It was a bleak and stormy night, tendrils of lightning streaking across the darkest sky Harry had seen in ages. Thunder rumbled down through the Forbidden Forest, and against the stark flashes in the sky, he could see flocks of creatures scattering up from the thick wall of trees. After one particularly nasty roar, Harry could have sworn he saw the silhouette of a flying car just above the horizon. Funny how that thought a year ago would have made him smile with a reminiscent fondness, but now…

Harry stood in silence and watched the storm rage outside. With a sigh, he tilted his head and placed his cheek to rest upon the glass. The cold was a welcomed touch against his face; the contrast between his warm skin and the icy window a wakeup call to his otherwise numb state. From his vantage point in the Astronomy Tower's spiral stairwell, Harry could see a vast portion of the grounds, including the newly built Magical Creatures paddock. Just to the North laid the ruins of what was once the great Quidditch pitch, all but lost in the final battle months before. For a rare moment, Harry allowed himself to remember flying above the pitch, chasing and darting across clear blue skies. His mind wandered through poignant moments: Dumbledore saving him from a nasty fall, Luna and her Gryffindor mascot attire, Snape and… just as quickly as the memory had started, it ended abruptly in a wash of black, transforming into a new train of thought as if the last had never existed. Harry thought of the withered Whomping Willow and redesigned Herbology green houses. The dock where once a boat house stood and the marble memorial of those now passed.

And that's how the grounds of Hogwarts looked those days: crumbling images of the past saddled up next to new buildings for the future, and yet even with all the new, the growth, the rebirth, Harry could still only see the scorched earth, the destruction and loss that sparked such a renaissance. The irony of the present made his mouth twist in a grimacing grin. Wouldn't they all be shocked to see him standing there in the middle of the night; the Ministry's Golden Boy, the hope of a brighter future, commiserating with the dead, unable to move away from his dark past.

'Well,' Harry thought, 'they wouldn't see me anyway, so no one will ever know that the Wizarding World's Ambassador of Goodwill is a jaded, shell of a man; a low-down rotter who wants nothing to do with good will and feels absolutely no form of hope or joy.' Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak tighter around his shoulders, trying to warm himself and knowing the effort to be futile. By the looks of the moon, and the cold ache in his bones, Harry could tell it was around 3:00am. He knew from experience that a Professor would be making his or her way to the tower at roughly 3:15am and, also from experience, he knew to be gone when that happened. It was much too awkward to get caught. The probing glances, the whispered accusations and false concerns were far too much for Harry to handle the next morning after being found on one of his nightly excursions.

Best to continue his lamenting elsewhere.

With a final look towards the still violent sky, he turned to go.

Through the misty view of the cloak, just at the corner of his eye, Harry caught sight of a parchment tucked inside a chasm in the wall. Upon closer inspection, he could see it was a newspaper, not a parchment, and was stashed along with several Chocolate Frogs and one empty potions vial. Probably some boy hiding out, waiting for the girl de jour to arrive for their clandestine meeting, much like Ron used to do when he and Lavender were going about. Some things never change, no matter how much some people would like them too.

"Accio newspaper," Harry whispered with a rasp in the dark.

The moment his hand touched the yellowing pages a monotone voice began to read aloud:

Harry: The Very Essence of Hope

We at the Daily Prophet were astounded at our own good luck and fortune when we were approached by one Ginerva Weasley, who wished to offer an exclusive look into the life, and the man, who is Harry James Potter. She told us of the brave Boy Who Lived over a refreshing glass (or two) of Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks.

Ginerva described Harry in plain terms, always referring to him as 'a modest and simple boy who has grown into a modest and simple man'. She recalled the thrilling and dangerous Battle of Hogwarts (see page 9 for more details) as well as the on-going restoration of the castle, grounds and the school itself. Ginerva informed us that Harry 'is very aware of the importance of rebuilding and does all that he can to move forward into a brighter future and encourages other to do the same'. We are so moved by how Harry has grown and what kind of wizard he has become under our watchful eye. And when Ginerva shyly mentioned she was, in fact, going steady with our Boy Who Lived, we were nothing but thrilled.

"He is a kind soul and someone I could see in my personal future for a long time to come," Ginerva said with a blush and a smile. There is nothing better than to know our hero is a happily taken man, with such a fine witch by his side.

Near the end of our long conversation, Ginerva mentioned how far Harry has gone to ensure the safety of our world and community: "He is the very essence of hope." Ginerva, we could not have said it better ourselves. Harry James Potter, you are the essence of hope and we at the Prophet will continue to support you in your future endeavors. At the current moment, Harry is enjoying his deployment by the Ministry of Magic as the Ambassador of Goodwill to the Wizarding World. In short, Harry's new task is to lead us into a safe, secure future, and with his permanent station at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, we may all rest assured that our children are in far capable hands. When Harry does travel away from Hogwarts, he may be found at the headquarters of the Ministry itself (see page 12 for an exclusive interview with Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shaklebolt). It has also been rumored that Harry James Potter was invited to meet with the Prime Minister of Great Britain, but we at the Prophet will, for now, set that aside and keep our rumor-free publication just that.

For now, we will content ourselves with providing you, the gentle reader, with a look into the Man of Our Time, Harry Potter (all new, exclusive photographs on page 5 and 6). Also in this issue, interviews with more of Harry's inner circle (see page 8 for Professor of Herbology, Neville Longbottom's, detailed account of Harry- The Younger Years).

"Utter rubbish," Harry muttered aloud as he tossed the brittle paper to the ground. What had possessed his "friends" to betray him like that? Didn't they realize by now that he would rather die than read about himself in the newspaper? He never wanted to be famous, he just wanted to be normal, and none of them had ever understood that. One would think that the Boy Who Lived, the Man of Our Time, would be surrounded by such fine, upstanding, caring friends… well one would be utterly mistaken. And Ginny, for Merlin's sake, his own girlfriend couldn't keep her trap shut! She just had to blab about how simple he was and how much everyone depends on him for a brighter future. And that bit about her future?! That scared Harry more than anything else in the article.

Harry closed his eyes and gathered himself, reigning in his frazzled nerves and spiraling anger. None of them had meant him any harm by it all. They all just did what they thought was right at the time. Harry had spoken to each of them, Ginny included, and they were all profusely apologetic. Even still, it didn't make Harry feel much better. And the misty look in Ginny's eye when she asked how he felt about their relationship going public made him feel considerably worse. How was he supposed to tell her he wasn't ready? How do you look at your girlfriend, your best mate's sister, and tell her your feet are ice cold and you just can't go through with it anymore? Hell, how was he supposed to explain it to her, when he didn't understand it himself?

Worse yet, no one knew. Not Ron, not Hermoine, nor Neville or Headmistress McGonagol. Harry hadn't told anyone what he was going through, because frankly, it wasn't any of their business. This time, for once, Harry was determined to sort things out on his own. A plan with good intentions, though which lately amounted to wandering the castle at all hours of the night with nothing but his thoughts for company.

As he stared at the article, his own picture waving back at him (who spells those pictures to make everyone look so bloody happy anyway?) his wretched aversion blossomed into full out disgust. Disgust with the Ministry, disgust with his friends, with Hogwarts and above all, disgust with himself.

"Incendio," his voice was barely a whisper, but the paper instantly ignited nonetheless. Those days, most spells didn't even require words. If he could think it, it could happen. With a brush of robes and the shift of his cloak, Harry fled into the inky dark of the abandoned hall ahead, leaving brilliant red flames to burn away in his absence. The thought of the grey, lifeless ashes it would leave behind made Harry smile, albeit slightly.

Serves them right, all of them.