Ron lay sprawled on his bed, one arm dangling off the side, as the warm afternoon sun filtered lazily through the curtains.
He was just starting to drift into a comfortable doze when a knock broke the moment.
"Ugh," he muttered, rolling off the bed and dragging his feet to the door. When he opened it, Hermione stood on the other side, her arms folded, eyes sharp.
"Hey, Hermione." He gave her a quick smile. "Come in."
She didn't return the smile. That was the first red flag.
As she stepped into the room and settled into the chair near his bed, Ron felt the shift in the air. Hermione only ever had that tight, crinkled look on her face when something was really bothering her—like when she got ninety-nine out of a hundred marks on a Charms essay, or when Harry disappeared with the Marauder's Map for hours without telling them.
"You saw that look I gave you at lunch, right?" she asked, her voice clipped, straight to the point. "You knew I was onto something."
Ron nodded slowly, the warm fuzziness of his nap now completely gone. "Yeah. I figured. It's Harry, isn't it?"
Hermione leaned forward. "He's hiding something. I could tell."
"Yeah," Ron said, rubbing his face tiredly. "He told me he was just tired… said he was feeling better. But I saw him again—throwing up in the bathroom this morning. He doesn't want to take any of the potions."
Hermione's mouth opened slightly, her expression shifting from concern to shock. "He refused them?"
"Yeah. Said they weren't doing anything. But then he promised he'd take them if it got worse. Thing is… I don't think he meant it. He was just trying to get me off his back."
Hermione dropped her eyes to her lap. Her hands were trembling slightly, fingers twitching against her clothes. "Something's not right," she said softly. "He told me something a few minutes ago. Something awful."
Ron's stomach tightened. "What?"
She hesitated, then whispered, "He told me… he sometimes wishes he wasn't here anymore. That it'd be easier if he were dead."
The room went still.
Ron blinked. "He said that? Harry?"
Hermione nodded. "He looked so tired, Ron. Not just physically… like he's carrying something we can't see."
Ron ran both hands through his hair, tugging at it in frustration. "Bloody hell. I thought maybe he was just being stubborn. But that? That's not stubborn. That's—" He broke off. "We've got to do something. He can't keep feeling like that."
"He doesn't see what we see in him," Hermione said quietly. "The way people look up to him. How much he's fought for everyone. He thinks he's a burden."
"Well, he's not," Ron snapped. "He's a bloody hero! He just… needs reminding. Maybe he needs a distraction. Something to break through his thoughts."
Hermione gave him a sceptical look. "Like what, exactly?"
Ron's eyes lit up, like a candle flaring to life. "Come on. You know what Harry loves most in the world."
"Treacle tart?" she guessed weakly.
"Well, that too," Ron admitted, "but I was thinking Quidditch."
Hermione stared at him like he'd suggested robbing Gringotts. "You want to drag Harry onto a broomstick when he's barely able to stand upright?"
Ron shrugged, grinning sheepishly. "Not drag. Invite. Gently. With enthusiasm."
"You're insane."
"Maybe. But I think it could help. Flying clears his head. It's like… the one place he always feels free, you know?"
Hermione groaned, pressing her palms to her face. "There are about a thousand reasons this could end badly. For one, you don't even have proper equipment. Second, I'm a disaster on a broomstick—"
"Alright, alright," he said, holding up his hands. "We don't need proper equipment. I'll dig up something to use as a Quaffle, maybe an old pillow or the ghoul in pyjamas I still need to get rid of."
Hermione stared at him, equal parts horrified and reluctantly intrigued. "So, you want me, the world's worst flier, and Ginny, who's got a competitive streak the size of a Hungarian Horntail, to go flying with Harry—who might pass out mid-air?"
"Well, when you put it like that…" Ron scratched his neck. "Yeah, actually. That's the plan."
Hermione sighed deeply, massaging her temples. "This is either the best idea you've ever had or the most colossally stupid."
Ron grinned. "Why not both?"
She looked at him for a long moment. Then: "Fine. But if Harry so much as wobbles on that broom, I'm calling it off and jinxing you every single day."
"That's fair," Ron said, already half-dreaming of the wind in his hair. "We'll take it slow. Keep it light. And maybe… maybe it'll help him remember what it's like to feel okay again."
Hermione still looked troubled, but her voice softened. "I hope you're right. Because I don't know what else to do anymore."
Ron reached out and gave her hand a quick squeeze. "We're in this together. Always."
A reluctant smile tugged at Hermione's lips. "Even if I crash into a tree?"
"Especially then," Ron said with a wink. "I'll even help you pick out the bark."
The world was soft and distant, like the echo of a dream slipping through his fingers. Harry stirred faintly, his cheek pressed into the worn fabric of the sofa cushions. Warm. Safe. Quiet. For once, no screaming, no flash of green light, no Voldemort. Just the low murmur of voices somewhere nearby.
He didn't want to wake up.
Still, the rustling of parchment and the sound of his name tugged at him, pulling him reluctantly towards the surface.
"Any good news?" Ron's voice. Unmistakable.
Harry kept his eyes shut. If he stayed still long enough, perhaps they'd think he was asleep again.
"No," Ginny replied, her voice tight. "Just more rubbish. They want him to make a statement. Show his face. Smile for the public."
