How Do You Wash The Blood Away

How Do You Wash the Blood Away?

A/N: Oh boy was I in a right mood when I came up with this! Many thanks to my multi-fandom beta Toni! Reviews and constructive criticism welcomed with open arms.

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How do you wash the blood away when it stains you? Harry asked himself. How can you erase everything you've done--everything you've seen--when the blood hasn't left your soul?

It was more than he could think about tonight. He took another drink of the Firewhiskey. It was nothing unusual for The Boy Who Lived, after all. His connection to the Wizarding World was a joke now anyway. The War had been fought. It was over. He had won the bloody war for them and now he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. And that is what he was; alone.

Alive didn't count for much anymore. He had no quality of living so what did the function of breathing count for anyway? The Boy Who Lived is alive--bloody hell. It didn't matter. He was alone.

He continued to drink and stared at the fireplace in front of him. Any moment now, he would whisper and pretend to hear his two best friends Floo in. But that wouldn't happen tonight. Or any night, considering Ron and Hermione had both been brutally slaughtered in the War.

A broken laugh escaped his lips as he recalled the stupid argument his two best friend had the night before the war began. It was pointless really, like most of their quarrels. Ron had cursed and Hermione wouldn't have any of it. His lips curled in remembrance of Hermione standing with her hands on her lips lecturing a red-faced Ron. But that night they had kissed and made up.

He remembered more; the light tapping on his door in the early hours of the morning. He remembered walking bleary eyed to answer the door. Outside he found Ron, who let himself in. He was a nervous wreck.

"What's the matter, mate?" he had asked, hoping that Ron wouldn't bring up the upcoming events of the war. It was in those moments that Ron confessed to him his biggest secret.

"I'm gonna do it, mate." he had whispered to him, his eyes full of tears and a glimmer of hope. "The moment that sodding bastard is dead I'm going to marry Hermione."

They never even had the chance. The guilt was destroying him. It was his fault they weren't here now. They had died protecting him. Life was unbearable. It was his penance to live where many others had died.

How do you fight the darkness, he mused. How can you fight it when it's inside of you? How do you make the pain go away?

He had been so close to destroying Voldemort. He was physically close. Death was all around him. He heard the screams but he did nothing to stop them. In a matter of seconds, Ron and Hermione had joined him on both sides. Ginny was not far behind. Hexes, curses and spells were thrown about. While Harry was so focused on destroying Voldemort, the thought of Ginny behind him made his blood freeze.

In that moment he had sold his soul. In that split second of indecision; of precise inaction he had murdered his best friends. He covered Ginny and saved her. He had lives in his hands and he had given Voldemort the perfect opportunity to strike.

He struck.

He had struck back and then, it was over.

And for that one moment in time, Harry was relieved. He was bloody glad that he had Ginny. They had both survived. The agonising scream of his beloved had snapped him back from his morbid victory. Ginny was lying over her brother. In a sick, twisted way he had traded a Weasley for a Weasley; one life for two lives.

He didn't even try and get their bodies. He simply grabbed Ginny's arm and then they were gone.

He didn't go to their funerals. He didn't deserve to.

He sought solace in the woman he had saved. But the impact of winning the war and losing her Ron and Hermione had been too much for her. Not even the love of the great Harry Potter had been enough. Now he hated her. She was the reason he had done such terrible things. She loved him once but she had lost him to the darkness.

He missed them all. Merlin, he missed them. He wanted to hear Ginny's moans and feel her soft lips. He wanted to play Quidditch with Ron. He wanted to hear Hermione lecture him on something or other. He wanted to walk down the halls at Hogwarts and whine about Snape and think about Dumbledore.

He wanted to talk to Lupin again and watch Tonks change her hair. He wanted to sit at the Weasley's table and laugh and not wonder when the clock would change from Mortal Peril. He wanted things to be normal again.

Even now, so many had died in the War and all he could do was sit alone and drink away his victory. The Death Eaters were being rounded up and he was to be awarded The Order of Merlin- First Class for his troubles.

Voldemort was dead, he should have been celebrating. But all that had made Harry's life was gone. Ron and Hermione were gone and the Weasley family had practically been decimated as had the Order of the Phoenix. Sirius and Dumbledore hadn't even lived to see the final battle.

He had saved Ginny. He had killed Ron and Hermione. He had killed himself.

"How do you wash the blood away?" he whispered to the now empty Firewhiskey bottle and threw it against the wall. He peered at the clock that now sat on top of his mantelpiece. He raised his wand and with a flick of the wrist, the names that had been magically etched onto the clock re-appeared.

This was the last remnant of anything that he had worked for. Mrs. Weasley had helped him create it the day before the War. Everyone Harry held dear was on the clock, much like the Weasley's pride and joy. Except now, most of the names had the glowing red words DEAD on them.

He sat back down and opened another bottle of Firewhiskey. This was Harry Potter and this is how he washed the blood away.