Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction / Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Horcrux’s Fate ❯ The Borrowed Sky ( Chapter 10 )

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Ron lay sprawled across his bed, the familiar worn mattress sagging beneath him as the golden haze of late afternoon filtered lazily through the curtains. One arm dangled over the edge, fingers grazing the floor, and his thoughts were just beginning to drift into that warm, comfortable fog that came with the rare luxury of rest.

He’d nearly dozed off when a sudden knock shattered the quiet.

“Ugh—seriously?” He groaned, swinging his legs over the side and trudging towards the door, still blinking sleep from his eyes.

Hermione stood in the hallway, arms folded tightly across her chest, her expression set and unreadable, but her gaze was perceptive. Far too sharp for something ordinary.

Ron managed a weak smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey. Er—come in.”

She stepped past him without comment and sank into the rickety wooden chair near the bed. She still hadn’t smiled. That was the first warning sign. She always smiled, unless she had truly awful thoughts to say.

He sat down again, his heart ticking up in his chest. The air had shifted. Something was not right. Not the ‘I-misplaced-a-book’ sort of wrong. This was the tight-lipped tension Hermione only wore when she was scared and trying desperately not to show it.

“You saw the look I gave you at lunch, didn’t you?” she asked, voice clipped and businesslike. “You knew I’d figured it out.”

Ron nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he replied. “I reckoned it was about Harry. I caught him this morning in the bathroom. He was sick. Again. Said he was fine, just tired. Claimed he’d taken the potions, but I found them untouched on his nightstand later. He has stopped pretending.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, her breath catching. “He’s refusing them?”

“Pretty much,” Ron replied, trying to keep the frustration from his voice. “He admits they weren’t helping. Then gave me that look—you know, the one that says, ‘I’m fine, so please stop talking before I hex you.’ He promised he’d take them if things got worse, but… I dunno. He just wanted me off his back.”

Hermione glanced away, her fingers twitching where they rested in her lap. Ron noticed they were trembling slightly.

“There’s more,” she admitted after a pause. Her voice had gone quiet, strained.

He frowned. “What?”

She hesitated. For a moment, it looked as though she might not say it at all. But then she lifted her gaze, and the look in her eyes made Ron’s stomach twist into knots.

“He told me,” she whispered, “that sometimes he wishes he weren’t here anymore. That it might’ve been better… if he had, you know… died.”

He stared at her.

For a few seconds, the words didn’t register.

“He—what?” he croaked. “Harry said that?”

Hermione nodded, eyes glistening. “He looked… so done, Ron. Not just in the way people do when they’ve had a terrible night. Tired in his bones. Like he’s been carrying something too heavy for too long, and he doesn’t know how to put it down.”

He shot to his feet and began pacing, running both hands through his hair. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “I thought maybe he was just being his usual pigheaded self, refusing help because he didn’t want to seem weak. But that—” He paused, turning back to face her. “That’s not stubborn. That’s… that’s something else.”

Hermione nodded again, slower this time. “Harry doesn’t see what we see. He considers himself a burden.”

“Well, he is not,” Ron snapped. His fists clenched uselessly at his sides. “He’s the bravest, most selfless idiot I’ve ever met. He has bloody saved the world. But now he thinks he isn’t worthy of any help? It’s mad.”

Hermione gave him a sad smile. “As far as I’m concerned, he has forgotten how to believe in himself.”

“I think,” he said, pacing again, “we need to remind him.”

She raised an eyebrow. “How?”

Ron’s eyes lit up with sudden inspiration, the way they constantly did right before a half-baked plan was about to form.

“You know what Harry loves most, don’t you?”

“Treacle tart?” Hermione guessed weakly.

Ron huffed. “Yes, alright, that too. But I meant Quidditch, flying. It’s the only thing that ever truly clears his head. He always talks about how it made him feel free. As if nothing could touch him up there.”

She gave him a look that was half amusement and exasperation. “You want to put Harry, who’s been vomiting and skipping potions, on a broomstick?”

“Not force him onto one,” Ron said innocently. “Just… gently suggest it. With enthusiasm. Make it seem like a regular excursion.”

She stared at him. “Are you serious? With Ginny, who turns into a dragon when you hand her a Quaffle, and me—who can barely hover three feet off the ground without spinning sideways?”

“Exactly,” he agreed. “It’ll be fun. Low stakes. Just a bit of flying. We will keep an eye on him. If he looks dodgy, we’ll call it off.”

Hermione gave a dramatic sigh and buried her face in her hands. “There are a thousand ways this could go horribly wrong.”

“Probably,” Ron said, grinning now. “But what if it doesn’t? What if it helps him feel like himself again? Even for an hour?”

She was silent for a moment. Then: “If he so much as wobbles on that broom, I’m jinxing your eyebrows off.”

He chuckled. “Deal. Though you’ve threatened them before. They’re basically on borrowed time.”

Hermione glanced at him, then away, her expression unreadable. “You really think this’ll help?”

Ron’s smile faltered just slightly, but the determination in his voice was steady. “I don’t know. But it’s better than watching him slip further off. And if it reminds him, even for a minute, that there’s still good left—fun and life—then I say we try.”

Hermione rose to her feet, brushing her skirt smooth with practised hands. “Alright. But do not make me regret this.”

“You won’t,” Ron promised. “We’ll do it together.”

She looked at him, and for the first time since she’d knocked on his door, something softened in her face.

“We always do,” she said.

Harry stirred faintly, cheek pressed into the threadbare cushion of the Burrow’s sitting room sofa, the faded pattern familiar beneath his skin. It was warm here. Quiet. Safe, in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

No screams, flash of green light, or even Voldemort.

Just the muffled sound of parchment rustling and the indistinct murmur of voices nearby drifted through the air.

He didn’t want to wake.

There was comfort in the nothingness. In the stillness. His mind was for once quiet. Not empty, but dulled.

But then—

“Any good news?” came Ron’s voice. Warm, unmistakably Ron, with that low grumble he always had when trying to sound casual.

Harry kept his eyes closed. If he stayed still, if he slowed his breathing just enough, perhaps they’d leave him to drift again.

Ginny replied in a clipped, brittle manner. “No. More of the same. They want him to give a statement. Make an appearance. Smile for the press.”

He winced internally. Of course they did.

He should’ve known it wouldn’t stop. The war had ended, but the spotlight never had. They wanted him to be their symbol once more. Their story. A face they could put on front pages to reassure themselves that everything had turned out all right. That their saviour was still intact.

But he wasn’t.

There was a pause. Then Ron, again, more carefully: “How’s he doing?”

Ginny let out a long breath. “I think he is… I don’t know. He’s holding on.”

That was generous.

Harry didn’t feel like he was. He felt as if he were being held together. Fractured parts of himself jammed awkwardly into place, enough to pass for whole, if he did not look too closely. His body was here, heavy and real on the sofa, but the rest of him…

He was still scattered across a battlefield. Pieces of him left behind at Hogwarts—at the Forest, with Fred, with Lupin, with Tonks. With everyone he hadn’t been able to save.

