Harry looked down upon the white marble tomb, and, for the first time, he doubted whether he should be the one to do this. The sun hung high above him, and he knew that when he opened the tomb he wouldn't be able to avoid what lay inside.

He grimaced, and with a wave of the elder wand, opened Dumbledore's tomb.

Voldemort hadn't lied: he had taken it from Dumbledore's decaying remains. Once a powerful wizard – a great friend, now lay in his grave, rotting and withered.

Harry wanted to look away, but even if he had, he would still have been able to smell what lay inside. With a grimace, he leant in and gently closed Dumbledore's cold hands around his wand. His eyes were shut, Harry noticed.

With a shudder, he closed the tomb, wiping his hands down on his robe. He didn't cry: he'd seen Dumbledore only hours ago, even if it was inside his head. He knew that there was no reason to mourn the long deceased: there were recent tragedies for that.

Tragedies that were my fault.

He didn't bother arguing with himself: he knew that the others would do that for him. But he'd made up his mind, he knew that they died because he was too cowardly to face Voldemort earlier; too weak to finish it all sooner.

(*)

Most people had left the hall by the time he had returned. The bodies had been moved to respectable places: he knew that in the days to follow there would be a lot of funerals. He wondered where the funerals would be. At Hogwarts, he hoped. It was the least the school could do to honour those who had fallen in its name. And the people that remained would not have far to go. Even if they had nearly all left.

There were still a few though, and he wished that they weren't there, but he supposed that they had waited for him: to make sure he was alright. In a way, he appreciated it, but it made him feel as if he still had to crane his neck to look up to these people.

"Harry," Molly Weasley said, her voice hoarse and eyes wet. Her husband turned his head to look at Harry and he noticed that Arthur had been crying. Harry embraced Mrs Weasley, and her arms were tight around him. He didn't want to let go, but the longer they held one another, the longer the guilt grew inside of him. It was his fault Fred had died, his fault that they no longer had a son.

"Go to bed, Harry," Mr Weasley said, his eyes bruised and misty as he looked over his wife's shoulder. Mrs Weasley released Harry and smiled at him weakly. He nodded, and turned, walking from the hall. As he was ascending the stairs towards Gryffindor tower, he had to hop over missing steps, careful not to stumble lest he fall. The Fat Lady swung forwards without a word when she saw him, and he climbed inside.

At first, it looked like the common room had been left untouched: until he looked to the window, shattered, the shards of glass littered across the floor, the common room that had once been a centre for parties, seasonal festivities, and even angst-driven confrontations.

"Reparo." Harry muttered. It was the first spell he had cast with his wand.

As soon as Harry reached his bed, he fell into a deep sleep, full of horror and nightmares he couldn't bear to face in his waking hours.

3rd May, 1998

Harry awoke to find Ginny straddling him, smiling despite her bruises, cuts, and tired eyes. Harry blinked slowly, reaching up and rubbing his eyes before he stretched, reaching for his glasses on his bedside table and pulling them on. Able to distinguish Ginny more clearly now, he was reminded of just how beautiful she was once more, and the physical remnants of the battle only made her more so in Harry's eyes.

"Morning," Harry yawned, wincing as he came to the realization that every part of his body was aching.

"Morning," Ginny said as she leant forward and kissed him. Harry returned the kiss, moving his hands up to slide along her back and sides. It was the first time that they had kissed since Harry had left the Burrow, a time that seemed to have been years, rather than months ago. It reminded him of the times they had spent in his sixth year. It reminded him of being normal.

Harry wished the moment would never end, but it did: however, Ginny did not move to let him up.

"Listen, Harry – on your birthday I wasn't planning to be interrupted," she started before Harry cut her off.

"I know. You don't need to say. It annoyed me too." Harry tried to grin at her, but even he could tell it came off a bit weak: he was still sore. Ginny kissed him again anyway. He felt nervous, but his hand slid down her back anyway. Something felt wrong – felt off, though.

The door to the room burst open, and Ron swore loudly. They broke the kiss off, looking to the door just as Hermione pulled it shut: the sounds of her berating reached both Ginny and Harry. They looked at each other again, and he could see the frustration in Ginny's warm eyes. He could see the doubt in his reflection.

