Chapter Text
Harry is tired.
Exhausted, really, if he’s honest with himself.
The exhaustion hits him at the same time Voldemort's corpse hits the ground. He watches the way the light leaves Voldemort’s eyes before he falls, and all the adrenaline that had fuelled him up to this moment vanishes as though it died with the monster that had been dead set on destroying everything he loves. The exhaustion hits him so suddenly that for a second, he thinks he’s dying for real now. He’s convinced that maybe he has misunderstood the whole conversation with Dumbledore in his head, that he could return up until he completes his job and Death will claim him again once and for all.
He doesn’t die, of course. He simply remains tired to the bone while the world around him erupts into cheers and celebration. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Hermione kiss Ron, and Molly gather Ginny in her arms, some students bursting into relieved tears, and Professor McGonagall sighing in relief, can hear loud cracks of Disapparition, and can see Kingsley yell orders to the people close to him before they all throw spells at the Death Eaters that were too slow to follow their fleeing comrades.
It’s the flash of a camera that snaps Harry out of whatever panic-induced existential crises he is having. It pulls his gaze away from the dead body in front of him towards the source of that flash right before it goes off a second time. Harry doesn’t know what his face is doing when he looks at the person behind the camera, shamelessly stealing pictures of him at a moment like this, but he knows it’s not anything remotely pretty or friendly.
But Harry is too tired.
His gaze sweeps over the crowd around him once, not making eye contact with anyone, before Disapparating. All he’s thinking in that moment is a bed. A bed and four walls after months of having to live in a tent sounds like the best thing in the world. And if he’s indeed going to die, Harry would prefer it to happen after his head has lain on a soft pillow.
Somehow, this translates to Sirius’ room in number twelve, Grimmauld Place. He takes off his shoes, strips off his muddy, bloody, and charred clothes, places his glasses and wand at the bedside table alongside the Mokeskin pouch, and falls onto the bed. At no point during all these actions does it occur to him that there are Death Eaters roaming freely, most of whom likely want him dead, and that number twelve Grimmauld Place has been compromised since the beginning of September. There are no thoughts in his head at all, actually. For once, his mind is blissfully quiet, and he lets himself fall into sleep’s clutches and goes out like a light.
━━━━⊱⚡︎⊰━━━━
When Harry wakes up, it is to the chopped rays of sunshine filtering through a grimy window and hitting his face. From the warmth and brightness, he can tell it is nearing noon, but since he has gone to bed only a few hours ago, Harry doesn’t get up from the bed. The quietness and calmness of the moment keep him buried under the soft quilt. His eyes focus on nothing else but the streaks of light cutting through the shadows of the room, and he breathes the moment in.
But good things never last when it comes to Harry, so of course the moment is broken by a loud and rude crack right behind him, by the side of the bed, and the appearance of a very disgruntled house-elf.
“Master Potter is awake now. He should also get up. Master Potter has slept enough, Kreacher thinks.”
Harry doesn’t feel like he has slept enough, though. In fact, he feels the exhaustion from earlier imbued into the marrow of his bones. “Just a few more hours, Kreacher,” Harry mutters, his lips barely moving to form the words properly.
The answer is deemed unacceptable by the house elf, who Harry can tell is scowling at him, even with his back turned to Kreacher. The stomping of his foot only punctuates the displeasure. “Master Potter has slept for two days and five hours already!” Kreacher scoffs, and without any warning, ruthlessly yanks the quilt off Harry, ignoring his disgruntled “Hey!”. “Kreacher is tired of keeping Master’s mudblood and blood traitor friends away so Master can rest. I tells them Master needs rest after killing the nasty Dark Lord. But Master Potter’s friends is stupid and tries to wake Master up, so Kreacher has to kick them out repeatedly. Then Master Potter sleeps for two days straight and doesn’t wake up once, not even to eat. So Master Potter has to get up now before he wastes away!”
