Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Sad, neh? This really depressed me for a while. I think I should go get my head checked.

            On October 27, one week after the deaths of Ginevra Weasley, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort was killed.

            The last thing he saw was a pair of feverishly burning green eyes radiating hatred and pain. And then he was no more.

            The wizarding world rejoiced, and did not stop rejoicing.

Until twelve days later, Harry James Potter, savior of the wizarding world, was committed to St. Mungo’s, completely insane.

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            Draco strode forward to the figure on the bed, pinning the small visitor’s badge to his robe front. He stood with his arms locked behind his back, unsure of what to say, or if he should even say anything. What could he say? “Hello, Potter, thank you for defeating the Dark Lord, I’m sorry you went bonkers in the process”?

            Potter was sitting up halfway, leaning against a worn pillow. His eyes were downcast, and he was slowly, methodically picking at a stray thread on his blanket. He looked up at Draco, and the blonde man took a hissed breath.

            The once Golden Boy of Hogwarts was wasting away. His cheekbones stuck out, and his face was pale and gaunt. His hair was lank, and his eyes…his previously bright eyes were empty.

            Draco swallowed and took a seat.

            Potter opened his mouth. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and rough, as if he had been screaming for long, too long.

            “I killed him. Voldemort,” he said. “When Dumbledore died, I felt as if my world was coming undone. Everyone says that I’m a hero, but…what if there’s another boy like me on the Dark side? One who looked up to Voldemort, and just lost someone he cared about? That makes me a murderer, doesn’t it? That doesn’t make me any different from the Death Eaters!” His voice had risen in intensity until it had the force of a shriek, and he was clenching his fists.

            Draco just frowned at him, until his eyes fell on the multitude of potion bottles littering the table. Of course. They were drugging him.

            He laughed sardonically in his head. He knew the world was screwed up when a drugged-up Potter made more sense than before.

            He’s saying things he’d never have the courage to say before, his mind told him.

            “I’m not insane,” Potter said pleadingly, suddenly gripping Draco’s arm with one thin hand, his fingers digging in hard. “I’m not insane. But if they think I am then they leave me alone. I just want to be left alone.” He let go of Draco and wrapped his arms around his knees.

            Draco exhaled. He didn’t know what to say. He had come because he had felt he owed something to Potter. He hadn’t thought that maybe Potter wouldn’t want any thanks.

            “I don’t want to remember,” the dark haired boy was still muttering.

            “Then forget,” he spoke up, surprising even himself. “Forget.” Potter looked up at him slowly. Draco walked across the room to where Potter’s wand was kept, and carefully wrapped a gloved hand around it. He went back to the side of the bed, offering one end of the wand to the boy. “Just forget,” he repeated, catching green eyes with his own, an unmistakable message in those gray orbs, and walking away.

            As he left, he heard Potter say softly, “I’d like to forget. Forget, or…”

            And then he shut his ears and left, because what he didn’t hear, wizarding courts could never drag out of him.

            “How is he, dear?” a plump nurse asked him, her forehead creased with worry.

            “I think he’s doing fine,” he answered. “Better than he’s been in a while.”

            And he turned and strode out the door.

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At 2:00 P.M., on November 11^th, in the psychiatric section of Saint Mungo’s, Harry James Potter was found dead in his room, a happy smile across his world-weary face.