Chapter One
Harry Potter blinked blearily as the natural light of the sun leaked in through the window of his apartment in London.
He could not bear to part with Grimmauld Place; nor, ironically could he bear to live there, haunted by half-rushed promises (Would you like to live with me?) and the echoes of the ghosts of his loved ones (Harry and Ron, playing exploding snap in the living room…Ron being hit with a curse mere minute before he could have apparated to safety.) So instead, he settled, as he had always done.
His flat was dingy and had traces of what he swore was black mould creeping in on the ceilings; but despite the money left to him by his parents, he refused to purchase anything even slightly more habitable- years of being on the run, of living in a cupboard, had given him a… not fondness, but tenancy to living in dark, cramped spaces that even the years of the comforting red warmth of Gryffindor Tower could not completely stave away.
He yawned, stretching his arms which, bathed in warm light, reflected the angry purple of streaking scars not fully healed. He winced as he recalled the memory of Greyback’s dense claws raking through his arms and shredding his skin. Had it not been for Hermione's quick thinking, he could very well be dead, or at the very least disfigured to an irredeemable extent. Hermione had saved him more than once, in that way. She was so bright, so full of life and passion, and seeing that hardened into a steely determination and ruthlessness to her enemies had broken him in more ways than one.
She should have survived, said his thoughts, sharp and painful but not entirely unwelcome, for he quite wholly agreed with them. She was a mind in a million, and she could have done so well as Minister for Magic, as he and Ron had joked about once in the Gryffindor common room with prideful conviction.
Harry reached for his cracked glasses from the window sill behind him, wiping them with the edge of the scratchy duvet. As he placed them on his face, his room became visible in the half light. A dresser occupied the far side of the room, the mirror covered haphazardly with a white sheet. Next to that was a wardrobe, his clothes folded neatly inside through the use of magic. The carpet was a dull white, full of stains and faded from previous occupants. Harry could have easily fixed this with a wave of his wand, but he chose not to. There wasn’t really much about this room that would reveal much about the person who lived there, and Harry aimed to keep it as such.
It felt lonely without his friends, and as such a dull cold surrounded the apartment, so much that he was hesitant to call it a home as much as somewhere temporary to stay. It felt temporary. Like the many Order Safehouses he had occupied… except Ron and Hermione were there with him then.
It had only been ten days. Ten days since the Final Battle, since he had lost the remnants of the people he had left, his family. Hell, he’d give anything to even hear Severus Snape’s voice, tumultuous as their relationship had been. In the very height of the war, he and the potions master had reached some sort of mutual understanding - one built on respect, and desperation. Occasionally, he had even regaled Harry with tales of his mother, even if it was only done over copious amounts of firewhisky.
He felt as though he would have begun to love the man, as he had Dumbledore, until he died. Like everyone else. Harry knew that he should have expected it, for everyone he had ever thought of as a friend to die, but it seemed destined that his greatest weapon against Voldemort would forever act against himself.
As such, it felt as though he had lost Severus all over again when seeing those memories.
Harry ran his hands through his hair wearily: he really hadn’t done much these past ten days other than mourn, regret and hate himself. His only saving grace was that the rest of the wizarding world was in very much the same state. The Muggleborn population had been reduced to over three-quarters its original size, and what few were left were terrified and traumatised, though they were currently going through rehabilitation programmes.
Nearly everyone had lost someone, or had suffered, and those who hadn’t certainly weren’t eager to rub it in everyone else's faces.
Not that Harry would know.
He hadn’t stepped foot in the magical world since the Final Battle.
As selfish as he felt for that, knowing that seeing their saviour after so long would give those lonely souls at least a little reprieve, he couldn't bear to do so. He couldn’t do anything about the post, though. He occasionally leafed through ink-stained letters, penned to him by mourning survivors, full of either gratitude or blame, or in some cases, both. As much as the letters caused fresh waves of grief roll over him in waves, he forced himself to follow through. He needed to know, even if he wouldn’t step foot into Diagon Alley for years.
Harry sat up, pushing the ratty covers aside as he turned the lights on with a flick of his wrist. That was also a problem. Ever since what had occurred in the Forbidden Forest, his magic felt unrestricted and wild. It was as though he had lived his whole life pushed behind a dam, and when he had died, the dam had broken, causing his magic to run through and become untameable and constantly flowing.
At first, he had refused to give in, only casting small spells, but learned the hard way that not using magic meant an unstoppable wave coursing over him. The first time it had happened, he found himself frantically cleaning the room and casting Confundus charms on residents who came enquiring after the noise and rattling. Funnily enough, the first time had been the last time.
Harry lifted himself off of the bed gingerly, his body aching with protest.
He had been too stricken with loss to attend to his injuries after the battle, and now it seemed he was paying the price.
Though he was tempted to just down some of the paracetamol that he had been thrust with when he was sick at the Dursleys, he knew that now he was fully into his majority, that would not work.
He needed to get potions, and soon.
Tomorrow, he told himself as he cast cleaning charms onto his duvet, stepping into the bathroom as his joints ached and his legs trembled from exertion.
He would get more than just the potions tomorrow.