Harry felt eleven again.
Something about following George up the creaky, narrow staircase of The Burrow stirred a forgotten sense of wonder inside him. The house groaned beneath their feet, every floorboard offering its familiar complaint, as though greeting him with weary affection. It felt less like a building and more like a living thing, something that had seen too much and was still waiting to exhale.
He wasn't sure if it was the Butterbeer, the nostalgia, or the faint hope that things might still turn out all right in the end. His heart thudded with a strange anticipation. Not the charged, dangerous kind he had grown used to, but something lighter. Mischievous.
At the top landing, George made for a door with the easy confidence of someone who still knew every inch of the place blindfolded. He pushed it open without knocking, and Harry recognised the room instantly. It was one of the smaller, cluttered bedrooms with faded wallpaper and a sloping ceiling—the sort of space made for secrets, hideaways, and childhood plans.
Without missing a beat, George crossed to the window and threw it open. A gust of evening breeze swept in, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass, honeysuckle, and the faint earthy tang of gnome dung drifting from the garden.
"This way, mate," George called over his shoulder, his eyes bright. With the effortless grace of someone who had clearly done it far too many times, he swung one leg over the sill and climbed out onto the roof.
Harry hesitated, blinking at the open window and the sheer madness of the idea.
He set his bottle on the sill, drew a steadying breath, and followed. His attempt was less that of a practised climber and more of someone performing an awkward dance in a broom cupboard. He banged his shin, nearly lost a trainer, and narrowly avoided cracking his head on the eaves. His stomach lurched—a flicker of dizziness that vanished as quickly as it came.
But he made it.
He straightened on the sloped tiles and froze.
"Bloody hell," he breathed.
The view alone stopped him.
Fields spread out in every direction, rolling away like waves, gold and green in the fading light. Hedgerows cast long shadows across the land while the treetops stirred gently in the wind. The sky deepened, brushed with streaks of violet and orange as the first stars blinked into place.
He breathed it in: summer, woodsmoke, grass, and something that smelt like old memories. It was the kind of scent that made you remember things you hadn't realised you had forgotten.
And beneath it all lingered the faint sweetness of 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, perfectly at ease in that haphazard George-ish way, as though the laws of balance and physics were too polite to inconvenience him.
Harry grinned and sat carefully beside him, the tiles shifting slightly under his weight. He tried not to imagine 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 toward the horizon. "Fred and I used to sneak up here all the time. Mum would be shouting 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 we'd seen a Muggle flying saucer."
Harry laughed before he could stop himself, the sound bubbling out of him. "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 yes," 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 an easy silence, the kind Harry had only ever managed with a handful of people in his life. A silence that asked for nothing more than company.
The sky darkened. Crickets sang below. Somewhere in the distance, a lone owl hooted as it skimmed the fields.
After a while, George spoke again, his voice quieter now. "So."
Harry glanced over.
"How have you really been?" George asked, still watching 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 as if it held a better answer than the one in his head. He wanted to lie. He nearly did. The words were there, but they stuck somewhere behind his teeth.
"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 dreams," George offered, raising his brows.
Harry gave 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 nodded slowly. "Well, no one tells you how to, do they? How to be all right 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 them."
He took a sip, then glanced sideways. "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 place where the roof dipped toward the sky.
"It's like there's this… space," he said softly. "Where someone used to be. I don't know if I'm meant to fill it or just leave it."
George tilted his head. "Sometimes space just means breathing room. It doesn't always need to be filled."
They sat again in silence, the breeze tugging at their sleeves while the stars multiplied 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, leaning back on his elbows with his legs stretched in front of him as if he hadn't a care in the world, "you don't fancy the job?"
Harry turned his head slowly, blinking. "George, I can't even go to the grocer's without someone shoving 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 either." He paused, a wicked gleam lighting his eyes. "Though truth be told, I was more worried you'd do something really daft."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"
"Dunno," George said, perfectly straight-faced. "Try out for a Quidditch team or something equally irresponsible."
Harry sat up a little. "What? Why would I—why would I do that?"
George looked scandalised, as though Harry had insulted the sacred art 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, waving a hand. "Character-building."
Harry rolled his eyes but couldn't quite fight the smile tugging at his mouth. The truth was, part of him missed it: the rush of the chase, the roar of the crowd, the kind of clarity he only ever found on a broom. Yet even thinking about flying made his chest ache. There were memories sewn into the wind—victories, losses, and faces that never returned to the stands.
George tilted his head, watching him with the quiet sharpness born of 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 spread through Harry's chest, gentle and steady. He could picture her now; wind in her hair, jaw set with that fierce determination that came from pure grit, not pride. She never flinched, not even under pressure. That had drawn him to her long before he'd had the sense to admit it.
