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Harry stood alone in the middle of the forbidden forest, the resurrection stone in his hand. It was surprisingly cool no matter how long he held it, and the smooth surface spun in his hand with no resistance. Almost with surprise, he raised his head to see his parents, Sirius, and Remus. He reached out to them, and they to him, but they could never quite touch. His mother's pale fingertips faded away as they came close to his, as though the warmth from his living body was driving her away—making her evaporate like fog in morning sunlight.
"Does it hurt? " He heard himself asking, his voice somewhere very far away. Sirius opened his mouth to answer, but a high papery rasp came out instead.
“Harry Potter,” it whispered behind him. The forms of his family vanished into mist and the stone fell from his hand as the world spun around him. He was wrenched to face Lord Voldemort, his feet frozen in place. “The Boy Who Lived....” He barely had time to see the pale, long-fingered hand raise the Elder Wand before there was a blinding flash of green and the horrible, abject, terrible blankness of death, of nothing, of the brief moment he spent wholly gone—
Harry woke with a strangled gasp, flinging himself upright in bed, clutching the center of his chest where the killing curse hit. The firey pain still radiated out from his heart, stabbing into his ribs while he tried to catch his breath and stop the tears leaking from his eyes. Dead people didn't feel pain. He wasn't dead, he was alive. His heaving lungs and wet face and throbbing chest were all proof of that. He let the fear seep out of him as his breathing slowly returned to normal, but the cold mist of the forest still clung to him. He hugged his knees to his chest and rested his forehead as he desperately tried to calm down. His morning routine.
“Harry?” He raised his head to see a bleary eyed Ron blinking in the sparse early-morning light and rubbing his eyes from his bed across the room. “Did you dream about...you know... it again?” Harry gave a nod and concentrated on the texture of his sheets.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. Ron gave a yawn.
“Wanna talk about it?” Harry shook his head.
“Sorry to wake you, Ron,” he apologized. Ron made a noise that was probably meant to be “no problem” caught in a massive yawn, then rolled back over and promptly began snoring.
Harry carefully crept out of bed and downstairs, still in his pajamas. As quietly as he could, he slipped out the back door and sat down on the steps. He rested his elbows on his knees and propped up his chin in his hands to watch the sunrise continue creeping over the horizon. His forced early mornings had become a ritual of peace that was relatively rare in the Weasley household.
The Burrow was finally beginning to feel not-so-empty anymore. For the first fortnight or so after the battle, the pressing weight of an empty bed in the twins’ room seemed to stifle all of the home’s inhabitants. The change came around the afternoon Harry suggested he move out and back into Grimmauld Place. Mrs. Weasley promptly dropped the basket of laundry she had been sorting and stuck her hands on her hips, frown directed at him.
“You’ll do no such thing,” she informed him. “Not until Kingsley clears it for you. That place was rife with Death Eaters for weeks!”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Harry protested weakly. “I mean...what’s the worst that could still be there?” Mrs. Weasley narrowed her eyes. “Okay...point taken,” he agreed reluctantly. “I just don’t—”
“Harry, if you say any such nonsense about being an imposition, I’ll have to spend hours talking some sense into you,” she interrupted. He shook his head.
“No, no, it’s not that. Although, you will let me know—”
“Harry,” she answered curtly. “You are not, nor will you ever be, an inconvenience.” He nodded and could feel his face growing hot.
“Yes, um, thank you...Erm…” he continued awkwardly. “It’s not that, really, it’s just...I feel like, well not really like , more so worried that, uh. Well you see—”
“Dear,” Mrs. Weasley stopped him gently. “Is this about Fred?” Harry rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably and glanced back at the clock. Since May 2nd, Fred’s hand had pointed to “lost.”
“It’s just that—” he tried to gather his thoughts. “Well, it’s just math, isn’t it? The number of people living in your house has stayed the same. I just...I just don’t want to seem like I’m, I dunno, it was my fault and now I'm—” Harry wasn’t allowed to finish his thought. Mrs. Weasley was too busy hugging him as fiercely as possible.
