like tonguing at an empty socket (джен)

The point being, Harry was tired.
He hadn’t known how tired he even was before he’d gotten a taste of what his existence could’ve felt like, were he to stop fighting and let go. That cleanliness had not followed him into life. He had returned and felt hollow, as though that very thing he had felt so blessedly free of was now a gaping, gut-deep wound that would not close over, as though something essential had been torn right out of him, cancerous though it’d been. While before his nightmares had been vivid, prophetic things that would leave him sweat-damp and shouting, they were abstract now, disconnected feelings with no images to go with them, but feeling just as real. He slept more these days, but it did little to combat the exhaustion.
Sometimes he wished he’d taken a train.
/////
Or: Harry has lost a piece of himself that he is objectively better off without, but he still feels the loss.