Harry winced inwardly. Of course they did.
There was a pause, then Ron again: "How's he doing?"
Harry could almost picture Ginny shrugging. "I think he's alright."
That was generous. He felt like he was stitched together with exhaustion, his nerves stretched thin, barely holding him upright. His body was here, sprawled on the sofa, but the rest of him was scattered—fragments left behind at Hogwarts, with all the ones who had fallen, still echoing in that final scream that seemed to reverberate through him, even now.
A hand nudged his shoulder, gentle but unexpected. "Hey, Harry!"
His heart gave a painful lurch. Panic surged as his eyes flew open, his breath catching. Blurred shapes swam above him—Ron's freckled face, Ginny's sharp glare.
"What—what's going on?" Harry croaked, blinking rapidly, his throat painfully dry.
"You alright?" Ron asked, taking a step back, concern quickly colouring his expression.
Ginny shot Ron a look that could have cut glass. "Why did you wake him?"
"I thought maybe he'd want to fly," Ron said, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know… Quidditch. Just a bit of fun. Nothing serious."
Harry dragged his hands down his face, his brain thick and sluggish, as though it had been stuffed with wool. "Did something happen?"
Ginny leaned closer, her fingers brushing through his hair with such tenderness it made his chest ache. "No. Ron just woke you. Go back to sleep."
"That's not fair!" Ron objected. "He hasn't flown in ages. A bit of fresh air might help."
"Or it might make things worse," Ginny shot back, her voice low, trembling with anger. "He's not ready."
Harry sat up slowly. There was something in Ron's words—something old and familiar that stirred inside him. Hunger. Not for food. Not for rest. For wind, for sky, for something that might just make him feel like himself again.
"I can play," he said, surprising even himself.
Both of them stared at him. Ron lit up like Christmas morning. Ginny looked as though he'd just suggested diving headfirst into the Forbidden Forest.
"I haven't flown since… since everything," Harry said, his voice rough. "And my Firebolt's gone. Lost it when we left Privet Drive." The words tasted bitter in his mouth. "I'll need to borrow a broom."
"We've got spares!" Ron said at once, eager now. "Come on. Let's go."
Harry nodded, feeling a rush of something unfamiliar—hope. It wasn't healing. Not yet. But it was movement. It was something that wasn't pain. "Alright. I'll go get changed."
He pushed himself to his feet and took the stairs two at a time. His legs were still shaky, but his heart was thudding in his chest with something dangerously close to excitement. He didn't question it. He didn't dare. If he stopped, the shadows would creep in again.
Downstairs, Ginny rounded on Ron.
"You know he's not alright," she whispered fiercely. "He's barely holding it together. If anything happens to him—"
Ron's voice was quiet, but urgent. "He wants this. You saw him. He lit up. When was the last time you saw him like that?"
Ginny folded her arms tightly across her chest, as if she could keep herself from falling apart. "That doesn't mean he's ready."
Ron hesitated, then spoke, the words heavy and raw. "He told Hermione he doesn't want to keep going."
Ginny's face drained of colour. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
"He's drowning, Ginny," Ron went on, his voice cracking. "He needs something. Even just this. Just one moment to feel like himself again. Let him fly."
Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and Harry reappeared, a borrowed broom clutched tightly in his hand. His hair was still a mess, but his eyes—his eyes were brighter, as though something had flickered back to life.
"Ready?" he asked, smiling properly for the first time in weeks.
Ron stepped forward. "Always."
Ginny didn't move at first. Then Hermione appeared behind them, arms folded, giving Ron a dry, pointed look. She didn't say anything, but her eyebrows did all the work: Really?
Ginny met her gaze. There was no approval there—but no judgement, either. Just quiet understanding.
Ginny sighed. "Be careful," she said to Harry. "Promise me."
Harry paused, holding her eyes. "I promise."
She didn't believe him. Not completely. But she nodded all the same.
His heart thudded a little faster as he took his place by the weathered wooden goalpost, its edges worn smooth by years of hands gripping and climbing and leaning. He glanced up. The sky stretched, clear and endless, the sort of perfect, cloudless blue that made everything feel a little less heavy. Sunlight poured over the Burrow's crooked garden, turning the grass gold-tipped and making the air hum with warmth. It was the kind of day that almost let you forget—just for a little while—about the things you'd lost, the people who were gone, and the ache that had burrowed somewhere deep inside him and refused to leave.
For now, there was only Quidditch.
His fingers tightened around the worn broom handle, the bristles frayed but sturdy. This, at least, was something he understood. Something that had always made sense. Something that wouldn't betray him.
He drew in a long breath, the scent of sun-warmed grass and faint woodsmoke filling his lungs. Around him, the others were gathering. Ron bounced the Quaffle from hand to hand, his face set with a strange mix of determination and nerves. Ginny, as ever, looked sharp and sure of herself, her hair catching the sunlight like fire. Hermione—well, Hermione looked sceptical.
Ron stepped into the centre of their makeshift pitch, puffing out his chest in a mock sort of authority. "Right, everyone," he called, his voice cracking slightly before he cleared his throat and started again. "There's four of us, so we'll play two-a-side. I pick Ginny."