"Every time, they ruin the moment," Harry muttered to himself. Ginny sighed, and climbed off the bed.

"Come on, go get ready, I'll go wait downstairs with them."

(*)

Harry stumbled his way downstairs, swearing and cursing with each step. His legs felt worse even than they had the day after his first quidditch match. He'd gotten Fred and George to carry him down on that day, even though Wood had told them not to help, that it would make him stronger if they didn't. Fred and George never cared for rules, even Oliver's. He emerged into the common room smiling, and the three of them turned to stare at him oddly.

"What's gotten you so happy?" Ginny said, "You were cursing these two's names only a few minutes ago."

"Just a memory," Harry said, stopping himself before he mentioned Fred's name. Looking at Ginny and Ron, he was sobered, "What are we doing now?"

"Well, um," Hermione started, "we were planning on going down to the Great Hall. Have breakfast-"

"Breakfast?" Harry asked suddenly, glancing towards the perfect window. The sun was rising.

Ron snorted, "You've been asleep a long time, mate."

"Where did you sleep, anyway?" Harry asked, and Ginny smirked. Hermione blushed, and Ron looked away, "Nevermind, I don't want to know."

Ginny stood up, took Harry's hand - much to Ron's chagrin - and lead him down towards the great hall. Harry was glad for her hand: he would have run, otherwise, tried to escape the families who had been torn apart so early. There were a few tables set up, and even fewer people sat at them, but Harry could clearly see the group of redheads sat nearest the door.

"Harry, dear," Mrs Weasley said, a shaky smile upon her plump face. He didn't miss how her eyes flickered away from his momentarily, or how they fixed upon his and Ginny's entwined hand after: he didn't know what she was thinking and not for the first time in his life, Harry wished he were a legilimens.

"Uh, Kreacher?" Harry asked as he sat down between Ginny and Hermione. There was a loud crack, and Kreacher's crooked form appeared behind Harry.

"Yes, master?" Kreacher croaked: he had cuts on his head and one nasty welt in particular on the left of his face.

"If you wouldn't mind, Kreacher, could you cook me some breakfast?" Harry said, glancing at Hermione, "If you're able, that is." Hermione smiled at him.

Kreacher nodded. "Anything, for the young master." Harry looked away, and listened to what the rest of them were saying. He didn't particularly want to think about Kreacher, he could still remember their botched escape from the Ministry, and he felt guilty enough as it was.

"What's happening with the Ministry, Percy?" Hermione asked. Ron groaned, his eyes downcast to the table.

"Nobody has any idea, but Kingsley went back as soon as the fight was finished. He's going to try to put it in order, I believe," Percy said wearily, fiddling with his glasses as he spoke. Harry didn't find himself all that surprised: Kingsley had always had a talent for diffusing situations. As he thought back, Harry even recalled that he had guarded the Prime Minister, and thought it fitting.

"Oh. Well that's going to help, I bet."

It felt strange, listening to the mundane conversation around the table: despite the loss they had suffered, the world still turned, it still went on. Despite his defeat of Voldemort, life didn't stop.

Despite his death, he still lived.

He was grateful when Kreacher arrived bearing breakfast – not just for himself – but for everyone. It gave him something to busy himself with, so that he couldn't be lost in thought.

"You know, I've grown very fond of that elf," Ron muttered after he had finished his second helping. Hermione beamed, and Ginny rolled her eyes.

"I think you'd be fond of anything that fed you. When are we heading back to the burrow?"

"As soon as everyone's ready, dear," Mrs Weasley told her daughter.

"I'm ready," Harry said quietly. Everyone looked up: mixed expressions of concern, pride, and confusion upon their faces. I should have paid more attention with Snape, Harry thought (again, not for the first time). A brief, random thought flitted through his mind: would he need to learn legilimency as an Auror?

It wasn't long afterwards that they all left for the Burrow.

(*)

"Home," Mrs Weasley said as she brusquely strode into the house. The family followed: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Percy, even Bill, Charlie and Fleur. Last, was George, guided by his father's hand upon his back. Harry took care not to stare too much. He couldn't understand how it felt for George, he and Fred were closer than life, and what's worse was that his reflection, the same as his brother's was on every glass surface in the house.

