When Ron asks him, eyes not meeting, as the sun sets on the second day, Harry stops.
He is thinking of crunching leaves and waving branches and vicious laughter and then silence.
âItâs like a punch in the stomach,â he says.
When Hermione asks him, with a soft voice and her head on his shoulder, Harry frowns.
His parentsâ graves spring to mind: strong and proud under all that snow.
âItâs like a burial,â he tells her.
When George asks him, with too many tears in his desperate eyes, Harry holds his breath.
He is trying to remember how it feels to laugh.
âItâs like waiting for the punchline,â he lies.
When Neville asks him, with a trembling voice and a nervous smile, Harry sniffs.
He can smell wet grass and stale dirt and the sharp scrape of fresh blood and a little bit of fear.
âItâs like tripping over your own feet,â he offers.
When Luna asks him, with an expression that suggests she already know the answer, Harry sighs.
His head is starting to pound and his brain begins to buzz, bouncing around his skull.
âItâs like waking up in reverse,â he shrugs.
When Ginny asks him, with sweaty twisted fingers and a dying fire in her voice, Harry has to press his hands against his face.
He sees popping lights and remembers a lot of green, a lot of red, a lot of noise.
âI donât know,â he confesses.
When Fleur asks him, sharp pointed syllables after too many glasses of wine, Harry almost laughs.
He feels something dripping at the corner of his mind, but doesnât care to pursue it.
âItâs like the pause between two songs on the radio,â he answers.
When a reporter asks him for the twentieth time, shuffled paper and an enchanted microphone in hand, Harry hexes her.
He hears voices ringing in his ears, can imagine tomorrowâs headline.
âNone of your fucking business,â he chokes.
When Teddy asks him all those years later, with a creased photograph that shows a tall man in grey robes and a woman with bubblegum hair, Harry closes his eyes.
He is back at the edge of the forest, staring at faded impressions of his family, wondering the same thing himself. His godfatherâs words float through the air with a fragile sort of truth.
âItâs quicker and easier than falling asleep,â he whispers.
