All around him, the fires burned. Roaring, attacking everyone at all sides. It danced around him, however, curving around his body, caressing him fervently. His bright, green eyes glared at the sight surrounding him, it’s shine so bright it was inhuman.
He had killed Voldemort many years ago - too many years ago. At first, the wizarding world was torn. Some were relieved, they believed the fight was over. They showered him in praise and compliments. The more extreme praisers tried to have him fall in love with them - dosing his food at restaurants with love potions, adding a charm to their letters, grabbing onto him whenever they wanted when he left his home.
The ones who didn’t praise him hated him. Sending howlers, sneering at him, moving their children away from him. Sending curses, hexes, and jinxes at him. Instead of the love potions hiding in his food, it’d be drugged with poisons. Death threats, hate mail... There were countless ways to show their hate - slandering him in the newspapers, spreading lies and rumours, and more.
The ones who did neither feared him. Cowering at his power, refusing to acknowledge him, pulling their children away from him. Whispering to the peers of their fears about him. How he had so much power, too much power.
He was practically immune to the various reactions towards him. The several years at Hogwarts had prepared him enough for it all. Once he became an adult in the wizarding world, he had begun to hide right in plain sight - altering his appearance to avoid being recognised in public. The first year after he killed the infamous Dark Lord, he had tried to handle all the reactions, to help the wizarding world. But they constantly endangered him for more and more.
More autographs, more interviews, more money for the poor, more of his blood money, more of his speeches, more of his magic, more of his power, more of him. More, more, more, and more.
He found that when one pays goblins to clean and fix up a dark, dingy place like 12 Grimmauld Place, it was a very nice hideaway. A vast amount of books to dive into, many rooms to explore and take advantage of, different paintings to conversate with. He even spoke with the wretched mother, Walburga Black, on multiple accounts. None were very pleasant, but it was entertaining for him.
He spent a lot of time in the library, with Kreacher popping in to give him food and drinks when ordered. He let himself drown in his studies, grasping onto any piece of information - useful or not. He practised the magic, taught himself anything he could, doing anything possible to ignore the memories and hauntings of his past.
It was a normal occurrence for him to forget to eat or to stay in one place for hours on end until he’d remember to check his watch or the clock, and would frown. Sometimes he’d get up and stretch, eating some food, or he’d just return to his work, ignoring the emptiness of his stomach.
At least, that’s what he’d do, until he realised that he would have the possibility of not eating ever again if something bad happened. This revelation might have or might not have been, caused by a group of reporters who had stalked him for a couple of weeks and tried to break into his home. They merely succeeded in breaking into his neighbour’s home.
He made sure to have Kreacher bring him meals from then on at the appropriate times, and if Kreacher saw he wasn’t eating 30 minutes later and hadn’t touched his food, Kreacher was to take his work and put it to the side and make sure Harry ate.
It was like this that he spent several years doing. Hiding away in the home, devouring all the knowledge he could, strengthening his magic and mind. He never cared for the news, knowing they’d only slander him.
But then, a trembling to the house caused him to look away from the book he was reading, and he frowned. This was not normal.
“Kreacher.” A pop sounded throughout the room, though faint against the rumbling still shaking the house. “What is going on?”
“Master Potter, sir, I don’t know.” Kreacher grounded out, eyes wide but his lips downturned.
Harry stood up and made sure his wand was strapped to his forearm, and he hurried to the door of his home. He left it and looked around. Many of the others on the street had stepped out, too, panic covering their faces. Loud, blaring alarms started to sound, and the wizard cursed.
He rushed back inside and wordlessly accioed a never-ending bag. He cast a quick weightless charm on it as he ran to his room - he had taken over Sirius’ bedroom. Grabbing some of his weapons he had begun to collect whenever he found he needed them for rituals, he shoved them into the bag. He grabbed whatever he found useful as he searched the house. The bag now more full than before, he threw it over his shoulders, and entered the floo in the main living room, calling out the only person he knew to go to... Or at least, knew would let him come over to work out what happened.
“Longbottom Manor.”
If he looked back, Harry could probably laugh at the shock that covered Neville’s face, as he had been having tea with Malfoy. But when Harry explained the shakings of his home, they went to one of Neville’s many rooms (it’s a manor, what else had Harry expected?) to turn on a tv. They flipped to one of the news channels, and it was the words that stumbled out of the reporter’s mouth that made their shock and confusion turn to fear.
