Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction / Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Horcrux’s Fate ❯ Fractures in the Sunlight ( Chapter 9 )

[ A - All Readers ]

The morning light came through the thin curtains, warm and steady. It brightened the patchwork quilt and spread over the wooden floor, catching on the piles of books, clothes, and Quidditch posters.

For once, it didn’t make him squint.

He lay still for a moment, testing the quiet in his own head. No dizziness and sharp pain burrowed beneath his ribs. No flash of memory waiting to drag him under. His mind felt clear for the first time in days, though the weight behind his eyes hadn’t gone completely. It was strange, feeling almost normal.

Harry blinked slowly and cautiously, as if a sudden move would end it.

Just the soft rustle of trees outside the window. The familiar creak of pipes somewhere downstairs. The faint, unmistakable clatter of pans in the kitchen.

Carefully, he shifted the covers aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The wooden floor was cool beneath his feet. He ran a hand through his hair—pointless, as always. The mirror caught him off guard. The boy staring back looked older than seventeen; paler, sharper around the eyes, as if he hadn’t laughed in a long while.

He padded towards the stairs, following the scent of breakfast; warm and familiar, until it stopped him at the landing.

Eggs. Toast. Bacon.

His stomach gave a sudden, loud growl. He pressed a hand to it, half laughing under his breath.

He froze, slightly embarrassed, before the absurdity of it hit him: he was hungry.

Not the dull, empty ache he’d ignored for days. Not the eating he did because someone placed a plate in front of him and watched until he forced food down.

No, this was real. It startled him how good it felt, that his body wanted something again.

He took the last few steps down and stepped into the kitchen.

Mrs Weasley stood at the stove, humming under her breath, her wand tapping the frying pan rhythmically. The morning light caught the pattern on her apron. She neatly tied back her hair, with wisps escaping around her face.

For a heartbeat, she looked younger, or maybe it was just that he hadn’t seen her in proper daylight for a while.

The kitchen itself was the same as ever; teacups clinking on shelves, the clock on the wall still pointing “home” for most of the hands, and the air filled with the unmistakable warmth of the Burrow. It felt like the atmosphere shifted softly around him, steady and warm.

Mrs Weasley glanced over her shoulder and beamed.

“Oh, Harry, good. You’re just in time.” She flicked her wand, and a plate drifted towards the table, piled high. “Sit. Eat.”

He hesitated only a second, the smell of breakfast stronger than pride.

He sat down, picked up his fork, and ate with no one telling him to.

The food tasted great.

Like it hadn’t in ages. The toast was perfectly crisp, the eggs just on the proper side of soft, and the bacon still crackling faintly as if it had merely left the pan. But more than that, it felt right and natural again, as if his body remembered what it meant to be hungry.

When he finished, he pushed the plate back, not with guilt or exhaustion, but with something new and strange.

A quiet pride, low and unfamiliar, was in his chest.

Mrs Weasley dried her hands and turned to him, her gaze gentle but sharp in that way she had—the look that always seemed to know more than you wanted it to.

“It’s good to see your appetite back, dear,” she said softly. Her smile faltered for a second, enough for him to notice the worry beneath it. It wasn’t pity. It was care. And that made it harder to bear.

“Er—yeah. I suppose I was hungry.”

He stood, thanked her quietly, and slipped out before she could say anything else. The kitchen faded behind him, but the comfort clung to his shoulders.

By the time he reached his room again, his friends had gathered, as if by silent agreement. Hermione sat curled in the armchair by the window, a book half-forgotten in her lap. Ron was cross-legged on the bed, already unwrapping a Chocolate Frog, while Ginny perched at the desk, drumming her fingers against the wood.

Harry clapped his hands together, trying to summon some energy into his voice—attempting to sound like someone who had a plan. “Right,” he stated, clearing his throat. “Let’s get on with it.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “You know,” he said, popping the frog into his mouth and chewing noisily, “instead of sending Hagrid an owl, we could just go visit. Ask about the Thestral hair in person.”

Harry blinked. “You reckon he’d want that?”

He shrugged, licking chocolate off his thumb. “Of course he would. He is probably lonely. We haven’t seen him properly in—what? A week?”

“He would love it,” Hermione said, her voice gentle. “And honestly, it’d be good for all of us. Bit of fresh air. It’s grounding.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, the thought settling in. “I just… hope Hagrid’s doing alright.”

Ron grinned. “Bet he’s wrangling his brother. Can’t picture Hagrid without that giant tagging along. I reckon Grawp’s still trying to learn how to make small talk. ’Grawp… like… butterbeer?’”

He dropped his voice into a low growl, pulling a face so accurate it sent Hermione into a snort-laugh and Ginny into a proper giggle.

The sound made something unclench in Harry’s chest. It had been too long since the Burrow had sounded this alive.

His best friend tried to compose herself, but a smile broke through. “Actually, Grawp has shown a lot of progress. He helped during the war, and I’ve heard he’s been gentle with the younger students.”

“Are you serious?” Ron scoffed, stretching out on the bed. “They were pelting each other with pumpkin pasties the last time we visited. That is not bonding; that’s lunch with velocity.”

Ginny nudged Harry’s arm, her gaze alight. “Remember when Grawp caught one in mid-air and ate it whole? I’ve never seen a first-year scream so loudly.”

Ron laughed. “Alright, that was impressive. I’ll give him that.”

“And imagine him teaching Care of Magical Creatures,” she added mischievously. “He’d need a classroom the size of the Quidditch pitch.”

Harry gave a dry chuckle. “Picture Grawp with a little blackboard and a stub of chalk barely bigger than a twig. ‘Today… lesson… Flobberworms!’” he growled, mimicking Grawp’s ponderous speech.

Hermione laughed despite herself, rolling her eyes. “You’re all completely ridiculous. But honestly, do you think Hagrid would even want to go back to teaching? After everything that happened?”

Harry’s smile faltered. The question caught him somewhere deep in his chest. She was right, as she so often was; he hadn’t been quite the same since the war. Few of them had. He’d seen that look before in the mirror, and in the faces of nearly everyone who’d survived. There was a slowness to his voice now, a heaviness in his steps that had n’o been there before. He still smiled and thumped your back hard enough to knock you off balance, but his eyes didn’t shine the same way anymore.

“We could ask him,” Ron said, his tone gentler. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, brow furrowed. “See how he’s getting on. Might do him some good to know we’re thinking about him.”

Hermione nodded. “And we do actually need the Thestral hair,” she added. Trust her to remember the reason behind it all. “It’s not just a social call.”

Ron grimaced. “What if he doesn’t want to leave his brother, though? The last time we saw him, he looked completely stressed out. Like he was about one tantrum away from pulling the roof off his hut.”