A hand nudged his shoulder, gentle but insistent.

“Oi, Harry?”

The voice was too loud, too close. He jolted upright, breath catching in his throat, eyes flying open as panic surged through him.

Shapes blurred above him; Ron’s freckled face, Ginny standing just behind, arms folded, brow furrowed in that way she had when she was on the verge of hexing someone.

“What—what’s going on?” he rasped, blinking hard, his mouth dry.

Ron stepped back, hands raised as though in surrender. “Easy, mate. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Why did you wake him?”

“I just—thought he might want to fly,” he said, glancing between them. “You know. For fun.”

Her glare sharpened. “Are you kidding me?”

But Harry sat up, rubbing his face with both hands, trying to shake the sleep from his limbs. Ron’s words echoed in his head: fly.

Something stirred at the word; fragile and half-forgotten.

He hadn’t flown in ages. Merlin, he couldn’t even remember now. Since the hunt, perhaps? His Firebolt was gone, vanished somewhere between Privet Drive and the chaos that followed. He’d barely thought about it. Flying seemed like a memory from a different time. A sport young Harry used to love that he had buried along with so many other things.

But now… now, the idea of wind against his face, of the sky stretching wide above him, felt almost like breathing.

“I can play,” he mumbled, surprising himself with the words.

Ron looked stunned for a second, then lit up as if someone had handed him a free plate of roast beef and pudding. Ginny, on the other hand, appeared as though he’d just suggested jumping off the Astronomy Tower.

“Harry, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cut her off, his voice firming, although his legs were still unsteady.

“I haven’t flown in months,” he admitted. “And I no longer have my broom.”

“We’ve got spares,” Ron said quickly. “Even if they are old, they work. Our game is not a match or whatsoever. Only a few laps. Bit of fresh air.”

Ginny stepped closer, brushing a hand through Harry’s hair with a tenderness that made his throat tighten. “You don’t need to prove anything. Not to us.”

“I’m not,” Harry murmured. “I just… I have to remember what it feels like. To want something again.”

He stood slowly. The ache in his muscles was still there, dull and dragging, but there was a flicker in his chest now. Not quite joy nor strength. But it was close enough.

“I’ll go get changed.”

He disappeared up the stairs, footsteps light despite the lingering heaviness in his limbs.

Ginny turned on Ron the moment he was gone. Her voice trembled with restrained fury. “If something happens to Harry—if this hurts him—”

“He needs this,” he whispered. “You saw it. The way he lit up. When was the last time he smiled like that?”

She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “He is not healed.”

“No, he’s not,” Ron said. “But if we go on treating him as if he is about to break, he’ll never learn how to live again. He told Hermione…” His voice faltered. “He admitted he doesn’t want to keep going.”

Her face drained of colour. For a moment, she looked like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

“He is drowning, Ginny,” Ron went on, swallowing hard. “And we’re standing here watching. He needs a reason to come up for air.”

Before she could reply, footsteps thundered back down the stairs. Harry reappeared, broom in hand—one of the old Cleansweeps, worn smooth from years of use. His hair was as wild as ever, but his eyes… they were clearer.

“Ready?” he asked, and there it was, a proper smile.

Ron straightened. “Always.”

Ginny didn’t move at first.

She just stood there, arms still folded, lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze locked on Harry like she was trying to read beneath the surface. She did not need Legilimency; she’d consistently been able to see through him.

Then, from behind, Hermione emerged, her expression schooled in a careful neutrality, but the dry arch of one brow implied more than any sentence ever could. She crossed her arms, but she wasn’t judging; she was only cautiously curious.

Ron turned sheepish at once. “What?” he muttered, half to the ground.

She said nothing.

Ginny’s eyes flicked to hers. And though Hermione offered no smile, no nod, there was something there. Understanding.

Ginny sighed, stepping forward at last. Her voice was low when she spoke. “Be careful.”

Harry held her gaze. “I promise.”

And he meant it, but he wasn’t certain she believed him.

She didn’t argue. But the small crease between her brows deepened just a little before she gave a curt nod and stepped back. That was all he was getting.

The breath in Harry’s chest seemed to tighten. But there was no pulling away now. He turned away, gripping the old broom handle tighter, and walked towards the edge of the field; the garden’s overgrown boundaries stretching into wild hedgerows, the crooked goalposts at the far end leaning slightly to one side, their wood silvered with age and weather.

The sky, cloudless and wide, looked an impossible blue overhead, as if someone had scrubbed it clean. A light breeze stirred the leaves in the orchard and ruffled the grass, which was tinged gold in the sunlight. The kind of summer afternoon that didn’t feel quite real. Too peaceful, too gentle. Like it had no business existing after everything that had happened.

But here it was. And for now, for this moment, there was only Quidditch.

Harry exhaled slowly. The air smelt of sun-warmed grass, faint wood-smoke, and the familiar musk of broom bristles. His fingers flexed around the shaft of the Cleansweep, rough but solid. This at least was something he understood. It would stay in place and remain present when he reached for it.

It wouldn’t bring anyone back, but it might bring him to where or what he was supposed to be, even if just for a little while.

He turned. The others were gathering now.

Ron bounced a worn Quaffle from hand to hand with a look of deep seriousness, ruined a bit by the way his trainers kept sinking into the soft earth. Ginny tied back her hair, her jaw set, and the light caught in the copper strands, making her appear as if carved from flame. Hermione stood slightly apart, broom held awkwardly in both hands like she’d much rather be holding a book, her mouth twisted in apprehension.

Ron cleared his throat and strode to the centre, puffing himself up with mock gravitas. “Right, listen up, team. Four of us. Two-a-side. I’m captain, and I pick my sister.”

There was a short, loaded pause.

Hermione’s eyebrows rose. “That’s not exactly fair,” she said, adjusting her grip on the broom. “You and Ginny both played competitively at Hogwarts. That leaves Harry and me severely outmatched.”

Ron grinned unrepentantly. “Come off it. You’ve got him. The bloody Chosen One. I mean, we may as well lose right now.”

“Brilliant,” Hermione muttered, eyes narrowing. “So not only is the scoring rigged, now we’re being ironic about it.”

“Exactly!” he said cheerfully.

But Harry laughed, and it felt as though something in his chest cracked open. Like fresh air was rushing in for the first time in months.

It wasn’t a joke. It was the normality of it. The way Ron teased and Hermione bristled and his sister rolled her eyes, as if none of them had saved the world. They were just themselves again, bickering over house points or which sweet shop in Hogsmeade was best. As though it were still safe to laugh.

“Honestly,” Ginny muttered, stepping beside her brother, “why am I even on your team? I was hoping for a proper challenge.”

She turned to Harry then, chin tilted, a familiar fire dancing in her eyes. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you, Potter.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Planning to show off, are we?”

Her lips curved. “Maybe. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“You’re going down,” she added, flicking his shoulder as she passed.

There was something in her voice—not just confidence, but warmth. A spark. A tiny flicker of the girl who’d once dared him to beat her to the Snitch in the pouring rain.