"Yeah," he murmured, a small smile forming. "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 because she was the youngest. Taught her to aim a dungbomb before she could tie her own shoes."
Harry laughed. "You corrupted her."
"Absolutely," George said proudly. Then, after a pause, 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 gave a startled 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 laughed again, though the sound faded into something quieter and older—the kind of silence that follows laughter when memory takes its place.
George's grin wavered, and he glanced down at his hands. "But seriously," he said, voice lower now, steadier, "she's been through more than people realise. Everyone talks about the war as if it were only the battles, but it wasn't. It was waiting, worrying, wondering if you were ever coming back."
Harry's throat tightened.
George met his eyes, no trace of humour left. "She's strong, stronger than people think. But when she hurts, she doesn't fall apart; she burns quietly, the way Mum does."
"I know. And I won't… I won't let her down," Harry said, the promise catching in his throat.
George studied him for a long moment before giving a single, firm nod. "Good."
They sat quietly for a while after that. There was no need to fill the air with anything more than what already surrounded them: the wind in the trees, the soft creak of the tiles beneath their feet, and the stars above, multiplying like sparks from a wand.
Eventually, George leaned back against the chimney stack, swirling the last of his Butterbeer with idle fingers. "You know," he said, as if picking up a thought he had been turning over for some time, "she never told Fred or 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'd better 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 then, a low, unguarded sound that warmed him from the inside out. For a moment, he could almost see Fred—legs dangling off the edge of the roof, bottle in 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.
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." His voice finally 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. Something in Harry eased at that, the way George could still find joy where grief had once lived.
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, and 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.
For a heartbeat, his chest seemed to pulse, a phantom ache that had nothing to do with wounds and everything to do with what still lived inside him.
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 change came at once, quick and clear. Harry sat up a little straighter, feeling something settle between them, heavier than words and heavier than silence. He didn't speak. He just listened. He didn't trust his voice yet; everything about this felt too close.
"We were a team, me and Fred," George said, 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 were here, that we were alive, that we weren't afraid."
Harry's eyes dropped to the Butterbeer in George's hand. His fingers trembled slightly against the glass. There was no grin now, no humour left in his eyes.
"We always looked out for each other. No questions asked. I could be halfway through a mad idea, and Fred would be right there with me, wand ready, laughing his head off. And when it went wrong, which it usually did, he was the one helping me sort it out. Usually while making fun of me."
Harry's throat tightened. He understood loyalty. He'd lived and nearly died for it with Ron and Hermione. They were a part of him in ways that were hard to explain. But this, Fred and George, was different. It went deeper, something built into them from the start. He wondered if that kind of bond ever really broke, or if some part of it just stayed behind, waiting.
"You know what I mean?" George asked, finally turning to look at him. There was something raw in his face now, open and unsure, as if he didn't know if Harry could really understand but wanted him to try.
The night air cooled against Harry's skin. He nodded slowly, feeling the weight of it settle in his chest. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I do."
George let out a breath through his nose and gave a faint, crooked smile that barely touched his eyes. "Ron's still a prat, though."
Harry blinked at the sudden shift.
"But," George went on, lighter now though still serious, "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, wand in one hand and some ridiculous plan in the other, just to stand beside you."
Harry didn't answer straight away. His chest ached. He hadn't been fair to Ron lately. He'd kept his distance, even from Hermione. He told himself it was to protect them, but maybe it was fear. Letting people close always meant there was something to lose.
George's voice dropped again, gentler. "After Fred died, I couldn't cast a Patronus. Not even a spark. For weeks. Maybe months. It was like someone had turned off all the light in me."
He paused, his jaw tightening, and blinked once, hard, but he didn't look away.
"I'm only saying this because…" George hesitated, steadying himself before continuing. "Because if you ever lose someone, and Merlin knows you've already lost more than most, you'll want to know you said what mattered while you still could."
A tear slid down George's cheek. 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 rose up inside him again. He thought of Sirius, of Dumbledore, of Cedric, of Remus and Tonks and the long list of names he sometimes whispered in the dark when no one could hear. Of his parents, faces he'd only seen through memory. So many gone without warning, without goodbye. The thought brought the familiar sting behind his eyes and that dull, dragging ache in his chest, the one that never quite went away.
"I'm sorry," Harry said. His voice came out rough, scraped raw.
George nodded slowly. "You never really get over it. Not properly. You just learn to live around it. The hole they leave doesn't close. You just figure out how not to fall into it."
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 go on when the ghosts pressed too close.
"You've lost people too," George said quietly. "I can see it in how you move. The way you hold your wand like it's something heavy. Like you owe it to someone."
Harry's grip tightened around the bottle. For a moment, he couldn't speak. Because it was true. There were days when even holding his wand felt like a reminder that he was still here when others weren't.
