Chapter 1 – Black as Night

Standard Disclaimer: All story characters and plot devices belong to JK Rowling.

Summary: Harry discovers that his unconditional love and dying doesn't mean he automatically gets his happy ending. He takes his frustration and guilt at being controlled for his whole life out by destroying the Elder Wand in Dumbledore's tomb.

Hermione knew something was very wrong with Harry. He was prone to brooding, who wouldn't be with his upbringing, as she knew from the nice camping excursion for Horcruxes, but this was different. He wasn't just internalizing his misplaced guilt, something had shaken him worse than facing Voldemort or being the Boy Who Lived. If it was just guilt or anger, she would expect him to be morose and withdrawn like he was after Sirius' death, but instead he ran.

Harry Potter was not a runner; he either took his abuse stoically, or he fought back. Against Draco, when he was facing Dementors, or during the Tri-Wizard tournament, he always fought back. With Umbridge and Snape's immature vendetta he stewed silently. But she could not fathom a time when Harry wouldn't fight for what he believed in; he had never talked about his time before school explicitly, but something now had changed her best friend. He had lost his will, whether for a moment or more she didn't dare consider. A hollow pit formed in her stomach and she recognized the feeling immediately as if the locket was still speaking to her. Desperation settling in, she bolted from the Great Hall, following him in a panic, but then lost him in the blackness of the grounds.

Had she not been still so alert from the battle, she never would have noticed the gaunt figure lurch from the Headmaster's crypt. She quickly secured her wand and followed, if someone had stolen from the Headmaster's grave or was looking to ambush Harry, they would be sorry when she found them. Logically she knew should find some help, especially if they were Death Eaters, but if they had harmed Harry, she was prepared to do whatever was necessary to make them pay. If she found Harry injured, nothing short of the Cruciatus would be enough.

Hermione followed the shuffling shadowy figure, when he finally stopped as he sniffed the air. She heard a hollow voice call back, "You don't need your wand here, Hermione. What's done is done."

"Harry? Harry, what are you doing out here?" she replied. She heard the defeat and resignation in his voice, it was empty, a shell of the compassionate man she knew. The Harry she loved was missing, "What's done ... what do you mean?"

"The Elder wand, the first Hallow, it's gone, it is only a legend once more ... as am I", he said wistfully like he had made a rather insightful joke.

"Harry, turn around ... please. Please ... just come back with me. Ron and everyone will be worried and looking for you soon." She was tired of talking to his back, and she needed to search his face to find the right words to make him feel understood. He has to know that he is a hero, that the lives that he saved outnumber the dead. If he saw how worried she was, he would relent and come back.

"I know they will be worried, Hermione, but look around you, people are still in shock, they need their own peace for one night at least. That includes me, and I need time, to think, maybe I should go to the library I hear it's good for that, and find out what happens now." At this last admission, he turned back to her and smiled weakly at her. Hermione was angry with him and scared for him but couldn't help grin at that smirk, the library jab had left her speechless for once. "Give me tonight and I will find you when I am ready."

"Do you promise?" She wouldn't leave him until he promised. Harry's integrity wouldn't allow him to renege. But especially to her, he would never hurt her that way.

"I promise." Harry could never say no to her, she had certainly earned his trust since the troll their first year, and even more so on the hunt for Horcruxes.

She embraced him, trying to force her love and joy into his body through sheer force of will. It wasn't a bruising Mrs. Weasley hug, it was soft and gentle, like a caress. She felt a slight tingling in her stomach as she ran her hands over his arms. She could smell the blood and ash on his robes from the battle in the Great Hall, but also something that was distinctly Harry. She sighed, inhaling deeply, and leaned into his embrace. His back stiffened at the contact, so she stopped and clasped her hands over his. Her concern was splashed all over her face; Harry had never rejected her casual affection since they first met, even when he was annoyed with her.

His green eyes bored unabashedly into hers, searching. His eyes quickly hardened with resolve and he cupped her face in his calloused hands. Tears sprung into her eyes and her breathing became shallow, this was the Harry she remembered. He was still in there somewhere. She exhaled a sigh of relief; to have lost him would almost be too steep a price for this war.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice was strained, like speaking his mind at this moment was agonizing.

