Harry felt eleven again.
There was something about trailing after George up the creaky, narrow staircase of The Burrow that stirred a sense of wonder he hadn't realised he'd buried. The house groaned beneath their steps, each floorboard offering its familiar complaint, like it was greeting him with weary affection. It didn't feel like a building so much as a living thing—something warm-blooded that had watched them all grow up and hadn't quite stopped holding its breath since.
He wasn't sure if it was the Butterbeer, the nostalgia, or the sense that maybe things might still be alright in the end. But his heart thudded with an odd anticipation. Not the charged, dangerous kind he'd grown used to. This was different. Lighter. Mischievous.
At the top landing, George made for a door with the casual air of someone who still knew every inch of the place blindfolded. He pushed it open without knocking, and Harry recognised the room instantly—one of the smaller, cluttered bedrooms with faded wallpaper and a sloping ceiling. The kind of space perfect for secrets and hideaways and childhood schemes.
Without missing a beat, George crossed to the window and flung it open. A gust of soft evening breeze swept in, bringing with it the scent of fresh-cut grass, honeysuckle, and the unmistakable earthy tinge of gnome dung from somewhere in the garden.
"This way, mate," George called over his shoulder, eyes sparkling. Then, with all the effortless grace of someone who'd clearly done it far too many times, he swung one leg over the windowsill and clambered out onto the roof.
Harry stood there for a second, blinking at the open window and the absolute lunacy of it.
He set his bottle on the sill, took a steadying breath, and followed—less like an experienced rooftop sneak, more like someone attempting interpretive dance in a cramped cupboard. He banged his shin, nearly lost a trainer, and only just avoided knocking his head on the eaves.
But he made it.
He straightened up cautiously on the sloped tiles and froze.
Bloody hell.
The view alone stopped him cold.
Fields stretched out in every direction, rolling away like waves, golden and green in the fading light. Hedgerows cast long shadows across the land, and the treetops moved gently in the wind. The sky was deepening now, brushed with streaks of violet and orange, the first stars blinking into place one by one.
He breathed it in.
It smelt of summer. Of woodsmoke and grass and something like old memories. The sort of smell that made you remember things you hadn't realised you'd forgotten.
And underneath it all—just faintly—Butterbeer.
"Welcome to my sanctuary," George said grandly, already seated like a prince on his crooked rooftop throne. He leaned back on his elbows, bottle in hand, looking perfectly at ease in that haphazard George-ish way—like the laws of balance and physics were simply too polite to inconvenience him.
Harry managed a grin and dropped down beside him, the tiles shifting slightly under his weight. He tried not to picture himself tumbling backwards into a flowerbed.
George popped the cap off his bottle with a flick of his wand and took a long sip before nodding out toward the horizon. "Fred and I used to sneak up here all the time. Mum'd be hollering herself hoarse downstairs, and we'd be up here plotting revenge. Or pretending to be dragon hunters. Or—I swear this is true—we convinced ourselves once that we'd seen a Muggle UFO."
Harry laughed, the sound bubbling out before he could stop it. "I remember her chasing you two round the house with a frying pan. Swore one of you had transfigured her best cushion into a puffskein."
"Oh yeah," George said fondly. "Proper terrifying, she was. You've never known fear until you've been cornered by a woman in a floral apron wielding a rolling pin."
They fell into a companionable quiet, the sort Harry had only ever managed with a few people in his life. The kind that didn't demand conversation, just presence.
The sky darkened. Crickets chirped below. Somewhere off in the distance, a lone owl hooted as it skimmed low over the fields.
After a while, George broke the silence, his voice softer now. "So."
Harry glanced over.
"How've you really been?" George asked, eyes still on the stars. "And don't give me the 'I'm fine' line. That one's expired. I want the version that doesn't fit neatly into a headline."
Harry hesitated, staring into his bottle like it might contain a better answer than the one in his head.
"I don't know," he said at last. "I keep thinking I should have a plan. I used to have one. Or rather… I had something to run from. Or towards. But now…"
"No Dark Lords. No Death Eaters. No cryptic messages from your dreams," George offered, raising his brows.
Harry let out a quiet huff. "Exactly. Just… life. Ordinary life. And it's mad, but I think I'm only just learning how to live it."
George gave a quiet nod. "Well, no one tells you how to do it, do they? How to be alright again. People think the battle ends, and that's it. Happily ever after. But there are still mornings. And chores. And memories that hit you like a bludger when you least expect it."
He took a slow sip, then glanced sidelong. "You're allowed to not have a plan, Harry. Honestly, I'd be more worried if you did."
Harry looked down at his boots, at the tiles, at the edge of the roof where the sky dipped low.
"It's like there's this… space," he said quietly. "Where something used to be. I don't know if I'm supposed to fill it or just leave it alone."
George tilted his head thoughtfully. "Sometimes space just means breathing room. Doesn't always need to be filled."
They sat again in silence, the breeze playing with their sleeves, the stars multiplying above them in slow, deliberate constellations.
George cleared his throat. "Mind you, Stan Shunpike says you're next in line for Minister for Magic. So that's something."
Harry nearly choked on his Butterbeer. "Stan? He once told a group of Veela he was one."
George grinned, triumphant. "Exactly. Which means he's qualified for politics."
They both laughed.
"But really," George said, shifting to lean back on his elbows, legs stretched long in front of him like he hadn't a care in the world, "you don't fancy the job?"
Harry turned his head slowly, blinking at him. "George, I can't even go to the grocer's without someone stuffing a Chocolate Frog card under my nose and asking me to sign it. Do I honestly strike you as someone who wants to be Minister for Magic?"
George gave a lazy shrug. "Fair point. Can't imagine Shacklebolt putting up with all that signing either." He paused, a wicked glint entering his eye. "Though truth be told, I was more worried you'd do something reallydaft."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"
"Dunno," George said, utterly deadpan. "Try out for a Quidditch team or something equally irresponsible."
Harry sat up slightly. "What? Why would I—why would I do that?"