Harry hesitated. He remembered that visit, how Hagrid had tried to wave off the exhaustion and make excuses about Grawp being ‘restless lately’. But the truth had shown in the droop of his shoulders, in the way he had rubbed his temples when he thought they weren’t looking. He’d wanted to tell him to stop pretending, to ask for assistance, but the words had stuck in his throat.

“We could help,” Harry mumbled. “With his brother, I mean. He listens to us… sort of.”

Hermione frowned slightly, eyes distant, as she always did when she was working something out. “We’ve helped before. Maybe Hagrid would actually appreciate a bit of support this time. He’s not great at asking for it.”

Silence stretched for a few seconds as they all considered it.

Then she sat up straighter, brushing imaginary lint from her jumper as if that settled things. “So. We’re agreed then? We’ll go visit him today?”

Ron grinned, the glint back in his gaze. “Definitely. Let’s head out and cheer up a half-giant.”

It sounded simple, but Harry felt the weight of it settle in his chest. Every plan lately came with a quiet question: what if something failed?

But Ginny’s smile faded as she turned to him. Her eyes searched his face, sharp and knowing.

He could see it coming; the look that always meant someone was about to tell him to rest.

“Harry… don’t take this the wrong way, but…” Her voice softened, almost hesitant. “Are you sure you’re well enough to travel? You’ve been through a lot. I’m just… worried.”

Her words took the strength out of his smile. His chest tightened, the calm from a moment ago slipping away.

He drew a slow breath, trying to keep his voice steady.

He was tired of being treated as if he were delicate; of every cautious look, all whispered words when they thought he couldn’t hear. Of Hermione hovering, of Ginny watching him as if she was waiting for a sign that he might break.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, maybe a bit too quickly. He sat up straighter, trying to sound surer than he felt. “I miss Hagrid. Honestly… getting out of the house could do me some good.”

Ginny’s brow furrowed, clearly unconvinced. She pursed her lips, as if there was more she wanted to say but couldn’t figure out how to frame it without sounding patronising.

“I don’t know, Harry,” she said at last, her voice quiet. “Maybe you should rest a bit longer. You’ve been unwell. Your body needs time. You still wake up with pain sometimes. You do not have to push yourself to prove anything.”

Heat rose in his face.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, sharper than he meant. “Why’s everyone acting like I am about to fall over?”

Ron raised an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest. “You passed out three times this week. We are not acting, mate.”

Harry glared at him.

He held up his hands, mock-placating. “I am only saying—what if something does happen? We’re out in the middle of the forest, and I’ve got to lift you all the way back to the Burrow. That’s not really how I imagined spending my afternoon.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I will not pass out again. I know my own limits.”

Ron gave a snort. “Do you, though?”

That look—the half-pitying and irritated one he had mastered since fifth year—made Harry want to punch something. Preferably a wall. Possibly his best friend.

Ginny moved closer, quieter now, but unflinching. “That pain in your chest, which you keep pretending isn’t there. It’s happened more than once. You try to hide it, but I see it. It frightens you, doesn’t it?”

He froze. His pulse jumped. He hadn’t realised anyone had noticed.

His hands curled into fists in his lap. “I haven’t felt it in—”

Hermione cut in, gently but firmly. “Harry, you don’t have to push yourself. Hagrid will understand. He always does.”

Ron gave him a crooked smile, more genuine this time. “Or he’ll show up at the front door with a bucket of rock cakes the size of Quaffles. Either way, you will not lose him.”

But he didn’t laugh.

The pressure in his chest grew tighter, a hard weight that made it difficult to breathe. Everyone was watching him again, careful and cautious, as if he might collapse. It wasn’t comforting. It caused his skin to prickle. His hand twitched on his knee, a small, useless attempt to hold himself together.

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped, his voice cracking out before he could stop it. The words came too loud, too sharp. Ron’s eyes flicked to Hermione. That tiny look between them triggered Harry’s temper to spike again. “But obviously none of you believe me. Brilliant. Very well. I’ll just stay in bed if that makes everyone feel better, shall I?”

He folded his arms across his chest, knowing how childish it looked. The shame followed almost at once, settling low in his stomach. But he couldn’t take it back now. He was furious.

Ginny’s expression was unreadable, but her voice was steady. “I’m not going,” she announced quietly but clearly. “I am staying here with you.”

Harry blinked. That… he hadn’t expected. He should’ve, perhaps. She always had an infuriating habit of standing her ground, especially for him. Hearing the words felt crushing to him. He wanted to tell her not to. To go with the others, to stop looking at him like that. But it wouldn’t come.

“I knew you’d say that,” Hermione murmured. She glanced at Ginny with a full of quiet understanding, then looked back at Harry. Her voice was calm but firm, and it had that steady edge she always displayed when she had decided, and arguing was pointless. “You shouldn’t leave him alone.”

The words hit harder than she probably intended.

“Right,” Ron muttered, stepping forward, a furrow forming deep between his brows. “Well. If you two are going to be stuck here while we’re off risking our lives in the Forbidden Forest, I’ve got one condition.”

He jabbed a finger towards him and Ginny, adopting a look so grave it might’ve been funny if he hadn’t felt so miserable.

“I expect the pair of you to behave. I’m not kidding. Strictly platonic.”

Harry stared at him, nonplussed. “Are you actually being serious right now?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She shot back, her tone bristling with offence. “You won’t even be here—how exactly do you plan on enforcing that? Set up an alarm charm on the stairs?”

Ron’s face turned crimson, the tips of his ears burning.

Hermione gave a long sigh, the kind that usually meant she was counting to ten in her head.

Ron opened his mouth as if he were about to argue but clearly hadn’t figured out how to phrase whatever idiotic thought was trying to escape.

“Enough,” she said firmly, stepping between them with a glare so sharp it made both of them fall silent. “Let’s not waste time on absurdity.”

Harry might’ve appreciated the interruption more if the knot in his chest had not kept tightening. He wanted to be angry at Ron for being a prat. At Hermione for intervening the way she always did. At Ginny—for staying behind, like he was some project that needed constant supervision.

But mostly, he was furious with himself. For being the reason they were all standing here in the first place. The room felt smaller somehow, as if every breath had to fight for space.

“Let’s talk about your father,” Hermione said, suddenly all briskness again.

Ginny turned to Ron without waiting for approval. “We will wait until you’re back before telling Dad anything.”

She nodded. “We’ll need to be careful with what we say.”

The mention of Mr Weasley snapped Harry’s focus onto the task, but the frustration didn’t fade. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “You’ll have to be smart about it. If he hears even half of what we are actually planning, he’ll go spare. You know he will.”

A hush settled over the room.

