ron appeared even worse for wear, if possible. The entire left sleeve of his robe was lost, exposing a badly scarred arm and a lightly bandaged hand. His flaming red hair was matted with equally red blood, as though his head was melting in places. Harry was most upset, however, by his friends' eyes, which were puffy and red and crusted with dry tears.

Harry paused beside the wobbling gargoyle, which was attempting to replace its right hand on its dangling limb. A wave of exhaustion crashed over him as he stopped, flowing straight to his eyelids and attempting to force them closed as he stood. All adrenaline and energy gone, he just wanted to slump down on the floor and sleep in the hallway, but he was determined to make his way up to the dormitories and sleep in his familiar four-poster bed for the first time in a long year.

"You should get that looked at," Hermione said, and Harry opened his eyes grudgingly to see her staring with concern at Ron's raw arm, which he was gently massaging with his free hand.

"It's nothing serious, really," Ron responded, though he winced as he continued to soothe the nasty burn. "Greyback didn't go down too easily; I think his wand shot out a real nasty stinging hex when Neville and I tackled him; caught me right on the arm. Hurts like hell, though."

"Well, you should get it looked at anyway" said Hermione apprehensively. "I guess we should get back to the Great Hall. Merlin, it's a scene down there."

"Go on without me," Harry said, using his tender hands to push himself off the wall. "I'm going back up to the dorms to go to sleep."

Ron and Hermione shot bemused glances at one another when he spoke. Harry, knowing those looks too well, felt his stomach drop. "What?" he asked.

"Well, Harry," Hermione started cautiously, "I guess you haven't noticed yet, but Gryffindor tower is well…gone."

"What?" Harry cried out, aghast. "You mean it…"

"Yeah mate," Ron responded, when Harry could not continue. "I imagine all of those Slytherins were happy for the chance to take a few shots at it. And we did have some fighters up there, so it was a pretty natural target."

This news hit Harry like yet another blow to the gut, the most recent of many from the night's events. Gryffindor Tower was the one place that had ever felt like a true home to him, and Voldemort had managed to strip Harry of it as well, the last blow he had been able to deal out before his demise.

All that mattered, Harry tried to tell himself, was that the Dark Lord had finally met that demise. This last thought hardly cheered Harry, as he had not yet fully grasped the concept of a world without Voldemort. He tried to think of what such a world could be like, and that thought did manage to improve his feelings slightly. It seemed incomprehensible that there would be no more fear, no more hiding, and no more deaths. The losses hurt, and would continue to do so for some time, but Harry had dealt with loss before, and had learned that the pain, sharp though it was, did not last forever. It might take some time to rebuild the world they had once known, but they had that time. They had all the time in the world now.

The image of the warm, comforting bed wiped from his mind, Harry begrudgingly followed Ron and Hermione back the other way down the deserted corridor, headed for the Great Hall. The wreckage of Hogwarts Castle was on full display, and Harry wondered how long it would take to fix, even with magic. The hallways were littered with rubble, forcing the trio to pick their footing carefully as they progressed. Stairways lay collapsed, portraits hung shattered, torches and chandeliers fell strewn in utter ruin. The exterior walls were riddled with holes, some the size of beach balls, others far larger. It was through one such gaping cavity on the Eastern side of the castle that Harry looked out over the now peaceful grounds and found that the sun had risen nearly to its apex in the cloudless sky. The brilliant light it cast over the quiet grounds fell sharply upon the unmoving corpses of Death Eaters and Acromantulas scattered across the lawn, and Harry could just make out the enormous foot of a lifeless giant jutting out from around a distant turret.

As the trio made their way silently down what remained of the grand staircase into the Entrance Hall, hundreds of voices reached their ears. Harry dreaded reentering the room. Dozens of mourners remained within waiting to speak with Harry, thank him for what he had done, and receive his acknowledgement for their fallen loved ones' sacrifices. Others, who had been blessed enough to survive the battle without losing loved ones, were bursting to celebrate, restrained only by the anguished looks on their neighbors' faces. Harry could not bear the stifling atmosphere of the room, and felt that after all he had been through in the past day, much less the past few years, he deserved some rest.

However, he could not shed the feeling of obligation that hung as weightily around his neck as another locket Horcrux. Every one of those fallen wizards had sacrificed themselves for him, for his quest, and he owed all of his success to them. Their sacrifices pained him more than their deaths; for though he had succeeded, he could not help but think that there could have been a way to succeed without forcing others to forfeit their lives for him. He had not even recognized the faces of a startling number of the fallen; of comrades who had never known him but had been willing to die for him anyway. He had been willing to give his life for them as well when his time to sacrifice himself arrived, and yet he had been spared, as he always was, while they had passed on.