"So, ah, Harry, I'll set up the bed in Ron's room and you can-"

"Uh, mum," Ginny interrupted, "I was thinking that Ron could stay in my room? Hermione can stay with Ron," she added on. Mrs Weasley blinked rapidly, as still as a statue for a moment. Her eyes glanced to Harry and his hand, then back to Ginny.

"Ah, well, I suppose they can, dear, Harry, if that's alright with you?" she asked weakly.

"Oh!" Harry said, still staring at Ginny, "yeah, that'd be fine with me."

"And you, Hermione?" Mrs Weasley asked, almost desperately, turning towards her.

"Yes, I think that's fine." Hermione smiled guiltily towards Mrs Weasley who merely nodded.

"Well, oh, I'll sort that out then, and-"

"Could they be double beds, mum?" Ginny asked, turning her head away from her mother. Mrs Weasley nodded, and headed off without another word, but Harry didn't miss her backwards glance over her shoulder. Harry's cheeks felt so hot that he was certain he could cook an egg on them: and Ron's ears looked redder than the Gryffindor colours.

"So, uh, you two are…?" Harry asked, coughing into a fist as he glanced quickly up at them and then back down.

"Ahem, well," Hermione started as Ron's eyes bored holes into the floor, "we- well, yes."

"Right." Harry didn't know what else to say, and the room fell silent.

Once Mrs Weasley had returned, she told them that dinner would be ready in a couple of hours, and Harry was left wondering what to do. In the past, he had always either hid away with Ron, played quidditch with the Weasley twins – his gut churned – or helped Mrs Weasley out in the kitchen, cutting vegetables and peeling potatoes.

"Is there anything I can do, Mrs Weasley?"

"No dear: just go and get some rest." She said as she busied herself with cooking their dinner.

Harry frowned, and watched as Ginny headed out into the garden with Hermione while Ron went and sat down with George and Mr Weasley. He stood there, uncertain of who to go to; on one hand, he wanted to comfort the three of them, but he couldn't rid himself of the fear that they blamed him. With a long, drawn out sigh, he turned around and headed outside into the garden to follow Ginny and Hermione.

(*)

"Does it hurt much, Ginny?" Hermione asked, gingerly touching one of the bruises on the side of Ginny's face as Harry sat down beside his girlfriend, moving a hand and holding her with one arm.

"Ouch."

"Hm, maybe if I get you some ointment, it'll help you heal," Hermione said, her hand stroking her chin. "Maybe Murtlap essence?"

"Didn't you use that on my hand?" Harry asked as he sat down next to Ginny, "Because that did help."

Hermione nodded, "It's quite simple to make, and besides, I think that Fred and- oh." Hermione stopped herself, and Ginny's eyes watered. "It feels wrong, to just… say one."

Harry clenched his jaw.

"I know," Ginny said, "it just feels wrong." Her face was hidden by flaming red hair, head dipped. It discomforted Harry to be unable to see her face, for her not to hold her usual tough persona up. He had only seen – heard – her crying once before, and even that was only a suspicion. Harry put an arm around her waist and she leant her head onto his shoulder.

"Should we go inside?" Hermione asked. Harry shook his head, and looked around: the parallel benches they were sat on gave them a great view of the Weasley's garden, complete with a gnome peeking out of a nearby bush. Harry was reminded of when he and the Weasley family had thrown them over the fence.

"I don't want to be inside. I just feel, useless," Harry said, looking away from Hermione for a moment afterwards. Looking back towards Hermione, he saw her face: she looked sad, and concerned. For a brief moment, Harry wondered why; and he cursed internally as he realized what was coming. They always do this, he thought.

"It's not your fault Harry," she said and Ginny sat upright, turning towards him.

"You say that but-"

Ginny cut over him, "Harry, it isn't. None of it is."

Harry shook his head: they didn't understand, "You don't get it. You don't know what happened."

"What happened, then, Harry?" Ginny started, defiant, "Everyone saw you, held – held-" Ginny's voice broke, and she hugged him: even Hermione's eyes had turned watery. "We saw you, in Hagrid's arms, Harry," she whispered. "You couldn't have known that you'd survive his killing curse again- what, Harry?" she asked as his face turned stony. They are so wrong, he thought; he hadn't survived, that was what made it hard.