George looked scandalised, like Harry had insulted the sacred institution of flying itself. "Because it's Quidditch, Potter. You were a ruddy brilliant Seeker. Chased the Snitch like your life depended on it. Which, now that I think about it, it usually did."
"Exactly," Harry muttered. "Nearly died in half those matches."
"Minor detail," George said, with an airy wave of his hand. "Character-building."
Harry rolled his eyes but couldn't quite fight the tug of a smile. The truth was, part of him missed it. The thrill of the chase, the roar of the crowd. The kind of clarity he only ever found on a broom.
George tilted his head, watching him with that quiet sharpness he'd inherited from years of mischief. "Did Ginny ever tell you she's thinking of trying out for the Harpies?"
Harry straightened. "No. She didn't say anything."
"Really?" George sounded surprised. "She's dead serious about it. Been training nearly every day. Got the fire, that one. Fred and I always said she could fly rings round anyone—even you."
Warmth bloomed in Harry's chest, uncoiling gently. He could picture her now—wind in her hair, jaw set with that fierce determination that had nothing to do with pride and everything to do with grit. She didn't flinch, not even under pressure. That had always drawn him to her, long before he'd had the sense to admit it.
"Yeah," he murmured, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "She's got that look. The one that dares the world to say no so she can hex it for trying."
George chuckled. "That's Mum in her, that is. But also us. We never let her sit out just 'cause she was the youngest. Taught her how to aim a dungbomb before she could tie her own shoes."
Harry laughed. "You corrupted her."
"Absolutely," George said proudly. Then, after a beat, his tone softened, just enough for Harry to notice. "And we kept an eye out. Made sure any bloke sniffing round wasn't a total pillock."
Harry made a choking sound. "Cheers, George. Always nice to know I passed the screening process."
George raised his bottle and tapped it against Harry's. "Just about," he said. "We debated a Bat-Bogey Hex first but figured Ginny would handle that herself."
They both laughed again, but this time the sound faded into something quieter, something older. The kind of silence that settles when laughter ends and memory takes over.
George's grin faltered, and he glanced down at his hands. "But seriously," he said, his voice lower now, steadier, "she's been through more than most people realise. Everyone talks about the war like it was just the battles—but it wasn't. It was waiting, worrying, wondering if you were ever coming back."
Harry's throat felt tight.
George met his eyes, no mockery in them now. "She's strong. Stronger than people think. But when she hurts, she doesn't crumble. She burns."
Harry nodded, slowly, solemnly. "I know. And I won't… I won't let her down."
George studied him for a long moment before offering a single, firm nod. "Good."
They sat quietly for a while after that. No need to fill the air with more than what was already there—the sound of the wind in the trees, the soft creaking of the tiles beneath them, and the stars overhead, multiplying like sparks from a wand.
Eventually, George leaned back again against the chimney stack, swirling the last of his Butterbeer with idle fingers. "You know," he said, like he was picking up a thought that had been brewing for a while, "she never told Fred and me anything about her love life. Always kept it to herself. Probably thought we'd prank her poor bloke if she said too much."
Harry smirked. "Can't say she was wrong."
"Oh, definitely not," George agreed. "You ought to be careful, Potter. I could start up again. Imagine the headlines: War Hero Hexed by Future Brother-in-Law for Snogging Sister Too Loudly in Garden."
Harry laughed a low, unguarded laugh that warmed him from the inside out. For a second, he could almost see Fred, legs dangling off the edge of the roof, twirling a bottle in his hand, grinning like nothing bad had ever touched them.
"I'll be careful," Harry said, mock solemnly. "The last thing I need is another redhead trying to hex my eyebrows off."
George clapped him on the back hard enough to nearly knock him sideways. "That's my boy."
George took a noisy, exaggerated slurp from his Butterbeer, as though determined to drag them both back from the edge of melancholy. Harry snorted.
"So," he said, nudging George with his elbow, "you and Angelina, then?"
George spluttered theatrically. "Merlin's beard, Potter, give a man a warning!"
Harry grinned. "Didn't realise it was serious. Or are you just sharing broomsticks?"
George gave him a mock glare, properly affronted. "Keep your nose out of my love life, Chosen One. I'll remind you; I still know where your socks go missing."
Harry grinned. "Don't need to hex me. Just ask Ginny. She's already better at it."
They both laughed again, but the laughter didn't last.
George's grin faded. His gaze drifted beyond the garden, past the crooked fence and the gentle rise of the orchard, out towards the horizon where the sky bled from lavender into a deepening blue.
"I'm going to propose," he said, the words almost too even, his voice steady in that deliberate way people sound when they're holding something heavy very, very still. "And yes, I mean it."
Harry blinked. For a moment, he wasn't sure he'd heard right. Of all the things George might have said up here—plans for a prank, a new joke product, an elaborate theory about gnomes forming a union—that hadn't been on the list.
"Blimey," he said when his voice returned to him. "I… I'm really happy for you, George. She's lucky."
George's smile softened, and it took on something quieter. Something truer.
"No," he said, shaking his head just once. "I'm the lucky one. She laughs at my jokes. Properly laughs."
There was no smirk in his voice, no punchline waiting to pounce. Just truth. And Harry, who'd always associated George with chaos and laughter that ran ahead of pain, found himself oddly moved.
He studied George now—not the prankster, not the boy with fireworks in his fists and tricks up his sleeves—but the man who sat beside him in the twilight, trying to shape a future around something that had been broken.
"She's my calm," George said quietly, his voice more fragile now. "Especially these days. After…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Fred's name hung in the air—thick and ever-present. Not spoken, but stitched into every silence, into the corners of George's voice, into the lines that hadn't been on his face months ago.
Harry swallowed, hard. Images pressed against the back of his mind—Fred and George side by side behind the counter at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, grinning like they'd invented happiness.
Harry didn't speak. There was nothing he could say that would come close to enough. So he just sat there, anchored beside George on the roof, and let the silence say what they couldn't.
Above them, the stars blinked to life, quiet and ancient and impossibly distant.