Harry saw it before Hermione had even opened her mouth—the slight furrow of her brow, the flicker of disapproval she hadn't yet put into words.
"That's not particularly fair," she said, folding her arms. "You and Ginny are both experienced players. That leaves Harry and me at a clear disadvantage."
Ron shrugged, grinning. "Oh, come on. You've got Harry. The Chosen One, remember?" He put on a mock-solemn voice, then cracked another grin. "We've got no chance."
Harry found himself laughing, properly, as though something inside him was stretching out after being curled too tightly for too long. Ron's teasing settled over him like an old jumper—familiar, comforting.
Ginny rolled her eyes and strode forward, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Honestly, why am I even on your team?" she muttered at Ron. "I was hoping for a proper challenge."
She turned to Harry then, her eyes bright and fierce. "Don't think I'll go easy on you, Potter," she warned, tossing her head. "You're going down."
There was something electric in it—the playful spark in her eye, the teasing edge in her voice. A quiet dare, just for him. Something light. Something that didn't hurt.
Harry's lips tugged into a grin, his heart lifting despite the weight it still carried. "Are you sure about that, Weasley? You sound awfully confident for someone who's about to lose."
"Bring it on," Ginny shot back, and beneath the bravado he caught the glimmer of affection tucked just beneath the surface. "Dating me doesn't get you a handicap."
Harry raised an eyebrow, mock-affronted. "I was rather hoping it might."
Ron groaned, laughing. "You two are absolutely disgusting."
Hermione let out a sigh, long-suffering but not unkind. "This match is doomed."
For a moment, the laughter lingered, bright and unguarded, and Harry felt it down to his bones—that lightness he hadn't realised he'd missed so badly. It was like being twelve again, when Quidditch matches and unfinished homework had been the biggest worries in the world. Before prophecy. Before war. Before all the people he hadn't had time to mourn properly.
Ron clapped his hands together. "Right! First team to twenty goals wins. Let's make this a good one!"
"Twenty?" Hermione spluttered, frowning. "We'll be out here all night!"
Harry grinned at her. "Sounds like you just need to work on your stamina."
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, not entirely amused. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"
"You're with me," Harry reminded her, with a quick wink. "We make a good team."
She hesitated, giving him a careful once-over. Her smile faltered slightly. "Are you sure you're alright? You're looking a bit pale."
That familiar flicker of guilt stirred in Harry's chest—the one that always surfaced when someone noticed. He didn't want her worrying. He didn't want any of them worrying. Especially not today.
"I'm fine," he said, the lie slipping out as easily as breathing, though the dull throb in his temples pulsed in quiet protest. "Promise."
Hermione didn't look convinced, but she let it go. For now.
The truth was, he probably wasn't fine. He hadn't slept properly in days. The burning sensation kept clawing into his dreams, and when it wasn't that, it was the headaches. His stomach had been off, too—he'd spent far too long staring into the toilet that morning, and he still felt a bit unsteady.
Ginny had noticed. She always did. She'd told him more than once that he needed to rest. She'd even tried coaxing him into napping on the sofa. But he couldn't. His body ached for sleep, but his mind wouldn't still long enough to allow it.
It had been Ron who'd found Harry slumped on the bathroom floor and quietly helped him go down the stairs, all without making a fuss. But even lying on the sofa, Harry hadn't felt rested. Only heavier.
So when Ron had suggested a quick game of Quidditch to blow off steam, Harry hadn't thought twice. He missed this. Missed feeling like himself. Missed laughing without guilt.
So here he was, pushing aside the warning signs, pretending he was fine, mounting his broom as though it was just another lazy summer afternoon.
As he kicked off the ground, the rush of wind whipped past his face, tugging at his hair and scattering the fog that had settled in his head. It didn't disappear entirely—but it quietened, as it always did when he flew.
Ginny soared past overhead, looping into a sharp spiral, her hair blazing in the sunlight. Ron followed close behind, wobbling slightly as he adjusted his grip on the broom. Both of them were grinning like mad.
Ron pointed dramatically towards Harry and Hermione. "You two ready to lose?"
Hermione rolled her eyes, spinning the Quaffle between her hands. "I'd focus on your own game if I were you, Ronald."
Ginny hovered behind her brother, a wicked smile tugging at her lips. "Don't worry—we'll make sure you two remember what fun really looks like."
Harry couldn't stop the smile that crept onto his face. This—this was what he needed. Not sleep. Not potions. Not quiet.
Just this. Just the sky, and the laughter, and the people who made him feel like he still belonged here.
And with that, the game began.
They kicked off together, broomsticks rising fast into the soft orange sky. The wind rushed past Harry's face, sharp and untamed, and something inside him soared with it. It had been a year—perhaps more—since they'd played like this. No school. No crowds. No House points hanging in the balance. Just them. Just the sky. Just the game.
And still—up here—it felt like nothing had changed.
The moment the air hit his skin, something tight inside his chest seemed to loosen. The weight, the silence, the ache they didn't speak of—it all slipped away. He grinned without meaning to.
A glance passed between him and Hermione. They didn't need to speak. They never really did. They were a team—they always had been. Whatever Ron and Ginny threw their way, they'd face it together.
