I'm back for Father's Day! This one is actually includes quite a few characters, but it ends with Harry and Mr. Weasley. Also, if you're a returning reader, you'll notice that I changed the chapter titles to include the names of the featured characters. That is mostly for your benefit, since I know that not everybody likes every character in HP like I do. So now, if you want to skip a character that bothers you, you may do so!

Anyway, this chap is a bit sad, but it ends on a light note, so I hope it's more cathartic than anything. Reviews are helpful!

-Cat

IV - Breathe Me Into Tomorrow

(Arthur and Harry)

In the days following the Battle of Hogwarts.

Tomorrow. That one word summarized a concept that just twelve hours ago, Harry numbly would have dismissed as a dream stolen away by mortality. Something that at this moment, he could barely consider, because the idea was so overwhelming-so improbable-that it made him dizzy. Harry was awake in the comfort of his four-poster bed, sunlight filtering crimson through the hangings. His soul was completely his own. And he had tomorrow.

He felt simultaneously light and unbearably heavy. Voldemort was gone. For a shining instant, Harry was free. But life for Harry was never that simple. Because tomorrow…

Tomorrow, whenever it came, meant accepting today.

And today was grief. Today was guilt.

Harry grimaced. Today would be very long.

Day One.

Harry lay in his double state of light and heavy. Ron snored lightly in the next bed. Instead of irritation, Harry felt supported. Ron was here. He came back. Harry did not feel the need to move.

Hermione checked in on them when the sunlight turned deep gold. Her hair was mussed and her face was slightly pink. So was Ron's, which made Harry laugh a clear, deep-bellied laugh he had no idea he was capable of. Then a house-elf arrived with dinner and Harry crashed back into somber silence. When he went back to bed, he made sure he could not see his socks.

Falling asleep was difficult, encumbered by the vague sensation that the room did not have enough air.

Day Two.

He woke to a flowery scent in the gray light of dawn. The way the pale beams haloed her fiery flyaway strands of hair made him breathless in a completely different way. And extremely unsure of himself.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hey," she said back.

He swallowed, very aware of his lack of contact in the last year.

"Ginny, I-"

Ginny effectively silenced Harry with a hand on his arm. Goosebumps… then she said quietly, "There will be a better time for that conversation."

"Right." Feeling both idiotic and relieved, he studied her paler than usual face. "You, er, okay?"

"I will be."

Tomorrow. Which would never come. He steeled himself, guilt like lead in his stomach.

"I'm so sorry, Ginny. About… about Fred." Saying the name out loud was like choking.

"It-It wasn't your fault," Ginny said, fierce despite the tremor in her voice.

"It-"

"Don't, Harry."

His teeth clacked together. She looked like she wanted to say more, but the door to the dormitory opened and Molly was there. Her face was somehow sunken, almost less than before. But she smiled brightly at Harry, proclaimed that he and Ron and Hermione must have been starving themselves, then placed a hearty breakfast in front of him. Harry conversed with her graciously and forced some toast past his throat. But Molly's watchful gaze reminded Harry of Lily's in the forest.

Suddenly the atmosphere was gone again. The food was ashes in his mouth.

They returned to the Burrow that evening. Harry found Hermione crying into Ron's arms. Ron just held her, looking utterly lost.

Day Three.

During the funerals, Harry did his best. He imagined that he was stone, uncracked and smooth. Ron and Hermione stood on either side of him like watchdogs. Neville and Luna took to heading off anyone who tried to get too close. Ginny was split between Harry and the rest of the Weasleys. Arthur Weasley had tears in his eyes.

Fred was in the ground.

George was above the ground. His face was unsettlingly blank.

Harry wished he could tell him that the dead never truly leave us, but the words were stuck. He was afraid if he said them out loud, they would fall to the ground like pebbles, discarded and useless. George would never hear them. Words were not enough.

Today was much too long. He felt Arthur's gaze all the way back to the Burrow.

Ron broke down in the garden when he ran into a spider web. It was Hermione's turn to hold him close. Harry stood by and kept everyone away.

And his lungs were stone.

Day Four.

Harry spent today wondering why the earth kept spinning when so many people had left it. Sirius or Remus might be able to tell him. But they left too.

Harry knew that they were unburdened where they were. So was Fred and everyone else who died. Death was something that Harry understood a little better now. But that did not change the fact that the living felt their loss. And wondered if it was somehow their fault.

Hermione shot him concerned glances at the dinner table.

Day Five.

Hermione must have mentioned something to Ron, because Ron was staring at Harry unabashed the next morning.

