As Harry left the headmaster's office, his legs seemed to carry him without any instruction from his brain, which seemed to have gone completely blank. Before he knew it, he was pushing open the door to the dormitory he had entered hundreds of times before. Without a second thought, he collapsed into his old four-poster, expecting to slide into sleep the moment he lay down. However, as he lay upon the soft bed in the warm dormitory, exactly where he had longed to be for the past year, he did not feel sleep creeping over him. He only felt his head aching on the pillow.

Harry opened his eyes. He longed to sleep, to rest, to do the one thing he had been unable to do since that night on the astronomy tower. He closed his eyes to rid his mind of thoughts about that night – and the man involved – but found that after a moment they flew open again. He stared up at the top of his four-poster. He could feel his mind whirring, constantly dredging up thoughts, but he was drawing a blank; whatever thoughts were zooming through his head, forcing his tired mind to continue working, he had no idea what they were, and chose not to try and find out. He rolled over, his head aching more and more the longer it rested on the pillow. Again he tried closing his eyes, exhausted and desperate to sleep. As much as he tried to avoid it, his mind strayed to the bodies he knew lay in a chamber of the castle, the families in the Great Hall that had been torn apart, shattered, for him. He knew that far below him lay the bodies of Fred, Remus, Tonks, Colin Creevey, and countless others. He knew that the grieving Weasleys were gathered, with many of his classmates. Or perhaps celebrating? Voldemort was gone; truly gone…

Harry woke from his restless sleep with a dull ache in the pit of his stomach, as though something heavy had settled there. He lifted his head from his pillow, realizing as he did that it no longer hurt. The pain that had filled his head since his duel with Voldemort had been replaced by a strange light feeling; as though his entire head would simply float away from his body. He sat up and put on his glasses, which were still smeared with dirt and blood. He didn't want to clean them. Looking at the watch the Weasleys had given him almost a year earlier, he realized that he had not slept nearly as long as he hoped. He rose to his feet, still tired, but no longer dizzyingly exhausted. It was okay that he was tired; he would have plenty of time to sleep now, now that the war was over. He walked to the window, looking out at the bright colors of the grounds which were lit by the blazing sun, now high above the castle. For a moment, everything looked fake – it didn't seem right, none of it; that the sun would still rise, that everything could glow, that such bright colors still existed. Harry didn't believe that any of it could be real. But even as he looked closer at the dazzling scene before him, he saw the smoke rising from the smoldering remains of trees and towers that had been hit by curses, a hazy cloud against the still blue sky. He saw the rubble from collapsed walls, pieces of the majestic castle in which he stood. The far off scene of desolation pierced the picture perfect scene before him, a distinct blemish on the painted landscape, reminding him of all that had transpired, all that had been lost. He pulled his mind once again away from thoughts of Fred, Tonks, Lupin, Colin; it hurt too much to let his mind wander freely.

Harry turned away from the glaring sun outside his window and, without giving his eyes time to adjust, left the dormitory. He walked down the stairs, out of the common room, and toward the Great Hall, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridors in a disquietingly hollow manner. The walk to the Great Hall seemed to take ages, and as he drew closer, he found that his hand had once again flown, out of habit, to the scar on his forehead. He lowered it slowly, and as his thoughts turned to his scar he found that for the first time in his memory, the scar did not hurt even slightly. For as long as he could remember, since even before he knew he was a wizard, and, he supposed, since he was one year old, his scar had constantly pained him, even if it was just the tiniest ache. But now, it did not. It was a new sensation, almost as though the scar and the part of forehead it was on were numb, as if there were simply a chunk of his head missing. It would surely take some getting used to. He gave his head a small shake to rid himself of the feeling that something was missing. Breathing carefully, he tried to allow himself to feel relief.

As he neared the Great Hall, noises reached Harry's ears. At first the sounds that reached him sounded like fighting, and made to draw his wand, but after a moment he realized that what he heard was the sound of celebration; the chatter of people for whom a great weight had been lifted – lifted by him. He closed his eyes for a moment, unsure of whether he was ready to face them. He took a deep breath, preparing himself to be surrounded by people, and pushed open the door. He was met with a scene of subdued celebration; people chatted amongst themselves, seemingly able to hold and enjoy a simple conversation for the first time in years. Many people looked stunned or relieved, as though they never believed this day would come. There was even a certain amount of outright celebration, people with huge smiles laughing and talking. Most faces he saw wore smiles, even those stained with tears. But the joy of the scene was tinged with tragedy, as families and friends crowded around one another for comfort. Some families had been hit harder than others; throughout the crowd Harry saw, scattered, a few people who sat completely alone, tears running down their faces. These, he knew, were the unfortunate people who had lost everything in the war; people who had lost their entire family or all of their friends. Pain pierced his heart as he saw these people, grief and guilt for the losses he had caused them. Yet even as he thought of the fault he bore in causing this much loss, those around him noticed he had entered, the one who had freed them. Soon, every face was turned toward him, and cheers broke out among the previously subdued crowd. It seemed that the few hours during which he had slept had allowed those gathered here to relive the battle, to view him as their hero, their savior, to hoist him higher on the pedestal they had placed him on the moment Voldemort had died. Wishing he had worn the invisibility cloak, he tried to make his way quietly across the room to where he saw the Weasleys gathered, walking determinately through the cheering crowd, ignoring the awed faces surrounding him. He neared the Weasleys, whom he had not been given the chance to see earlier, with everyone clamoring to speak to him. He saw their faces, tear-stained and full of grief, looking pained as they sat in silence. As he neared them, they softened. Ginny made to reach for him as he passed, Ron looked at him expectantly, and Mr. Weasley took a step toward him. Harry, however, continued walking until he reached Mrs. Weasley. He looked into her face, covered in tears, and she smiled sadly at him. He wanted to comfort her, apologize for causing the death of her son, say something to piece her back together, but before the words could escape his mouth, she enveloped him in a hug.

