Author Note: This is a short little story that came literally out of nowhere. I think I'd been reading too many stories of Harry after the war and betrayal stories or something. Not sure. I know I was thinking about what Harry's real mental space would have been directly after the war concluded. So many stories have him jumping directly into a relationship with Ginny (or some other girl) getting married and popping out a bunch of kids while working with the Ministry to clean up the remnants of the war, uncaring of whether or not people get the true justice they deserve. Almost none of the stories actually take into consideration just how doing what he had to do to end the war would have seriously messed with his head and heart. His moral compass would be all over the place and not at all on firm ground within his psyche.

Anyway, I'm offering this one up to anyone who thinks they can actually continue it into a full length story. All I ask is that you stay true to the guidelines mentioned within it. The people in the ghost band have to remain dead and the people that led them to their death have to remain as such and untrusted by Harry as a result of their actions.

Of course I do not own Harry Potter. My name is not and never has been Rowlings.

The Music War Creates

Tired, emerald green eyes slowly scanned the room around him looking for anything out of place. His violin, recreated by him from childhood memories to help him cope during his most stressed years here at Hogwarts, was still sitting on the white linen of the small round side table perfectly enhanced by the very full round bellied vase of just opening tulips in various hues. Moonlight streamed in through the tall window bathing the small table to create an artist's dream setting. The image was spotlighted by silvery light, crisp and peaceful, shining through a narrow window off to one side of the setting. All the scene lacked was the empty wine glass and still corked bottle of wine sitting on a bed of crystal ice inside a gleaming silver bucket.

The light did its best to deny his loneliness while offering respite for a weary soul in grave need of rest spilled over the edges of the table before being quietly swallowed by the shadowy darkness of the room. The solitary instrument beckoned to him; calling for him to pick it up and draw the bow across its strings; calling as if to say he'd feel better once he allowed the instrument to give voice to his soul.

Sighing quietly, the old yet so very young man walked to the table and picked up the violin's bow. Sitting on the stool beside the table he opened the jar of resin before picking up a resin stained cloth to begin cleaning the bow. As he did so, he noted each of the room's instruments resting silently awaiting a player. Each instrument was in peak condition gleaming with the care the owner would have given it. Owners, he knew would be here soon enough. Because he knew he wouldn't resist the call of his violin to try and play out the pain in his soul. He couldn't help but try to ease that pain. It was becoming a habit. A habit he had no will to resist or break. Maybe in the future the pain would lessen enough he'd be able to sleep without the pain overwhelming him. But right now the wounds of the recent war were far too fresh and the faces of the dead to clear in his mind's eye.

He needed this nightly routine. Needed to play something. If he had any hope of sleeping. And so he knew he would play. And his music would call the others to join him as he tried once again to play away pain so deep it had come to define him. His pain made him who he was.

The war hero the survivors idolized and celebrated. Survivors who had no true idea of what their freedom had cost him. Nor did they truly care. All they cared about was the fact that they had survived. That and blaming him for those of their family and friends who hadn't survived. There were just as many doing that as there were bragging about how he'd done his duty just to save them.

Both were wrong. He'd done his duty, yes. But he hadn't done it for them. Those scared sheep who hid in shadowed corners waiting for someone else to do what needed to be done. Too scared and weak to try and defend themselves or their loved ones. Too stupid to put their faith and strength behind what they believed and so willing to just meekly follow the bidding of the wolf at their door.

He didn't care about them though. They weren't why he was here. Here in this quiet, distant, hidden room readying his violin to play away the lonely pain of his own survival.

He turned his gaze away from the gathered instruments, unable to bear seeing them any longer. Each one represented a person who he personally knew. A person who, for one reason or another, had a place in the burden of pain he carried.

Choosing to look out the window knowing there was nothing to see there, he set the resin cloth aside and ran his fingers over the smooth wood of his violin as he gazed into the darkness beyond the clear pane of glass. But seeing nothing was far better for him than seeing what this room would soon hold.

This too was becoming a habit. He would rosin up the bow and clean the strings with his back to the lonely instruments whose players weren't there yet. He'd stare out the window into the blackness of the night with unseeing eyes even as he slowly set the violin firmly under his chin and drew the bow across its strings for the first haunting notes of the night's concert. He had no sheet music to play. No memorized song learned in the tortured days of his childhood. Tonight, he would play music as it was meant to be. Each note would come from his heart and soul and resonating feelings would allow the listeners to follow the songs to their conclusion.

