What I've Done

AN: This was written for The Speed of Lightning Competition, and the prompt was the proverb "All that glitters is not gold"

Harry Potter.

He was the Golden Boy of Gryffindor, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen one.

He had everything. Money, friends, fame. Quidditch skills, and not a bad mind. He knew how to be polite, charming anyone effortlessly. He was not quite handsome, but had a kind of carefree attractiveness about him. Girls wanted to be with him, men wanted to be him.

Probably the most famous of all wizards. He not only ended the war once, the first when he was only a baby, but twice. He had accomplished even what the great Albus Dumbledore did not: defeating the Dark Lord and bringing an end to the war that took away so many lives and destroyed many more. He saved the wizarding world from the worst threat it had ever seen.

He had overcome many obstacles, never wavering from his goal to defeat the Dark Lord. Many close to him perished in the war, many turned his backs on him. The war claimed the lives of his parents, of his Godfather, of his fellow pupils and his Headmaster. But instead of giving up, he used this to fuel his efforts to see the Dark Lord's end.

No matter what way you look at it, he was the saviour of the wizarding world.

Harry looked out over the smooth water of the Black Lake, his back braced against the rough bark of lonely Willow tree. The sweeping branches effectively hid him from view, not that anyone would be out on the Hogwarts grounds on such an evening, as the Hogwarts Castle was suspended in a state of gloom.

The Battle of Hogwarts and the defeat of Voldemort occurred just over a week ago, and the days had passed in a blur of funerals for the fallen. Harry had only managed to bring himself to attend a few, of those who were closest to him. Remus, Tonks, Fred. He had appeared at the funeral of Colin Creevey briefly, but found he was unable to stand sitting among the young students (had he been that small an innocent only a few years ago?) crying for their friend, and was unable to face another funeral.

The Castle itself had been simple enough to repair, although it took a lot of magical energy, as it had been built with magic and had to be rebuilt the same way. The wards were put back up, stronger than ever, not that it was likely to be threatened any time in the near future. The last Death Eaters, those who survived the battle or made a bid to escape, had been rounded up and placed in Azkaban, the security of which had been greatly improved. The Quidditch Pitch had been rebuilt, along with several bridges into Hogwarts which had been destroyed in an attempt to stall the Death Eaters. From the outside, the castle of Hogwarts seemed restored to its former glory, except for a few tell-tale scorch marks in the grounds, which stood out like a scar.

Inside, however, was a different story altogether. Many students had left at the first opportunity, to return home and be with loved ones, relieved that they had survived. Professor McGonagall was appointed Headmistress, and the professors attempted to restore order, especially among the first years whom had no experience of Hogwarts other than the horrors they had encountered that year under the Carrows. However, it was a difficult task as many of the staff were missing, either fallen in the battle or arrested, as the case of Amycus and Alecto Carrow. In the end, it was decided there was no choice but to send all of the students home early, and they would repeat the year, as their learning was so disrupted, and many students were unable to attend at all.

Harry stared, transfixed, at the ripples which marred the previously glossy surface, probably the result of some unknown creature swimming past in its depths. It was the melancholy transition from twilight to darkness, and the night was the so calm Harry felt he was suspended in time.

He thought back to the war. It had ended only a few days ago, yet he felt like it had been an eternity and no time at all. He was tired and thin, he couldn't eat without the food making a reappearance. He had not slept since before the final battle. Every time he closed his eyes he was facing Voldemort again in that final duel. Watching Snape bleed, the light leaving his eyes. Watching Fred flying backwards; watching Mad-eye pushing off on his broomstick, Mundungus disguised as Harry clinging on to him. Seeing Remus and Tonks lying side by side in the Great Hall, eyes closed and hands touching. Watching Sirius' body fall elegantly through the veil.

He reached up and traced the scar on his forehead. They think he's the Chosen One, the Defeater of the Dark Lord.

They're wrong. They're all wrong. The media, the Ministry, his fellow pupils and even his friends.

He may seem like the good guy, the saviour of the wizarding world, but he knows this is not true. That it couldn't be further from the truth. Their admiration of him only serves to make it worse. He refused to even look at the Daily Prophet, knowing already what it would say. At the funerals he attended, several people have approached and thanked him, resulting in him feeling sick to his stomach. No, he wanted to scream, don't thank me! Can't you see I as good as murdered them?

They thought being Harry Potter would be a blessing. Life seemed perfect for Potter, especially now that the war had ended. But he knew this was far from the truth. They didn't know that he was incapable of functioning properly, unable to even eat or sleep. That the ghosts of the fallen followed him, wherever he went, their eyes screaming how could you do this to me? They didn't know he had no-one to turn to, no-one to talk about his experiences (not that he wanted, or would even be capable of doing so), because everyone believed him to be a hero, and heroes didn't sink into depression. Heroes remained strong.

He knows the truth.

Being Harry Potter, the Chosen One, saviour of the wizarding world was nothing but a curse, and he knew, in his heart of hearts, was as much of a murderer as Voldemort.