I don't own Harry Potter, those rights belong to JK Rowling. No copyright infringement was intended when writing this.
Everyone expected him to be strong. Why wouldn't they? He was the Chosen One after all. The brave warrior who defeated the Dark Lord. The leader who showed no fear. The Boy-Who-Lived who was a symbol of hope for the Wizarding community. A Hero. Saviour.
A Broken teenager.
It seemed that in their glory, their victory, nobody seemed to notice the haunted look lurking in his bright green eyes. No one seemed to hear the sadness marring his words. The way his shoulders tensed at every loud shout went unseen, and the way he scanned every room he was in for an invisible danger at least ten times was never picked up on. He was used to it of course, growing up with the Dursley's had taught him that nobody cared. Well, not for him anyway. People's perceptions of him changed at the click of the fingers, and right now, they loved him.
No, scratch that. They loved the Chosen One. It seemed that right now, everyone was too happy, sad, shocked or elated to actually think to ask if he, Harry, was ok.
He wasn't.
He was sitting in the middle of the deserted Great Hall. His only company being the numerous bodies, covered in blankets and sheets, lying where the head table normally stood. His head was bowed in guilt. It was his fault that all of these people had died. They were fighting for him. They fought in a war that should've only involved two people. Himself and Voldemort. He looked up, an emotionless expression on his face, and his eyes roamed around the hall. The windows had been repaired by McGonagall almost immediately after the battle and the roof had been fixed by Flitwick. Odd pieces of rubble could be seen in the back corners of the hall, away from the bodies. The dead.
Harry stood up, his legs protesting against the action, and he slowly made his way towards the front of the hall. His steps were slow and careful, yet they echoed loudly in the large, empty hall. The darkness and the eerie silence didn't fit the image of the normally bright Great Hall. A place always filled with life now tarnished by the lingering sense of loss.
He came to a stop when he was only a few steps away from the shrouded bodies. It felt as if there was an invisible barrier there, preventing him from getting any closer.
Fred. Colin. Tonks.
He couldn't grasp onto the fact that they were gone. Their bright personalities now nothing but a memory. Their bodies, just an empty shell now, growing as cold as the stone floor they were lying on.
Gone.
Harry looked down at the corpse lying just in front of him. He knew who it was even when his face was covered. This was the loss that hit him the hardest.
Remus.
The last Marauder and the last link to Harry's parents. At least he was with Sirius, James and Lily now. That's all he had ever really wanted. But he wasn't with Harry anymore, and that hurt. It hurt a lot.
Harry sank to his knees, just an arms length away from his old professors still body. He held out a shaking hand and grasped the sheet that was covering Remus' face. He gently pulled it down, revealing the white, gaunt face of the man who had been snatched away from him when he needed him the most. Harry's breath hitched, his adams apple bobbed as he tried to suppress the wave of emotions that were trying to ensnare him.
"I'm so sorry."
His whispered apology was the undoing of him. His emotionless mask slipped and for once, the grief he'd hidden from the world was visible in his features. The tears he had tried so hard to suppress escaped down his cheeks and a sob slipped from his lips. He desperately clutched the cold hand of the man lying beneath him as he broke down for the first time in years, unable to accept the fact that more people he cared about were dead. His glasses slipped down his nose as he bowed his head slightly in sorrow, his dark hair falling into his eyes. His quiet sobs echoing hauntingly in the dark hall, diminishing the previous silence.
Everything about his defeated stature, his grief stricken eyes and the trembling of his hands screamed out that he was a confused, lonely and broken teenager.
And broken he was.