A/N: This is going to be very angsty. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Prologue

He'd done it. He'd finally done it. He'd finally defeated Lord Voldemort, and killed him. He was definitely dead, and wasn't going to come back, ever again.

So why didn't he feel any different about it?

He'd finally saved the Wizarding world from evil... Until another Dark Lord comes, he reminded himself.

Harry Potter. That's who he was. The Boy-Who-Lived. And for what purpose? To track down and kill the guy that had killed his parents, and who had been believed to be gone forever until about two years ago when the Ministry of Magic had finally opened his eyes? Yes. That's all he'd been. He'd been given the purpose of his life whether he liked it or not: to fulfil some stupid prophecy about him and Voldemort. Now he had nothing left. No reason to exist. And if he decided to live, and carry on his life, the Daily Prophet'd just pester him. They'd want to know all the things he wanted to forget, like the actual day. This day – the day he'd finally gotten rid of the Dark Lord. But he didn't want to remember, couldn't anyone see that?

He ran his hands through his hair, and sighed, leaning his back against the door behind him. He was back at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, and Dumbledore had wisely told everyone to keep away from him; to give him a bit of alone time. More memories were all he'd managed to achieve on trying to get rid of the memories of that day. Memories of his godfather, who'd lived in the headquarters, because it was his house. But then Harry had just as well as sent him to his grave. He clenched and unclenched his fist in anger whenever he thought this thought, because he knew it was true, no matter what everyone else had told him.

"Harry, don't blame yourself." They'd said. "It wasn't your fault." They'd said. But Harry knew they were wrong, had known it two years. He remembered the date. It was exactly two years since Sirius had disappeared behind the veil. Harry could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, but he tried to stop himself, and decided to think of something else.

This didn't help. His thoughts just rebounded back to the day's events: the Death Eaters, surrounding him on every side; Voldemort, lying there, dead; and his friends, as they'd tried to comfort him on his way back to the headquarters. They couldn't comfort him, or make him happy either. He was never going to be happy for the rest of his life.

Harry paused. For the rest of his life. Did he have any reason to be alive at the minute? No. Did he have any future? Only if you counted people gawking at you and asking you for your autograph as a future, he thought bitterly. He just wanted a quiet life, like he'd mostly had just over seven years ago, when he hadn't even heard of Hogwarts, or Lord Voldemort, or anything else to do with magic. Compared to him, sitting where he was now, that life had been bliss. Sure, he'd been living in a cupboard-under-the-stairs, and his relatives had been less than friendly towards him, but at least he hadn't been the center of everybody's attention. Now he was. Harry James Potter, Wonder Boy. Outlived Voldemort – Harry counted in his head – eight times. Brave Gryffindor.

It was all too much to take. Seven years of being a wizard. And now he'd had enough.

"Harry?" a voice asked cautiously from the other side of the door. It was Hermione. "Harry?" she raised her voice a bit. Harry grunted to show that he was listening. "Harry, we're going back to Hogwarts now." She stated. Harry buried his hands in his head, and mumbled: "I'll be out in a second."

He stood up, turned around, and opened the door. Hermione and Ron were standing there, looking very apprehensive. "Well, let's go then." Harry said solemnly, but a tad impatiently.

They'd been back at Hogwarts for a few days now, and Harry had kept himself to himself, only speaking when necessary. School lessons had been cancelled for the time being, so that anyone who had been in the war (which was the majority of people) had time to replenish themselves.

It was morning, and Harry was the only one in his dormitory at the moment (everyone else was eating breakfast), scribbling frantically as if eager to finish the letter he was writing. When he did, he paused, read the letter through, and nodded. He sealed it, and beckoned Hedwig over (he had called her earlier so that he could send the letter straight away). He tied the parchment to her leg, and looked at her, a sad expression on his face.

"Hedwig," he said softly, stroking the feathers of the beautiful owl. "This is the last letter you'll ever send for me, okay? I want you to take this letter to Draco, and then I want you to go to Hermione. She needs an owl, so you'll be hers from now on, right?" Hedwig hooted in understanding, watching Harry with her amber eyes. "And Hedwig?" He began, stroking her again. "Goodbye." The last word he whispered so softly to the bird, that it was hard to hear.

Hedwig hooted again, and nipped Harry's finger affectionately for the last time, and took flight, flying out of the Gryffindor Seventh Years Boys' Dorms window, towards the Great Hall, towards the seventh year boy sitting at the Slytherin table, named Draco Malfoy. He'd been against Voldemort since the end of his sixth year at Hogwarts, surprising many people. And now, he was to receive a letter – the last letter that Harry Potter ever wrote...