"So," Harry said eventually, nudging George's arm with his shoulder, nudging the moment forward with it, "what's the plan, then? Going to drop to one knee mid-Quidditch match? Or wait until you're both being attacked by a swarm of rabid gnomes for maximum drama?"
George gave a soft huff of laughter, shaking his head. "Tempting. Could always train a flock of canaries to sing 'Marry Me'. But no. I wouldn't want to steal your thunder when you eventually get round to proposing. Wouldn't be fair, would it?"
Harry chuckled and leaned back against the slope of the rooftop, the tiles warm beneath his palms, the wind brushing past his fringe. "Unforgettable," he murmured. "That's the goal, isn't it?"
Silence returned—but it wasn't heavy this time. The kind of silence that invited you to speak if you needed to. The kind that held room for the things you'd been carrying around for too long.
Harry stared out into the dark, fingers curling gently around the edge of the roof tile. He hadn't meant to say anything, not tonight. But something about George—the rawness in his voice, the steadiness of him—made it harder to hold back.
"I've been meaning to tell someone something," Harry began, the words snagging in his throat like they weren't quite ready. "But…"
"But you don't want to worry us," George finished for him, his tone quiet but sure. Not pushing. Just knowing.
Harry didn't answer straight away. His heart beat a little harder, like it always did when someone got too close to the truth. He hated how George had seen it so quickly—how easily—but at the same time, he was… relieved.
He gave a small nod.
Because it wasn't a secret, not exactly. But it was something fragile. Something he hadn't wanted to hold up to the light. The war was over, the prophecy fulfilled, and people had stopped looking at him like they expected him to do something impossible. But still, some nights he woke up with the taste of ash in his mouth, unsure whether it was memory or something darker.
"I get it," George said, turning the bottle slowly between his hands. "After Fred… I didn't want anyone knowing how bad it really was. Not Mum, not Ron. No one. I kept telling myself it was better that way. Neater. Cleaner. Didn't want to make people worry."
His voice hitched, just once.
"But it turns out… saying things aloud doesn't make them worse. Just makes you feel a little less mad. Fred taught me that, actually. He had this way of calling out my rubbish without making it sting."
Harry looked over, his chest tight.
George met his eyes, and for a second, he looked just like he had at Hogwarts—quick-witted, eyes gleaming with mischief—but there was something else there now. A depth, hard-earned. Grief had carved new spaces into him, but somehow, it had left room for kindness.
"What?" George said, raising a brow. "Didn't think I had it in me to be reflective? Thought I'd start juggling Dungbombs any moment?"
Harry smirked. "Didn't say that."
"But you thought it," George said, grinning now. "It's alright. Most people do. I used to think the only reason people trusted me was because I was funny. Because I made things easier. Not because I was… well. Me."
He shrugged, but it didn't feel careless.
"Then Angelina came along and told me I was a daft git but a decent one."
Harry snorted.
George looked pleased. "Honestly, mate, you've got that same look about you. Like you're still waiting for someone to come along and tell you you've done enough."
Harry's throat tightened again, but he couldn't look away.
"I don't know if I have," he admitted quietly. "Done enough. Moved on enough. I feel like I should have figured it all out by now. But some days, I'm still…"
"Waking up in the middle of the night wondering who you're meant to be now that no one's trying to kill you?"
Harry gave a half-laugh. "Yeah. That."
George's voice was quiet. "Then you're already doing better than you think. Because you're still here. Still trying."
He leaned forward, set his empty bottle down, and stretched his arms behind his head with a long, slow sigh.
"Truth is…" George said, his voice quieter now, with none of the mischief he usually wore like armour. "Fred was the only person I ever really told everything to. Even the stuff I didn't know how to say out loud—he just… knew."
The shift was immediate, as sudden as a gust of cold wind through an open window. Harry sat up a little straighter, feeling something settle between them—heavier than words, heavier than silence. He didn't speak. He just listened.
"We were a team, me and Fred," George went on, staring out at the darkening sky. "People used to call us troublemakers—and fair enough, we were—but it wasn't just about causing chaos. Not really. It was our way of saying, 'We're here. We're alive. We're not afraid.'"
Harry's eyes dropped to the butterbeer in George's hand. His fingers were trembling slightly against the glass now. There was no trace of a grin, no glint of humour in his eyes.
"We always had each other's backs. No questions asked. I could be halfway into a half-baked plan—completely mad—and Fred would be right there with me, wand out, laughing like he'd never been happier. And when it all went wrong—which it usually did—he was the one helping me sweep up the mess. Usually while taking the piss out of me, of course."
Harry's throat constricted. He knew loyalty. He'd lived and nearly died for it—with Ron, with Hermione. They were part of him in a way words couldn't fully touch. But this—Fred and George—it was something else. Something twin-born, bone-deep. They'd been stitched together from the start, like two halves of a joke that only made sense when told together.
"You know what I mean?" George asked, finally turning to look at him. And there was something raw in his expression now, something wide open and unguarded—as if he wasn't sure Harry could possibly understand but needed him to try.
Harry nodded, slowly, letting the weight of it settle in his chest. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I do."
George let out a long breath through his nose and gave a faint, crooked smile that barely reached his eyes. "Ron's still a prat, though."
Harry blinked, thrown by the sudden shift.
"But," George continued, tone lighter but still tethered to something deeper, "he's a loyal prat. Not just because he's my brother. I know Ron. If the world turned upside down tomorrow, he'd still show up—with his wand in one hand and some ridiculous plan in the other—just to stand beside you."
Harry didn't reply straight away. His chest ached with something sharp. He hadn't been fair to Ron lately. He'd been keeping his distance, even from Hermione. Pretending it was to protect them—but maybe it had more to do with fear. Because when you let people that close, there was always something to lose.
George's voice dropped again, gentle now. "After Fred died, I couldn't cast a Patronus. Not even a spark. For weeks. Maybe months. It was like—like someone had shut off all the light in me."
He paused, his jaw tightening, and Harry saw him blink once, hard. But he didn't look away.
