He'd known there would be funerals.
That was what he kept telling himself as Ron, Hermione, Ginny, everyone, all piled into the kitchen of Grimmauld Place after standing out in the drizzle for three hours. He'd known, because there had just been so many dead, and yet it hadn't really hit him until he was there, watching Andromeda Tonks put her daughter and her son-in-law into the ground, a wailing Teddy in her arms.
Ginny was murmuring something into his ear, then stepping away to stand with the rest of the Weasleys where they were gathered at one end of the table. Hermione was standing alone against the wall, pale, eyes wide. Luna was somewhere, unseen but certainly present, since Harry could hear her humming.
More people were spilling out of the Floo. Order members, Aurors, more friends, more people he couldn't look at, let alone talk to. He mumbled something to whoever was standing next to him—he didn't even know what he said, or who they were, but he was shortly slipping through the crowd and letting his feet take him away, upstairs, to blessed silence.
He found himself sitting on the bed in Regulus's room on the top floor, hands splayed out to either side on the emerald blankets.
"This is what you fought for," he whispered, possibly to himself, possibly to the memory of the boy who had once slept in this very bed. "You wanted this."
It would only be a matter of time before someone found him up here, he knew. It would likely be Hermione. She would see his need to get away, even if she might not understand it.
He didn't even understand it. Not really.
There was a stillness beneath everything, now. Despite all of the noise downstairs, it was still. Harry felt it inside of him, whether he was consciously trying to or not. It was as if everything had stopped, even while the world carried on around him.
The stillness had seemed to pause when he'd been at the funeral, surrounded by the torrent of everyone's grief.
He looked around at the room, wondering not for the first time if Regulus would be pleased with how things had turned out. Voldemort was dead, but so was the Black name. Voldemort was dead, but Regulus's death had been for nothing.
Time passed, as it always did, and some unknown time later Hermione's head popped into the room after a quiet knock.
"The last of us are heading out now, Harry," she said, still pale, still wide-eyed. "We'll see you—" she hesitated, blinking a few times "—tomorrow?"
Tomorrow. Another day, another funeral.
"Yeah. I'll be there."
Because strangely, at the funerals, it didn't feel like everything was dead.
The next funeral was Fred's. Mrs Weasley had wanted a small affair, apparently, but George knew his twin best, and remained firm on the point that he'd have wanted students, pranksters, and anyone else who knew how to laugh to attend. He'd have wanted there to be jokes, and fireworks, and trick sweets, and anything but sadness.
And so, as the unseasonal chill in the air whipped around them in the morning winds, there was laughter, thinly draped over the torrent of grief like a shroud.
The stillness paused, again, and Harry felt like he could breathe.
The next one after that was a muggle affair, and Dennis Creevey had been insistent that Harry attend, since Colin would have wanted him there. And despite the fact that the gathering was almost entirely strangers, and there was no magic present, it too made the stillness abate.
Even Snape's funeral, attended only by Harry, Ron, Hermione, and McGonagall, gave him a brief moment of relief from that stillness.
Eventually though, the funerals ran out.
So Harry chased after something, though he didn't know what, by accepting Kingsley's invitation to help round up the Death Eaters. He spoke at some trials, helping to ensure justice was served. He faced the ire of the goblins of Gringotts. He helped Andromeda with Teddy, as much as he knew how. He met up with Dudley, to see if it was possible to have a conversation with his cousin as adults and not as childhood victim and bully.
The stillness remained.
He visited Hogsmeade when students had their weekends there, to try to rekindle something, anything, with Ginny. He worked on restoring Grimmauld Place, at times with Kreacher's help, at others not. He flew, and took his broom on an aimless trip around the Hebrides, a tiny part of him wondering if he'd see a Hebridean Black, but mostly just hoping to escape the stillness.
Somehow, without realising it, five years had passed since Voldemort's defeat and Hermione and Ron were getting married.
He was at some pub he didn't know the name of in muggle London with Ron when he found out.
"Can you repeat that?" he asked, squinting, thinking that surely one pint shouldn't have him this out of it.
"My best man! Mione will probably want you to be hers, but she can't have you if I ask you first," Ron said sagely, before finishing off what was left in his glass.
Harry blinked, and was pretty sure that he was frowning. "Best man?"
"Mate, you feeling all right?" Ron asked, looking concerned.
No, he wasn't feeling all right. He knew that. He'd known it for years at this point. But instead of saying that he smiled weakly and said, "Yeah, yeah I'm fine. Wow. Best man?"
"Of course, you daft git!" his friend exclaimed with a giant grin. "You're my best mate! Of course you'll be my best man."
And so Harry was Ron's best man. And even though he somehow got lost again along the way, and didn't set up the stag do, or really do anything else he was supposed to, and honestly why did Ron just assume Harry knew how muggle wedding customs worked because if Hermione had wanted him to 'do the telegrams' she should have probably just done it herself, but then suddenly it was their wedding, and they were married.
