The summer before Harry’s postponed seventh year of school was nothing like a holiday should be. There were no early morning swims in the river bordering the Burrow, no late night chats with Hermione and Ron on the outside porch, sipping watery lemonade and eating burnt sausages from the fire. The feeling of contentment and relaxation was nowhere to be found – it was a dreary and dark three months, with nothing but thick humidity and unwanted sunburns.

He found no rest in the empty bed next to Ron, and no comfort when he decided to speak to his best friend. He lay on that bed now, eyes twisted closed, imagining the frequent concern etched within Ron’s features. The thin line on his forehead, the deep frown upon his lips – expressions that made Harry want to rip out his own eyes so that he would never have to feel the guilt that went with all the anxious looks.

Late at night he heard Mrs Weasley’s soft voice, urging the surviving adults that Harry was just fine – that he’d been through a lot and no one should expect a boy to bounce back so quickly after killing Lord Voldemort. God, sometimes he didn’t even believe it himself. Sometimes he still dreamt about that white face and dead features. When he awoke he thought of Dumbledore and tried to ignore the sticky sweat on the back of his neck, and the taste of copper from biting down on his tongue to stop himself from crying out.

He wanted to escape – to forget the feeling of having a purpose. It was absolutely insane, but he found himself looking around, wondering what to do. Going back to Hogwarts without the threat – the excitement of preparing for the next attack. It was all he had known, and now he realised it was all he had ever wanted to know. He clenched his fists against the soft sheets, feeling the sharp edge of pain as his jagged nails cut into the flesh on his palms. He worked down an insufferable yawn by gritting his teeth together. The sun fell onto his face and deepened the burn on his nose.

He wanted to punch something fleshy and hard, create brutal force and pound his knuckles until the wall of insecurities and confused looks gave way. He wanted to know that another person felt somewhat similar, that he wasn’t completely alone. Everyone seemed to be coping with life after the war better than him. It made him wonder how they were able to suppress the horrible memories from that year of terror.

“Harry.” The voice was feminine, soft but nothing like what he wanted to hear at the moment. It lifted him from under the wave of his thoughts, and suddenly everything became clearer.

“Yeah?” he answered noncommittally, his eyes still closed tightly. He honestly didn’t know why he acted so rudely, but he didn’t completely dislike it.

“I – do you want something to eat? Some eggs and ham are leftover from breakfast, even if they probably taste like shite.”

He moaned silently at the thought of going downstairs. Though, he was very hungry and he doubt he’d be left in peace if he didn’t make an appearance soon. The whole house seemed to be bordering on anxious suspicion that Harry was suffering from depression, something that Mr Weasley had been quick to point out could be cured with a trip to St Mungo’s. But he wasn’t depressed – just lost about what in the hell he would do with his life.

A hand raked through his messy bangs and he reached up to wrap his fingers around the fragile wrist. Finally opening his eyes, he stared up at Ginny’s questioning expression. He blinked a few times, waiting for his pupils to adapt to the harsh sunlight. The connection between their eyes made that all too familiar guilt bubble up within Harry. It felt worse than heartburn and more potent than a headache. He quickly looked away.

“How are you feeling?” she asked weakly. He could tell she was uneasy from the stiffness of her arm.

“All right, I guess.” He tightened his grasp, adding pressure to the small bones. She sucked in a quick breath and he released her wrist without an apology. That was for not leaving me alone, he thought bitterly, then suddenly regretted it. The Weasleys were doing him a favour – allowing him to stay in their home without paying any rent or even helping around the house. Ginny didn’t deserve to be treated in such a cruel manner. God, he was such a bastard.

He paused for a moment, staring down at the lint-covered blanket. He picked at it with two fingers. “Hey, Gin – I’m sorry, you know. Sorry – for everything.”

Brow furrowed, Ginny looked at him in astonishment. “Why should you have to apology for anything? No one knows what you went through – and no one can even begin to imagine how hard it must have been on you. That includes me.” Her right shoulder twitched as she said this, as if her instinct was to comfort him with a touch, but her mind had stopped the movement of her arm.

Harry felt the sharp stinging in the back of his eyes. No way would he cry in front of Ginny. Her words did little to comfort him – he felt more alone as he walked to the loo to freshen up.

.:.

“Everyone just loves you, Harry,” Mrs Weasley said as she served him some of the reheated breakfast. “Still get mail from people all around the world, wanting to thank you.” She smiled at him with encouragement and he forced himself to move his lips upward. It was a struggle.

