That first night, I slept for 12 hours straight. The next night I slept for another 10. I'm told that it is a side effect of coming so close to death, I have yet to tell most people that I was actually dead. In my dreams, I get on the train. In my dreams, that Harry sleeps too.
During my conscious hours, I mostly sit in the middle of the chaos. Chaos. That is what the world around me is in. Celebrations and funerals. Planning and deconstructing. Joy and grief. Absolute chaos.
And right smack in the middle is me. Harry Potter. The boy who triumphed. The enigma.
They want to tell me their stories. Everyone has one. Where they were when they heard of Dumbledore's death. What their last words to their loved ones were. How they plan to move on. How thankful they are...to me?
Appreciation and attention has always been, difficult. Most of the good the speak of has had horrible consequences.
While I was breaking into and out of Gringott's, they were smuggling their children out to foreign countries. While I was camping in the woods, they were starving in muggle born detention units. And yet, they thank me?
Right now for instance, I'm sitting on a stool at a counter. Bodies rush all around me. The Weasley's were given a Ministry property because all that remains of the Burrow is still smoking; chard wood in a pile. On a stool next to me is George. He wears the same blank expression I do. The one where you're alive but too numb to feel.
"Harry, I really think you should at least try to eat dear." Mrs. Weasley doesn't deserve this. She shouldn't have to grieve. For her family that will never be whole again. For her home that will never be whole again. For me... But she does. She grieves, but she never stops. I think if she does, she'll never want to move again.
So I eat. I am really good at following directions these days. It's all I can do a lot of the time.