And for the first time in weeks, Harry felt… alive. Not healed. Not whole. But like, he could breathe.

“I wouldn’t count on it, Weasley,” he said, feeling the grin pull at his lips. “You sound awfully cocky for someone who’s about to lose.”

“Bring it on,” she shot back, but her smile had softened at the edges, affection threaded through the challenge. “And just so you know—dating me doesn’t earn you a handicap.”

“I was rather hoping it might,” he stated lightly.

Ron groaned. “You two are appalling. Honestly. There are children present.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Only emotionally.”

He ignored her. “Alright! First team to twenty goals wins.”

“What?” she spluttered. “We’ll be here ’til midnight!”

“Come on, Hermione,” Harry said, nudging her with his broomstick. “I thought you were capable under pressure.”

She sent him a long, unimpressed look. “Remind me why I agreed to this?”

“Because,” he assured, and something steadier moved beneath the humour now, “you are on my team. And we make a good one.”

She hesitated, broom held lightly at her side, and gave Harry a slow once-over. Her brow furrowed, just a fraction, and when she smiled, it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” she asked softly. “You look a bit… pale.”

Harry’s chest tightened at her words, that now-familiar flicker of guilt rising unbidden, like a reflex. He hated how easily people could still see through him. How quickly she, Ginny, and Ron—all of them—could read the cracks he tried so hard to plaster over. He didn’t want their worry, nor did he need it. Not today. Not when he was trying to hold on to something good, however briefly.

“I’m fine,” he replied, and the lie slid out with the smooth, practised ease of someone who’d said it far too many times. “Promise.”

A dull pulse echoed behind his eyes, a headache that made the world feel like it was moving too fast and too slow at once. The deception barely held up under it. But he flashed Hermione the faintest smile, as if that might make it more convincing.

She did not press. Not right away. Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer, thoughtful and searching, but eventually she gave a small nod, as though she’d decided not to call him on it.

But she didn’t believe him.

And truthfully, he wasn’t fine. Not even close. His stomach had been churning since morning. He hadn’t eaten more than half a slice of toast in two days, and the time he’d spent retching into the loo earlier had left him pale and clammy. His limbs still felt too light.

Ginny had seen it first. The way his hands trembled when he thought no one was watching, the shadows under his eyes, and the faraway look that settled when he drifted too close to whatever he was trying to outrun. She’d tried to coax him to rest. She even tucked a blanket around him on the sofa like he was something fragile and breakable, and maybe, in some awful manner, he was.

But peace never came. Sleep only brought the fire, the searing pain, the voices, the flashes of green. The guilt. The names of the dead recited in silence behind his eyes.

It had been Ron, of all people, who found him crumpled on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor; arms wrapped around his knees, forehead pressed to porcelain, breaths short and shaky. And he had said only a few words. Simply helped him up, one arm over his shoulder, and guided him to the stairs like they were boys again sneaking back to the common room past curfew.

Even curled up in the corner of the sofa, Harry hadn’t felt rested. Just heavier. As if the ache had sunk deeper into his bones.

So when Ron had suggested Quidditch, flying to clear their heads, he had said yes without thinking.

And now here they were, standing at the edge of the Burrow’s wild garden-turned-pitch, the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the grass, and he was pretending. Pretending this was just a normal summer day. That he still was only a boy with a broom, and he hadn’t lost anything at all.

He straddled the old Cleansweep and pushed off the ground. The air shocked him, cool and alive, and something changed when he took off. The fog didn’t vanish, not entirely, but it quieted and thinned, and the wind caught in his hair, tugging strands loose, and for the first time in what seemed to be weeks, he did not feel as if he was drowning.

Above him, Ginny soared past, her broom cutting a graceful arc against the sky, her locks blazing like copper fire in the sunlight. Ron followed a beat later, wobbling just slightly as he adjusted his grip, laughing as he barely avoided clipping a tree.

They were both grinning.

This, Harry thought, this is what I’ve missed. Not only the flying. Not the game. But the way it felt to laugh without guilt. To be in motion, to feel something other than weight.

Ron called out, cupping his hands around his mouth dramatically. “Oi! You two ready to lose?”

Hermione huffed from beside him, spinning the Quaffle expertly between her palms. “I’d focus on your own game if I were you, Ronald.”

Ginny hovered just behind her brother, eyes glittering, a mischievous smirk pulling at her mouth. “Don’t worry—we’ll remind you what fun looks like.”

Harry couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. It came without warning and effort. His heart thudded, lighter than it had been in days.

This was it. This was the balm. Not sleep, or silence. Not potions or meals he could barely keep down. The sky, and the wind, and the people who knew him, really understood him, and still stayed.

He turned to Hermione. She gave him a tiny, conspiratorial nod, and that was all they needed.

They kicked off together.

The game began with a blur of motion. The four of them shot into the air, the garden falling away beneath them. Grass, trees, gables of the Burrow—all shrinking until there was only sky.

Harry surged upward, the wind roaring past his ears, and the pressure inside him, something sharp and splintered, loosened. He let out a shout, a cry of exhilaration that surprised even him, and it made Ron call back with a laugh.

It was working.

No crowds, spectators, and House banners or points to win. Only them.

Just this.

The Quaffle shot up into the air, and Harry dived before he could think, muscles reacting on instinct. He caught the red blur mid-spin, fingers closing round the leather with a satisfying thud. His body moved without protest, as if it remembered this, even when his mind had forgotten how it felt to be free.

Hermione banked hard to the left, drawing Ron’s attention. She was fast and merciless when she chose to be; cutting through the air as though she’d trained for it. She passed the Quaffle behind her back—clean, precise, cheeky—and Harry caught it just before Ginny could intercept.

“Oi!” Ron yelled, looping round wildly. “Two on two, not two on one!”

He turned in the sky, his grin wide. “Somebody seems scared!”

“A Quidditch player appears to have forgotten the meaning of fair game!” he countered, attempting to nudge Hermione mid-turn and missing by several feet.

She, with the cool ease of someone entirely in control, swerved beneath him and shot past. “Since when have you ever cared about unbiased play?”

“Since now!” Ron huffed, giving chase.

Ginny spun in next to Harry, her grin feral. “You’re in for it now, Potter.”

He glanced at her, heart pounding, hair windswept, and something old and good stirred within him.

“I’ll take my chances,” he said, voice breathless but alive.

She tore through their formation with the ease and precision of someone who had long since made the sky her home. She dipped low, almost skimming the grass, rolled tight into a corkscrew, and seized the Quaffle mid-pass in one fluid movement, not even breaking pace. The twist of her wrist was elegant and effortless. Within a heartbeat, she was off again—already yards ahead, a streak of red and gold slicing through the warm summer air.

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered, spurring his broom forward, Hermione close behind him. The wind screamed in his ears as he leaned low over the handle, eyes locked on Ginny as she surged onward like she’d been born to outrun the rest of them.

