FicWad

The summer sun poured over the grounds of Hogwarts like golden treacle—slow and syrupy, warm on the skin, soft on the stones. It bathed the ancient towers in amber light, casting long, lazy shadows over the grass. The Black Lake stretched out before him, still and mirror-like, reflecting a sky that was far too blue, far too calm for what Harry Potter felt inside.

It ought to have been peaceful.

It should have felt like healing. A place to breathe again. A world returned to rightness.

But it didn’t. Not for him.

Harry stood at the edge of the lake, the damp earth soft beneath his worn trainers, his hands buried deep in his pockets like they might hold him together. The gentle breeze tousled his hair, warm and smelling faintly of honeysuckle and old wood smoke. He barely noticed it. Couldn’t bring himself to care.

That pressure in his chest—dull, low, constant—had taken up residence again. Not sharp or loud. Just there. A steady, unwelcome companion. It came and went as it pleased, no warning, no reason.

It was strange, the way that pain lingered. You could laugh in the morning, eat toast with strawberry jam and feel the heat of the sun on your back—and still, underneath it all, be breaking.

He took a slow breath. The air was thick with the smell of wildflowers, crushed grass, and lake water. So vivid it almost hurt. The scent of life.

It turned his stomach.

The world had no right to look like this—bright and gold and ordinary—when so much of him was still caught somewhere in the dark. It felt obscene, like music in a graveyard.

His eyes wandered over the grounds. Students lounged in the grass, tossing enchanted frisbees that spun and looped and cackled like pixies. Someone had charmed their marshmallows to sing as they roasted over a conjured fire, and the sound of laughter carried on the breeze.

Far off, near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, a pair of third-years were chasing after a stubborn, runaway broomstick.

Hagrid’s hut stood where it always had, squat and familiar, with smoke curling from its chimney in lazy spirals. The pumpkin patch was coming in early this year.

It all looked so… normal.

And Harry didn’t feel any of it.

He didn’t know what he felt, truth be told. Hollow, perhaps. Or too full.

He shifted his weight. The ache in his chest pulsed again, quiet but firm, like a whisper with teeth.

They were all moving on, weren’t they? Smiling. Laughing. Acting as if it were finished. Like the war had been just another story, one with a last page and a tidy ending.

And maybe for them, it had been.

But for him—it wasn’t over. Not really. It played behind his eyes some nights. The flash of green light. The echo of screams. Fred. Lupin. Tonks. Snape. Dobby.

Dumbledore.

They weren’t names in a list to him. They were faces, hands, and voices. And they were gone.

And yet, somehow, he was still here.

“Harry!”

The voice was soft, bright, and real. It pulled him from the dark.

He turned.

Ginny was striding across the lawn, her hair a blaze of copper catching the sunlight. There was a determination in her step—always had been—but something gentler too, tucked just beneath her expression. She was smiling, at first.

But then she saw his face.

And the smile faltered.

She didn’t speak until she reached him, brushing an errant strand of hair behind her ear as the wind tugged at it. Her voice, when it came, was low, careful.

“Hey,” she said. “You alright?”

He forced a smile. It stretched across his face—thin, brittle, too tight.

“Yeah,” he replied, barely above a murmur. “Just… taking it all in.”

Her brow lifted slightly. That look she had—the one that told him she wasn’t buying it for a second.

“You’ve been ‘taking it all in’ for the past half hour,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “Not really your style, is it? Standing still this long.”

Harry let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

“Figured I’d give it a try,” he said with a shrug.

She stepped beside him, close enough that their arms touched, but she didn’t push. Ginny never did. She was quiet for a moment, eyes on the water. Letting him speak if he wanted. Letting him not, if he couldn’t.

The silence stretched between them. Not heavy, not awkward.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, you know,” she said at last, voice gentler than before.

Harry swallowed hard. The wind shifted, brushing his fringe back from his forehead, and he felt the familiar sting behind his eyes.

“I’m just… tired,” he murmured. “That’s all.”

It wasn’t.

And she knew it.

Ginny didn’t press. She didn’t scoff or argue. She just waited. Because that was what she did—stood beside him until he was ready to speak. Sometimes that meant minutes. Sometimes hours.

His gaze swept over the lawn again.

The students were still laughing. Lounging about like they didn’t have a care in the world. Someone had started a game of Exploding Snap beneath a tree. There was shouting and laughter—genuine, warm, and ordinary. The kind of sound that didn’t quite seem to fit anymore.

“They’re all laughing,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Celebrating. Like it’s all… done and dusted now. The war. Voldemort. Everything.”

The name still felt strange on his tongue, even now. Like something out of a memory that didn’t quite belong to this world anymore.

He only realised he was clenching his jaw when a dull ache bloomed at the hinge, the tension coiled tight like a spring in his throat.

“I thought I’d feel different, you know? After it ended. Relief, maybe. Peace, even. But instead…” He paused, brow furrowed as he stared out at the lake. “It’s like I’m stuck. Still stuck somewhere; the rest of them have already walked away from.”

The words didn’t come easy. He hated how small they sounded. Like he ought to be past this by now—ought to be better.

Ginny turned her head just slightly, just enough to look at him. Her voice was quiet, nearly lost to the breeze.

“It’s not over for you, is it?”

Harry gave a sharp, weary shake of his head. “I don’t know how to stop… waiting,” he admitted. “Waiting for the next fight. The next thing to go wrong.”

He didn’t mean it to sound so hopeless. But it did. And saying it aloud only made it feel more real.

There was a pause. A silence thick with things unspoken. Not uncomfortable—but full. Like the weight of what he hadn’t said was hanging there between them, pressing in.

He watched the lake again, its surface shining. Too still. Too perfect. As if nothing had ever happened.

“I don’t want to drag you into this,” he said suddenly, voice low. “You’ve had enough on your plate.”

Ginny’s response was instant, firm. “Don’t talk rubbish.”

She reached over without hesitation, her fingers sliding into his.

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” she added. “I’m already here. Right beside you.”

He glanced down at their joined hands. There was something so ordinary about it—no magic, no ceremony. Just her. Holding on. And it grounded him more than anything else had in days.

Her next words came softer, slower. “I saw you flinch yesterday. At dinner. When someone dropped a glass.”

Harry felt his stomach dip.

He looked away. “Didn’t think anyone clocked that.”

“I did,” she said simply.

Of course she had.

“You’re not sleeping much either,” she went on, her voice gentler now. “Don’t bother lying—I’ve seen the bags under your eyes. You’re starting to give Snape a run for his money.”

That surprised a chuckle out of him—a breathy, quiet laugh that barely made it past his lips.

“Poor Snape,” he murmured. “Even dead, we’re still taking the mickey out of his skincare.”

Ginny gave a small grin, but it didn’t last long. Her face softened again, serious now.

“Harry… Is something going on?” she asked. “Something you haven’t told me?”

He hesitated.

The words were there, sitting on the edge of his tongue. But something held them back—guilt, maybe. Or fear. Or just the habit of carrying it all on his own. He didn’t want to worry her. She’d worried enough. Everyone had.

And what if it was nothing? What if it was just him being… broken?

“I’m alright,” he said eventually. Quieter this time. “It just… feels like everyone else has moved on. And I’m…”

He trailed off. Couldn’t finish it.

Ginny’s voice came gently. “You’re what?”

He looked down at his trainers—scuffed, cracked, still spattered faintly with soot and blood from the final battle. He hadn’t had it in him to replace them. He hadn’t replaced much of anything.

“Stuck,” he whispered. “Feels like I’m still in it. Still waiting for it all to fall apart again.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then her fingers tightened in his.

“You’re not on your own in this,” she said, soft but certain. “You never were.”

He nodded, but it felt hollow. “I know. I do. I just… I think I forgot what that feels like.”

Ginny didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she shifted closer. Her head leaned against his shoulder, light as a feather, and the weight of her hand in his made the world feel less like it was spinning out from under him.

“Then I’ll remind you,” she murmured. “Every sodding day, if I have to.”

His throat clenched.

He blinked hard, trying to keep the sting in his eyes from spilling over.

“That sounds exhausting,” he said, managing a weak smile.

She gave a small huff. “Good thing I’m stubborn, then, isn’t it?”

