"They're their own people," Harry says firmly, setting the Prophet down with disdain. "They don't need labels."

"Well, that's the human race for you, innit?" says Ron; he offers Harry and George - whose gaze is fixed on the window over his brother's shoulder - a sympathetic shrug.

Harry heaves a sigh, unconsciously attempting to flatten his hair. It's just like old times, sitting at the Burrow's kitchen table discussing the Prophet's latest article, although the table's much larger now, magically expanded to accommodate everyone it needs to these days. Of course, it's not like Harry doesn't see Ron at work every day, but sometimes he does forget just how much he enjoys spending time with George.

Not everything's the same - Harry has a few more scars than he used to, Ron sits a little taller in his chair, George's eyes are brighter than they were when they did this before. So many things have changed.

The changes aren't necessarily bad.

Just different.

"I s'pose it is our fault," says Harry, and scratches the back of his neck. "We did the naming, didn't we?"

A grin spreads suddenly across George's face. He gives Harry a quick backhand whap on the arm, points out the window with, "Look."

Harry leans to the side and Ron turns, exposing James and Fred running toward the orchard, away from the paddock, frequently casting glances over their shoulders as though to check they aren't being followed.

That's my boy," George says, sniffing and wiping a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye. "Barely seven and already knows to abandon the scene of the crime! I'm so proud..."

Ron rolls his eyes. Ignoring him, George turns his grin on Harry. He tries to smile back but -

But Fred's hair is longer and black and tangled and they were sprinting like professionals and James was so much more sure of himself, smirking all over the place at the redhead he loves -

At Lily -

At his sister -

Harry's own foot presses down on his other foot's toes, hard. Mentally, he slaps himself across the face, grabs his head and dunks it into ice cold water, coming up gasping for air. Struggling to control his breathing, Harry shakes his head, pulls himself back to reality. He forces that smile with so much ease, practiced and polished and perfected until it almost passes for normal.

"Just like their namesakes," he says.

Ron's eyes narrow infinitesimally. He's been caught.

But after while, neither Weasley has said a thing and his heart has stopped banging and Harry is sane again. He's used to it by now.

Because it's happened before.

XxX

Albus is barely a day old and they're back home and Harry is trying to rock him back to sleep - though he isn't crying; he's a very quiet baby - when he panics.

What is that? he thinks, brushing away quickly yet softly the messy black hair on his brow. What is that?

And it's there, just left to the center of his forehead. Harry runs his thumb over it - is he merely remembering how it's raised slightly, or is that how it actually feels?

(Is it there? Really?)

Harry swallows.

"No, Al," he mutters. "Not you. I won't -"

On won't, he blinks hard. Once his eyes have reopened, it disappears. He inhales deeply.

This is Albus.

Not Harry.

No lightning scar.

He lets the breath go, pulls his son to his chest and kisses his forehead - smooth, perfect, unscarred forehead. Albus's bright green eyes, so like his father's, slide shut.

(Am I going insane?)

XxX

The hallucinations continue. At eight, Albus is sporting a black eye made by his (only) cousin's fist; at eleven, Lily is ghostly pale and having the life drained out of her because she wanted a friend; at fourteen, James is a prick who hexes anyone that gets in his way, all to impress a girl -

Only -

They're not.

(Am I? Are they?)

And he - he knows that. He does. He makes sure they know that, too. But sometimes, he thinks he needs new glasses.

And James wants to be an Auror and he is and it's inevitable that he gets assigned to Teddy's squad -

And something goes wrong -

They're both still and pale and Teddy Remus has slashes across his face and his hair is sandy brown and he's - he's -

James' face is unmarked and although his arm isn't, it's so easy not to see the hospital bed he lies on and imagine his body crumpled to the ground in a Godric's Hollow cottage at a too-young twenty-one (nineteen) years; so easy to imagine James -

As James.

(Somebody? Anybody?)

XxX

When Lily is sixteen, she is charming boys with winks and hair-flips and stunning smiles that are just like her mother's and make her boyfriend jealous, except her boyfriend broke up with her to protect her (Did he? Did I?) and there are welts across her back and she shouldn't be at Hogwarts because it's a prison -

(Is it?)

This one is so strong Harry almost lets it take him, almost yanks her away from the boy isn't there, who isn't protecting her; then, just has his arm starts to tingle like it wants to move, that ice water sensation crashes over him and he focuses and nearly runs to the bathroom without even excusing himself.

Closes the door.

(Can anyone hear me?)

Locks it.

Flips on the tap, splashes cold water into his face. And again. And again. And leaves it running, gripping the sides of the sink with numb fingers and looks into the cracked mirror at twenty versions of himself, face white, cheeks hollow, dark circles under dark eyes -

He blinks. The mirror isn't cracked anymore, but he remains the same.

He blinks another time. Nothing.

(Anything?)

And again.

And this illusion isn't going away.

He wants to scream, pull his hair out, pound his fists against the wall and he does, except when he opens his eyes, his throat isn't tearing and his hands aren't throbbing but God does his head hurt.

(Didn't I?)

He waits for most of him to stop shaking and when he emerges after a few minutes (Hours? Days?) only his hands still shiver. He grunts an excuse and thinks that Ginny is the only one who notices that the front part of his hair is wet.

"I think I'm going insane," he says to her, after everyone's gone to bed and it's the middle of the night and he knows she's still awake. He sits with his head in his hands on the edge of the bed and doesn't lift it at her touch on his shoulders.

"You're not insane." It's all she says. And she puts her fingers under his chin like she had to when the scars were fresh and pulls him up out of the rubble and makes him look at her in the moonlight that comes in through the windows.

And her face is twisted in pain because her ankle is broken and she's being tortured and her heart is shattered because he's dead and nothing is left -

But no, she's just looking at him as she always has, like nothing else matters; and Harry closes his eyes because he just doesn't want to see anymore.

"Help me," he whispers desperately.

(Save me.)

(Please.)

So Ginny kisses him -

And the sky lights up like a million new days -

And her hair beneath his fingers is glowing golden red in the bright morning sun and her lips against his are the only thing in the world that makes sense and the scars are still there, but life goes on. The ghosts have passed on and the wounds have healed and although the flesh is still raw, he can see straight for the first time in years and this is one hallucination he doesn't want to end.

And he no longer has to blink himself back to sanity.

A/N: Um... wow. I... don't really know what this is. It started out as Harry being protective, but now it's... this. I really hope it makes sense...

This is by far the most insane thing I've ever written, so really, any thoughts are completely welcomed. I'm actually really nervous about what you guys think about this... PLEASE review, and especially no favoriting without reviewing. But remember, if you review anonymously, I can't answer your questions!

Um... thanks for reading? Hope you liked it? I'm not even sure with this one...

~whispered touches

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. It belongs to J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended.