A/N: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its characters or the plot. (Sadly.) I have, however, altered or enhanced certain aspects of it for this oneshot. Hope you like it.

Unlike the popular opinion, Harry Potter wasn't perfect. In fact, he was far from it.

And while witches and wizards of all ages told their children and their friends the great tale of the Saviour of the Wizarding World in all his glory and flawless grace, Harry himself was probably more broken and flawed than anybody else those ignorant wizards knew.

Even before the war, Harry was damaged; the Dursleys had abused Harry in so many ways, leaving him physically, mentally, and emotionally scarred. Even now, after killing the Dark Lord, he would subconsciously flinch when someone raised their hand at him, expecting to be hit. People noticed, of course, but never mentioned it; Harry's friends would scowl and mentally curse the Dursleys for what they'd done.

Harry was unbelievably clumsy; always tripping on air and dropping things, falling over his own feet. (The invisibility cloak was an absolute nightmare; he had often tangled himself up in it and needed someone else's help to untangle himself. Especially when he was wearing it and he couldn't see his own two feet.) And he had always been jumpy and easy to scare- even more so after the war. While at Hogwarts, many a Gryffindor had gone to ask Harry a question while he was staring into the Common Room fire in silence, and he'd nearly stunned them across the room, or fallen off his chair, always spluttering a string of apologies afterwards. Fred and George had used this to their advantage countless times, and neither ever apologised. After all, Harry would just laugh it off afterwards. Ginny once tapped Harry on the shoulder during a Quidditch match, and he'd nearly fallen off his broom. (Nobody made that mistake again.)

During the war, Harry was- well- stunning. Not absolutely perfect, but he can't have been far off. His reflexes were unbelievably sharp, honed to a point, dodging curses and hexes thrown his way like he was born for it- perhaps he was- whilst shooting back a barrage of spells (mostly Expelliarmus and Stupefy, but occasionally a different one entered the assault) at the Death Eaters. This was the Harry that all the tales spoke of; fearless, a strategist, surrounded by comrades; injured, bleeding, but refusing to back down. Risking his life for so many others. The Harry that faced Death, knowing he wouldn't come back, not expecting to; and yet, come back he did. The Boy Who Lived Twice. Yes, that is the saviour of the Wizarding World, killer of Voldemort.

He was terrified the entire time.

He couldn't show it- he had to be confident, or else nobody would be- they were all following his lead- but he was petrified of losing his friends, his family. When he had seen the Great Hall, teeming with the dead and their loved ones, all he wanted to do was sit down and cry. But he couldn't. Merlin, all he wanted was a hug, a promise that everything would be alright. But no one could promise him that. He had to prove it himself.
So he faced death with open arms, waiting to see his parents, Sirius, Remus, Hedwig, so many more; everyone he'd lost. He'd found Dumbledore. And chose to return.
He had been heartbroken to see- or, rather, hear- the cries of his friends- his family- when they saw him "dead". He had longed to comfort them, reassure them that he was fine, and that soon they would be too, that he would save them all; but he couldn't. He listened as Voldemort made his "I'm amazing and we won" monologue, silently scoffing in Hagrid's arms. And then. Oh, and then.
Voldemort invited people to join him.
Draco was personally told- by his own parents- to join the Dark Lord. And he refused.
That's when Harry ran.

Scared for his life- and the lives of everyone else- he didn't stay to listen to the celebrations of others. He rolled out of Hagrid's arms, shot "Confringo!" In Voldemort's general direction, and promptly scattered.

They'd eventually won the war. Bloody, beaten, and bruised, but victorious nonetheless. Mourning friends, mourning families, but alive. They wondered if they'd rather be dead.

The war left everyone damaged. People had gone through a life-changing event, one that left them worse-for-wear. They'd lost so, so much. Most of them emerged from the war with things like PTSD, Survivors' Guilt, depression, anxiety, and so much more.

Things like jumping at a sudden noise didn't seem quite so funny anymore.

Harry, and those closest to him, probably came off the worst. Death Eaters knew them, targeted them. After all, one of the ways to hurt Harry Potter is by hurting those he cares for. So they emerged with a large abundance of scars that would never fully heal, bones that wouldn't ever be as strong as they once were, and minds that were forever scarred. This just made it worse for Harry, because he blamed himself. After all, if those precious people weren't so precious to him, perhaps Ron wouldn't have broken both legs. Perhaps Neville wouldn't have been paralysed from the waist down. Perhaps Luna would be able to hold a wand in her right hand again. Perhaps the twins wouldn't have parted ways in the worst scenario possible.

Harry shut himself off from the world, from his friends. If they weren't close to him, if he cut all his ties- maybe they wouldn't get hurt any further. Besides, when he had been with them, before he shut them all out, he had hated looking in their eyes. All he could see was pity, and sorrow. Loss. Pain. He hated knowing he was the one who'd caused it.
He had flashbacks, too. All of them did, but Harry's were probably the worst. He'd be lying in bed in Grimmauld Place, and then all of a sudden he wasn't- he was on the floor in the forest, and there was Voldemort- when anyone tried to touch him, bring him back, he'd shoot a spell at them, convinced it was a Death Eater. His friends learned this the hard way. Once Harry was in a panic attack, only he could get himself out.

The foolish witches and wizards who admired him and his neverending Gryffindor bravery never knew this, of course. They remained clueless, innocent. They continued to praise him. Even as he locked himself away from the world, speaking only occasionally with Kreacher, or writing for birthdays and other occasions. Apart from that, Harry Potter virtually disappeared. He blocked Grimmauld Place off from his friends, from those he'd learned to call his family; he received countless messages and gifts of thanks, which he burned. Why should he be thankful for the death of so many?