Then, just as quickly, she flicked the Quaffle over her shoulder with a precise little twist of her fingers, and Ron caught it clean.

“Go, go, go!” she shouted, laughter trailing in her wake.

He tucked it close to his chest and barrelled towards the makeshift goalposts, his grip tight, elbows flailing. Harry gritted his teeth and pushed harder, the wind roaring past his temples, his knuckles white on the broomstick. Hermione, flying like a girl possessed, drew level with him and then, without so much as a warning, she leapt.

“Bloody hell, Hermione!” he shouted, his stomach lurching.

She had launched herself clean off the broom, arms outstretched, and caught the Quaffle mid-air in a dive that would’ve had Madam Hooch dropping her whistle in horror. Her legs hit the ground hard, grass and dirt flying in every direction, but she rolled with the impact and came up breathless, wild-haired, and grinning as if she’d just taken on a dragon and won.

“Did you see that?!” she gasped, triumphant, and lobbed the Quaffle high overhead with a gleeful shout.

Ron dived and caught it mid-spiral. “She’s showing off now,” he grumbled, cheeks flushed. “Right, try stopping this one!”

He kicked upward, gaining altitude in a messy arc, and Harry was after him in a flash, laughter rising unbidden in his throat. The ache in his shoulders, the tired drag in his limbs—it all fell away.

He wasn’t entirely sure this still counted as a match. At some point it had morphed into something less structured and formal—chaotic, even. But it was brilliant. Pure, ridiculous joy.

Time bent around them as they flew. Rules dissolved. There was no referee, no points system that mattered. Just teasing shouts, desperate manoeuvres, and the sound of wind tearing past their ears. The pitch echoed with laughter, rough and unfiltered, as golden light stretched long across the garden and the sun dipped behind the hills.

“Fake left!” Hermione cried, breathless, as she raced ahead.

“Ron always falls for it!” Harry retorted. “Right’s better!”

They banked hard to the right in perfect sync, but he didn’t fall for it. Not this time. He’d grown up dodging Fred and George’s decoy spells and Bludgers-to-the-back-of-the-head. He could spot a feint a mile off.

Before he could adjust, Ginny came flying out from behind Ron like a lightning strike, eyes locked and unblinking, and let the Quaffle fly with a brutal twist of her arm.

It soared past them and struck the centre hoop with a heavy, satisfying thunk.

“YES!” He whooped, fist punching the air, his broom wobbling from the force of it.

Harry hovered, blinking, still trying to process what had happened. “Wait—did she just—?”

“We got outplayed,” Hermione panted beside him, throwing up her hands. “Plain and simple.”

He released a laugh, clapping Ron on the shoulder as they stood together. “Alright. I’ll admit it. That was impressive.”

Ginny tossed her head, cheeks flushed with exhilaration, her eyes glinting. “Told you I would not let you win.”

And they kept going.

The score climbed—9 to 6, then 10 to 7, then 12 to 8—but no one was really counting. Wild cheers and exaggerated groans greeted every goal; they traded taunts mid-air, and banged broom handles on shoulders in mock rivalry.

“I vote we practise defence next time!” Hermione called out, cheeks pink, curls clinging to her temples.

“Or dodging spells!” Ron added, swooping low with a simple grin.

“Or maybe,” Ginny said loudly, hands on her hips as she hovered above them all, “you two could stop passing the Quaffle like you’ve got some sort of unspoken code.”

Harry soared upward in a lazy loop, letting the wind tug at his shirt, the sun warming the back of his neck. His arms ached. His legs were trembling with the effort of staying balanced. But Merlin, he felt alive.

They landed at last, breathless and spent, near the edge of the garden where the fence tilted at a crooked angle. Harry dismounted and leaned against the cool, weathered wood, sweat clinging to his back, grass stains already blooming across his trousers.

His chest still heaved from the match, his hair plastered messily to his forehead, but he didn’t care. He watched them instead; Ron’s laugh booming over the treetops, Hermione attempting to brush bits of twig out of her locks, Ginny glowing in the fading light, her freckles kissed with gold.

“You were brilliant,” Harry whispered as she walked past him. “Seriously.”

She turned, looking over her shoulder, her smile softer now. “Thanks,” she murmured. “I was trying to impress someone.”

He let out a laugh—tired, but genuine. “You didn’t have to.”

They began walking back across the pitch. The grass was warm beneath their feet. The sky was now turning lavender and mauve, streaked with the last embers of sunlight.

But somewhere underneath the joy and laughter still echoing in their chests, Harry felt it again, that ache. That familiar, hollow place that even the best moments couldn’t quite fill.

Fred should’ve been here.

He would have been heckling Ron mercilessly from the sidelines. George would’ve bewitched the Quaffle to sing or explode or squeal in protest every time his younger brother touched it. Tonks would have played barefoot just to prove a point. Lupin would have cheered her on with quiet pride. Even Sirius, he’d have soared like a madman only for the thrill.

Harry swallowed the lump rising in his throat, closing his eyes for half a second and breathing it in.

“Thanks for dragging me into this,” he said as he trudged alongside Ron, his breath still coming in short bursts. The sleeves of his shirt clung damply to his arms, his fringe stuck to his forehead, and there was a slow, lingering ache in the back of his thighs, but he was smiling. A small, genuine curve to his mouth that hadn’t quite appeared in days. Perhaps even weeks.

For the first time in what felt like far too long, the weight pressing against his ribs had lightened. Not lifted, not entirely, but eased enough for him to breathe without feeling as if he had to fight for it.

“I’d forgotten how much I missed this.”

The rush of wind in his hair, the thrum of his heart as he chased the Quaffle, the sound of Ron’s ridiculous war cries echoing across the garden; it stirred something inside him that had gone quiet. Buried. Dormant. As if he had packed away and lost joy itself with the rest of his childhood things.

Ron let out a breathless laugh and nudged him lightly with an elbow. “Anything for my best mate,” he said, his tone easy, but Harry caught the undercurrent. The way he glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, quickly, like he was checking whether the smile was real. If he were really back, even just for a moment.

And he supposed he couldn’t blame him.

He hadn’t been sleeping or talking much, either.

But this had helped.

“And congratulations on the win,” Harry added, though he could still feel the sting of it, sharp as a bruise. “Good thing Ginny was on your team. She saved you; without her, you would have been flattened.”

Ron laughed. “Oi! I had a couple of decent saves!”

“You dropped the Quaffle into the hoop by accident,” he pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

“It did the trick!” He protested, but then, with a sheepish grin, he tilted his head towards Ginny. “Alright, fair enough. I owe her. That last move—she nicked it right out from under your nose.”

Harry groaned, letting his face fall back for a moment as they crossed the scruffy garden path to the house. “Don’t remind me. I’m still recovering.”

He could see her now, a little way off from the others, sitting cross-legged in the grass with a bottle of water dangling from her fingers. Her hair clung to her temples, cheeks flushed pink with sun and exertion. Ron’s voice, as ever, carried.

“Ginny! That last manoeuvre—brilliant! The look on Harry’s face—absolutely priceless!”