Hermione met his eyes. “We’ll tell him some of it. Enough to keep him calm. But not everything.”

Harry’s mouth curled into a bitter smile. “Oh, brilliant. So we’re lying now. Simply leaving out the bit where someone might die? That always goes down well.”

Hermione’s expression didn’t change, but he saw the flicker of hurt behind her eyes.

“I just don’t want to worry him unnecessarily,” she whispered.

Harry gave a hollow laugh. It sounded wrong in his throat—scraped and rough. “Right. Because waiting until he’s grieving is so much more considerate. Might as well rip the plaster off, yeah?”

Hermione’s shoulders tensed, but she didn’t argue.

Ron scowled. “What is with you lately?”

He shrugged, but it came off more like a flinch. He looked away, jaw tight. “Just saying. Maybe honesty’s underrated round here.”

Ginny moved closer, her hand reaching for his once more. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s only upset he can’t meet Hagrid.”

Harry pulled his hand back, not roughly but firmly enough to make his point. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’ll see him again soon,” Hermione assured him. “He’ll want to visit you too.”

But her words washed over him without sinking in. He did not feel reassured. The unease lingered under his ribs, dull and constant, refusing to shift no matter what they spoke.

Nobody uttered a word.

She stood abruptly, smoothing the front of her jumper with a brisk swipe of her hand. “Come on, Ron.”

Harry didn’t watch them go. He just sat there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the ray of sunshine warming the floorboards near the window.

It looked the same as always, even though everything else felt different. It did not care how badly he wanted to feel like himself again.

And at that moment, he did not know whether he hated the sunlight… or envied it.

Across Slughorn’s stone walls, the fireplace’s last embers flickered with a faint red glow. Papers crowded the cluttered room, along with shelves holding half-empty vials and boxes that seemed untouched for months. The air carried the sharp tang of potion ingredients, mixed with a subtle sweetness that reminded Ron of old sweets gone slightly off. A single cauldron steamed faintly in the corner, filling the atmosphere with warmth that clashed with the damp chill seeping from the stones.

Rows of vials lined every shelf, reflecting the weak glow from the flames. The walls displayed portraits, some moving and others still, with each painted face showing an expression of pride. Two large velvet armchairs stood near the fire, their fabric worn smooth from years of use.

Ron wrinkled his nose and looked around warily. “You reckon he’s hiding in a cauldron again?” he muttered, half serious.

Hermione gave him a withering look as she stepped further into the room. “He’s probably in the storeroom—or the classroom. Your mum asked for another batch of healing potion for Harry, remember? He might still be brewing it.”

“Right,” Ron murmured. He didn’t add that part of him had hoped for a distraction; some cheerful anecdote, or one of Slughorn’s usual theatrics. Anything to delay the truth they’d come to share.

They stood for a moment longer, soaking in the warmth from the embers. Neither of them wanted to move into the cold corridors outside. But the time passed, and with a reluctant exhale, they turned away from the flickering hearth and stepped into the corridor.

Ron cast one final glance back at the fire. The light had dimmed almost completely, the last bit of warmth fading from the room.

“It’s weird,” he said finally, voice low. “All this silence. I keep expecting Peeves to come flying past, chucking ink bottles at our heads.”

Hermione offered a small, tight smile, her arms folded against the cold. “I know what you mean. It feels like Hogwarts hasn’t fully found its rhythm yet.”

“At least it appears normal again,” Ron said. “Mostly.”

“Yes,” she replied. “But not quite.”

He gave a soft snort. “Would it ever feel ordinary if we weren’t in the middle of some crisis? I miss the days when Snape breathing down my neck was the worst part of the week.”

Hermione nudged his arm, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

They emerged into the pale morning light, the castle doors creaking closed behind them. The sky was soft and grey, the kind of overcast that made colours seem muted. The wind smelt of damp grass and distant smoke. Down by the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Hagrid’s hut stood as it always had: squat, solid, and familiar.

Fang’s bark carried across the grounds before it reached the front steps. It was deep and booming, impossible to mistake.

The door burst open a moment later, and there was Hagrid, filling the entire frame with his sheer size, his wild beard fluffed by the breeze.

“Well, would yeh look who it is!” he bellowed, beaming from ear to ear. Without hesitation, he swept both of them into a hug that crushed the breath from Ron’s lungs and left Hermione blinking through her hair.

“Hi, Hagrid,” she laughed, her voice high and warm. “It’s good to see you.”

“Oi! Not the face, Fang!” Ron cried, squirming as the enormous boarhound launched himself up, tongue lolling and wet nose pressed against his cheek. “Hagrid, call him off—he’s trying to eat me!”

“Ah, he is just saying ‘hello’,” he said with a grin as he pulled the dog back by its collar. “Go on, then, come in! Got the kettle boilin’, and I baked yesterday—don’t laugh, Hermione, it didn’t turn out summat bad.”

Warm air met them as they stepped inside. The room smelt of damp earth, smoke, and fresh bread. A half-eaten pie sat on the table next to an empty tankard, and an enormous cauldron in the corner had been repurposed into a makeshift planter, with curling green vines spilling over its edges.

Hermione smiled faintly at the chaos. It was the same as ever: messy, mismatched, and oddly comforting. Even the tray of rock-hard treacle fudge still sat on the sideboard, untouched and uninviting.

They settled in their usual oversized chairs, steaming mugs in their hands, and let the familiar creak of the wooden beams and the pop of the fire fill the silence.

They were quiet for a while, the air between them uneasy. Normally, Hagrid would talk about some new creature or adventure, but today, no one seemed to know how to start.

“So,” he said at last, peering over his mug, “what brings yeh here this time? Not that I’m complainin’, mind—but is Harry with yeh?”

He looked so hopeful.

There was a pause—only a second or two, but it felt longer.

“Thanks for the tea,” Ron said, fiddling with the edge of the chair arm. “We—we wanted to check in on you. And, er… talk.”

Hermione took a deep breath. There was no sense in tiptoeing around it.

“It’s about Harry.”

Hagrid’s face fell in an instant, his brow drawing together in concern. His huge hands twitched, as though already wanting to help, to fix something he couldn’t yet understand. “What’s wrong? Where is he?”

“He’s not well,” Hermione said gently. “He is currently resting at the Burrow because he’s been… through a lot.”

Hagrid’s expression crumpled with worry. “Restin’? Yeh mean—he’s ill? How bad is it?”

Ron ran a hand through his hair again, this time more out of nerves than habit. “Yeah. Seriously unwell. He’s trying to hide it, but it’s not getting better.” He hesitated, eyes flicking to Hermione, as if asking her to step in. But she didn’t.

Hagrid’s great shoulders sagged as he sank into his armchair with a thud. For a moment, he did not speak—just stared into the fire.

