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Harry's life hadn't always been like this. He hadn't always been the bitter, disillusioned mean old man across the road. He watched, silent as a mouse, as Ron and Hermione's grandchildren played outside, screaming in childish joy.
It was a cold morning in spring that day, the day that his world had shattered. Evidently, the pieces had never been picked up, and they had certainly not been put back together. The day that everyone would celebrate, ignoring how so many people- both good and bad- had died before then. He supposed he was lucky that Ginny wasn't dead. Perhaps it was worse.
People threw curses, Death Eaters and members of the Order alike, their aims to maim as many people as possible. Maybe, on Voldemort's side, they believed they were doing the right thing. Maybe they just took pleasure in destroying lives. Either way, it didn't matter. They were on opposing sides, after all. He had been too busy blocking a Confunding Charm from one of the Death Eaters- a blonde woman- Greengrass, they'd called her, to see the bright purple light that people said had shot at Ginny.
Later on that day, Ron and Hermione had come and brought him to Saint Mungo's, he'd been taken to Room 503, and he had seen Ginny. Ginny, lying on a spotless white bed, her skin a pale blue. She was cold to the touch- like a statue.
The nurses at Saint Mungo's had studied her, instead of doing their jobs and trying to help her.
He'd repeated that same routine, when everybody else had lost hope, when everybody else had moved on. Eventually, Ron and Hermione moved in across the road from him, had two children- Hugo and Rose- and those two children had then had children. It would be an understatement to say that Mrs Weasley had been ecstatic when Hugo and Rose had settled down with their partners and begun to raise children of their own.
Every damned Sunday, the children (he couldn't bring himself to care enough to learn their names) visited Ron and Hermione. Yet here he was, alone as he had been before Hogwarts, visiting an old childhood sweetheart who- while her body still continued to age- would probably never wake up. Here he was, despised by the ignorant children who still played happily, even on days when people should have been paying their respects.
He put on his coat, picked up his wand (he could still never be too sure who he might meet, after all) and keys, opened his door and walked outside. Purposefully ignoring the glances Ron and Hermione's grandchildren were sending his way, Harry made his way to The Two Hags- both for a meal and for the Floo network.
"Bit early for a drink, don't you think, Harry?" Will called out, pulling a pint of beer.
"Not today, Will. Just a plate of bacon, eggs and chips for me, today."
Will raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's a first. You rarely have a meal here without a drink." Obviously realising the other reason Harry was here, Will stepped back, his eyes widened. "Sorry, Harry, forgot it was a Sunday. So, you'll be here for the Floo as well?"
"Smart boy." Harry smirked. It was rare for Will to not know something these days. He supposed that having a barkeep for a father, and after wiping down tables and pulling pints for nearly one year, you had to have learned something. In Will's case, it was how to read people and their actions based on what you already knew.
Will puffed his chest out proudly, but just as quickly as he'd grinned, he scowled. "Oi, I'm a smart man." Will was a proud boy, only nineteen years old. Harry had met him eleven years ago, back when he was just a boy, eager to help his father with anything he could.
"You'll always be a child to me, Will, there's no escaping it." Harry said.
"Yeah, but that's because you're an old man!" Will retorted, not entirely falsely.
"I'm only fifty-three."
"Exactly- old man."
"Well, I'm hardly the age Dumbledore was!" Harry said, beginning to get defensive.
"I'd be surprised if you were one hundred-odd, you only look forty," Will laughed. "But then again, Dumbledore looked older than he was- it only makes sense that his unofficial protégé would look younger than he is."
Harry sighed. "I give up."
Will smirked. "Alright, one plate of eggs, bacon and chips coming up!"
"Good luck, Harry!" Will said as Harry picked up a pinch of Floo powder.
"Goodbye, Will."
"Don't miss me too much!" Harry didn't stay long enough to see the grin that was- without a doubt- plastered on Will's face. The fact that he found the most solace in a boy who knew nothing of him other than his name, that he knew Dumbledore when he was alive, and the fact that he drank a lot said something.
He fell out of the Floo (he'd never grown out of that, sadly), onto the pristine white floors of Saint Mungo's. "Hello, Mr Potter! Room 503 like usual?"
Picking himself up, he sighed. "Yes."
"Well, I think you'll be in for a surprise today," the receptionist said, terrifying him. "Off you go." The receptionist flicked her hand at him dismissively.
Thoughts rushed through his head. What if Ginny was dead? What if those damned nurses had experimented on her? Had somebody taken her?
Shaking his head, Harry walked on. He couldn't think so negatively. Maybe she had woken up, maybe she'd begun to...thaw out, in a sense.
He walked up the stairs until he had finally reached the fifth floor. This was it. Mentally preparing himself, he put his hand on the doorknob, twisted it and opened the door.
Ginny's bed was empty. "No," he muttered. "No, no, no!" Somebody must have taken her. The bathroom door opened, and out walked Ginny. Her eyes widened.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Gin? It's me, Harry." He was beginning to get worried. "Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One..."
Ginny looked puzzled."I'm sorry, I don't know any Harry Potter." He froze.
Saint Mungo's security had escorted him out that night, as Ginny had called them, saying that there was a man she didn't know and she didn't feel safe. He stared into his glass of Firewhisky, ignoring Will's worried whispers to his father Mark.
He should have paid attention to Will's whispering; soon after, Mark snatched the glass from his hand. "I think that's enough for you tonight, Harry. Go home and rest."
"But..." he managed to say, slurring his words (well, word).
"No buts, out. I mean it. You've had five glasses today- nearly a quarter of an entire bottle of Firewhisky from the sixties, stuff that isn't even sold anymore because of how strong it was, and if I hadn't stopped you, you wouldn't have stopped at the fiftieth glass."
Harry grimaced and looked at the floor, too ashamed of himself to look Mark in the eyes. "Alright."
Mark shook his head. "I'll Side-Along you home."
Harry scowled, slurring his words again. "I'm not a child, I can be trusted to bloody go home!"
Mark clicked his tongue. "Not when you've had five glasses of Ogden's, you can't. You haven't gone home before, for weaker drinks than what you've had today."
Mark grabbed his hand. "Oi!" The room became a blur of spinning colours, before his eyes focused and the cosy little bar quickly changed into his dreary, spacious living room.
He was shoved onto his sofa and, too tired to shout at Mark, fell asleep there. That night, he dreamed. He was fifteen again, Sirius was alive, and Ginny still remembered him. All around, it was a nice dream. If only it could have been reality.