Chapter 1
There's no one that Harry despises more than Voldemort, really. Nobody questions him, there's nothing to ask: how can you not hate the one who killed your parents, gave you your infamous scar, and confined you to a life of bullying by the Slytherins?
Yes, Harry hates that man—if you can even call him that—more than anything. But it isn't really due to all the things he did before his death. No, Harry is not more concerned with his parents' deaths than he is with his potions homework.
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Harry wakes up from yet another nightmare, drenched in sweat and biting back a scream. His hands tremble as he grips the sheets, and his heart races as if he’s been running for miles. He’s exhausted, yet the thought of lying back down makes his stomach churn.Sleep has become a cruel joke—either he is robbed of it entirely or it assaults him with images he can’t escape.
The last thing he wants to do is get up and spend his day in the old classrooms, still half in ruins since the Second Wizarding War. Hogwarts once had been a place of safety for Harry, but now it’s just a hollow shell of what it used to be, a grim reminder of what was lost, one that the teen would never forget. Even the corridors feel different—quieter, almost accusatory, as if the castle itself mourns the lives that were taken within its walls.
Selfishly, Harry sometimes imagines a world where people realize what he’d sacrificed to save them all, what he really had to do to ensure the future of the same people that now took their distance from him, saw his as a pariah amongst his kind. They could at least let him off the hook and allow him to graduate early, instead of making him stay another year at Hogwarts. He’d saved the entire Wizarding World, for Merlin’s sake.
Years of pent-up anger and spiraling thoughts weren’t helped by his increasing nightmares or his sleepless nights. In those rare moments when he did drift off, and he wasn't assaulted by screams and visions of people dying, he dreamt of an alternate universe—one where he was a nobody, where he graduated on time and ignored all the world's problems, where he didn’t have to carry the weight of the war, of all the people that died, of those who he couldn't save, on his shoulders. In that world, he never had to aim at defeating one of the greatest wizards of all time or spend a year running for his life, trying to escape said wizard. Trying to save the only family he ever had.
After twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling, Harry finally drags himself out of bed and stumbles to the mirror. The sight that greets him is as familiar as it is unsettling. It was now a silly ritual, he did it every morning, he took a strange satisfaction in seeing that anyone could tell that something was happening inside his head, and it wasn't anything pleasing.
People used to say he was the spitting image of James Potter—both in looks and personality- combined with Lily, from who he had got his mesmerizing green eyes . After the war, no one dared to say it anymore.
Harry is skinny—too skinny. His collarbone juts out sharply, a stark reminder of the meals he often skips. Every bone in his body protrudes, seeming desperate to escape the fragile skin that barely contains them. Dark circles frame both his eyes, more black than purple, so pronounced it looks like he’s been punched. His once untamed, shiny hair now hangs dull and lifeless, no longer carrying the rebellious sparkle it once did. His eyes are the same, almost void of life.
He leans closer to the mirror, searching for a glimpse of the boy he used to be. All he sees is a stranger staring back, hollow-eyed and weary. With a sigh, he pulls back, running a hand through his hair and wincing when it catches on a tangle.
Harry always searches for what's left of himself, if there's anything left at all.
He turns away from the mirror, gripping the edges of the sink as he tries to steady his breathing. The war may have ended, but its echoes live on inside him, a ceaseless cacophony of guilt and regret. It wasn’t Voldemort who haunted him the most—it was himself.
He should have saved them all. Fred, Remus, Tonks, Colin, Lavander, and so many others. Their faces linger in his mind, sharp and unforgiving, a gallery of the fallen. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees them. Their deaths replay in an endless loop, each time with the same suffocating conclusion: he failed them. He failed them all.
What burdens him the most is the incapacity of people to understand. When people look at him, they see a hero. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The prophecized hero. The Golden Boy who defeated Voldemort. The savior of the Wizarding World. They congratulate him, clap him on the back, and tell him he should be happy, proud even. But how could he? How could he celebrate when he’d left so many behind?
“You’re alive, Harry,” they say, as if that’s enough. As if surviving is the same as living. As if once the war was over, all that existed before was forgotten.
Dumbledore. Snape. Sirius. Cedric. Moody.
The names run through his mind like a litany, each one heavier than the last. And then there are the faces of those he barely knew, those who fought because they believed in him. Believed he could save them.
He’s angry, though not at Voldemort. He’s angry at himself. Angry for not being stronger, smarter, faster. Angry for not being enough. The weight of their lives presses down on him, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t shake it. Each victory feels like ash in his mouth when he remembers the price.
The world around him moves on, but Harry is stuck. Stuck in the past, in the ruins of the battle, in the screams of the dying. He wonders if anyone will ever see him for what he really is: a broken boy trying to piece himself back together. He wonders if the reflection he sees in the mirror is enough to make them understand.
But even that feels impossible. The pieces don’t fit anymore. They’re sharp and jagged, cutting deeper every time he tries to put them back in place. And with each passing day, he wonders if there’s anything left to salvage at all.
He takes a deep breath and looks out of the small window by his bed. The sunrise bathes the castle ruins in a soft, golden light, but it feels alien to him, as though he no longer belongs to this world of warmth and hope.
"You're alive, Harry", he says to himself, as if that's enough. As if repeating it will make him believe that what he's doing is living.
Yes, Harry hates Voldemort. Mostly, Harry hates himself.
In his worst nightmares, he sees himself- happy, joyful, full of life. In these moments, he is surrounded by warmth and light, untouched by the burdens of war or the scars of survival. He doesn’t carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. His laughter is genuine, his smile unforced.
In those nightmares, he is long dead.
In those nightmares, he feels as if he's dreaming.