Kreacher keeps grumbling, not even paying attention to Harry anymore, folding the quilt and floating Harry out of the bed without having even the decency to put him down gently. Instead, the airborne Harry suddenly finds himself on his ass on the ground, the fall heavy enough that it will for sure leave bruises later.
“Kreacher has been a good elf, letting Master Potter rest. Yes, he’s been a good elf. But Master Potter needs to shower and eat. Master Potter smells too nasty even for Kreacher!” Kreacher goes on, stripping the sheets off the bed with such disgust in his voice that Harry feels both offended and embarrassed at the same time, his cheeks heating.
He robbed a bank, flew a dragon, almost got burned to ashes, got soaked in his professor’s blood, died, came back, and fought against a Dark Lord all in the span of a day and the longest night of his life. So excuse him if he doesn’t smell like flowers and unicorn fart after all that-
Wait.
“Did you say days? I’ve been asleep for two days?! Why didn’t you wake me up?” Ron and Hermione must be so worried. He had just vanished from Hogwarts without speaking to anyone first. Two days! A wave of nausea hits him like a punch to the gut at the mere idea of what could have happened during those two days. He recalls the lifeless body of Fred and how he should have stayed back to grieve with the Weasleys. Thinks of Remus and Tonks lying on the ground next to each other and how he should have been the one to break the news to Andromeda, but instead he had just practically disappeared to nap.
Kreacher throws him a vicious glare, deadly enough to cut through even Harry's blurry eyesight. “Kreacher tries to wake you up for supper, and Master Potter acts dead to the world. What is Kreacher supposed to do when Master refuses to wake up? Kreacher isn’t Master’s babysitter, humph!” With a snap of his fingers, the sheets disappear, and then another one makes new ones appear on top of the bed, obediently spreading out until there’s not a single wrinkle on them. “Shower now,” Kreacher orders. “Kreacher will have supper ready after Master isn’t smelling like Death anymore.”
"Alright, alright!" Harry stands up, more than a little bit annoyed. "Can you... I don't know... tell Ron and Hermione that I'm awake? And that I'm sorry I wasn't..."
"Does Kreacher looks like an owl to Master Potter?" Kreacher sneers at him and floats his glasses to him. "Now Master Potter can see Kreacher is no owl. Shower now," he repeats and, with a wave of his hand, shoves him out of the room and halfway down the corridor.
Having already gone so far, Harry huffs in annoyance as he puts on his glasses but does as he's told. He guesses he really needs a shower. And a change of clothes. Or clothes, period.
Inside the bathroom, he turns on the water and waits for it to warm up. In the meantime, Harry steps in front of the mirror and takes a good look at his face. He doesn't remember the last time he looked in the mirror, and with all that had happened, he feels like the reflection greeting him should look like a complete stranger. Instead, what greets him is just his tired face. His hair has gotten longer than he usually keeps it, and his face is gaunter than he has ever seen it. Nothing that can't be fixed with a quick haircut and a few hearty meals. And maybe a few more hours of sleep to get rid of the exhaustion casting shadows on his face and weighing down the line of his shoulders.
It's when he looks further down at his chest that the changes on his body make his vision blurry. Bruises and lacerations on his arms and shoulders. The locket's shape imprinted on his sternum, the chain that had choked him all the way back to that cold winter day still evident around his neck, even faded as it is. But it is the already scabbed-over scar that cracks his torso in the middle, a bigger version of the one splitting his forehead open, that steals the air out of his lungs. It's a wonder he hasn't noticed it until now as he gawks at his own reflection. It's not small enough to be ignored. The lightning scar stretches almost all the way up to his throat and down to his navel.
Evidence of an impossibility. The Killing Curse marking him for a second time. Undeniable proof that he had died, and the person behind the mirror now isn't the same as the one who had walked into that forest.
Staring at his own reflection, Harry finds himself thinking once again if he's dying. If Death will come to claim him already. But just like the first time, he's snapped out of it, this time by the huge racket Kreacher is making downstairs, most likely banging every single pot and kettle in the house.
Harry looks away from the stranger in the mirror and gets in the shower.