The scar on his forehead has not pained Harry for nineteen years, but other scars twinge every day. They age him, cramp his movement, stare at him from the mirror. They remind him that the present is shaped by the past.
The scars show when he comes back to an empty house with no note two weeks after the wedding and begins to panic, because if Ginny is gone she could be dead. They show when he tries to discuss dividing chores with her, and feels simultaneously a responsibility for everything and a resentment at doing anything. They show when he stares at his newborn son for the first time and feels an echo of Remus’ impulse to run away. He may not be a werewolf, but he is too old (inside), too poor (of spirit), too dangerous to touch his warrior’s hands to these fragile fingers.
When little James lies to him for the first time, and the reprimand sticks in his throat, Harry may as well be in fifth year staring at his bleeding hand. When Albus comes in from the yard clutching his forehead, Harry freezes a moment before realizing that his son has a bruise, not a curse scar. When Lily Luna screams because she sees a spider, Harry manages to squish it, but promptly disappears to the kitchen to calm himself with a dose of chocolate.
His children never write lines. They never wear hand-me-downs. They never get scolded for breaking things with accidental magic or get left alone at unfamiliar train stations. They don’t take family camping trips. They do go to the Quidditch World Cup, but Harry refuses to get tickets for the top box.
Scars can come in handy, Dumbledore said once. Harry is not sure, for sometimes they make the past seem more real than the present. Even when the scars do not ache, they remain to remind him of struggle and pain and fear.
Even when all is well, he can hardly believe it to be so.