"I'm only telling you this because…" George hesitated, visibly bracing himself, then went on. "Because if you ever lose someone—and Merlin knows, you've already lost more than your fair share—you'll want to know you said what mattered. While you still had the chance."
A tear slid down George's cheek, slow and silent. He didn't wipe it away.
"I never got to tell Fred. Not properly."
Harry looked down, biting the inside of his cheek. The guilt uncoiled inside him, dark and curling and familiar. He thought of Sirius, of Dumbledore, of Cedric, of Remus and Tonks and the long list of names he sometimes whispered in the quiet hours, when no one could hear. Of his parents—faces he'd only ever seen through a veil of memory. So many of them, gone without warning. Without goodbye.
"I'm sorry," Harry said, and his voice came out rough, like he'd scraped it against something jagged.
George nodded, slow and measured. "You never really get over it. Not properly. You just… learn to live around it. The hole they leave—it doesn't close. You just figure out how not to fall in."
Harry stared at his bottle. He didn't even want to drink it. He just wanted answers. Something solid. Something that would tell him how to carry on when the ghosts pressed too close.
"You've lost people too," George said softly, watching him. "I can see it in the way you move. The way you hold your wand like it's something heavy. Like it's something you owe someone."
Harry's grip on the bottle tightened, and for a moment he couldn't speak. Because it was true. There were days when even lifting his wand felt like a reminder—that he was still here when so many others weren't.
"You're right," Harry said, the words barely more than a whisper. "It's the little things I miss most. The way they smiled. The way they made me feel like… like everything was going to be all right. Even when it wasn't."
George didn't say anything at first. Just reached out and laid a hand on Harry's shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but it anchored him. Like someone had tied him back to the ground when he hadn't even realised he'd been floating.
"The memories sting for a while," George said. "But they start to help, too. You'll laugh again. Not because the pain goes away. But because they'd want you to."
Harry nodded. His throat was thick, but he managed it.
"You're not alone, Harry," George added, giving his shoulder a little shake. "You never were. And you don't have to pretend to be. If you ever need to disappear for a bit, or punch something, or drink far too much Firewhisky—I'm your man."
That managed to pull a smile out of Harry.
"Thanks, George."
They sat in silence again. But it wasn't the kind that hurt anymore. It was something softer. Something that made space for breath. For healing.
Then George gave his shoulder a squeeze and said, with a glint in his eye, "Right. I'll give Ron a proper smack round the head for you, just in case."
Harry laughed, the sound catching him off guard. It felt like a window opening.
"Cheers to that," he said.
George raised his bottle. "To the idiots we love."
Harry lifted his own bottle, his gaze drifting towards the sky. The stars above were bright now, sharp against the deep velvet of night.
"To the ones we miss," he said.
Their bottles clinked together with a soft chime. The sound carried across the rooftop and into the stillness, and for that moment, the weight of loss didn't vanish. But it was shared.
Harry had just come down from the roof where he'd been sitting with George. Their talk had left him both grounded and unsteady, like someone had finally opened a door inside him only to reveal a room full of things he hadn't wanted to face.
They'd parted with quiet words—no jokes, no pretence—and gone their separate ways, the hush of exhaustion pulling at their limbs. Harry descended the creaking stairs slowly, his mind still looping George's voice in his head. About Fred. About loss. About what it meant to still be here.
He was halfway to his room, fingers already brushing the worn brass doorknob, when voices stopped him cold.
Ron and Ginny.
They were downstairs—arguing. About him.
Harry froze, heart leaping painfully into his throat. He knew he should turn away, go into his room, and shut the door on it. But the voices weren't exactly hushed. They carried up through the floorboards with all the subtlety of thunder rumbling over a field.
"Ginny, I told you to stay out of this!" Ron's voice was sharp, angry—no, not just angry. Frustrated. Desperate.
Harry's hand fell from the doorknob. He stood utterly still, as if movement might somehow make it worse.
"How can you expect me to stay out of it?" Ginny's voice rose in reply, fiercer. "This is Harry we're talking about!"
Harry flinched. His name again. Always his name, threaded through other people's battles like he was a problem to be solved. A burden too heavy for them to carry quietly.
He hated this.
Ginny didn't wait for Ron to respond. "You think yelling at him is going to fix anything? You keep acting like he's the issue, but have you even tried listening to him?"
Ron's footsteps sounded like a storm down below—agitated pacing, boots on old floorboards.
"How can I listen when he won't bloody speak?" Ron snapped. "He's shut down completely! Pretending he's fine when he clearly isn't!"
Harry shut his eyes. The heat pressed tighter around him. He hadn't meant to be silent. He just didn't know how to begin. Everything inside him felt jagged—words too sharp to speak aloud without bleeding.
Ginny wasn't backing down. "You're not helping by shouting at him, Ron! Harry's been through hell—more than we know, probably. He doesn't trust easily, and maybe that's not about us. Maybe that's just… how he's learnt to survive."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Ron scoffed, but the sound lacked real venom. "You think I don't know that? I do! But I'm sick of walking on eggshells around him. We're his best mates—we're supposed to matter."
Harry's breath caught. He wanted to run down the stairs and say, You do. Of course you do. But his feet were rooted, guilt anchoring him like dead weight.
"He's not shutting us out to hurt us," Ginny said, more gently now, but no less firmly. "He's hurting. There's a difference."
Another silence. When Ron spoke again, his voice had softened. Worn through at the edges. "I just wanted to help. I don't know what else to do."
Harry leaned back against the wall, his spine aching from the tension in it.
Ginny sighed, and it sounded like defeat. "You can't force him. He needs space. Time. And maybe… maybe he needs to know he's not carrying everything alone."
Ron's reply came slower, bitter and aching. "He's always been like this. Me and Hermione—we've always had to drag it out of him, inch by inch. It's like he doesn't trust anyone unless we pull the truth from him with our bare hands."
The words struck Harry like a Bludger to the chest. He hadn't known Ron felt that way. Hadn't realised the effort it took—to keep loving someone who wouldn't let you all the way in.
