Title: Moving On
Author's Name: Mewlin
Beta Reader: NitaPotter - Thanks SO much!! You're brilliant!!
Rating: T
Spoilers: PS/SS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OoTP, HBP
Warnings: Non-Main Character deaths, angst
Summary: After an anticlimactic end to the war, Harry returns to Grimmauld Place. He needs to move on with his life, but will they let him?
Disclaimer: All characters and events you recognize belong to J.K. Rowling among others. I hold no claim to any of it. No copyright infringement is intended or implied.
Twenty year old Harry Potter didn't even bother to hide his shocked expression as he watched a gibbering Lord Voldemort commit suicide. It was, perhaps, the most anticlimactic ending for a war. Then, again, Harry supposed it made sense. The horcruxes were part of Voldemort's soul, part of his essence, part of who he was. In that end, it made sense that as they were destroyed, thus so was Voldemort as well as his followers. As Voldemort died, so did his marked Death Eaters.
Harry stifled a snort at the thought. Voldemort was a sadist, through and through it seemed. While reduced to a spirit, his Mark merely faded. When reduced to nothing, so were his followers. Bending down to press his fingers at the pulse point at Snape's neck, he frowned. Dead. Now he'd never know the truth about what happened those three years ago.
As Harry stood up, he pulled out his wand and calmly cast an Incendio curse at Voldemort's body, then turned and walked away. It was time to move on.
Three years ago, Harry had made his fateful decision not to return to Hogwarts if it re-opened. While touched that his friends wanted to go with him, he had not let him. One night, after Headmaster Dumbledore's portrait had woke up; Harry had snuck into the office to speak with him. They talked all through the night, but when morning came, nobody could find Harry Potter.
Harry had not let himself be seen in the Wizarding World since; he'd adopted an alias, and when forced to communicate with others, kept himself cloaked.
Searching for the remaining Horcruxes had been long, detailed, and an expensive business. Trinkets belonging to such famous and wonderful wizards and witches weren't easy to come by, and those who held claim to them did not want to let go of them, unless the price was just right. So Harry came close to exhausting his inheritance. He'd refused to sink to Voldemort's level of depravity by stealing the very same objects.
As each Horcrux was destroyed, Harry, living under the name Jay Miles, heard about more and more deaths, including those of the Dursleys. Apparently, Voldemort had figured out what Harry had been doing, and sought to flush him out.
Harry had mourned the passing of the last of his relatives, but had moved on quickly. They had not loved him, had barely provided for him, and yet, in some way he was grateful. He was comfortable on his own and did not suffer greatly from eating less, or sleeping in uncomfortable or cold places. Their neglect had prepared him for this task far better than any amount of coddling or smothering ever could have.
In the end, Nagini had been the hardest of the Horcruxes to destroy. Harry didn't consider himself a murderer, and killing something that he could speak to rubbed against the grain, and yet, he did. It turned out to be Voldemort's un-doing.
Harry apparated back to his tent, some forty kilometers away from Little Hangleton and Voldemort's burning body. The camouflaged tent blended flawlessly into the forest, and had he not been living in the enchanted tent for the last six months, he might've had a difficult time finding it. Harry was actually quite proud of his spell work, as he'd watched many a hiker set up camp right next to him, never even considering that he might be in the company of the world's most famous missing person.
Collapsing into his cot, Harry closed his eyes, wondering, praying that it was finally over. That his task was done and that he could finally live his life rather than have it lived for him. He wondered if he had destroyed Voldemort, thus fulfilling the prophecy, or had Voldemort destroyed himself. Thinking over the entire thing, Harry decided that he was far too tired to wrestle with the ins-and-outs of a stupid prophecy. He just wanted to sleep.
Sleep came, but peace did not. Ghosts of old nightmares haunted him, as always, as he watched old friends, mentors, and loved ones die. He heard the echoes of his mother's screams as she pleaded with Voldemort not to kill her baby. He watched Sirius' shocked expression as he fell backwards into the veil. He saw Headmaster Dumbledore's body burn as they all said their final goodbyes. Waking with a start, he wished he'd paid more attention in Potions. Dreamless Sleep or a calming draught would be wonderful about now. Harry just wanted to rest.
The next day, Harry sat out side, eating on the rabbit stew he'd made as he decided whether or not to return to the Wizarding World proper. Harry wasn't a fool. The Boy-Who-Lived was now the Man-Who-Killed-You-Know-Who. He'd never get any peace. Yet, he missed his friends dearly. He missed real, comforting, human contact. Right now, he knew that he'd welcome Mrs. Weasley's smothering hugs. Well, for a while, anyway. Most of all, Harry wanted to see Dumbledore's portrait. He wanted to look him right in his painted twinkles and tell his mentor that he'd done it, that Voldemort was dead. Dead and gone, and he'd never, ever return. Harry wanted to give his mentor that much, to let the old man rest in peace, and let his portrait just be the honored Late Headmaster of Hogwarts, defeater of Grindlwald and discoverer of the twelve uses for Dragon Blood instead of being a painted war consultant.
Harry wanted to tell the Weasleys that they could be safe. He wanted to tell Remus that he didn't have to worry about putting himself in danger with the other werewolves, to tell Tonks that she needed to catch herself a wolf and marry him, if she hadn't already. He wanted to tell Hermione that she didn't need to be worried about being persecuted by pureblooded elitist Death Eaters any more. He wanted to tell Hermione that…
He wanted to tell them that they could all live now. That, for the time being, there was no Dark Lord. No malignant ooze out to destroy them all.
Again though, Harry was no fool. He knew that he'd have to give up his precious anonymity, he'd be expected to give reports on everything, to have ministry officials dredge through his accounts of what happened. He knew he'd be faced with suspicions and those who would call him a liar to his face. He knew he might be faced with Veritiserum, and then, when finally they believed him, he'd be lifted up on that stupid pedestal. He'd be in the public eye for the rest of his life.
Yet, Harry felt that they all deserved to know that they were safe again. He supposed that, if in the end it became too much, he could adopt the alias of Jay Miles again, and leave. He had, after all, fooled them all with it once before.
Finally reaching his decision, Harry packed away the last of his stew, doused the flames, and began undoing the wards on his tent before packing it up. As an afterthought, he looked up to Hedwig, his ever faithful companion, and ended the charms that had made her look, and sound, like a plain brown owl.
"Hey, beautiful," he said, as he ran his fingers through her soft feathers. "Are you ready to go back, girl?"
Hedwig offered Harry a soft sound of encouragement and nuzzled his hand slightly. "Come find me when you're rested."
Then, with a sharp crack, Harry disapparated into Diagon Alley. Once there, he swiftly went through the Leaky Cauldron and into the Muggle part of town before anybody could recognize him. It had been so long since Harry had been in London proper that he'd almost forgotten his way around, and so it was late afternoon when he'd finally located Grimmauld Place. Once he reached Number 12, he knocked.
Harry stepped back as the door was opened slowly, and, cautiously, one Remus Lupin, looking older than Harry had ever seen him, raised his wand. "Who… Dear Merlin, Harry!" The older man cried.
Green eyes met brown, and Harry offered a somewhat shy smile. "Hey, Professor."
Author's Note: Ok, so, there ends the first chapter of Moving On. Is it worth continuing or should I just end it here.
Jay Miles - Voldemort isn't the only one who can do anagrams! Jay Miles is an anagram of 'James Lily'. I thought it would be better than doing something like Evan James, Harry Jameson, or any of the other commonly used ones, plus it's non-descript.