There was something in her voice—something raw and unflinching—that struck him harder than anything else had. It wasn’t just the words. It was how she said them. As though they weren’t just comfort but promise. As though, even if he unravelled completely, she’d be right there, picking up every piece.

For a heartbeat, he couldn’t breathe.

The ache in his chest pulsed—sharp, deep, old. He pressed his lips together, jaw tight. The tears threatened to rise anyway.

He hated how weak he felt.

He hated how much it still hurt.

He hated that he needed this—her—so bloody much.

“Harry?”

Ginny’s voice reached him again—softer now, quieter. A voice that didn’t demand, didn’t prod. Just was. Like she always had been.

“I’m here.”

He turned towards her, slowly, like his limbs had forgotten how to move properly. As though the air had thickened somehow, and even that small movement took effort. Ginny stood a pace away. Her eyes were fixed on his, and when he met them, the breath caught in his chest.

Because she saw him. Not just the face he wore. Not just the scar or the title or the weight he carried. She saw him. And that, somehow, made it both easier and harder to breathe.

“I just—” He stopped, swallowed. His voice felt dry, as if it hadn’t been used in days. The breeze stirred his hair, warm and gentle, and for a mad moment he thought it might blow the ache out of him. But no. It clung on.

He tried again.

“I just… sometimes it still hurts.”

The words came out hollow, quieter than he meant them to. Almost as though he was apologising for them.

“Like I’ve lost something,” he went on, eyes on the grass, the lake, anything but her. “Or someone. Even though we won.”

He gave a soft, broken sort of laugh. One that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I thought it’d feel different. That I’d wake up one day and it’d be over. That I’d be alright. But I’m not. Not really.”

Ginny didn’t speak at once. She didn’t rush in with a solution or tell him it would pass. She just stayed there beside him, letting the silence settle between them—not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just there.

And then, quietly: “Of course it hurts. You’ve lost people, Harry. People you loved. And you didn’t just fight—you carried it. You carried us through.”

Her voice didn’t crack. But it was close.

The words hit something deep inside him. Peeled back a layer he’d kept wrapped tight for too long. But he didn’t argue, not aloud. Because that wasn’t quite the hurt he meant, and she couldn’t fix that anyway.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up and feel normal again,” he muttered. “That I’ll open my eyes and be seventeen, and the worst of it will be a bloody Potions essay.”

Ginny gave a faint smile. Sad, but fond.

“I don’t think there’s a ‘normal’ to go back to. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be good days. Or laughter. Or… peace.”

Harry swallowed. His throat felt thick again, like something had taken root there and refused to move.

“I think I’m scared,” he admitted, voice barely more than a whisper. “Not just of what’s already happened. But of this… whatever this is. Like it’s going to hang around forever. And I’ll never get past it. That I’ll just drag everyone else down with me.”

“You’re not dragging anyone anywhere,” Ginny said at once, her voice firm now. Not sharp. Just steady, like she meant every word.

She took a step closer, her hand brushing against his. It was such a simple gesture, but it cut through the fog better than any spell ever could.

“You’ve spent so long carrying everyone else,” she said, “maybe it’s time someone carried you for once.”

He blinked. A beat passed before her words truly sank in. And when they did, it was like something cracked inside his chest. Not broken—no, not that—but… opened. A door creaking on rusty hinges.

Part of him had feared, deep down, that if he ever let it show—how much he still hurt, how much he hadn’t moved on—everyone would just turn away. Shrink back. But Ginny hadn’t. She was still here, moving closer, not farther.

He looked up. Met her eyes.

“Is it selfish,” he asked, “to want things to just be alright? To laugh and not feel like I’m betraying something? To go a whole day without thinking about who’s gone?”

Ginny didn’t answer straight away. She stepped forward instead, her fingers rising to his cheek, brushing lightly against the stubble that had grown along his jaw.

“That’s not selfish, Harry,” she said softly. “That’s just being human.”

He let out a breath—long and slow—and tried to smile. It came out uneven. Uncertain. But it was there.

“Sometimes I forget how to do that,” he said.

“Well,” she replied, with the ghost of a smirk, “lucky for you, I’m an expert at being human. Stick with me. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

That earned a laugh from him. A proper one, albeit small. He leaned into her touch without thinking, as if his body had remembered something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

“I’ve missed this,” he said, almost to himself. “Just… you. Talking to me like I’m still me.”

“You are still you,” Ginny said. “Just a bit dented. Like a well-loved cauldron.”

Harry snorted. “That’s romantic.”

She grinned. “You’re welcome.”

He didn’t mean to cry. But the tears came anyway—quiet and unannounced. Not sobbing. Not loud. Just steady. His shoulders shook once, maybe twice, and then he let go. Let it happen. Didn’t fight it for once.

Ginny said nothing. She simply stepped in and wrapped her arms around him, and he sank into her, breathing her in like she was the first clean air he’d had in weeks.

“It’s alright,” she whispered, her voice close to his ear. “Just let it out. I’ve got you.”

The warmth of her, the solid feel of her arms around him—it was like a lifeline thrown across open water. He didn’t feel fixed. But he didn’t feel like he was drowning anymore, either.

When she finally pulled back, she didn’t let go of him entirely. Her forehead came to rest against his, eyes shining with unshed tears of her own.

“You’re not on your own, Harry,” she said. “You never were.”

He didn’t think. He just leaned forward and kissed her.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t fiery. It was soft. Quiet. Like exhaling. Like remembering that they were both still here, still breathing, still alive.

When they broke apart, something had shifted in the air between them. It wasn’t that the pain was gone. But it didn’t feel so sharp. Not anymore.

“Thanks,” Harry murmured, voice low.

“Anytime,” Ginny replied and gave his hand a squeeze. “Though I do accept payment in Chocolate Frogs.”

Harry smiled and lowered himself onto the grass beside her. The lake shimmered before them, calm and clear, and the warmth of the sun pressed gently against his back. The wind moved through the trees, whispering soft and low like a lullaby.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But for now—for this one, quiet moment—he was alright.

The halls of Hogwarts were cold—colder than he remembered them being. The stones beneath his trainers echoed with every step, their sound far too loud in the silence. It was late—past curfew—but that hardly mattered anymore. Not since everything had changed.

Harry moved quickly, instinctively keeping to the shadows, avoiding pools of light spilling from enchanted sconces. Not because he feared being caught—what did detentions matter, now?—but because something deep inside him felt like it didn’t belong here. Like he was a visitor passing through somewhere he used to know, watching memories flicker at the corners of his vision.

Every corridor he passed tugged at something different: laughter, arguments, hurried footsteps between classes. But tonight, there was none of that.

His heart wasn’t racing because he was sneaking about. It was the reason behind it—the thing that had dragged him from his bed like a hook behind the ribs and pulled him here, step after step, until he was standing at the top of the stairwell to the dungeons.

The air grew heavier as he descended—cooler, damper. A faint metallic tang lingered in the back of his throat. He’d walked this path before, many times, but tonight each step felt weighted.

It wasn’t long before he reached the door.

Professor Slughorn’s quarters looked no different to how they had that night—the night Ron nearly died. The memory stirred uneasily in his chest. He hesitated, hand hovering mid-air. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he knocked—three firm raps that echoed sharply down the corridor.

A pause.

Then the door creaked open on old hinges, and Professor Horace Slughorn appeared, blinking against the candlelight, wrapped in a thick, velvet dressing gown the colour of stewed plums.

“Harry, m’boy!” He boomed, though his voice was rough with sleep. “What an unexpected delight! Though I must say, it’s a bit late for social calls, isn’t it?”

Harry offered a small smile, polite but strained. “Sorry to wake you, Professor.”

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense,” Slughorn waved a hand dismissively, ushering him inside. “The hours hardly matter to an old man like me. Besides, you’re always welcome in my little sanctuary.”

Harry stepped through the doorway, and the warmth of the room hit him at once. It smelt comfortingly of old books, something sugary—probably crystallised pineapple—and the faint hint of some potion or another gently brewing nearby.

The fire crackled merrily in the grate, casting flickers of amber light across the cluttered room: armchairs with plumped cushions, half-filled goblets, papers in mild disarray. Potion bottles glinted on the mantelpiece. It was oddly cosy.

His eyes flicked to the rug before the hearth. He could still see Ron there—pale, gasping for air, his eyes rolled back, the poisoned mead bottle beside him.