"You're right," Harry said softly. "It's the small things I miss most. The way they smiled. The way they made me feel like things might be all right, even when they weren't."
George didn't answer at once. He reached out and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. The simple touch grounded him, pulling him back from thoughts that went too far.
"The memories hurt for a while," George said. "But they start to help too. You'll laugh again. Not because the pain fades, but because they'd want you to."
Harry nodded. His throat was tight, but he managed it.
"You're not alone, Harry," George added, giving his shoulder a small 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 here."
That pulled a smile from Harry.
"Thanks, George."
They sat in silence again, but this time it didn't hurt. It made room for breath. It didn't fix anything, but for the first time in days, he didn't feel completely alone.
George gave his shoulder a squeeze and said, with a faint glint in his eye, "Right. I'll give Ron a proper smack on the head for you, just in case."
Harry laughed, caught 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, eyes on the sky. The stars above were clear and bright against the dark night.
"To the ones we miss," he said.
Their bottles met with a soft clink, the sound carrying across the roof. The weight of loss didn't disappear, but it was shared.
The night faded quietly, leaving only the stillness that comes after laughter.
Harry had just come down from the roof, where he'd been sitting with George. Their talk had left him both grounded and unsteady, as though someone had 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 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 brushing the worn brass doorknob, when voices stopped him cold.
Ron and Ginny.
They were downstairs arguing. About him.
Harry froze, his stomach tightening. He knew he should turn away, go into his room and shut the door, but the voices weren't exactly hushed. They carried up through the floorboards with all the subtlety of thunder over a field.
"Ginny, I told you to stay out of this!" Ron's voice was sharp—angry, yes, but underneath it was something else. Frustration. Desperation.
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, fiercer now. "This is Harry we're talking about!"
He flinched. His name again. Always his name, threaded through other people's battles as though he were a problem to solve. A burden they couldn't carry quietly.
He hated this.
"You think yelling at him is going to fix anything?" Ginny demanded. "You keep acting like he's the issue, but have you even tried listening to him?"
Ron's footsteps moved below; agitated pacing, boots on old floorboards.
"How can I listen when he won't 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. It was easier to fight monsters than explain what came after—the quiet that never truly felt safe.
"You're not helping by shouting at him, Ron!" Ginny fired back. "Harry's been through hell—more than we know. He doesn't trust easily, and maybe that's not about us."
There was a pause.
Then Ron scoffed, though there was little venom in it. "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 downstairs and say, You do. But his feet stayed rooted, guilt anchoring him like lead.
"He's not shutting us out to hurt us," Ginny said, softer now but still firm. "He's hurting. There's a difference."
Silence stretched. When Ron spoke again, his voice was low and worn. "I just wanted to help. I don't know what else to do."
Harry leaned back against the wall, the tension in his spine making it ache.
Ginny sighed, and it sounded like defeat. "You can't force him. He needs space. Time. And maybe he needs to know he's not carrying everything alone."
Ron's reply came slower, heavy with exhaustion. "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 out with our bare hands."
The words hit Harry like a Bludger to the chest. He hadn't realised Ron felt that way. That loving him meant so much effort.
Ginny's voice was quieter, but every word landed like truth. "It's not about trust. It's fear. Harry's spent years trying to protect everyone he loves, even if it means pushing them away. He's been the one who survives for so long; it's a hard habit to break. But he's not invincible, Ron. Not anymore."
Harry pressed a fist to his chest. He wanted to argue, to insist he could still be strong, but the truth sat bitter on his tongue. He wasn't. Not lately.
"And what, we just let him bottle it all up?" Ron bit out. "Let him drown in it while we stand around hoping one day he decides to open up?"
There was no reply at first.
Then Ginny said, quietly, "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 turned. He hadn't meant for her to see it, to carry any of it. He thought he'd hidden it better.
Ron's voice came again, 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'd even finished. Panic shot through him. He darted into his room and pressed 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 further 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, arms hanging limp at her sides. The fight had left her shoulders sagging, and the fire in her eyes had faded into something closer 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 said 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 that 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, pressing his forehead against the cool tiles of the bathroom floor, arms trembling beneath him as another dry heave shook through his frame. There was nothing left to bring up, yet still his body convulsed, shuddering as though trying to purge more than 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 it. 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 that had filled his head every time he'd felt the Horcrux stir. Ron's 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; it 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 as though he'd gone a few 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, and brow furrowed with the kind of concern 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 as 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 a 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. She 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 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. It shouldn't have hurt, being cared for, but it did. Because it made him remember every person who never got the chance to be looked after again.
"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."
Pressing the cloth gently to his forehead, she watched his eyes flutter closed.
"Have you been eating properly?" she asked, not unkindly. "Sleeping?"
Harry hesitated. "Not really hungry lately. I 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 he blinked.
