Harry woke up to the stream of sunlight falling directly at his face. It seemed to be late afternoon. He got up with a start. How could he be so late and miss his lessons? And why had Ron not considered it important enough to wake him?
The answer was snoring on the four poster just next to his. Apparently, Ron had been sleeping late too.
Harry tried to recall the events from the previous day that led to their excessive sleep.
In one terrifying instant, the memories of yesterday hit him with an almost tangible dull thob in the gut. His euphoria at the death of Voldemort and his abject grief at the loss of so many loved ones combined to make him run to the nearest restroom and vomit the sandwiches that Kreacher had served him happily (which were garnished by his tale of how handsome he looked with Master Regulus's locket while he Stupefied Death Eaters left, right and centre). What had failed to strike him in the confusing immediate aftermath of the battle now struck him hard, leaving an impression that was to last forever.
How could all this have happened so quickly?
He could not take it. He just could not. He had been the sole cause of the death of more than fifty people. How was he to live with it?
It was at that instant that he broke. So irreversibly was he broken and so irrevocable was his new shattered self that it seemed quite impossible to bring him back.
Unable to bear his own self, he fled by the first broom he could lay his hands on. The joy of flight that he had previously never missed to feel now seemed mundane and impossible to him. He tried to escape from the sorrow, but how could one escape oneself? For days, he tried to fight his inner demons in solitude, wandering aimlessly across the country and evading all humans , but it was quite in vain. Finally, he could not stand another moment of living with himself.
He wished to die.
The only place where he felt he had even a slim chance to rest in peace was by his parents.