Happy New Year to everybody.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

In truth, Harry never thought he'd have to sit alone on the tiled floor thinking again why people weren't sick of him yet.

But he did.

His bare body trembled mercilessly against the cold floor, the tile hugging his shoulder blades as he stared up at the ceiling. His legs pulled up to his chest, and he put his head in his hands. Harry barely noticed that his fingers were quivering so violently they shook against his cheeks with small, slapping sounds. He sucked air in through his clenched teeth. The ache he'd grown to accept was growing through his torso and into his head.

Pain.

But somehow it was okay. Pain was a normal feeling. Healthy every once in a while. It was better than nothing. Nothing made him feel hollow, and that's certainly not what he should feel the night he defeated Voldemort. The pain filled up his empty shell of emotion and, in more ways than not, replicated his old self – that is if his old self was ever real at all.

Harry couldn't tell you how he expected defeating Voldemort to feel, nor how he wanted it to, but he knew that emptiness he felt was not the correct emotion, and the waves of confusion that crashed over him were so overwhelming Harry felt he couldn't breathe, and the air he could conjure came out in tiny, sputtered coughs. It took him a moment to realize that he was at long last sobbing – so furiously, actually, that his face was hot and reddening. It's not like that mattered, though. There was no one around.

I need to talk to someone, he thought, I need Sirius – no, Sirius is dead. I need Remus – no, he died a few hours ago. Dumbledore? Obviously not.

He could have thought about his father. He could have thought about how amazing it would have been to share a few lines with him at that very moment, tell him of everything he did to avenge them. Harry could have been selfless and have a night thinking about his parents, but he didn't want to. There was nothing great about having a son who feels hollow and selfless on a night that he defeated his parents' murders. Had everything he done been solidly based on Voldemort? Had Harry actually been controlled around Voldemort's schedule?

The house was cold, and broken, and withering, and to top it all off Harry didn't even know whose house it was. It filled the niche it needed to, though. It made him feel surrounded, which is all he wanted.

I should have died tonight. It would have been better.

Harry stretched his legs in front of him, clad in dark wash jeans that were ripped and torn in several places. Dried up blood oozed from several cuts on his legs and arms. He hadn't even bothered to shower. He just ran from the castle without looking back – no that's a lie. He did look back. He looked back several times at the shattered building because he deserved to see what he'd done and everything he'd caused. It was his fault, after all.

He'd found this old building in only a few hours, far enough away to feel completely out of it yet close enough to know that your past never really leaves you.

Moonlight drifted through a splintered window, illuminating a streak on the floor so Harry could see his scared body before him. His fingertips just grazed the burn mark on his chest where the locket had rested over his heart. You're a scarred boy, Harry, said a voice, and though he didn't know who the voice belonged to, Harry knew it spoke truth. The unrecognizable voice didn't speak again despite the numb feeling that made him feel like it was always there, the voice of reason. That must have been it. There was no other explanation.

-.-.-.-

The light was too much; the light was too goddamned much. Harry would have narrowed his eyes against the pressure, but he knew that if he were to close them he would have gone unconscious right then and there. Something about sleeping at a memorial did not seem respectful.

Ginny sat next to him, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs as if she were hugging herself. Her face was puffy, and she looked up at Harry with eyes that overtly said that she wanted – no, needed – someone to hold her. Harry just looked away.

"Are you okay, Harry?" Ron asked.

Do I look okay? Last night I was murdered by the person who killed my parents, but I was selfish enough to live some more. Also, everyone I know is dead, and now you want me blind with these goddamned lights. Sod off.

Harry blinked some more and mumbled something like, "Yeah. Fine."

Ron looked away, his arm slung lazily around Hermione, who wouldn't let the subject drop.

"Where were you last night?" she muttered.

Harry rolled his neck as if to get out a kink and replied, "Out." His tone implied that the conversation was over.

Arthur heaved a sigh from across the room and said, "My son Fred was a very lively man. He liked to laugh, and he liked to joke, but I think making people smile was his number one motivator. Fred was loud and obnoxious sometimes, but he knew when to draw the line. He knew when the time to be crazy was and when it was time to be loyal. Fred knew when to fight.

"He's the kind of kid you'd expect to have grown up and fallen in love, maybe even start a family of his own and continue with his business, but he unfairly got none of a chance.

"My son Fred was a smart man, and I know he's making the other's we lost smile somewhere out there." Mr. Weasley raised his glass and sighed heavily, "To Fred Weasley."

They all lifted our glasses in honor and repeated the words. Harry mumbled the words late and ended trailing off awkwardly silent.

Harry's hands itched as George took the spotlight and continued about his brother. He didn't want to be here surrounded by the people who had lost. He didn't want to be closed in with the heavy feeling of whatever it was. When George left the stage Harry sat up, earning a few looks.

"Where are you going? Harry!"

Harry didn't bother to find out who'd spoken; he kept moving. The emotions he was having were pushing its way through his veins again, and looking back he knew there was nothing he could do to stop them. However, running away was a promising secondary option. Harry was great at running away.

