Harry closed the door behind him carefully - he didn't want to disturb anyone in case they were napping.
He hung up his brown wool coat. His wife Ginny knitted it for him a couple years back as a birthday present. He's worn it to work everyday since.
Harry sensed something was wrong.
"Ah!" he inhaled sharply.
Rubbing the scar on his forehead, Harry slipped out of his shoes. He took a seat on the nearest chair. It had been a long day at work. Surely, Harry thought, I'm just tired. It's just a headache.
He hummed to himself as he gathered enough energy to head over to the couch.
Harry smiled at the framed picture of Lily and James dancing together. They looked so overjoyed, so happy to just be in the presence of the other. James looked at Lily as though he did not fear death, that the moments they had together on this world were so precious - they were to be appreciated and not tainted by fears of the war between good and bad surrounding them. And likewise.
They gave up their lives for his on that fateful night, and he would be eternally grateful.
He turned on the Muggle television set to relieve himself of his thoughts. Jim McGuffin was still the weatherman after all these years, looking so different yet still very much the same.
Memories of the deaths caused by the struggles between light and dark flashed before Harry's eyes. Sirius. Remus. Tonks. Fred. Dumbledore. Snape. Moody. Dobby. Cedric. James. Lily.
Harry woke from his stupor. He smelt something burning from the kitchen. He gulped. Pain seared across his forehead. "Ginny! Are you cooking something?"
He suddenly wasn't very hungry. The burning filled his mind.
The Burrow. Bellatrix Lestrange. Sirius.
"Yes, Harry! Stew!" she shouted from upstairs. "Would you be a dear and go check on it for me? Then come up here, honey." Ginny giggled.
He walked over to the stove and lifted the cover. The stew, mixed with chunks of burnt meat and vegetables, was bubbling and overflowed. "Holy shit." He turned off the stove. All was now right with the world.
The End.