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A knock sounds on the cubicle wall, and it is all Harry can do to keep from whipping around with wand in hand. His fingers jerk of their own accord, but he manages to stay in his chair. In the dim light of the near-abandoned Auror Office, Harry can make out most of Kingsley Shacklebolt's expression. He doesn’t look pleased.
“I thought I told you to go hours ago.”
Harry forces his face to remain neutral and hopes Kingsley can’t see the trembling in his limbs. Feeling a bit jumbled, he tries to calculate how much sleep he’s got in the last few days. His mind comes up concernedly blank. “I will, I—”
(Truth be told, he would rather do anything else.)
The Weasleys have insisted he stay at the Burrow – the guilt is practically strangling him, but he can admit in his own head that he dreads going back there each night. To sit with the shame and grief when he cannot do anything. To feel like he is intruding.
To lie in bed and choke on it all until dawn.
“Harry,” says Kingsley. “It’s time to go home now.” Harry hesitates, and quietly he adds, “You’ve done enough.”