The Quaffle shot into the air and Harry went for it at once—his body responding before his mind caught up, all instinct and muscle memory. He swung into a tight loop, tracking the red blur, while Hermione veered sharply to the left. She was quicker than he remembered—more precise. Books and spellwork hadn't slowed her down in the slightest. If anything, she moved like she'd decided, this time, she was going to win.
They worked together without needing to plan, boxing Ron and Ginny towards the left goalpost, their path narrowing like a net drawing tight. Hermione passed the Quaffle behind her back—showy—and Harry caught it clean.
Ron's voice bellowed across the pitch.
"Oi! Two on two, not two on one!"
"Sounds like you're afraid!" Harry shouted back, laughter bubbling in his throat.
"More like someone's forgotten what fair play means," Ron huffed.
"Since when did you care about fair play?" Hermione shot back, dodging Ron's wild grab.
But Ginny was already there, slicing through their formation with brutal efficiency. She dipped low, rolled tightly, and snatched the Quaffle mid-pass with an elegant twist, all in one seamless movement. She didn't miss a beat—turned on a Knut and was off.
Harry swore under his breath and surged forward, Hermione right behind him, both of them chasing Ginny as she shot forward like a streak of fire.
Before they could close the distance, Ginny flicked the Quaffle neatly to Ron.
"Go, go, go!" she shouted, laughing.
Ron barrelled towards the hoops, clutching the Quaffle to his chest. Harry pushed his broom to go faster, the wind howling in his ears, legs pressed tight against the handle. Beside him, Hermione rocketed forward—and then, without warning, she leapt clean off her broom.
"Bloody hell, Hermione!"
She caught the Quaffle mid-air, twisted as she fell, and crashed hard into the grass. Harry winced. That had to hurt.
But Hermione popped up immediately, her hair wild, breathless and triumphant, looking like she'd just won the Quidditch World Cup. "Did you see that?!" she gasped, beaming as she lobbed the Quaffle back into the air.
"She's showing off now," Ron grumbled, swooping down to catch it before anyone else. "Try stopping this one!"
He shot upwards, fast and clumsy, and Harry was after him at once, laughing in spite of himself. He wasn't sure this counted as an actual match anymore—or whether it had simply descended into glorious chaos.
Time slipped away after that. There were no proper rules, no referee—just wild dives, desperate saves, and shouted taunts echoing across the field. Laughter tangled with the beating of wings and the roar of the wind, the sun dipping low, casting long shadows over the Burrow's scruffy grass.
"Fake left!" Hermione called, panting as she sped ahead.
"Right's better—he always falls for left!" Harry called back.
They cut right.
But Ron didn't bite. He'd grown up dodging Fred and George's tricks. He knew better.
Before Harry could adjust, Ginny shot out from behind Ron like a firebolt, sharp and lethal. The Quaffle blasted past them and struck the hoop with a satisfying thunk.
"YES!" Ron roared, pumping his fist.
Harry hovered, blinking. "What just happened?"
Hermione threw up her hands, breathless. "We just got outplayed."
Harry laughed, clapping Ron on the back as they hovered side by side. "Not bad. Not bad at all."
Ginny tossed her hair over her shoulder, her eyes dancing. "Told you I wouldn't let you win."
They kept playing, and the score tumbled along—9 to 6, then 10 to 7, then 12 to 8.
Harry didn't even mind losing. Not here. Not now. Every time someone scored, they cheered like they were thirteen again—like the war had never happened, like there were no scars, no funerals. Just sky.
"I vote we practise defence next time!" Hermione called out, hovering nearby and brushing windswept curls from her face.
"Or dodging lessons," Ron added cheerfully, grinning from ear to ear.
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Or maybe you two could stop passing to each other like you've got some kind of twin telepathy."
Harry soared upwards, looping lazily through the warm summer air before spiralling down with a grin. His arms ached. His legs burned. But Merlin, it felt good.
"We'll have a rematch," he called as he landed, shaking out his arms. "And next time I'm getting a Firebolt."
"Oh, bring it on, Potter," Ginny laughed, squinting up at him with mock defiance. "You'll still lose."
Ron looked positively delighted. "I can't believe we actually beat you two. This one's going in the record books."
"You're welcome," Ginny added loftily, hands on her hips, looking for all the world like a captain who'd just won the Cup. "I carried this team."
Breathless and sweating, Harry leant back against the Burrow's worn wooden fence, the coolness of it seeping through his damp shirt. His heart was still thudding from the match, but he didn't move. He just watched them—his friends. His family.
"Ginny," he said quietly, "you were brilliant. Really."
She glanced over, her cheeks still flushed, but her smile was soft—genuine. "Thanks. I was trying to impress someone."
Harry chuckled. "You didn't need to try."
As they wandered away from the pitch, the sky above them deepening to a dusky lavender, Harry felt something twist in his chest—not quite pain. Not quite.
Just… that ache. That absence.
Fred should've been here. Fred would've heckled every miss, would've had them all doubled over laughing. George would've rigged the Quaffle to explode halfway through the match.
The game had been perfect. But the silences still lingered.
Harry closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in the scent of trampled grass, summer air, and sweat. He felt exhausted. Content. And heavy, all at once.
This was what they'd fought for.
And maybe they were allowed to have it.