Guilt racked Harry's weary soul, mingling with the sorrow over the loss of Fred, Remus, and Tonks. How could he face Mrs. Weasley again, after all she had done for him, when he had sentenced one of her sons to die? How he could face any of the Weasleys? Ron, perhaps, would understand, having stood by Harry from the beginning, but Harry could no longer be sure of the rest. Even Ginny, who Harry had thought about with worry almost endlessly throughout the fight, might feel differently towards Harry now that he had robbed her of an older brother, of someone she undoubtedly cared more for than him. Harry would have liked nothing more than the possibility to celebrate his victory with her, but he knew that she must be distraught over her loss, and might not be able to stand looking at her old boyfriend for some time.

Harry's depressing thoughts began to weigh him down, to the point that he could no longer even see straight. This was supposed to be his great moment of triumph, a celebration of his victory over the dark force that had plagued his life and the lives of so many others for years, and yet Harry could feel neither joy nor elation, only growing surges of grief and anxiety, waves of guilt and regret for the way everything had unfolded. Ron and Hermione's comments about a group of passing House Elves flew right by him; his focus fell solely on his own burdens. His head was swimming as his horrible thoughts began to snowball and escalate, and tears began to sting the corners of his eyes as his emotions spiraled out of control, plunging him into a state of deepest depression that no happy thought could penetrate.

"Harry?"

Hermione's tentative voice brought him back around, though barely. Looking up, he found himself standing on the threshold of the Great Hall a few feet behind Ron and Hermione, both looking back at him apprehensively. Behind them, there was a flurry of movement as the remaining victors buzzed around the hall greeting and consoling one another. A handful had stopped to gaze back at the trio paused in the doorway, hoping to catch a bit of their conversation in passing or jostling for position to draw Harry's attention upon his reentrance.

Harry, however, could not go on, could not pass that invisible barrier separating him from all of the families torn apart for his sake. "I can't," he said softly, his voice trembling. "It's too much for me right now. I need to rest and…clear my head."

To his surprise, both Ron and Hermione nodded their understanding. Hermione stepped forward and squeezed his hand supportively. "We'll be here for you, when you're ready. You know that, don't you?"

Harry met her look and nodded appreciatively. "You always have been." Turning to Ron, he said, "You should be with your family; I'm sorry for taking you away from them."

Ron shrugged his shoulders in an unconvincingly nonchalant manner. "Glad to come with you, mate. I needed to get away for a minute myself, and besides, my family probably didn't even realize I was gone. Sounds like the House Elves are preparing some lunch though, you sure you don't want any?"

Harry shook his head. "I might have Kreacher bring me some," he replied. "I'm going to go down to the lake; it should be quiet down there."

"Good call," Ron said, "Come back up whenever you're ready."

"Harry?" Hermione asked his name tentatively again, as though nervous about what she wanted to say next.

"Yeah?"

"They're going to ask questions, you know. Everybody is going to want to know the whole story, now that it's all over. They have a right to understand how he was defeated. Do you want us to wait for you to come back before we start explaining things?"

Harry thought about this for a moment. For a second he pictured himself recounting all of their amazing adventures to a Great Hall stuffed with an enthralled audience, but then realized that he longer cared about the glory that came along with his deeds. In fact, he would prefer not to tell the story at all; he felt that it had become very personal and was full of details the public was better off not knowing. Still, Hermione was right; now that the conflict was over, the world had a right to know how Voldemort had fallen. Moreover, he would probably feel better once all of the secrets he had withheld were out in the open. He would no longer need to be evasive or guarded; he could afford not to play his cards so close to the vest.

"Don't wait for me," he replied, shaking his head as he spoke. "We shouldn't keep them waiting. Tell them everything; I'm sick of keeping secrets anyways."

Hermione frowned slightly. "Are you sure?" she asked. "It is your story to tell, after all."

Harry snorted derisively. "It's as much yours as it is mine. Don't wait for me. In fact, I'd prefer you told it now; I don't want to be there at all when it first comes out. I'm sick of all the stupid fawning and adulation. You guys should get some of it for a change. If I have to clear something up later I guess I will, but for now, I'd really prefer to be left alone."

"Suit yourself, mate," Ron said with a shrug. "The looks on some of their faces are going to be priceless, though."

