Who: Harry and Ginny What: idk. Coping. When: Thursday night, just after this Where: their cottage, their bedroom Warnings: sad? Status: Incomplete
Harry's feet felt like lead, but he made it up the stairs to the bedroom he was sharing with Ginny. He still wasn't thinking of it as "their" bedroom, or "home"; this place wasn't there, but at the moment he was too exhausted to care. It was enough like their real bedroom to be comfortingly familiar, and when he reached the bed, Harry flopped down on it on his back, staring at the ceiling.
He didn't fall asleep, but he wasn't completely conscious of everything that was going on around him either. If anyone that was still in the house was making noise, it escaped him entirely; Jamie's cries might have jolted him out of his stupor by appealing to his paternal instincts, but that didn't happen. After what felt like forever, but could easily have been very little time at all - Harry still wasn't convinced time passed normally in this place, anyway - he kicked off his shoes, but couldn't be bothered to settle properly against the pillows, or to take off his glasses. Only his feet seemed to be cooperating; his mind wasn't even losing consciousness properly, when what he really wanted most was sleep.
Well. That wasn't quite true, and maybe that was why sleep wasn't coming to him. But what he wanted most right now wasn't going to happen, not yet anyway. Right now he should concentrate on sleeping, which was being just as infuriatingly elusive as it had been the last couple of nights. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, mentally willing himself to lose consciousness.