He tried to ignore the stack of letters next to his plate as he shovelled rubbery eggs and meat into his mouth. They stared up at him as evidence of his isolation, a thought that he gloomily saw as incredibly dramatic. Frowning, he set his fork down and picked up the first letter. The envelope was wrinkled, and the underside of it was splattered with owl shite. He scratched at the white substance with his thumbnail.

A handful of jellybeans fell out as he ripped it open. The paper within was obviously used for primary school, and the writing was in big, red crayon. His stomach gave a lung as he read the letters – HEARO, and he was charmed by the child’s attempt at spelling. He wasn’t a hero, that was for damned sure; it wasn’t as if he had any choice in the matter of defeating Voldemort. He sometimes wondered what he would have done if that prophecy never existed, and it scared him to accept the possibility that he would’ve allowed the evil bastard to take over without any protests.

He sometimes wondered if he were a Gryffindor because he was meant to be one, or because people had expected him to be one. No choice in the matter. Not one damned choice in his whole life – no one ever stopped and went, “Hey, are you sure you want to do this?” They had just expected him to be willing and exactly the way they had pictured him.

It was the same deal with all the fan mail and congratulatory frozen turkeys – Harry didn’t even like turkey, but who really cared at the end of the day? They had imagined he liked turkey – loved the stuff, so even if Harry chucked each one into the bin, they could sit at home and imagine that he obviously devoured the thing.

“Where do you want to greet Mr Lovegood for that interview, dear?”

Harry stopped mid-chew, a bit of ham still hanging from his lips. He had completely forgotten about his promised interview for the Quibbler. It had been scheduled for today, hadn’t it? Sometimes it scared him how much important information slipped right out of his brain these days.

“Er,” he said, his eyes widened behind his glasses, “where do you think I should – greet him?”

“Well,” Mrs Weasley said, turning around to face him, her greying red hair pulled back in a knotted bun, “it’s a nice day out – why don’t you sit outside, on the porch, and have some lemonade. I’ll cast a cooling charm – the lemonade will attract the bugs, but there’s another spell for that as well.”

“Sounds terrific.” Honestly, he didn’t care where he gave the interview, only that it was quick and he wasn’t asked any hard questions, like replaying the scene in the Forbidden Forest. Once a freelance reported had snuck into Harry’s room shortly after the final battle, and Harry was forced to use his bedside lamp as a sword until he had given up and just chucked it at the reporter, shattering the ceramic base in his face. He had felt guilty enough to sit down and allow the bleeding man to ask him a few questions. About the war. About his relationship with Dumbledore. What he had seen in Snape’s memories.

When Mr Weasley finally made the reporter leave, Harry decided to never talk about his experiences again. He didn’t realise how much unwanted emotion he had stored within him – he had almost cried when he spoke about his memories. And that was just ridiculous – at least he had survived. The same couldn’t be said about Lupin, Tonks, Snape, or even Fred.

He soon decided that out of everyone’s death, Fred’s was the one which affected him the most. It was hard enough that he had to pass the room Fred had shared with George on his way downstairs, staring at that closed door and knowing George was inside, not making any sound. Silence was such a difference that it made Harry’s ears ring with heartache and guilt. What made it worst was through the silence, he sometimes heard the quiet sobs of Mrs Weasley coming from a locked bathroom, imagining that poor woman sitting on the tile floor and expressing emotions she didn’t want anyone to hear.

Common sense told him none of this was his fault, but he kept on thinking about all the things he could have done differently. Maybe if he had been quicker about killing Voldemort all of his friends wouldn’t be dead. Maybe tiny Teddy Lupin would still have parents, and maybe George would only be missing an ear, not the other half of his life.

Leaning back in his chair, he watched as Mrs Weasley sliced the chicken for tonight’s meal, the pale and saggy skin on her arms wiggling as she worked. Staring at her plump back made Harry ache with the need for someone to comfort him. He wondered idly what his own mother would have looked like at Mrs Weasley’s age.

The deep wrinkles on her face were drawn into a taut expression, and her eyes were slightly red from crying. Harry had to admire her strength, having the ability to pick herself up every morning and continue to smile at everyone, make meals and answer questions in her cheerful way. She was hurting and all Harry wanted to do was apologise for something he had no business apologising for. He wanted to comfort her, and maybe in return, she would comfort him.

Staring at her made him ache for a mother, for someone he could wrap his arms around and babble his nonsense thoughts and worries to. He wanted someone to pat him on the back and tell him confidently that everything would be just fine, don’t you worry. Because nothing seemed to be fine at the moment and Harry was having the hardest time trying to see the silver lining these days.