It was Draco Lucius Malfoy who finally brought Harry back.

Harry hadn't blocked Draco out of Grimmauld Place. Only people he thought would come knocking, and reporters. He hadn't expected Draco to show up on his doorstep one late October evening, half a year after the War, looking stern-faced and smug as always. From the moment Harry opened the door, he knew his life of solitude was over.

Slowly, Draco brought Harry back. He- quite literally- moved in, saying that Narcissa had moved to France (true) and didn't want him there (false) and the Weasleys had told him to go to Harry (true) because Harry was being a pain in the arse (false) and wouldn't open up to anyone (true). Harry only protested weakly, knowing that he couldn't win. Mostly, he was curious as to why the Weasleys had picked Draco Malfoy, Harry's well-known nemesis, and degrader of the Weasley's (and, by extension, Hermione, who had moved in), to come knocking. But, although he would (somewhat) allow Malfoy to move in, he would not give Malfoy the satisfaction of Harry actually speaking to him.

Probably the biggest thing Draco did for Harry (and the worst, in Harry's opinion) was go behind his back and open up Grimmauld Place to Harry's friends and family. He owled the Weasleys, and less than 15 minutes later, they all arrived, covered in soot, in the very sparse living room, bringing with them the friendly Weasley chatter and excitement, and awakening Harry, who had been planning to sleep until midday. Harry had bounded down the stairs, believing there to be an intruder, and was suddenly face-to-face with the people he'd been avoiding for so long. He turned around, apparated to his room, and locked the door. He didn't come back out till the next day, during which he found that the Weasleys (and Draco and Hermione) had cleaned the entirety of Grimmauld place (except Harry's room and Sirius'), had managed the heroic feat of removing the screeching portrait of Walburga Black, and even changed a couple of the Slytherin-green drapes into royal purples. The group, having stayed the night in various guest rooms, emerged the next day to find Harry, sobbing on the kitchen floor, in front of the fridge, which had been covered in hundreds of pictures of Lilly, James, Sirius, Remus, Hedwig, Fred, and so many more. They retreated quietly, with small smiles on their faces. They'd been so loud coming downstairs, believing Harry to be sound asleep in his room, they knew Harry must've heard them. But he didn't run. He was improving. (Barely, but still. Improving.)

The group watched, over the next few months, as their Harry returned. Slowly, oh so slowly; but they hadn't expected anything else. The boy had died. Of course he wouldn't be able to come back and carry on as if nothing had happened (no matter what the press and the wizarding community thought). And while he did have flashbacks, people could now start to bring him back; and if someone got too close too fast, he'd jump away and pull out his wand, but wouldn't shoot. He was improving.

He had setbacks, obviously. One day someone thought it was a good idea to take Harry to Godric's Hollow, and he'd completely lost himself to a flashback of Nagini, of Voldemort, Hermione- he'd disapparated back to Grimmauld place in a wild panic, and (after shooting the group a glare) Draco, Ron and Hermione did too. No one quite knows why Draco went, but he did. And he watched as Ron slowly brought Harry back, Hermione staying far away in hopes of not being caught up in the flashback (she'd been a part of it, after all), and Draco learned how to bring Harry back from one of his flashbacks. The next time one happened, he marched up to Harry, and brought him back with the gentlest voice anyone had ever heard emerge from the the great Draco Malfoy. When Harry re-emerged, he broke down into gasping sobs, and Draco held him the entire time. Harry started speaking to Draco a bit after that. Molly watched the two with an affectionate grin.

But overall, Harry was improving. One day he went shopping. Visited Hogsmeade. Then Hogwarts. Went flying. (Panicked a bit at the snitch, but he was almost normal apart from that.) The group all watched as, one day, he made them breakfast. A luxurious stack of pancakes, one of Dudley's favourites. He worked with a smooth, practiced efficiency, and nearly smiled when he flipped a pancake in the air and it landed safely back in the pan. He was getting better. Draco watched, grinning from where he thought he couldn't be seen. He almost looked... proud. If you ever asked him, he would deny this, and change the topic; but Hermione, who had snapped a picture (Ron had wanted it for blackmail, but Hermione wanted a memory) brought it up once, and Draco couldn't ever deny it again. (He still tried, to no avail.)

Slowly, the Weasleys stopped coming daily. It was every other day, then once a week; then once a fortnight, once a month. They were, however, there for Draco's favourite moment of all time.

Harry had been cooking lunch for everyone again, making something that smelled amazing, and Draco had been watching, begging for scraps. ("Like a bloody dog", as Ron had put it.) At some point, Harry just so casually said, "Draco, pass the salt." And everyone froze. Except Harry, who remained oblivious to what he'd just said. But in the living room, Hermione looked up from her book, Ron choked on air, a smile stretched over Molly's face, Ginny spat out her tea, and Fred had dropped the plates he'd been levitating over to the table. When they smashed, Harry turned around to find Draco looking at him with wide, silvery eyes sparkling in the afternoon sun, cheeks flushed and his pretty mouth agape. Harry wondered what had happened to make Draco look at him like that. Then he realised. And promptly fainted.

Nothing was quite the same after that.

But Draco watched Harry and grew closer as he got better and better, became the Harry the stories told of; happy, skilled, smart. Not the broken husk of himself he'd been for the first 6 months after the war. Better.

He wasn't perfect. But then, he never had been. He still had flashbacks, he was still dealing with survivors' guilt. He probably always would. PTSD sometimes overwhelmed him. But he got through it.

No, Harry Potter isn't perfect. But then, who is?