She pulled away from him slightly to look into his face, "Yes?" Her eyes fluttered closed as he leaned in, her mind racing with all the possibilities.

She accepted his chaste kiss with a small sigh; she needed him to know how important he was to her, to all of them. He needed her love and support. Without knowing, Hermione rose to her tiptoes to slightly deepen the kiss, sliding her arms around Harry's waist. Hearing his sharp intake of breath, she felt his body uncoil and begin to relax, finally accepting her caring. She began to pull away to catch her breath, happily satisfied that Harry finally understood her feelings, when he grazed his teeth and nipped her lower lip pulling on it slightly. Her knees buckled slightly, and the unfamiliar tingle again snaked down her spine to her core. Merlin!

Her eyes fluttered open slowly meeting his already open eyes. She quailed slightly from the look in his eyes. Those green orbs were dark, laced heavily with desperation, seeking refuge from all the turmoil and tragedy around him. His need to be loved and wanted was so raw and naked just looking at him made her face flush. It was the look of a man starving for validation, dying from thirst in a desert of isolation. He needed to know, was aching to know that his place, as just Harry, in this world meant something unique to someone, anyone.

"Harry, I …" She didn't know what to say, she had never prepared for anything like this. He was examining her face, looking for any signs, any hope, staring deep into her chocolate brown eyes, asking, praying for the right answer.

She dropped her gaze and speaking so quietly it was almost lost in the air,"I … I should get back to …". She felt the air turn cold and knew that the light in those beautiful green eyes had fled again.

"Good bye Hermione", the hurt in his voice was palpable, hurting her as deep as Bellatrix's knife. She hoped she made the right decision, but wasn't sure if she would ever see the Harry Potter she loved again. She steeled herself and looked at him, bracing for whatever he would offer.

Those emerald green eyes were cold and distant, like he was already somewhere else. It was the same look he had worn before. "I understand Hermione, you and Ron have something special", Harry spoke with forced emotion, but it was tinged with honesty. Even when he was in agony, Harry was trying to do the noble thing and give his encouragement, and it broke her heart.

As he strode past her towards the lake, Hermione let her tears cascade down her face. Harry had shut himself away from everyone, especially now her, but she just hoped that it was temporary. A sinking feeling in her heart knew she was hoping against hope; she had chosen Ron over him despite all the encouragement and love he had always shown her. He needed that now, and while she didn't know how she felt about him, she hadn't even tried to explain her decision. The awful implications of that washed over her, of what she gave up in Harry without giving any reason.

"HARRY!" She screamed, her gaze raking over the lake, she had to make it right; she had to see him again to sort out her feelings, but he was gone. She tried to scramble to her feet, but the weight of her loss of her first true friend drove her to her knees. She held her face in her slick hands, from her deluge of tears she guessed, but when she glanced down they were covered in blood and ash. Harry's blood.

"Harry?" she whispered into the blackness of night.

The black lake was placid amidst the chaos raging around the grounds. Harry knew that it was a facade, the lake looked like he felt, a placid exterior, yet churning underneath, filled with monsters and pain. He mirthlessly smiled at the comparison. Black Lake indeed. Down by the lake shore, Harry spotted the person who knew closest to how he felt. He palmed his wand, unsure of the reception he would receive.

"Hey Harry", mumbled the dazed red haired teen. He sat stock still with his knees pressed into his chest, the tension in his body mimicked the rigid pose. Every once and while he began to rock slightly, wrapping his arms more tightly around his knees.

"How did you know?"

"I lost an ear, mate, I didn't lose my hearing. Besides, you are the only one dumb enough to be walking out here." His voice was dull and flat, as if the energy required to merely speak was all he could afford.

"Not the only one." Harry remarked, trying to inject some levity through the tension.

"Harry, you are terrible at this, a better joke would have been …", Harry heard George's thin smile, at least it had worked slightly even as George's response trailed off silently. Jokes had no place here.

