A/N: This one is in Harry's POV after killing Voldemort in the final battle. It's kind of what I pictured happening to him if he actually does wind up killing Voldemort with the Killing Curse. I got a little carried away with it, it's pretty long. Hope you like it. Review please.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. But I'd be the first on line if J.K. Rowling was selling. Or rather, giving away, as I also do not have 800 billion dollars or anything remotely close to that amount of money.

A murderer. That's what he was. A cold-blooded, merciless murderer. He had become ruthless and cruel and unfeeling and he wasn't sure if he could ever go back to being the way he was before. He had changed. He hadn't been a murderer before. He had been good, and fair, and loving. But, had he really? Or deep down, had he always been a murderer?

He had been so caught up in the planning, so indomitable and obstinate, so fixed on the final step, that he hadn't realized what he was doing along the way, who he was becoming, what he was losing. And now that he had looked back upon that time, he now understood that he was a murderer long before the incantation left his lips and that blinding jet of green light made contact with its target.

He had murdered himself, really. Not in the literal way, but metaphorically. He hadn't murdered his body, but he'd murdered his soul. Tore it viciously in half without a thought to what he was doing. Everything that he had ever stood for, that he had ever believed in, had changed as the murder inched ever closer, and sealed itself when the spell made contact. He cut himself off from the world, from the people he loved, from the people who loved him. He had convinced himself that he had to do it alone. So he had distanced himself from his friends, his family. He didn't have either of those any longer, because he kept them away, even after the deed was done. He couldn't have anything else that he held dear seized from his grasp. He hadn't foreseen that by making himself untouchable, distanced, and inaccessible that he would endanger himself even more.

But there was no going back. What was done was done. And now he just had to live with his actions. They could never be erased. They would always hang over him like some giant something teetering on the edge, waiting to plummet and crush him even further into the ground. The only conclusion was to retreat even further, trying to escape from the pain and the sorrow. But no matter how persistently he attempted to withdraw there was always someone or something that tried to hold on to him.

He didn't really understand why they tried so desperately to cling to him. He was, after all, a murderer. His soul was scarred and broken. He didn't deserve them, and they deserved much better than him. But they seemed to want him, the people who used to be his friends and the ones that he used to consider his family. They never gave up, never left him alone.

Alone. He was always alone. And being with people just made the feeling seem more pronounced. So he preferred to do things on his own. Without company. Without conversation or laughter. Because he didn't deserve any of those things any longer. But no matter where he was, no matter what he was doing, no matter how far away he felt, someone or something would always creep up unexpectedly behind him and remind him of what his life used to be. A glimpse of vivid red hair anywhere on the streets, a girl reading a book, a shaggy black dog, an old man with a long white beard, the list went on and on. And sometimes he felt as if they were following him. Whenever he tried to block them out, tried not to see anything on that long list of what reminded him of his past, more of them would surface. Something insignificant that others wouldn't give a thought to. They would be everywhere. He couldn't escape them.

It wasn't only the negligible reminders that followed him, but the larger ones as well, the real ones. The people, the ones he used to know, the ones he used to love, they would follow him. He was always one step ahead of them, never wanting to be caught, but always being chased. They never left him alone. They thought that if they tried hard enough, they would get him back. But he knew that who they wanted had disappeared. The raven hair, the emerald eyes, the lightning scar, they were all still there. But the person they wanted was missing. He had melted and fused into someone different. Someone that nobody wanted. A murderer.

They hadn't caught him yet. He was determined not to be caught. He didn't want to see their faces. He didn't want to hear their voices. Both were evil reminders of the person he used to be. He hadn't seen nor heard anyone since the murder. But he knew they were following him. He felt them.

ooo

He was walking along a dark, narrow London alleyway. It was early in the morning. The sun hadn't risen yet. The sky was still midnight black. But whether it was two o'clock or five he did not know. There weren't any street lights, but all he could see was the sidewalk shining in a patch of moonlight up ahead.

It had been one of those days when everyone and everything seemed to be following him. So he just got up and left. He had been walking around the streets of London for at least a couple of hours now. He had no plan to stop. He would just keep going until he couldn't take another step. That appeared to be the route he took for everything else in his life now too. Just keep going until you can't go any longer, and then collapse, letting the world collapse around you. Then pick yourself up and repeat the process.

So he walked. On and on and on. And he collapsed. He didn't even know where he was. A park bench. With his head in his hands. The light breeze playing gently across the parts of his face not obstructed by his fingers. He didn't know if there was anyone around. He was alone. He felt alone.

But he wasn't. He felt someone following him. But he was too exhausted to care. He had been running. He never stopped running. And now he was tired. He wanted to rest, just stop the world for a few seconds. At the moment, he didn't care if they found him. Let them find him. Let them see that he had changed. Let them finally stop. Let them finally leave him alone.