He began to play. A sad, mournful tune as his heart and soul bled. His music these days was always sad and mournful. But then right now all his soul knew was remorse and mourning for those who hadn't lived to see the war end. The haunting notes he pulled from the violin were soft and quiet but filled with a power that couldn't be ignored. Magic bled from his fingertips into the bow and the strings of his instrument, enhancing the violin and the notes he pulled from the gut strings and shaped wood.

Contrary to what some people believed, magic wasn't playing the instrument though. He was. He'd learned how in primary school though that violin hadn't been his and he'd never been allowed to take it home from the school as his fellow students had been. But he had discovered for himself how great a stress and emotion reliever music could be when he allowed himself to pour himself into his practice time with that school-owned violin.

Which was why during his most stress-filled years here at Hogwarts he'd painstakingly recreated the violin after a visit to the Room of Requirements to burn off his stress and get some relief from the pressure of everyone around him trying to tell him how he should behave and what he should be doing with his time. All of which was acting in the best interest of themselves with little to no regard for anything or anyone they didn't consider important or worthy. Especially if what he wanted to do was in his own best interest. Or in the interest of someone they considered to be an enemy.

The room had provided him with a copy of the violin he'd played on in his primary school years and instructions on how to create his own real violin. He'd made this violin with the help of the Room. He'd rediscovered his joy in playing it, refining his early music lessons and learning to play from his heart and soul instead of just reading the notes written by someone else. Those quiet sessions had helped him to get through all the manipulations and daily torment that was his life.

Consequently, when he played now his magic was just enhancing the notes he guided the instrument in making. All the pain of his heart and his soul fed his music on this lonely night. Slowly, the magic heavy music drifted from the room, carried on the air currents to every part of the building as it called out to his nightly companions. Fellow hurting hearts and bleeding souls denied their rightful rest now that the fighting and bloodshed was through.

His music flowed, weaving its way into the dreams of those who'd found a few hours of respite from the world as well as those who felt no pain or remorse at all. Those who had no one they were grieving for. Those few for whom the recent war was something they only heard people talk about. Those who would awaken in the morning grumbling and complaining of the odd mournful music that had accompanied their happy dreams while ignoring their compatriots who'd quietly scrub away the evidence of the tears they'd unknowingly shed.

Green eyes slowly drifted closed as sure hands guided the bow across the strings and nimble fingers danced up and down the neck of the violin playing out the agony of his heart and soul. No tears fell from those eyes. They never did for he'd learned as a young child to never cry. Crying only makes those giving you pain enough to produce the tears, happy while upsetting those who can do nothing to stop your pain or ease your suffering.

In no time at all, the pure, clear notes of ivory keys joined the flowing notes of the violin as if the player had simply been waiting for him to send out the call. The green eyes didn't open knowing full well they would see long, slender fingers tickling the ivory keys coaxing them into sweet, pure notes full of emotion as a perfect companion to his more mournful notes. Unknown to the violin player, a slow tear rolled free of long, slightly curled, black lashes. Rich harmony bled from the two instruments, denying and yet embracing the emotion that drove the music. Complimenting each other as the players had never so obviously done in life.

The solemn sounds of a lonely drum joined the piano and violin pulsing behind the melody, urging it onward without overpowering it. A backdrop to the haunting melody of the other two instruments. The violinist didn't turn to acknowledge his new companion any more than he had the pianist. Nor did the pianist look up from his ivory keys. Both just continued to play, letting the music say what they themselves could not. Could never give voice to.

Slowly, mournful music from a saxophone, a clarinet, a flute and pan pipes joined the rich melody adding rhythm and range to the song. With the full band called, the song of never-ending mourning drove deep into the unaware sleepers, blending with their dreams and becoming the background noise that made simple dreams take on a richness and fullness they otherwise would have lacked.

Not that any of the sleepers would be grateful for his contribution to their dreams. They wouldn't. But that was nothing new. The sheeple of the wizarding world were never grateful for what they were given. Only angry when they didn't get what they believed they deserved. Or when what they received was painful to them in some manner.

The song played by the violinist changed to reflect the reason for the serenade. All through the hours of the night, the music filled the halls of the old stone Castle. Emotion from the soul fueling each note. Sorrow. Pain. Rage. Loss. Into the music he played, the lonely violinist poured all his emotions. His emotions boiled to the surface, eager to find release anyway they could. And the music that poured from the lonely sound brought many a tear to the sleeping dreamers who heard and understood in the depths of the night but would forget with the dawn.