Harry took a seat on the ground next to the grieving Weasley. They didn't look at each other, they didn't need to, each knew the same pain, but for completely different reasons. They sat in lost silence for a long time staring at the faint ripples on the lake.

"Does it fade, the pain?" George's voice betrayed a slight lilt of hope, which seemed so foreign crossing his desolate face.

"In time." A long time ...

George returned his blank stare to the water, when he heard Harry mutter, "We learn to move on ... I'm sorry George."

He looked over and saw George's face slick with tears, eyes shut to the pain. He began to retort, Harry reflexively held a hand up to stop the meaningless reassurance he knew always came. Always. George didn't blame him for his twin's death, but it didn't matter, Harry would blame himself enough for the both of them. He just wished people would let him own that responsibility.

"Fred made a great sacrifice for you, me, all of us. He would want you to keep living. I need you to keep living. I'd never forgive myself for letting him ... and then you, too." Harry's voice trailed off. "Promise me you'll try, and promise me you will reopen your shop ... we could all use a reminder that eventually life is to be lived with love and joy." Harry knew he was asking for something next to impossible; the Wheezes was theirstore, but he pushed on.

"Also as the primary investor I may also need you to expand your inventory. I may need a few inventions for what needs to be done; for the amends I need to make." Harry would not meet George's eyes, but he knew his voice held a resolve and anger that was unmistakable. He was looking for revenge and if anyone would agree it would be George. Making the Death Eaters suffer wouldn't bring back the dead, but it would make them even. Nurturing his anger may keep the crushing guilt away for a time, hopefully a long time.

For a long while he sat there mulling Harry's words pondering, and then with a deep sigh, turned and said,"You're leaving aren't you?" When he didn't hear the dissent from Harry, he followed with, "For how long?" There were still a lot of Death Eaters at large.

"For as long as it takes." The hard edge had returned to his voice and George shuddered at how cold and sure Harry sounded.

"I thought you would be able to take a break, enjoy being a part of our family …"

"I love your family, and my friends, but it's not enough. People are dead because of me, those same people. They died for the myth of the great Harry Potter", he spat. "To honor them I have to become someone who can earn that going forward. I need to discover who I am without ..." he pointed to his forehead which was masked by grime and dried blood.

"I understand, but one thing. Promise me you will come back for Fred's funeral. We would be honored for you to come, I know Fred would want you to be there so we can all start to move ... to move on", whispered George.

"I will, just owl me", Harry's voice trailed off as he stood and walked towards the lake and disappeared in a white hot flash.

He stepped into the foyer of Grimmauld Place, ordinarily he would hate everything about this house, but the dark, dour mood matched his own. He let the eerie chill seep into his bones, relishing in the deserved sadness. With a loud pop, Kreacher appeared before his master, "Master Harry be needing something?" queried the elf. Harry waved dismissively at him, "No, thank you though. I just need some time to collect my things."

"Master Potter be leaving his Kreacher?" Huge tears were forming around the bulbous eyes of the old elf, "Did I upset Master?" He began sidling towards a rather large frying pan in the corner of the kitchen with a determined look on his face.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there" Harry soothed wearily, "Master is not upset, or angry in the least bit with your service. Kreacher, I just need to get away from all of this for a while. I will sleep in tomorrow so no disturbances unless absolutely necessary. Meaning no guests, visitors, ministers, or Dark Lords" Harry ticked off all of them on his fingers as he went through the list.

Nodding in agreement, Kreacher sadly watched his broken master trudge up the stairs to the second floor. Frowning at the drips of blood on the hardwoods, Kreacher cast a quick cleaning spell and followed Harry up the stairs, watching as he turned into the bathroom. The old house elf had seen that look before and an old worry crept back into his aged heart. He absently fingered the locket around his neck and began to prepare Master's things for a long journey.

Harry stood in the bathroom staring into the mirror, hardly recognizing the image before him. The skeletal figure, weakened by a year on the run and the stress of the battle, stared back at him with a wry almost rictus smile. He looked like he felt, pulled too thinly for life itself, barely appearing human and crushed by the weight of everything. It was in sharp contrast to his best times at the Burrow, full of life and Molly's cooking. This was definitely not how he was supposed to feel, the Light had prevailed, he was a conquering hero, his burden should be easing, but it was escalating, the Dark Lord replaced by something unconquerable, savage guilt and remorse.

