“Cooking and potion-making have a lot in common,” Molly Weasley told Harry. She was stirring a giant cauldron full of a stew that smelled richly of onion, cumin and cloves.  “There are easy enough recipes where you just toss the ingredients together, but once you want to do anything more palatable you need to feel your concoction react to each new ingredient to decide on just the right amount needed.”

Harry watched attentively as she added some turmeric to the curry. He had taken to assist Mrs Weasley in the evenings when she prepared dinner at the Burrow. The pretext for learning to cook was that he considered going to live on his own soon. Even if he was used to a certain amount of starving from growing up with the Dursleys, the months spent in a tent with Ron and Hermione last year as they tried to avoid being caught by Lord Voldemort’s followers had taught him what real destitution meant. Cooking was not to be taken lightly.

Harry’s second motive in joining in Mrs Weasley’s culinary activities was to distract her mind from thoughts of her lost son, Fred, who had died in the final battle against Voldemort at Hogwarts two months ago.  She was devastated, and Harry was aware of the effort it took her to rise every morning and care for the rest of her family. Grief had such a tight grip on her that there were times when Mrs Weasley would not respond to a question until the third or fourth time asked. Her contours and shape were dissolving since her clothes hung loose on her since some weeks and she was so altered in her appearance that Harry sometimes found Mr Weasley staring at his own wife with dread in his eyes.

Harry had been impressed that day in May by Mrs Weasley who had taken part with unexpected panache in the final battle. She had proven to be a witch with much greater power than her stout and homely self betrayed. It was she who ultimately defeated the particularly cruel - and to the Dark Lord unswervingly devoted - Death Eater by the name Bellatrix Lestrange. It had been a victory nearly as important as the one Harry gained over Voldemort.

“Potions don’t even have to taste well,” Mrs Weasley muttered partly to herself, partly at Harry. “They only have to work. But the principles are the same... Time to add the remaining seasoning,” she continued. “Look here Harry, this is for inventing a new recipe... When you have no instructions to go on, you let your wand rest on the side of the cauldron and you will feel a slight trembling in your wand which tells you that you have added a sufficient amount of the ingredient.  There, did you feel it?”

Harry nodded.

“You try adding the coriander now... There you go – very good, you stopped just in time!  You felt the twinge in your wand then?”

Another nod of the head and he smiled slightly at her.

“Now, let’s taste it as well. You don’t do that to potions, usually,” she added warningly.

Harry thought that if he could make Mrs Weasley forget, if only for a short period of time, her grief and get on with everyday business, it was no sacrifice of his to give up his time to cooking, even if he knew Ron would scorn at it. Fortunately, Ron was not at home these days.

Harry had a third reason to engage in the chore of making dinner, which was to keep his own mind busy. Getting rid of Voldemort should have brought the world back to harmony, but there was so much damage done, so many persons killed with so many grieving and paralysed mourners left behind that that nothing was the same. Harry had a hard time to keep painful memories from intruding on him in daytime, and he simply dreaded the nights.

Harry added pinches of cinnamon and ginger to the stew at Mrs Weasley’s directions and was awarded by her praise.

“You have really sensitive hands, Harry. They pick up the tiniest shift. Very good indeed! As long as you stay with Harry, Ginny - and I really hope you will - you might not have to learn cooking after all – he’ll be the expert at your house. Not that you have shown any interest hitherto... I’ve quite given up on you.”  Mrs Weasley addressed her daughter who stood frowning at the doorpost and watched her mother and boyfriend at work.

Harry turned around to meet the irritated gaze of Ginny. What was it now? She often seemed to be frustrated with him – he did not know what to do about it.

“There are more important and enjoyable things to do, mother, than to waste time on cooking,” said Ginny curtly and Mrs Weasley clenched her jaws without retorting. “Harry, I want a word,” Ginny continued in a voice that signalled she would not bear with contradiction and turned on her heel.

Harry left Mrs Weasley to finish the stew and followed Ginny into her room. She lifted her slender arm gracefully and shut the door with a spell. She had turned seventeen last spring and was finally allowed to use magic freely. He looked at her long shining ginger hair and his heart ached with tenderness. He met her beautiful light brown eyes which, however, looked back at him accusingly.

It was still hard for him to understand that they were actually back together. Harry had broken up their short relationship from sixth year when Dumbledore died and left her from fear that Voldemort might harm her. They had not seen much of each other the past year until the death of the dark wizard. In the midst of the sorrow and confused feelings of guilt and emptiness that followed, Ginny was his major reason to live.

In contrast to the other members of the Weasley family, Ginny did not cry, grieve or talk of the events of that devastating day at Hogwarts two months ago. Harry often noticed that she grew irritated with her siblings and with her parents as they dwelt upon the past atrocities. Ginny wanted to ignore what had happened and escape the house as much as possible. Harry tried not to impose his own grief upon her, and to be patient with her shifts of mood. He let her take him on excursions to beaches or to the forest or wherever she fancied, as long as it was quite deserted places. He was not up to big company these days.

“Will you sleep with me tonight?” Ginny launched defiantly. Harry lifted an eyebrow. She did not sound very inviting.