“I knew summat wasn’t right,” he muttered at last. “When he did not come down himself… Harry’d never stay away if he could help it.”

“He wanted to come,” Hermione said, voice quiet. “We practically had to stop him. He hates sitting still and being looked after.”

“That sounds like him,” Hagrid said with a faint, wistful smile. “Always runnin’ off to save someone else. Even when he’s the one who needs savin’.”

There was a pause. Outside, the wind rustled through the trees at the edge of the forest, and Fang gave a low huff in his sleep.

“What’s happened this time?”

Hagrid’s voice was gruff, but it trembled faintly at the edges—like he already feared the answer.

Hermione set her mug down slowly, careful not to spill the contents, though her hands had started to shake. The warmth of the fire did little to steady her nerves. She looked at him, her brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

“It’s his soul, Hagrid,” she said at last, barely above a whisper. “It is—damaged.”

He blinked, staring at her as if she’d just told him the moon was falling out of the sky. “Damaged?” he echoed hoarsely. “But how can it be?”

Hermione drew in a breath and leaned forward, her voice low and careful, as if the words themselves might hurt to speak aloud.

“Do you remember the night Voldemort killed Harry’s parents?” she began, her eyes never leaving Hagrid’s. “When he marked him?”

He nodded slowly. “’Course I do. Brought ’im outta the ruins meself…”

Hermione nodded gently. “That evening caused more than a scar, Hagrid. It bound Harry to him in a way we didn’t fully understand until much later. A part of Voldemort’s soul—” she swallowed, “—latched onto him. It lived inside him. And now… now that the war’s over, and that piece is gone… it’s left something behind. A mark magic can’t heal.”

The silence that followed was thick and unspoken. The fire gave a soft pop, casting golden sparks into the hearth. Fang, sensing the shift in the room, let out a quiet whine and laid his magnificent head on Hagrid’s knee.

Hagrid rubbed at his eyes with one massive hand, as though trying to blink back the truth. “Poor lad,” he muttered eventually. “Always carryin’ everyone else’s burdens. Takin’ the hardest road all the time. He doesn’t deserve this. Not after everything.”

Ron spoke next, his voice rough, like he’d been holding it in too long. “It’s catching up with him. He is not—he’s not well. And he is getting worse.”

Hagrid turned to him, his face stricken. “How is it bad?”

He stared down at his own fingers curled around the mug. “He forgets things. Not just names—important details. Moments. And sometimes he—” he swallowed, his throat working, “—he coughs up blood. He tries to hide it, but… it’s easy to tell. He’s in pain all the time.”

Hermione nodded, her expression drawn and pale. “We’ve been researching for days. Looking through every text, all curse-breaking manuscripts, and each theory in magical medicine. We’re trying to find anything that might help repair a soul.”

“And… did yeh?” Hagrid asked, hope flickering into his voice. “Have you found it?”

“We did,” Hermione said slowly. “Or we think we did. It’s an ancient potion—rare, difficult to brew, and dangerous if even slightly wrong. But it could work. Professor Slughorn discovered a surviving recipe in Dumbledore’s old collections.”

“All the ingredients are… tricky,” Ron added.

Hagrid straightened a little, his eyes narrowing with purpose. “What d’yeh need?”

She hesitated for a beat. “A tail hair from a wild Thestral.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. His brow furrowed beneath his tangled fringe. “Wild?” he repeated slowly. “Hermione, most Thestrals near Hogwarts are practically tame. Raised here, used ter people. One like that—that is no small thing.”

“We understand,” he said. “That’s why we came to you. You’re the only person who could have information about where to find that creature.”

Hagrid scratched his beard, eyes distant. The silence stretched so long that Ron opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Hagrid nodded slowly.

“I might know a spot,” he stated. “North edge of the forest. There’s a cliff clearing—remote, quiet. Saw one there last spring. Skittish thing. Black as pitch. They don’t come ’round often. Not where people are.”

“You think you could get close enough?” Hermione asked.

“I can try,” he said, puffing out his chest slightly. “Takes patience with Thestrals. And trust. But if it’ll help Harry—I will do it.”

She exhaled, relief softening her features for the first time that day. “Thank you. Truly.”

“I’ll pack me kit tonight. Head out at daybreak. Won’t take chances—but I am goin’ ter bring yeh what yeh need.”

“And Hagrid,” Ron said, “when you return… he’d like to see you. He misses you.”

He paused at that, his back to them, his shoulders rising and falling. “I miss ’im too,” he said thickly. “Tell him I’m comin’ and that ol’ giant hasn’t forgotten him.”

They lost track of time after that. He told stories, one after another, about his summer with magical creatures. How he had rescued a baby manticore from a pack of foxes. How a rogue Puffskein had bitten his thumb. And how, most hilariously, he’d chased a Niffler cub through an entire garden full of gnomes.

“Little rascal nicked my belt buckle!” He said, laughing so hard his beard shook. “Pursued him fer near on an hour—and then he went and peed on me boots as thanks!”

Hermione laughed. Even Ron grinned, despite the heaviness of everything else.

“And—oh!” he added proudly. “I’m teachin’ again this year. Back to Care of Magical Creatures.”

She hesitated, the laughter dying quietly in her throat. “Hagrid… I won’t be taking it this term.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, awkward and heavy. Hagrid’s face fell, his smile gradually fading. “What? But—but Hermione, yeh’ve always been brilliant in my class. You’re one o’ the best students I ever had.”

She toyed with her fork. “I know, and I loved it. But I’ve got too much on. I need to focus on my N.E.W.T.s.”

Hagrid nodded slowly, clearly trying to hide his disappointment, though his features revealed it plainly.

Before the silence could stretch, Ron cut in quickly. “How’s Grawp? Still gardening?”

Hagrid’s face lit up at once. “Grawp’s brilliant! Owns a cave all to himself now, near the edge of Hogsmeade. Loves it quiet, says trees are ‘too shouty.’ Decorates it with flowers, he does. Gave me a hug last week and didn’t even crack a rib!”

He laughed, with her joining in.

“We should visit him sometime,” she said warmly.

Hagrid’s eyes shone. “He’d love that. And you’re forever welcome. Always.”

Ron and Hermione lingered just outside his hut for a moment longer, the door now closed behind them. The warm, earthy scent of wood-smoke clung to their clothes.

Neither spoke straightaway. There was nothing more to say. His promise hung between them, solid and solemn. He would try. And that had to be enough.

Hermione’s brow creased in thought. Ron glanced sideways at her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“You ready?” he asked quietly.

She met his gaze, her expression taut with worry but laced with unwavering resolve. “We haven’t got time not to be.”

