Chapter Text
Harry had done it. He’d taken out Voldemort for the (how many times was it, now?) nth time, and had finally managed it for good. The war was finally over, and he could finally rest. That is, if the voices arguing over him would finally shut up. That would be greatly appreciated, thank you. Thank you.
…Okay, seriously? First he couldn’t have a good visitor in the afterlife (just Dumbledore, because the man couldn’t stop meddling even from beyond the grave), and now this? Just let a man sleep! Especially when he was in this much pain—something about that thought wasn’t right. Last time he’d died, the pain wasn’t there. It made the whole staying dead part much more tempting (the lack of pain and ability to join all of his deceased love ones—yeah. It had been hard not to take the train).
He tried to pay more attention to the very obnoxious voices, but his ears were ringing and his head was pounding so badly that he would almost be impressed that he’d managed to stay conscious after waking up (the almost was because he’d once been bitten by a basilisk and managed to kill a shade even as lava took over his veins. Pain was an old friend of his).
He managed to push down the pain enough to start piecing fragments of sentences together. Words like, “waking up” and “quiet” made enough appearances that Harry was about ready to turn his wand on himself. Bloody hell. He wasn’t dead.
Again.
At this point they’d have to call him The-Guy-Who-Cannot-Die-Like-A-Normal-Person. Or something. Wizards sucked at naming things. And transport. They really, really sucked at transport.
He groaned, and the voices flurried above him. Probably the Hospital Wing. Madame Pomfrey had been joking about reserving a bed for him since way back in his third year, and honestly, since he can’t stay away from the medical wing even after dropping out, it would’ve been sort of prophetic. And hilarious. Random students would be caught at all hours trying to sneak into Harry Potter’s saved bed, pictures would be taken, and—who knew what else. Yeah, on second thought, Harry was glad that she’d never actually done it.
He took a shaky breath that hurt his throat and sent fire through his lungs and almost collapsed his chest and forced himself to say his best friend’s name, although it came out as a strangled, “Mio?” instead. Eh. She’d know who he was referring to. Hermione was awesome like that.
“Oh! You’re actually awake, this time?” Definitely Madame Pomfrey’s voice, although something about it seemed off. And wait—this time? How many times had he drifted off? He tried to ask, but it came out as a groan instead. “Well, mostly awake, at least. Would you like some water, dear?”
Honestly, no. Harry knows what follows water—the interrogation, and the explanations that weren’t, and the pseudo-apologies. Which, why should Harry always need to apologize for saving the world—or at least Hogwarts—just because every adult in the magical world was useless? Well, at least if he started now, Madame Pomfrey would probably chase everybody off early. Harry felt even less willing to deal with people than usual. Maybe because he’d died—he’d died!—but he still wasn’t dead. That seemed unfair, somehow. Harry had been ready, really. That last duel had cinched the idea that they’d have to go together. Whatever. As long as Voldemort was actually gone this time, he could deal with the whole undead thing.
He forced himself up from the bed, into a position that could generously be called sitting if looked at with a tilted head through squinted eyes. Merlin, but he hurt.
Everything was black, and his ears were ringing again, so loudly that the voices had all but disappeared. It was probably an improvement. But why was it so dark? Madame Pomfrey never kept her wing this dark—oh. Duh. Eyelids. He had them.
He forced them open, sending shards of bright light piercing through his retinas. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the light. What he saw after a few moments was—a blur of colors, and incredibly fuzzy shapes. No glasses, then. He could see a definite blur of red, though it was maybe lighter than usual? And longer?
“Gin?” He checked, even though the color was wrong, even though there was too much of it. Maybe it was Susan? Or some volunteer, aiding in the aftermath of the war. Or his eyes playing tricks on him; without his glasses, maybe Ginny’s hair looked different.
“Absolutely not, young man!” Madame Pomfrey scolded. “There will be no alcohol consumption on my watch!”
“No, not…not gin. Ginny,” Harry breathed out, clutching at his ribs. Merlin, what had he done to himself? Surely whatever curse (Harry thought it was just another killing curse Voldemort had sent at him, but maybe the bastard had finally learned. Harry considered that for a moment. Yeah, right.) he’d been caught by hadn’t actually pulverized his internal organs?
“Aren’t you…?” He knew she wasn’t at this point. And if the hair was too dark to be Ginny’s, it was definitely too dark to be Susan’s. Some volunteer, then. Or maybe Madame Pomfrey had a secret granddaughter? Harry’d seen stranger.
“No, I’m not,” a young woman’s voice said gently, her tone turning the words into something almost musical. It was as familiar as his nightmares. “My name is Lily. What’s yours?”