“I’ll certainly go to bed with you...” Harry began politely and narrowed his eyes as he looked at her, “...right now if you want to”. His eyes warmed with an amused sparkle at her and she seemed to soften the least little bit. “And tonight,” he added generously, “but…” He hesitated slightly. Her eyes darkened immediately again and she crossed her arms over her chest.

“But you’ll not stay to go to sleep with me,” she filled in, gazing out of the window. Harry remained silent for a few seconds. He wanted to fulfil her wishes so much.

“There’s no point,” he said softly, “I’ll only wake you up. And if I take the sleeping draught I will simply pass out. And it’ll only get worse the next night,” he added in a low voice.

“I thought Mother had stopped giving you the sleeping draught?” asked Ginny. “You’ve already used it long enough. It’s dangerous to continue.”

“She did stop,” he answered. “I don’t like taking it either, but I’ve made some of my own - don’t tell her. I only intend to take it every third or fourth night,“ he countered at her disapproving look. “I get less than three hours sleep a night! I wouldn’t stand up if I didn’t take it now and again,” he whispered pleadingly. “I can’t help it - you don’t know what it’s like.” A streak of desperation crept into his voice.

“I heard you, the first nights,” she reminded him. “You woke up the whole house with your screams - it was horrible! Do you mean it hasn’t improved? It’s been five weeks now.” She looked at him suspiciously.

“Do you think I’m lying?” he answered heatedly. “Do you really think I don’t want to be with you? That I’m making it up as an excuse?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you think I’m too much... that I want too much... You won’t go out dancing with me either...” she said sullenly and went quiet.

“We’ve been to Muggle places to dance, I don’t mind that,” objected Harry. “But I still don’t want to go to any wizard clubs,” he added firmly. “I’m not up to being recognised by everyone and playing the Saviour-of-the-wizard-world part right now. You can understand that, can’t you?” he pleaded with her.

“I just want you to be well. I want everything to go back to normal and to enjoy life a bit,” Ginny explained to him. “I’m seventeen now. Voldemort is gone. We’re supposed to be free and happy... get on with our lives... If your nightmares are not getting better, you need to do something about them. I’m worried about you,” she said and her eyes filled with tears first in anger but her voice softened as she went on and tears finally brimmed over as much from frustration as from concern.

“I am doing something,” answered Harry quietly. “They’re not usual nightmares you know,” he defended himself. “I… I’ve been reading a lot to make out if I could heal myself from them somehow. With Hermione gone, I’ve been left to do the work all by myself... and I haven’t found anything useful yet,” he added dejectedly.

“Does it have to do with your scar then?” Ginny asked uncertainly. “You said that Voldemort is gone from your head. Isn’t he?”

“He is – I’m quite certain,” said Harry. “My scar never prickles and the headaches are gone. I can read for hours and remember things better than before. I don’t even need my glasses any more. My bad eye-sight was an adverse effect from having Voldemort’s soul attached to my brain. So you see - that part really is gone. Days are tolerable... This is something that happens at night. I don’t know what it’s about. Last night I passed out from pain, several times, so it’s getting worse. I wish Dumbledore was still alive...”

Harry’s chest suddenly felt tight and made it difficult to breathe. Ginny stepped forward and hugged him. They stayed silent, clutching at each other for a long while.

“You need to do something,” repeated Ginny as she lifted her head to look him in the eyes. Harry laughed hollowly.

“Yeah, can you see me walk into St Mungo’s Hospital asking for an examination? It would be all over the Daily Prophet in no time. Vanqueur or Vanquished? Harry Potter going Mad after Victory. The Boy who should not have survived fails to adjust to normal life. I really don’t think I could face it - I had rather live as an eremite in a cave somewhere!” Harry said savagely.

“Or shut up at Grimmauld Place – that’s your plan, isn’t it?” Ginny exploded at Harry who turned his head away without answering her. “Have you spoken to Father?” pleaded Ginny.

“I did, when I started to have the nightmares. He asked your mother to make me the sleeping draughts,” said Harry and began to pace back and fro. “He also sent me Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Auror, who was kind enough to see me... but he had no clue, just thought it was overstraining... said it was not unusual. And Kingsley is the Minister of Magic now. They’re so busy cleaning up after Voldemort, and your father too is burdened by grief - I’m not bothering them another time. I’m sick of drawing attention to myself. Sick of needing special treatment. Sick of having people worry about me!” Harry gestured angrily and turned exasperated towards Ginny. “Not you,” he added hastily in a milder tone when he saw her eyes fire up.

A knock on the door made them turn their heads and Ginny’s older brother, George, opened up just enough for them to see an earless side of a ginger head and one sad eye. “Dinner’s ready,” he said tonelessly and shut the door immediately behind him.

“I wonder whether he’ll ever be himself again?  When Fred went it was like half of him died as well,” muttered Ginny. “And you...” She pointed threateningly at Harry.  “...I give you another week, or I’ll take you to see a healer at St Mungo’s myself!”

Harry smiled faintly and followed her down to the kitchen. His mute reply: “No way!” hang between them as they settled down at the silent table to enjoy an exceptionally tasty curry that nobody really noticed.