"Yeah, I know," Harry replied, almost managing to grin. "Feel free to embellish wherever necessary; you know…for dramatic effect."

Hermione beamed, clearly relieved to hear Harry break out of his solemn brooding. Ron chuckled appreciatively, shaking his head. Taking Hermione's hand in his and letting out a deep, calming breath, he turned and walked into the Great Hall to rejoin his mourning family without looking back. Harry felt guilty for his inability to help Ron in his time of loss, but was glad that Hermione was there to support him. Harry followed their steps for a few moments with his eyes, uplifted by their words of reassurance and overwhelmed at his fortune to have two such loyal friends. Turning his back on the Great Hall and his friends within it, he strode off through the open threshold of the castle and out across the ruined lawn, heading down towards the lake, which lay completely calm, its little ripples gleaming in the sunlight.

The grounds that he had roamed so many times over the years looked so different now, the earth torn up and scorched by stray curses and hexes. Trees lay uprooted on their sides, branches splayed at odd angles, no doubt the work of the rampaging giants whose clash seemed to have engulfed the entire campus. Bodies lay strewn across the grass, small trickles of red blood seeping through the blades of green grass around them. Hagrid's hut, he saw with another pang of despair, had been reduced to rubble; the smoke rising from its remains was still spiraling into the air. Grawp lay sleeping next to his brother's old home, his enormous chest heaving as he snored loudly. Across the grounds, the Whomping Willow appeared docile and still, its remaining limbs hovering ominously over the bodies of several of its Death Eater victims. Harry trudged along, letting each of these sights soak in, not paying attention to where he was going. His legs knew instinctively where to take him, and they deftly sidestepped corpses and debris as they carried him right down to the edge of the lake, where Harry found himself at last in the shade of a large oak tree.

Harry plopped down on the ground gracelessly, his legs aching from the hours of walking and running they had been subjected to without rest. A cool breeze whipped past, ruffling Harry's hair and rustling the oak leaves above him. Harry was glad to see that this tree was still standing unharmed, for it was under its bows that Harry had spent many of the happiest moments of his life during the weeks of his relationship with Ginny. They had spent hours nestled comfortably with their backs against its solid trunk, talking, laughing, and engaging in other memorable activities together, away from prying eyes and overprotective siblings. Despite the war going on around them back then, Harry had not had a care in the world while he was with Ginny; the touch of her soft lips on his had erased all thoughts of pain and hardship. Now, as the wind carried back that wonderfully familiar scent of fresh dew that he had become so well acquainted with during his many excursions down to the lake, Harry longed to return to those careless hours, to forget all of his recent sufferings.

He had thought of Ginny by the minute over the past year during their time apart, missing her presence more than he ever would have thought possible. All of those nights that he had spent lying awake in the tent staring at her unmoving dot on the Marauder's Map had proven as tough a test as searching for Horcruxes and evading Death Eaters. She had seemed so close then, and he had traced his finger over the letters forming her name on the parchment, as though by doing so, he could somehow touch her, but he had known in his heart that she was worlds away, and far safer than she would be with him. His one comfort was that he had never seen her alone with another boy on the map and hoped, rather selfishly, he admitted, that she was still planning on waiting for him to return.

Surely, though, she had given up. Harry knew just how strong willed Ginny Weasley was, just how stubborn she could be. He knew how angry she must have been at his decision to leave her behind, at his refusal to correspond with her at all. He knew she understood why he had done so but also knew that she would not possibly have accepted his reasoning, that she would have given anything to come along. She probably cannot stand me anymore, he thought gloomily, closing his eyes and leaning back on the tree to steady himself. Harry had broken her heart and then robbed her of a beloved brother; two crimes that he felt sure would not go unpunished. Harry was trying to accept the fact that by trying to protect her he had probably driven her away forever. Though the thought made him miserable, he sought comfort in the fact that at least he would be able to live the rest of his life knowing that she was safe, even if she no longer wanted to be with him.

There were others, however, who had not been so fortunate, and as Harry's thoughts returned to dwell on the seemingly endless line of bodies lain carefully across the floor of the Great Hall, he felt as though his chest was clamping down on his heart to pop it like a balloon. So many needless deaths, so much loss; it was unbearable to think about. Fred's death had hit him hardest, for it was unlike any he had yet witnessed. With the exception of Cedric Diggory, the people who had died trying to protect Harry in the previous years had been older, and though the loss of parents and guardians and mentors had been unbearable, Harry had at least been able to accept their choices because it had been, in a way, their duty to aide and protect him. Cedric's death had shocked him because it had been so pointless; he had died merely because his presence disturbed Lord Voldemort's plans, but Harry had never really considered Cedric a friend, merely an acquaintance at best and for a long time a rival.

