Shattered
Albus Dumbledore had never felt more ashamed. Sitting at the head table, back in his rightful chair, he observed his students, and three students in particular stood out to him more than all the others. He couldn't believe how badly his plans had backfired, how badly they had all failed. And it all started with that night.
The night that Albus had decided to destroy the Horcrux in the cave. He had just finished explaining to Harry where they were going, when the alarms in his office had gone off. There were Death Eaters in the school! Of course, Albus had bolted out the office, Harry not far behind, to defend his students. The battle had been vicious, and he had been outnumbered. Albus remembered that he and Harry had been fighting side by side, trying to get to some third year students being targeted by Bellatrix Lestrange. Then, screams of some first year students had distracted him, and next thing Albus knew he had been hit with a spell that caused pain to explode in the back of his head. The last thing he had heard were Harry's screams.
That night had been over a year and a half ago. The headmaster laughed sardonically to himself, The Great Albus Dumbledore had fallen into a coma that lasted over a year. The Order of the Phoenix had whisked him off and kept him in a safe house, hoping for his recovery.
And recover he did, over a year later Albus Dumbledore woke up to the best news he had heard in years. Voldemort was dead! Harry Potter had won the war! People were still singing in the streets even though it had been two months since the young Gryffindor's victory. Albus still remembered his feelings in that moment, the shock, then the joy, and finally the pride. He had practically been singing. Harry, the wonderful boy, and his friends had hunted down the Horcruxes by themselves. They had done it! They had won! They were free!
Then, Albus had seen Harry.
The first warning sign had been Ronald Weasley. No longer the laughing joking boy that the Headmaster remembered. In his place there had been a serious and quiet man. A man who slipped into the room as if afraid the door would disappear if he didn't move fast enough. He was unbelievably thin, looking as if someone had stretched him to the breaking point and stopped just shy of what would shatter him. The infamous Weasley red hair had grown longer, hanging limply across his eyes and face. His eyes had darted nervously around the room, as if searching for something, only briefly stopping on the headmaster's face, to give him a brief nod of acknowledgement.
Next into his hospital room had been the Granger girl. She darted around with quick, birdlike movements, latching on to Ronald's hand before pressing her body into his, looking for all the world like she wanted to hide behind him and never come back out. She didn't speak a word, she had eyes for the Weasley boy and no one else. It took the headmaster a couple of minutes to realize that entire her body was trembling, and her knuckles white. She looked absolutely terrified.
Then had come the biggest shock of all, Harry. Harry, who had ghosted into the room, his footsteps silent. He had slid immediately to the right, in front of his friends, shielding them, and fearlessly met Albus's eyes. Harry, whose eyes were full of shadows. The once brilliant emerald, now changed to a deep, dark, green. His gaze had been piercing, assessing and analyzing, calculating. They were the eyes of someone who had to fight to survive, of a young man who had seen too much. One who kept his back to the door, and tracked all the movement in the room. The eyes of the hunted, and the hunter. The look of a child soldier. It had unnerved Dumbledore, but he had shaken it off, thinking, hoping, that it was just the shock of seeing him awake. They would be back to their old selves once they were once again within the safe haven that was the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Albus Dumbledore had never been more wrong. He didn't get to see the extent to the damage, for that's what it was, until he saw them at school.
Until, he saw how Hermione Granger never let go of Ronald Weasley. The girl refused to go to the classes that she did not share with her boys, would have a panic attack if separated from them, screaming and shooting curses. But that wasn't the worst part. The girl no longer spoke. She wouldn't meet anyones eyes, she never raised her hand in class. He had been assured by Ronald and Harry that she spoke to them, but only them. No one outside of the "Golden Trio" had heard her voice since the the three had returned from their year on the run.
Ronald Weasley had fallen asleep in the Great Hall, at the Gryffindor table during breakfast. Albus had been shocked when he had heard the screaming, a sound of absolute desperation. There he was, one of the heroes of the wizarding world in the throes of a nightmare, in the middle of the Great Hall. He had been sobbing, brokenly calling out for "Hermione!" screaming "Harry! Help me!". No one could wake the boy up, until Harry and Hermione had pushed their way through the crowd. It was horrifying to watch how practiced their movements were, as if they had woken their best friend from screaming in his sleep thousands of times before.
There was no doubt in Albus's mind that Harry's best friends had been through something terrible. Yet, it was Harry who was the most undeniably broken, if only because he seemed to be the strongest one. Harry, who had so many small spidery scars running up and down his body, that you couldn't tell where one scar ended and another began. Harry, who had shadows under his eyes so dark and deep that they looked like bruises. Harry, who flinched every time someone tried to touch him. Harry, who had a long thick scars criss-crossing all across his back and shoulders. Albus was too scared to ask if they really were whip marks like they seemed. Harry who had scars in the shape of bracelets circling his wrists, the kind that one only got from being tied down and struggling to the point of cutting to the bone. Harry, who had broken three ribs in his last Quidditch game and hadn't even noticed. Harry, who never took his wand holster off. Harry, who watched anyone that came within three feet of Granger or Weasley with a lethal focus, ready to splatter anyone against the wall should they make one wrong move. Harry, who Albus had not seen laugh in over a year and a half. Harry who walked too quietly, whose back was never to the door, whose reflexes were too sharp, whose eyes held too many shadows. Harry, whose eyes held a look so heart-wrenchingly, undeniably shattered.
They had won the war, and yet, Albus Dumbledore had never felt more ashamed.