Harry stared at the grounds of Hogwarts. Nothing looked the same. The ground was scorched and gouged. Blood was seeping into the ground, the lake ran red. The castle was demolished, only a few walls left standing.
He had been wandering through the bodies, looking for survivors.
There were none.
As he stood there, he felt the crackle of magic behind him. He turned to see the end of a wand.
"Mr. Potter," said a person from somewhere to his left. A flick of the eyes proved him to be the Minister of Magic. "You are under arrest for the murder of multiple people."
When Harry turned his head to protest, he was stunned.
Some weeks later, Harry sat in Azkaban. He'd been stuck with the murders of all those who'd died in the Final Battle. Since there were no witnesses, they went with the circumstantial evidence, and had him convicted. He was now left to rot in Azkaban.
He didn't feel too bad, though. The dementors, due to public outcry, had been removed and replaced with people.
It was also better here than outside the cold walls. At least here, the scathing comments and attacks on his person were limited.
He felt weak. He just wanted to… let go, and be free. But he couldn't. They wouldn't let him.
Thus, he sat and rusted.