“Wow, thanks, Mrs Weasley,” Harry said, his voice too high pitched, “that was delicious. Thanks so much.”

“You are very welcome,” she answered, turning around to look at him. She motioned to the counter next to her. “You can just set your plate right there; I’ll get it once I’m done with this.”

“I just want to thank you for everything you and Mr Weasley have done for me,” he said, and then he hugged her tightly. She was stiff with surprise and she patted him on the back awkwardly. Harry was very disappointed when he pulled away. Where was all that warmth and love Harry had seen whenever she hugged Ron? Because he’s her son, and you’re not, he thought bitterly.

There was a confused, but pleasant expression upon Mrs Weasley’s face as she stared at him. He gave her a tight smile and motioned to the back lawn, indicating that he was going to sit on the porch.

“I’ll make some lemonade for you!” Mrs Weasley called after him. She stared at his retreating back for a moment, then shook her head and focused her attention back on the chicken. A small frown was evident upon her lips.

.:.

The air outside on the porch was thick and warm, pressing into Harry’s skin and reddening his nose. He felt the cool sweat drip down his back and the slick moisture under his arms. He scratched involuntarily at his arms, the dirt from his fingernails irritating his skin. Before, he had imagined himself with a healthy tan to go with his summer, but all that had become of his exposure to the sun was a reddening of his pale flesh, blotched and burned.

He blinked away stinging wetness from his eyes as Ron walked up the steps, the screen door banging loudly behind him. He sighed and flopped gracelessly into the chair next to Harry. The freckles on his face were darkened to a deep brown. It looked like spots of skin cancer.

“Have you seen Hermione?” were the first words out of Ron’s mouth and Harry had to stop himself from rolling his eyes at him. Even after their kiss during the battle, they still hadn’t stopped their frequent fighting. It was becoming ridiculous.

Harry shrugged without looking at his friend. “Dunno.” He felt Ron’s eyes on him.

“Did you just wake up?” Ron asked as he poured himself some of the lemonade Mrs Weasley had made.

“Yeah, I did. Your mum heated me up some breakfast.” Harry paused, and when Ron didn’t say anything he added, “I have that interview with Luna’s dad today.”

“That crazy bugger?” Ron said, but his eyes were staring through the screen netting at Hermione, who was picking flowers in the field across the lawn. He shook his head slowly. “Nothing to worry about. Just answer all his nutty questions about Nargles and big-nosed giraffes, and everything will go smoothly.”

Harry forced himself to laugh. “I just can’t wait to see what outfit he wears today. That man’s wardrobe would make Malfoy jealous.”

Ron finally turned his attention to him. They both sniggered with understanding. The image of Malfoy in one of Mr Lovegood’s outfits, a bright yellow thing with roses tailored into the collar made a relaxed smile expand Harry’s face. He was still smiling to himself when Hermione stomped through the porch, ignoring Ron all together as she waved to Harry. She motioned to the house and held up the bundle of flowers in her hand, indicating that she was going inside to put them away.

Nodding, Harry didn’t miss the speculating look she gave him. He still had that daft grin plastered on his face. When she was out of hearing distance, Ron turned to him and sighed loudly, smacking his big hand against his forehead. “She’s gone absolutely nutters, mate. Really, she has.”

Harry debated on ignoring Ron just as Hermione did, but he thought it would be a bit too harsh. Ron was his best friend, after all, even when he was being annoying with all his relationship ranting. “Yeah?” Harry said, taking a large drink from his lemonade. The sourness of the liquid made his mouth water, and he worked to swallow down the taste.

“Well, you know how we snogged?” Harry didn’t respond. “Anyway, of course you know, but – you also know what comes after snogging, right?” Ron peered at him, waiting for his answer. After a moment of silence, Ron continued, “Stupid question, of course you know. But it seems like Hermione doesn’t know. She won’t even allow me to touch her -- down there.”

Grimacing, Harry intentionally shuttered noticeably. “Ron,” he pleaded, “please – really – I don’t want to hear about this.”

Ron stared at him. “Oh, right – I forget, you’re her best friend, too. It’s fine if you want to take her side on this. You always take her side.” He crossed his arms over his chest, huffing.

“No – it’s not that I’m – taking sides,” Harry began, his mind racing quickly to figure out how to explain his thoughts to Ron, “it’s just that – really, mate, I don’t want to hear about how you are trying to fuck Hermione.”

