Chapter 1
I may be a lot of things, but one thing I'm not is someone that owns even one particle of the rights to Harry Potter. That said, if anyone has a way round this…
Moonlight danced across the room illuminating the four-poster beds occupying it. Silence filled the usually loud room, due to the exhaustion filling its occupants from the earlier events. Although the final battle had ended hours earlier, most were too caught up grieving and celebrating to go to sleep earlier. One bed in particular however was much less peaceful. It'd been nearly 48 hours since its occupant had last slept, if you could count the hour or so of tossing and turning at Shell cottage as he agonised over the attempt at Gringotts, not to mention the months since he'd had a fitful night's sleep. After the battle there was so much that needed to be done, he was the Saviour after all, thus everyone wanted a piece of him not to mention the fact that the castle, his first true home, (well, second if you count Godric's Hollow) was ruined. It seemed like every time he turned around, there was more to be done; more to be comforted, reassured, give thanks or seeking him to celebrate with. By the time he had finally got away it was starting to get dark, resulting in him being too exhausted to do anything but flop on top of the bed to sleep. Unfortunately for him, this wasn't to be.
He bolted upright, suddenly awake, sweat dripping down him, sticking his jet black hair down over his scar in a way that would never usually happen. This boy, as you may have already guessed, is none other than Harry Potter. Harry glanced about wildly and, noticing that he was in his old four-poster bed in the Gryffindor tower, he breathed a sigh of relief as he realised that he'd only dreamed what happened the events running through his mind. Peering around the room, Harry tried to calm his breathing, but knowing that he'd never get back to sleep after that dream he slipped on his invisibility cloak to go for a walk around the castle. He stole down the stairs, careful not to wake anyone, and crept out of the portrait hole. He made his way down the seven floors in a dazed state. He could not believe that it was over; Voldemort, a man (if you could even call him that) that had caused so much pain to so many people, was dead. Reaching the bottom of the moving staircases, he continued on his path lost in his thoughts when the sounds of muffled sobs stopped him. Slowly turning left towards the noise, reality came crashing down on him. Up until this point he'd been too wrapped up in disbelief of Voldemort's death to fully absorb the gravity of the battle. There, as clear as day, lay the consequences of his actions. In front of him were the closed doors to the great hall, within which lay the bodies of the numerous dead from the battle.
He stumbled backwards into an old passageway, where he fell against a wall, pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his head as he tried to fight the memories of the recent events, a groan escaped his lips as he failed. There was so many good, innocent people that had died, been brutally killed. How many children were now orphans like young Teddy? How many parents were to hear about their underage children killed like the Creeveys? How many families with at least one lost loved one? He could only imagine the immense pain that the must be experiencing. He gripped his hair in his fists, it was his entire fault. If only he had acted sooner, if only he'd tried harder, if only he had been smarter, if only, if only, if only... It was all completely his fault. Maybe it would have been better if he had died as a child or on any of the dangerous events he had experienced. That way this wouldn't have happened. Why, why did he have to destroy everything? As these thoughts ran rampant through his head, Harry stood, swiftly let go of his hair and swung his fist into the opposing wall with all his might, resulting in a sickening crunch. He dropped to his knees as the pain crashed over him, allowing it to engulf him for a moment before realizing that this pain was nothing in comparison to the pain that the Weasley's must be feeling, especially George. How could he face them again knowing he was responsible for all this? A chilling thought stole his breath; did they blame him? He wouldn't fault them if they did, after all it was his fault, but they were like a family to him. Harry didn't think he could handle them looking at him with despise running through their eyes; they were all he had, sappy as it sounds. He shook this thought loose and tried to pull himself together. The pain in his hand was no longer noticeable, but a sense of stiffness was beginning to creep over his body, so he resolved to move to alleviate this. Throwing on his cloak and exiting the passageway, he was assaulted by the blinding sunlight now pouring into the entrance hall and voices drifting through the now open great hall doors towards him. Reflexively glancing towards them, Harry flinched as a sea of red heads swam into view. He couldn't handle this, not yet, so he ran.
Well, this is the end of the beginning. Chapter one is over (yes, which does mean that I intend to write more) and your feedback and advice would be gladly accepted. So, if you could be kind soul, and take pity on my poor self, I'd appreciate you reviewing. Thanks, if you want me, I'm going to go hide under the bed away from the potential criticism, feel free to shout when you're done.