Harry and Ginny danced that night. He didn't step on her toes. She even kissed him.
And then somehow he and Ginny were together again. He didn't really know how it happened, just like he didn't really know how he was a Senior Auror these days, but as with everything else he was just going along with it. Because maybe if he went along with it long enough it would feel real. Maybe that horrible stillness would go away.
But it didn't. It was always there. Even late at night, when the lights were out and their clothes were off and Ginny was there moving above him, the moonlight creeping through the window to cast a shimmer across her pale, sweat-dappled skin, it was there.
No one else seemed to notice, but it was there.
It was there when they went to Sunday roast at the Burrow and Molly hugged him, asking leading questions about rings and guest lists. It was there when they heard the news from a sobbing Ron that Hermione was pregnant, and when a tiny bundle of bushy red hair and freckles was declared to be Harry's goddaughter.
It was there when Ginny asked him point-blank if he was ever going to marry her.
It was the last that saw him writing to McGonagall, and apparating to Hogwarts on a weekend in May.
"I must say, Potter, I might have thought I'd be hearing from you a little earlier," McGonagall said in her usual stern voice as she let him through the gates.
He uttered some form of apology in response, unsure of the exact words but they seemed to convey his point. She nodded, then gave him a serious sort of look.
"Well, I suppose I might as well ask while we walk. Would you have any interest at all in teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts? I'm sure you're enjoying your time as an Auror, but Professor Lehrer is looking to take a few years to venture out into the field again, and I do recall you doing quite an admirable job of teaching your fellow students here, once upon a time."
"I—I'll think about it," he ventured, not really sure if that was what he needed. It would take him away from the action of being an Auror, but then he'd done that job for—how many years? He didn't even know at this point. And his time as an Auror hadn't helped with the stillness. Maybe he needed something different.
He cleared his throat. "Maybe if I see some details about the position?"
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Of course. Now, as for today's visit, you mentioned wanting to see a part of the forest? Will that be all, or did you want to come inside? I know Albus would love to speak with you. His portrait asks about you often."
Harry swallowed. "Just the forest for today, I think. Maybe—" He took a breath. "Maybe if I come teach, I'll pay him a visit."
"Of course." She seemed to mull something over, then reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "You are always welcome here, Harry," she said in a softer tone. "I won't have you forgetting that."
He nodded, and in short order McGonagall was making her way back up to the castle while Harry ventured to a certain clearing in the Forbidden Forest.
Despite the fact that his mind didn't recall exactly how to find this place his feet did, and they carried him back along the same path that he'd travelled so many years earlier, retracing those steps to his death. They came to a stop and he found himself crouching, his right hand digging in the dirt at his feet without his conscious command. Then he was standing again, looking down at the stone that was in his palm, a few clumps of damp earth stuck to its surface.
Staring, wondering why he was even doing this, he turned it three times and wished for the stillness to go away.
Somehow, without him even realising how it had happened, Harry became the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
And yet, as with most things, the stillness remained.
The stillness was temporarily doused when he would use the Resurrection Stone, however. The first time he'd used it in the forest before facing Voldemort he had seen both of his parents, and Sirius, and Remus, but every time since it had been only his mother. And she was so kind, and wonderful, and full of support and love for him, and it had hurt, to hear her tell him how proud she was of the man he'd become.
It hurt because he didn't even know how he'd become this man. He didn't even know who he was anymore.
He used the stone when he was at the castle, in the dead of night, when no one would be calling for him. And he sat at his mum's feet as her ghostly form appeared to sit in one of his armchairs, and she'd tell him stories about her years at Hogwarts, her childhood before, her scant years after. Happy stories.
He drank it all in. The stories felt real.
Harry stayed at the castle that Christmas, citing some sort of excuse that Ginny apparently accepted. And he stayed on for an additional two weeks after the students had all gone home on the Hogwarts Express in June, with another excuse that he wasn't even really aware of but that she again accepted.
It was when he finally returned home that reality finally came crashing around him, when he realised one irrefutable fact: the stillness wasn't going away.
"I think it's time," Ginny was saying after they'd finished dinner that first night he was back at home. They were sitting in front of the fire, curled up together on the sofa, and Harry was staring at the flickering flames while his wife—when had that happened?—idly swirled wine around in a glass.
"Time?"
"Yes." She then sighed in fond exasperation. Harry was certain he deserved the exasperation, but not the fondness. "Harry, we talked about this."
He made some sort of response. It might have been words, or maybe just a sound.
"The Harpies are taking the next year off from the season here to tour across Southeast Asia. So this is the perfect opportunity. I won't need to miss any games here, and honestly from the sound of it the trip will be mostly visiting flying clubs and schools, and hardly any playing, so I won't be missing much." There was a soft clink of her setting the wineglass down on the end table, then she was running a light touch up his arm. "So? Do you want to try?"
