Harry James Potter, 21, was the hero of the wizarding world. Showing up alongside the Minister and other war heroes at various events, parties and gatherings. Harry, just Harry, showed up at too many burials. Ron's and Bill's, the Lupin's, the Weasley Twins', Katie Bell's... Funeral after funeral, to say a last goodbye to those that Voldemort and his followers took from him. Yet for everyone else, there was only Harry James Potter.
Even for the remaining members of the Weasley family.
And so Harry sat beside a fire, under a tree on a hill, the Burrow, from which the sounds of a grand party were echoing, still in distance. And he thought. Of all the horror he had seen, chasing every piece of his archnemesis' soul and followers. Of the flowers that would grow on the tombs of those that followed him until the end, and of the butterflies that would flutter around their resting places. Of how the world will be, for how could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened ? How could the end, his end, be happy ?
As he extended his arm to grab a bottle of Ogden's Old finest firewhiskey, the orange and yellow flames of the fire turned blue for a split second before flames of each colours were intertwined, almost dancing in front of Harry's eyes. The bottle was kicked aside by someone sitting beside him. Turning his head, Harry gazed in deep blue eyes, of a colour similar to the flames. The woman linked their fingers, before looking in silence toward the fire.
"I'm not him." he whispered, eyes returning to the blaze.
Her grip on his fingers tightened.
"I know." She whispered back.