The memory coiled in his stomach.

“Sit yourself down, my dear boy,” Slughorn said cheerfully, already bustling towards a side table. “Fortunate timing—I’ve just brewed some butterbeer. You’ll have a glass, won’t you? Or perhaps something stronger? No? Butterbeer it is.”

Harry nodded absently and sank into the nearest armchair, his fingers curling around the upholstery like he needed the grounding. His stomach was far too knotted for drinking, but he accepted the goblet anyway when Slughorn handed it to him with a flourish.

“Now,” the professor said, lowering himself into his own chair with a sigh and a puff of breath, “what brings you to my door at this rather unorthodox hour, hmm? Sleepless night? A spot of curiosity? Or have the Gryffindors cooked up some midnight mischief you want me to turn a blind eye to?”

Harry stared into his goblet. The froth had already begun to settle.

He hesitated. The words didn’t come easily—not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he didn’t know if he should say it. Slughorn had already given more than he’d wanted to. That memory—the one Dumbledore needed—had cost him more than just pride. And Harry knew that.

So why was he here again?

Because it won’t let go. Because something’s still not finished.

“Professor,” Harry began slowly, carefully, not looking up, “I was wondering… Would you be willing to talk to me about Horcruxes again?”

A soft, wet splutter broke it an instant later as Slughorn choked on his butterbeer, dabbing furiously at his moustache with a monogrammed handkerchief.

“Horcruxes?” he repeated, more quietly now. “Good gracious, Harry… Why on earth are you thinking about those again?”

Harry looked up—and wished he hadn’t.

Slughorn wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even flustered. He looked… worried. Truly, deeply worried. His usually jovial face had fallen into something close to concern, and his small, shrewd eyes flicked over Harry with open apprehension.

That made it worse somehow.

He looked down quickly, his grip tightening on the goblet. “I’ve just been thinking about it,” he muttered. “Can’t seem to get it out of my head.”

Slughorn didn’t respond straight away. He set his goblet down on the table beside him and leaned back slightly, hands folded over his middle, studying Harry with something far too close to insight.

“I see,” he said at last, though he clearly didn’t—not fully. “Well… it’s not the sort of subject one tends to dwell on, I must say.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just curiosity. It was a gnawing sensation in his chest, a question that wouldn’t let go of him. Not even now. Especially not now. The war was over. Voldemort was gone. The Horcruxes had been destroyed. All of them. And yet…

Why do I still feel like something’s wrong?

“That’s a rather peculiar question to ask, Harry,” said Slughorn. His voice had dropped an octave now—rich, deliberate, and edged with something cautious. “You’re not asking for… any particular reason, are you?”

Harry glanced away, suddenly unable to meet Slughorn’s gaze. The fire crackled behind them, soft and steady, but it felt far too loud in the silence that followed.

His thoughts reeled, tumbling over one another, scrambling for some version of the truth he could shape into something less… exposing.

But the silence stretched, and it pressed in on him—tight and suffocating. Panic began to rise, fizzing in his chest like a fizzing whizzbee gone wrong. He couldn’t back out now. He’d come too far.

Slughorn leaned forward slightly, his genial expression hardening into something more reserved—curiosity, yes, but no longer harmless. There was a guardedness to him now, a flicker of concern sharpening his gaze.

“What is it, exactly, you’re trying to understand, my dear boy?” He asked, his tone still mild, but no longer light. There was steel underneath it now. “You do know that sort of magic is best left behind, don’t you?”

Harry’s fingers curled into fists inside his pockets. His palms were clammy, and the skin at the back of his neck prickled unpleasantly. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, loud enough that he half-wondered if Slughorn could hear it, too.

“You said…” Harry began, and his voice cracked slightly. He swallowed hard and forced it steady. “You said Horcruxes… They hold a piece of someone’s soul. Right?”

“Yes,” Slughorn replied at once. His round face had turned oddly pale in the firelight, and his features were set now—grave, deliberate, unblinking. “Yes, that’s what they are. But Harry…” He lowered his voice further, almost to a murmur, “that’s very dark magic. Dreadful stuff. Horrifying, truly. Unnatural in every possible sense. Not the sort of thing one ought to dwell on.”

Harry nodded vaguely, but his jaw was tight. He didn’t want another lecture. He didn’t want to be warned again. He knew the theory. What he needed was something else—something concrete. Something that might explain the unease that had settled in him like sediment in still water, never quite stirred but never settling either.

He licked his lips, which were suddenly bone dry. “But what happens if that Horcrux…” he paused, bracing himself, “ends up inside a person? Not an object. A living, breathing person. And later, when it’s destroyed… what happens to their soul? Does it stay whole? Or does it… does it shatter too?”

He’d meant to keep his voice even, but the last few words came out strangled, like something that had been choking him for too long.

Slughorn stared at him. The colour seemed to drain from his face entirely. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he said nothing. His hand gripped the armrest of his chair more tightly now, and Harry could see the tremble in his fingers.

The pause went on too long. Too long to be anything but confirmation.

Harry could feel it—the weight of what he’d just asked settling over them like a curtain falling shut. He’d crossed some invisible threshold now. There was no taking it back.

“Well…” Slughorn began slowly, his voice quieter and less certain than Harry had ever heard it. He shifted uneasily in his seat, like the very question made him physically uncomfortable. “I’ve… I’ve never encountered such a case. As I said, a Horcrux is meant to be hidden in an object—something inanimate. Lifeless. Something that cannot feel. A person… no, no, that would be a terrible mistake. A living body, a human soul—they wouldn’t… they wouldn’t tolerate it well. It would… begin to wither.”

Harry’s stomach lurched. A chill began to creep up the back of his neck, spreading across his shoulders.

“But what if it wasn’t on purpose?” He pressed, barely aware that he was leaning forward now, drawn to the answer. “What if it just… happened? By accident. Like the soul fragment had nowhere else to go, and it latched on to someone?”

Slughorn looked horrified.

His mouth opened, but for a moment, no sound came out. He looked at Harry as though seeing him properly for the first time—as though the room itself had shifted underfoot.

“Intent…” Slughorn said at last, and he sounded almost dazed, “Intent makes no difference, I’m afraid. That’s the tragedy of it. The magic involved doesn’t distinguish between accident and purpose. If a piece of soul attaches itself to a living person—if it binds to them—it… contaminates what it touches. The host’s soul becomes… damaged. Compromised.”

He swallowed hard. His moustache twitched as if searching for something to hide behind.

“And when the Horcrux is destroyed…” He paused again, the words seeming to hurt as they came. “Any part of the soul that’s tangled with it—that part is lost too.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He couldn’t breathe. The walls felt closer than they had a moment ago.

“That damage,” Slughorn added grimly, “it doesn’t go away. It leaves a scar. Sometimes visible, often not.”

Harry’s hands were trembling now. He shoved them deeper into his pockets.

“So if the Horcrux is destroyed,” he whispered, “the person… dies too?”

Slughorn didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the floor, his lips drawn in a thin, solemn line.

“Not necessarily in body,” he said finally, “but in soul. It would be… a kind of death. A decay of the self. The damage is irreparable.”

Harry stared at him, unable to speak. The words echoed in his head—irreparable, irreversible, decay—spinning through his thoughts.

A deep, shivering quiet settled over the room.

“But is there a way to fix it?” Harry blurted, his voice too loud in the silence. He leaned forward sharply, his eyes searching Slughorn’s. “If someone didn’t ask for it—if they never wanted it—can’t they be saved?”

Slughorn’s eyes softened. There was pity there now—yes—but something else too. A quiet, painful sort of knowing. As if he’d once stood at the edge of something himself and turned back.

“I… I simply don’t know, Harry,” Slughorn said at last. “Dumbledore… well, he always believed there might be a way. He had hope, even when most would not have dared to wonder. But if such a thing exists—some manner of healing for a fractured soul—then it’s not been recorded. No book I’ve ever read speaks of it. No wizard I’ve known has dared to even speculate.”

He paused, his gaze drifting into the firelight as if searching for something lost long ago.

“Those who create Horcruxes, you see… They aren’t the sort who leave room for redemption. They’re not interested in repair. Only in power. And power…” he sighed, “seldom comes without a price.”

The words echoed in the chamber like something final.