Finally, an hour before dawn the small, lonely man turned from the window and opened his eyes, silently acknowledging his companions before each would fade away for another day. Each represented something special for the man and it was hard to face them knowing he could never again have what they had so freely offered.

On the pan pipes which had added an other-worldly effect to the song he played, was Dobby the House elf. Harry's truest fan and determined protector. Dobby had died trying to rescue Harry and the other prisoners from the Dark Lord at Malfoy Manor. He had died happily knowing he had served his Harry as every good elf should. But he had also died to a cursed knife thrown by Bellatrix LeStrange, one of Voldemort's top people and every bit as rabid and lost to reason and sanity as he himself had been. She'd known when she threw her knife she was forbidden to kill him and that the knife would do precisely that. For that was the curse laid upon it. To kill anyone it was wielded against. And so Dobby was a member of Harry's nightly band. Because he died when he should have survived.

On the saxophone was his one true boyhood rival. Draco Malfoy was as always the picture-perfect pureblood heir to an old family name, giving no indicators of the horrible fate to which he'd fallen prey. Betrayed by his father and poisoned by his mother, Draco had never seen it coming. He'd never stood a chance. For whom amongst us wouldn't trust our own loving parents. All his life they'd given him everything he'd ever wanted. Neither had so much as raised a hand or wand against him.

But in the end, they'd betrayed him in a way no other ever could've done. He'd died still unaware of his own danger. And to this very day, neither the green-eyed man nor Draco knew the reason why his parents had felt he needed to die. Even during her trial, Narcissa, his mother, had refused to say why she'd helped his father end his life.

On the flute was Luna Lovegood. To him, she was, and always would be, innocence personified. No matter what life had thrown at her, Luna had never lost that quality that had drawn him to befriend her. She had died a long, slow death of physical damage combined with dehydration and starvation in a Death Eater holding cell when her watcher forgot she was there and neglected to feed her. She'd been stolen from her home simply to control her father because he owned a newspaper and was unafraid to print stories showing Voldemort in a less than wonderful light. She'd died alone. Forgotten. For no good reason.

On the drums was Neville Longbottom, a true friend and solid support. Quiet and unassuming, shy and unsure when forced into the spotlight, he was the perfect man to have at your side when you needed someone to guard your back. He'd faced the enemy and gone down fighting to the last beat of his heart. He'd taken her with him into the cold solitude of the grave. That long time enemy of his family. His enemy. His murderer. Harry wondered if Augusta, that bitter harridan of an old woman, was proud of him now. Finally proud of the only child of her wasted son. He'd died doing what she wanted. What she'd spent his whole childhood preaching at him about. He took vengeance for his father. At least he no longer had to struggle to live his father's life according to what she declared that to be. He was finally free.

Playing the clarinet he hadn't even known she knew how to play was his best friend. His solid support. The brain behind his strength. Hermione Granger. The dentist's daughter. His family of the heart. His sister in all but blood. Betrayed on a mission by their other best friend. Ronald Weasley. The man she believed she loved.

Because Ron believed Harry wasn't fighting hard enough. Wasn't dedicated enough. But really just because he, Harry, had her support and companionship to rely on while he believed he had no one. Ronald had decided in the corroded halls of his bitter, jealous mind, that Harry needed to suffer more personal losses before he'd do what he was born to do. What he wanted him to do. Losing his parents and his Godfather hadn't been enough of a loss as to Ronald, Harry had never really known his parents and he hadn't had enough time with Sirius for his death to affect him deeply.

Therefore, she was led to her death. By their trusted friend. Their own personal Judas who'd fallen in with the enemies plans out of simple jealousy. Because in his eyes, she cared for Harry far more than she cared for him. Because Harry protected her. And she protected Harry. He cared for her. And she cared for Harry. She mattered. And Harry mattered to her.

So they, Ronald and Voldemort, took her away from him. And with her went the last of his childhood. The last of his innocence. And his only reason to try and survive the war they created.

And last but never least, his mentor on the piano. His protector. Intelligent and capable, he'd taught Harry to fight. To survive. To twist his words and his actions. To always be one step ahead even when there didn't appear to be another step to take. Severus Snape; super spy. Potions Master and teacher. Even in death no one knew to whom he'd been true. But Harry knew. Snape had been true to him. To Harry. He gave his life to get Harry to his target. He'd known he'd die. Had known the truth and fought anyway. Because he'd known even if he could've survived the war, his role during the war would've seen him condemned by whichever side won in the end. Because neither side ever believes in and trusts the known spy in their midst.

