Salt in our Wounds
The darkness… The depression. It was everywhere. Everyone had expected him to be fine. Happy, even. Elated! He had defeated the Dark Lord, the man who caused so much pain and heartache for hundreds of people over the decades. Lord Voldemort, finally vanquished, had left Harry to get on with his life at last.
The only problem was that now that Voldemort was no more, he had no life to speak of. Harry felt empty inside; existing with no purpose and no relevance.
In the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, there was much to be done. The school needed to be repaired and restored to its former glory. As stones were magically laid and eventually paintings hung, Hogwarts slowly began to return to normal. But Harry, his soul – nothing could repair him, magically or otherwise.
It had been three months since the defeat of Lord Voldemort. Ron and Hermione had given him the space and time he so obviously needed to heal. Ginny had been less patient. She wanted to comfort him, to cry with him, to laugh with him again, but he would not let her. Tired of being shut out, feeling bitter and sad and rejected, she threw herself into reading, preparing for her final year of school, determined to distract herself until Harry came to her again. She was beginning to fear he never would.
As Harry's eighteenth birthday approached, he was mildly surprised to receive a letter inviting him back to Hogwarts to complete his seventh year. At first it seemed laughable – that education was still a thing to consider, after all he and his friends had been through. But the more he thought about it, the more he started to accept that life must eventually go on, and he had a career – a future – to think about. He knew he was lucky to have had that possibility at all. After confirming with Ron and Hermione that they too would be returning to Hogwarts, Harry decided it was the logical course of action.
Some nights Harry lay awake in bed wondering what to make of the new, unknown opportunity of a future, after he had prepared himself to die. He sometimes wished he had.
He thought of Ginny. He had almost left her alone in the world, with family and friends but no one to hold her or kiss her or stroke her fiery hair. He had no doubt that she would move on, eventually, and find someone new to fill his place. She was not weak. She would not let his loss ruin her life.
As he mulled it over – that he had almost left her alone, it dawned on him that there was no almost about it. He had not died but he had done it.
He had considered going back to her many times. To try rekindle the flame that burned between them. He couldn't bring himself to succumb to the urge to wrap himself around her again. She deserved so much more than what he could give her now. He wasn't Harry anymore. He was just a shadow, an ugly ghost with dead eyes and a dead heart. He had died that day in May.
The halls of Grimmauld Place were alive with the memories of a few summers before, when Sirius had skulked them. Harry had returned there after the Battle of Hogwarts, expecting the visit to be brief, as the weight of the memories crushed him. He had never left. Something about the dark walls and grey spirit of the house made him feel like it was okay to be sad. The ghost of Sirius – not literally of course, as there was none – haunted him as he walked around corners or sat alone in the red-and-gold bedecked bedroom. He too had been sad and lonely. It was a while before Harry realised he himself was lonely.
Ron and Hermione dropped in occasionally, both separately and together, to check on him or bring him food as he was too distracted to remember to feed himself. The press hadn't gotten hold of his location, despite their great efforts, and he remained isolated from the rest of the wizarding world. He declined invitations to the Burrow, to Ginny's dismay, more to avoid the concerned and pitying eyes of the rest of the Weasley family than anything else. It was only when George wrote to him in late August that Harry felt that maybe it was time to come of hiding, if only for a brief spell.
I lost my other half, Harry. I am empty inside, the letter had said, echoing Harry's feelings. I know I still have my mum and dad, I know I have Ginny and my brothers, I know I should feel grateful and lucky and I should get past this. But I can't. There is nothing left for me. I am so empty. No one understands… I don't know why I'm writing to you… Maybe I hope you understand.
Harry simply replied, I understand.
After more than three months of exile, of some sick and tense equilibrium between numbness and shattering sadness, Harry knew it was finally time to come out. He wasn't sure if he was ready, but he was sure that if he spent one more day shut up, physically and emotionally, he might lose the possibility of ever opening up again – forever. And so, on the first of September, Harry Potter left for London, for King's Cross Station, where the horror had happened in his mind, to return to Hogwarts for one more year of magical schooling, which would hopefully bring with it a new sense of purpose, and light up just a bit of his dark world.