Harry sat frozen in his chair. His pulse was thudding in his ears again. There’d been some foolish part of him—some stubborn, childish hope—that had believed Slughorn might confirm Dumbledore’s faith. That there was a way. Some obscure charm or long-lost ritual. But if even Dumbledore hadn’t found it…

What chance did he have?

“Professor…” Harry said quietly, barely more than a breath. “How long could someone live like that?”

Slughorn looked at him. For a moment, the old man hesitated, chewing on his lower lip beneath the curve of his silver moustache.

“It would vary,” he said at last. “I suppose it depends on the strength of the soul carrying the burden. On the will to endure it. But over time…”

He trailed off. His hand went to his chest, almost unconsciously.

“It would be agony, Harry,” he said softly. “The mind… the emotions… even the magic. All of it could begin to fray. Not at once, but slowly. Cruelly. Like threads pulled loose in a favourite jumper—just enough at first that you don’t notice, but eventually… eventually, it unravels.”

He looked away again, the firelight dancing in his eyes.

“And some,” he murmured, “some might not even realise it’s happening until it’s far too late.”

Harry stared at the floor, his throat tightening. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles white.

This wasn’t just about Voldemort anymore.

He wasn’t asking for strategy or theory. He wasn’t trying to unravel the enemy.

He was asking about himself.

Because deep down, some part of him had always known.

The strange dreams. The connection. The way he could feel Voldemort’s rage under his skin. The way his scar had burnt—not just from the link but from something inside.

It had lived in him. For years. It had taken root in the deepest parts of him—unseen, unspoken, but never gone.

Slughorn was watching him now, brow creased, concern written plainly across his round, ruddy face.

“Harry?” he said quietly. “Are you quite alright?”

Harry opened his mouth to lie—to say yes, of course, just tired—but the words wouldn’t come. His throat was dry. His lips barely moved.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, but even to his own ears, the words sounded brittle. Useless.

Slughorn leaned forward slightly, clearly unconvinced. “Harry, really—are you—?”

“I need to go.”

It burst from him like a spell—sharp, jagged. He was already pushing back his chair before the sentence had ended. The legs scraped loudly against the stone floor, a screech that made him wince. He stood too fast, the room spinning slightly as the blood drained from his head.

He didn’t wait for Slughorn’s permission—or his questions.

Harry turned and left, the professor’s voice following him down the corridor, blurred and faint.

The chill of the dungeon corridor hit him like a slap to the face. He stumbled, breathing hard, his footsteps echoing wildly in the emptiness. His stomach lurched violently.

He barely made it to the nearest loo before he collapsed into a stall, gripping the edges of the basin as bile rose in his throat. He doubled over, retching hard.

Again and again, until there was nothing left but the dry, hollow convulsions of a body trying to expel something it couldn’t reach.

His knees gave way. The cold tiles dug into his skin through his trousers. His forehead came to rest against the wall, slick with sweat, trembling uncontrollably.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Get it together. Pull yourself together. You can’t—

But he couldn’t. Not tonight.

The truth of it pressed down on him. He’d thought—foolishly, maybe—that once it was over, once Voldemort was gone, it would all fall away. That he’d be free.

But he wasn’t.

The war was over. The danger had passed. And still—still—he felt like a ticking time bomb.

Broken. Frayed. Incomplete.

He stayed there, slumped and shivering, letting the cold wall hold him up.

Eventually—minutes? hours?—he forced himself upright. One trembling hand against the wall, he staggered out, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, the sour taste still clinging to his throat.

The castle was quiet. Ghostly, almost. His footsteps seemed to echo louder than they ought to. He made his way through the corridors on instinct, head down, eyes unfocused.

By the time he reached Gryffindor Tower, he felt like a ghost walking through his own memory.

He didn’t bother taking off his shoes. He pushed through the heavy curtains of his four-poster, collapsed onto the mattress, and let the darkness swallow him whole.

The tears came without warning.

Hot, silent at first—then ragged, uncontrollable. He buried his face in the pillow, gripping the sheets like they might stop him from unravelling entirely.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t.

Why was he still fighting?

Why did it still hurt?

He was supposed to be done. He’d done everything—he’d walked to his death, he’d watched people fall around him, and he’d watched Voldemort die.

So why couldn’t he sleep?

Why did it still feel like something was broken inside him that would never mend?

Dumbledore. Fred. Remus. Tonks. So many others. Faces drifted behind his eyes—half-smiles, frozen moments, unfinished sentences.

And beneath it all, the guilt.

The awful, festering truth: he was still here, and they weren’t.

Who was he now? Not the Boy Who Lived. Not the Chosen One.

Just… Harry.

And lying there, sobbing into his pillow, his heart aching from all he couldn’t name—he didn’t feel like a hero at all.

He just felt lost.

And he wasn’t sure there was a way back.

The morning light filtered gently through the high, arched windows of the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory, stretching long golden stripes across the worn stone floor and casting a soft glow over the scarlet hangings. The air held that peculiar hush—an in-between quiet that didn’t belong to sleep or wakefulness but to something else entirely. A kind of stillness that came before parting.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, hunched forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the small, half-hearted pile of clothes he’d assembled beside him. ‘Packing’, he supposed—but only in the most generous sense. The T-shirts were creased, the socks mismatched, and a jumper hung halfway out the side like it had tried to escape.

He hadn’t even folded anything. It didn’t really feel worth it.

His fingers twisted absently in the edge of his sleeve, and that odd, tight feeling had returned to his chest. Slughorn’s words from the night before still curled around the corners of his mind—unsettling and persistent. No clear answers on how to fix it. Just more questions and an awful weight that hadn’t lifted, not even now.

This was it.

The last day.

Shouldn’t it feel different? Shouldn’t it feel like… peace? Closure? But all Harry felt was hollow. Like he’d finally crossed the finish line only to find the ground gave way beneath his feet.

He let out a quiet sigh and glanced sideways towards the bed beside his. Ron’s, of course. The sheets were twisted into a heap, the duvet barely clinging on at the foot, and biscuit crumbs scattered across the pillow like an abandoned trail.

Normally, Ron would still be snoring by now—snoring in a way that could only be described as structural—but the silence was unnatural. A little too empty. It made the room feel colder.

Harry was just starting to drift off into that slow, foggy place in his thoughts when—

BANG.

The door crashed open with a force that made Harry jump.

“HARRY!”

Ron came barrelling through the entrance like a spell gone sideways—a fistful of toast clutched precariously in one hand. His hair looked like he’d styled it using a wind tunnel, and he very nearly knocked over Neville’s old chair in his haste to cross the room.

Harry blinked, stunned. For one disorienting second, he honestly thought he might be hallucinating. But then Ron threw himself onto the bed beside him, still munching his toast, and grinned that grin—the same one he’d worn after every Quidditch win, after sneaking food from the kitchens, after surviving whatever mad thing they’d just barely got through—and just like that, it was undeniably, inescapably Ron.

“Blimey, mate, you look awful,” Ron said cheerfully through a mouthful of crumbs, handing Harry his glasses with unexpected delicacy. “Left these on the table downstairs. Again. Were you planning to stumble round by sound or just embrace the blind mystique?”

Harry took the glasses and shoved them on. The world slid back into focus with a faint click behind his ears.

“Thanks,” he muttered, squinting. “And you look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a barn by an angry thestral.”

Ron puffed out his chest, clearly pleased. “Post-battle chic, mate. Very exclusive. Heard it’s all the rage in Knockturn Alley.”

Harry snorted in spite of himself. The tension in his chest slackened, just slightly. Some things, at least, hadn’t changed.

Ron clapped him on the back, hard enough to make his spine jolt. “Come on then, Chosen One. Let’s seize the day and all that. You don’t want to miss McGonagall’s farewell speech, do you? I’m betting there’ll be tears.”

Harry groaned. “Why do you suddenly sound like Sir Cadogan?”

“Because someone’s got to shout ridiculous things at you now You-Know-Who’s gone,” Ron said brightly. “Besides, you saved the wizarding world. You need someone to keep you humble.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And that someone is you?”

“Absolutely. Wouldn’t trust anyone else with the job.”

Before Harry could retort, he stood up too quickly—too abruptly—and the world pitched beneath his feet. The air seemed to thin around him. His stomach twisted violently and then—

Thud.

His knees hit the floor.