But with his dying breath he'd seen Harry strike the deciding blow to the enemy. It'd been enough for him, Harry knew. Because the solitary man who'd lived a life full of bitter regret and painful determination; who never smiled in all the years Harry had known him, had done so with his final exhale. He'd died with a joyful smile on his lips.

They called him, Harry, a hero. They gave him a medal. They poured gold into his vaults. But he had nothing. Nothing worth having. Nothing but cold graves and absent friends. He had no home. No family. Not of the blood or of the heart. All he had was his memories and justice for them. Justice he would seek out and extract from his living enemies as the supposedly dead came out of hiding claiming innocence and ignorance of the rumors and stories regarding their supposed demise.

Albus Dumbledore, who knowingly let his brother die in his place. Mastermind and cause of almost all of Harry's pain. The one-time trusted companion. He who played God determining who'd get to live and who must take their place as the next regretful sacrifice for the Greater Good. The once trusted companion who decided when more suffering was needed to further twist and shape his chosen pawns to his design. It was his genius that took away each person for whom Harry had a connection. Including Hermione and Severus. Because after all, it was by his plan that Severus unknowingly killed Aberforth Dumbledore believing him to be Albus. All in the name of saving his own Godson, Draco, from the pain of a tormented, stained soul.

It was his, Albus', plan to let nothing and no one tie Harry to this earth lest he falter and fall while the enemy still lived. A lack of connections he believed would make Harry willingly lay down his life for the Greater Good of the Wizarding people of Britain. A lack of connections for which Harry was currently suffering greatly and would continue to suffer for a long time to come.

Ronald Weasely who led Hermione to her death before disappearing himself knowing full well everyone would assume he was dead as well. The trusted friend who became their Judas for no better reason than cold jealousy. Jealous belief that she might love and care for Harry far more than she'd ever love or care for him. The stupid fool had never understood she hadn't loved Harry that way. The man who led her to her death on the advice of Albus who encouraged his belief that Hermione was holding Harry back. She'd given him her heart and he'd betrayed it. Because it was inconceivable to him that Harry and Hermione had bonded as siblings rather than lovers.

Ginerva Weasely, the scarlet harlot who teased and enticed his cousin with promises she didn't intend to keep. All to free Harry from the bond of blood. All so the enemy could steal away the last of his living family. And all on the whispered word of Albus Dumbledore.

But Dudley had delivered his own blow to his betrayer. She didn't know he carried a knife Harry had personally cursed to do the most damage it could to any attacker Dudley wielded it against. And when Harry had laid the curse on the blade, he'd made certain Dudley knew how to wield it. Because like him, Dudley was an orphan with no adults to care for his welfare or take revenge for the demise of his parents. Nor would any of the magical people care one way or the other should Dudley come to be in harm's way. In the last moments of his freedom, Dudley had lashed out and caught her across the face with the blade. She was permanently scarred from the encounter and Harry felt not one shred of remorse over it.

Minerva McGonagal, that uptight Head of Gryffindor House who always preached about doing the right thing over doing what was easy. She who had knowingly led Charity Burbage into the enemy's hands. Because Albus, her personal hero, had told her to.

Bill Weasely who betrayed Amelia Bones by lowering her home wards allowing the Death Eaters to invade and kill both her and her innocent niece. Knowing full well exactly what he was doing was against his Gringotts contract of employment.

Remus Lupin who betrayed Sirius Black by moving the Veil so he'd fall into it during the fight in the Ministry. That had taken Harry quite a long time to work out. He had to first get over the deep grief he felt at the man's passing and then work his way past his anger for the joking playful manner in which Sirius had been dueling with his cousin. But eventually, Severus had gotten fed up with his obsession over the matter and forced him to face the memory head on in his mind. Both had been quite surprised to see Lupin moving the Veil directly behind the dog animagus as he was falling.

Nymphadora Tonks who led her partner, Hestia Jones, into a trap knowing full well it was a trap she couldn't, wouldn't escape. All because she thought Hestia was interfering in her designs on Remus. And because Albus said Hestia was asking too many questions about things he didn't want to explain. Asking questions and poking into things better left alone.

