Disclaimer: I don't own HP. JKR does.
Author's Note: This ficlet is dark, disturbing and graphic. It deals with drug addiction, suicide, and schitzophrenia. Please do not continue if you do not care for the subject matter.
Now that the Potions master was dead, Harry had to look elsewhere for his doses of the Draught of Peace. He had been taking it anywhere up to three times a day, openly addicted to it.
He broke into Poppy Pomfrey's old stores the previous night, gathering all he could find. It was all he had... it was all he needed, he convinced himself, to find true peace. The Draught would erase the blood and the sight of bodies mutilated and broken... it would erase the insanity that made him break free of his chains and kill all that stood in his path to Voldemort... It would stop the screaming, the begging, the pleading... just for a night.
As the months went by after the war, the derelict streets of Hogsmeade became haunted by grave robbers, stealing all they could from the ruined shops and corpses that the Ministry ignored. They had just marked off the town, letting the casualties rot where they lay. They claimed that is was too many to count, and besides, the only important thing was that Harry Potter lived, giving hope to those who hadn't seen anything first hand, much less the sight of The Lestranges cutting the throats of the innocent, relishing in the blood that sprayed across the dead weeds of the graveyard... or hear the screams as Walden McNair used his beloved axe on Ronald Weasley, spattering his Gryffindor insides all over damp dungeon walls...
Harry would close his eyes, feeling himself chained to the ornate headstone of Tom Riddle again, the Dark Lord running his wand down the naked back of Hermione Granger, using the Cruciatus Curse before finally telling his followers that Avada Kedavra was far too quick and merciful for the mudblood who had helped thwart him all these years. He was forced to watch them tie her to the hard ground with stakes, taking her innocence one-by-one before cutting off her head. Her blood was smeared across Harry's face like some sort of macabre war paint, proof that The Boy Who Lived could never save those he loved at all.
All Harry heard was the screams as he now took shelter in what was left of Gryffindor Tower. The cold wind blew through the holes in the once-secure stone walls, exposing the old rotting beams of the castle's foundation. He was confined to the old dormitories that he shared with his friends, the ones that would truly understand him, no matter what depths of insanity he would cross into.
He drank the last of it, and walked over to the derelict walls. His eyes were glazed over, and numbness washed over him like a warm breeze, silencing the tormented cries he heard over and over... He turned around, looking once more into the room he once called fondly "home". Ron was now smiling from his bed, as did Dean and Neville. Even though Ron's entrails were staining the sheets, Harry knew that Dobby wouldn't mind washing them...
Hermione's body stood alongside the wall, her head missing and her spine sticking out from the dripping wound. She would have said something, he thought to himself, she's probably thinking of homework...
"Go on Harry, we'll meet you there." He said softly. Harry smiled, thankful that his friends were with him, cheering him on.
Nothing held horror for him now. Even as he fell backwards from the crumbling fortress of Dumbledore's empire, he felt nothing. His body arched mid-air, his black hair whipping into his eyes.
He landed on his back, his head slamming against a large stone. As his mind leaked into the dry, brittle grass, the dreams ended. It was over now.