She didn’t even glance up. She winced slightly and rubbed at her temple; her features pinched with something that did not quite match the mood of the rest of them.

“Can’t I get a bit of peace without a running commentary?” she muttered, low enough that only Harry and Ron would’ve heard.

Harry’s smile faltered. He recognised that look. The pressure behind the eyes. That strange, tight stretch of the mouth, like she was trying to grin but couldn’t quite make it reach the rest of her face. He knew it too well. He wore the same one more often than not.

Hermione joined them a moment later, brushing grass off her trousers and tucking a few stray curls at the back of her ears. She looked between them all, then finally settled on him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. There was guilt in her voice that she could never keep hidden. “I didn’t mean for it to turn into a full-on match. I thought a short flight would be a good idea. There was no need for you to strain yourself.”

Harry shook his head, offering her a tired smile. “Don’t apologise. Honestly. You played great.”

And she had. For someone who used to grip a broomstick as if it might attack her at any moment, she’d thrown herself into it so fearlessly. Reckless, even. And that mattered.

The match buzzed in their bones long after it ended.

But by the time they reached the Burrow and were seated at the dinner table, the exhaustion hit Harry hard and suddenly, like a Bludger straight to the sternum. His body felt heavy now, unlike how it was in the air. It took a lot of work just to hold a fork. He piled his plate with roast chicken, potatoes, and green beans, but the food sat awkwardly on his tongue. His limbs throbbed. His head ached in slow, rhythmic pulses.

Too much. He should’ve stopped earlier and known his limits already.

Across the table, Ron was still revelling in their unexpected triumph, as he always was.

“Ginny, seriously, you ought to try out for the Harpies,” he was saying, his mouth full of food. “That last move—you practically teleported the Quaffle out of Harry’s hands!”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to hex you, or just dump this gravy in your lap?”

Harry snorted into his potatoes, eyes flicking towards her with the barest edge of relief. There she was. Sharper, wryer. Like herself again. Mostly.

Then the moment shattered.

“Ronald Weasley!”

Mrs Weasley’s voice cracked across the room. Everyone fell still. Harry’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.

She came bustling over, cheeks flushed, flour dusting the front of her apron. Her eyes locked on Ron, but her words were for all of them.

“What were you thinking? Letting Harry go up like that? He’s not well!”

He tensed instantly, his appetite vanishing as if someone had vanished his insides. He ducked his head, guilt knotting itself in his throat. The back of his neck burnt.

Ron’s mouth opened in protest, but Mrs Weasley was already on a roll.

“You know perfectly he has been unsteady all week! And you let him race around the sky, throwing himself into goalposts? What if he had fallen off? What if something had happened out there?”

Harry wanted to speak. To explain. To tell her it had been his idea and that he’d needed it. That, for a little while, up in the air with the wind in his ears and Ron shouting obscenities across the garden, he hadn’t felt broken.

But the words wouldn’t come.

They never did when it mattered.

He stared down at his plate and kept his head low. Let her scold and worry. She meant well; he knew that. She’d lost too much already. But he hated it. Hated the way her concern turned him into something fragile and people tiptoed around.

He wasn’t weak.

Just… tired.

“Mum, I—” Ron began, his voice rough with effort, but she cut across him before he could form another word.

“Don’t ‘Mum’ me!” She snapped, rounding on him with a force that had made even Fred and George, in years past, fall suddenly silent. Her eyes were flashing brightly and fiercely with fear. “He could’ve collapsed! What if he’d fallen off his broom? What then, Ronald?”

Ron faltered, the fight still taut in his shoulders, but guilt twisted his expression. His lips pressed into a thin line before he burst out, “Nothing happened! He’s fine! He wanted to play!”

Harry sat hunched at the table, his fork frozen midway to his mouth, the steam from his untouched food curling into the silence. His face burnt. He felt like a first-year again, caught roaming the corridors after curfew, only this time it wasn’t about sneaking out or breaking rules. It was about being fragile. Or worse, being seen as weak. And he hated that more than anything.

It was not really anger in Mrs Weasley’s voice. It was panic. Fear, sharp-edged and unspoken, rattled through every syllable like a tremor.

And yet, even knowing that, her words still landed hard.

He opened his mouth, fumbling for the right response. Something that might make her understand it hadn’t been recklessness. It was… desperation, maybe. A need to feel anything beyond the tight, numb stretch in his chest. He didn’t want to defend himself but to be seen. To be known.

“Mrs Weasley, I just—”

“No, Harry.” Her voice snapped across the room, quick and clean. “No excuses. I’m sorry, but this can’t happen again. Not until you’re properly better. Quidditch is off-limits.”

The words struck him harder than he’d expected. He knew she was trying to protect him because she loved him like a son. Even so, it stung to be spoken to as if he might shatter. It was as though he had lost the right to choose his risks.

“You’ve put yourself in danger,” she said again, the edge in her voice softening but not quite gentle. “After every single thing we’ve done to keep you safe, Harry… after everything… you can’t throw it away.”

Across the table, Ron’s fork clattered onto the wood with a sharp clink. He shoved his plate aside with a force that nearly sent peas scattering to the floor.

“That’s not fair!” he said, voice rising. “Don’t have a go at him! He did nothing wrong! It was my idea!”

Harry’s head jerked up, startled. His best friend’s cheeks were blotchy, flushed red with the anger he usually reserved for Slytherins or unfair Quidditch fouls. But it wasn’t the defensiveness that got to Harry; it was the loyalty. Fierce and immediate. Like always.

Mrs Weasley turned her steely gaze on her son. “Then you’re both to blame.”

Silence dropped over the kitchen. The room, which had been filled with chatter and the scent of roast chicken and buttered vegetables only minutes before, now felt stifled.

Ron stabbed half-heartedly at his food, jabbing his potatoes like they’d offended him personally. Hermione sat still, lips pressed together, her eyes flickering between the three of them. She looked as if she wanted to intervene but didn’t know how.

Harry did not move. He could barely lift his fork.

The warmth of the afternoon had faded. That brief, precious moment when things had felt light again was gone. Replaced by a dull, persistent ache in his chest, as if grief pressed flat.

Why did I think I could be normal? Even for one match?

The back door creaked open, and in swept a cooler breeze. It stirred cobwebs and cleared the air.

“Evening, all,” came Mr Weasley’s voice calmly.

Harry shifted slightly in his seat, grateful beyond measure for the change in atmosphere. His presence had a way of soothing things, like a silencing charm cast over a squabble.

He walked in, robes a little crumpled, eyes tired but kind, and gave him a warm pat on the shoulder as he passed. “I got word to Kingsley about the stone,” he said as he took a seat. “Poor chap’s barely had time to breathe. The ministry’s a whirlwind.”

Harry nodded, a small sound of acknowledgement leaving his throat, though he didn’t trust himself to speak yet. He felt the shame weighing on him, pulling him inward.

“I saw young Teddy at the Ministry today,” he added, almost conversationally, as he reached for a roll.

