Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, had saved the world. Lord Voldemort had been killed, and they were all safe again.
The cold shell of a boy sat alone in a dark room, staring at the floor.
No one could fathom, really, the feeling of having a piece of your soul ripped from your being. And there was no doubt that, over nearly seventeen years, the piece of Voldemort's soul that had linked onto Harry on that fateful Halloween night had grown to be a piece of The-Boy-Who-Lived.
Even Dumbledore had missed it. It hadn't been just visions, anger, Parseltongue and a burning scar that had been rooted in that bit of soul swimming within the depths of Harry Potter. It had also caused him to excel at Defense Against the Dark Arts. Because fighting was fighting, one way or the other. And Lord Voldemort knew how to fight. And that soul piece had given Harry his ability to influence others around him, his leadership talents. It was also where he'd gained his quick temper, and quick wit.
So now, without some of the qualities that Harry most admired in himself, the boy sat alone, sobbing.
There was a horrible feeling ripping through his chest, like he was being mauled by a lion. But Harry Potter's expression relayed no pain. For he revelled in it. He thought he knew what was coming, and he wanted it to happen. The only way to repair your soul was to feel remorse. And Harry felt it. He wished that piece of soul was back more than anything. He regretted it's death more than anything. More than the deaths of those he'd learned to call family.
But what he didn't know-a good bit of his cleverness had gone with the soul, as well-was that the soul was dead. It was not truly his, he had simply been a Horcrux. A type of container, holding something that grew over him, making him more valuable than he ever could have been alone. Like a simple wooden chest holding a marvelous fountain of gold. The liquid gold had enveloped him and solidified, making him special. Making him shine. But when that fountain was taken away, the chest would still be a gilded one. And Harry Potter would still be shining. The-Boy-Who-Lived. The Chosen One. The young man who saved the world. But there was no doubt that the stream of gold-that Voldemort's soul-had been what was really making that container worth anything.
So alone in a dark room, hidden from the world, Harry Potter cried. For that essential piece of him was gone. That constant flow of treasure.
And what was worse was that without the fountain of gold, it still would have been a very nice chest. Nothing to brag about, but something useful. And Harry Potter, lacking that piece of soul, would have been useful. But he never would have had the strength to be The Chosen One. Not in the sense that he was in reality.
And now he could go back and pretend. Because now that it was over, he would never have to utilize those things that had been rooted in the piece of soul. But there was no way he could ever be himself again.
So without bothering to dry his eyes, Harry Potter stood. He exited the dark room and entered the abyss of a confusing new world full of people who wanted to love and praise the Chosen One.
But The Chosen One was gone. And altogether more tragic, Harry, just Harry, was gone with him.