Ginny's voice was quieter now, but every syllable landed like truth. "It's not about trust. It's fear. Harry's always trying to protect the people he loves—even if it means pushing us away. But he's not invincible, Ron. Not anymore."
Harry pressed a fist to his chest. He wanted to disagree. To shout that he could be strong. That he had to be. But the truth tasted too bitter on his tongue. He wasn't strong. Not really. Not lately.
"And what, we just let him bottle it all up?" Ron bit back. "Let him drown in it while we stand around hoping one day he decides to open up?"
There was no reply at first.
Then, quietly, Ginny said, "I'm scared too. Something's wrong. You can feel it in him—it's like he's… not all here. Like he's still fighting some battle the rest of us can't see. And if he keeps carrying it alone, I don't know what it'll do to him."
Harry's stomach twisted. He hadn't meant for her to feel that. To carry it. He thought he'd hidden it better.
Then Ron's voice, clipped and final: "I'm done waiting. I'm talking to him tomorrow. He can be furious with me if he wants—but we're going to talk. Properly."
"Ron, please," Ginny called after him. "Just—don't make it worse."
But Harry heard the footsteps thudding up the stairs before she finished. Panic jolted through him. He darted into his room and pressed himself flat against the wall just in time.
Ron passed without pause, too wound up to notice the figure barely breathing in the shadows. A door slammed shut somewhere down the hall.
Silence returned.
Through the narrow gap in the doorframe, Harry could see Ginny, standing at the bottom of the stairs. Her figure was dim in the low light, her arms hanging limp at her sides. The fight had left her shoulders sagging, and the fire in her eyes was replaced by something heavier—something close to heartbreak.
Harry reached for the door, fingers trembling. He wanted to go to her. To apologise. To explain. But no words came. Nothing he could say would make it better.
Instead, he closed the door gently, sat on the edge of the bed, and dropped his head into his hands.
The morning light crept through the thin curtains. Dust swirled lazily in the shafts of sunlight, catching the warm glow as if mocking the heaviness pressing against Harry's chest.
He was already awake—had been for hours, if he'd ever truly slept at all. His body ached in the hollow, sickly way that came after too many nights of staring into the dark, hoping the silence might offer a reprieve. It hadn't.
The nausea started early. Not sudden, but slow and creeping, curling in his stomach like something growing. By the time he'd dragged himself to the bathroom down the hall, it was a living thing, gnawing at him from the inside.
He sank to his knees, forehead pressed to the cool tiles of the loo, arms trembling beneath him as another dry heave shook through his frame. There was nothing left to bring up, but still his body convulsed, shuddering as though trying to purge more than just bile.
His palms slipped on the porcelain rim, slick with sweat, and he gritted his teeth, riding the wave of pain and helplessness.
He hated this.
Not just the sickness. Not just the weakness. All of it—the loss of control.
Behind his closed eyelids, the flashes came again—Voldemort's high, cold voice echoing like steel against stone. Screams. Fire. The rush of green light. The way the locket had whispered to him turned on him. The hollow echo of being a Horcrux. Ron and Ginny's voices raised in anger, arguing because of him. Always because of him.
He wasn't even sure when he'd last slept properly. What did it matter? Dreams had become another kind of punishment. Sleep didn't help—only pulled the past closer.
A soft knock broke the spiral.
"Harry?"
It was Ron. His voice was quiet but laced with concern. Too tense. Like he was trying not to sound as worried as he clearly was.
Harry swallowed hard, wiped his sleeve across his mouth and tried to force some steadiness into his voice.
"Be there in a sec. Just—give me a minute."
He turned on the tap and let the cold water run, then splashed his face until the chill bit his skin. It did little to wake him. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror and recoiled slightly.
His skin was pale, with a greyish tinge beneath his eyes. Bloodshot. Hollowed out. His fringe clung damply to his forehead, and there were faint shadows beneath his cheekbones, like bruises that never quite faded. He looked like he'd gone several rounds with a Dementor.
He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and opened the door.
Ron was waiting. His arms were crossed, jaw tight, brow furrowed with the kind of concern that Harry had seen too many times before—the kind that made him feel exposed.
"You all right?" Ron asked.
Harry gave a shrug that felt more like a wince. "Just tired."
It sounded thin, even to him. Like a lie wrapped in tissue paper.
Ron narrowed his eyes. "You're white as Nearly Headless Nick. And you sound like you've been cursed."
Harry avoided his gaze. "It's nothing. Probably something I ate."
He turned to go back into his room, hoping Ron would let it drop. But the moment he tried to push the door closed, Ron's foot blocked it.
"I'm getting Mum."
"No—Ron, don't—" Panic surged through Harry like a jolt of magic gone wrong. "It's fine, really—"
But Ron was already gone, thundering up the stairs two at a time, his voice trailing ahead of him as he called for Mrs Weasley.
Harry sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, heart hammering. He didn't want fuss. He didn't deserve it. He just wanted to disappear into his own silence again, undisturbed.
But a few minutes later, there she was—Mrs Weasley, bustling in with a tray balanced in one hand and a cool flannel draped over the other. She didn't say anything at first. Just took one look at him, and her face softened into something that made his chest ache.
That kind of kindness was the worst. Because it reminded him of what it felt like to be loved like a son. And it made him feel like a fraud.
"Oh, Harry, love," she murmured, setting the tray down on the bedside table and kneeling beside him. "Ron said you weren't well."
Harry shifted uncomfortably, trying to sit up straighter. His back twinged. "I'm all right. Really. Just need to lie down for a bit."
But Mrs Weasley wasn't fooled. She reached up and gently pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. Her touch was cool and familiar and so terribly motherly it made something behind Harry's ribs crack a little.
"You've got a fever," she said softly, more to herself than to him. "And you're clammy. And pale."
Harry looked away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry anyone."
Mrs Weasley tutted, shaking her head as she soaked the flannel in cold water and wrung it out. "No need for 'sorry', dear. That's not how it works."
