Chapter Two:
"It's a boy!" Remus shouted. He was pale and thin, his hair a mess. But he was beaming a smile of such intense pure joy that it seemed to light up the entire room. "Dora and I've talked and, well, we want you to be the godfather, Harry." Harry grinned, clasping the older man in a hug. "Unless," Remus said, drawing back, his smile still bright as ever. "Unless you plan on killing us?"
"What?" Harry drew back, looking at Remus inquisitively. "What did you say?"
Remus kept smiling, all of his teeth showing. His voice was cheerful as he cocked his head and said "Are you going to kill us, Harry? Like you did your parents, and Cedric, and Sirius?"
Harry's chest grew tight as he began to shake. "No...no, I didn't..."
"Everyone you love dies, you know," Remus said conversationally. "Do you love us, Harry?"
"Remus, don't..." But even as he spoke Remus began to change, his face slowly drooping as it decayed, his worn clothing becoming frayed before disappearing entirely. His ribs began to show, bone white against the melting flesh.
"We died for you, Harry," Remus's distorted voice echoed dully in Harry's head. "We died because of you. You killed us."
"No!" Harry screamed, backing away so desperately he stumbled and fell. "No, I didn't mean to!"
"You could change it, though," Remus's skull grinned at him, canines elongated. "You have the power. You could bring us back. Teddy could have parents, Harry. Don't you care about Teddy?"
"No," Harry whimpered, curling into fetal position, hands over his ears as if to block out the werewolf's words. "No, I can't...Remus, please..."
"You are a MURDERER!" the corpse spat the last word, and Harry screamed.
"NO!" He bolted upright in bed, cold clammy sweat mixing with the salty tears streaming down his face. "No..." He rubbed a shaking hand over his eyes, trembling madly. The nightmares had haunted him since the last battle. Nothing stopped them, not even Dreamless Sleep potion. The faces of his dead friends floated across his dreamscape nearly every night, taunting him, accusing him. He slid out of bed, holding the wall for support because he legs were shaking nearly too hard to support him. He took a deep breath before jerking open the drawer on the bedside table, withdrawing a Calming Potion. After trying unsuccessfully to remove the cork for several minutes, he finally just slammed the top of the bottle against the table, shattering it. Shaking it to rid it of the shards of broken glass, he tilted it over his mouth and swallowed it all in one loud gulp.
Wheezing, but calmer now, he sat back down on the bed, his head in his hands. It had been three months since that night by the lake at Hogwarts. Ron and Hermione had moved into the Burrow, where Molly alternated between smacking Ron upside the head and knitting baby booties. Hermione had been writing him twice a week without fail, simple letters full of unimportant tidbits of her everyday life, such as her cravings for kippers in cream or Ron's desire to name the baby Fred if it were a boy. It was as if she knew that the sheer normality of her letters was a balm to his weary and tattered soul, especially when compared to his other correspondences. Ron's letters were short and full of forced joviality with an undertone of concern, always asking if he was coming home yet. Ginny's letters were needier, clingy and slightly bitter, full of longing. Neville often wrote about his Herbology apprenticeship and his courtship with Hannah Abbott, but his writing was often shaky and quite difficult to read as he had been tortured brutally during the battle and had never quite fully recovered. But the worst, the very worst, were the letters from Andromeda, which included updates and pictures of Teddy Lupin. His godson. Remus and Tonks' orphaned child. Harry couldn't bear to look at the pictures of the smiling baby, his hair flashing from pink to blue to black as he cuddled with a stuffed wolf or banged blocks together. Seeing him ripped open the ever-present wound in Harry's chest where he supposed his heart should be. Though he never answered the letters, Andromeda sent them religiously, twice a month without fail.
Harry sighed, laying back, the uncomfortable motel bed squeaking as it protested the action. He didn't even know where he was. He had started out his journey in Italy, drinking cappuccinos in the warm sunlight of outdoor cafe patios. But it was too cheerful there. There were far too many happy, smiling people. Whole people, unblemished and untouched by war and death and shame. The same was true with Paris. Couples in love walked hand in hand down starlit streets and a cozy poetic atmosphere encompassed the city. So he traveled to America, starting out in the bustling New York City. But the harsh noises, the unfamiliar smells, and the thick crowd of jostling irritable people put him on edge. Anxious and panicked, he knew immediately that he needed to escape. He was loathe to use very much magic for fear of the Ministry, who had been hounding him to accept various awards and political positions, or the media, who wanted to fawn over their hero and document his every breath, would find him. So he had decided against apparating and instead had hopped onto a dingy Greyhound bus full of tired, unwashed muggles and rode it for days across the country until one afternoon it stopped or gas in a dreary, gray, rain-soaked town. He had no idea where it was, but he knew instantly that this little town reflected his mood almost perfectly. He had gotten off of the bus and checked into the nearest and most likely only motel before passing out into a deep sleep, from which his nightmares had inevitably waken him.
His stomach growled so loudly and suddenly that Harry shot upright in hazy post-nightmare panic before catching himself and blushing. Perhaps some food was in order. After changing into some worn jeans and a t-shirt he made his way to the bathroom. After brushing his teeth and splashing some cold water onto his face he grabbed his room key, wallet, and after a moment of hesitation, his holly wand , pocketing them. He left the Elder wand in the drawer of the nightstand next to the cracked, blackened ring and the neatly folded shimmering Invisibility Cloak. Locking the drawer, he headed out of his motel room into humid, moist morning air. Walking across the damp parking lot, he stopped by the front desk to inquire about the nearest restaurants and was directed to a place called The Lodge about a quarter of a mile away. He also discovered that he was in Forks, Washington, wherever that was.
The walk was quiet, which Harry greatly appreciated. Other than the occasional car driving by, wheels sliding on the damp pavement, the only other sounds were that of the birds chirping. The sky was heavy with storm clouds, casting a dismal shadow over everything. The dripping trees seemed to droop in dejection, as if used to the gloomy atmosphere. Harry breathed in deeply, inhaling the spicy scent of pine needles and the slightly dusty scent of the rain. Here was a place he could appreciate, a place that reflected his soul so perfectly. The mere thought of returning to England, to seeing the faces of those thrust into battle too young or those who's loved ones were taken too soon sent him into a panic. He couldn't handle the guilt and shame of knowing that he survived while people like Fred Weasley, Cedric Diggory, Colin Creevey and Nymphadora Tonks had died. Maybe it was here, in Forks, that he would stay, for a little while at least.