“Harry, dear,” she told him quietly. “It wasn't. You’ve been a part of our family for quite some time. Of course, I miss Fred dearly. We all do, but I’d rather not lose another son if I can keep him close.” Harry buried his face in her shoulder and took a shaky breath to steady himself.
“Alright,” he conceded a bit jokingly. “I guess you’re keeping me for a bit.” Mrs. Weasley chuckled, and with a pat on his back went back to her laundry.
After that, it felt to Harry that the heavy atmosphere had lifted a bit. Ron smiled a little more easily, and when George came to visit, his jokes came a bit less forced. But his nightmares had never stopped. Directly after the battle, Harry had been so exhausted that he slept like the dead for nearly a full day: dreaming of nothing and no one. Since then, he hadn’t been so lucky. Even now, weeks later, the events of that night plagued him. He nearly always made his journey into the forest, although on occasion he found himself with the dying soul of Voldemort in King’s Cross Station, or standing over a pile of bodies in the Great Hall, or—
He shook his head as his mind wandered into places he didn’t want it to go, and resumed his sunrise vigil of the countryside. The light slowly faded from grey into blue, and as the sun finally began to peek over the distant hills, the back door opened behind him. He resisted the urge to reach for his wand. A tired looking Ginny with a blanket over her shoulders and two cups of tea smiled down at him.
“You know, you should really get me first when you come out here,” Ginny told him, sitting down next to him on the step. She wrapped her blanket, which looked to be a heavy quilt from her bed, around his shoulders as well, and handed him one of the cups of tea before resting her head on his shoulder with a yawn. “It’s going to be your turn to be romantic soon.” Harry gave a little chuckle and wrapped his free hand around her waist, leaning into her.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he promised. They sat there for a while, content to rest and watch the light illuminate the hills around them until Ginny spoke.
“I still dream about him too, you know,” she said, quietly. “Not so much as when I was younger but…” Harry let out a shaky sigh.
“It’s just…” his fist was balled over his heart again. The unspoken words hung tense in the air. And besides, Ginny didn’t need to hear about his problems, not really. She had enough on her own plate. Her head lifted from his shoulder.
“Harry,” she said quietly. He looked down into her bright brown eyes, deeper than her seventeen years. “You can tell me.” He let a moment of silence pass, before releasing his clenched hand and placing it back on his mug of tea.
“Do you remember...I mean in the Chamber when I found you…” he searched for the right words. “Did you feel yourself dying?” He stared straight ahead, but could feel Ginny shake her head next to him.
“No, I didn’t even feel awake until Tom died,” she explained slowly. “I was just...empty.” Harry gave a quick nod, and tried to keep his eyes from watering.
“I just…” He tried to clear the sudden lump in his throat. “I know I haven’t really explained but—”
“You didn’t trick Voldemort into thinking he killed you, did you? Like they said you did,” she asked quietly. He waited a moment before responding.
“I can’t stop dreaming about it, Ginny,” he whispered. “I was there and alive and then I—” His grip on the mug tightened. “Gin, he killed me. I was dead I—I almost didn’t come back.” He still thought about that. What he would be doing now if he had chosen to go On? He flinched back a bit as Ginny hesitantly touched his chest, fingers barely making contact like she was scared she would break him. She drew back her hand as soon as he did.
“Does it hurt?” Ginny asked.
Like falling asleep, he wanted to say. He placed an open hand over his heart and rubbed.
“Not so much anymore,” he lied. It still ached from time to time, but a little less every day. “But when I—woke up, it felt like I’d been hit with a hippogriff.” Ginny gave a little chuckle at that.
“Well, for the record Potter, I’m glad you’re here.” She rested her head back on his shoulder, and he leaned on her in return while they watched the world wake up around them.