It Begins
He felt tired after the war. Not exactly happy, yet only ever an approximation of what sadness might feel like. Just tired, so, so tired. He could only take so many grateful thanks and beholden handshakes before the muscles in his face grew tight from the strain of keeping his smile from dipping. He wished only to retreat to the privacy of grimmauld place to mourn the many lives that had been plucked away far too early.
It had only been a handful of weeks since the battle, and yet, life carried on. It seemed strange, the way people were able to move on and get back to their lives, or rebuilding their lives, in many cases. There were funerals held and people mourned, holes left in the lives of loved ones that took the shape of sons and daughters and husbands and wives. There were few lives left unblemished by the tragedy of death. And yet, in the midst of loss and calamity there were new things sprouting up from the cracks like weeds from underneath pavement.
As the weeks had snuck by, reconstruction efforts and ministry sanctioned charity events making them blur together, Harry found himself forcing his thoughts towards anything but the empty spaces left by people in his life. He didn’t think about George, alone and melancholic in a cheerful shop built by two brilliant minds. He didn’t think about Remus, nor the child he had left behind in a situation that mirrored his own with sickening clarity. He didn’t think about Dobby, who had always done his best to keep Harry safe, even at the ultimate cost of his own life. He didn’t think of any of these things, nor many others, certainly not at night when he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the washed out corpses of people who should have lived long fulfilling lives.
Sometimes he wished he could just leave. He would give anything to get away; to be rid of the expectant eyes that followed his every move whenever he stepped out of his house. Maybe if it were just the looks he would be able to deal with it, but alas, he could never be that lucky. Every day it seemed as though there was a new rumour about him. Just this morning the Daily Prophet’s headline had proclaimed that he would be running for Minister of Magic this year.
Today was one of the rare occasions when he decided it was worth it to brave the eyes of the public. The reason? Mrs. Weasley had asked him to come over for dinner. It didn’t hurt that he had already been feeling guilty for turning down all other invitations over the past couple weeks. It was hardly his fault if he didn’t want to risk getting caught in conversation with his so-called fans. In all honesty, he didn’t even want to go to the Weasley house for dinner. What he wanted was time for himself, and there would be no getting that between Hermione nagging to go back to Hogwarts for eighth year and Ron trying to convince him to start auror training.
And so, that evening, as the sun was just preparing to dip below the horizon, he found himself at the door of the dilapidated house with his hand raised to knock. Before he could muster up the courage to set his fist against the door, it flew open, nearly knocking his glasses off.
“Oh! Harry, dead, I didn’t see you there. You’re not hurt are you?” Fretted Mrs. Weasley as she wrapped him in one of her all-encompassing hugs.
“I’m fine Mrs. Weasley, really. The door didn’t even graze me.” He reassured as he brought his own arms up in a loose mirror of the Weasley matriarch’s hug. It was nothing personal, Harry had just never been much of a hug person, or touch in general for that matter.
“None of that nonsense dear, you call me Molly, we’re practically family by now.” Mrs. Weasley chided gently as she pulled back, keeping her hands on his shoulders to get a good look at him.
“Look at you, far too thin. You go on ahead to the dining room and I’ll fetch the others.” She clicks her tongue as she announces. He nods wordlessly as he’s ushered through the house and gently pushed down into a seat near the middle of the comically large dining table. Soon enough he's joined by the other members of the Weasley family; first is Mr. Weasley, looking weary and tired, next is Ginny, followed by George, whose smile is only thinly plastered to his face. Ron comes in last with Hermione coming up behind him, leaving only Mrs. Weasley as she levitates plates full of food over to the table.
Dinner is fine; the food is as fantastic as it always is when Mrs. Weasley cooks and for the most part he’s spared from the small talk and banter, stilted as they talk around the person shaped empty spaces. He does wind up excusing himself from the table early in favour of going to sit outside when he starts to feel sick to his stomach watching George’s heartbroken look as he starts a joke only to realize no one is there to chime in with the punchline.
He’s joined by Ron and Hermione a few moments later, their pitying looks almost enough to make him get up and leave then and there. They settle on the grass near him, where he himself is sprawled out with one arm slung across his face to shield his eyes from the sun. For a while none of them speak, whether it's because they are content to let the air between them remain empty or caused by none of them quite knowing what to say or if it's a mix of both is a question with no answer.
“Harry, mate, we’re worried about you. You haven’t been yourself lately.” Surprisingly, it’s Ron who breaks the silence, the words a bit stilted. He almost decides not to respond, agitated that they seemingly expect him to go back to normal after everything they went through. He takes a steadying breath, about to respond, when Hermione chimes in.
“You should come back to Hogwarts, being in the castle always makes you feel better.” She asserts before adding on “And that way you can make up for seventh year.” Somehow he knew she was going to try her hand at convincing him to finish their NEWTs year.
“I’m just tired, guys. All I want to do is rest.” He doesn’t dare voice how he can still hear the screams every time he sees the castle he once called home. Hermione looks ready to launch into another lecture on the importance of a proper education, halted only by Ron interjecting.
“You should lay off him Hermione, I think we all just need some time after the war, Just-” He hesitates her, his face softening “-Keep in touch.” It’s… surprisingly mature for Ron. The finality of the statement seized his throat and kept him from responding as they settled back into their not-quite-comfortable silence. Suddenly his heart felt too heavy and his eyes stung with tears that would never fall
That evening, he learns that ‘keep in touch’ can sound a lot like ‘goodbye’.