The End
The battle had been particularly vicious. Bodies were strung across the ground like discarded dolls, and blood was slowly seeping into the ground, permanently staining the grass red. Harry dully looked across the battlefield he had once called home. Hogwarts was in ruins. It shouldn’t have ended this way. Too many had died. With a heavy sigh, Harry slowly picked his way through the bodies, trying to avoid anyone who looked too familiar.
“Harry! Where are you going? You shouldn’t go off on your own. Some of the Death Eaters may have escaped!” Hermione ran up to him with Ron trailing slightly behind her.
Harry quickly scanned the two of them, cataloging any injuries. He hadn’t seen them since the beginning of the battle. Hermione’s hair was matted in blood and mud, and her right arm was disturbing limp, implying it had been dislocated sometime during the battle. Half of Ron’s face was covered in blood from a large gash on his forehead, and he was walking with a severe limp. Both of them had various cuts ranging from frivolous to critical scattered throughout their bodies. Harry smiled slightly. Even though they were both injured, they could have been much, much worse.
“Grimmauld Place. I just… I need to get away from all of this,” Harry said, gesturing to all the carnage surrounding them.
Hermione looked torn. “Just promise to be careful, Harry. We don’t want to lose you after just winning the war.”
Ron jumped in at that point. “Yeah, mate, we don’t want you to die again,” Ron said sending Harry a sharp glare as if it would keep him from doing anything stupid.
Harry gave his two friends a small smile. “I promise I’ll do everything in my power to not die,” He said before turning away and disapparating with a crack.
He appeared on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place seconds later. With a sigh, Harry walked into the place that reminded him the most of his godfather. The place was cleaner than when the Order had tried to clean it out when he was fifteen. The house was now fit for a king, if not a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Although everything had been polished until it shown, the house was still extremely dark and seemed to ooze dark magic. Thankfully, the house’s magic would protect him from outsiders since he was the head of house. The magic almost felt comforting to him after spending so much time on the run, even if it was dark.
With a pop, Kreacher appeared in front of Harry. “Master Harry is back! Is you alright, Master Harry?” Kreacher questioned when he caught sight of him.
Harry knew he looked terrible. He was covered in blood, a mixture of his own and the people he fought and killed on the battlefield. His clothes were dirty and threadbare with slits from cutting curses littered throughout them. But what made him look so terrible were the numerous injuries he had. Harry couldn’t remember a time when he was in more pain. Not even during his stay at the Dursleys. His left leg was badly broken, causing severe pain whenever he walked, both of his arms were fractured if not broken, and his ribs felt as if somebody had repeatedly taken a sledgehammer to them.
“Don’t worry, Kreacher. I’ll be fine. Just help me to the kitchen, will you?” Harry said before staggering slightly and leaning heavily on the house elf. Slowly Kreacher helped Harry into the kitchen before depositing him on a chair.
“Is there anythings Kreacher can do to help Master Harry?” Kreacher asked, wringing his hands.
“Get me the strongest Firewhiskey there is in the house, Kreacher. I need a drink.” Harry mumbled before slumping over the kitchen table. He was exhausted. Harry had mainly been running on adrenaline and fear for the past three days. In fact, he doubted he had slept at all during the three days of the battle. Although the DA had fought in shifts to keep people from reaching magical exhaustion, it didn’t mean they actually stopped preparing for the fight. Harry, himself, had spent most of the time he was supposed to be ‘resting’ thinking of ways to get through the ring of Death Eaters that protected Voldemort.
Kreacher popped away before reappearing with a large bottle of Ogden's Finest and a tumbler. Harry mumbled a thank you before snatching the bottle away from Kreacher and telling the house elf to leave him alone for awhile. He quickly uncorked the bottle and took a gulp of the burning whiskey, completely foregoing the glass Kreacher had left on the table.
Harry didn’t care what others would think of him if they saw him like this, beaten and drinking his way into a stupor. Harry had lost almost everything he cared about. He needed to stop thinking. He needed to get away from all the death and destruction that was his life. He needed to forget all the lives that had been lost trying to stop the insane crusade of a mad wizard with a superiority complex. He would mourn later. He would try to rebuild his life later. But now, he needed to forget everything that was causing him pain. Harry would become the Golden Boy that everyone expected him to be tomorrow, but tonight, he would slip into the blissful darkness that would wash away all his pain.