Harry was flying.
He was flying and it was the best he'd felt in a while. The war was over, Voldemort was dead…he should've felt better, but all he could feel was guilt. Guilt for the people that had died. For him, and for his cause.
But flying took it all away. He was free from the nightmares that still plagued him at night. Free to forget that he was ever the Boy-Who-Lived and that he had had an easy life. Free to forget that when he landed, there was his godson, and that he could barely look at him, the resemblance to his mother and father so pronounced.
Harry was flying, and he was free.