title: salubrious

pairing: [eventual] harry/ginny

an: I was going to wait til tomorrow to post this, but... why not? Thanks to anyone reading this and please feel free to drop a review if you so feel inclined.

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salubrious

It is not quiet this time, this time there's the muffled murmur of soft voices as his green eyes flutter open.

It is still dark in the rectangle enclosed by the velvet hangings. Once again he wonders what time it is. Perhaps this will be a reoccurring theme for the rest of his life. Perhaps after so much time on the run, he has lost his internal clock.

For the first time, he contemplates who else would be staying in the dormitory. Neville? Ron? The other boys from his grade? Or are they all staying with their families?

It makes sense that he is here, then. Because though he has people that love him, he does not have blood family. It's true that the Weasley's are the closest thing he has, but he is still an outsider. He only has seven, not seventeen, years.

And his father's likeness with his mother's eyes.

The voices start again and with his sleepiness dispelled, he can tell who it is. He isn't surprised to hear Hermione's logical yet soothing tone answering a more distraught Ron's. After spending every minute with each other for nearly a year, it must have seemed inherently wrong for Hermione to be in the girl's dormitory, alone.

Guilt—an emotion he's all familiar with—sweeps through him. They can only be talking about the war. His mind immediately jumps to Fred, which immediately triggers more pain, but he tries to convince himself it could be about something else.

He can't decide if that would make him feel better.

Suddenly, he seems very much alone. It is true that he appreciates the quiet and tranquility of solitude, of not having to answer admirers and reporters who think he did so much more than he did, that it was more than circumstance, coincidence, and chance, but he is alone.

Is he lonely? For a brief moment, he wishes that someone was there, holding him together and comforting him as he can picture occurring outside the curtains. He pictures red hair—

But he's dealt with worse. He does not need to dump his troubles on others, when everyone has their own to deal with.

Harry feels torn. On one hand, he wants to go out there, to be with them, his best friends, who would understand….

A larger part of him wants to hide away from them.

They hadn't had time to discuss what had happened to him in the Pensieve, about his decisions afterwards, all of these emotional-heavy memories that suddenly start to drown him.

Would they understand? Could he handle their pain at their almost-loss, his almost loss? Could deal with Hermione's tears, Ron's gruff, choked threats that he should 'never do that again, you noble idiot'?

The memories alone pain him, and he doesn't want to have to relive them, hashing out details and what-exactly-was-in-the-memories' and what-did-it-feel-like's and you-saw-Dumbledore?'s.

It's too much.

So he waits, waits until the voices drop off and the room is filled with light snores.

His body creaks as he sits up.

He wonders what time it is.