Prologue

A moral compass. So simple a thing. His was distorted – not gone yet, though. He still fought, and only the good fight. That was how he justified all those murders. Rapists, genocidal politicians, serial killers, many of the world's worst were dead by his hands. He also never hurt the innocent, and if he could help it he would give aid. Though, all the murder and charity… he might have been compensating for his shortcomings during the Second War. Just maybe.

So many shortcomings. Inability to plan – running around the countryside in a tent for a year, how intelligent that was – impulsiveness – oh yes, let's just rob Gringotts, the safest place to keep any belongings besides Hogwarts – lack of training – destined to fight the greatest Dark Lord since Grindelwald, and hardly fit to fight – and a slew of other things. But never would he count in that list the ability to love; Dumbledore had been impractical to think that love was the key to killing Voldemort, but Harry had been able to love and enjoyed the friendships he once had.

No more. No more friends, no more Ginny, no more love. Not even affection.

Sometimes, he thought that the little piece of Voldemort that had been part of him took that ability to love with it when Harry had died for a short time. Of course, after leaving the wizarding world, he had learnt something of the mental disorders that the muggles had begun to understand and diagnose. He knew some of those disorders had taken hold of his mind once his destiny had been fulfilled. He had cracked, so to say, once Voldemort was dead.

So yes, he left the wizarding world after his friendships dissolved and love life crumbled, and Harry Potter became a vigilante mercenary. Not the worst choice for a boy turned savior turned pseudo-sociopath with PTSD. But also not the best choice.

Therapy likely would have been ideal.

Six months after Voldemort's defeat, Hermione and Ron were killed the night of their wedding at the reception. Execution style, bloody, gruesome, cruelly sadistic, not a single soul in the small party was left alive. Harry had departed prior to the post-ceremony celebrations, not wanting to be accosted by admirers or the sight of happiness that he could no longer feel. The investigation that followed revealed organized crime to be the culprit.

Survivor's guilt amplified, and the most Harry had left was Ginny.

"I can't do this anymore, Harry."

He gave her a blank stare and said nothing in response. Ginny's face was twisted by sorrow, tears dripping slowly down her cheeks; she continued speaking, voice choked and thin.

"A year of this, ever since the Battle at Hogwarts. Nightmares, silence, arguments. Hours of you training everyday for no reason other than guilt…. You can't do this either, I can see you're not happy, not who you used to be and that I'm no help. I'm leaving."

She levitated her belongings to the fireplace.

"I'm sorry."

Harry couldn't quite tell if she said it or he did.

His friendships fell apart quickly after the breakup. Harry thought, at the time at least, that it was because of the breakup that his friendships fell apart. Ginny had been his last strong link to those friends – the remnants of Weasley Clan and the former Order of the Phoenix – and with the dissolution of their relationship, he no longer had someone to encourage him to leave the house occasionally and see them. Really, though, the issue was Harry himself. There was little left of him other than guilt.

They tried to talk to him, nonetheless, though it was a fruitless endeavor. He was rarely there anymore – neither in his abode, nor in his heart. He was busy finding his way into the underbelly of Britain. If he couldn't love them, he would at least keep them safe.

The murders of his two closest friends only gave Harry further reason to delve into the underworld. Someone had ordered their deaths, and he was intent on finding them.

Vengeance and guilt were his bread and butter.

Sixth months into the wizarding underworld of crime. A moniker, an alias, what-have-you – Dominic Lee was the name. Slightly longer, still unruly hair obscured that ghastly scar. No more iconic glasses. The green eyes stayed. He looked like himself. But not. It was enough for people to not connect him with Harry Potter, or at least they tended to pass his resemblance off as coincidence. After all, the pristine, precious savior would never sully his hands in the underworld.

Idiots. Well, maybe not all of them were idiots. A few were intelligent enough to spot him while the memory of Harry Potter was alive and well. They tended to make acquaintances with an obliviate. Although… wands. Those iconic little pieces of wood. He tried not to use them. Wandless magic was the way to go, and very early on in the underworld he forced himself to learn it, along with the animagus transformation, with the help of a black market time-turner.

But if he had to use one… it was the Elder wand. The hero was gone, and the holly wand hidden. Failure, the trademark of his old life, was unacceptable, and the Elder wand never failed.

Harry scuffled with the peons on purpose, just to be noticed. He won every fight, made a name for himself, or rather the other criminals gave him one and spread the word.

His reputation bought him alliances with prominent crime lords. They were on their guard – as expected of criminals who had clawed their way to the top of the heap with violence and intelligence in equal parts – but he always kept his goal in mind and worked around security. Sometimes he was kind and poisoned the wretches in their sleep. Usually, he staged lovely, dramatic deaths for them. He once turned a sphinx against its master at a dinner party. Gruesome carnage, and no less than the raping embezzler deserved.

Ultimately, Harry Potter toppled nearly half of the underworld's kings – including the former Death Eater bastard that had ordered the execution of the savior's dearest friends – before he was caught in the act of killing the sixth. It was one of the rare times he was caught off guard, and his oversights were costly.

He almost died that night.

Or rather, he died and came back to life. Again.

When he regained consciousness the next day – washed ashore in France of all places, his body apparently disposed of via the English Channel – he was surprised to be alive, what with the effects of a well aimed Avada Kedavra being undone. Thankfully, though, his possessions had remained on his person in his invisible, expandable pocket.

The other Hallows had appeared, uncalled for, and revived him; with their arrival he stopped regretting the numbing of his heart and feelings. He did not wish to love and let go, as an immortal would doubtless need to do. He was selfish and fearful, and decided to eschew friendship and affection so that he may avoid watching beloveds age and die. Harry Potter was already a broken man, but bearing witness to the deaths of so many would do more than break him.

He feared what that thing beyond breaking was.

So he returned to England, liquidated all of his assets, withdrew each galleon, sickle, and knut from his vault at Gringotts, bought massive quantities of any and all necessities for traveling at length, and disappeared into the muggle world; all his possessions were stuffed into a never-ending suitcase, which in turn was stowed in the expandable and invisible pocket of his favorite dragon hide cloak. Hunting the filth of the world became Harry's purpose. He could not conceive of an existence that bore even the smallest risk of attachment; though he did doubt his ability to even be affectionate, there was that slim chance of nurturing affection again. A life of vigilantism was the only answer he found, besides being a hermit.