Pain spiked through his legs, and for a split second, the room spun in a blur of sunlight and stone and red fabric. His vision darkened at the edges.

“Harry!”

Ron was beside him in an instant, toast forgotten on the floor. His voice was sharp now—urgent.

“What the hell—? Harry, what just happened? Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, though his voice didn’t sound fine. He blinked against the swirling in his head, trying to make the room sit still. “Just stood up too fast.”

Which wasn’t untrue. It was just… not the whole of it.

He hadn’t slept properly in days. His appetite had vanished somewhere between the funeral and the final duel. And the grief—unspoken, heavy—hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it had settled deeper. Like roots growing into him.

Ron crouched down, frowning. “You sure? You’ve looked like dragon dung since the battle, and I don’t say that lightly. I mean, you always look a bit knackered, but this is something else.”

Harry gave a hollow chuckle. “Thanks. That’s the morale boost I needed.”

But Ron didn’t laugh back. He was watching him now with that rare, serious expression—one that only surfaced in moments that mattered. When someone was bleeding, or a life hung in the balance. And Harry hated it—hated being on the receiving end of it.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m just tired,” he said quietly, leaning back against the wall. “It’s all catching up, I think.”

Ron didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, with a shrug, he held out a hand and hauled Harry gently to his feet.

“Then rest,” Ron said simply. “Or eat something. Merlin, eat something. You’re starting to look like Nearly Headless Nick.”

It was such a Ron thing to say—plain, practical, utterly unbothered by anything too emotional—that it made Harry’s throat tighten unexpectedly.

He nodded, brushing off his trousers, trying to ignore how his limbs still trembled.

Together, they descended the winding staircase from the boys’ dormitory. The walls, warm with morning light, seemed to hold the memories of a thousand Gryffindor students—years of voices, late-night laughter, whispered secrets, furious arguments, and accidental explosions. Every creak, every echo, felt steeped in life.

Harry didn’t speak. Ron was beside him, solid and quiet, and somehow that made it easier to keep walking. They stepped down into the common room, and the familiar warmth of it wrapped around Harry.

The place was alive already—buzzing with the low hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Someone had left a chessboard mid-game on the table near the fireplace, and the fire itself was crackling lazily, the hearth exhaling ribbons of smoke that curled into the scent of toast, parchment, and melted wax.

For the first time that morning, Harry’s shoulders loosened.

It smelt like… home.

He hesitated at the foot of the stairs, glancing around. The squishy armchairs, the threadbare rug, the windows streaked with last night’s rain. It was all exactly as it had always been—and yet, somehow, not. Something in him had shifted. The world had turned, and he wasn’t sure yet if he could keep pace.

“I wonder what it’ll be like,” he said quietly, his voice barely carrying above the din. “Living at the Burrow. Being… normal.”

Ron turned his head, eyebrows lifting. “Well, for starters, Mum’s cooking will knock your socks off. Hogwarts never stood a chance, really.” He grinned, lopsided and familiar. “Just don’t get between her and the frying pan. She’s terrifying with a spatula.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh. “Comforting.”

But Ron’s grin faltered slightly, his gaze shifting. “You know you’re family, don’t you?” he said after a pause. “Always have been. You’re not… Just coming to stay. It’s your home too.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. His chest tightened, and not from anxiety or pain, but something quieter—something gentler. A pressure, soft and strange, that made his throat ache.

Family.

He wasn’t used to hearing it said out loud. Not like that.

Instead, he turned to glance once more around the common room. The worn cushions. The smudged portraits. The place that had held him through every version of himself—an eleven-year-old boy in oversized shirts, a fifteen-year-old with nightmares and scars, and a seventeen-year-old soldier, hollowed and raw.

He was leaving Hogwarts. But for the first time, he realised he wasn’t leaving alone.

They stepped out into the corridor, joining the slow trickle of students heading down to breakfast, and before long, they passed through the wide entrance to the Great Hall.

The scent hit him first—freshly baked bread, sausages, pumpkin juice—and then the sound: clinking plates, the low thrum of conversation, laughter echoing from the Hufflepuff table. It was all so familiar, so normal, and yet…

It felt wrong.

Not bad. Just… distant. Like the world had edged slightly out of reach, and Harry was standing behind a pane of glass. Watching, but not part of it.

His feet carried him forward on instinct. Everything else—his mind, his heart—lagged behind.

You should feel happy, he thought vaguely. Or relieved. Or anything. But there was only a kind of heaviness that clung to him, slow and thick. Not tiredness exactly—he’d been tired for years—but something deeper. Something brittle.

His stomach churned at the smell of food. He hadn’t eaten properly in days, but now even the thought made his throat close.

And then he saw her.

Ginny.

She was seated at the Gryffindor table, her hair a burnished red-gold in the light, bent in quiet conversation with Hermione. The way she tilted her head, the curve of her smile—it hadn’t changed. But something in Harry shifted painfully at the sight of her.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he cared too much and didn’t know how to hold it.

I’m not the same, he thought suddenly. I’m not the boy she kissed in the common room. I’m something else now. Something half-broken.

He slid wordlessly onto the bench across from her, hoping—absurdly—that no one would notice how hard it was just to sit down.

Ginny looked up at once. “Hi,” she said softly. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were full of concern. She could always see straight through him.

Harry tried to smile. The corners of his mouth lifted, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze dropped to the plate in front of him—eggs, toast, bacon—untouched and unappetising.

“You should eat,” Ginny said, reaching across the table. Her fingers curled gently around his.

For a second, he let her hold his hand.

But then the weight of it hit him.

The unfairness of it. That he could feel her skin, warm and real, while so many others—Fred, Tonks, Remus—couldn’t feel anything at all. Couldn’t come down to breakfast. Couldn’t laugh or touch or love again.

He drew his hand back slowly.

“I’m not really hungry,” he said, voice flat.

Ginny didn’t push. But her eyes stayed on him, worry flickering behind the brown.

Across the table, Hermione had gone still. Her chin rested lightly on her hand, but her eyes—shrewd, piercing—were fixed on Harry. She didn’t say anything. She always knew when he wasn’t telling the truth.

Ron, beside her, tried for casual. But his brow was furrowed and his shoulders were tense.

Harry hated that look. Hated being the cause of it.

“Mate,” Ron said after a moment, his voice low and unusually gentle, “you’ve got to eat something. We’re heading back to the Burrow soon. If you show up looking like a windswept dementor, Mum’ll hex the lot of us.”

Harry gave a jerky nod. “Yeah.”

He meant to say more. He wanted to explain—to tell them it wasn’t them, that he wasn’t trying to shut them out, and that he just felt so tired. Not in the way sleep could fix it, but in the way grief sank deep, wrapping itself round your lungs until even breathing felt like effort.

But it was all too much. Too tangled. Too raw. And it was breakfast. And there were people. And he couldn’t fall apart here.

Harry took a slow, steadying breath and reached for a piece of toast. Ginny was still watching him—quiet, steady, that familiar patience in her eyes. She didn’t press him. Didn’t say anything at all. But her gaze, warm and unflinching, seemed to reach across the table like a hand he hadn’t yet found the strength to take.

He took a bite. Small. Mechanical. It crumbled dryly in his mouth, sticking to his tongue. The taste—if it had any—was like ash, dusty and hollow. Swallowing was worse. Like trying to force splinters down his throat, each movement slow and scraping.

He put the toast down.

“I’ll eat more once we’re back,” he said, voice low and not entirely convincing. “At the Burrow. I promise.”

He didn’t know if it was a lie. It felt like a promise made more for them than for himself. Because if he said it—if he gave them something, even that small—maybe they’d worry less. Or at least pretend to.

Mrs Weasley would fuss, of course. She always did. Piling his plate as if she thought it might weigh him back down to earth. She’d flap and scold and call him “dear” in that brisk, exasperated way that somehow always made him feel like everything might be alright after all. He didn’t have the energy to argue with her. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Hermione gave a small, approving nod, though the tension between her eyebrows didn’t ease. Ron tried for a grin, one of his usual lopsided ones, but it came out thin and awkward—like he knew it wasn’t fooling anyone but still thought it might help.

Harry pressed his palms to the table. The wood was smooth beneath his fingers, cool and grounding. He closed his eyes for half a second and tried to let the quiet settle him.