Harry really should’ve expected the muggles to find out about the wizarding world.
Harry spent those next few decades helping fellow wizards get to safety, and to fight back. He saved wizards and muggles alike - but mainly the children, he saved. The wizarding world turned to him to be their leader, and he held back from the quips he wanted to make. They made him their leader, and although he desperately didn’t want to be, it was necessary for him to be. He was the one with the power, the knowledge, the experience.
During the first decade, they tended to not always listen to him. He learned to be more demanding, more stoic. Learned to be cold and ruthless. They needed a leader without fear, a leader without hesitation for anything. He gave roles, gave people responsibilities. Some were forced to take up healing positions, while also knowing how to fight. They healed the weak, they taught others healing spells and potions. Others were given the task of scavenging. Collecting materials, food, resources. Others were spies - playing the part of a muggle and returning to their leader to give back information. Some ended up siding with the muggles, further down the line.
Those traitors were the worst enemy for the wizarding world and the best ally for the muggles.
Harry made sure everyone knew some healing, everyone knew how to run and fight. He would not let others die without trying. Maybe that was the reason why he had started to give up...
When the plants stopped growing back, Harry knew it was too late. He saw the others ignore it, knew they would pretend everything was okay. They began to ask more and more of him. To do what the others couldn’t anymore - or wouldn’t do. Some wizards began to fight back against each other, lost in their insanity. Harry watched the world fall apart, then.
People started to spread rumours again. Started to turn on him. They felt they had lost and also won. They killed many of the muggles, the rest scattered around the world. Everything was falling apart.
Everything he had worked for and sacrificed was going to waste.
He had blown up, then. All the emotions he hid, all the pent up rage and sorrow and hurt, it tore through him. He had lost control of his magic, had lost control on his walls.
That was one of his worst mistakes. Everyone began to treat him with fear, to think of him as a monster. The damage he had caused with that explosion, with that loss of control - it made everything so much worse. The others began running away, hiding in whatever they could. The world was losing its life.
The plants wilted. The sun was far more scorching. The waters were less blue and were turning brown. The ground is crumbling.
When he walked through Diagon Alley, and the streets of London, and the cities he could apparate to, he could only wallow. The walls fell to the ground, the rats scurried, the bodies...
When the muggles and wizards decided on a final battle, he had wanted to curse them all. Can’t they see the damage they, and he, had caused? They were too blind now, form their anger. They were caught up in war and winning.
The place they chose to fight at was perhaps the worst place. Where he had murdered Voldemort, had won. Maybe that was where they went wrong.
He watched from the sidelines, crouched down behind a fallen tree. The muggles and wizards were fighting. They all looked so tired, but in this fight, with magic and weapons alike, they were alive. And that was the saddest part of it, to him. He apparated to be at the centre of the fight and pushed. He threw out his hands, and pushed everyone in his space, far away.
He looked around him, and he heard calls of “Potter!” and other synonyms (in their minds) of monster. His eyes burned, with bright green staring everyone down. He heard a gunshot, and he stepped to the side, the bullet instead hitting another muggle. The fight went on again.
He grabbed a gun, a shotgun of some sort he recognised, and shot at a wizard. A muggle was next. He left his magic free, twirling around him. He got hit, in the shoulder. A swift turn, and pull on the trigger, and he shot at the wizard who had hit him with a terribly aimed stunner. The stunner, of course, had no effect on him.
He knew his magic would start to burn, letting the fires inside him come to life. He shot at everyone, sending curses at some and bullets at others. His magic started to brighten, taking the shape of flames, and it became more visual for the one who could not actively see magic. At least, not raw magic like this.
The fire burned the rest, killing them as they screamed in agony. The fire ate them up, twisting inside their bodies, marking them grey and burnt and scorched. The water that others tried to pour on their comrades did nothing, for magic cannot be put out with water. The fires screamed, they spun and twirled and twisted and pounced.
They kissed him, however. Hugging and kissing and comforting the one they came from. They pulled at his hair lovingly, teasing him and keeping him as theirs. They snarled and ripped apart those who tried to reach Harry.
For Harry was theirs, and they were his. They were one and the same and Harry was done with everything else.