Chapter 1: Comfortably numb
Harry slammed the door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, behind him and stood unmoving in the dark and dusty hall.
There were so many things he ought to do – eat, shower, sleep – but with the urgency of the Horcrux hunt finally gone and the adrenaline of the final battle waning, there was only really one thing Harry had energy for.
He didn't bother with the light. He didn't even bother to call out to Kreacher who, he knew, must be lurking in his usual hiding place under the boiler. Instead, he dragged himself up the stairs, step after painful step and, without even taking off his shoes, he collapsed on his bed in the room he used to share with Ron.
He fully expected to be kept awake by flashbacks of the fighting, or by the accusations of those who had died for him. After all, that was what happened to him most nights anyway. Clutching his wand to his chest, the blankets' mildewy smell sharp in his nostrils, Harry closed his eyes and waited for the memories to come…
But that was not what happened. Instead of the images he expected to see flashing against his closed eyelids, Harry found himself falling almost immediately into a deep, black sleep.
No sound, no light penetrated this dream's thick material. No smell, no taste, no touch. And it was a relief at last to find himself in a world that could give him nothing – joy or pain – and that expected nothing in return.
The next few days followed a similar 'pattern' for lack of a better word. Harry would wake, at some point in the day or night, he was never entirely sure as he hadn't bothered pulling open the heavy curtains that blocked out the daylight as effectively as Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.
He would wake. Would shuffle to the bathroom. He would avoid the mirror as he splashed some cold water on his face, drank from the rusty tap. More often than not, he would simply forget to eat. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt hungry. All he ever felt these days was a bone-deep exhaustion that didn't seem to go away, no matter how much he slept.
So he'd shuffle back to bed, pull the covers over himself again – their smell now brought with it the comfort of oblivion – and then he'd sink into the same heavy, blissfully dreamless sleep.
He knew Kreacher came sometimes to check on him. Someone had taken off his shoes. And occasionally, he would wake to find next to him a pie or some porridge, cold and lumpy for having sat in its bowl for so long. When that happened, he would eat a bit, but he never managed much more than a few bites.
Sometimes, there would be letters too. From Hermione. He knew she'd planned on leaving for Australia as soon as the war was over. Nothing from Ron – of course, he would be busy with his family, busy supporting George now that… But Harry couldn't bear to think much further than that. He would put down the letter he'd been holding and, without even bothering to go to the bathroom, he would lie back down, pull the blankets over himself once more and close his eyes.
Some part of him knew there were things he ought to have done. Funerals he ought to have attended. Professor McGonagall had found him after the battle to tell him about her plans for rebuilding Hogwarts…
And before, it would've been enough to get him out, the guilty feeling nagging at him. Only now, it wasn't. He felt – it was hard to describe really – something like an empty boat cut loose from its anchor. Mindless. Directionless. Empty.
For days, perhaps weeks, Harry floated in his dark dreamscape, comfortably numb.
And he would have surely carried on like this if, one day, he hadn't caught a whisper, the barest hint of a voice, muffled by the darkness around him.
Harry lifted his head, strained his ears.
"I wish…"
There it was again, the wisp of a voice.
Harry straightened, cast his eyes into the darkness from where, he thought, the voice had come.
"I wish…"
And then, far, far away from him, there was a light…