Sweltering. Suffocating. Dull and, surprisingly, hollow.
It confused Harry. He had succeeded. He should be joyous in his victory. But he could feel nothing but empty.
He could not escape the jubilance and the celebration until he receded into his room, alone only because he had insisted on it.
And then there was darkness. Pure sweet darkness. But he was not asleep. He dared not close his eyes, else it be all a dream and he would wake to another battle, another near fatality.
Because he never did die. Because he had been cursed with pure luck.
No, he watched the darkness of the night as it consumed the room in silence.
He looked at his hands, barely seeing the outline on them in the blackness of the room. Harry studied them as though they were suddenly a novelty. He observed the wrinkles of his palm and the calluses that came from hours of playing Quidditch. He flexed his fingers and scrutinized the way the muscles in his wrist moved when he did.
He had killed with these medium sized hands. And they looked clean. Felt clean.
But his soul did not.
He may have killed the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Tom Riddle, Voldemort…but his stain would forever haunt the young man.
And Harry Potter felt dirty.
He tried to conjure the memories of all those who died in the war. As justification for what he did.
It did little to help.
So he tried to bring each one before him, which only to further depress him, for he found he could no longer remember the way Sirius's voice had sounded, nor exactly how long Dumbledore's beard had been, or which side his smile tilted up the most on. He could no longer remember the way exact tone in which Snape had used towards him in Potions class. He couldn't remember the scars on Remus's face, or what was the color of Tonk's hair when he first met her.
And he grieved the loss of the all little details that he hadn't even realized he had forgotten. He began to weep silently, his back sliding against the door (for he had not had the energy to go into the dark room any further) until he was crumpled small figure on the wood floors.
Harry wept until he could not weep anymore. And then he sniffed, and grew angry at himself for being pathetic and for being so dismally sad when there was, at last, hope to be grasped when there had never been any before.
But eventually, the anger faded and Harry wiped his tear stained cheeks. He closed his tired eyes and breathed in deeply. When he opened them mere minutes later, he saw the beginnings of dawn streaming through the small cracks of the shuttered windows.
The little rays of light that forced him to squint in bloodshot eyes barely illuminated the room. Harry pulled the last of his strength his exhausted body had left and stood. He staggered for a few moments but he slowly made his way to the window. He pushed the shutters open and dim but warm light flooded the room. It was enough to pull the corners of his lip upwards slightly as found comfort in the light. He made his way back to his bed only to collapse on it.
He glanced at his hands, and he realized that he was still dirty. And that he would continue to forget the smallest of things about those who had died so he could succeed. He knew the nightmares would come; but not now, he hoped. All he wanted was to sleep through the grief and the celebrations that were still going on downstairs. He closed his eyes and he felt the hollowness inside still. But it wasn't as suffocating anymore.
And with that in mind, Harry slept.