He blinked. The name hit him like a soft blow to the ribs—Teddy.

The thought of him tugged at something small and unspoken inside his chest. His godson.

“Isn’t he Remus and Tonks’s little boy?” Mrs Weasley asked, her voice gentler now. There was still a faint tremble in it, but the heat had gone out of her tone.

He nodded. “That’s correct. And Harry’s his godfather, is that right?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Yes.”

How could he forget? A piece of two people he loved carried on into the world.

He hadn’t even seen Teddy yet. Not once. But he thought of him more often than he admitted. A baby born into the wreckage of war. Something soft and new, when everything else felt scorched. The idea of him lived in his chest.

“How is he?” he asked, voice quiet but steady.

Mr Weasley smiled, his face lighting up with a kind of gentle pride. “He’s doing well, all things considered. He can now change his hair colour whenever he feels like it.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Already?”

“Since the day he was born,” he confirmed, amused. “Andromeda says he changes it every few minutes—one moment turquoise, the next blond. Bit of a show-off, really.”

“Blimey,” Ron muttered, sounding impressed despite himself.

“He’s a Metamorphmagus?” Hermione asked, her eyes suddenly alight with that spark she always got when confronted with something rare and magical.

“That’s right,” he confirmed, smiling. “Thank Merlin, too—he didn’t inherit Remus’s condition. Just Tonks’s gift.”

Mrs Weasley let out a little laugh, clapping her hands. “Oh, that is wonderful.”

Harry smiled, but it wavered, faint and brittle. Teddy hadn’t inherited the curse. He’d got the magic instead. Something pure. It was what Tonks would have laughed about and Remus would’ve marvelled at quietly, eyes crinkling at the corners with pride. For a moment, it felt like the universe had tried to make amends.

But it never really balanced, did it?

The scales were too deeply tilted. Too much taken and lost.

“You should visit him, Harry,” Mr Weasley suggested gently, leaning in a little, as though speaking only to him. “It’d do you both some good, I think. I can’t imagine how happy he’d be to meet his godfather.”

He looked down at his hands resting in his lap. They were pale. Bonier than he remembered. The tendons stood out. The illness clung to him, quiet and stubborn, like something that did not know when to let go, no matter how many potions he took or how much rest he was forced to have.

Godfather.

He swallowed hard.

“I’d love to,” he finally said, and he meant it, but his voice caught on the last word. “But… I can’t. Not yet.”

He did not lift his eyes. He did not want to see their facial expressions. Pity, maybe. Or worse, understanding.

The silence stretched just long enough to ache. And then, without a sound, Ginny’s hand slid under the table and found his. Her fingers slipped between his own. She didn’t say anything.

Mr Weasley’s grip landed on Harry’s shoulder. The same steady weight it had been so many times before: outside the Triwizard maze, after the Ministry, in the quiet aftermath of the war.

“Don’t worry,” he assured. “We’ll find a way. I’ll speak to Andromeda—see if she might bring Teddy to the Burrow, if she’s up to it.”

His throat tightened again, a lump forming that made it difficult to breathe.

“That would mean the world,” he breathed, barely audible.

Ron cleared his voice awkwardly but not unkindly, trying to lift the weight in the room. “So… Dad, who does he look like, then?”

Mr Weasley chuckled, his hand moving to scratch his chin as he leaned back. “Funny thing, really. When he was born, he had a thick mop of black hair, and he looked the very image of Remus. But within minutes, it’d gone bright pink. Then blue. Then green. Apparently, he’s got his mum’s flair already. Never the same colour twice.”

Harry closed his eyes.

He could almost see it. A tiny bundle wrapped in soft blankets, locks shifting and shimmering like a living charm. The idea of it tugged at something inside him; sharp, but not painful.

He wondered if Teddy would ever know how brave his parents had been. How much they were loved and had given without hesitation and regret.

“He’s got a wonderful future ahead,” Mr Weasley said thoughtfully, lifting his glass of water as though to toast a vision unseen. “He’ll grow up surrounded by people who care for him. That’s what matters in the end and what keeps us going.”

Harry nodded faintly, but the words felt far away, as if he was hearing them from underwater. And something dark and familiar was stirring beneath the surface.

It started small, as it always did. A bit of dizziness. Like the space had shifted ever so slightly off-centre.

He blinked, trying to steady his breath.

But it built quickly. A throb behind his eyes. A tightness in his chest that refused to loosen. The room shook as if it were a table with one leg that was too short. Then again.

His stomach twisted.

His skin turned clammy.

His fingers gripped the edge of his plate, knuckles white, his trembling hand brushing against cold cutlery and smeared gravy. The food looked wrong suddenly; half-eaten, too heavy, too rich. A forgotten mess on a too-bright platter.

He stood abruptly, the scrape of the chair lost beneath the roar in his ears.

He did not say anything. Couldn’t.

He crossed the kitchen, each step louder than it should have been. His legs didn’t quite feel like his own. He reached the sink and leaned both hands against the counter, the wood cool under his palms.

Not here. Not now. Please, not in front of them.

He stared down at the basin, breaths sharp and shallow. His vision blurred at the edges. Heat surged up his neck and across his face—sudden, dizzying, almost feverish.

Everything was very loud. Too bright.

The surrounding voices became indistinct. Distant. Muffled. Someone might’ve said his name, but it did not register.

Then, without warning, he turned and stumbled out of the kitchen.

He didn’t know if anyone followed, but he did not stop to check. His heartbeat was the only sound, a frantic pounding in his chest.

The stairs loomed ahead, steep and long. But he climbed them. One hand clutched the bannister, the other bracing itself against the wall. He moved like a man twice his age, every joint aching, each breath too short.

By the time he reached the bedroom, his legs were shaking so badly he barely made it across the threshold. He collapsed onto the bed without pulling back the covers; the mattress caught him just before the floor might have.

He curled inwards, pressing his forehead into the cool fabric of the pillow. The fever clung to him. His limbs refused to move. His chest ached with each breath, the world tipping and rolling.

Black shadows crept in, softly at first, then thickly and steadily.

He didn’t fight it.

He let the darkness come, hoping, quietly and desperately, that when he opened his eyes again, the light would still be there.

Despite Harry’s best efforts to pretend otherwise, the illness refused to loosen its grip. It clung to him with quiet persistence, dragging him under inch by inch. Each day bled into the next, thick with fatigue and heat and an ache that settled deep beneath his skin, as if his very bones had grown weary.

At first, he did what he always did: put on a face. Forced a tight smile at breakfast. Mumbled jokes that didn’t quite land. Claimed he was “just tired” when anyone so much as glanced at him for too long. But truth, he knew, had a nasty habit of slipping through cracks, no matter how carefully one plastered over them.

And the mask did not last.

By the end of the first day, he hadn’t even made it properly to bed. His legs had folded beneath him the moment the door clicked shut behind him, and he’d half-fallen and crawled onto the mattress, shivering and unnoticed. The sheets were too hot and too cold all at once, clinging and scratchy and stifling. His skin prickled with a film of sweat, and every inch of him ached, not just with fever, but with something heavier and older that had been building for months.

