I think I speak for the fandom when I say, to J.K. Rowling: Thank you.
For my favorite little boy, from beginning to end.
It's been a year since the War, a year to the day. People celebrate in homes and pubs and streets, throwing parties and casting fireworks all across the country. The butterbeer flows heavy as families drown themselves in the pain of loss, and attempt to burn out the thick, lingering guilt of survival.
A year to the day, but Harry still cannot sleep without the nightmares. He dreams of Remus and Tonks, of Fred and Colin Creevey and Cedric Diggory and everyone else who has ever died for him. He dreams of Sirius and James and Lily and Severus Snape, the man he thought he knew, and he wakes up every morning gasping and drenched in sweat. Ginny, for all her efforts, cannot understand. She mourns the losses and mourns for her brother, mourns for her family and friends, but she will never feel the reproachful whispers of ghosts on the back of her neck, never hear the blame in the dream-voices of those who have died.
A year to the day, and Hermione still cannot rest without her bag in arm's reach, still cannot restrain the barely-concealed panic she feels whenever the face of Bellatrix Lestrange leers out at her from the Daily Prophet. A year to the day, and Ron does not talk to his mother, because conversations with Mrs. Weasley always end in tears and broken recollections of Fred and Remus and Tonks and the only way he can cope is by ignoring the reality of the War. A year to the day, and George has just started talking again. He is with Angelina now, Fred's ex-girlfriend, and sometimes he still turns to the empty place where his dead brother should be and does not remember until it is too late that Fred is gone, that he always will be gone, that he is never coming back.
A year to the day, and Voldemort still shows himself in the scars left on those who fought him.
Luna and Neville come by the house occasionally. Harry does not like company, does not relish the fearful admiration in the faces of those he meets, and always leaves the room whenever people ask him to recount stories from the War—but he enjoys their company. It seems the people who lived through the War are the only people he can relate with now, the only ones whose companionship he can bear. Ginny understands, and has scars of her own, but secretly she wishes he was still the same boy who saved her from Tom Riddle when she was eleven.
He likes Luna, because she does not ask him questions and does not pretend things haven't changed and does not try to talk about the War, never pries when Harry goes quiet or flinches at loud noises or closes the door in every room he enters. She does not ask him to talk about it when, on the rare occasions he falls asleep at their house—he still cannot relax when others are around—he wakes up screaming, kicking and struggling in the grasp of Voldemort, muttering the names of those he has seen die under his breath. He loves Ginny, he really does, but Luna's presence is calming.
Her presence is calming, but the only two people he really feels comfortable with are Ron and Hermione. They are the only ones who have seen what he has seen, who have gone through what he has gone through, and even then there are things they cannot know. What it feels like to look Voldemort in the eyes, what it feels like to die. The accusation in the eyes of everyone who has lost a loved one because of him, the heavy weight of hundreds of gazes in the Great Hall during the final battle, all wanting someone to blame. They spend more time together than any of them do with others, because it's only when they're together that they do not feel alone.
A year to the day, and Harry still cannot shake the uncomfortable feeling of betrayal every time someone mentions Albus Dumbledore. A year to the day, and he still cannot walk down the street unnoticed.
All across the Wizarding world, people celebrate in bars and houses and streets—except for the ones who don't, except for the ones who cannot shake the feeling of uneasiness and alarm, the ones who cannot sleep for fear that the memories they constantly fight to repress will plague them in their dreams. Everyone celebrates, except for the ones who fought.
There is a tiny house on a tiny, nondescript lane. Inside are the three who won the War—the best friend, the brainiac, and the Chosen One. Inside is the boy with red hair who struggled to break out of his family's shadow, the bright-eyed girl who loved books and magic and always had the answer, and the little boy with his mother's eyes who found a home and a family when he was eleven years old. They are still there, buried under a mountain of pain and loss and scarred memories.
The lights flicker and finally go out. These three will not sleep easy tonight.