Looking out from the great height of the Astronomy Tower, he could almost believe that nothing had happened. The Forbidden Forest loomed, as always; the Black Lake was still and calm. You couldn't see the broken windows peppering the castle; you couldn't see the empty beds. All you could hear was the soft whistle of the wind sweeping across stone.
Only the white specter of Dumbledore's Tomb broke the scene, brought it all crashing down again.
At least he'd had the chance to mend it where Voldemort had blasted it open.
Whatever the portrait said, it was done. The wand was with its true master. The stone had, with any luck, been trampled underfoot in the woods, been kicked off into the underbrush where it would remain; his cloak was draped over his bed for Ron to find.
This was, he'd decided while trudging up the stairs, ostensibly for fresh air, the best way to break the power of the wand. Really, the only option. What, he wanted to become an Auror and planned to never lose another fight in his life? Wizards live… a long, long time. Really, an unimaginable, nightmarish span of years spread out before him like a feast in the Great Hall, prepared solely for him, and he couldn't leave until he'd finished everything, down to the last tart.
So this was the right move, wasn't it? The cold of the stone parapet underneath him, the wind swirling his hair, the drop-he looked away-the drop below.
He could give this one last thing, now that he knew that Voldemort was gone, had watched him crumple. He hadn't been able to "move on" without seeing that with his own eyes, but it was done now, wasn't it? Now he could break the wand's power and if it was also a selfish thing, a thing he was doing because it all just seemed so exhausting now. Negotiating relationships changed by the war, watching the grief of those families shattered because he had not moved fast enough, the interviews that waited, the expectations from being The Boy Who Lived Again, of having been born to a purpose and having completed that purpose at seventeen and not even beginning to know what came next.
So. So he should do it, shouldn't he? His throat burned and his stomach was doing cartwheels but this… this was what he should do. He'd slipped away from dinner and nobody had said anything and maybe that was a sign.
Maybe he just needed the excuse.
But he was Harry Potter, and for once in his life, shouldn't that mean he got to do what he wanted to do instead of what he should do?
So he slid off the parapet.
And bounced.