The Boy Who Lived

Panic

Harry was taken aback by the reactions after the war. He supposed he should have expected it; the Press did so like to make a big deal of everything he did but it became utterly ridiculous. Reporters camped outside Minnie's little cottage in Hogsmeade and followed him everywhere he went. So-called fans visited Hogsmeade in the vague chance they'd get a glimpse of their hero. Everyone wanted to stop him and talk about the war, about their experiences, about their losses. And then there were those who were angry. Not Voldemort supporters, though they crept out of the woodwork too. No, it was those who believed Harry should have stepped up earlier; that he should have saved their son / daughter / husband / wife / father / mother / distant relative... eight months ago / a year ago / four years ago / at birth. The expectations on all sides were ridiculous but Harry wasn't in the right head space to shrug it off. It all felt overwhelming.

On top of that, Magazines wanted to do photoshoots and interviews and he found his presence was repeatedly requested at the Ministry of Magic. A lot of people wanted to know, in minute detail, how he'd finally defeated Voldemort, down to the exact spell, and what he, Mione, and Ron had done over the previous eight months. And then about what happened before then too, particularly the information that he found out with Dumbledore about Riddle and his transition into Voldemort. Even the Muggle government had expressed an interest in his actions and he'd been requested to go and meet the Prime Minister who wanted to thank him in person for his bravery and his services to the British Crown. Harry found it utterly ridiculous. Mostly because he didn't look upon his actions like that.

As a result, Harry restricted who he talked to, dealing only with Kingsley, Gawain Robards, and Minnie. He tried, were possible to talk to them together so he didn't go over the same ground over and over again. He asked the same of Ron and Mione. It was harder with them, especially as they were now ensconced at The Burrow with Molly fussing over them and more people around to ask them questions. He missed them after spending so long in each other's company but he tried to give them the space they needed.

He spent hours on end sitting with Kingsley, Gawain, Minnie, Ron, and Mione, often around Minnie's small kitchen table, trying to work through the details, trying to decide what parts of the story should be omitted from the public record of events. Neville ended up joining them too, he had his parts of the story to tell. They decided they should write up an official record and that helped in trying to understand the missing minutiae and subtleties, such as Snape's story, for although his memories had shown Harry enough, they all felt like they needed to know more about the enigmatic man.

'Severus knew far more than anyone. But then, he was a formidable spy, he knew how to disseminate information,' Minerva said. 'For example, he picked up that your Legilimency and Occlumency skills were vastly improved, just from trying to break into my thoughts. He was glad I was able to teach what he was not. He also knew that you would end up at the school. He prepared for that final scene in the Great Hall. We prepared for it. The duel was planned so he could incapacitate the Carrows.'

Harry raised an eyebrow, his wonder growing at the man.

Between dealing with the Press and the adoration and the overwhelming gratitude, Harry found himself dipping between periods of heightened activity into lulls which slipped towards horrifying depression. He would look up the hill towards the school which overshadowed the village and feel overwhelming guilt. The Fallen Fifty of the Battle of Hogwarts plagued his mind. He'd run his name down the list of names until Minnie would catch him. He knew he was becoming as obsessed about the names as Ron had been about listening to Potterwatch. The others too. Those, like Ted Tonks, who had to go on the run and were caught by Snatchers or killed by Death-Eaters. He hadn't been able to save them. He should have done more.

Minerva watched as her son turned his back on the school a few weeks after the war. They were meant to be walking up together to see Hagrid but his steps slowed the closer he got to the school gates. Finally, he stopped, frozen, trying to catch his breath, his hands cramping, his knuckles white. He could smell the battle; his nostrils choked with dust and smoke, rot and the smell of blood.