She pressed the cloth gently to his forehead, and for a moment, Harry closed his eyes.
"Have you been eating properly?" she asked, not unkindly. "Sleeping?"
Harry hesitated. "Not really hungry lately. Couldn't sleep last night."
Mrs Weasley's hand paused, just for a beat. "Nightmares?"
Harry gave a small nod. He couldn't explain them properly even if he tried. There weren't enough words to describe what it felt like to relive a war every time you blinked.
She didn't press him. Instead, she reached for one of the potions—pale green, slightly fizzing in its vial.
"This one'll settle your stomach," she said gently. "And the other is for your fever. You'll need to rest, Harry. You're no good to anyone—especially yourself—if you run yourself into the ground."
Harry took the vials with trembling fingers. He stared at the contents for a long time before downing it in one gulp. It tasted awful—like bitter herbs and rust.
Mrs Weasley watched him, then reached out and squeezed his hand. "You rest now. I'll be back in a bit to check on you."
As the door clicked shut behind Mrs Weasley, the quiet returned—not the soft, peaceful kind, but thick and smothering—and Harry felt himself slipping beneath the weight of it.
He hadn't noticed Ron still standing there.
Leaning awkwardly against the doorframe, Ron looked utterly uncertain—like he wanted to step forward but wasn't sure if he was allowed to. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly, as though he couldn't decide whether he ought to say something or just go.
Harry's stomach turned again, though not from sickness this time. He knew what was coming. Questions. Concern. Maybe worse—understanding. And he didn't feel ready for any of it.
He wanted to close his eyes and sink into the mattress. To let the potion do its work and carry him somewhere far away from this tight, painful now. But Ron didn't move. And neither did he.
Finally, Ron cleared his throat, quiet but rough. "You scared me, mate."
Harry's eyes stayed fixed on the worn patch of floor beneath his trainers. He hated this. Hated the look in Ron's voice. Hated that he was the reason for it.
He took a moment before answering, just long enough to pretend it didn't hurt.
"I didn't mean to," he said quietly, almost under his breath. "I just… couldn't hold it in anymore."
Ron gave a small nod, stepping into the room. He lingered near the foot of the bed, his presence large and unsure, like he wasn't quite sure how much space he was allowed to take up.
"You don't have to say anything," Ron said. "I mean—I don't expect you to explain it all or anything like that. I just…" He ran a hand through his hair. "I get that something's wrong. And I know I don't know how to fix it. But I want to."
Harry looked up, blinking slowly. Ron was watching him with that familiar expression—brows furrowed, mouth tight, but eyes steady. And something else, too: fear.
Not for himself. For him.
Something in Harry's chest gave, just slightly.
"I'm not ready," he said after a pause. His voice cracked on the last word, but he didn't try to hide it. "To talk about it. Not yet."
Ron's face didn't change. If anything, he looked a bit relieved. Like he'd expected worse.
"That's all right," he said simply. "Just… don't shut me out, yeah? Not completely."
Harry nodded.
"I'll try," he said.
And he would. He didn't know how. But he'd try.
Ron's mouth twitched into a crooked, hesitant smile. "I'm just glad you're still here."
Harry stared at him. The words landed with unexpected force. He hadn't realised how much he'd needed to hear that. Not you're fine, or you'll be okay, or get some rest. Just that. Still here.
He swallowed, voice thick. "Thanks. Really. I'm going to try and get some sleep."
Ron nodded. "Yeah. Right. Good."
He turned to leave, then hesitated, glancing back. Without a word, he left the door slightly ajar—just a crack—but enough. A silent gesture, really. I'm here. If you need me.
Harry lay curled tightly beneath the covers, his body drenched in a cold sweat. Every muscle throbbed with the dull ache of exhaustion, and his skin felt as though it had been scorched from the inside out—hot to the touch but prickling with chills all the same. The blanket, damp and tangled, clung to him, and yet still he shivered, as though some shadow had seeped into his bones and refused to leave.
Time had ceased to mean anything. The minutes had blurred into hours—or maybe days. He couldn't tell anymore. His thoughts drifted in fragments—echoes of nightmares, of battles fought and moments lost. Voices. Screams. The weight of Voldemort's mind clawing through his own.
Sometimes he was still there, in the Forbidden Forest, waiting to die.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the memory. It didn't help.
A soft knock sounded at the door, but the noise barely registered.
Don't come in, he thought. Please. Just leave me be.
The door creaked open anyway.
"Harry?"
Her voice, gentle and careful, threaded into the fog.
Ginny.
He didn't answer. He couldn't. Every part of him felt too heavy to move, too frayed to respond. He lay still and silent, pretending to be asleep, praying that she might take the hint.
But she didn't leave.
Instead, the bed shifted as she sat down beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight. A moment later, her hand—cool and steady—touched his shoulder.
He flinched. Not out of fear. Not because he didn't want her there. But because it felt so distant, like she was reaching for him from the other side of a wall he couldn't tear down.
"You're burning up," she murmured, brushing his damp fringe gently aside. "Have you had anything for the fever?"
Harry gave the faintest nod, though it took everything in him just to manage that.
There was a brief pause, and then he heard her move—footsteps soft and swift—and the door creaked shut behind her. A strange ache pulled in his chest as she left. Some part of him wished she would come back, but the larger part—the louder part—still wanted nothing more than silence.
The room stretched long and quiet. He drifted in and out of consciousness, not sleeping exactly, but floating somewhere on the edge of it, where memories and thoughts blurred together and everything felt impossibly far away.
The door opened again some time later. He wasn't sure how long it had been—ten minutes, an hour, or more.
This time, it wasn't just Ginny.
"Harry, dear," came Mrs Weasley's warm, familiar voice, low and gentle. "You've had your last dose for now. We can't give you more just yet—but I've brought some soup. Try and get something down, love."
Harry forced his eyes open, lids heavy and stinging. For a moment, everything was blurred—light and shadow swimming. Then her face came into focus, kind and worried, a damp cloth in one hand and a tray in the other.
