Harry frowned and looked around. "Er. Looks like our house," he said. "And I know we're not at home, Gin. I told you, I remember everything. I remember coming here, I remember you - dying - and coming back," he grimaced, "and I remember being eleven years old for the last few weeks." He rubbed his eyes and peered at the clock. Of course this would happen in the middle of the bloody night. "Sort of," he added. "It's all a bit fuzzy, to be honest." He padded over to the bed and sat beside her, smiling despite himself at her confused face in the dim wandlight. "It's me, love," he said, kissing her cheek gently. "I'm back."