Even as an adult well into his twenties, Harry Potter dreamed. His dreams were not of or from Voldemort, although destruction caused by him was there. They did not deal with the many escapades he had been involved in during his years as a student at Hogwarts—but the leading characters were those children he had grown up with. The Ministry of Magic was not featured prominently, except for the logos on the robes of fallen Aurors.
In short, Harry Potter dreamt of Death and Battle. He was, he often thought bitterly, far too well acquainted with Death. Death was a stealthy trickster, able to take someone down quickly and painlessly or able to linger, just out of reach, while looking mercilessly down on the human that whimpered and prayed for the cessation of life. Battle, too, was brother to Death, able to sneak up on the unprepared before turning vicious and loud, and providing a plethora of victims for his brother to choose from.
On this night in the beginning of August, Harry woke up gasping for air, his vision still filled with the haunted eyes of George Weasley as he cradled his twin's blood-covered body. Sitting up and breathing into his hands for a moment to steady himself, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood. He stared around at the dark hardwood floor and pale creamy walls of his bedroom before remembering where he was.
Hogwarts. After all this time exploring the world, avoiding Dumbledore and Hermione, ignoring the press and public admiration, Harry Potter had finally come home to England to take up the once-again vacant Defense Against the Dark Arts post. He thought about his new job, starting in less then a month, and the young students whose lives would depend on how well he taught them.
He saw the faces of the friends he had led into battle superimposed over the imaginary faces of those children he would teach, and alone in the dark, Harry Potter shuddered.