FicWad

Harry’s heart raced as he climbed the familiar stairs of The Burrow alongside George. Their footsteps echoed softly, mingling with the whispers of evening in the cosy house that felt like home. Once inside George’s bedroom, the air was thick with nostalgia and mischief; it held the scent of parchment, ink, and the faint remnants of fireworks that had exploded in their shared laughter.

George swung open the window, the creaking sound mingling with the rustling leaves outside. “This way, mate,” he called, excitement glimmering in his eyes. Without waiting for a second thought, he wriggled out and disappeared. Harry hesitated, the momentary trepidation in his gut competing with the thrill of adventure, before he followed George’s path, clambering onto the slanted rooftop of The Burrow.

The view from up high was breathtaking. The world stretched out beneath them like a vibrant canvas; the bright greens of summer fields danced in the soft evening breeze. It felt surreal, perched above the universe, where the chaos of their lives faded into a tranquil backdrop. Harry inhaled deeply, the air filling his lungs with possibilities, sheepishly grateful for the serenity that enveloped him.

“Welcome to my sanctuary,” George announced, breaking the silence as he settled beside Harry, a bottle of butterbeer in hand, which he offered with a grin. “Fred and I spent countless hours up here. Hide from Mum’s wrath, plan pranks, or simply dream about the future.”

Harry chuckled, recalling the moments when Mrs. Weasley would chase after them like a storm. “Yeah, I remember. She was always a whirlwind of worry. But you never got caught for long, did you?”

“Never! Not when we had a vantage point like this,” George replied, spreading his arms wide as if inviting the entire landscape into their little bubble.

They both gazed at the vast sky above, threaded with the first shimmering stars of the night. George turned thoughtfully to Harry. “So, how are things for you? It’s been ages since we had a proper chat.”

Harry took a swig of butterbeer, pondering his friend’s question. “I don’t have any big plans right now. After everything that’s happened, just resting feels right,” he admitted, the weight of his previous battles suddenly tugging at him.

“Being the wizarding world’s saviour must be a lot of pressure. The expectations placed on you must seem limitless. Rumours suggest that you will be the youngest Minister of Magic, with Stan Shunpike serving as your deputy if he is unable to gain the position himself. I recently overheard such ridiculous claims at the Leaky Cauldron; clearly Stan was trying to impress people, as he has before. You are no stranger to his weird stories. I suggest you take these rumours with a grain of salt.”

“Yeah, no doubt it was him,” Harry responded, recalling Stan’s earlier extravagant and false boasts following the Quidditch World Cup, when he claimed to be the next Minister in an unsuccessful attempt to impress others around him. “It wouldn’t be the first time he made such statements. Trying to impress more Veela, I suppose?” He continued with a chuckle.

“I don’t know... he must’ve been,” George reflected thoughtfully. “But he isn’t the brightest, is he? He’s still making those claims after causing trouble at the ministry. He’s definitely not the most subtle wizard out there,” he added with a smirk.

Harry defended him, saying, “It wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t sure what he was doing at the moment.”

“Yes, but he’s still foolish. So, you don’t intend to be a minister?” George asked, truly grinning, unlike previously.

Harry looked at him incredulously. “Are you serious? Why would I want more fame on my plate? I can barely go out without people staring at me as if I were in a zoo. I’d much rather live a quiet life away from the public eye.”

George breathed with relief. “Phew! I bet Angelina, if you were asked to join a Quidditch team, you wouldn’t say no and choose to play Seeker. Good news, right?” He grinned.

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Why would I play Quidditch?”

“Who wouldn’t? It’s quidditch!” George gasped incredulously, staring at Harry over his drink. “Didn’t Ginny mention to you that she wanted to join the Holyhead Harpies someday?”

Harry blinked in surprise. “I didn’t know she wanted to join the Holyhead Harpies.”

“Oh, she hasn’t told you?” George’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “She’s got the drive, you know? Fred and I always encouraged her to go after what she wants.”

“I can see that in her,” Harry confessed, confidence blooming within him. “You guys showed her that even the impossible is achievable.”

