Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any related characters and this is a non-profit fiction
Harry couldn't remember the last time he moved. He had been 'home' for around a fortnight- though he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. Time was a blur. His thoughts were a blur. All he knew was Sirius was gone, and it was all his fault. If he hadn't rushed into the obvious trap at the Department of Mysteries Sirius would still be alive. He would still have a godfather. He would still have hope for a better life.
He felt selfish for thinking about himself at a time like this- he still had his friends, he had Dumbledore. That's more than some. Remus was alone now. Two of his best friend were dead, the other a traitor. Who did he have? The thought sat like a stone in Harry's stomach. If it wasn't for him, Remus wouldn't be alone. Remus would still have his friend.
Harry wished he could go back. Wished Hermione still had her time turner so he could make thing right. Wished he had listened to her and Ron in the first place. But that was just a fantasy now, they were all gone. Destroyed in the battle along with so many things, all those items lost in one night. Harry wondered what else he ruined by choosing not to wait. Had some of those objects been designed to save lives, document information that would never be regained? He'd probably never know.
This thought lead him full circle to the end of that dreadful night. When he learnt of the prophesy foretelling his duty. His destiny.
Strangely, he wasn't scared. Just numb. The choice was clear; become a murderer or be murdered. Lookin at the options he couldn't tell which was more appealing. On the one hand he guessed some may already consider him a murderer. There was certainly no shortage of blood on his hands; Cedric, Sirius, his parents, even less innocent blood like Quirrell stained them a sickly colour. What's one more drop, one more life on his conscience? He guessed by extension, letting Wormtail live who brought his master back, meant he would bear the weight of all those lost in the war.
A small part of his mind (the part the often sounded like Hermione) told him it wasn't his fault, but she was quickly drowned out.
Instead he considered the alternative- being murdered. It's not the first time he thought he would die young. Even before he knew about Voldemort he always suspected he was never meant for retirement. His uncle alone being a likely cause; being at least four times Harry's size it wouldn't take much for his uncle to have killed him as a child- even unintentionally. Harry wondered if he ever regretted not.
How would people feel if he did die? Would they grieve? Be surprised? Disappointed? Or would they feel how he felt now, numb?
So far his uncle and aunt had left him alone, they didn't care if he let himself starve. He wondered how long it would take them to notice if he faded away. Probably as long as it took for the dusting to need doing and the grass to need cutting. They wouldn't care if he rotted.
Little did he know, a few streets over, a pair of redheads were in an estate agent making some enquiries. A pair of redheads who would most certainly care if he rotted.