He kept his eyes closed and hidden behind his fingers. He knew exactly who had found him. He knew all along that they would be the ones to finally catch him. He wasn't sure if he wanted to see them yet. Seeing their faces would remind him of the man he used to be. He had been running from things like that for a long time. He wasn't sure if he was ready to confront what he had been so keen to leave behind.

He felt a strong, soothing hand on his back. A man. Someone tenderly took his hands from his face and held them in their own. A woman. His eyes were still closed. He couldn't look at them. He could feel something flooding back into his body, a warm happiness. But this couldn't happen. He couldn't let this happen. But he couldn't stop it either.

He opened his eyes. A woman with deep brown eyes and bushy brown hair. The hair that had haunted him. He'd seen it everywhere. The woman was gazing at him with tears in her eyes. She was kneeling on the ground in front of him clasping his hands in her own small, warm ones. She was crying now, tears spilling down onto her cheeks and nose. The woman noticed his eyes had opened. She let go of his hands and a smile spread slowly across her face, lighting up her eyes. She threw herself onto him, embracing him with such force he was nearly knocked backwards.

But he didn't return the embrace. He was holding himself back. He wanted to, but he wouldn't allow himself to. He wasn't this person anymore.

She pulled away. She didn't seem to notice the internal war going on inside his head. She took his face in her hands and started to cry and laugh at the same time. She let go of him.

He turned his head sideways to the owner of the hand on his back. A tall man with freckles and vivid red hair. The hair that he'd seen everywhere. The best friend of the man he used to be. Ron embraced him as well, though without the force of Hermione. He'd forgotten how much he'd missed Ron. No—no, he couldn't miss him anymore. He had to let go of them. He had to be alone.

"Harry," Hermione began, "We've missed you so much."

"I…I…"

She waited.

"Oh Harry," she said with a shadow of horror crossing her face, "Please say you've missed us too...please…"

He didn't say anything.

"Harry?"

He stayed silent.

"Harry!" she shouted as she shook his shoulders. He felt all his insides rattle around as if they were no longer attached to his body. A small part of him wanted to tell them everything, wanted to embrace them, and laugh with them. But the rest of him was suppressing that other part. He was telling himself to show no emotion. He was telling himself that he wanted to be left alone. But that small part of him was begging to be let free. He wouldn't let it.

"What's the matter with you?" Ron asked quietly, concernedly.

"I—I can't do this."

"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked, her eyes wide, uncomprehending.

"I'm not the same person I used to be! I'm different! I don't even know who that person was anymore. I can't even remember being him. Everything's different now. Nothing will ever be the same. I'm not the same. We're not the same. Nothing is the same. And nothing will ever go back to being that way ever again. So I'm just starting over. Alone. I need to do it by myself."

"Change doesn't mean you need to start all over, Harry," Hermione said gently.

"It does for me."

"Harry, you can't have changed that much," Ron said softly. "We're your best friends. We're your family."

"I DON'T HAVE A FAMILY!" he shouted, "I lost everything. I wasn't about to lose you two as well."

"Well, you have lost us!" Hermione said sharply.

He looked at her doubtfully.

"You pushed us away Harry! And if we hadn't been so set on finding you, on getting you back, you would have lost us for good. Why are you doing this to yourself? Why are you doing this to us?" she asked sadly.

"I…I'm…I'm a murderer."

"Harry, you're not a murderer," Ron said.

"I am."

"Harry?" Hermione said looking straight into his eyes. He turned away. "Harry look at me." He obliged. "Harry," she began, her eyes continuing to bore into his own, "You are not a murderer. You did what you had to do. Sometimes you have to do dark things to let the light win. There was no other way Harry. There was nothing else you could do. You are not a murderer."

And with her words the small piece of him that had been restrained inside him for so long rose to the surface. His felt his soul stitch itself back together. It didn't matter if he deserved them or even if they deserved each other. He had missed them so much. They sat together on the bench, crying silently in each others arms, for a long time. The sun had risen before anyone said anything at all.

"I saw you two everywhere," Harry said in a hoarse voice. "Red hair, girls reading books, freckles, everywhere."

"We're here now. We're not going anywhere," Hermione told him.

"We made a promise to you a long time ago, mate. We weren't going to leave you alone, we still aren't," Ron continued.

Harry smiled. Maybe they were right. Maybe change didn't have to mean starting over. Maybe change does indeed have to mean starting over. But whether or not he was beginning again, he was going wherever he was headed with his best friends. He was still the same person. He was older, wiser, more experienced, but still the same person. He had changed. But change did not mean becoming someone else. He was still here, still the same, the same person, the same messy black hair, the same bright green eyes, and the same lightning bolt scar.