Word Count: 485

If he's honest, Harry hates himself for being so weak. He wakes, bolting upright and drenched in a cold sweat. It takes several seconds for his heartbeat to slow to a normal rate and for him to register that he's in his bedroom, that he's safe.

He's had the nightmares for more than a decade. Those lost in the battle haunt him, chasing him down crumbling castle corridors and demanding to know why he didn't save them. He never has an answer; all he can ever do is beg for forgiveness before waking up with a panic attack

With nothing else to do, he climbs out of bed. Ginny is still sleeping. Good. At least she can be oblivious to his demons. The last thing he wants is for someone to worry about him.

He makes his way to the kitchen and grabs a bottle of firewhiskey from the cabinet. It's reserved for special occasions, but Harry sometimes uses it as a way to numb the pain. He doesn't drink enough to mess himself up, just enough to take the edge off.

"Nightmares again?" Ginny asks as Harry takes his first sip.

He looks up, frowning. "I thought you were asleep."

His wife shakes her head and sits across from him. "I'm just good at being really quiet," she tells him. "I used to pretend to sleep so I could eavesdrop on my brothers."

Harry snorts. "Are you sure you weren't a Slytherin?"

It isn't enough to distract her. Ginny turns the conversation back to him, and Harry tries not to be resentful. "I know it was hard on you. The fact that you're alive is a miracle."

He knocks back his drink, relishing the burn as it goes down. He doesn't want to talk about miracles. It's all anyone has seemed to want to talk about over the past twelve years. He knows how lucky he is. He knows they look at him as the savior of the wizarding world, and they still worship him like he's some sort of god.

He knows and he hates it. What about Fred or Remus or Colin? What about any of countless people who have died? It isn't fair that he's alive and they aren't. Harry never asked for this.

And just like that, the tears begin to fall, and he realizes how bloody tired he is. Tired of nightmares. Tired of guilt. Tired just being Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

Ginny's arms are around him in an instant. He didn't even see her get up. The glass falls from his hand, shattering on the kitchen floor, but neither of them move to pick up the shards. "It's okay," she tells him. "It's going to be okay."

He isn't sure if he believes her, but he wants to so badly. Harry rests her head against her chest and takes a deep breath. They'll find a way.