"Thanks," he croaked. His throat felt like it had been lined with grit.
She gave him a soft smile and pressed the flannel to his forehead. Her touch was soothing, grounding. Maternal in the way Harry had never quite grown used to, no matter how many years he'd been welcomed into the Weasleys' home.
She brushed a few strands of damp hair from his face, then quietly set the tray on the bedside table. "Try a few spoonfuls when you can," she said. "And let someone know if you start feeling worse. You've got us all half worried to death."
Harry nodded weakly, though his chest tightened with guilt. He hadn't meant to make anyone worry. He just hadn't known how to stop it.
With one last look—half worry, half something else she didn't say—Mrs Weasley left the room.
Ron lingered awkwardly in her wake, standing stiffly by the foot of the bed like he wasn't sure whether to sit or bolt.
"You look like absolute rubbish, mate," Ron said finally, attempting a grin. It came out lopsided and brittle.
Harry let out a faint sound—almost a laugh. "Feel like it, too."
Ron seemed to relax just a touch. He stepped forward and fluffed Harry's pillow in a rather unhelpful, overly enthusiastic manner.
Ginny returned then, carrying a small bowl of soup, steam curling up into the warm air. She moved with that same quiet confidence she always had, but her eyes were sharper now—watchful.
"Here," she said, settling beside him. She slid his glasses gently onto his nose. The familiar weight steadied him a little, bringing the room back into clearer shape.
Harry reached for the bowl, but his fingers trembled so badly the spoon clattered against the ceramic with a sharp clink.
"I've got it," Ginny said quickly, before he could protest.
"I can do it," he muttered, though even he didn't believe it.
"No, you can't," she said plainly. "And that's all right."
She lifted a spoonful and held it out for him. He hesitated. The idea of being fed like a child made something twist in his gut. But the smell hit him—rich, comforting, warm—and his stomach growled loud enough to betray him.
He parted his lips and let her feed him. The broth was hot and salty, sliding down his throat and warming the edges of him in a way nothing else had for days.
"Better?" she asked softly, wiping the corner of his mouth with a flick of her thumb.
Harry nodded, just barely. "Yeah. Thanks."
Ron leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold.
"If you don't get a move on and pull yourself together," he said, his voice casual, "Ginny's going to start running the whole household. Honestly, it's already starting to feel like she's in charge."
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Do you ever shut up?"
Ron grinned. "Just making sure he's still breathing. And that you're not poisoning him."
"Out," Ginny muttered, though her lips twitched with reluctant fondness.
Ron lingered for a beat longer, his expression shifting. He looked at Harry—not in that awkward, skirting-around-it way he usually did—but properly. Directly.
Then, with a muttered groan and a clumsy half-wave, he turned and disappeared down the hallway.
The room fell quiet once more.
Harry's gaze drifted upwards, drawn to the soft clink of the spoon tapping gently against the rim of the bowl. Ginny hadn't moved. She still sat beside him, one leg tucked underneath her, holding the soup like it was something fragile, something that might break if she shifted too suddenly. Her eyes, wide and unwavering, stayed fixed on his face, as though she feared he might disappear if she dared blink.
There was something in her expression that caught in his chest—something raw and unguarded, hovering behind the determined set of her jaw. Worry, yes. But more than that. Something that made his stomach twist.
He didn't deserve it.
"You don't have to stay," he said quietly, each word scraping against his sore throat. "I'm just… tired."
Ginny shook her head without hesitation. "I'm not going anywhere."
Harry looked away, swallowing against the lump rising stubbornly in his throat. He hated this. Hated being seen like this—sweat-drenched, shaking, too weak to hold a spoon. Hated that she had to see him like this. He was supposed to be strong. He had been strong—hadn't he? Hadn't he stood up when it mattered, walked into the forest when no one else could?
But now… now he was this.
"I don't want you to see me like this," he admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them, quieter than a whisper. And yet they seemed to fill the room.
To his surprise, she didn't flinch. She simply reached out, brushing his fringe back from his clammy forehead with fingers that were cool and sure and steady.
"Bit late for that," she said softly. "And I'd rather see the real you than some version that pretends not to hurt."
Her words stopped him cold.
For a moment, he didn't know where to look. He blinked at her as though seeing her anew. The fierce set of her brow, the gentle line of her mouth. She wasn't trying to fix him. She wasn't asking him to be better. She was just… here.
"I don't understand how you all keep saying you're here for me," Harry said after a moment, his voice rough with strain. "But this… this thing inside me, Ginny—it's too much. It's always there. I don't know what to do with it most days. It just sits on me, like it's waiting for something. And how can I ask you—anyone—to carry that with me?"
"You don't have to ask," she replied, and this time her voice did shake, just a little. "We're already carrying it, Harry. All of us. Because we want to. Because we love you."
The word landed with the softest thud, and yet it echoed louder than anything else had in weeks.
Love.
Not shouted across a battlefield. Not confessed under pressure or pain. Just… said. Plain and simple. Like it had always been there. Like it would always be.
"I don't know what to say," he managed.
"You don't have to say anything," Ginny murmured, lowering her gaze for just a second. "Just let us stay."
Harry felt something shift in him then. A loosening, perhaps. Or a softening. It wasn't that the pain disappeared—not the ache in his chest or the war lodged somewhere in his memory—but it didn't feel quite as heavy now. Not while she sat there, her hand still on his, holding the bowl like it mattered, like he mattered.
Ginny dipped the spoon into the soup again, her movements slow and careful. The silver caught the morning light filtering in through the curtains, casting golden flecks across her fingers. The broth smelt faintly of thyme and potato—something warm, something familiar. It reminded Harry of late evenings at the Burrow, laughter and chaos and everything safe.
Without a word, he opened his mouth, and she fed him another spoonful. The rhythm was quiet, steady. The soup slid down his throat, easing some of the rawness, and he could feel the warmth begin to return to his limbs, bit by bit.
