He should have known better to believe that any amount of hot water could wash his worries away. Perhaps he was merely desperate for something to unburden him, even if only a little. He must have been to listen to something Aunt Petunia had once said.
Desperate indeed.
The cascade of water beating off him did nothing to assuage his grief, nor relieve him of the guilt he felt.
Because of his own recklessness, Sirius was dead.
Learning about the prophecy, facing Voldemort, nor anything else he had endured this evening bothered him as much as what had happened to his godfather.
Harry had been standing next to him, and then he was gone. With a final sad smile as a farewell, he had passed through the ominous archway and vanished.
What happened next had been a blur.
Pulled from his shock by the cackling laughter of Bellatrix Lestrange, Harry had given chase, his intention to put an end to the woman, to cause her pain beyond pain before he would kill her.
Without thought, he had cast the one spell he knew that would achieve the former. He himself had felt the agony of the Cruciatus Curse rip through his body and there was nothing less the woman deserved for what she had done.
For but a second, he had been successful, had brought Lestrange to her knees before she had laughed at his efforts.
In that moment, having realised what he'd done, Harry had sobered.
It wasn't that he had cast a spell that could see him in Azkaban for the rest of his days that pulled him from his haze, but that he was going to do it again, that he wanted to do it again.
He didn't know where such callousness had come from, but even now as he pondered it, he would do it again given half the chance.
The incantation had been on the tip of his tongue and were it not for Voldemort arriving when he did, he would have uttered it once more, his intent no longer questionable by the deranged woman.
His hands that were working the shampoo through his hair became more frantic as what had followed came to the forefront of his mind.
Harry liked to think of himself as quite competent with his wand, the previous year having been spent preparing for, and competing in the tournament having seen him come on in leaps and bounds. Even with the DA this year, he had continued in that vein, but seeing Dumbledore and Voldemort duel one another had only showed him just how far below both men he was.
They wielded magic that he had never seen nor heard of, all without speaking a single word, and yet, the headmaster had informed him shortly after witnessing the fight that it would be Harry who would have to put an end to the Dark Lord.
The notion was laughable, though not even a humourless chuckle passed Harry's lips.
If Dumbledore believed there was a chance he would emerge victorious from a duel like that, he was as insane as Bellatrix.
Still, the man insisted that the prophecy was true.
'Neither can live while the other survives…'
The words were damning and filled him with a cold dread.
Harry was under no illusion that he would survive such an altercation, not now anyway.
If there was to be any hope of defeating Tom Riddle, he needed time, or a miracle.
With how far out of his depth he was, Harry suspected only the latter would suffice, but as his thoughts turned to the friends that had accompanied him, he felt the stirrings of determination within him, or was it stubbornness?
Regardless, he may be broken right now, but he was not done, and though it offered little comfort, there was still some fight left in the teen somewhere.
Harry had never been one to quit, and although what he faced was undoubtedly the most daunting thing he would be confronted by, he wouldn't now.
Not when there were those that had wronged him so that still breathed.
He frowned at that thought.
Where had that come from? Was it his grief and anger speaking?
In truth, it mattered not. They would pay for what they had done, whatever part of him having sprouted such thoughts of vengeance positively humming with excitement.
He released a deep breath as the enormity of what he faced burdened him once more, though he refused to allow it to bring him to his knees.
He may no longer have so much to fight for, but he had those that had fought for him when it mattered, those that had died for him.
He could never forget that.
"For Sirius," he muttered sadly, "for my parents."
Turning off the shower and stepping into the bathroom, he dried himself off with his wand and observed his appearance in the mirror.
His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale and his ribs visible.
With the occlumency lessons from Snape, the lack of sleep and appetite, he was gaunt.
He would never stand a chance against Voldemort being as unhealthy as he was.
That would be something he would need to address, that and the undeniable fact that he was so far out of his depth to even hope to survive.
The Dark Lord's equal…
He snorted at the thought of being considered such.
Thus far, he had been lucky, nothing more. There was no great feat of magic that had saved him. Even during the graveyard it had been mere coincidence that his wand core matched that of Voldemort's, and that Priori Incantatem had come to his rescue.
Hadn't it? Or was there some other power at play here?
It mattered not.
Eventually, his luck would run dry and there would be no more coincidences to save him, no more strange acts of magic to come to his rescue.
He needed to be ready for that, but for now, he wished to only grieve for the closest thing to a father he'd had. Voldemort wasn't going anywhere, and if what Dumbledore said was true, he would be safe once more when he arrived at Privet Drive.
When he was there, he could turn his attention to the Dark Lord and just how he could hope to one day defeat him.
Swallowing deeply and shaking his head of the image of seeing Sirius pass through the veil again, he dressed in some fresh clothes before picking up his soiled and discarded robes.