Harry was alone. He was lying down, feeling as if there existed nothing more than a tenuous link between his body and himself. He felt like he had the moment he had arrived back in the body of his fourteen-year-old self, present, but hovering somewhere above his body, and simply waiting for that feeling of awareness to drift back to its usual home somewhere in the back of his mouth. For now, while he waited for that to happen, all he could do was breath. Or at least, he felt like he was breathing - his chest was going up and down and air was passing in and out of his mouth, so he must be. But somehow... somehow it didn’t feel right. It was only when he deliberately stopped "breathing’ that he realised what was wrong - he didn’t need to at all. There was no feeling of building restriction in his chest, and no relief when he allowed himself to take a deep breath in again.