But the silence between them wasn’t calm. It was dense, full of everything unsaid. It pressed down on his chest—grief, guilt, exhaustion, and all the things he hadn’t yet found words for.

He couldn’t breathe through it.

“I’ll be right back,” he muttered, already standing up. “Need the loo.”

No one stopped him. No one asked if he was alright.

But he felt them—three pairs of eyes, watching him as he walked away, carrying something too heavy for breakfast and too personal for words.

His footsteps were brisk, sharp against the stone floor. He kept his head down, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, moving too quickly to seem casual. He didn’t want to meet anyone’s gaze. Didn’t want to see pity. Or worse—understanding.

He didn’t know where he was going, not really.

But his feet did.

They carried him away from the Great Hall, away from the warmth of the hearth and the clatter of cutlery and voices that felt too loud and too far all at once. The corridors grew quieter with each step, the echo of his own shoes the only sound left to follow him.

And then, without really choosing to, he turned a familiar corner—and there it was.

The library.

Still and vast and hushed, like a cathedral of knowledge, and just as sacred. It wasn’t just bookshelves and parchment. It had become something else over the years—somewhere quiet. Somewhere untouched by the chaos. A place where no one expected him to be anything. Not the Chosen One. Not the Boy Who Lived.

Just… Harry.

He pushed the door open. It groaned on its hinges, that same creak it had always made, like an old friend clearing its throat.

The room smelt of dust, ink, and polish. It settled around him. And for a fleeting second, something inside him loosened.

Madam Pince was perched at her desk, hunched over a battered volume with a spine that looked older than most of the portraits. Her bony fingers traced each line with a reverence that bordered on ritual. Her grey-streaked hair was pulled into its usual severe knot, not a single strand out of place.

Harry had once thought she looked a bit like a hawk—sharp, alert, always poised to swoop down on students with chocolate near the books or ink stains on borrowed scrolls. But now, in the quiet, with no one else around… she just looked tired. The kind of tiredness that didn’t come from one long night but from years of standing watch over something fragile.

Even here, the war had left its fingerprints.

Harry hesitated in the doorway. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d come. He’d meant to get away, to breathe. But now that he was here, surrounded by silence and shelves and things older than he could name, he realised he’d been looking for something.

Not answers, exactly. Not yet. But maybe… understanding.

Of what happened after.

Of what lingered.

Of what it meant that so many faces haunted him now—Dumbledore, Snape, Sirius, Fred, Lupin, Tonks—all of them, scattered like fragments of some broken constellation. He could still feel them, sometimes. Still hear their voices in the spaces between thoughts.

Was that normal?

Was that madness?

Was that… them?

“Mr Potter.”

Her voice was as crisp as ever. It snapped through the quiet like a ruler against knuckles.

He looked up quickly, almost guilty.

“Er—hello, Madam Pince,” he said, taking a few steps closer to the desk. “I was wondering… Do you have any books about… souls?”

Her eyes narrowed behind her wire-rimmed spectacles. “Souls?” she repeated, in a tone that might have been reserved for someone asking for instructions on how to raise a basilisk in the girls’ lavatory. “There are several volumes, yes—but most are restricted. Advanced magical theory. Very delicate material. I do not allow it to be handled lightly.”

“Right. Of course,” Harry said quickly, holding his hands up slightly in mock surrender. “I’m not trying to meddle. Just curious. Something for… light summer reading.”

A silence followed.

Madam Pince gave him a long, suspicious look, as if the phrase itself was blasphemy.

“‘Light reading,’” Madam Pince repeated, her voice as flat and unimpressed as an ironed scroll. Her eyes, thin and needle-sharp behind her spectacles, narrowed with surgical precision. “And what, precisely, makes you think you ought to be reading about souls at all?”

Harry froze.

The question struck harder than he’d expected—far harder than it ought to have. Not because of what she’d said exactly, but because of how easily it pierced through his excuse. All the words he’d rehearsed—about curiosity, about passing time, about summer reading—crumbled in the back of his throat.

She wasn’t just asking why he wanted the book.

She was asking what he was really doing here.

And that… that was something he wasn’t sure he could answer. Not without unravelling everything.

He didn’t think Horcruxes would go down particularly well in polite conversation, and I still don’t understand what’s left of me probably wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

So he did what he usually did when he didn’t know how to speak the truth.

He shrugged.

“Just… trying to stay busy,” he said, forcing his voice into something even and light. “Better than sitting at home staring at the wall.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Just not the full truth either.

Madam Pince regarded him with a look so sceptical it might have peeled paint. Her mouth tightened into something resembling a grim line of punctuation—perhaps a semicolon carved from disapproval.

“I find your sudden enthusiasm for self-education rather… suspect,” she said crisply. “You have not, historically, been a regular patron of this library—unless accompanied by Miss Granger or in pursuit of some impending catastrophe. And now I am to believe you’ve developed a spontaneous academic interest in souls?”

Harry shifted on the spot, hands shoved deeper into his pockets. Her words, though said with her usual sharpness, didn’t carry malice—but they made him feel all the same as he had once, standing in Snape’s office with a half-made excuse and ink-stained fingers.

“I know I haven’t exactly lived in here,” he admitted, his voice quiet, the words tasting like something between embarrassment and apology. “But I do read. Sometimes.”

He hesitated. Then he added, more truthfully, “I’m just… curious, that’s all.”

That was the closest he could get to saying, I don’t know how to stop thinking about what’s gone. I don’t know what to do with what’s left.

The silence that followed stretched long and taut between them. Madam Pince stared at him, her expression unreadable, though the glint in her eyes was too knowing for his liking. It was as if she were cataloguing not just his intentions but him—his posture, his tone, and the weight of his words.

Harry had faced Death Eaters, Dementors, and even Voldemort—and yet somehow, in this quiet, paper-dusted space, he felt smaller than ever. Like she could see all the cracks he’d tried to plaster over.

At last, she spoke.

“Your timing is questionable,” she said, and somehow managed to make the word ‘questionable’ feel like an official reprimand. “But I suppose it would do no particular harm to let you browse. Briefly. Do not, for a moment, imagine I won’t notice if anything is mishandled.”

Relief broke over Harry. He didn’t grin—grinning felt too out of place—but his shoulders loosened slightly.

“Thank you,” he said, a bit too quickly, a bit too loud.

Madam Pince sniffed, which he decided to take as acceptance, and turned back to her desk with a rustle of robes that sounded almost like a dismissal.

The Hogwarts Express trundled through the countryside with the lazy indifference of something that had made the journey so many times it no longer felt the need to hurry. Outside the windows, the world blurred into broad strokes of green and gold, fields flashing past in a dizzying smear. But inside one cramped, stuffy compartment near the end of the train, time seemed to stretch—awkward and heavy—as though caught in a holding pattern no one knew how to break.

Harry sat slouched in the furthest corner, his body listing slightly against the window, the glass cool against his temple. He looked thoroughly washed-out, like someone who’d been wrung dry and left in a heap, forgotten. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and his eyes, when they blinked at all, were slow and unfocused. His hair—usually windswept in the way of someone constantly pursued by wind and trouble—was flattened in strange patches, as though he’d spent the night losing a wrestling match with his pillow. Or a Dementor.

Ginny sat beside him, their fingers loosely intertwined, though Harry didn’t seem to notice. He hadn’t spoken much since they’d boarded.

Ginny shifted slightly, brushing her thumb over the back of his hand. She glanced down at him, eyes narrowed with gentle concern. Then, wordlessly, she shifted and guided his head into her lap with practised care.

“There,” she murmured, brushing a few strands of hair off his forehead, her fingers slipping into the tangled mess with comforting ease. “You just rest, alright?”

Harry didn’t respond. He didn’t even blink. His breathing, shallow and uneven at first, began to even out under the warmth of her hand. Within minutes, he was asleep.

Across from them, Ron sat stiffly, knees awkwardly bumping Hermione’s as the two of them tried to occupy the same narrow bench. His arms were folded tight across his chest, and his gaze hadn’t moved from Harry’s face.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” Ron muttered at last. “Not even after Dumbledore. He looks… I dunno. Hollow. Like there’s nothing left.”

Hermione, who had been silently watching too, gave a long sigh. “Ron, he’s just lost a lot of people. We all have. It’s not something you just bounce back from.”

