To Harry Potter, the Boy Who Won!
That sentence, that cheer, that toast quicky became the most repeated phrase in Wizarding Britian in the past few weeks. It outshone even his previous celebration as the Boy Who Lived, though admittedly, Harry was a baby at the time, tucked away at Privet Drive where no one could meet him whereas now they have a whole adult to toast with. And why all the celebration? Well because on May 2nd, 1998 on the bloodied grounds of what once was a safe haven for the future of magic, Harry Potter won the Second Wizarding War, and the Light triumphed. Peace returned and everyone was relieved that the worst was over.
But, to the dismay of many, Harry was in no mood for toasts. He himself could scarcely care about the celebrations held in his name, or the speeches and awards given to him. In fact, he was rarely seen in public, preferring the company of friends but mostly, his own. He often just laid in his bed, trying to quiet his thoughts. Unfortunately, he was as good at emptying his mind as he was at fifteen, meaning not at all.
Harry Potter won.
This thought settled into his mind the moment Tom Riddle’s body hit the ground. It stayed with him through the tears and hugs of his friends, family. It was with him, through the funerals, the grief, the loss, as he watched Fred Weasley’s coffin go through the graveyard, reaching its final destination, where the red headed prankster rests forever. It was with him, when he watched Mrs. Weasley crying herself hoarse, when Percy sworn never to tell a joke again, when Ginny screamed. He couldn’t even look at George.
It was with him, as he met his godson, as he told Andromeda Tonks that her daughter, her lively, ridiculous daughter died fighting alongside her husband, leaving their son behind. As he cuddled Teddy, his desperate hope, that there will be no more war, that no more children will grow up without their parents left alone on stranger’s doorsteps, withered. From orphan to orphan, he could only whisper:
Harry Potter won.
But at what cost?
To him, it did not feel like victory at all. For how could the loss of hundreds of good people, of friends, family, parents and children could ever be called as anything but defeat? They may have won the battle, but they lost who it was for. Yet, it seemed the world did not care at all. It saw the death of a madman, and it was enough. But the war in Harry’s heart never ended. He lost too many. He even lost himself. In the darkest part of his mind, the most hidden and broken segment screamed: murderer.
He killed him. The spell rebounded but it was Harry who hunted his soul, it was Harry who fought him, it was Harry who won. And it was Harry, who felt sadness, guilt and anger at the same time. It was him lying awake at night, wallowing in the misery of all. The last thing he thought as he drifted of to fitful sleep, was in painful clarity: Victory tastes a lot like blood.
Harry Potter won.