He stares through the empty bottom of the bottle. In it, the world is warped. But, really, even with out it, the world is still warped. He lifts the bottle to his lips, catching the last drops of the liquid, as though it would make a difference. He stands, and the floor heaves beneath him. He falls forward, onto his knees, catching himself with his palms. The bottle breaks beneath his left hand. Silently, he stares at the seeping blood, the shards of glass. It doesn't compute, and he doesn't feel the pain. Then, he wonders if he could feel anything even if he wanted to. He stands, leaving the crushed glass on the floor. The dingy walls of his pathetic life close in around him. He stumbles, attempting to make it out the door, but catches his coat on the knob. Without feeling he shrugs out of it and walks out into the dreary night.
Around him, the world is spinning. Without him, the world is healing. And without him, the world is living. He tries to discard those thoughts. He tries to imagine he is the hero they say he is. But he can't. He knows the truth, and the bloody scenes that remain burned in his brain won't let him forget it. He thought he could do it. Thought he could rid the world of the petulance that was Lord Voldemort. But he couldn't. He couldn't manage, not with dead friends and hollow shells on his mind. He couldn't raise his wand. No. Malfoy did that for the world. And then he died for it. After all those years, the boy who had once been the bane of his existence had redeemed himself, had put an end to the carnage. He had managed what the Boy-who-lived could not. It ate away at Harry. That Malfoy was a better person. That he was strong, and Harry was weak. That even though he knew the truth, Harry couldn't speak to clear Malfoy's name. He was low. He was worse than low. He was barely human.
His friends were dead, or dying, or shadows of their formers selves, and their memories haunted him. In his mind, they spoke to him. They told him what he should do, but he couldn't do it. He saw Hogwarts, saw studying for exams, walking through halls, laughing. All of them, taking so for granted the things that they had, and the moments they shared. He wishes he could walk those golden halls. He wishes he could simply go back to those early years. But he's trapped in the present. He's trapped in his problems. He imagines heaven as Hogwarts, when they were younger. He wishes he could die and join his peers in their return to the old times. On the street, Harry wobbles. He falls to his knees, unable to stand. The guilt is killing him. The drink is killing him. His whole existence is killing him, but still he isn't dead. Hermione's face floats in front of him. Her voice is in his ears. But then, her image is replaced by her corpse, her voice replaced by Draco's. He had saved Harry, had saved everyone. Harry hated him. In his mind, every image twists and turns into Draco. He can't escape it. But yet, he thanked Draco. He had to. The Slytherin had saved everyone, had found the strength Harry couldn't find in himself. That one moment had ruined his whole life. He watched mournfully as in his head, the pages of his life turned, and then started to blacken and burn.
Back in the real world, a hand rests on his shoulder. He looks up at a red haired stranger and nearly breaks down. The stranger's face is twisting. Ron looks down at him, replacing it. But Harry knows better. Ron is not Ron anymore. Ron is empty, a shell. Ron doesn't even recognize him. Harry cries out in pain. The stranger's face reappears, and it is startled. The hands help him to his feet, and then help him to balance. He doesn't know who this person is, but it's talking to him.
"Harry. Harry!" it calls, and from the halls of memory, a light shines. Harry tries to focus. It's Fred Weasley. The man who had always been a boy was now unsmiling, and unfamiliar. The death of his brother brought deep, troubling lines in his face and premature graveness. Harry struggles to speak. One of the three Weasley survivors is here. Here with him. Harry wants to say so much, to apologize for bringing the family down. He wants to apologize for ruining everything. But he merely chokes and stumbles again. Fred nodded and they begin walking, enveloped in silence. They make slow progress, but eventually Harry finds himself at 12 Grimmauld Place. He can't breathe. So many people are looking out at him through the windows. People who are dead. People who can no longer remember how to heat coffee. Sirius. There was Sirius. He fell into his godfathers arms, blinded by tears.
The next morning, Harry awakens with a pounding headache. The hangover shakes him and he tries to regulate his breathing. Someone knocks at the door and before blinking, he can swear it is Remus Lupin. But Remus was killed by Fenrir Greyback, who put an end to what he began in Lupin's childhood. It was, upon closer inspection, Charlie Weasley. He speaks, but Harry can't understand the words. He mumbles something and Charlie leaves. Harry sinks down onto the bed, and grasping his wand, mutters "Accio vodka"
A bottle appears before him, and he drinks it like water. He summons another and starts on it, sinking back towards the depths of the hell that is his mind these days. He falls asleep, dizzyingly drunk.
He awakens on the Hogwarts grounds. In front of him stands the castle, and in front of it, everyone he knows and loves. In the crowd are his parents, his peers, and emerging through the crowd, Albus Dumbledore. Harry runs to him, sobbing. He drops at the old man's feet, and pleads for forgiveness. The old man's eyes twinkle, and he nods, granting Harry his salvation. From the left of Dumbledore, surrounded by gleaming golden light, stands Draco Malfoy, sneering slightly and extending his hand. Harry takes it, and pulls himself to his feet. He clutches it desperately.
"Why?" Harry demands in a coarse whisper. "Why?"
Malfoy looks at him intently and shakes his head. Suddenly, without words, Harry understands. He understands the guilt, and understands how killing Voldemort had been about resolution, and redemption. He embraces Malfoy and all the tension from their lives floats away. The heavy burden on his heart lifted, Harry releases him.
He stands back and surveys the crowd, seeing Padma and Parvati Patil, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, George Weasley, Lee Jordan. He has a sudden sense that something is missing, and someone taps him on the shoulder. He turns, and his vision is instantly obscured by a bushel of curly brown hair. He wraps his arms around Hermione, and for several moments, is unwilling to let go. When they finally step apart, he looks at her smiling face and grins for the first time in several years.
He looks about for Ron, but can't find him. He looks expectantly at Hermione, who shakes her head. He nods, disappointed. Ron isn't there. Of course he isn't. He's at St. Mungo's.
Suddenly, everyone but Dumbledore disappears. Harry looks around, disappointment dissolving into bewilderment. Dumbledore smiles slightly and takes Harry's hand, guiding him through the great double doors of the gleaming castle that is Hogwarts.
"Harry James Potter was pronounced dead in the residence of a friend at approximately 9 am this morning. The cause of death was listed as alcohol poisoning."