Mrs Weasley, true to form, had lit into Ron after hearing about the Quidditch match. Her voice had carried through half the house, high with indignation and worry, and Harry had tried to intervene and insist it wasn’t Ron’s fault. That he’d wanted to play. That it had been his decision.

But guilt doesn’t listen to reason. It lingered, stubborn and cloying. Ron had taken it hard.

Now, too sick to keep pretending he was the unbothered guest, he had finally asked quietly, almost guiltily, for time alone. It was the only thing left that still felt like a choice.

His best friend had looked reluctant, but he had nodded, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression; regret, maybe. Or helplessness. “Alright,” he’d said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Rest up, yeah? Just shout if you need anything.”

Then the door had shut, and Harry had braced himself for the comfort of solitude.

But what he got was silence.

Heavy, suffocating stillness. It settled over him, but it offered no warmth. Only weight.

He lay there for what felt like hours, heat pulsing beneath his skin, sweat cooling and drying and starting again. His chest barely moved as he breathed, each breath showing his weakness, and his limbs throbbed as if he had fought giants all day. His throat hurt, and his mind was sluggish and unclear.

It is just a bug, he told himself. Sleep it off. You’ve handled worse—dragons, Dementors, Death Eaters…

But even the memories felt distant now. Like they’d happened to someone else who was stronger.

A low murmur floated through the walls. It was Ron’s voice, exasperated but tinged with worry. “It’s only for today. He’s not dying; he just needs a rest.”

Harry let out a breath that shook a little at the end. He tried to sit up, but the room tipped sharply to the left, then right, then in the opposite direction again. His stomach turned with it, the kind of sick that went straight to the marrow.

He clutched the edge of the bed with trembling fingers, holding on as though the mattress might slide out from under him. Colours blurred at the corners of his vision. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a steady, relentless pulse.

Pain stabbed through his temples; sharp, hot, unrelenting. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on breathing, shallow and careful, each inhale scraping like grit through his lungs. He knew the Weasleys would worry—Mrs Weasley most of all. Ginny, too. She had that look she gave him when she sensed he was lying before he’d even opened his mouth.

He couldn’t bear their concern, their kindness. Not when he felt fragile and fractured.

So he lay back down, tugging the blanket up over his head like a child hiding from thunder. It didn’t help. The heat pressed close, heavy and damp. But it gave the illusion of distance, at least. Of space.

Through the wall, Hermione’s voice rose, sharper than Ron’s but softened by something gentler. “Harry’s been pushing himself too hard. He always does. He’s pretending to be okay, but he isn’t. Ron, we should check on him—”

“No, Hermione,” he interrupted. His tone was not harsh, just firm. Certain. “He’ll come out when he is ready. He only… needs space. You know how he is.”

Harry let out a quiet and breathless snort, more of a huff than a laugh. There was gratitude in it. And disbelief. His best friend wasn’t always the most observant, but when it mattered, he got it.

The gasp triggered a harsh, dry cough. It tore through his throat, bent him double with its force, and left him gasping and shaking and hollow. When it finally passed, he slumped back, heart pounding, and wiped a trembling hand across his forehead. The damp cloth he’d conjured earlier lay limp on the bedside table. He grabbed it with clumsy fingers and pressed it to his skin.

A soft and hesitant knock broke the stillness.

“Harry?” Ginny’s tone was gentle. Too close, too kind. “You’ve been in there all day. We’re all worried.”

Her voice cracked something inside him. It slipped past the defences he had built and right into the part of him that hadn’t stopped hurting since the forest, the pain, and when he had come back and found the world still spinning without him.

He wanted to open the door. To let her in and sit beside him and brush the hair from his face and tell him everything would be alright, even if it wasn’t.

But he couldn’t.

“I’m fine!” He answered, and his tone betrayed him at once. It was thin, hoarse, and unmistakably not good.

A pause. Then Ron’s voice, quieter this time. Less teasing. More real. “Mate… you sound dreadful. Look, no one’s going to barge in. Just say if you need anything, yeah?”

Harry shut his eyes. The lump in his throat swelled until he could barely speak.

“I only want some quiet,” he whispered.

He didn’t know whether they heard, if they’d gone or if they were still standing there, hesitant on the other side of the door.

But as he sank into an uneasy sleep, with the echoes of their concern persistently floating in the surrounding air, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that a change had shifted. That the illness wasn’t just fever. That it was something deeper and waiting.

And the worst part was—

He already knew it had its claws in him.

And it was not letting go.

The next day dragged on like a punishment doled out by the universe itself. It was slow, relentless, and without mercy.

Harry didn’t leave his room, nor did he even try.

He lay curled on the bed, limbs drawn close to his chest as if wounded and he were beyond fixing. He lacked the strength to move with the covers tangled around his legs, which were half-shed in a restless fever. The world outside his small corner of the house no longer seemed to exist. Or perhaps it did, and he simply couldn’t bring himself to face it.

Every inch of him ached. Not just his body—though that was bad enough, with a high temperature burning beneath his skin and his muscles trembling from the effort of doing nothing—but something deeper. The pain that did not leave bruises. That lived somewhere in the marrow, between memory and dread. A kind of grief that did not have a name.

He’d lost track of how many hours had passed. The light beyond the curtains shifted now and again from grey to white to golden, but he didn’t look.

The pillow beneath his cheek was damp and cold. It smelt faintly of sweat and something metallic. He noticed dimly that there was blood once more. A smear on the fabric from another nosebleed. He could not remember when it had started. Or when it had stopped. His whole body felt like it was unravelling in pieces, quietly, steadily. Coming undone thread by thread.

He was falling apart.

And he knew it.

But more than that—he realised they couldn’t see.

They had already seen too much. Too many moments of weakness and collapse. The raw screams in the middle of the night, the spasms he could not control, the way his fingers sometimes clenched hard enough to draw blood. He remembered the expressions they wore when it happened, how their eyes darted to each other, their voices gentled, their hands reaching for wands or cloths or potions.

They did not say it aloud. Rarely. But he saw it in them.

He frightened them.

So he stayed quiet. Kept the door shut and locked. Pressed his face to the damp pillow and told himself that silence meant control. That if he didn’t make a sound, they’d believe he was still holding it together.

From downstairs, muffled voices rose through the floorboards. He could recognise the disjointed speech. Familiar syllables swam sluggishly through his mind.

Ron’s voice was first, low and rhythmic. Harry could imagine him drumming his fingers against the worn arm of the old sofa, frustration building by the second. Hermione’s came next, quiet but clipped, the sort of tone she used when she was pacing. She would walk in tight little circles, frowning to herself, her arms folded so tightly they left creases on her sleeves. And Ginny… he pictured her still and coiled, fists clenched in her lap like she was holding herself back from shattering everything against the nearest wall.

They were talking about Hagrid; he thought. Something about the Thestrals. He’d gone out two days ago and hadn’t returned.