“I know that,” Ron said quickly, glancing at her, then back at Harry. “But this is more than grief. It’s like he’s not in there properly. Like he’s gone somewhere and left the rest behind.”

Hermione’s expression softened as she followed his gaze. Harry stirred slightly in his sleep, his brow furrowed into uneasy lines, mouth twitching with whatever he was dreaming. He didn’t look peaceful. He looked haunted.

“Maybe we should just ask him,” Hermione said after a moment, her voice low.

Ron turned to her with a disbelieving snort. “Yeah, great idea. Let’s wake him up the one time he’s managing to sleep and start firing questions at him like we’re the Ministry.”

“Well, doing nothing clearly isn’t helping!” Hermione snapped, irritation creeping into her voice. “What’s your brilliant plan, then? Sit around and hope he opens up?”

“That was sort of the idea, yeah,” Ron said, folding his arms more tightly and glaring at the floor.

Hermione let out a theatrical groan. “Honestly.”

The compartment fell silent again, save for the low clatter of the train on the tracks and the occasional whoosh of wind rushing past the window. A muffled murmur escaped Harry’s lips—indistinct, fragmented words wrapped in a restless dream.

Ginny’s brow furrowed. She leaned down slightly, brushing her hand across his fringe. “He told me he’s scared,” she said suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ron and Hermione both turned to her, the argument forgotten.

“Last night,” Ginny went on, eyes still on Harry. “He said he feels stuck. Like he’s meant to move on—but can’t. Like there’s a weight on him, and he doesn’t know where to put it down.”

Hermione leaned forward, elbows on her knees, frowning. “He told you that?”

Ginny nodded. “He didn’t want to. You could tell. But it sort of… slipped out. He was exhausted. Panicked, almost. Like he was about to bolt.”

Ron frowned. “That explains why he nearly collapsed in the dormitory this morning. Claimed he stood up too fast, but he looked like he was about to keel over. I had to hold him up.”

“He barely touched his breakfast either,” Hermione added. “Just sat there and had one bite of toast.”

“Could be the porridge,” Ron muttered under his breath. “Looks like it was scraped off the bottom of Hagrid’s cauldron.”

Hermione shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut parchment.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, ducking his head. “Just… trying to lighten the mood.”

It didn’t work.

The air in the compartment had shifted—grown heavier, denser, as though the train itself could feel the weight of what they weren’t saying. Ginny’s hand never left Harry’s hair, and for a long while, no one spoke.

Harry whimpered softly in his sleep, the sound barely more than a breath. His brow crumpled, a deep furrow between his eyes, as though some shadow had found its way into his dreams and was tightening its grip. His face turned slightly, creased with something close to fear—or memory.

Hermione leaned forward, her voice barely a whisper. “Do you think he’s ill?” she asked, watching him closely. “Properly ill, I mean. Not just tired or… off.”

Ginny’s gaze didn’t leave Harry. Her fingers moved gently through his hair in a slow, rhythmic pattern. “It’s not that simple,” she murmured, her voice soft but certain.

Ron shifted on the seat, glancing from Harry to Ginny with a frown. “Nothing with Harry ever is,” he muttered. “It’s always cursed scars and dark wizards and—bloody exploding staircases.”

“No staircases exploded,” Hermione said flatly, not looking at him.

“You weren’t there,” Ron said with a sniff, folding his arms and slumping back.

But Ginny paid them no mind. Her attention remained fixed on the boy curled in her lap, her voice calm and steady. “Whatever this is, he’s keeping it locked up. But he shouldn’t have to. He doesn’t want to talk about it—maybe he can’t—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need us.”

Hermione’s hand moved gently across the space between them. She placed it on Harry’s shoulder—lightly, as though afraid to disturb him—but the gesture was sure, deliberate. “Then we help him,” she said firmly. “No more second-guessing. No more pretending we don’t see it. No more awkward silences.”

Ron hesitated. He looked down at his trainers, frowning as though they might offer him some kind of answer. Then he shrugged. “Alright,” he said quietly. “We help him.”

Ginny gave a small, resolute smile.

There was a pause—brief, but not heavy like before. The silence that followed didn’t press or suffocate. It settled around them like something shared.

Then, quite suddenly, Harry stirred. He mumbled something incoherent into Ginny’s jumper, his face still half-buried in her lap.

“What did he just say?” Ron asked, leaning forward with his brows raised. “Was that English?”

Ginny tilted her head, brow furrowed. “I think he said… ‘Snorkack.’”

Hermione blinked. “As in… Crumple-Horned Snorkack?”

Ginny nodded slowly, lips twitching. “Sounds like it.”

Ron let out a small bark of laughter. “Well, that’s a relief. At least he’s not dreaming about You-Know-Who strangling him with a basilisk or something.”

Harry shifted again, mumbling once more. This time, the words were a bit clearer—though no less baffling.

Ginny raised her eyebrows. “Alright… Now it’s ‘fanged gerbil.’”

Hermione blinked. “Fanged gerbil?”

“Pretty sure that’s what he said,” Ginny replied, her voice struggling to remain even.

Ron grinned, his spirits lifting for the first time since the train had left the station. “Brilliant. When he wakes up, we are definitely getting the full story. I want diagrams.”

“Do not encourage him,” Hermione said, though there was the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Ron turned to her, eyes bright. “Oh, come on—Snorkacks and fanged rodents? This might be the most fun he’s had in weeks, even if it’s only in his sleep.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders had eased. “We still need to talk to him. About the real stuff. The things he’s not saying.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, glancing back down at Harry, who had settled more comfortably now, one hand curled near his chest. “But maybe we let him finish dreaming about magical hamsters before we spring the emotional intervention.”

Ginny chuckled, low and warm, and this time Hermione joined in, the sound light and quiet in the compartment. The laughter wasn’t loud. It wasn’t the sort that shook walls or bent over with mirth. But it was real.

Harry’s first thought, as he blinked awake to a dull ache behind his eyes, was that he’d been hit by a Bludger.

A very large one. Possibly enchanted. And angry.

His second thought was that he might’ve been trampled by a herd of centaurs on the march.

And then, as a shrill whistle pierced the compartment and rattled against his skull, came the third, somewhat slower and more grudging realisation—

Oh. Right. Train.

The Hogwarts Express. He was on the train.

That explained the rocking, at least.

He squinted at the blur of golds and greens sweeping past the window, the late afternoon sun streaking the glass. The compartment smelt faintly of pumpkin pasties, worn leather, and Ron’s trainers. His neck felt like it had been twisted into a knot while someone stood on his chest. Lovely.

“Ugh… What time is it?” Harry croaked, his voice dry and gravelly.

“’Bout time you woke up,” came Ron’s voice from across the compartment, muffled slightly by the effort of shoving a battered trainer into an overstuffed rucksack. “We thought you’d finally pegged it.”

“I checked his pulse,” Ginny said evenly, not looking up as she calmly zipped her bag. “Twice.”

Harry blinked and turned his head—slowly, as though any sudden movement might detach it from his spine.

“You what?”

“You’ve been out for hours, Harry,” Hermione said, folding her neatly written notes and slipping them into her beaded bag with the air of someone deeply trying not to fuss. “Literally since we left Hogsmeade. Ginny tried waking you — you muttered something about invisible cheese.”

“I was obviously dreaming,” Harry muttered, dragging his hands down his face. “And probably starving.”

“You were also snoring,” Ron added cheerfully, as if this were a great personal victory.

“I don’t snore,” Harry said at once.

“Oh, but you do,” Hermione replied matter-of-factly, raising an eyebrow. “All three of us can confirm it. Loudly and with conviction.”

Harry groaned, slumping forward and planting his elbows on his knees. His whole body ached in that particular, bone-deep way that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with too much of it. His brain still felt thick—fogged, like someone had stuffed his head full of wool and left him to stew.

A warm hand touched his arm. Ginny leaned closer, her eyes searching his face. “You alright?”

Harry paused, then nodded, though the gesture didn’t feel entirely convincing. “Yeah. Just… took me a minute.”

The train had begun to slow. Outside the window, the countryside had given way to the familiar greys and browns of suburban London. Rooftops blurred past, followed by long stretches of fencing and the occasional startled-looking sheep.

“Are we nearly there?” he asked, squinting at the skyline.

“Pretty much,” Ron said, peering out. “Platform Nine and Three-Quarters—home sweet home. Or something.”