They shared a look—part dread and grim determination—and turned towards the castle. Their shoes crunched against the grass, pace quickened with purpose. The wind picked up as they crossed the grounds and slipped back into the torch-lit corridors of Hogwarts.

The walk to Slughorn’s office took them past familiar corners, each corridor echoing faintly with memories: hurried steps to class, laughter after curfew, near-misses, and close calls. But today, the school felt quieter. Older. As though the castle itself understood that something fragile was at stake.

They stopped in front of the heavy oak door that marked the entrance to Professor Slughorn’s office. Hermione raised her hand and knocked—softly, almost hesitantly. Her knuckles barely made a sound against the polished wood.

For a few seconds, there was no response. Just when Ron opened his mouth to suggest knocking again, it swung open.

“Well, well!” came the professor’s jovial voice, and he filled the doorway like a particularly delighted armchair come to life. “Ms Granger and Mr Weasley! What a delightful surprise!”

His eyes twinkled beneath bushy brows, and he stepped back at once, gesturing grandly into the room. “Come in! Always time for two of my pupils. Unless—heavens—you’re in the middle of some calamity?”

“We’re all right,” Hermione said quickly, stepping in with Ron following. The warmth inside greeted them, thick with the familiar scent of simmering potions—burnt sugar, wet stone, and a subtle floral fragrance.

“Actually, we’ve just come from Hagrid’s,” she continued, brushing a wisp of hair behind her ear. “We needed something from the Anima Book.”

At once, Slughorn’s face brightened even further, his belly giving a pleased wobble as he bustled toward a cluttered desk. “Ah! So you’ve cracked the riddle, have you? Figured you would, Miss Granger. Knew it. If anyone could untangle that ancient rot, it’d be you.” He turned with a conspiratorial wink. “And I trust our dear friend is lending a hand with the more… hands-on aspects?”

Hermione nodded, allowing a small smile. “He’s tracking down one ingredient for us.”

“Marvellous, marvellous,” Slughorn breathed, clearly impressed, as he picked up a tray lined with glinting glass vials. “I was just preparing these for delivery to the Burrow, in fact. A strengthening draught, a dreamless sleep tonic, and a stabiliser—I thought your young Mr Potter might need them.”

Hermione’s expression softened. “He will. Thank you, Professor.”

Ron shifted his weight, his voice more direct. “He’s hanging on. Bit of a state, to be honest. He just ate like a hippogriff this morning. But he hasn’t given up yet.”

Slughorn chuckled, setting the vials down carefully on a silver tray. “Ah, yes—the appetite of a war hero. Nothing short of legendary, from what I’ve heard.”

Then, his tone turned slightly more serious. “Still, it’s no small thing, what you’re all trying. Soul magic is delicate work. Frightfully unpredictable. But if anyone can get it done… well, I would put my galleons on the three of you.”

Ron looked a little embarrassed but gave a nod of thanks.

Slughorn brightened again. “And since you are heading that way, perhaps you’d do me the kindness of delivering these?” He gestured to the tray. “I’d planned to drop them off myself, but my knees haven’t quite forgiven me.”

“Of course,” Hermione said, stepping forward to take the platter with both hands.

“Brilliant!” Slughorn beamed. “Give your mother my warmest regards, Mr Weasley—and my apologies. I do hope she hasn’t had a potion emergency in the last half-hour.”

He smirked. “She’ll manage. She’s been brewing Pepper-Up since before I could walk.”

With a hearty laugh, he turned to the fireplace, waving his wand to summon the Floo powder. “Well, my dears. Shall we?”

Ron and Hermione exchanged one final look. Then, holding the tray between them and stepping carefully into the firelight, they vanished with a whoosh.

The sounds of the Burrow drifted upwards—pots clinking gently, chairs creaking, and the occasional burst of laughter from below. Someone was chopping vegetables with rhythmic confidence, and Ginny’s voice floated up now and then in quick bursts of conversation.

Harry lay curled on his side atop the narrow bed. The room was dim, save for the slant of golden afternoon light through the crooked window. He had not drawn the curtains. He hadn’t moved much at all.

His eyes were shut, but it was not because he was asleep. Sleep had long ago abandoned him when the pain began.

He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Relief? Strength? Something worse?

His stomach twisted again, tighter this time, a slow sickening knot that unfurled and coiled back like a creature alive. His fingers curled into the threadbare blanket beneath him.

You’re fine, he told himself once more; the phrase circling. Just tired. Bit sore. It’ll pass.

But it wasn’t passing. Hadn’t for days. And he was running out of ways to lie to himself, let alone everyone else.

A louder laugh came from below—Ginny’s, light and easy. The chuckle that belonged to holidays, to freedom. Not to whatever this was.

She didn’t know.

None of them did. He’d made sure of it—masking the worst of it behind quick smiles and half-hearted reassurances. They deserved that much: a summer free from war, from pain. From him.

The twisting in his gut surged abruptly. His breath hitched. His heartbeat stuttered; the air seemed too thick to swallow.

He stumbled to his feet before he could think, legs stiff, head spinning. He was hit with waves of nausea, and he barely got to the bathroom before he started retching.

He clung to the edge of the sink, his knuckles white, his body wracked with a force that felt like punishment. His throat burnt. His vision blurred.

Then came the coppery taste. Sharp. Metallic.

Blood.

He choked, coughing hard enough to see stars behind his eyes. He spat into the basin. Red. Too much of it.

No, please not again…

The sound of footsteps thundered up the stairs, quick and heavy—familiar.

“Harry?”

Ron’s voice was tight with concern. A knock followed, then another.

“You alright in there, mate?”

He tried to answer, but nothing came out. His hand slipped on the edge of the sink.

The door opened—he’d forgotten to lock it—and Ron burst in, pale and wide-eyed. For a beat, he just stood there, frozen by the sight of his best friend hunched over the basin, blood spattered across porcelain and hands trembling.

“Harry—bloody hell—what the hell’s going on?”

He forced a breath and straightened up with effort, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He tried to summon a grin, but it came out more like a grimace.

“It’s fine,” he croaked, voice rough and barely audible. “Just… a stomach bug. Must’ve been something I ate.”

Ron stepped closer, eyes darting from the sink to Harry’s face. “You’re throwing up blood,” he stated bluntly. “That’s not a tummy problem, mate. That’s a serious thing.”

Harry swayed slightly, catching himself on the basin. The room tilted and then stilled. His head pounded.

“Don’t tell your mum,” he said, almost pleading. “Please. She’s got enough on her plate. I’ll be fine.”

Ron stared at him as if he’d gone completely mad. “She should know. Everyone should. You think pretending this isn’t happening is going to make it go away?”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t meet Ron’s eyes. His throat tightened, not from illness this time, but from something worse.

