Insomnia

Harry lay on his bed in the dark, absent-mindedly fiddling with his wedding band and staring at the ceiling. He thought about Hermione's words.

"You need to do something about it, Harry."

Three years. Three years of sleeping alone, of solitary meals, of feeling sick whenever a redheaded woman passed him on the street. Three years of turning down dinner invitations from blushing women at work, and of shaking his head at the offers from eager young women in tight clothes with lightning-bolt tattoos. Three years without sex, without waking up with another person in his arms.
His three years without Ginny, he reflected, had been three years of not living, but only existing in a weird kind of stasis, never moving forward or allowing himself to stop going over the events of that night in his mind, a rosary of his mistakes and guilt about the death of Ron and his son.

Hermione was right, as always. It was time for a change. He stood up, drew a breath and paced around the room.
I can't just show up there. After three years of nothing, I can't just turn up as though everything's fine. What if she hates me? What if she doesn't love me? What if it just makes it worse?
What, worse than this? Worse than being completely alone? God, Harry, you can't get much worse than this.
He threw on some clothes, then took them off again, desperately looking through his wardrobe for something to wear. What did one wear to see one's estranged wife? Nothing too casual, but not too formal and uncomfortable. Would it be inappropriate to wear the shirt she loved best on him, or would it go towards breaking the bonds?
In the end, he wore a Weasley jumper, just for the security it gave him.

He walked to her Diagon Alley flat in the rain. He'd never been inside, but he'd stood outside it often enough, under his Invisibility cloak, as if being there would somehow make everything better. He'd never knocked on the door, of course. He'd never seen her bring a man home, either, other than her brothers. That was always gratifying. He'd seen Hermione a few times, too, being picked up by the Knight Bus and driven home. Once he'd taken her home himself. He didn't tell her about that, or about his nighttime trips, and every time he went he promised himself that would be the last one, but somehow, whenever he couldn't sleep, he found himself outside her flat, watching her read by the window, or check over figures. It seemed like she couldn't sleep either.

When he got there, he checked his watch. Two in the morning, but her light was on. He didn't have his cloak with him this time, and he felt naked without it. Some people, coming home from the pub, gave him a queer look, and he steeled himself, walked up to the door and knocked on it.

A quiet thumping, then the sound of her walking down the stairs. "Who's there? Fred?"
Harry took a breath. "No - it's me. Harry."
There was a silence that appeared to last forever, before Ginny's hesitant voice came through the door again. "What do you want? Has something happened?"
"No, everything's fine. I just...I just want to see you, Ginny. I need to see you." A sob caught in his throat, and he heard a key turn in the lock. The door opened, and Ginny stood there in her pyjamas, pale and anxious.
The two old lovers stared at each other, and then Harry stepped forward and held her, sobbing into her hair and she pressed her face into his neck, murmuring things that should've been said three years ago.