There was a sort of discomfort in the dark.
Hands, feelers, like thin probes, snuck up around him; touching his back, his shoulders, creeping up and fluttering around his neck. Where was the light? Look for it - there, on, forward! He would grope the wall with searching fingers, lightswitch, lightswitch, where was the lightswitch? Ah - but he would forget he wasn't in any Muggle country now, then.
"Harry?" Ron would say, coming in with a wide grin stretched across a freckled face, all lit up with the strange shadows (and stranger light) of a Nox. "Harry, what are you doing?"
He'd remember his wand, and cast the charm - then remember to answer: "Fine, nothing, just looking for my quill."
Or something of the sort, anyways.
Ron would lead him down the stairs - maybe not smiling now, then - and buy the excuse. He'd always buy it. Or pretend to, anyway. Harry couldn't tell anymore what people were pretending or why or - or the what or the when...
He doesn't much remember much about those days (weeks, months?) except for the dark and being led out of it - always by Ron, by Dean, by Seamus and Neville - by Hermione, by Ginny.
He couldn't remember the faces so much as the words, though with no face to go with they, too, slipped away to mere thoughts, concepts, and then nothing.
He'd take unsure steps into the dark and bump into the others, then, now, what time is - was - it? So many questions, and it'd take too long for an answer, anyway. Now and then and later were all one and are all the same. He couldn't be bothered to find what makes them different, besides maybe the small nick in his head that would say he'd been getting worse. He'd been getting better.
Months would pass, months and months and, was that a year? - a year, then, passes, but no one takes notice. They'd all mark the days by the men and woman and children that fall into the ground and were buried.
Ginny walks forward with a sort of grace and poise and not-quite stiffness. She is still and sharp, a collection of straight lines brought together into something beautiful. She is like a sculpture, with harsh lines that make something nice to look at.
Her fingers search until the find him, and curl around his hand. He remember where he was in the dark again, and he shivers. He mourns, but for what, he isn't sure. It was too many things to count.
"Sit down," Molly told him, so he did. There was a calm with her and with him, then, now, and he could hear the clock tick.
Time is was will pass. He would heal, with sharp fingers wrapped around his. Two broken flowers can grow into one. What is this, now, then? He'll stop looking for answers. It's easier with no poison in his head.
I... don't really think I know what... this... is. I guess the only thing I have to say is that, yes, I do know that I switch tenses multiple times here. That was on purpose. Erm, review please!