Shame.

“I’ve taken the potions. They help for a bit,” Harry murmured, voice dull. “But it always comes back. Stronger.”

“So what, you’re just planning to suffer in silence until you keel over?” Ron snapped, exasperated. “That’s the plan now?”

He closed his eyes. The fight was draining out of him, slipping away.

“I didn’t want to ruin things,” he whispered. Normal had become their shared illusion, and he was terrified of shattering it. “It’s been… good, hasn’t it? You, Hermione, Ginny… everyone’s smiling again. I did not wish this to be another summer of worrying about me.”

Ron shook his head slowly, anger melting into something quieter. “You’re part of the ‘everyone,’ you idiot.”

Harry let out a faint breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Silence fell once more. From downstairs came the sound of Mrs Weasley’s voice calling the family to lunch—cheerful, bustling, unaware.

Ron rubbed his face roughly. “Right. Fine. But if you so much as twitch at that table, I’m dosing you with whatever Slughorn sent over. No questions asked.”

Harry gave a weak nod. “Deal.”

Between the two of them, they managed to make it back to Harry’s room so he could change into a clean shirt. Then, with Ron hovering beside him, they descended the stairs together.

Mrs Weasley beamed the moment she saw them.

“There you are, dear! Right on time. Have a seat, here—Ginny, pass the gravy, would you?”

She turned from the stove, her face flushed from the heat, and gave Harry a soft smile that made his chest ache.

“Thought you’d slept through the whole day,” she teased lightly. “You all right?”

He nodded, his throat dry. “Yeah. Just needed a bit more rest.”

Hermione was already observing him, eyes flicking over his features as he took his seat beside her. She did not press. Her concern was quiet but clear.

“How was your nap?” she asked, her voice low and gentle.

Harry managed a half-smile. “Good,” he lied. The word scraped against his tongue. “Feel a lot better.”

Hermione didn’t reply straightaway. She simply watched him a moment longer, her brow furrowing ever so slightly. Then, with deliberate gentleness, she handed him the bread.

Shepherd’s pies steamed invitingly, their buttery crusts flecked with golden brown. Bowls of roast vegetables were passed around—glazed carrots and parsnips crisped at the edges—along with a thick, creamy pea soup that sent up curling wisps of steam.

Harry sat at the table, shoulders hunched, spoon idle in his hand. He stared down at his plate, the food swimming before him. He knew it would taste good—brilliant, probably. But the scent made his stomach twist, and it was definitely not from hunger.

He picked at the dish, nudging the edge of his pie with the back of his fork. Conversation buzzed all around him—Hermione and Ginny were chatting about something to do with the Floo Network, Mr Weasley was muttering irritably about another baffling editorial in the Daily Prophet, and Ron was on his third helping already. But it all felt… muffled, as if he was under the Invisibility Cloak again—watching, not part of it.

He could feel his best friend observing him, though. Waiting.

Don’t flinch or wince. Do not let them see.

He tried to steel himself and act like nothing was wrong, but the pain was there—constant now. Not sharp, but deep and pulsing, similar to something rotten that had taken root in his chest and was growing heavier by the hour.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the ladle. The metal clinked against the dish, and he winced inwardly. Carefully, he served himself a small spoonful of shepherd’s pie, pretending to fuss with the edges as if he were still deciding what else to have. He didn’t look up, nor dared to meet Ron’s eyes.

Neither of them had brought it up again. But the silence between them now was heavy with it.

“Hagrid said he’s going to come visit soon, Harry!” Hermione’s voice, bright and a little too purposeful, cut through the hum of conversation.

He looked up, startled. “Oh,” he mumbled, and then managed a weak smile. It felt wrong on his face, like trying to grin with a mouth full of ash. “That’s… that’s nice.”

Just the name brought a rush of warmth to his chest—but also something colder beneath it. Guilt. Hagrid, who’d always believed in him, even when Harry had not, and probably spent the morning elbow-deep in a Thestral paddock, risking Merlin-knew-what for a potion he hadn’t entirely convinced himself would work.

He stirred his mashed potatoes in slow, pointless circles. The silver of his fork glinted in the lamplight. His stomach gave a faint growl in protest, but it was hollow—more memory than appetite. He raised a forkful of pie to his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Pretended.

Just keep eating and smiling. Don’t ruin this.

Across the table, Mr Weasley cleared his throat.

“Did I hear correctly—you two went to Hogwarts earlier today?”

Harry’s hand stilled.

“Yes,” Hermione answered a little too quickly. “Sorry we didn’t mention it before. It was… urgent.”

At the stove, Mrs Weasley paused mid-stir, turning to glance back at them with her usual warm smile dimmed slightly by concern.

“Urgent?” she echoed, setting her spoon aside. “Is everything all right?”

She took a breath, then plunged on. “We think we’ve found something. A potion—one that might help Harry. It’s… experimental, but it could repair some of the damage. To his soul.”

The room went still.

Mrs Weasley clutched the edge of the counter, her expression shifting from concern to an emotion closer to hope. “Oh, dear… That’s—well, that’s wonderful.”

He didn’t respond. His grip tightened on his fork. Optimism sat uncomfortably in his chest, fragile and uncertain, too easily mistaken for something it wasn’t. How many times had they thought they’d found answers and ended up being wrong?

Mr Weasley leaned forward, interest flickering in his eyes. “What sort of potion is it? Do you know the ingredients?”

Hermione was picking nervously at the tablecloth. “We have the recipe. It’s a list of rare items; some of them are quite… unusual.”

Everyone was watching her now. Ron had become quiet. Ginny, who’d hardly touched her food, was staring at her plate, fork suspended mid-air.

“That’s why we went to see Hagrid,” Hermione said. “We needed to ask him about one of them. It was kind of… hard to get.”

“What is it?” asked Mrs Weasley gently, still holding the spatula like she’d forgotten she was cooking.

Hermione’s voice dropped a little. “A Thestral’s tail hair.”

There was a moment’s silence, just long enough for the ticking clock on the wall to seem suddenly very loud.

Mr Weasley raised his eyebrows. “Not something you hear every day,” he said, though his tone held more curiosity than concern. “That’s actually in the book?”

Hermione nodded. “It is. And Hagrid… well, he knows where to find it.”

Harry kept his face as still as he could manage, forcing his features into an expression of calm neutrality, but his hands had gone cold. Clammy, almost. He hated this—sitting at the table while others made plans for him, while people around him offered pieces of themselves, risking things on his behalf.

A fresh wave of nausea curled in his gut, though he couldn’t tell if it was from the food or from the guilt twisting somewhere deeper. The shepherd’s pie on his plate was untouched, a little mound of it sliding sideways as he pressed his fork against it without really thinking.