The stillness was still there. But at the same time, something about what she was saying, something about the meaning behind it that he hadn't yet grasped was screaming at him.
He blinked a few times and tried to bring the world into focus around him just in time to notice that they were now apparently walking toward the bedroom, Ginny leading him, Harry following, their hands joined together in a tangle of fingers.
The stillness and the screaming to Pay attention! This is real! continued for several weeks. And then one summer morning while he was eating some sort of breakfast Ginny bounded in, red hair bouncing behind her, a giant smile across her face.
"We did it!" she exclaimed, before leaping onto his lap and throwing his arms around him. "We're going to have a baby!"
The stillness was still there, but he pushed it aside for the first time in he didn't know how long to instead realise what all of that screaming had been. He couldn't raise a child. Not when he didn't even feel like he was alive.
That night he said something—he didn't know what—and apparated to somewhere, and turned the stone three times.
"Mum," Harry croaked, dropping to his knees. "I don't know what to do."
"Oh, Harry," Lily's shade replied softly, crouching next to him. "It'll be fine, dear. You're strong. I know you can do it."
He shook his head almost violently. "I can't. It wouldn't be fair. It's already not fair to my friends, me being like this. But—a child! I can't." And he kept repeating those two words, again and again, like a mantra. Over and over, "I can't."
"Sweetheart, you must. This is your path. This is the path that you chose."
"But I don't want it!" he cried out, his voice cracking. "I don't want any of it! It feels like I'm just watching someone else live his life. It's like I'm a spectator inside my own body. I can't do this anymore!"
"Hush," she said gently, and her hand came up to brush through his hair. He couldn't quite feel her touch, but at the same time he could, and his eyes slid shut as he released a shuddering breath. "This is this life, where you defeated Voldemort, and brought peace for all that you fought alongside. This is the way of things. In another reality Voldemort won, and his allies enjoyed their victory. There was a fork in the path, and this was your choice."
Harry could feel his shoulders shaking, and it was hard to breathe. "I can't," he whimpered, and it didn't sound anything like his voice. "I had to defeat Voldemort. But—I didn't want any of this."
"You can't have both, dear," Lily murmured as she continued to stroke his hair. "This is peace. This is what you fought for. This is what you died for."
"And if I hadn't?"
"Then there would be no peace," she replied simply.
They sat there for what felt like hours, the night not quite silent with the breeze rustling through the leaves of the forest around them. The Forest of Dean, possibly. But the stillness was still gone, because Lily was there. And so Harry was able to think.
"What can I do?" he whispered an age later.
"You can apparate home to your wife and unborn child, and learn to accept the peace. Maybe even appreciate it."
Harry swallowed, feeling the terror of that prospect. The dread. The guilt.
"Or?" he asked hopefully.
The fingers in his hair paused for a few seconds, and when they resumed their motions there was a tenseness to them that Harry could sense. "Or," Lily said slowly, as though choosing the words with care, "you can choose the other path. It's one or the other, dear. As I said, you can't have both."
"And the other one, Voldemort wins? And there's no peace?"
"That's right. I can't tell you much more than that, I'm afraid. For as long as you remain on this path, that one lies in shadow."
"And how can I change paths?"
The fingers stilled again and pulled away. Harry opened his eyes to see an anguished look on his mum's face and bit his lip.
"Don't you want to be happy?" she asked quietly. "Don't you want your friends to carry on with their lives, and to have a family, and for the war to be over?"
"I—" Harry looked away, unable to meet her gaze as the full force of the question hit him. Did he deserve to complain about what he had, when so many hadn't made it? He was fortunate. He ought to be thankful for so much. Why was he even contemplating this?
No, more to the point was the question of how he was even contemplating the idea, and that was purely because the stillness was still held at bay by his mother's presence. But she couldn't be there all the time, and when the stillness returned, he would feel it crushing him every moment of every day, as life carried on all around him.
"How can I change paths?" he asked again, looking back up and meeting her gaze unflinchingly.
Lily sighed. "If you make this decision, you will be saying goodbye to this peace. You can't have both."
He nodded.
"No, I need to be certain that you understand, Harry. If you choose this, then this life that you have here will be gone forever. You will never get it back. Ever. Do you understand?"
Harry swallowed, and tried to think of the last time he actually wanted something this badly.
It had been when he'd faced Voldemort that final time. He didn't even know how many years ago that had been.
"I understand," he replied.
She pursed her lips, then stood. Then, even as she smiled with a wet shimmer in her eyes she reached down and stroked her fingers through his hair once more, letting her touch warm his cheek for an instant before reclaiming her hand.
"Then remember this, Harry. I love you, and hope that you find what you're looking for. I'm sorry that this wasn't it. But I will always love you."
And then she bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, and Harry's eyes slid shut on their own.
When he opened them again she was gone, and so was the stillness.