"Thanks for dragging me into this," Harry said as he walked beside Ron, his breathing still a little uneven. His muscles ached and his shirt clung to him, but there was a small, genuine smile on his face. For the first time in days—perhaps weeks—something had cut through the fog that had been pressing down on him.
"I'd forgotten how much I missed this."
The wind in his hair, the rush of the chase, the sound of their laughter—it had stirred something inside him he'd been afraid had gone numb.
Ron grinned and nudged his shoulder. "Anything for my best mate." His tone was light, but Harry caught the flicker of relief beneath it. Ron had been worrying. They all had.
"And congratulations on the win," Harry added, though the sting of defeat still sat stubbornly in his ribs like an old bruise. "Good thing Ginny was on your team—without her, you'd have been flattened."
Ron laughed. "Oi, I had a couple of good saves!" Then, glancing towards Ginny, he added with a smirk, "But yeah, you're right—I definitely owe her. That last move—she nicked the Quaffle right out of your hands."
Harry groaned, trying not to laugh. "Don't remind me."
He could still feel it—the shock as Ginny shot past him, the cheers ringing in his ears.
Ginny was sitting a little way off, sipping from a bottle of water, her face still flushed from the match. Ron's voice carried across the grass again. "Ginny! That last manoeuvre was brilliant! The look on Harry's face—absolutely priceless."
Ginny winced. She didn't even look up.
"Can't I get a bit of peace without a running commentary?" she muttered, rubbing at her temples, her expression tight and distant—as if she wanted to smile but couldn't quite manage it.
Harry knew exactly how that felt.
From the sidelines, Hermione finally made her way over, brushing windblown curls from her face. "I'm sorry," she said, her gaze fixed on Harry, a flicker of guilt and worry behind her words. "I didn't think it would turn into something so full-on."
Harry shook his head, giving her a small, tired smile. "Don't apologise. It was brilliant. You played great." He meant it. Hermione had never been a natural on a broom, but she'd thrown herself into it, and that mattered.
The buzz of the match followed them all the way back to the Burrow, crackling in their bones like the hum of leftover magic. But by the time Harry sat down at the dinner table, the weight of the day hit him like a bludger to the chest. His whole body felt wrung out and left to dry in the sun. Every muscle throbbed. His head was thick and heavy.
He piled food onto his plate as though eating might fix the ache in his ribs or stop the trembling in his legs, but even as he forked the food into his mouth, he could barely taste it. His eyelids drooped. His hands slowed.
Too much. Should've stopped. Should've known better.
Across the table, Ron's voice cut through the haze: "Ginny, seriously, you should go pro. That last move—you practically stole the Quaffle from right under Harry's nose—"
Ginny raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. "Ron, do you want me to hex you so you'll shut up about it?"
Harry snorted into his potatoes. At least she's back to herself. More or less.
And then, like a sudden cold draught, Mrs Weasley's voice swept through the room.
"Ronald Weasley!"
Harry's stomach dropped. He tensed automatically, shrinking into his seat without even looking up.
"What were you thinking?" she snapped, marching over, her voice sharp with worry. "Harry's not well! You let him play?"
Ron opened his mouth, but Mrs Weasley was already in full swing.
"You know how fragile his condition's been! What if something had happened out there?"
Harry's face burned. He wanted to explain. To tell her it had been his idea. That he'd wanted to play. That, just for a little while, he'd felt alive again. But the words stuck.
"Mum, I—" Ron tried.
"Don't 'Mum' me!" she shot back. "He could've collapsed! What if he'd fallen off his broom? What then?"
Ron's expression twisted in guilt, but his voice rose with frustration. "Nothing happened! He's fine! He wanted to play!"
Harry stared down at his plate, his food untouched now, feeling like a first-year being caught out after curfew. Except this wasn't about breaking rules—it was about fear. Hers. Theirs. His.
He tried to find something to say. Something that would make this feel less like being told off and more like being understood.
"Mrs Weasley, I just—"
"No, Harry." Her voice cracked across the table like a whip. "No excuses. I'm sorry, but this can't happen again. Not until you're properly better. Quidditch is off-limits."
The words landed heavier than he expected. He knew she was right. Deep down, he knew. But it still hurt—to be treated like he might shatter. Like he couldn't be trusted with his own body.
"You've put yourself at risk, Harry," she added, softer now but not exactly gentle. "After everything we've done to keep you safe…"
Ron slammed his fork down. "That's not fair! Don't have a go at him—he didn't do anything wrong! It was my idea!"
Harry looked up, startled. Ron's face was flushed—not just from the heat of the kitchen, but with fierce, stubborn loyalty.
Mrs Weasley's glare shifted to him. "Then you're both to blame."
Silence fell over the table like a dropped cloak. Ron stabbed at his food with sharp, angry jabs. Hermione looked like she wished she could vanish.
Harry sat perfectly still, the noise of the Burrow fading around him. The warmth from the match, the laughter, the flicker of lightness—it was gone now. All that was left was a dull, tired ache sitting heavy in his chest.
Why did I think I could be normal? Even for one match?
A few minutes later, the back door creaked open.
"Evening, all," came Mr Weasley's voice, weary but calm.
Harry shifted slightly in his chair, grateful for the quiet change in atmosphere. Mr Weasley gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder as he sat down beside him.