“What else?” Mr Weasley asked, his voice gentle but firm. “What other ingredients do you need?”

Hermione didn’t answer straightaway.

Harry did not look at her. He could feel the tension radiating off her like heat from a stove. The pause dragged only long enough for the silence to settle, taut and expectant. Even Ron, who had been halfway to stabbing a roast potato, had gone still beside him. Ginny, just across the table, was breathing a little too fast, her knuckles white where she gripped her fork.

Hermione’s voice, when it came, was soft and brittle. “One of the things… it has to come from you, Mr Weasley.”

There was a pause. He blinked, surprised. “From me?” he repeated, brow furrowed. “What do you need?”

Harry’s chest felt tight—too tight. He didn’t want to look up and see the confusion etched into Mr Weasley’s kind face. Hermione’s hands clasped tightly in her lap, white at the knuckles. Her voice came again, thinner this time.

“Are you familiar with the Veil in the Department of Mysteries?”

And there it was.

Harry felt his entire body go still. The word echoed through him. For a moment, all he could see was that shadowy archway, tattered with whispering curtains, and Sirius’s figure vanishing behind it, swallowed whole by silence and stone.

Mr Weasley’s face grew grim. “The Veil?” he asked, sitting up straighter. “Yes, of course I am. Why?”

Hermione drew in a steadying breath. “We must have a piece,” she stated, her words measured. “The rock it’s made from.”

The room appeared to be still.

Harry glanced up, just for a second. Mr Weasley’s eyes had darkened with concern, his expression now thoughtful but wary. The same look he’d worn when he had first told him about Voldemort’s return.

“That place is restricted,” Mr Weasley said slowly. “Even I don’t have clearance to walk in and take something. It’s guarded day and night.”

“Do you think the minister might grant you permission?” Ginny asked quietly, the words barely above a whisper.

Her voice cut through the tension. Harry looked at her. Her brown eyes were bright, searching her father’s face not with pleading, but with conviction.

Mr Weasley hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Kingsley’s a fair man. If I explain what this is for—if I tell him what’s at stake—I think he’d listen.”

Something stirred within him then. Not hope, exactly—he didn’t trust it anymore—but a quiet, flickering absence of despair. As if someone had cracked a window open after weeks of stale air.

“That’s all we need,” Hermione said gently. “Just the two things.”

Mr Weasley gave a short, contemplative nod. “Then I’ll speak to him first thing tomorrow.”

A silence settled, thicker now. Mrs Weasley shifted again at the stove, but her motions were slower, more hesitant.

Harry lowered his gaze back to his plate. The food hadn’t moved. Neither had his appetite.

His hand, curled around the fork, gave a tiny tremor. He shoved it under the table, hiding the shake in the folds of the tablecloth. Just another bite. Pretend to eat and be fine.

Cutlery clinked against plates, subdued. The conversation didn’t resume. There was too much unspoken tension lingering between every word.

Mr Weasley set his fork down at last. He fixed his eyes on Hermione again, and his brow furrowed.

“What do you intend to do with the stone?” he asked, his voice low but carrying. “How does it help Harry?”

Harry’s chest constricted. The question was a fair one—reasonable, even. But hearing it aloud felt like being called out and being exposed.

They want to understand it, and you barely do yourself. This whole plan—they were chasing shadows. Relying on translated scraps of ancient magic and elixir recipes buried in books nobody had touched in centuries. What if it’s nothing? What happens if it is even more useless?

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Her forehead was shiny with sweat, and her fingers twisted a napkin in her lap until it tore slightly at the edge.

“We… we brew a potion with it,” she said at last. “The stone, combined with the Thestral hair and the other reagents—it forms a kind of restorative draught. One meant for… for fractured souls.”

Harry finally looked at her. She was pale beneath the lamplight, her eyes dark and anxious but unwavering. He could tell she was holding something in—a thought she hadn’t voiced yet. She hated secrets. But this time, it seemed, she had chosen to carry for him.

Mr Weasley leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against the surface. “Well,” he said, attempting lightness, “I do hope it tastes better than it sounds. Tail hair and magic stones don’t exactly whet the appetite.”

A few chuckles rippled around the table, hollow and forced. Even Ron gave a weak smile. Mrs Weasley let out a small, polite laugh as she ladled soup into Ginny’s bowl.

Harry managed a tight grin of his own. It did not reach his eyes.

The thought of the potion—of what it was meant to fix—made his stomach churn all over again.

He was unsure of the potion’s success. And if it didn’t—

Hermione’s expression had gone distant. She was staring at her plate, her food barely touched. The light in her gaze had dimmed beneath the strain of everything they hadn’t said out loud.

Harry swallowed hard, pushing down the gnawing ache in his gut.

Later that afternoon, the house had fallen quiet in the way it only ever did when exhaustion outpaced even worry. Upstairs, doors clicked shut, voices dimmed to murmurs, and the Burrow settled into its usual rhythm of sighs and creaking floorboards. Harry descended the narrow staircase, taking slow, cautious steps.

He sank into the armchair near the hearth, the one with the threadbare arms and the slightly sagging cushion.

He leaned back in the chair and let his gaze drift over the mantel, over the family photographs that watched silently from their frames. Fred’s grinning face winking out and then re-appearing again from that place.

Harry closed his eyes.

He was supposed to feel hopeful. Wasn’t that the point of all this? Of the Anima’s potion, of the trip to Hagrid, of Hermione’s research, and of Ron and Ginny’s unspoken loyalties? A second chance. A cure and a fix.

But it didn’t seem like hope.

Everyone around him moved too quickly for him to keep up. As though the world was moving forward with plans made in his name, and he was being carried along with no real say in any of it. He knew they meant well, and he wanted to believe. But wanting and believing were two very different things, and belief did not come easily anymore.

Not when the thing inside him didn’t feel broken so much as absent. Not torn, not something bruised and waiting to heal. Just… gone. A hollow place he couldn’t reach, and did not want anyone else to try.

He hadn’t realised how tightly he was gripping the armrest until his knuckles ached.

The floor creaked behind him—softly, deliberately.

Hermione appeared beside him without a word, her footsteps quiet on the worn carpet. She folded herself into the seat next to his, tucking a leg underneath her and pulling a knitted throw over her knees. For a while, she said nothing.

That was one thing he had always admired about her. She knew that silence meant more than speech.

Still, when he spoke, it was without thinking; the words tumbled out before he could stop them.

“You really know how to work a room, Hermione,” he muttered, glancing sideways at her. “That whole ‘let’s feed Harry a potion made from ancient stone and magical horse hair’ bit? Truly inspiring.”