"I'll- I'm not ready to say it, just yet, Ginny," he said, suddenly feeling as if the weight of the sky above was pressing down on his shoulders. It was strange, he wanted to scream and shout, to roar and tear his own heart out. However, when he was given the chance he shied away. It felt unusual, and it only incensed Harry more. "I don't-"

Her face hardened, "Then you'd best get ready. You did nothing wrong, Harry."

Harry said nothing more, but his arm tightened around Ginny's waist and she returned to resting her head on his shoulder. Hermione sighed slightly, looking at them both. "Harry, you know, we really need to see about getting that hair cut now we're back," she said, fiddling with her wand idly.

"Yeah. I'll ask Mrs Weasley to do it tomorrow," he said. He felt cathartic, drained.

(*)

They ate the dinner in relative silence, and it made Harry's throat feel tight. Never before had a dinner at the Burrow been like this. He took the opportunity to look at the clock on the wall, and studied it's hands. They were all at home, apart from Fred, who was travelling. A chill went down Harry's spine, and his throat felt as if it were being squeezed, trapped staring at Fred's face on the clock. He was glad when Mr Weasley broke the silence and Harry was able to tear his gaze away.

"Ah, Harry, have you thought yet about what you're going to do now?"

"Um, what do you mean, Mr Weasley?"

"Well, I was thinking – and do correct me if I'm wrong – that you wanted to become an auror," Arthur took a sip from his glass, "Is that still your ambition?"

Harry paused: it was a good question. What did he want to do? He still wanted to become an auror, but he had just spent a year of his life hunting down horcruxes. He had just been involved in, no, been the centrepiece of one of the greatest battles in magical history. "I think it'd be nice to take a short break first," Harry said.

Ron looked at him, and nodded, mouthful of food. "We deserve a break," he said after swallowing. "Besides, we're famous enough now we'll never have to work again, eh?"

"George, what are you going to do about the shop?" Ginny asked quietly, and George looked up for the first time in the meal: his eyes were bright red, and his face was bruised and cut more than anyone else. He shrugged, and looked down again. Harry wanted to say something, but, as he frequently found nowadays, his throat was too dry.

"I don't know." George's voice was weak, uncertain, and shook with each syllable.

Ron spoke up first, "I could help out, you know? With the shop."

"You don't have to, it's alright-"

"No, I'll help out, mate," Ron interrupted his brother. George didn't say anything for a long moment.

"Thanks," he muttered, finally.

Ron didn't say anything, and just returned to stuffing his face. The dinner was quiet again after that, Harry noted, and he realized that the Weasleys too were recovering. He wondered how long it'd take them to recover – if they would recover. Harry pushed his plate forwards, "Thank you, Mrs Weasley: I'm full. I'll head to bed, if that's alright?"

Mrs Weasley nodded, and Ginny stood up with him, "I'll show you the way, Harry," she said, leading him by his hand. Her room was on the first floor, and Harry was acutely aware of the fact that there were several sets of eyes on him as he was lead into her room. When they entered, Harry shut the door behind them: her room had not changed much, it was still littered with posters of the Weird Sisters and Ginny's favourite team, the Hollyhead Harpies. Where Ginny's bed once was, was what appeared to be a new double bed (although Harry suspected Mrs Weasley just cast a few charms on her original bed).

"So, we can get Hermione to get your stuff out of her bag and put in here," Ginny commented idly as she sat on the end of the bed looking at Harry, who felt almost perturbed by her gaze.

"Yeah, uh, do you think George will be alright?" Harry asked, and Ginny stiffened for a moment before relaxing again.

"I'm not sure. It'll help having Ron with him at the shop though."

Harry nodded: his mouth was dry, and he didn't know what he should do next. Ginny slowly slipped out of her top in front of him, and Harry's breath caught in his throat. Her skin was light, almost pale, and freckled, and her body was lithe and feminine. She was beautiful.

"Harry…" she said, looking at him, and Harry struggled to tear his eyes away to her face.

"Ginny – I'm – can we wait a little longer? It's not you, I just feel…"

Ginny nodded, "It's fine. I understand – but don't you wait too long on me."

"I won't," Harry promised.