DISCLAIMER: All characters, spells, magical places, creatures etc. belong to JK Rowling. Her brain works in wonderful and mysteries ways, and I could never come up with anything half as brilliant as her creations. Harry's POV.

CHAPTER ONE

The smell of garbage was making him sick.

As he made the smooth transfer in the dark seclusion of the alleyway - quickly, press the money in the dealers palm, slip the offered drugs into his coat sleeve, walk away and don't look back - he could see the flies circling and buzzing around the large garbage bin beside him. Harry shifted from right foot to left, as the dealer counted the money and gave a small nod. As he left the alleyway, the dealer long gone before him, rain started to fall on the London streets - first gently and then harder, the pressure of each raindrop slapping against his thin hooded coat. He made a stop in the closest 24-hour shop, the rain now so persistent he needed to wait somewhere dry until he made the rest of his way home. He took a seat and shook out his wet, messy hair, and looked back on what his life had turned into.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

None of it was. The triumphant success of the light-side during the War at Hogwarts was supposed to bring...more than this. Days before he came face to face with Voldemort, during the long restless nights spent searching for Horcruxes with Ron and Hermione, he had dreamt of that day. Dreamt of cheers and happiness, of the weight of the world finally lifted from his shoulders after so many years. As much as the climax of the war terrified him, his fears had also brought hope for a second chance at his life. A way to put the past in the past and live his life as fully and as completely as he could, with the people he loved and the knowledge he'd gained. But it didn't work out the way he had hoped, and sitting in that store today, he began to wonder how he ever could've thought something would work in his favor for once.

The day of his duel with Voldemort was not met with sure thoughts and signs of hope. It did not end with clear skies and chants of Harry's name. It ended dark and damp, rainfall harder than the one today, with several more deaths than he could've imagined. And the deaths were what stuck with him most. When he got up from that battlefield his first thought was to find Luna, to take her into his arms and feel her heartbeat pressed against his, because they had both made it - they had both survived. But when his hand reached for hers, she shifted away. The months spent apart during the build-up to the war had been hard on both of them, and now, for her at least, the feelings were gone. It took them mere weeks before they finally called it off. His weeks after the war were not spent with another living life as best he could, but spent tired and alone. Watching Ron and Hermione at their wedding - the perfect couple starting what could only be a perfect life - somehow made the wound of his freshly broken heart cut deeper. Standing there beside Ron as his Best Man was bittersweet at best, and he left the wedding as quickly as he'd arrived to it.

'You're a fool, Harry Potter, and you will lose everything.' Harry hung his head in his hands, remembering Voldemort's words so many years ago. He couldn't help but feel like a fool - for expecting something good, for being optimistic.

Of course, Harry had his good days early after the war ended. He would spend days with Ron and Hermione at their small home just outside Ottery St. Catchpole, talking about the old days at school, news about old friends, Hermione's workload and Ron's grueling training during the off-seasons for Quidditch – sometimes they just sat there and basked in the silence, none of them needing to speak a word because everything had already been said. Other times they would talk about Ginny and her travels with Dean around the world, leaning about the history of each country and experiencing the food and the people, the sights and sounds of each new place, fully embracing their new found wanderlust during their year-long honeymoon. Or about Arthur and Molly and their constant nagging to Ron and Hermione about grand-children, Mrs. Weasley even going so far as to take some of the muggle pamphlets 'found' in London - about child-birth and baby names and a reference list of books every new mother should buy when they're expecting - and slip them in Hermione's bag while she excused herself to go to the washroom, Hermione told Harry once, laughing. Sometimes during Harry's visits they would receive a letter from Neville asking how they were and keeping them updated on the goings-on at Hogwarts and how his Herbology students were doing in class. They always found a way to steer clear of topics that could lead to Luna, who was now married to some boy who's name Harry couldn't remember, and had gained some fame in the wizarding world on her book about Wrackspurts and Gnargles and every other creature Harry remembered her talking to him about sometimes, back when they were together.