“Oh,” Ron answered, and then fell silent. He furrowed his brow as he thought. Harry was taken aback by how much Ron looked like Ginny in that moment. It was slightly unnerving.

There was a sudden loud pop, and Mr. Lovegood was standing on the steps of the porch, peeking through the screen door with a hand cupped over his eyes. Nothing had changed about his appearance; he was wearing a long purple coat, despite the incredible heat. His clear blue eye turned inward as he stared straight at Harry.

“Hello, dear Harry Potter!” he called out, his pleasant voice a grateful change from the last time Harry had seen him. Harry tried to remind himself that the war was over, which brought dramatic changes to people. Changes that seemed to bypass Harry.

Cursing silently, Harry suppressed his annoyed thoughts as he stood and offered Lovegood a pressed smile. He went to push the door open for the man, but Lovegood wouldn’t step down to allow space, so Harry ended up hitting him in the chest.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered. Lovegood yanked the door by its handle, ripping it from Harry’s grasp.

“Not a problem,” he said cheerfully, forcing Harry to scramble backward as he moved quickly onto the porch. He stood in the centre and look around with a smile adding to his comical expression. Gasping loudly, Lovegood jumped forward and sent a spell at the lemonade, shattering the glass pitcher.

“Ahh!” Harry yelled, moving quickly to see the damage. Frowning, he realised the lemonade had vanished completely, leaving only shards of glass everywhere. He paused to look up at Lovegood’s satisfied expression. “Excuse me, but – what did you do that for?”

Lovegood nodded, his eyes wide. “Lemonade attracts deadly Yurckles. I saved your life.”

Harry began to ask what Yurckles were, but Ron interrupted him. “I’ll be just inside, Harry,” he said, obviously mortified by Lovegood’s behaviour.

“We need privacy, anyway,” Lovegood said casually, taking the seat Ron had just occupied. He smiled broadly once more at Harry as he took out a notepad and quill that looked suspiciously alike to the one Skeeter used.

Harry’s stomach sank at the sight. “Er, you know – I’ve only agreed to this interview because you’re Luna’s dad. I trust you not to print lies about me.”

Lovegood appeared surprised. “What about me makes you suspicious?”

Everything, Harry wanted to say, but instead stared at Lovegood for a long moment. He motioned to the quill and pad. “Rita Skeeter used something similar when she interviewed me, and all that came from it was rubbish.”

Tapping on the pad with his finger, Lovegood said, “Most people in journalism use something like this. They are all specially Charmed for certain jobs.”

“What’s yours Charmed for?” Harry couldn’t help himself.

“Well, the Ministry has always been after me for publishing the truth. It’s Charmed against any intruders trying to see inside.” His crooked eye whizzed slightly in its socket.

“Oh.” Harry sat back in his chair, afraid of the awkward silence that was sure to come.

But Lovegood laughed heartedly, then suddenly straightened his back, staring at Harry with intense scrutiny. “First question – what is your relationship with my daughter?”

Confused, Harry said, “What?”

Lovegood squinted at him, almost glaring. “Do you intent on marrying her?”

Harry gaped at him. “WHAT!” he practically shouted, his cheeks flushing deeply. “I – I don’t understand.” He tried to sound polite, but his frantic shock made his voice tremble. Lovegood took it as nervousness.

“You don’t have to lie to me, I actually wouldn’t mind if Luna married you.” He sniffed as he stared down at Harry.

“But – I think you’ve got it all wrong.” Harry took slow, deep breaths, trying to figure out how to explain to Lovegood that he wasn’t interested in Luna. He didn’t want to insult the man. “We are – just friends, that’s all.” What he really wanted to say was why in the hell would I want to be with someone as nutty as you, but then that would cancel out how great of a friend Luna had been to him. Yes, Luna was nutty, but she was a good person. Harry just wasn’t interested in her – in anyone, really, at the moment.

“Oh, is that what you kids call it nowadays?” Lovegood looked more irritated than angry. “You can’t fool me; Luna talks about you all the time. Your picture is even hanging on her wall! Now you tell me right now if you intent on marrying my daughter!”

“I – I don’t like your daughter in that way,” Harry said simply. “Nothing has ever happened between me and her.”

Lovegood sniffed once more. “Fine, lie to me. I’ll get to the bottom of this somehow. And don’t you worry, I’ll make sure you take full responsibility if it turns out you’ve hurt my daughter in any way!”

Harry’s mouth hung open. “N-next question, please,” he croaked.

TBC.