I do not own the Harry Potter books or any of their characters, they are the brain children of J. K. Rowling. This story, on the other hand, is my brain child, so enjoy.

Harry Potter moved like a ghost through the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Bodies littered the ground, their names and faces anonymous within the gore. One's alliance meant nothing when death has taken them and all Harry saw were victims to the same travesty.

Had it been worth it? Ron, Hermione, Sirius, Remus, his parents and countless others; were their deaths worth it? As he walked away from the inhuman corpse of Tom Marvolo Riddle, he knew the answer. Yes, every life lost was in pursuit of a single goal, which they had achieved; a world without Voldemort. This saying Harry could not shake the guilt of their deaths and the immense loneliness their absence brought him. There was no joy in this victory, only a bitterness in his mouth.

"Potter!"

Harry turned to see a tired, blood covered Poppy Pomfrey, jogging up towards him, from a near by group of survivors. Her eyes were red and puffy, but instead of grief they held only concern.

"Potter, where the bloody hell do you think you're going?" She huffed, leaning over with her hand on her knees trying to catch her breath.

"Away from here," he replayed flatly. "What reason do I have to stay?"

"What reason? Potter," she let out an exasperated breath. "You have just defeated the most powerful Dark Lord five centuries and you think you can just walk away? Now come over here."

Harry turned angrily towards the petite woman and snarled.

"Any why not? What else do I own you people? I've lost ever thing and you think I want to stay around and sign autographs? You must be bloody fucking mental!"

He turned and stormed away from the woman, towards the Forbidden Forest. The corpses were less numerous here and he had every intention of apperating away from this hell hole. The thought of staying there one more moment sickened him worst then the sound of the bloody mud beneath his boots.

"I only meant to check your injuries."

Whirling around, Harry stared at the woman in confusion and was disgusted with himself when the medi-witch flinched and coward at his towering form.

"Y-your face," she stammered taking a step back. "There's blood."

Reaching his hand up, Harry wiped his face of the. When he brought it down, Harry tried to hold back a grimace as he saw the blood that covered it. He had no wound.

"Not my blood," he murmured and wiped his hand across his torn and already stained jeans.

Without another word he turned from the still cowering medi-witch, look a few more steps away and apperated away from castle he could never bring himself to call home again.

Harry walked through the familiar field, where he had played Quidditch on so many times and towards the oddly sharpened house, which no longer felt warm and welcoming. In the last year of the war, the Burrow had lost much of its homeliness, but there was always something there, a magic to it maybe, that made everything seem like it was going to be alright. That was gone now, just like the family which had once filled the many its rooms.

The door was ajar when Harry reached it. They were in a hurry to reach Hogwarts and with the wards that had surrounded the house; why bother shutting the door?

Harry stepped into a kitchen filled with movement and noise. Molly Weasley was bustling around, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, while pots and pans flew over her head, the smell of something delicious in the air. The plump woman turned to greet him, wand waving in the air causing a radish to almost hit him in the head.

"HARRY! No one told me you were here," she exclaimed as he ducked another vegetable. "My, my dear, you are looking a little peekish aren't you."

"I'm fine Mrs. Weasley, really," Harry let out a laugh as she fussed.

"Ron and Hermione are up stairs; tell them to come down and help with the table, won't you dear?" She turned waving towards the hall.

"Yeah, no probl –"

The image was gone before Harry could make out the sentence. The kitchen was silent and dark, there were no clanging of pots and pans and no aroma of cooking food. Molly Weasley was not there, she hadn't been for some time. Harry fell against the counter taking a long shaky breath.

"Get a hold of yourself, Potter," he spoke aloud. "There's no one here, they're all gone."

No bothering with lights, Harry found his way to the stairs by memory and made his way up to the second floor where he and Ron had shared a room. Grabbing a towel from the closet he went straight to the bathroom and locked the door and lit the lamp a thought. He kicked off his muddy boots and began to peel off the blood and mud soaked t-shirt and flinched as he ripped off a newly formed scab over a large slash to his abdomen. Taking the time to inspect the wound he saw it was long, but not deep; he would live.

He moved the tattered jeans next, which were hardly more then rags which stuck his legs, like leeches trying to take what life he had left in him. More or less ripping off the rest of his clothes, Harry stood, breathing heavily. He stared at the pile of cloth, not knowing if the disgusting smell in the room was it or himself. With a flick of his wrist the pile burst into flame and was gone. The smell of smoke couldn't hide his stench and he stepped into the shower.

As hot water pelted his sore aching muscles, he grabbed the soap he rubbed the mixture of blood, sweat and mud from his body; watching the reddish brown water washed down the drain. Harry stepped out of the shower and wiped the condensation from the mirror to get a better look at himself. No one would guess that this scared, muscled man with stubble on his chin and a glare on his face was the skinny, weak eleven year old who was just happy to be noticed and cared about. Disgusted he turned to leave, his magic lashing out and smashing the mirror.

He's eye's unseeing; Harry made his way into his room he shared with Ron and went to his trunk. Taking out a fresh pair of boxers and jeans, he quickly put them on and left the room. Again in the dark, he walked methodically back to the stairs and continued his ascent, past the third floor where the twins and spent their days inventing and to the forth floor. He stood for a moment hand on the handle before pushing his way into the dark room. His senses were attacked first by the sent of old books and grass, but as he made is way through the room to the opposite wall all he could smell was lilac.

Harry knelt down by the bed against the far wall and buried his face into the soft sheets and inhaled the sent. He let it fill his lungs before his breath hitched and a sob wretched through his body. He shock from the force of his sobs as he let all the grief, pain and guilt out. Loud whimpers escaped his raw throat and he wrung his hands through the sheets pulling them off the bed and onto the floor where he now lay on his side, his knees pulled up to he's chest.

It was hours before Harry had cried himself dry and hours more before merciful sleep took him. No one who just so happened to pass by would have recognized this broken seven-teen year old boy lying asleep on the floor of the room of Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley, to be the man who defeated Lord Voldemort, the Champion of the Wizarding World, the Chosen One... Harry Potter.

I don't usually upload my stories here, but I like the idea of this one so much that I thought, "Why not?"

Anyways, I'm sorry for the shortness of the chapter and that it's such a downer, but I hope you guys enjoyed it anyways.

Read and review, cause I love you long time.

Lots of Love, Solyom