After the war, there had been some celebrations and cheers, but they left as quickly as they had come; it seemed people wanted to forget and move on as quickly as possible - they wanted to get started on pretending the war had never happened at all. Many days back then Harry found himself happy, but soon the happiness turned into longing, for someone to be with or something to do. He felt so…empty now. But his emptiness and longing was quickly replaced with guilt – for the lives lost, for feeling as if he shouldn't get to feel happy, or content, or anything really, because those people were dead and gone and the public wanted to forget, and forgetting meant forgetting those who gave their lives for that war. The guilt ate away at him, gnawed at his insides, so sharp and persistent that some days he felt as if he didn't even want to get out of bed, as if he couldn't. Then the guilt had formed its way into everything horrible all at once – depression, frustration, anger, misplacement, tiredness, bitterness. He started visiting Ron and Hermione less and less, and when they caught on and started calling him instead, he made sure not to answer the phone. He wanted to distance himself from their happiness. He began to feel like there needed to be a clear and decisive line between Harry and the rest of the world – because he didn't belong there anymore. What meaning did his life have now? Everyone had moved on, but he was still stuck there on that battlefield, blood on his hands and dirty all over, at a loss of what to do next. Of how to take the next step. He would gladly take one hundred cruciatus over this feeling. It was worse than the dementors, worse than even death itself. This feeling of being trapped inside of himself, with no sure way out, was by far the lowest and the darkest he had ever been.

Outside, the rain slowed and then finally stopped. Harry quickly got up and moved swiftly out of the small shop, as if trying to run from the thoughts eating away at him. He kept his head down during his journey, avoiding the large puddles on the road and eye-contact with passers-by. Once several weeks ago he had been walking down this very street on a day much sunnier than this one, when a stranger suddenly stopped in front of him. Harry dodged left but the stranger went in the same direction, and the same result happened when Harry tried to dodge right. They did this awkward dance on the sidewalk for a few seconds until Harry grew exasperated and said "YES?" only to be met with the timid response "You're Harry Potter, aren't you?"

Harry took a good look at the stranger now – a teenage boy in baggy jeans clutching a skateboard, staring up in awe at Harry. "Erm…n-"Harry was about to try and say no, you're mistaken, I'm not who you think – but was rudely interrupted by the eager boy.

"You are, aren't you? Wow, I can't believe – that's amazing I mean , here I am walking down the street and I look up and there you are coming at me this is so coo- I've got a tattoo on you, do you know that? Look!" and without hesitation the boy dropped his forgotten skateboard on the sidewalk and yanked up his pant leg, to reveal a small lightning bolt tattoo made to look like a scar on his right ankle. The boy looked up at Harry happily, waiting for Harry's opinion.

Harry didn't know what to say. He felt awkward and this kid was showing him his ankle with a tattoo of his 'infamous' scar. He tried to quickly think of a response.

"It looks like…a real scar. That's nice, I guess…I've got to be going, somewhere important I need to be, but erm...I…It was nice meeting you." And before the kid could form a response or, Merlin forbid, expose another body part to Harry in the middle of the street, he veered past him, walking twice as fast to get home, while trying in vain to figure out what just happened.

Harry gave a small chuckle upon remembering that day, and how he told himself that he'd wear a hood from now on and be glad there wasn't more pedestrians on the street that day, lest that boy cause a scene – the very last thing Harry wanted was to be poked and prodded by the public, mere blocks away from his flat. He grimaced to think of what would happen if they found out where he lived. That certainly would not end well Harry thought to himself, walking even faster and closing his coat more tightly around him as the wind picked up and grew more fierce during the night.

Eventually, he reached his building - small, dark and practically dilapidated, it would've been easy to overlook. Harry walked into his flat on the first floor, which ironically was about as large as his cupboard under the stairs, his home so long ago.

