Harry Bloody Potter was sick and tired of being the Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-who-Conquered, and, his personal favorite, Boy-Who-Just-Couldn't-Bloody-Die. He was tired of smiling shyly and modestly ducking his head as everyone cooed and cheered him on.

Honestly, his life was not a movie series, and he wasn't a hero, he was a bloody murderer–what did these people want from him?

People expected a lot from him now. They wanted him, they wanted his fame, they wanted his body, his mystical 'powers', they wanted to know that, surely, he must have been changed somehow by being the Master of Death or whatever, and was he sure that he didn't have some weird tattoo or something like that, and was he all-powerful or what, and what the bloody hell Harry we're your friends you can talk to us please talk to us, talk to us, just talk...

Harry took an unreasonably deep breath, desperately trying to focus on his ragged breathing. He felt himself slip to the ground, tangling his nimble fingers in his perpetually messy locks. No, I can't, I can't, don't you get it…

Get a hold of yourself, Potter. Stand up. There, there, that's better. Shoulders back, head up, eyes alert, there we go…

Brilliant green eyes snapped open.

Lord Harry James Potter-Peverell-Black (he knew that there were more names in his title, but it was too damn long enough already) was tired of being hounded by the press, hounded by overbearing mother figures, tired of being asked what 'business' he had been gone for last month, tired of patient looks, calming draughts in Wizengamot sessions, of tight brown buns and grating voices, of demands for money, of demands for change, for support, for influence, for please, Harry, please, just a few more tests, they aren't that bad, you want to help these people still, right?

Freak, or sometimes Boy, was tired. Just that. Just tired. Even after the Dursleys, even after trying to get their love, even after doing everything for them, even after (being the one to risk their lives in the first place, after being worthless, a nuisance, a burden) doing what everyone else asked of him, after being the hero, cleaning up Tom's and the sheeps' messes, after everything, just wanted to rest, in a real bed, or maybe a warm cupboard, it didn't matter to him. He just wanted out.

Out of his life.

Out of the chains and wait what no, no, you said this wouldn't hurt, what are you–Hermionie? HERMIONIE! Stop! No, don't, I don't want...I don't want thisss...poishions…

He sighed, massaging his temples before dropping his hands loosely to his sides.

He couldn't do it. He just couldn't do it anymore.

The front door to Grimmauld Place opened with a soft creak that they still hadn't manage to fix.

"Harry, mate?" Soft, tentative footsteps followed, and Harry heard the front door shut once more. "Where are ya?" Harry answered by stomping his foot as hard as he could on the wooden floor. The footsteps in the front hall stopped their wandering, and a pale face overrun with freckles poked around the open doorway, a layer of floppy red hair plastered to his forehead. Harry gave Ron a sincere smile that didn't seem to reach his eyes. Ron returned it without any hesitation.

"Hey mate. Bloody Hell, have you been in here all day? You need to get out more." He gave a slightly breathless laugh and ran his finger through his fiery hair, a habit that he had picked up from Harry. "You're turning into bloody Sirius." Harry tilted his head and glanced pointedly at the many-handed clock adorning the room's far wall. Ron blinked twice at it. "Oh," he gave a self-deprecating smile and a small shrug. "Sorry, mate. Didn't realize it was only ten. These blasted night Auror shifts keep messin' up my sense of time."

"Ronald Billius Weasley!"

Both wizards winced at the sharp voice emanating from the open font hallway, although only Harry cringed at the subsequent boot-stomping that rang throughout the compact house. Ron's lanky form peeled off of the doorway frame and sprawled out on the floor next to Harry. Harry shot him a grateful smile. Ron grinned, before yelling out, "In here, Hermione!"

Harry's newly-sensitive ears rang at the sheer volume of the call. He shook his head, lightly smiling. After all of these years, Ron was still scruffy and loud–some things never changed.

"There you are! Harry, what in the name of Merlin are you doing here? I thought you'd have been at the Ministry hours ago! You need to talk," both Harry and Ron cringed at the word, "to Finnigan about the Floo installments, Bill about the wards, Kingsley about the aurors, Patil still needs that interview, and Luna's set up another...appointment," Harry gave a noticeable wince at this, while Ron looked suspiciously at Hermione's slanting eyes, "for this afternoon at four."

Hermione hadn't changed much after the war. Although everyone had expected her to go back for her eighth year of Hogwarts, Hermione said, with some irritation, that 'half of the teachers left have either tried to kill us, threatened us with corporeal punishment, or are utter, blubbering idiots with brains the size of a teaspoon.' That had made everyone laugh, providing a much-needed reprieve from the stress of interviews, stuttering introductions, and sweaty handshakes with the simpering 'sheople' (Ron's term for the human lemmings of Britain) longing to greet their saviors. Both Hermione and Ron had been fast-tracked into Ministry programs. Hermione was preparing to become the Supreme Heralder of Unusual Treatments/Unexplained Phenomenon (or S.H.U.T./U.P.), a member of an elite team of Unspeakables whose goal was to solve all strange maladies relating to singularly unique creatures and beings. It was basically the hushed-up brainchild resulting from a threesome with the Department of Magical Creatures, St. Mungo's, and the Unspeakables–the ultimate combination of all things Hermionie (including the rather horrible acronym, as Ron had later pointed out. Hermione had literally hexed his skin pink for the next week).

Ron, who had always favored strategy over anything else, was currently being trained to take over for the aging Head Strategist of the Aurors, and was still being forced to take on the dreaded night shift guarding the Department of Mysteries.

Harry, however, had been forced to become a full-time celebrity. He had made countless speeches, shaken millions of hands, and given his approval for bills that he didn't understand, but had Hermionie's stamp of approval on them, far too often. And there was always someone who still needed him to just do something, Harry. He just wanted to stop. But that would come later. He sighed, and reluctantly stood up. His long-time friend grinned and hoisted his tall body off of the ground to follow them, and his handler gave a sharp-eyed smile before yanking his elbow and the rest of him out of the door and into the outside world.

And with that, the great heroes of Wizarding Britain walked into what was soon to be one of the greatest travesties of the UK's magical history.

Oh my god oh my god oh my GOD

SO MANY FAVORITES AND FOLLOWS! Thank you guys so much! This my first fanfic (like, ever) and I am so excited that it seems to be interesting to people so far–I hope that I don't disappoint!

Now, I hate to be annoying, but if you review, I will love you forever and try to PM you w/answers to any questions that you guys may have! I know that this chapter kind of took a break from McKinley, but it is the beginning of the buildup to what drives Harry to leave Britain and jump on the McKinley Bandwagon. Please Please PLEASE criticize me for anything that you might find or want me to possibly change/add more info on. These stories are, after all, for you guys. Feel free me to PM me! Seriously, when I first checked to see how this story was doing, I swear my heart stopped and stuttered. VIRTUAL HOT CHOCOLATE TO EVERYONE, AND EXTRA MARSHMALLOWS TO THE EXTREMELY PERCEPTIVE AND THOUGHTFUL PEOPLE WHO HAVE ALREADY REVIEWED!

I hope you enjoy this! I'll try to update at least every week or so. I'm not sure on pairings yet, and I apologize if the spacing is weird...Thank you so much to everyone reading this!

Enjoy your day!

Your Cocoa server today was Knickity.

Oh, and also, that little thing called a disclaimer:

I don't own Glee or Harry Potter. Those tasty morsels belong to Fox and the immortal J.K. Rowling, respectively. I just get to play with their delicious leftovers. ;)