He ought to have cared. He was family. But the idea drifted past him.

He couldn’t seem to feel anything properly. Not even fear. Just the weight pressing down on his chest, hot and crushing, like a boulder lodged behind his ribs. Breathing had become an effort, each shallow inhale more exhausting than the last.

He wanted to sit up. To make it to the door. To show them and himself that he was still Harry, someone solid and human. But his body refused. Chains pinned him in place he couldn’t see, his muscles too raw and uncooperative to fight back. Even blinking felt slow.

And behind his eyes, in the stillness, the darkness stirred. Quiet. Patient. Like it had been waiting for him all along.

He said nothing. Made no sound. Only lay there, feverish and motionless, letting the silence sink into his bones.

Then, a voice.

Ginny’s. Sharp, familiar. And furious.

“I can’t just sit here,” she snapped. “We have to check on him.”

It cut through the haze, sudden and clear. Harry did not flinch or move. But something shifted inside him, a flicker of awareness or dread. Or both.

A pause, then Hermione’s words, uncertain. “You think something’s… wrong?”

But Ginny didn’t answer. Her footsteps were already on the stairs.

Two more followed, lighter and heavier, as Hermione and Ron fell into step behind her.

Harry could feel them there before they reached the landing. Their presence pressed against the door like a held breath.

Another pause.

“He’s locked it,” Ginny said, and her tone was quieter now, taut with concern. “He never locks his.”

“That’s it,” he announced at once, his voice rough. “That is not normal. We’re going in.”

“Alohomora,” Hermione murmured, wand drawn.

There was a click, a groan of hinges, and then—

Ginny’s gasp escaped her.

“Harry.”

She was at his side in an instant. Dropping to her knees, reaching for him with both hands as if she could put him back together with touch alone.

Hermione followed, wordless, her breath stuttering in her chest. Her fingers hovered near his face, not quite touching. Perhaps she was afraid that he might shatter under her hand.

Ron stood frozen in the doorway, his features pale, his mouth slightly open, like he couldn’t seem to process what he was seeing.

Harry didn’t move.

His head had lolled to one side, cheek pressed against a pillow now dark with sweat and something thicker, rust-brown and tacky. His hair matted on his forehead, with tangled strands plastered to his skin. He was distantly aware of the dampness beneath him. It was too hot and too cold, all at once. But even that was a dull echo, as though someone else was feeling it for him.

The pillow under him looked like something dragged from a battlefield. Soaked, stained, and wrong.

A breath caught. It was sharp and alarming.

Hermione.

“Ron—go,” she said, and there was fear in her tone, not harsh or shrill, but cracking around the edges. “Get your mum. Now. And the fever potion. Hurry!”

He didn’t hesitate. His footsteps thundered down the stairs at once, each one loud enough to rattle through Harry’s skull.

“Harry?” Ginny’s voice, thin and breaking. “Please. Can you hear me?”

Merlin, he wanted to answer and open his eyes properly, to squeeze her hand, to let her know he hadn’t gone too far.

But it was like his body didn’t belong to him anymore. He was somewhere behind it, trapped and adrift in a thick fog that dulled everything to a distant hum. He heard her; he felt her, but it was as if she was speaking through water, her voice distorted and slipping just beyond reach.

He couldn’t move or speak.

He hated it.

Hermione’s wand moved beside him, casting soft flickers of blue and white light as she siphoned away the blood. Her hands shook, and he could feel the tremor through the mattress.

“This is happening again,” she murmured, barely above a whisper. “Why does this always happen? Why doesn’t he tell us until it’s too late?”

The words cut deeper than any hex, and they landed inside him like cold metal. It was heavy, bitter, and true.

Not that he didn’t want to speak with them. He wasn’t trying to shut them out. He just… hadn’t known how, what or when to say it. By the time he realised how bad it was, it already felt overwhelming. As if admitting it would somehow make it worse.

He was supposed to be better and fine.

More hurried footsteps echoed, and then the door swung open.

Mrs Weasley swept in, Ron close behind, still slightly breathless. The moment her eyes landed on Harry, her expression changed. It was fear blooming beneath the usual warmth. Her hand went to her mouth as she took in the scene: the bloodied pillow, Harry’s pale, sweat-slicked face, and the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

“Oh, my dear…” She gasped, voice thick with emotion. “What’s happened to you?”

Ginny shifted aside without a word, making space as her mother dropped to her knees beside the bed.

Hermione stood back, arms folded tightly across her chest, as though holding herself together.

Mrs Weasley reached out, her hands steady despite their trembling, brushing Harry’s fringe away from his forehead. Her touch was soft but sure in the way of someone who’d spent years tending to fevers and nightmares.

“Harry? Sweetheart, can you look at me?”

He blinked. Or tried to. The light was searing, cutting into his skull. Everything was too bright, and yet he couldn’t see clearly. Her face swam in front of him. It was familiar and full of quiet panic.

“Mrs Wea—”

“Shhh,” she murmured at once, thumb stroking his cheek. “Don’t speak, love. Just drink this.”

Ron pressed something into her hand; a small vial, cool and glinting. She uncorked it and tipped it gently to Harry’s lips.

The taste was bitter and metallic, and it scorched its way down his throat. But then came a flicker of warmth. It was dull but spreading.

Some of the pain ebbed.

Not all.

Not nearly enough.

He sagged back against the pillow, the brief effort of swallowing leaving him gasping. His chest rose and fell far too quickly, and a quiet wheeze escaped him on every exhale.

Mrs Weasley didn’t falter. Her hands moved fast, checking his pulse, brushing damp hair from his brow, and smoothing the blanket above him.

“Where does it hurt most, Harry?”

His vision blurred again. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first.

Then finally, with a ragged breath, he lifted a trembling hand to his chest.

“It burns,” he whispered. “It’s not stopping.”

Her face crumpled.

“Oh, love,” she breathed, her voice breaking. “I’d take it from you if I could. I would. In a heartbeat.”

She reached into the little cloth bag she’d brought, her fingers closing around a second vial. This potion shimmered gold; its contents were thicker and slower-moving. Pain-dulling draught. Carefully, she guided it to his mouth.

“Just one more,” she said softly. “You are doing so well.”

He drank. His throat clenched. Then, slowly, the fire in his chest dulled to a smoulder.

“It’s still there,” he murmured, his voice cracking, barely audible over the thud of his own heartbeat. “Always there…”

She cupped his face in both hands.

“You’re not alone,” she assured him, her words suddenly fierce, burning with all the passion of a mother who had lost children and refused to lose another. “Do you hear me, Harry? You don’t have to go through this on your own anymore.”

He turned his head away. Shut his eyes tight.

But the tears came anyway.

Soft. Silent. Unstoppable.

He didn’t answer.

But as the potion calmed the storm inside him, as the heat faded to something distant, and as the room became real again, he felt the press of hands still holding him. One hand cupped his face, and the other clenched his fingers.

And beneath the exhaustion, fear, and the shame and the guilt, a single word stirred. Quiet as a whisper.

Maybe.