Chapter 3: Awake (for now)

It was the sound of heavy footsteps and the light from the big windows that startled Harry awake.

"Bloody hell, mate. What's been going on in here?"

"Wha–?" Harry sat bolt upright on his bed, blinking owlishly at the tall, red-haired shape that was presently engaged in a battle with the window latch.

Finally, with a screech worthy of Sir Nicholas's musical saw ensemble, the window gave way and a gust of fresh summer air ruffled Harry's hair.

He adjusted his glasses on his face and stared open-mouthed at Ron.

"What are you doing here?" he asked before he could think better of it.

"Hello to you too, sunshine," Ron grumbled, perching on the bed that had been his during the time he'd spent in Grimmauld Place. "Mum sent me over. She wanted me to bring you this," Ron pointed at a plate wrapped in foil, roast beef, if Harry's nose was to be believed. "But I think it was an excuse to check on you – make sure you were still alive and all that…"

Harry cringed and looked away. Even grieving for a son, Mrs Weasley still spared the time to look after him. And how had he repaid her…?

"Ron, I'm so sorry – the funeral…"

"– was yesterday," Ron finished for him, and Harry cringed again.

"I'm –"

"– sorry, yeah I know. We wanted to keep it small anyway – and, no offence mate, but with you there…"

Ron shrugged. The people. The press. The wannabe Death Eaters… Take your pick, Harry thought bitterly. With him there, it was anyone's guess who would be the first to show up.

"Right," he said, then he stopped, unsure what else to add.

"So, what have you been up to these past couple of weeks?" Ron asked after an awkward moment of silence.

"Dunno, really. I think I've been asleep mostly."

Harry looked around the room. His shoes were on the floor by his bed, next to a collection of dirty plates and half-eaten snacks. The breeze from the window rustled the pages from a letter that lay open on his bedside table. Hermione's handwriting. He must have read some of it as some point, but he couldn't remember a single word from it. It all felt so surreal, so distant compared to the dreams he'd been having…

"I can see that," Ron said, pulling Harry out of his musings.

"Hey, have you ever had the same dream over and over again?" Harry asked before he could think better of it. "Well, not the same dream exactly, but the same people in the dream, the same setting…"

"Not really, no," Ron answered, looking at Harry speculatively. "Not having weird dreams again, are you?"

His tone was casual, but Harry recognised that edge his voice had taken from countless tense conversations during their year hunting Horcruxes.

"Not Voldemort-weird, if that's what you're asking," Harry replied. "Just… they're different. There's this boy in them – his name is Sam. He seems to think I'm his older brother."

Harry let out a puff of laughter at how ridiculous it sounded saying it out loud. Still, he made himself carry on.

"He says in his world, I died as a baby – Pettigrew slipped my parents a sleeping potion and let Voldemort in. He says my parents survived and went on to have more kids after the war – two girls, Violet and Anna, and one boy, Sam…"

"What happened to Voldemort?"

"Sam said he died, but I presume he just disappeared for a while like he did here. He'd already created most of his Horcruxes by the time he came for my parents here so…"

Ron hummed thoughtfully. "And what's he after, then?" he asked.

"Who – Voldemort?"

"No, I meant the boy." The 'obviously' was heavily implied. "I'm pretty sure Snake Face wants the same thing he always does – you dead and him alive for ever…"

"Yeah well, at least he got half of it right this time round," Harry mumbled sardonically, making Ron snort. "But about Sam – it's the strangest thing… He doesn't want anything from me. Just to talk – or for me to listen to him talk really – and to play Quidditch…"

Ron's eyebrows were so high up his forehead that they had fully disappeared behind his fringe.

"So let me get this straight," he said. "For the past two weeks, you've been asleep. And in your dreams, you've been meeting someone claiming to be your brother from another world. And he's definitely not a Death Eater because he only wants to talk to you and play Quidditch?"

"Yeah, something like that…"

Ron ran his hand down his face. "Mate, I've got to tell you, it sounds pretty mad – even for you…!"

But Ron being Ron, not Hermione, he didn't push the subject. They sat up and talked for another little while. Long enough for Ron to get peckish and to polish off Mrs Weasley's roast beef after Harry had assured him that he wasn't hungry enough to eat it anyway. Long enough for them to run out of things to say…

Still, it was nice to speak to someone, Harry realised. It blew some of the cobwebs from his muddled mind. But after the third awkward pause in the conversation, Ron got to his feet.

"Well," he said, "I better get back. I promised George I'd help with the shop. Things are pretty mad – post-war rush, you know. People want to forget and have fun…"

"Right, right. Hey – do you guys need a hand?" Harry asked on impulse.

"Ah…" Ron scratched his nose awkwardly. "Well… it's just that Ginny's going to be there…"

Harry took a breath ready to protest that they were fine, that there were no hard feelings, that… but almost as soon as the thought occurred to him, he realised that he didn't actually know whether they were even remotely 'fine'. He hadn't spoken to Ginny – in fact, he'd barely even laid eyes on her since he'd broken up with her almost a year ago.

"Sure, no problem," he said instead.

"Sorry…" Ron started, but Harry didn't give him the chance to finish his sentence.

"It's fine, really," he insisted. "I get it. There'll be other times."

"Right, yeah," Ron said with a grateful smile. "So I'll see you around?"

"Yeah, see you around."

And as Ron's footsteps faded away, so gloom settled once more around Harry like a ratty old blanket. He should really get up. Have a shower. Take those dishes down to the kitchen so that Kreacher wouldn't have to trek up and down the house with them. He should…

But parts of his conversation with Ron echoed around his mind. Guilt nibbled at his insides.

He should really get up. But instead, he lay back down, threw his arm over his face and allowed sleep to claim him once more.

A/N: Thank you all for reading – and a special thanks to all those who have taken the time to follow, favourite and especially to review this story! I really appreciate it.