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“The best revenge is living well” was a nugget of philosophy that entered Harry’s life not long after the war ended. Looking back on his childhood, he knew that the way his relatives had treated him was far and wide beyond any level of acceptability, yet he really could not find it in him to harbor resentment or anger.
What would anger do? He could be angry at Muggles, angry at his family for the mistreatment, but… it was pointless. They were scared. It wasn’t an excuse, certainly, but it was a reason. Everyone involved in fostering him to his relatives had cocked it all up. Dumbledore had left him on a doorstep without so much as a ‘hello’, with a vaguely worded letter informing his aunt that her sister had been murdered in cold blood and that he was all that remained. McGonagall claimed she told Dumbledore that they were the worst sort of Muggles, had stood idly by and allowed him to be left on that doorstep. Hagrid had taken him away from his godfather and allowed said godfather to run off and try to murder Pettigrew.
So, what, was he supposed to be angry at everyone and everything? At the wizarding world for screwing him over so thoroughly with every year he spent at Hogwarts through his childhood?
No, that was dumb. Counterproductive.
What was productive was living well.
He had a godson– orphaned by the same war that took so many people he knew and loved. He could do better, showing his godson affection, kindness, compassion, never raising a hand or voice in anger, and being the sort of father he’d always wished he’d had as a child, but had never received. It was the only productive way to rise above it.
He would build himself a home– a cozy place that embraced magic part and parcel.
Surprisingly enough, he found himself considering farming of all things. He liked the idea of cultivating magical crops and animals and having a large parcel of land away it all. It wasn’t as if being far away would making him isolated. With the Floo Network and apparition, he was merely moments in time away from London, or Hogsmeade, or St. Ottery Catchpole.
He’d stop letting other people define who he was. He wasn’t a freak or worthless or someone who had to always be the hero. He could rest on his laurels and just be Harry Potter. Whatever that meant. A farmer, perhaps– a teacher, even…
He had once dreamed of being an Auror, but months in the Forest of Dean and fighting for his life amidst rubble and the corpses of his friends had disabused him of that notion. He wanted– and would make for himself, a peaceful life.