Golden Boy
Harry was sat on the train with Hermione and Ron, despite only being 19 he looked much older— late twenties to be exact. Hermione suspects it was stress from the war, everything was relying on Harry, you wonder what that’d die to a child.
Ever since he was 11, he had the world on his back. Everyone depended on him to stop Lord Voldemort, but after he did they seemed to push him aside. Despite the occasional fans and various papers wanting to speak with him, people went about their daily life and down the line people started to blame every death that occurred on him. As if he, himself, killed their family members.
Suddenly, Harry’s eyes weren’t that bright, the emotion wasn’t that deep anymore. Not even around his friends, his girlfriend. Of course, Harry felt bad— he had found himself drawing within himself, pulling away from those closer to him. He doesn’t open up anymore, while he used to share how he was feeling, what he was thinking, with Hermione, Ron, and even Ginny, after they’d gotten together, he’d stopped. He was no longer allowing them in, he was closed off.
He saw the contempt in Ron’s eyes when he looked at Harry, and maybe that was a trick Harry’s mind was playing, maybe Ron didn’t blame him for getting Fred murdered. But it didn’t stop Harry from blaming himself.
“Harry?” Hermione’s voice pulled Harry from his thoughts, his eyes snapped up to hers. “What?” He asks, closing the book he was ‘reading’. Hermione sighed, collecting the books she’d been looking through. She looked at him, studying his face— both her and Ron could tell he wasn’t the same, but that’s what a war does to you. “We changed,” she said, referring to their robes, “you should do the same, we’ll be at school soon.”
Harry glanced at Ron, they had changed. “I thought 8th years didn’t have to wear uniforms?” He asked, Hermione shook her head, “for dinner tonight and classes you do.. well, depending on the class.” She said, “some teachers don’t require it.”
Harry was standing in the middle of the Gryffindor common room, staring up at a picture. A picture of Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, put up during the restoration of the castle. There was a photo of Harry, next to a photo of James and Lily on the other side of room, near two windows. He couldn’t handle looking at any of the pictures, not even the one of himself.
He was smiling, a real, genuine smile. His hair was unruly, as always, his tie was undone, and his white dress shirt was wrinkled and not buttoned all the way. This was his 4th year, the photo was taken to send to Sirius, who’d asked McGonnagal for a picture.
Harry felt like that kid, the 14 year old in that picture, was dead. He’d been dead since they had to run from Bill and Fluer’s wedding, maybe before that. He’d never get that back, the genuine smile, the light in his eyes. It’d be gone, for good.
He turned around, going upstairs to the dorm, for the very few people who came back to finish their education. He found his bed, laying down with his head in his pillow. He took a deep breath, sitting up, pulling off the robe and kicking off his shoes.
He laid there until he heard people flood into the room, everyone went silent when they’d seen him. He looked at them, studying the expressions of the people who stared back at him. Nobody seemed happy, or interested in Harry’s presence, and many of them seemed angry. They all resumed their conversations, and began getting ready for bed. Harry looked at the bed, his eyes studying the satin gold pillows.
He changed into sweatpants and a random t-shirt, he laid back down and looked off at his trunk. “Harry,” he heard Ron’s voice, Ron and one of the other boys had switched after much persuasion from Ron. “Are you alright? You missed breakfast.” He said, laying in his own bed and looking across at Harry, who nodded. “I’m okay, I just wasn’t hungry. You know? I had a snack on the train. Candy spoils your appetite.” He says, of course it wasn’t a lie, he did have a bunch of candy on the train— and he wasn’t Ron, who could eat a bucket load of candy then fill his stomach with actual food.
Ron hums, “if you’re sure.” He mumbles, “but you’ve gotta eat breakfast tomorrow morning, before Hermione loses it.” Harry nods, turning over and closing his eyes. “I know, but I’m not her.. ah, charity case. And I know you’ll say that’s not how it is, and she’ll say that’s not how it is.. but that’s how it feels. I don’t need either of you checking in on me every second of every day, I know I’m not doing great. But I eat, I keep up with my hygiene, and I’m working on my mental health.”
Ron opened his mouth to say something, but closed it and just whispered, “right.. sorry mate, just.. worried for you. I’ll talk to ‘Mione.” He heard a soft ‘hm’ from Harry and assumed that was the end of the conversation.
And it was, the two of them fell asleep shortly after they ended their conversation.
Turns out, maybe the Golden Boy wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, it didn’t matter how much money or fame Harry had.
He wasn’t happy, nobody spoke to him outside three to four people, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Luna. Neville writes every once in a while, but he didn’t come back for their 8th year, so he doesn’t speak to him that often.
He was blamed for countless deaths, after simply wanting to help these people.
Next time, maybe he won’t help.
He hopes for everyone’s sake, there isn’t a next time.