Disclaimer: I don't own Harry. OR Sirius. Or Remus. Or the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. The lyrics at the bottom are from the Dave Matthews Band song Gravedigger.' I don't own them, either.

A/N: Sorry I didn't get this out earlier. My muse deserted me. I spent a while looking for him, and was about to admit defeat before he came flying back at me, over the mountains. How nice of him, don't you think?

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I feel like I'm living in a dream. It's so hard to tell what's actually happening, and what's just a memory of a future that was never real, and will never be real... I dreamt that Hermione was in here, and Ron, both of cool and collected and barely there, but I know it wasn't real because the next time they saw me she burst into tears when I flinched away from her bone breaking embrace, and he started to yell and scream until I whimpered and hid. And then they were gone, like water through fingers I forgot to clench.

I'm laying here staring at the ceiling, and I'm fairly certain I'm real because I hurt too much to be a ghost. I always thought it would be nice to be a ghost, free of any pain or responsibilities. Able to do nothing more that float past, incapable of crying, or bleeding... A specter that the rain passes through. How nice it would be, to stand in the rain and feel nothing, nothing at all. To walk on water, through fire, come out unscathed. To disappear...

I'm too real. They see me. The door opens, and I hear footsteps and the click of toenails on hard floor. Cold floor, cold like silver blood that never falls. I wonder if it freezes the bare pads of a canines feet, if it sends tendrils of ice up his legs until he's rooted in place, incapable of movement, of dancing or running or fleeing. Unable to escape.

The voice is soft, quiet, unfamiliar. They want me to answer, don't they? Expect some sort of brave response. I'm the hero, the golden boy. I'm not a ghost, not yet...

My voice is hoarse and painful, and I'm afraid of the winces it may provoke. I wonder when I started to mean enough to hurt people, and try to decide if I like the power. I figure out I hate it.

Oh, Merlin, Harry... The second voice is different. I know that voice, know that man, but only distantly, a stranger that means the world to me. The idea of family so much more enjoyable than the practice.

I'm okay, I reassure him, twisting on my side to face him. I want to get out of the hospital, to return to life as normal. To be me again, to be strong, to be a hero... I don't feel heroic. I hope that it comes back to me when I'm so involved in the small troubles of the present I lose sight of the pain in the past.

I'm sorry. Another apology. I am so tempted to let someone else take the blame, be strong, and I open my mouth to rant, and rave, and throw things-

It's not your fault. And it wasn't, and I'm too much the good boy to lie. His eyes thank me- clear and blue and somehow haunted. I can't seem to look away from his eyes. They capture me.

Nor is it yours, The second voice breaks the growing tunnel between his eyes and mine, and I gladly turn towards the distraction.

I know. Oh, good professor. How little you know. Haven't you accepted by now that it's always someone's fault? Today it's mine. Tomorrow, it will be someone else's. Yours, Sirius's, Dumbledores, Malfoys, Fudges... The list grows, and grows. It's always someone. I'd like to be blameless.

I was so worried- all you all right? Madame Pomfrey said you'll make full recovery, but if anything hurts you tell her, all right? Is there anything I can do to help? The questions pour forth like a river from his mouth, and I tune them out carefully, letting them wash over me in a cleansing flood. How to explain phantom pain and unhealthy expectations, memories that press on you? I suspect, if he thought about it, he'd understand- does he ever feel the shadow of a dementor in the noonday sun? But he's too afraid to let himself understand. Too afraid of the truth to ever believe it.

He stops talking, the flow of love and worry cut off so abruptly the pain returns with a passion, and only his grip on my arm keeps me grounded in reality. Reality. He is real, and I am real, and the pain is an illusion. I clench my teeth against a scream and wonder if his hand is going to pass through me, like rain on a ghost. But he's holding on, and I'm holding on, and we're holding together.

I came as fast as I could. I'm sorry. He tells me again. I wonder what he's looking for, and if there's enough of me left to spare him what he needs. I have to resist the urge to lock my arms about my chest, refuse to lend out any more of me until I've figured out how much is insubstantial. How dead I am.

It's okay. Another meaningless platitude, but he takes it at face value. Good for him. I wonder what my face shows, and how different it is from what's inside. I wonder what a hollow face can look like, and hope it isn't screaming. I'm so tired of screams.

It's true. We had to stun him to keep him from exposing himself to the ministry, he was in such a hurry. I'm not sure what to say to that, so I say nothing. We've all been very worried.

Again, that all. It's nice to know I'm loved by All, but I don't know who All is. I wonder if he expects me to love him back. I don't think I've got enough love left. I'm all right. Another lie, to another face, but they're so eager to accept it I dismiss my guilt. It's not my fault, this time. It's All's, for taking more that I have left to give. For stealing away the part of me that keeps the rain out. It's falling through me in buckets, forming puddles beneath me and rushing away to join the sea. Everything wants to be part of something bigger, and I can't help but feel that each droplet that passes through takes a part of me with them. I love you, All.

They stay for a bit, but they turn to my mum and dad at some point, so I have to stop talking. I know my parents are dead- I'm not crazy. I wonder how long the two men stay, before giving up on me, but my silvering body is drifting out of reality and into the realms of the dead, and I have no way of knowing. Nor any real desire to. I hope they found what they wanted. I hope my grave is shallow, so I can feel the rain.


Gravedigger,
When you dig my grave,
Could you make it shallow,
So that I can feel the rain?
Gravedigger.