Harry Potter Oneshots

11: Five Stages of Grief

Harry awoke with a groan. The first feeling that registered in his lethargic body was the return of a dull ache pounding throughout his chest. Even with the potion that Madame Pomfrey had practically forced down his throat, his latest scar was wont to let him forget what had happened. He rubbed a hand over his t-shirt and was at least relieved to find the fabric dry--the evenings of sweaty nightmares had yet to torment him every night, though he wouldn't be surprised when they eventually did.  Perhaps he was still too exhausted for such fever dreams to come with such routine, not that he was complaining of course.

Though if he was still that exhausted, he did wonder why his body had forced him awake at what his younger self would consider an ungodly hour. He peered at the wristwatch the Weasleys had given him for his seventeenth birthday, seemingly a lifetime ago, and confirmed that it was barely after six o'clock. A year on the run, primarily in a forest, while constantly looking over your shoulder for an attacker apparently does wonders on your sleep schedule.

With one hand still rubbing his chest, trying to massage the ache away, Harry forced himself up and he untangled his legs from the sheets, trying not to disturb the bedroom's careful silence. Though when he finally did glance across the room, he saw Ron's sheets were thrown off and were unceremoniously dragging on the floor, and the door was slightly ajar. Frowning slightly, Harry approached the door and glanced down the empty staircase shrouded in darkness before backing up and shutting it closed again. If he had to guess, Ron had snuck out at some point in the night to keep Hermione company with her inevitable nightmares.

For some reason, that thought and the empty bedroom brought a pang of loneliness coursing through his already aching chest. Yet when he thought about seeing if Ginny or another of the Weasleys was awake yet, he found he had no interest  sitting beside them, forcing a smile, making idle chit-chat, and pretending everything was fine. So after brushing his teeth and running a perfunctory comb through his hair, he crept back to the threshold and stood on the landing of the stairs, listening intently for any noise or sound signaling that someone else was awake. Mercifully, nothing but silence greeted him and he padded softly down the staircase, careful to avoid all of the squeaking steps.

He made it down the first few flights of stairs unimpeded and felt a sense of calm overtake him when the kitchen came into view from the landing at the top of the last flight. But before he could move any further, a door creaked open above him. Harry cursed under his breath and wheeled around, irrational anger burning his skin that someone had already ruined his breakfast, his morning, his day. 

George stared back at him. Dark circles lay under his bloodshot eyes and his shoulders sagged like an empty bag. He blinked at Harry, neither entirely sure what to say.

"Hey," George whispered. Harry was not the least bit surprised to hear how hoarse his voice sounded.

"Hey."

George sniffed and looked down at his feet. "I was just going to make myself some hot cocoa to fill the time."

"I can't stop you," Harry snapped.

George glanced up at Harry, but instead of the hurt that he was accustomed to seeing on Hermione or Ron's face when he lashed out at them, George's face was still a blank slate, devoid of emotion. It was eerie. It was as if he had cried away all his tears and left nothing behind. He simply nodded and started to slump down the steps with loud thuds, not bothering to keep his steps quiet. 

Harry glared at George's back, still furious that his morning of solitude was interrupted. Furious that the person doing so was giving him nothing to argue about or take his frustration out on. Furious that he was here, waking up in a warm bed and a safe home, when so many others would never do so again. Furious over nothing and everything simultaneously, which made no sense at all and somehow added to his fury.