"I managed to send word to Kingsley about the stone," he said with a tired sigh. "Poor bloke's run off his feet. The Ministry's in chaos."
Harry gave a small nod, but he couldn't bring himself to look up. "Thanks," he mumbled, feeling small again. Like he'd somehow let everyone down.
Mr Weasley didn't push. He just offered him a kind smile. "It's good you're here now. We've got you."
Somehow, those simple words loosened something tight in Harry's chest.
"I saw little Teddy at the Ministry today," Mr Weasley added.
Harry blinked. Teddy.
The name alone tugged at something fragile inside him. His godson. Remus's son. Tonks's.
"Isn't he Remus and Tonks's little boy?" Mrs Weasley asked, some of her anger finally softening.
Mr Weasley nodded. "He is. And Harry's his godfather, remember?" He turned to Harry, his eyes warm and steady.
Harry nodded again. "Yeah… I remember."
How could he ever forget?
His chest ached in that strange, quiet way it sometimes did—full and hollow at the same time. "How's he doing?" he asked, his voice low, carrying a flicker of hope under all the weight he didn't say—how much he missed Remus and Tonks, how much he wished he could be there.
He hadn't met the baby yet. Hadn't held him. Hadn't even seen a photograph. But still, the thought of Teddy curled around his heart like the first light in a long night. A new life born out of so much loss. Something good, still here.
Mr Weasley's face brightened. "He's doing well, all things considered," he said, a quiet pride in his voice. "And he's already changing his hair at will. Andromeda says he's been at it since the day he was born."
Harry blinked. His chest tightened, but not from sadness—this was something closer to awe. "Already?" he echoed.
"He's a Metamorphmagus?" Hermione asked, sitting up straighter, her eyes alight with curiosity.
"That's right," Mr Weasley replied, his excitement filling the kitchen like sunlight. "And thank Merlin, he didn't inherit Remus's lycanthropy—just Tonks's gift."
Mrs Weasley gave a delighted laugh and clapped her hands. "Oh, that's wonderful!"
Harry smiled, but it trembled at the edges. Teddy hadn't got the curse. He'd got the magic instead. It felt, briefly, like the universe was trying to make amends—but the scales would never truly balance. Not really.
"You should visit him, Harry," Mr Weasley said, leaning forward slightly, his voice gentle. "It'd do you both some good, I think. I can't imagine how happy he'd be to meet his godfather."
Harry's throat tightened. He glanced down at his hands resting in his lap—too thin, too pale. His illness was always there, lurking, dragging him back every time he thought he might feel normal again.
"I'd love to," Harry said quietly, his voice cracking on the last word. "But… I can't. Not yet."
He didn't look up. He didn't want to see their faces. Didn't want to see the sadness there, or worse—the understanding.
The silence stretched on, just long enough to ache, until Ginny's hand found his under the table, her fingers slipping between his and squeezing tight. Just that. No words, no questions. Just her.
Mr Weasley reached across and rested his hand on Harry's shoulder. Warm. Steady.
"Don't worry," he said softly. "We'll find a way. I'll speak to Andromeda—maybe she can bring Teddy here to visit."
Harry swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe. "That'd mean the world. Thank you," he managed.
Ron cleared his throat, cutting through the heaviness just a little. "So, Dad—who does he look like?"
Mr Weasley chuckled, scratching his chin. "That's the funny thing. When he was born, he had a full head of black hair—looked the image of Remus, but then it changed. Pink, blue, green. He's already got his mum's flair."
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, picturing it. A tiny baby with shifting hair, wrapped in a blanket of magic and loss. He wondered if Teddy would ever know how brave his parents had been. How loved they were.
"He's got a good future ahead," Mr Weasley said, lifting his glass of water. "He'll grow up surrounded by people who care about him. That's what matters, in the end. That's what keeps us going."
Harry gave a faint nod, but the words felt distant, like they couldn't quite reach him. Something else was starting—a faint dizziness at first, like he'd stood up too quickly. But it didn't pass. It built steadily, rising behind his eyes and tightening in his chest until the whole room seemed to lurch beneath him.
His stomach churned. His skin went cold.
He gripped the edge of his plate, his fingers trembling. It felt suddenly too heavy, the leftover food smeared across the china like some cruel, clumsy metaphor—something half-eaten, discarded. Useless.
He managed to get to the sink, bracing himself against the worktop, the cool wood biting into his palm.
Not here. Not now. Not in front of them.
His breath caught in his throat. Heat flushed across his face and neck, building fast, feverish. The kitchen blurred, the sound of voices muffled, distant, as though he were slipping beneath water.
Please… not again.
Without a word, Harry turned and stumbled from the room. He didn't know if anyone called after him—if they did, he couldn't hear them over the thunder of his own pulse, the roar in his ears.
The stairs loomed in front of him like a mountain. Somehow, he climbed them. By the time he reached his room, his legs were shaking, his head spinning violently. He barely made it to the edge of the bed before his knees buckled and he collapsed forward, too drained to pull back the covers.
The mattress caught him. It was cool against his fever-warm skin. His limbs gave out entirely, and the world spun wildly around him. Black shadows crept in at the edges of his vision, soft and steady, like smoke curling in.