He unconsciously raked his hands through his head and froze immediately. His scar, his scar was gone. He shifted his hair back and forth looking for it, as if it had moved somewhere else. I'll have to ask Dumbled … Harry sagged to the floor with a low groan as the losses pressed in all sides again. The Headmaster, for all his considerable faults, was still someone he desperately wished was here, if only to have an answer of what to do now.

Kreacher appeared in the doorway and gestured to his Master, "Does Master Potter wish me to dress his hands?" Harry noticed the black iron skillet had made a reappearance behind Kreacher's back.

"Kreacher? My hands?" Harry stared down and noticed the wreckage that his hands had become, blood was flowing freely from at least a dozen cuts and others were cauterized from the Elder wand's explosion. "No, that will be fine Kreacher, thank you." He earned that pain through petulance and wouldn't allow magic to cheapen his penance.

Harry hauled himself back up to the black marble pedestal sink and, lost in thought, began to clean his wounds. It was agony but it seemed a fitting tribute to those who had lost so much more. Almost like a bloodletting, it was a physical pain that gave truth to the guilt still swirling in his mind. The smell of blood and ash triggered a memory of Fred's last laugh, Bellatrix's cackle as Sirius fell, and a host of other memories that no teenager should harbor. Harry shook himself free from those nightmares and took a hard look in the mirror, unconsciously tracing a blood smeared lightning bolt on his image's forehead. All those people died for that stupid symbol ... and he couldn't have missed it more. He was truly lost now, his usefulness spent, that scar gave him purpose, a sad sick purpose, but it was something.

Groaning, Harry plodded towards the bedroom. The adrenaline was finally beginning to wane and the heavy feeling of complete exhaustion washed over him; he barely made it to the bed before collapsing.

Downstairs, Kreacher was absently stroking the locket given to him by Master Potter. As another fevered scream echoed down the stairwell, the house-elf's face darkened with grave concern. Another one of the Blacks was succumbing to madness, as if it were a rite of passage to adulthood.

Since Master Regulus' death, Kreacher had spent long hours trying to understand his family. The relationship of magic, in the Black's case a considerable amount, should bind Kreacher and give great power to his own, but it was never the case, all of the Black house elves inevitably found themselves enfeebled and then discarded. He was just entering his second age, but was told he looked frail and weak and he was. Much like Master Potter, he seemed aged and pulled too much for his years. His new master, while not of pure blood was the most honorable sort, had given the locket freely to him, and was commonly bandied about Hogwarts as "a most unusual wizard".

Kreacher's musings stopped short as the nightmarish screams devolved into moans and pleas. Grimacing at the decision he had already come to in his mind, he knew he would not sit idly by and watch a third master surrender to his demons. Gathering the firewhiskey and spirits in the house, the house elf knew Master Potter would die a slow death like Sirius if only to dull the pain of living; he banished them to the Leaky Cauldron courtesy of his Master. If Master Harry asked for it tomorrow, Kreacher would face his wrath and his own, giving the heavy iron skillet in the kitchen a baleful glare.

It was this house, Grimmauld Place, evil home of the Blacks, that caused this pain and suffering and epitomized Kreacher's own frailty. Worse yet, the lonely elf was the sole caretaker of the home that caused his Masters so much suffering. He was blinded by house elf loyalty to a family that treated his very existence with contempt, but now his new Master required him differently, not as a servant, but as a support. Lord Black was just a teenager, not even having met his age of majority yet. Fearing the madness was much like Master Regulus', Kreacher left to go to the one home Master always sought, for those things that could bring him some comfort. Kreacher summoned Harry's things from around the school grounds, and on returning, placed his Peverell cloak in Harry's sleeping arms and stood watch as his Master finally calmed.

Author Note:

I know the story is moving a bit slowly, but I felt it necessary to give the characters more depth. The characters will be more conflicted and damaged, they are teenagers after a war after all, especially Harry. Read and Review, it's the best feedback an author can have.