At least now I can't say I feel empty.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Harry whirled around to find the small, heart-shaped face of his former girlfriend staring back at him. Ginny looked relatively the same as she had in his sixth year: same flaming – almost orange – red hair, same chocolate brown eyes, but there was something off in the way she held her jaw, or maybe it was the arc of her neck becoming a tad less gracefully held than it once had been. All the same, Ginny was crying. Harry had never seen Ginny cry. Like, not since her first year.

It suddenly seemed so long ago that she sat in his arms studying for her owls, laughing as he told the trio about Harry's dragon tattoo that may or may not have existed. Had it really been this broken, fragile girl crying in front of him that had stolen the sword if Godric Gryffindor or fought in the Battle of Hogwarts?

Oh, what a year could do to a soul.

"Where...?"

She wanted to know where he'd been, but there was no way he could tell her he'd been staying in that old, abandoned tenement. "Nowhere," Harry replied all too bitterly and turned on his heel.

She grabbed his arm again, and there it was in her face: the old Ginny flare that he knew. Without thought, Harry took Ginny – his Ginny – into his arms and kissed her so hard it was if he were trying to tell her, with his mouth against hers, all the things he wanted to say, but hadn't the faintest idea how.

I love you. I've always loved you. I'm so sorry, but who would forgive the person reasonable for so many deaths?

Who could forgive the person reasonable for her brother's?

She broke the kiss first, so abrupt Harry just looked at her for a moment.

"Where is this going?" she whispered.

"I really don't want to think of the future right now."

Her face was hurt, but that was to be expected.

In a rush, Harry added, "-but you know I love you, right? You know I always have?"

If anything that only made her look all the more miserable. Who is this person?

Ginny began to cry again.

This can't be happening. No. I refuse.

"Ginny – I – "

"What's going on in here?" It was Ron, his face nearly as red as his hair. In truth Harry thought it nice to see Ron again after the Battle. He'd cleaned up for the memorial, unlike Harry, and was wearing a Weasley Sweater that hung loose off his skinny body, even more frail than usual since their camping trip.

It must have been a strange scene to walk into, his sister sobbing and wrapped provocatively around his best friend's body, secluded in the kitchen not feet away from the rest of the guests. Neither Harry nor Ginny let go.

"Ron, where's Hermione?" Ginny asked, her voice cracked but somehow strong in timbre.

"Never you mind where Hermione is," he said, his eyes narrowed. "Why aren't you guys at the service?"

"I actually had to go," Harry said, dropping his arms from Ginny and patting Ron supportively on the back. "I'll see you guys…. Soon."

"Meet me at the coffee house tomorrow, Harry. Please."

Harry responded to Ginny with a single, curt nod rather than his desired answer, and kept walking.

As he passed Ron murmured, "You should be happy to be alive after what happened in the Battle."

Harry's voice went frozen. Cold and unusable. He couldn't chop the ice into little broken fragments of words to form the correct comeback, but he tried. "No" was all of his response.

-.-.-.-

"I understand!" Sirius yelled, his voice echoing through the old confines of Grimmauld Place. It was nearly shocking that the portraits didn't wake.

But Harry wouldn't listen. "You don't." His voice was shaking but somehow solid, as if he knew what he were saying was absolutely true. The chair underneath him screeched as Harry pushed it back and got to his feet.

Sirius inched forward at Harry's action. "You think I want to walk upstairs and find my Godson dead in his room? You think I want to worry about how many hours I have left with you? Harry!"

Harry's hands came together, his fingers brushing the scar on his hand. I must not tell lies.

"Who said I want to be dead? I don't want to die, Sirius, you prat. Don't ever think for a moment I want to die. I can think of everyone who has sacrificed their lives for this, and I can think about my parents, and I can think about Cedric Diggory – how they're always in a better place than I am right now. I can think about heaven and hell, and know I'm going to the latter, but please don't think I want to die."

"But – But Ron said that you… You told him! You told Ron last year you wanted to die! That you couldn't take it! Harry, don't lie to me. Tell me now. Have you ever…attempted suicide?"

"I never said I wanted to die," Harry responded shortly. There was no way they were having this conversation. It was all a dream. He wanted to scream at Sirius, to push him away and yell that it was none of his business how he felt.

Sirius was next to him then, hand on either side of Harry's face so lightly it was as if he wasn't there at all, making it easier to pretend it was some fallacy of his head. "Then why would he say something like that?"

"I don't want to die, Sirius. Sometimes I just don't see the point in living. That's all."

"So you wouldn't…?"

Harry jerked his head away. "I don't know, Sirius. Sometimes I just don't know." Harry was gone, running out the door of the kitchen, up the stairs, through the halls and into his room, slamming the door behind him and sinking to the ground. His back slammed against the wooden frame, but the pain subsided eventually.

He could hear Sirius behind him, pushing on the door and using spells to unlock it, but he couldn't release something that wasn't locked, just guarded – a muggle feat that a pureblood like Sirius sometimes didn't understand.

"You're only fifteen, Harry! Don't do this!"

Harry couldn't hear him though. With his eyes focused vacantly on the motes of dust spiraling around the room, he wondered how it felt to be weightless.