She sits across from him and eats her dinner in small bites with glances up at him. His food untouched, his glass still full. She thinks, he is a ghost.

The family is asleep in their rooms upstairs and they can even hear the faintness of comfort snores. These late-night meals have been her idea and his obligation, if only to nourish himself. He won't come down from the attic room at the very top of this crooked house to eat with all of them. She wonders if he is perhaps waiting for the battle-scars to heal over. It could be that he can't stand to see the empty spot at the table where her brother should be. He is constantly bruiting in guilt and tonight, she can't take it much longer.

She prods his foot with hers under the table and gives a sturdy nod toward his full plate. He stares back at her before picking up his fork in compliance. He eats in the same manner as her, slow, deliberate.

With a few flicks of her wand, the dishes do themselves in a methodical, magical working of water and soap. It was a trick learned from her mother. He stares at the plates and knives as they walk up the rickety stairs to their rooms. She takes his hand and climbs.

When they arrive at her door, he silently thanks her for the food and expects her to retreat so that he can also retreat to the attic, his hovel. She whispers so quietly, "Come in for a bit, will you?"

He hesitantly steps forward and takes her cheek in his hand. "Get some sleep." And that is that for the night.

In the morning, she hovers by his door and listens for sounds. She has tuned out her mother's cooking food, Hermione and Ron's bickering, Charlie's recitation of a Daily Prophet article. She presses her ear to the door and expects to hear soft crying, cursing, pages of books turning, anything.

She waits, but hears nothing. Downstairs, she looks up at the ceiling as if he would fall through it. Her mother notices and squeezes her shoulder, whispering,

"All in good time, dear."

But she hates time. She hates the hours that have gone by, she hates that it's really been two weeks, she hates time because it's plagued her for months. Stuck in Hogwarts and colonized by the Death Eaters, time was what made it unbearable. All the time she knew nothing of whereabouts, horcruxes, hallows, death. Time was death.

That night, on the same hour as each night, he slips down the stairs like smoke and into the kitchen where she is a bit behind on his food. The pot is bubbling and nearly finished and he stands against the countertop.

"Why don't we play a bit of quiddich in the morning? I haven't played in…God knows…" she begins.

He looks sideways, recalling into memories. "Neither have I…"

"So you'll come out tomorrow, yeah?" she is almost eager for him.

He shrugs and turns his head sideways. "Maybe."

Her disappointment gets the best of her. "Why are you still doing this, Harry?"

"What?"

"The war's over…the f-funerals are over." she says. "It's over…"

"I know that." he pulls his arms across his chest and breathes deeply. She finds she loves the sound of his lungs filling up.

"Than come downstairs in the morning and play a bloody match with us."

The next day, she finds herself suspended high above the ground and anxiously gripping the quaffle under her arm. The breeze on her neck feels great and reminds her that it's summer. She's been wondering whether school will continue for her…for some reason, it feels as though she's already graduated. She marvels in the quality of the day and soaks in the beauty of watching him, higher than everybody, chase after the fluttering snitch. When he catches it, she cheers louder than anyone.

After they've washed, he goes back to his attic cave and shuts the door. She still feels suspended above the air and she can only wait for the night to arrive.

This time, she's cooked his dinner already and has the table set in advance. He comes down the stairs, as she knew he would. "You played really well today. Not too rusty."

He must be hungry from playing today because he digs in without any of her insistence. "I guess quiddich is like riding a bicycle…"

She doesn't understand. "A what?"

'Nothing…a muggle expression…never mind." he closes the conversation.

Because she's been thinking about it all day, she asks him what's on her mind. "Are you planning on finishing seventh year?"

He pauses his chewing and looks down into his plate. "I…I hadn't really thought about it."

She waits for him to finish eating, which he does quickly. Every night is the same…ritualistic. She flicks her wand to clean the dishes and he starts to leave up the stairs. But tonight her boldness has bonded with the cold, concrete, desperate, loathing fact that she simply misses him and has missed him. Now that he is here, and not traversing the country, not in mortal peril, but also not quite himself- she is not willing to miss him further. So she takes his wrist roughly and pulls him with force back to the spot where he should be standing and she says to him,

"You'd better kiss me already."

He does, familiarly, and suddenly they are in the desolate areas of the castle with no worry but the present. She clutches onto him for longer than necessary and breathes in his taste, covets the stubble against her cheek. She weeps, he sooths, they love, they kiss, they make love, he marries her, she's pregnant, he's a father, she's a mother. It's a future she can see if she squints, even from this spot in the kitchen of The Burrow. Translucent, like the fog she's breathed into his glasses.