He didn't fight the dark. He couldn't. All he could do was let go and hope—hope that when he opened his eyes again, there would still be light.
Despite Harry's best efforts to pretend he was fine, the sickness refused to loosen its grip. It clung to him for days, dragging him down little by little. At first, he tried to hide it—to smile through the pain, to crack half-hearted jokes at breakfast, to insist he was "just tired". But the truth had a way of slipping through the cracks. The mask didn't last long.
By the end of the first day, he couldn't keep it up. His legs had buckled the moment he reached his room, and he'd collapsed onto the mattress, shivering and unnoticed. The sheets felt too hot and too cold all at once, and his skin prickled with sweat. His whole body ached with an exhaustion that ran deeper than bone. It wasn't just the fever. It was everything.
Ron had caught the sharp end of Mrs Weasley's temper for dragging Harry into the Quidditch match—though Harry had insisted it wasn't Ron's fault. Still, the guilt lingered like smoke after a fire. And now, too ill to keep pretending to be the unbothered guest, Harry had asked for time alone. It was the only thing left he could control.
Ron had nodded stiffly, guilt flickering across his face, and backed off. "Alright. Rest up," he'd said. "Just shout if you need anything." Then he'd quietly closed the door behind him.
Harry had expected relief—but what he got was silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. It settled over him like a second blanket, and not a comforting one.
His skin burned with fever, but he told himself it wasn't serious. Just a bug. A few hours of sleep, and he'd bounce back. He always did. Didn't he?
You've handled worse, he told himself. A bit of sickness is nothing. Dragons, Death Eaters…
But even that thought felt strange and far away, like it belonged to someone else. His head thudded with each heartbeat, pain pressing behind his eyes. And beneath the stubborn denial, something darker crept in—dread, perhaps. Or fear.
From the hallway, Ron's voice drifted faintly, exasperated but worried. "It's only for today. He's not dying—he just needs a rest."
Harry let out a shaky breath and tried to sit up, but the room spun wildly, tilting like the deck of a ship in a storm. His stomach twisted. He gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles white, and waited for the dizziness to pass.
If only it were that simple, he thought, jaw tight.
Pain flared behind his temples, sharp and hot. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing carefully through it, though even that made his chest ache. He knew the Weasleys would worry the moment they saw him. They always did. Especially Mrs Weasley—her eyes missed nothing. And Ginny… Ginny had a way of looking at him that made lying impossible.
I can't face them like this. Not now. Not when I look like I've been hit with a dozen Stunners and dragged through the Forbidden Forest.
The thought of their concern, their sympathy, twisted something unpleasantly in his chest. He didn't want pity. He didn't want to be the one everyone tiptoed around. Again.
So he lay back down, trembling faintly, and pulled the covers up over his head as if he could vanish beneath them.
Through the wall, Hermione's voice rose, her usual sharpness softened by worry. "Harry's been pushing himself too hard. He always does. He acts like he's fine when he's not. Ron, we should check on him—"
"No, Hermione," Ron cut across, firm but not unkind. "He'll come out when he's ready." A pause. "He just… he needs space. You know he hates being hovered over."
Harry let out a quiet, breathless snort—part gratitude, part disbelief. Ron wasn't always the most tactful, but when it really mattered, he understood.
The snort set off a harsh cough that tore through Harry's chest, leaving him doubled over and breathless. It felt like something inside him was trying to claw its way out. When it finally eased, he slumped back against the pillows, weak and shaking, and wiped the sweat from his brow with the damp cloth he'd conjured earlier.
Merlin, get a grip. It's just a fever. People get sick all the time. Stop acting like it's the end of the world.
But deep down, he wasn't sure he believed that.
A soft knock broke the stillness. Ginny's voice followed, gentle and close. "Harry? You've been in there all day. We're all worried."
Her voice found its way past the walls he'd built—into some small, aching corner of him that he'd been trying to ignore. He wanted to open the door. He wanted to see her, to let her sit with him and tell him it was going to be alright.
But he couldn't. Not like this.
"I'm fine!" he called back, though it sounded anything but.
There was a beat of silence, then Ron's voice, quieter now. "Mate… you sound dreadful. Look, no one's going to barge in. Just say if you need anything, yeah?"
Harry shut his eyes, throat tight. "I just need some quiet," he whispered.
The hallway fell silent. He didn't know if they'd gone or if they were still there, lingering on the other side of the door.
Maybe sleep will fix this, he thought, though the doubt gnawed at him. Maybe tomorrow I'll feel normal again.
But as he drifted into uneasy sleep, the muffled sounds of their concern still hanging in the air, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. That the sickness was more than just fever. That a storm was coming—and he was already caught in its centre.
The next day dragged on like a punishment.
Harry didn't leave his room. He didn't even try. He stayed curled up on the bed like something broken—something not meant to be touched or seen. Every part of him hurt. Not just his body—though that was bad enough—but deeper, like the pain had sunk into his bones. Into his thoughts. He couldn't tell where the physical pain ended and the emotional one began. Perhaps they were the same now. Perhaps they always had been.
He barely moved. His breaths came slow and shallow, as though anything more might shatter him. The pillow beneath his cheek was cold and damp, streaked with old blood from another nosebleed. He hadn't noticed when it had started. Or when it had stopped.