"You have been so brave," she whispered to him, and Harry felt tears sting his eyes. He buried his face in her, soaking in the warmth from what could only be described as a mother's hug. Mrs. Weasley, first and foremost a mother, had had her son taken from her, taken by Harry, and yet she was treating him as a son. As she pulled away, Harry felt a cold steal over him, one that he had been protected from in the arms of her embrace. Harry needed to tell her how sorry he was, or how grateful he was, needed to say something to let her know what he felt. Holding him at arms' length, she looked him straight in the eye.

"I am so proud of you," she told him, and a lump rose in Harry's throat. Unable to speak, he looked around at the rest of the family. Mr. Weasley stood behind his wife, his hand frozen in midair as though on its way to grip Molly's shoulder. Ginny stood with her arms wrapped around herself, staring at Harry. Ron was leaning on Hermione, who had her arms around him but was glancing around the hall to avoid looking at any of the Weasleys, which gave Harry the impression that she was rather uncomfortable at intruding on the family's grieving. Percy was off to one side, standing rather stiffly with tears still running down his face. Seeing that one member of the family was missing, Harry's eyes sought George. When he spotted the last member of the Weasley family, pain shot through Harry like an arrow piercing his heart.

The lone twin sat hunched over on a bench far from the rest of his family. He looked so lost without his brother that Harry got the impression he was missing a limb or some other part of himself. His body shook, his face covered in tears, his arms clenched so tightly around his body it looked as if he was trying to stem the blood flow from a physical wound in his gut. He did not look at any of the people surrounding him, but stared straight ahead, directly at the floor. His eyes were slightly wider than normal, giving him the appearance of a terrified animal about to be attacked. He looked lost. Harry wondered if he had ever gone more than a few hours without seeing his twin. In fact, Harry didn't remember ever seeing them apart, even for a moment.

"He wouldn't speak to any of us," Ron said in a hollow tone, having followed Harry's line of sight. Hermione jumped slightly at the sound of Ron's voice; evidently, George wasn't the only one who hadn't been talking. "He's been sitting just like that since they moved –" he broke off, looking stunned and confused. At Ron's words, pain, grief, and guilt boiled up in Harry, worse than any anger he had ever felt. Of all the lives that had been lost, all the families that had been torn apart, all the grief mingled with the celebration surrounding him, this hit Harry the hardest. This was by far the worst. It seemed so unnatural to see George apart from the rest of the family, not cracking jokes, and most of all – alone. Harry took a step toward him, but was stopped by Mrs. Weasley, who tightened her grip on his arm. Shaking her off, he walked purposefully toward George and, after a moment's hesitation, sat beside him.

George gave no sign that he had noticed Harry's presence. He continued to stare straight ahead, his face stricken, his arms clamped tightly around his body. Up close, Harry saw what he had not before. Not only was George's whole body shaking, he was also rocking back and forth. He wore an expression of mingled disbelief, horror, pain, and shock, his brow slightly furrowed, his staring eyes wide, and his mouth hanging open almost imperceptibly. Harry longed to comfort him, but found himself unsure of how. He slowly reached out his hand and hesitantly placed it on George's shoulder. George jerked his head to the side, hiding his face from Harry. Together, they sat like that, without moving, Harry longing to say something, but unsure of what to say. He knew he should apologize, and yet he couldn't help but feel that his only reason for doing so was to ease his own guilt. He wanted to sympathize, to comfort George, but he couldn't find the words. How was he to comfort a man who had lost his partner in crime, his co-conspirator, his other half, and all at Harry's own hand? Instead, they sat in silence, Harry's mind whirring, trying to come up with words to ease the pain that plagued them both. After what felt like ages, he could bear the silence no longer.

"George," he began, desperate to end the aching silence hanging heavily between them but unsure of what would follow. At the sound of his name, George turned to face him. The face that looked at Harry was nothing like the man he had known for seven years; the person sitting next to him was unrecognizable. George's face appeared creased, his eyes dull and cloudy as they stared dazedly at Harry through the tears still falling fast from them, though sobs no longer racked George's body. He was trembling, his arms shielding his stomach as if an attack were imminent and he had lost a protective shell, his mouth locked in a disbelieving frown, partly open; almost as though he had frozen mid-gasp. He looked as though he had aged a lifetime in a single night. He drew in a breath, preparing to speak, but hesitated for a moment, struggling to find words. Looking down, his face grew even more horrified as his lip trembled.

"They took him away," he finally spoke, his voice cracking, whether from not speaking or from crying, Harry did not know. His voice expressed the same emotion that his face showed; he sounded surprised, as though coming across a sudden horrifying realization.

"They took him away," he repeated.

"They took him away."