She shot him a look, though there was no proper heat in it—just a slight pinkness rising to her cheeks. “Oh, be quiet,” she said, folding her arms. “You try explaining something similar to that to someone’s father. I was terrified.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t seem like it.”

“Well, I was. And for the record, you weren’t exactly leaping to my defence.”

“I was busy trying to survive lunch. You know I’m delicate.”

She rolled her eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Right. Delicate. The same bloke who walked into the Forbidden Forest ready to die but can’t handle a shepherd’s pie.”

He shrugged, letting the grin tug at his lips too. “Death Eaters were easier. At least they didn’t expect me to talk about feelings or swallow weird potions.”

Hermione laughed—softly, but Harry caught the slight tremble in it before it came out.

Silence stretched between them again, but it was the comfortable sort, the kind that had grown between them over the years—quiet, resilient, familiar. She picked at a loose thread on the cushion, her fingers moving absently.

Harry’s gaze drifted back to the mantel.

Then, almost without realising he was speaking, he said, “Does the book say anything about needing three people? For the ritual or potion or whatever it is?” He hesitated. “Or can one person… do it alone?”

Hermione froze, just for a second. Then she blinked, the question clearly catching her off guard. “I—I don’t know,” she admitted, twisting the thread a little tighter between her fingers. “We haven’t finished translating the last section. Some of it is a hybrid of runes and ancient spell-Latin, and honestly, it’s a bit of a nightmare.” She gave a sheepish smile. “But Ron, Ginny, and I talked about it. We’re going to help. No matter what the book says.”

She looked up then, her expression cautious. “Are you… upset we made that decision without asking you first?”

Harry frowned. Not in anger—more in confusion. “No. I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to put the sentence together in a way that didn’t sound ungrateful. “I don’t understand why you’d all risk yourselves for me.”

Hermione’s brow creased. “Why not?”

“Because it’s me,” he said, feeling stupid for saying it aloud. The words came out sharper than he meant them to. “Because every time someone tries to save me, they get hurt. Or worse. Because I’m the one who messed this up in the first place—I let Voldemort inside me and damaged my soul—”

“That wasn’t your fault,” she interrupted quickly, her voice fierce in a way that only Hermione could make sound both angry and protective.

He shook his head. “Maybe not. But it happened. And now you’re all willing to risk yourselves again just to… what? Patch me up so I can go back to pretending I’m okay?”

“No one’s asking you to pretend, Harry,” she whispered.

“I’ve been living like this for so long, Hermione…” he said. “As if I had been on borrowed time since the night my parents died.”

He wasn’t looking at her. The weight of his words had settled heavily in the space between them while his eyes were fixed on the hearth, unfocused.

“I thought… after the war, after Voldemort… maybe that would be it and that it would stop.” He paused, jaw tightening. “The pain, guilt, and the feeling that one wrong step and everything would fall apart again.”

A silence hung in the air, thick and oppressive, until he let out a long, shaky breath.

“But it didn’t end there. It just changed. It’s as if I have swapped one kind of hurt for another. And the worst part is—I think I’ve got used to it.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word, and he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, willing the sting of tears to pass.

“Fed up,” he said, more softly now. “I’m done acting like I am alright and smiling when it’s easier to be silent. Sick of hoping that it’ll get better, only to wake up every day feeling as if I am still not meant to be here.”

His throat felt constricted, as if something was scratching its way up from within. He swallowed it down hard.

“Sometimes I wonder if the mistake was in surviving. If maybe I wasn’t supposed to.” He gave a bitter sort of laugh, hollow and small. “Everyone keeps saying how lucky I am. But perhaps I was better off dead.”

He did not dare look at Hermione, but he felt her move.

Her hand found his—warm, certain—and wrapped around it with gentle strength. She didn’t squeeze or force comfort onto him. She just held it steadily, as if to say, I’m still here.

“I see you, Harry,” she said after a moment. Her voice was quiet, but there was steel behind it. “Even when you are hiding or you don’t want to be seen.”

He closed his eyes. The weight of her words pressed somewhere deep inside his chest.

“I understand you’re tired,” she continued gently. “But I know you too. You never stop fighting. Also, when it’s silent or no one’s watching—you keep going. That matters. It means something.”

He wanted to believe that. Merlin, he wished to accept it. But the belief itself felt just out of reach—like remembering a dream that faded the second you opened your eyes.

Hermione hesitated beside him. He heard it in the quiet intake of breath, the shift of her weight.

“And…” she said, her voice trailing off.

He turned his head slightly. “And what?”

Her expression when he finally looked at her wasn’t pitying, nor was it forced or falsely cheerful. It was something deeper—soft with hope, but firm with certainty.

“I want to see you and Ginny get married,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Harry, I want to see you in a ridiculous suit and her rolling her eyes while pretending not to cry. I want to see you trip over your words and kiss her as though your life depends on it.”

He blinked at her, stunned by the sudden shift. His stomach flipped, and not unpleasantly. “What are you—why are you saying that now?”

“Because,” she said, her hand still in his, “you keep talking like you don’t have a future. But you do. You can. You could have a family, Harry, and be a father. A good one. I think you’d be—” she paused, smiling faintly, ”an incredible dad.”

His heart gave a strange lurch. That word—father—hit him harder than he expected. It conjured flashes of warmth and grief, of baby blankets and broomsticks, of a shadow he barely remembered but carried with him always.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he murmured.

“No one does, not at first,” Hermione said. “But you’ve got love, Harry. More than most. Ginny, Ron, and I are with you. You have yourself, and that’s enough to begin.”

He didn’t reply straightaway. The thought of a future; of peace, of children, of laughter that did not end in silence was something from someone else’s life. A figment, like those happy memories people clung to in the Pensieve.

He did not know if it was hope returning, or the first sign the ritual had already begun.

“I’ll try,” he said at last, his voice low. “That’s all I’ve got in me. I can’t promise anything more than that.”

Hermione nodded once. “That is enough.”

She stood slowly, brushing her skirt smooth, her hand lingering against his shoulder for a moment before withdrawing. The firelight made her eyes shine, soft and sure, while his reflection in the glass beside them was pale and far away.

“I’ll let you rest,” she said softly. “You looked half-dead before I even sat down. Still do, if I’m honest.”

Harry gave a faint snort. “Charming.”

She turned to go, then hesitated in the doorway.

“I’ll be upstairs if you need anything,” she added, casting one last glance over her shoulder.

He watched her leave, her footsteps fading into the floor above. The silence returned, heavy and familiar, but it felt easier to bear.

He leaned back into the armchair again, exhaling slowly. His body still ached in the dull, background way he was used to. The pain was nothing new. But it didn’t feel so sharp now. Not so isolating.