It was a tiny bachelor apartment, and to call it a bachelor would be a compliment on the small room. There was only enough space for a bed, placed against the back wall, the small window next to it casting patterned shadows on the bed sheets. Harry somehow managed to squeeze in a medium-length, short bookshelf just beside the front door, which he used as a make-shift dresser, his shirts and pants stuffed in the different sections, loose change and empty pill bottles scattered along the surface. All of his remaining belongings were on the floor next to the bed – folded up bills of money, a broken wand, the clothes he had worn the day before, a candle, a matchbox and an old worn-down watch. A small door on the far right wall of the room led to a tiny bathroom, which had nothing in it apart from the toilet, the sink and a rusted small tub with no shower curtain. His toothbrush lay teetering on the edge of the sink, a tube of toothpaste standing beside it. The paint on the walls of his flat was a dull, pale blue, which was peeling away in several places. He cast a glance around his flat and threw his keys in the general direction of his make-shift dresser, the sound of the jingling keys letting him know they wound up on the floor instead. He saw down on his tiny bed and sighed. His dark thoughts were slowly catching up with him again. He started to think again about Voldemort, and that battle, and Dumbledore. "What would Dumbledore say to me now?" he asked himself aloud, running a hand through his unmanageable hair.

"These times are hard, but fear not Harry. Light is on the way." he mumbled to himself, imitating Albus. He frowned. "Fear not. More like fear always...There was never any 'Light' or 'Dark', was there?" Harry whispered to himself, letting out a quiet half-hearted laugh. 'Just people fighting for something much bigger than themselves. Confused...lost...dead. Was this was I fought for? Harry wondered. To feel like this every day, to want everything and nothing at all? To ask myself these questions with only my thoughts to answer them? What was the point?' He thought. Then Harry suddenly had a moment, a sudden desperateness that ate him out alive and put him back together again. It was a thought so small, but so large, and also one that he knew he'd been thinking since this all ended. It made no sense to him that he would want this, after everything he was feeling now, after all of his frustrations and depression, after this dull pounding of his heartbeat, once so strong and loud and positive, was now something he used to count the minutes and hours and days until...

It made no sense and made all the sense in the world to him, all at the same time. He sat there, took this moment in, let it take over him.

He thought 'I wish I could relive it all again.'

Throughout all his years at Hogwarts, Harry did not know how to process and properly and completely embrace his fame and celebrity. Even towards the end, when he, Ron and Hermione were busy trying to save the world by themselves, searching for Horcruxes, throughout all that growth within himself over the years, this was the one thing he never truly accepted about himself. Being a child of abuse and abandonment made it hard to wake up one day and discover that you are loved by such a vast amount of people that have never seen or spoken to you before. But although he still didn't fullyembrace his fame, there were times when he enjoyed it. Years of being left alone in that dark cupboard with nothing but spiders and toy chess pieces to keep him company, or out in public being cast-off, ignored and left behind by his 'family' had caught up with him. There were even times when he relished in the knowledge of everyone knowing his name, his past, his present, predicting his future. Those years at Hogwarts, some moments were so dear to him because he felt like he belonged somewhere, that he was accepted and sometimes even understood. Ron and Hermione had a lot to do with that of course, but it was all his classmates on a whole. Even Malfoy, with his cutting words that still leave wounds to this very day, added to that feeling, because it gave him attention, and it was essentially someone taking the time to notice him, however negative. He would do it all over again, and again and again. Just to get that feeling back. To get anyfeeling back. He might even go so far as to say that, if he knew then what he knew now, he would spend the rest of his days with Ron and Hermione, traveling and searching for horcruxes, searching for themselves, and whatever else they want to go looking for, and just...never go back. A true solitude with his friends, without any pressure to kill and destroy and seek out a means to successfully do so.

But things were the way they were now. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Harry took the drugs out of his sleeve from earlier that night - high dosage amphetamines and sleeping pills. He took twice the suggested amount of each and lay down fully clothed over the covers, the bed groaning in protest of his weight on the springs, and stared up at the cobwebbed ceiling of his apartment. He listened to the noise of the cars and the sounds of the people outside as the pills began to take their affect, and just as his vision started to blur and his heart rate picked up, as his eyes began to get heavy, he couldn't help feeling as if he was in the same place as he was when he was a boy of eleven - alone, lonely and hopeless, locked in his cupboard under the stairs.

AUTHORS NOTE: So there it is! My first ever chapter of any fanfiction/story ever! Was it good? Bad? Truth be honest! Leave a review so I know what to work on, it'd be greatly appreciated :) Chapter 2 will be much longer, and should be up soon.