Exhausted, Harry Potter fell into his bed fully clothed, not having the energy to take off his shoes or even remove his glasses.

In the six months since he'd finally killed Voldemort, it seemed that rather than having less work, it compounded on a daily basis, to the point that he was so tired he could hardly see straight.

If it weren't enough to be helping with removing the rubble and repairing Hogwarts, as well as assisting laying the wards around the school's grounds, and within the hulking structure, he also had to give almost daily interviews to the Prophet regarding the status of said repairs and wards, as well as any other projects he was helping with, and report to the Ministry of Magic to give testimony at the trials of multiple Death Eaters he had personally witnessed comitting various atrocities.

It also didn't help that for all the damning evidence he gave on other Death Eaters, with the requirement of pensieved memories and Veritaserum, he was also a witness for the defense of an accused Death Eater, Severus Snape. The reporters that hounded him like sharks following the scent of blood almost always wanted to turn the subject to that very thing, at once lauding him for everything he'd done for the war effort and the things he was doing to help with the recovery of the Wizarding world, and in the same breath condemning him for having the audacity to speak in Snape's defense.

It rankled, and while Harry had no particular fondness for Snape himself, it bothered him more than he liked to think about that the majority of people who wanted to talk about Snape's trial weren't upset that Harry thought Snape was innocent, they were more upset because Snape was so unlikeable, and thought that was reason enough to leave him to rot in Azkaban, regardless of whether or not he was guilty of the crimes he was accused of.

It infuriated him that people were condemning Snape not because of what he had supposedly done, but based solely on the fact that he wasn't a snuggly Hufflepuff or audaciously brave Gryffindor, but a generally abrasive, cunning, and irritable Slytherin.

Despite the war barely being over, and heavy losses on both sides, it seemed as if nobody had learnt a bloody thing from it all. Predjudice still ran rampant; and everyone was too blind to see the depth of their own hypocrisy.

Thankfully, once he was home, Harry didn't have to worry about reporters or idiotic well-wishers, or slavering fans wanting autographs. Mostly because nobody knew where he lived, very purposely on Harry's part.

Rather than move into the house at Grimmauld Place, which was corrupted beyond repair even before Sirius' untimely death and brief occupation by Death Eaters, Harry had bought himself a decent-sized muggle house on the outskirts of London.

It wasn't anything too flashy, and was really a bit of a let-down, given how much money Harry actually had to spend, but it was more than enough for the 17 year old, and it was quiet, somewhat secluded, and absolutely the last place anyone in the Wizarding world would ever think to look for him.

As it was, Harry only had use for one of the four bedrooms, and had already begun converting one of the others to a library/study. On his own now, he'd taken care decorating his little slice of the world, and the furnishings were all dark, solid wood, made to last, and sparsely placed. After the suffocating abundance of flower-printed furniture and wallpapering, draperies, etc at his relatives' house, Harry was of the opinion that less was more, and he quite liked the open spaces in his humble abode. Each piece of furniture was understated and functional, and the rooms weren't crammed full to the brim with unnecessary furnishings and decor.

He had a few framed pictures of his friends on the mantle, and a nice painting here and there, but on the whole the entire house was comfortable without being loud and demanding of attention.

And most people who knew Harry would be quite surprised to find that there was very little red and gold in his house at all, with the exception of a few Quidditch souvenirs he'd kept from his Hogwarts days.

Even his bedroom was rather understated. The furniture was all black, with the bed hangings and bedding in various shades of icy blue, deep navy blue, and silver, and the curtains over the windows matched. There was a deep navy rug at the side of the bed that covered half of the room from the bed to the armoire where Harry dressed, but there was little in the way of extra adornment, and that was how Harry liked it.

Of course, he would've liked it much better if someone wasn't ringing his doorbell at three in the morning, when he'd hardly finished bouncing from his fall into bed.

With a frustrated groan, the former Gryffindor forced himself up and weaved his way back downstairs to the front entrance, muttering darkly under his breath regarding what he'd like to do to people without the sense to refrain from disturbing him at this hour.

Unfortunately, all of his dire threats weren't going to be of much use, as he opened the door to find his visitor to have fled.

Frowning, he leaned over the threshhold, peering left and right in the attempt to catch someone trying to run away, but saw noone. And, at that moment, a small sound caught his attention, coming from the front stoop, much lower than any visitor Harry might've expected.

Blinking, Harry tried to make sense of what he was seeing, his brain refusing to supply any answers as to what could possibly be going on. Casting another wary look around the darkened yard, he returned his attention to the basket on his stoop. Or rather, what was in the basket.

Who in Merlin's name would leave him a newborn baby?