Harry nodded, though his limbs still felt as though they’d been hexed into jelly.

By the time they stepped off the train, the platform was a riot of sound and colour—trunks wheeling madly, owls shrieking in their cages, parents calling out to their children. The air buzzed with voices and whistles, and the warm gust of steam rolling past gave it all the slightly surreal feeling of stepping into someone else’s memory.

Harry stood still.

He didn’t mean to. His feet just stopped.

The others moved ahead—Ginny pulling her trunk, Ron dragging his battered bag one-handed while trying to wave at someone in the distance. Hermione had already spotted her parents at the far end, standing awkwardly beside the luggage trolleys.

Then—

“Harry!” called Mr Weasley from somewhere off to the right, cheerfully waving them over. “Over here, all of you!”

But Harry didn’t move.

His heart gave a strange little flutter—uncertain, unsettled.

Something was wrong.

He turned his head slowly, scanning the edge of the platform.

They should be here.

They were always here.

He could almost picture it: Uncle Vernon, red-faced and huffing with irritation; Aunt Petunia standing stiffly as if the very air offended her; Dudley sulking behind a rapidly melting ice cream. Miserable, always. Silent and impatient. But there.

It had always been predictable. Something fixed, unpleasant, but expected.

But they weren’t here.

He squinted, searching the crowd, half-convinced they must be lurking somewhere just out of sight. Maybe late. Maybe stuck behind a group of third-years wheeling their trunks sideways.

“Harry?” Ginny’s voice came soft beside him. She tugged gently at his sleeve.

He didn’t answer.

Ron had paused a few steps ahead, glancing back. “Mate?” he said, his voice tentative. “You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m just—” Harry’s mouth felt dry. “I’m waiting. My uncle should be here.”

Ron frowned, stepping back toward him. “Your… what?”

“My uncle,” Harry said again, slower this time. “He’s meant to pick me up. He always does.”

There was a pause. Ron looked at him as if Harry had just announced he was off to become a goblin accountant.

“Wait—you’re serious?”

“Of course I’m serious. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Harry…” Hermione had come up beside them now. She looked worried. Careful. “You’re not going back to the Dursleys.”

Harry turned towards her, frowning hard. “I’m not?”

“No!” Ron said, baffled. “You’re coming to the Burrow. You always wanted to, remember?”

“But no one told me that.”

Ron looked helplessly at Hermione and Ginny.

“We did tell you,” Hermione said gently. “After the battle. More than once.”

Harry blinked. The noise of the platform seemed to stretch around him—distant and muffled, like someone had thrown a blanket over his ears. The people moved in slow motion. Voices came and went without meaning.

“I don’t…” He swallowed. “I don’t remember that.”

Just then, a blur of ginger wool and motherly force collided with him.

“Oh, there you are, dear!”

Before Harry could so much as brace himself, Mrs Weasley had him wrapped in one of her signature hugs—tight enough to knock the air from his lungs, warm enough to thaw ice, and hovering dangerously on the edge of suffocation. Her arms clutched him with the kind of affection that didn’t ask questions—it simply was.

He didn’t resist.

He let her hold him, his face pressed awkwardly into the crocheted shoulder of her cardigan, breathing in the scent of home—baking flour, lavender, and a faint whiff of Floo powder.

“Are you alright?” she asked as she pulled back just far enough to look at him properly, both hands flying to his shoulders, patting his arms, and smoothing his hair, as though she could straighten his entire world with a few brisk tugs and fusses.

“I think so?” he croaked, though it came out more as a question than an answer. “Maybe?”

His voice felt too thin, like something stretched too tight.

She was still watching him, head tilted, her brow creased in that instinctive, maternal way that told him she knew he wasn’t quite telling the truth.

He hesitated, then asked, voice quieter now, unsure.

“Mrs Weasley… Did I ever… Did I ever tell you I wasn’t going back to the Dursleys?”

The question dropped between them.

Her expression faltered. The soft lines of her face stiffened with concern. One hand lingered near his cheek, brushing a curl from his temple with absent tenderness.

“But, love,” she said gently, “you said your goodbyes last summer. They went into hiding, remember?”

Harry blinked.

No.

No, that couldn’t be right.

“Hiding?” he echoed, frowning. “From who?”

Mr Weasley had arrived beside them, his face kind but serious and unusually quiet. There was always something calm about Arthur Weasley, even when the rest of the world seemed determined to come undone. He looked at Harry now with that same steady gaze he’d used when explaining complicated truths about the Ministry… or Dark Magic… or the exact mechanics of Muggle telephones.

“Harry,” he said softly, “do you remember your seventeenth birthday?”

Harry opened his mouth, instinct ready to leap to the defence.

“Yeah, of course I—”

But the sentence collapsed halfway through.

He stalled.

Fell still.

Searched his memory, reaching for something he was sure had to be there, but his mind returned… nothing. Not even the edges of the memory. No colour. No sound. Not even a scent.

Just blankness.

White.

“Wait,” he said, blinking rapidly, trying to will the images back into existence. “No, I must remember. That’s ridiculous. Of course I’d remember my own birthday.”

He gave a shaky laugh, though it rang false in his ears.

“I mean—everyone remembers their own birthday.”

But his thoughts were unravelling now. The harder he pulled, the more tangled it became. Like tugging at a loose thread in a jumper and finding the whole thing come apart in his hands.

“Harry,” came Ginny’s voice now, quiet but steady. She stepped closer. “We were all there. You stayed with us. You were at the Burrow. We had dinner in the kitchen. Mum baked you a Golden Snitch cake.”

“I—” Harry looked between them, helpless. “I can’t remember any of that.”

His fingers came up to press against his temples, as if he could massage the memory free. “Did I hit my head or something?”

“You didn’t hit your head,” Hermione said firmly, having appeared beside Ron, who looked deeply out of his depth.

“Are we absolutely sure about that?” Harry asked, half a plea.

“Well…” Ron said, uncertain. “You did trip over Crookshanks last week and land headfirst in the gnome pit.”

“Ron,” Hermione snapped, shooting him a glare.

But the joke didn’t land. Ron’s grin faltered. Nobody laughed.

Mr Weasley’s voice came gently again.

“Harry… Sometimes, after something traumatic, people can lose pieces of memory. It’s the mind’s way of coping. A sort of… defence. A means of protecting you from pain too great to face all at once.”

Harry swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. His throat felt like it was closing.

“I’m not worried,” he lied, trying to stand taller. “I’m fine. Honestly.”

He wasn’t fine.

Not even remotely.

His mind was full of holes now. Big ones. Jagged, unfamiliar gaps where memories should’ve been. Not just his birthday. Not just the Dursleys.

What else had been taken?

“I don’t understand,” he whispered, almost to himself. “It’s like… it’s like I’m missing bits of myself.”

“You’re not missing anything that can’t come back,” said Mrs Weasley firmly. She reached for him again, her arms sure and solid. She pulled him into a one-armed hug and held him there like she could shield him from the world by sheer force of will. “We’ll help you remember, Harry. Whatever it takes. You’re not on your own.”

He wanted to believe her.

He almost did.

But there was a knot now, tight and cold, sitting just beneath his ribs. The sort of fear that didn’t shout—it waited. Quiet. Patient. Unmoving.

“What if I never do?” he said, his voice barely audible. “What if I’ve forgotten something important? What if I’ve… forgotten someone important?”

Ginny stepped into his line of sight. She didn’t flinch. She looked him square in the eyes, calm as ever.

“We’d tell you,” she said.

“Promise?”

Her nod was absolute. “Cross my heart.”

For a moment, Harry just stood there, listening to the noise of the station all around him—the call of owls, the rumble of trolleys, the rising voices of reunited families—and yet it all felt a step removed.

Then, trying for levity, he said, “So… I’m going to the Burrow, then?”

“Yep,” Ron said, bright and just a touch too quick. “Unless you fancy hanging around here waiting for your uncle. Who’s just so we’re clear, in wizard witness protection now.”

Harry actually let out a breath of a laugh. It wobbled a bit on the way out, but it was real.

“No thanks,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Think I’ve had enough confusion for one day.”

Still, as they began to move, the knot in his chest didn’t go away. It sat there quietly, a small, sharp reminder.

If he could forget something as big as this…

What else might he have already lost?