Mad-Eye Moody who'd come out of hiding to personally killed Fred Weasely in the last days of the war. For playing a prank on him. Who would have killed George Weasely for the same damn prank but only succeeded in maiming him before faking his own death. He couldn't help but remember how Severus was blamed for the injury to George and had no way to deny it as Albus had insisted he answer Voldemort's call the night of that particular fight. Just as Ronald had tried to blame Harry for Fred's death.

The betrayers listened to Albus. All of them. They did as he told them to. And faked their own deaths while sending another into deaths embrace in their place. Because who would ever know besides the Death Eaters who killed the person they took with them on their final mission. Death Eaters who, even if they did talk, wouldn't be believed. Because they wanted to live. And Albus had promised them lives of merit in his new world order once Harry fulfilled his destiny. Each of them, the betrayers who'd led comrades and friends to their deaths, believed Albus would reward them greatly for their time in hiding and the sacrifice of their freedom of movement during said time.

Because Albus was the brain of the Wizarding World. He was the shepherd that guarded the flock. The wolf amongst the sheep that chooses which lamb to cull for a more perfect herd. And now Harry who had once again defied the odds to survive had nothing. Nothing but ashes and a lonely song.

He turned his eyes away from his ghostly band knowing they would vanish once more as he set aside his violin and bow. He saw without seeing how each of the players met his gaze as the music slowly died. Love, friendship, understanding shining in their sightless eyes. His unseeing eyes turned toward the light from the window the unanswered question once again on his lips. Can I go home now? As always there was no answer. Would never be an answer. Because where exactly did a homeless man call home? There was no home to go to. There was just waiting here. Alone. Because like always Albus felt the need to control Harry. Or rather the popularity his existence elicited from the masses.

But Harry had a plan and with that plan, Albus Dumbledore would fall. He would not get to enjoy his oh-so-exalted position for long. And with him all his players would tumble too. Harry was damned if they, who'd betrayed everything they claimed to believe in, would be rewarded for their actions of betrayal. They would fall. All of them. Of them all, only Narcissa Malfoy was currently in prison for the crime of having helped to kill her own son. But she had turned herself in once the war was over. The rest were back in society picking up the pieces of their lives slipping back into their old positions as if they hadn't willingly walked away from said positions when the going got tough.

Because Albus Dumbledore had made a mistake in allowing him, Harry James Potter, to survive the final fight of the war he created to secure his place in the history books. A mistake in sculpting his entire life to be one of hardship, misery and bloodshed. All in the name of ensuring he was strong enough to kill the tortured and tormented fragment of a man long since destroyed. A mistake in believing now that the final blow had been struck he could continue to control and wield the man Harry had become against any who he perceived as being against him. For now, Harry had nothing to lose. And only vengeance to gain. Vengeance for the lost innocents and tormented souls who never got to actually live.

As he slowly left the dimming room to make his way back to his lonely bed in Severus' old quarters, he didn't notice the gathering of ghosts watching him walk away. All those whom he counted as a person close to his heart but whom he couldn't save shed the tears he wouldn't knowingly shed for himself. Sirius Black stood next to James and Lily Potter. Severus stood between Sirius and Draco. Neville, Dudley, Luna and Hermione stood clustered around the small ghost of Dobby. Amelia and Susan Bones stood on the far side of James and Lily along with Hestia Jones and Fred Weasley. Even Petunia Dursley flickered at the back of the line. None of them would rest until Harry found solace for his soul.

And all knew it wouldn't happen so long as Albus Dumbledore was an exalted member of the magical community. So long as the hidden Dark Lord still lived and breathed as a free man with all his supporters free, willing and able to do his bidding no matter who they damned with their actions.

And Harry would vanquish Albus. Every one of the gathered ghosts knew it. After all, Harry truly was the Child of Prophecy. And the Prophecy he lived under did indeed declare him as the mortal enemy of the Dark Lord. Harry would destroy Albus Dumbledore with the full blessing of the Gods because he was the true holder of the Deathly Hollows and other weapons of power. He was the child born under all the signs of greatness and glory.

And if Wizarding Britain fell in the process, well it would one day rise again. Its fall would not be Harry's fault for he had not sown its seeds of destruction and decay. All he was doing was reaping the harvest from the fields. That the harvest would kill so many was not his fault.

My Ending

War Orphans Band:

Harry James Potter - Violinist Luna Xantha Lovegood - Flute

Hermione Jean Granger - Clarinet Neville Frank Longbottom - Drums

Draco Lucius Malfoy - Saxophone Severus Snape - Pianist

Dobby House Elf - Pan Pipes