She glanced at him between mouthfuls, eyes watchful but calm, like she'd done this a hundred times before. The way she looked at him—not with pity, but with something stronger—eased something in him more than any potion could.
"Almost done," she said, her voice light, though her eyes were still too bright. "You've got to build your strength—can't go saving the world on an empty stomach."
Harry gave the smallest smile. "Hilarious," he muttered hoarsely, and even though it hurt to speak, he wantedto reply. Always had, when it was her.
He shifted slightly, wincing as his sweat-dampened shirt clung to his skin. The bed creaked beneath him, and his muscles protested every movement. He hated this part, too—the weakness. The helplessness. The feeling that he'd somehow failed, even though it was all over.
The sudden sound of footsteps pounded up the stairs, heavy and unmistakable.
A moment later, Ron appeared in the doorway again, arms folded, eyebrows raised with that annoyingly smug expression he always wore when he thought he'd found something worth teasing.
"I still can't believe she used to have a massive crush on you," he announced, as subtle as a Bludger to the head.
Harry froze, heat blooming instantly beneath his skin. Ginny stiffened beside him.
"Shut it, Ron," she snapped, cheeks flushed crimson now. Her voice was sharp enough to cut through steel, but her embarrassment was clear as day.
Harry could feel the heat crawling up his neck, this time definitely not from the fever.
Ron, utterly unbothered, was already sauntering away, his laughter echoing faintly down the hall. "Just saying," he called over his shoulder. "It's weird, is all."
Ginny let out a long breath, eyes narrowed in the general direction of the door. "I swear, one day I'm going to jinx his mouth shut."
Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. "He's not wrong," he said, half-smiling. "It was a bit weird."
Ginny rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. "Right. That's enough talking. You're not well enough to be cheeky yet."
She dipped the spoon again, more soup than he thought the bowl could possibly still hold, and held it out towards him.
"Open up."
But Harry didn't get the chance.
The room shifted.
Not gradually, not with any sort of warning—it lurched, all at once, as though the floor had dipped and the walls were closing in. His breath caught sharply in his throat as he flinched, hands scrabbling for the edge of the blanket. The world tilted unnaturally, and his stomach gave a sickening twist. A wave of nausea surged through him, hot and acidic, and for a moment he thought he might actually be sick.
He squeezed his eyes shut, heart pounding against his ribs. Cold sweat had broken out across his back, soaking through the fabric of his pyjama top. Everything felt wrong. His vision blurred at the edges, colours swimming together until he could barely make out the room around him.
Then came the worst part—his body jolted, sudden and sharp, as if something inside him had slipped loose. A shiver wracked through him, violent and bone-deep. He couldn't stop shaking.
"Whoa…" he breathed. The word barely made it past his lips, more air than sound. His voice sounded distant.
The room had narrowed, closing in around him—just a tunnel of sound and light and pressure pressing in behind his eyes.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice cut through the haze, clear and urgent. She was already leaning in, reaching for him before he had the sense to call out.
Her hand found his forehead, cool and steady. He almost sobbed at the touch—it was the only thing that didn't hurt.
She drew in a sharp breath. "You're burning," she murmured, and her worry was unmistakable now, plain in the tremble of her voice.
Still shivering, Harry managed to croak, "Just dizzy." It was a lie. He knew it. And so did she. His voice cracked halfway through, thin and rasping, as if even the words were tired.
Ginny set the bowl aside without a word, both her hands coming to rest on his shoulders.
"Let's get you lying back," she said gently, already reaching for the pillows behind him. "Slow and easy."
He didn't protest. Couldn't, really. His limbs felt like lead. She moved with a quiet sort of determination, guiding him down as though she'd done it a dozen times before. He allowed himself to lean into her, his legs drawn up weakly beneath the blanket, head rolling slightly to one side until it came to rest against the curve of her shoulder.
"I've got you," Ginny whispered.
And he believed her.
Her warmth settled around him. She smelt faintly of something clean and floral—lavender, perhaps, or rosemary—and the subtle scent of broom polish lingered beneath, familiar and oddly comforting. Somewhere, beneath it all, was the unmistakable smell of the Burrow itself: firewood and fresh bread and something that always made him think of safety.
His breath, shaky but slowing, caught against her collarbone. He could hear her heart—a quiet, steady rhythm just beneath the fabric of her shirt.
And without meaning to, without really planning it at all, he said, "You know… I always thought you were the strongest person I knew."
Ginny didn't speak at once. Her fingers had found their way to his forearm, tracing soft, absent patterns against the thin skin there. When she answered, it was barely more than a breath.
"I'm not," she said. "I'm just doing what I can."
Harry gave a slight shake of his head—barely a movement at all. "That's what makes you strong."
There was a stillness then, not awkward but calm. The kind of silence that didn't demand anything. Outside, the trees rustled gently in the breeze. From somewhere below, the faint whistling of a kettle reached them, and the creak of floorboards echoed through the old house.
Ginny shifted slightly, the curve of her shoulder adjusting beneath his head.
"I'm here," she murmured.
Harry didn't open his eyes. "Will you stay?"
"I'll stay," she said at once, without hesitation.
There was a soft knock at the door, and both of them turned slightly toward the sound. The door creaked open, and Mrs Weasley stepped inside. Her face was lined with worry, her lips pressed into a thin, tight line that trembled at the corners. But she kept her voice calm.
"Ginny, love," she said, "I've run a cool bath for Harry. It might help bring the fever down a bit."
There was a gentleness in her tone, but also something heavier—a quiet desperation, threaded through every word. They'd tried everything. Potions, soups, and even a few Muggle remedies Hermione must've suggested. Nothing had made a dent in the fever. It clung to him like a second skin, unyielding and cruel.
"Thanks, Mum," Ginny said, still not taking her eyes off him.
Mrs Weasley gave a small, sad smile. She didn't step further in, just lingered a moment longer at the doorway before pulling it closed again behind her.
Harry's gaze flicked back to Ginny. His voice was barely there.
"You don't have to—"
"I know," she said softly, cutting him off with a small shake of her head. "But I want to."