Harry walked so fast, without actually running, that the soles of his trainees hardly seemed to touch the black asphalt of the road that glistered in the light from the street lamps. His heart raced. Why had he decided to visit Draco tonight? And what was Snape doing at the ward at this hour? He knew Snape cared deeply for Malfoy, but it was past midnight all the same. Snape had a work to go to in the morning, did he not? Harry had deduced from studying the Daily Prophet from time to time, that Snape had left Hogwarts for laboratory research and advanced Potion making. He had not, during any of his visits back in Britain, tried to approach Snape. With good cause, he thought bitterly to himself. The tone of voice when Snape had exclaimed ”Potter” was the same stern intonation he had used during all the years at school when he hated Harry. 

The bitter-sweet memory of those few months when Snape and he worked together to find and destroy the horcruxes, almost overwhelmed Harry. He hunched and hugged himself. He wore a Muggle jacket of duvet but the cold wind of March found its way inside by the collar. Tears prickled behind Harry’s eyes and he felt the prodromes of the chills surge through his body. He forced himself to move quicker. He needed to get back to his tent before the Ague broke out. 

He lived in the same tent that Hermione, Ron and he had used during the hiding from Voldemort. He brought it when he went South and he dressed it under one of the bridges in London when he returned North. He always used disillusionment charms and spells that repelled Muggles. He had managed to go undetected by the wizard world and the media for almost a year now. 

Harry was used to walking. When he was back in London to desensitise from the sun, he always walked. It was the only thing that helped with the cold - to be in constant movement. Up and down the streets of London, from one end of the huge town to the other. He knew every different quarter by heart by now. When he did not walk, he used to sit in a Muggle library and read. He seldom adventured himself into the wizard parts of London. He always avoided the area around the Ministry of Magic and tonight was the first time he had gone to St Mungo’s. A few times he had entered Diagon Allay to retrieve money from Gringott’s and to purchase books at Flourish and Blotts, always under cover of his invisibility cloak.

Harry was too upset to Apparate right now. If he were to try, he might splinch himself. He had not spoken to another wizard in almost a year, but Snape was, strangely enough, the person that used to linger longest in his mind when he thought about his former friends. Although he had known since that day at the battle that the man would not want to see him again, not after he caused that attack on the Malfoys, it had been a shock to meet the wizard in flesh. Harry deeply regretted the loss of his mother’s friend who, for a short time, had been such a support to him during the hard days of the war. 

He had tried. He had really tried, Harry told himself. During the days after the battle he had lent the power of his new wand to healing and to reparations and he had tried to participate in ongoing life. But the world had begun to seem more and more unreal as the hours after Voldemort’s demise passed. He watched Ron and Hermione who were torn between the happiness over being free and having each other, and the sorrow over Ron’s brother’s death. 

Harry had tried to avoid watching Ginny and Neville as it ate his heart to do so. He tried to be generous and comprehensive. He liked Neville and he loved Ginny. He wanted them to be happy. He, Harry, should not even be alive, so how could he object to their union? The Weasley family was absorbed by grief over Fred Weasley’s death and Harry could only stand back with lowered head in respect of their loss. 

What if he had killed Voldemort sooner? Because he did kill him in the end and finally, it had not been so difficult, had it? So why had he not done it before and saved people’s lives? No one seemed to object to the fact that Harry had become a murderer, that he had used an unforgivable. It seemed all natural to them - they did not even consider that Harry might have qualms of conscience because of his deed. He did though. The green light of the Avada Kedavra haunted him in his dreams - the murder of his parents and the killing of Voldemort intermingling in a sickening way.

Harry had become increasingly cold those days after the battle. He had waited for Snape to return from Draco’s side at St Mungo’s. Although he dreaded Snape’s reproaches for his actions during the battle, he still had hope that his mother’s friend might see his needs and help him, as he had done during the previous months. 

They all lived at the castle after the battle and Harry waited for three days for Snape to come back. When Snape finally did, it was only to retrieve some things from his quarters and return to St Mungo’s. Snape had been staggering with exhaustion when Harry crossed him in the Entrance Hall. The man had clearly not slept many hours since the battle. 

Narcissa had been taken to custody, like all the other Death Eaters, except Snape, who quickly had been able to prove his true allegiance. Narcissa Malfoy was broken by the death of her husband and in hysterics from the uncertain fate of her son. Snape tried to help her to his best ability and plead with the authorities that she might stay with her son at St Mungo’s until he was stabilised. They refused however - the woman had been loyal to Voldemort - and Snape had found himself forced to flip back and fro between St Mungo’s and the provisory prison at the Ministry with not very encouraging news about Draco’s health. He told Harry and Minerva McGonagall about his efforts, as he stopped in the Hall on his way to his quarters.

”It would probably have been a more merciful fate for Draco not to be Renervated at all,” he had ended bitterly. ”The effects of the curse seem to be permanent. There is little hope, but we cannot quit on him,” Snape had said. 

Those words had made Harry’s chest constrict and he had had difficulties to breathe. It was his fault that Draco Malfoy had become a target of Voldemort’s, his fault that the young Death Eater had been hit by Voldemort’s curse and his fault, finally, that Draco had not been allowed to die a painless death, but been Renervated back to a half-life. No one had noticed Harry’s angst and Snape had been gone again within an hour. Harry had left, alone, for Mexico within twelve hours. Only Hagrid knew of his destination.

The increasing dampness of the cold air told Harry that he approached the Themes. Shivers were running through him by now and tears were silently falling down his cheeks. He put his hands deep down in the pockets of his worn jeans and crossed the bridge. He longed to be at the other side, descend the stairs and climb into his tent and let himself go into the half-consciousness of the Ague that would no doubt ravage his body until the next morning.