All of his classmates glared at him and let out a giant, mutual "awww, shit," as he strode confidently back into his Transfiguration class. "Does anyone need saving?" he had asked calmly, a wide grin on his face as he scanned his disgruntled classmates, thinking they might be confronted by a Komodo Dragon or something in the near future. He saw his name on the wall, which honored him. "Aw, shux, a memorial to my greatness!"
There was an banner ornately carved into the back wall that had been tenderly signed by all of his peers.
"Thank God He Died, Now We Don't Have To Hire A Hit man," the banner read, and there were many stick-figure drawings on the various ways that would have been more painful for him to die, but they settled for the vigorous blood-draining, because it was at no extra cost to them.
Neville had started growing a small herb garden in the place where Harry's seat had once been. Neville proceeded to gnaw on McGonagall's middle-aged ankles until she let him use the space to set up a small herbology shrine. It was also a spot where he liked to sit and find his center, in the midst of his small, herb-ish sanctuary in the middle of a class that he really sucked at.
Plants thrive on egotistical vibes, and they were refusing to go away. Harry's were very strong. He was very upset that his creation had been ruined. With Harry gone, everything was good. There was no more hunger, child abuse, or plastic Pizza Bell toys. The cosmic balance was restored. But, no- he had to come back and screw it all up for the billionth time.
Discretely, a certain flower-shirted friend was flashing away in the back of the classroom, shooting some very becoming shots of the back of Harry's Canada-sized head.