Fred, however, was most definitely a friend, practically a brother, but had had no obligation or duty to fight for Harry at all. Harry could not possibly feel anything but guilty over such a needless and early loss of life, as though it was all his fault that he had gotten Fred involved. Everyone I have ever loved, he thought, has been scarred or hurt, or even killed, simply because they associated with me. It was a thought more painful than any he had ever experienced, and was reinforced by the fact that Fred had not been the only one to perish on Harry's account that night.

Remus and Tonks, he thought with another lurch in his stomach, had died needlessly as well. If only Harry could have disposed of the other Horcruxes sooner, none of them would have needed to die. Harry could have sacrificed himself earlier, and so protected them as thoroughly as his mother had protected him. Harry had failed, however, had only destroyed the Horcruxes through sheer luck and chance, through one absurdly fortunate turn after another. Had he not spent months musing over the Deathly Hallows and longing to possess them, had he focused his search entirely on the Horcruxes all along, perhaps he could have succeeded earlier. Now he would never know if he could have succeeded in time, if he could have prevented Remus and Tonks from dying and orphaning their brand new child.

Harry's thoughts turned hopelessly to Teddy, Harry's godson. What an awful godfather he must be, to deprive his charge of both his parents and sentence him to the same parentless youth that he had known. Harry swore at himself in hatred, vowing to do everything possible to help Teddy grow up as loved as possible. He could already see the parallels in their two lives, but was determined to make Teddy happier than he himself had ever been, even if it meant raising the boy with his grandmother himself. He did not know how he could face Andromeda, what words he could say to express his sorrow for causing her to lose a husband, daughter, and son-in-law in such a short span of time and leave her to raise a baby alone at her age. Harry had never hated himself as he did now, had never felt such all-encompassing despair.

I must be cursed, he thought bitterly, cursed to hurt everything around me. It was all just so unfair, he realized, so unfair that all of this could happen to him. He had known nearly eighteen years of pure misery, with short snatches and moments of happiness to raise his hopes every so often only to be swallowed by the ever-growing bleakness of his own existence. He drew his knees up to his chest and clutched them as tightly as he could, bowing his throbbing head into them and letting the grief that had been building up inside him break over.

He wanted nothing more than to run away and hide, to be anyone but Harry Potter, to spare his friends of any more grief on his behalf, to start over and know love without pain and happiness without sacrifice. He wished, for a few horrible moments, that he had not been given the chance to come back, that he had "gone on" and left all of this suffering behind him. At least death had been peaceful and warm; he understood now why Dumbledore had told him not to pity the dead, even if he could not stop feeling grief and guilt for their early departures. He deserved such peace for all his suffering, for his years of deprivation and for his willingness to sacrifice himself for those around him, for his courage in the face of death and his unwavering devotion to his friends and his cause. He had strangely welcomed those moments of tranquility back at King's Cross, whether they had been real or not. However, Harry had come to expect an end to all such moments, and naturally, he had been forced to return out of an obligation to save the rest of the damn wizarding world. He was glad he had been able to do so, and he did not for a second regret his decision, but now that everything was over, he wished that once, just once, he could have the peace of mind that he deserved.

He could see no such peace in sight, however; his forecast had somehow never appeared gloomier. He would have thought that ridding himself of the piece of Voldemort's soul that had been corrupting him for so long should have eased his woe, as removing the locket Horcrux from his neck had done without fail, and yet he had never known such frustration as he did now.

He did not know how long he sat wallowing in his own grief, his long pearly tears spilling forth onto his knees, but he did so until he could cry no more. He found that his outburst of pent-up emotions might have helped, for though his mood did not improve, his outlook was no longer deteriorating further. He did not feel any better, but at least the downward spiral had stopped and his emotions had stabilized. Perhaps, of course, he had simply hit rock bottom, but if so, at least he had nowhere to go but up.

Taking some small measure of comfort in this otherwise miserable thought, he allowed himself to finally give in to his body's demands for rest, and he curled up under the tree, removing his glasses as he did so. Not wanting to be disturbed, he pulled out his Invisibility Cloak from within his robes and spread it carefully over his body so that he could sleep in peace. As he did so, he found that his wonderful Hallow made as comfortable and warm a blanket as he had ever owned. Thankful for the comforting abilities his cloak provided, Harry faded instantly into a mercifully dreamless sleep.