Summary: Harry's finally beaten Voldemort, and the Wizarding World is celebrating. Harry, however, is realizing that going back to normal is not as easy as he thinks. He can't get over the many deaths the war has caused, and he feels guilty for not having prevented them. He tries to pretend while he's around his friends, but at night, he goes out to drink. However, one day, after having a good too many drinks, he stumbles onto somebody's front porch, and Harry meets the Potters. Harry and the Marauders become comrades in the first wizarding war.

Disclaimer: Everything that you recognize is J. K. Rowling's. I'm just playing in her world.

The young customer lifted up his mug again. He took a sip of the foamy beer and stopped. He looked at the barkeep.

"Bring me something stronger, would you?" he asked quietly.

The Barkeep looked at him. He saw a young man with messy dark hair, a thin face, and bright green eyes with heavy bags under him. When he had first come to the pub and ordered a beer, the barkeep had asked looked askance at him. He seemed young to be drinking alone. However, he had paid his money, so there was nothing to do but serve him his order. The young man drank silently and left without speaking another word. A few days later, he came again. Now, he was a regular, coming several times a week. He would sit alone, drinking all evening, and leave as he came.

Now though, the Barkeep looked at the man with concern. He was not sure why he cared. Normally, when young adults came to the bar to get wasted, he would silently scoff at them behind his impassive expression, scornful of the irresponsible idiots there to have fun and get drunk or to drown their petty problems.

However, there was something in the young man's eyes that went beyond girl trouble, or some school problem. It was not a self-pitying expression, nor did he have the look of somebody breaking down over stress and sleep loss. It was a deep seated pain, a sort of scarred disillusionment that the Barkeep had only ever seen in old war veterans. Those bright green eyes were dull, gazing into the distance, viewing some scene that only he could see. Today, he seemed especially dejected.

"Is there anything that I can help you with, sir?" the Barkeep asked.

The young man looked around blankly, and slowly focused his eyes on the barkeep. He asked, harshly,

"Can you bring back the dead?" and went back to staring at his cup. He didn't speak a word all the rest of the evening.

He came back a few days later. This time, he broke his normal pattern, and when the Barkeep had served him his whiskey—he had started drinking stronger liquor, he abruptly spoke;

"It's over, but I can't seem to get that through my head. Every time I close my eyes, I see them dying. They died to buy me time." His voice was quiet, but strained, and he shook his head angrily.

"If I had figured it out sooner, maybe they wouldn't have died. Everybody I get involved with seems to get hurt, sooner or later. My friends tell me that it wasn't my fault; that I have to put it behind me. And everybody else sees me as a hero—but I'm not a hero, I just did what I had to. And so many people didn't even make it through. I can't get over it; I can't live with how people look at me. I don't deserve it."

The Barkeep looked at him, surprised. He wondered what the story behind the young man was, but he didn't pry. His role was to be a listener, a silent receptacle of the joys and sorrows of man. If they wanted to talk, he would listen, but he did not urge them.

Finally the man sighed, and looked at his now empty glass.

"Better get back so I can sleep and face another day," he mumbled, his voice weary.

The Barkeep watched him go, swinging a cloak (a cloak?) around his shoulders as he stepped out into the night and vanished.

That was the Prologue! Please read and review if you like it!