Harry sometimes wonders why he can't just forget. He wakes up, in the dead of night, sheets in hot tangles at his knees, and wishes it could all have been a dream. He sees the room, the steps, the arch. It's clear and etched into his mind, a constant reminder of a terrible price.
He wishes he could shut his eyes until the colors erupt against blackness. Until he's enveloped in the dark and nothing can reach him. He wishes he didn't care so much.
His fingers scratch at the sheets. His breath comes in sobs. He sees against his eyelids, closed in slanting moonlight, the handsome face, alight in surprise, still and unmoving. All of time enclosed in that one moment. He wonders why he couldn't have stopped it. When the anger leaves him, bitter, empty and broken, he wonders why he won't let himself forget.