She didn't press him. Instead, she reached for one of the potions—pale green and faintly 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, least of all yourself, if you run yourself into the ground."
Harry took the vials with trembling fingers. He stared at the contents for a moment before downing one in a single gulp. It tasted awful. The bitterness clung to his tongue, metallic and sharp, another reminder that healing never tasted kind.
Mrs Weasley watched him, then reached out and gave his hand a small squeeze. "You rest now. I'll be back in a bit to check on you."
As the door clicked shut behind her, 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 uncertain, as though he wanted to step forward but wasn't sure if he was allowed. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly, like he couldn't decide whether to speak 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 from this tight, painful now. But Ron didn't move. And neither did he.
"You scared me, mate," Ron said after a long pause, his voice rough at the edges.
Harry kept his eyes fixed on the worn patch of floor beneath his trainers. He hated this. Hated the sound in Ron's voice. Hated that he was the reason for it.
He waited a moment before answering, 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 and stepped further into the room. He lingered near the foot of the bed, 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. 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 drawn, 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 meant it, even if he didn't quite believe himself.
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. 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 weakly. Please. Just go.
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 were 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 a 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.
Even with the fever easing, something still felt off inside him, like his body hadn't caught up with the rest of him.
Ron lingered awkwardly in her wake, standing stiffly by the foot of the bed like he wasn't sure if he should stay or flee.
"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. His pride wavered, but hunger won. The idea of being fed like a child made something twist in his gut. But the smell hit him: rich, comforting, and 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 murmured, 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 and 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 and 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 spoonfuls, 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. It hurt to speak, but he wanted to answer her all the same.
Shifting slightly, he winced 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 world tipped sideways. His vision fractured, not gradually but all at once, as if the floor had dipped beneath him. His breath caught sharply in his throat as he flinched, hands scrabbling for the edge of the blanket. A wave of nausea rose in his stomach, hot and acidic, and for a moment he thought he might be sick.
He squeezed his eyes shut, heart hammering against his ribs. Cold sweat broke out across his back, soaking through the fabric of his pyjama top. Everything felt wrong. Colours swam at the edges of his sight 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.
"Blimey," 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, a tunnel of sound and light and pressure pressing hard behind his eyes.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice cut through the haze, clear and urgent. She was already leaning in, reaching for him before he even thought to call out.
Her hand found his forehead, cool and steady, and 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, worry trembling in her voice.
Still shivering, Harry managed to croak, "Just dizzy." It was a lie, and they both knew it. His voice cracked halfway through, thin and rasping, as if even the words were tired.
Ginny set the bowl aside without a word, both hands resting firmly on his shoulders. "Let's get you lying back," she said gently, already reaching for the pillows. "Slow and easy."
He didn't protest. His limbs felt like lead, but she moved with quiet determination, guiding him down as though she'd done it a dozen times before. He let himself lean into her, legs drawn weakly beneath the blanket, head coming to rest against the curve of her shoulder.
"I've got you," Ginny whispered.
And he believed her. For the first time in a while, it felt a bit easier to breathe.
Her warmth settled around him. She smelt faintly of lavender and broom polish, something familiar and clean, edged with the soft scent of home: firewood, fresh bread, and comfort. It reminded him of the hospital wing and that small hope that someone might make the hurting stop.
His breath, shaky but slowing, caught against her collarbone. He could hear her heartbeat: quiet, steady, and close.
"You know," he murmured, not quite sure why he was speaking at all, "I always thought you were the strongest person I knew."
Ginny didn't answer right away. Her fingers traced soft, absent patterns along his forearm. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. "I'm not. I'm just doing what I can."
He watched her for a long moment, the words settling deep, beyond reason.
"That's what makes you strong," he said quietly.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was gentle, whole. Outside, the trees rustled in the breeze, and the faint whistle of a kettle rose from below, mingling with the soft creak of the old floorboards.
Ginny shifted slightly, adjusting his head on her shoulder. "I'm here," she murmured.
Harry didn't open his eyes. "Will you stay?"
"I'll stay," she said at once.
He wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe that was enough.
A soft knock came at the door. Both turned toward the sound as Mrs Weasley stepped in, her face lined with worry. "Ginny, love," she said, keeping her voice calm, "I've run a cool bath for Harry. It might help bring the fever down a bit."
There was gentleness in her tone, but also something heavier: the quiet strain of someone running out of ways to help. They'd tried everything: potions, soups, even a few Muggle remedies Hermione had suggested. Nothing made a dent. The fever clung to him like a second skin.
"Thanks, Mum," Ginny said, still not looking away from him.
Mrs Weasley gave a small, tired smile and lingered a moment longer before closing the door softly 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."
He closed his eyes and let himself rest. He hoped sleep would help, even a little. He was tired of feeling like this and didn't know what else to do. But somewhere deep inside, something restless stirred.