After dinner they gathered in the living room. Ginny’s oldest brother Bill and his French wife Fleur talked in low voices to each other in one corner. Mr and Mrs Weasley were sitting in silence side by side. Percy, who had been long estranged from the family, but had realised his mistake and returned to fight with them at the very last moment at Hogwarts, sat in an armchair going through memos from the Ministry where he had kept a job. George was by himself at a side table and looked with unseeing eyes at ordering lists from the joke-shop he and his twin brother had been running until Fred’s death. Once in a while he shook his head and started reading from the top of the roll again, but never got to the bottom line.  

Harry sat by the fire that had been lit as it was a rather raw and damp evening of August. It might have been the light from the flames and shadows that played on his face, but he suddenly looked older than his eighteen, and the absence of the glasses he used to wear accentuated his high cheekbones. It was a handsome face albeit a bit hollowed and pale beneath the sunburn. He sat very still, as if frozen, while his inner roared to get up and punch the air of the room that was thick with grief. His arms ached from restraining himself from doing so.

He thought of Ron and Hermione and missed them intensely. With what they had been through together last year, it would have been a comfort to have them close. Just to hear them tease each other would have distracted him from the heavy thoughts.

But if anyone deserved to get away from his strange conditions and endless troubles, he reflected bitterly, it was them. They had risked their lives to go with him last year in quest of Voldemort’s horcruxes. They had been hurt and wounded and terrified. The road towards the fateful fight against Voldemort had been winding and difficult.

At the final desperate hours preceding the battle that led to the killing of Voldemort, Ron and Hermione had at last found each other and acknowledged their love. It had been obvious to Harry for some time but Ron and Hermione themselves had not dared to pronounce their affection face to face, because of pride on each side and fear of rejection. At the end of the battle they were more happy and relieved than anyone else.

With Voldemort gone, however, Hermione wanted to leave for Australia in search for her parents. She had sent them abroad to avoid endangering them when she joined in the hunt for the horcruxes. It had been decided that Ron would go with her on the journey. They had left Harry at the Burrow. He did not want new adventures, but only longed to be with Ginny and slowly get out of the haze of feelings that followed Voldemort’s death.

Harry let his mind wander to that final battle where he had walked deliberately to his death, but survived and then managed to kill Voldemort - just like the Prophesy had once said: “...neither can live while the other survives”. And it was him who survived. The feeling was unreal. He saw masses of wounded and dead bodies before his eyes. They laid spread all over the grounds and on the floor in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Harry was not aware that his breath had quickened and that tears had started to stream down his cheeks, before he heard Ginny’s cold voice beside him.

“I want to go out, are you coming?”

Mrs Weasley, who had noticed Harry’s tears shot Ginny a reproaching look and started to get up from the sofa, obviously in an attempt to scold her daughter.

“It’s all right,” said Harry quickly and stood up. “I want to go, Mrs Weasley. It’s nothing... To Buxton...” he added sternly for Ginny as he dried his eyes unceremoniously with the back of his hand, “ ...not to London.” Buxton was the nearest Muggle town, where he and Ginny had gone dancing before. It was not as busy and as uncomfortable as London, in Harry’s mind. He knew Ginny preferred the big clubs of the capital, but he just didn’t have the strength for it.

“Oh, all right,” she said impatiently and they left.  

***

It was two o’clock at night when Harry rose from Ginny’s bed to dress himself, careful not to disturb her. She must have been on her guard however for she said without stirring:

“You’re going then?”

Harry paused.

“We discussed it before, Ginny, we shouldn’t start again,” he said tiredly. “I’ll soon be able to go to sleep and then I had better be at the shed. I made it soundproof. I disturb no one out there.”

Ginny drew her breath.

“You sleep on a mattress on a concrete floor, in the filth, in the middle of Daddy’s Muggle collection and all kind of rubbish,” she said indignantly.

“Yeah, some place for an All-Time-Wizard-Hero, isn’t it?” said Harry bitterly. His countenance softened when he heard sobs coming from the bed. This was worse than anything: His tough, beautiful, lively, firing Ginny was crying dejectedly.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hand. He stroked it gently with his other hand, stroked her arm, wiped the tears in her face gently with the back of his hand and caressed her beautiful neck and collar bones softly with his fingers as she turned towards him. She was silent but breathed quickly.

“How can your hands feel so powerful when their touch is so light?” she whispered and drew him down to her.

The second time he stood up from the bed, she was still awake and watched him silently. He kneeled down by her side. He could just make out her eyes in the dark.

“I have considered writing to him,” Harry said hesitantly. ”It might be the last solution.”

“Write to who?” she asked blankly.

“To the man Dumbledore trusted all serious Dark Art injuries,” Harry said tonelessly. “To the former Death Eater who, beside myself, probably knew Lord Voldemort best. The man who hates me and who I have hated more than anyone, but was mistaken in.” He shook his head slowly and frowned. “The man I thought I saw die after the attack by Voldemort’s snake, but who miraculously survived,” he added.

“Professor Snape!” Ginny whispered and her eyes widened.