"D'you need to talk, mate?" he asked bluntly as soon as Harry made eye contact with him. It was unusually direct of Ron, so Harry had to think of an answer quickly.

"I'm fine, Ron," he settled on. Idiot. Yes Ron! I need to talk! I just… can't breathe at the moment. He tamped down the regret. He just needed time.

Ron's ginger eyebrows rose into his hairline. "Course you are."

They dressed in silence. Just as they were about to leave the top floor bedroom, Ron stepped in Harry's way.

"Look, Harry, it doesn't have to be me, but you need to talk to somebody. Something's bothering you."

It has to be you, Ron. And Hermione. And Ginny. "Yeah, okay," Harry shrugged, trying to be casual. Ron's eyes narrowed.

"You haven't cried," he observed shrewdly.

"What does that matter?" Harry asked, nonplussed.

"I dunno. A lot, according to my dad," Ron replied, strangely firm.

"Don't need to," Harry muttered, and brushed past Ron to the dim stairwell.

But he knew he was suffocating.

Day Six.

Vernon Dursley was the last person Harry wanted to think about today. But for some reason, Harry could not get the enormous dark blot on his childhood out of his head. He blamed it on Ron, because he was the one who brought up crying.

Dudley could blubber all he wanted, but for Harry, tears were weakness. Vernon's intimidation had never stopped them, of course. But any tear shed was embarrassing. They needed to be hidden from sight. Because they made those around him either uncomfortable or satisfied that they had gotten to him.

But Ron's words were making Harry doubt himself. What would Sirius or Remus say? What would his dad say?

Harry had no idea.

He did not think he could take the vacuum around his lungs much longer. Today was drowning him.

Day Seven.

"Harry?"

Harry turned from where he sat in the grass. The large field outside of the Weasley's house was abandoned. The stars were twinkling brightly and fireflies flashed in mesmerizing patterns. He could just make out the shape of Mr. Weasley wading through the tall fronds to Harry's newest hiding place.

He sighed. He would need to find a new one tomorrow. Or today. After all it was two in the morning.

"What are you doing out here?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"Er… thinking," Harry replied vaguely. He desperately wished the older man would accept the weak answer and leave him alone. Mr. Weasley did not take the hint and settled down next to Harry. Harry picked a piece of grass and twisted it in his fingers.

"How'd you know I was out here?" he mumbled.

"I raised seven kids, Harry, including F-Fred and George. Call it instinct."

Harry looked at Mr. Weasley incredulously. Mr. Weasley chuckled and said, "Kidding. Molly and I charmed the doors and windows long ago to alert us if someone tried to sneak out. You're not the first of my kids I've tracked down in the tall grass."

Harry did not miss Mr. Weasley's use of the possessive pronoun. His stomach squirmed.

"Mr. Weasley, I-"

"Fred's death was not your fault, Harry. And neither was Remus or Tonks or anyone else who fought that day."

A hard lump formed in Harry's throat. He knew that, logically. They chose to fight. But then why did he feel so guilty? He did not trust himself to speak, so he stayed silent.

"Ron says you haven't cried."

"He told you that?" Harry asked hoarsely. Everything hurt, his eyes, his throat, his chest…

"Well… in the way that Ron says things, yes. He's not the best at dealing with emotions," Mr. Weasley shrugged wryly. "But he does know a little bit about moving past things."

The way Mr. Weasley said that made Harry think that he knew more about Ron's actions this year than he let on. He continued gravely. "This is something I tell all my sons, at least once. Real men know when tears are necessary. Whatever that whale of a man told you, it's not a shameful thing."

Harry bit his lip and struggled to nod.

"I… I know your dad would agree with me. Remus and Sirius too," Mr. Weasley whispered into the dark. "You miss them. I know I'm not your father… but I think of you like you're one of my own sons. And I just need you to know... you don't need to be strong all the time."

Harry felt his stone walls crumbling. And once the first tear fell, he could not stop them. A strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, warm and smelling of wood polish, oil, and a hint of Molly's perfume. Every dam was washing away. Harry cried until he could barely breathe.

But when the tears finally stopped, he found that he had a space in his chest for air.

Day Eight (Tomorrow).

The heaviness was gone. The ache remained, but Harry found himself looking at the sky instead of the ground while he walked to where Ron and Hermione sat in the garden. Ginny's hand was warm in his.

Mr. Weasley smiled knowingly as they passed his toolshed.

And for the first time, Harry wondered what the next day would bring. Without the weight that was there yesterday, he tentatively allowed himself to hope that it would be good.

To my dad, who gives his every breath away.