He was falling apart. He knew it.
And he couldn't let them see.
Not again.
They had already seen too much. The pains, the screams, the way they flinched when they saw his blood. They didn't say it aloud, but he saw it in their eyes. He made them worry. He made them afraid.
So he stayed quiet. Locked the door. Pressed his face into the pillow and pretended that silence meant strength.
Muffled voices drifted up through the floorboards. Familiar ones—low, worried, pacing. He pictured Ron's fingers tapping against the arm of the old sofa, Hermione walking her tight, nervous little circuits, and Ginny sitting still and stiff, fists clenched in her lap as though she was trying not to smash something.
They were talking about Hagrid. He'd gone out two days ago, chasing after some Thestral, and hadn't come back. And yet, Harry couldn't bring himself to care. Not properly. His chest hurt too much. It was as though something heavy and burning was pressing down on it. Breathing was work.
He wanted to sit up. Pretend he was fine. Show them there was still something left of him that could fight. But his body wouldn't move. He was pinned, trapped by invisible chains, his muscles twitching and trembling with pain.
Behind his eyes, the darkness stirred.
He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just let the silence seep into him like a wound that wouldn't heal.
Then he heard their voices again.
"I can't just sit here," Ginny's voice snapped, sharp as a whip, cutting straight through the fog. "We need to check on him."
Harry barely reacted, but the sound tugged at something inside him. He could hear Hermione's reply—soft, hesitant.
"You think something's wrong?"
Ginny didn't answer. Her footsteps were already moving towards the stairs. Two more sets followed.
They stopped outside his door. He could feel them there.
A pause.
Then Ginny's voice again, quieter now, worried. "It's locked. He never locks his door."
"That's it. That's not normal," Ron said, his voice tight, urgent. "We're unlocking it."
"Alohomora," Hermione murmured, wand drawn.
The door creaked open.
Then Ginny gasped.
"Harry!"
She was beside him in an instant, dropping to her knees. Hermione followed, her breath catching. Ron stood frozen in the doorway.
Harry didn't move. He couldn't. His head had lolled to one side, hair damp with sweat, matted with blood. The pillow beneath him looked like it belonged on a battlefield—soaked and stained.
He heard Hermione's sharp intake of breath.
"Ron—go," she said, panic rising. "Get your mum. Now. And the fever potion—hurry!"
Ron didn't argue. His footsteps thundered back down the stairs.
Ginny seized his hand. "Harry?" Her voice wobbled. "Harry, please—can you hear me?"
He wanted to say yes. Wanted to squeeze her hand back. Wanted to show her he was still there—still fighting.
But he couldn't.
He was trapped inside himself. His body was stone, his mind smothered in thick fog. He could hear them, but they sounded far away, like echoes underwater.
Hermione's wand flicked, cleaning away the blood with trembling hands.
"This is happening again," she whispered. "Why is it always like this? Why doesn't he ever tell us until it's too late?"
Her words hit him like cold water. Guilt rose, choking and sharp. He wanted to tell her he wasn't trying to shut them out. He wasn't. He was just trying to hold himself together.
But even the thought hurt.
Footsteps thundered on the stairs—urgent, fast—and then the door burst open.
Mrs Weasley swept in, Ron just behind her.
The moment her eyes landed on Harry, her face changed. One hand flew to her mouth and she rushed to his side.
"Oh, Harry, my dear," she breathed, her voice breaking. "What's happened to you?"
Ginny shifted just enough to let her mother kneel. Hermione stepped back, arms folded tightly across her chest.
Mrs Weasley reached for Harry with trembling, careful hands.
"Harry? Sweetheart, can you look at me?"
He blinked. The light stabbed into his skull, sharp and merciless. Everything was too bright, too loud, too much. Her face wavered in front of him—warm, familiar, and filled with worry.
"Mrs Wea—"
"Shh," she soothed, stroking his cheek with her thumb. "Don't talk, love. Just drink this."
Ron pressed a small vial into her hand. She tipped it gently to Harry's lips. He swallowed. The potion scorched its way down his throat, leaving a dull, spreading warmth in its wake. Some of the pain ebbed—but not all. Not nearly enough.
He sank back against the pillow, chest rising and falling far too fast.
Mrs Weasley smoothed his hair back from his clammy forehead, her voice low and steady.
"Where does it hurt most, Harry?"
His vision blurred. His throat tightened painfully. He lifted one trembling hand to his chest.
"It burns," he rasped. "It's not stopping."
Her expression crumpled.
"Oh, Harry," she murmured. "I'd take it from you if I could. I would, in a heartbeat."
She fished out another vial and helped him drink. His body still shuddered, even as the fire in his chest dulled to something distant—an ember still glowing.
"It's still there," he whispered, barely able to force the words out. "Always there."
She cupped his face with both hands, so gently it made something inside him twist. It was the kind of touch he imagined a mother might give. The kind he'd never known.
"You're not alone," she whispered fiercely. "Do you hear me? You don't have to go through this on your own anymore."
Harry turned his face away, eyes squeezed shut. But the tears came anyway—quiet, steady, unrelenting.
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
But somewhere deep inside, beneath the ache and the fear, one word surfaced.
Maybe.