With a knowing look, George nodded. “We’ve been a bit protective over her, to be fair. Fred and I just wanted to know you were a good influence.” He turned serious, his expression softening. “And I think you are.”

The moment was heavy with unspoken words; Harry’s heart surged with gratitude, yet fear lurked beneath the surface. “Just don’t break her heart, yeah?” George’s tone was playful, but there was a weight to it that sent shivers through Harry. “Ginny can get... creative when she feels hurt.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry promised, a smile plastered on his face as nervousness bubbled within.

George leaned against the wooden support beam, one arm casually draped over a half-empty mug of butterbeer, the mischief in his eyes tempered by an unexpected sincerity. “She’s very private about her love life,” he revealed, breaking into Harry’s brooding thoughts. “She probably believes Fred or I will pull a prank on her. I don’t blame her for not trusting us,” he added, winking. “You should be careful now,” he joked, chuckling with a hint of mischief. “Who knows what trouble I could stir up?”

Harry grinned, his own memories of George’s mischievous antics flooding back. “You’re right; I should be careful,” he responded, feigning an exaggerated shiver. “I don’t want to be throttled by a red-headed wizard.” He knew all too well how dangerous a prankster could be, especially when that prankster was George.

“That’s my boy,” George affirmed, slapping Harry on the back. He was a picture of vitality, his hair tousled and wild, and even in the dimming light, his grin sparkled with confidence. He took another sip from his drink, the sound of slurping making Harry laugh.

“So, how are you and Angelina?” Harry asked, revealing his curiosity as much as his concern. The casual tone of his question suddenly shifted the atmosphere, causing George to cough, nearly choking on his drink. “I didn’t realise you two were a thing,” Harry continued, the surprise evident in his voice.

“Okay, now… Don’t pry on my love life, young man,” George shot back playfully, pretending to look offended. “I wouldn’t want to have to hex you!” He sputtered, the laughter in his voice giving him away.

They exchanged hearty chuckles, but as laughter faded, George’s demeanour shifted to something weightier. He cleared his throat and spoke more seriously, “Actually, I plan to propose to her. And—” he raised a hand, stopping Harry before he could speak, “Believe it or not, I’m quite serious about this.”

The words hung in the air, and Harry’s gaze widened, surprise mingling with genuine happiness. “Well, I’m happy for you,” he said earnestly. “Truly, I am.”

George nodded appreciatively, his smile softening with sincerity. “Getting married to her would be the best decision of my life. I enjoy making her laugh with my jokes.” The playfulness in his features melted into an earnest softness. He took a deep breath, his voice wavering slightly. “She’s my source of comfort and stability, now more than ever after… well, you know…” His words trailed off like the last embers of a dying fire, the weight of his emotions becoming too heavy to carry.

Harry felt the shift in George, recognising the unspoken grief that laced his friend’s words. The haunting memories of Fred’s absence loomed like a shadow and felt acutely in the heart of every conversation since his tragic departure. He nodded deliberately, silently affirming the bond that flourished under the weight of loss—an understanding that transcended words.

As twilight deepened, wrapping The Burrow in a blanket of stars, an unexpected breeze stirred, rustling the leaves in the garden below. Realising that their plans and dreams were tied to something greater than themselves made them both momentarily pause.

“So what’s your plan?” Harry asked, eager to shift the mood, a hint of mischief returning. “Are you going to do it during a Quidditch match, or maybe in front of a gaggle of laughing gnomes?”

George laughed, the spontaneous joy lighting his features again. “I haven’t decided,” he mused. “But I promise, it will be unforgettable. Just not too much of a spectacle, or I’ll have to endure your relentless teasing.”

Harry grinned, leaning back on the warm roof, casting a glance at the evening sky where the first stars twinkled. “That’s the goal, right? An unforgettable moment.”

As their gazes travelled across the vast expanse of the night sky, they became silent for a little while, the weight of unspoken words settling comfortably between them. A gentle breeze tousled their hair, and for a moment, it felt as if the world had paused, allowing them to embrace the stillness, to just be.

“I wanted to get this off my chest, but—” Harry’s voice broke the silence, hesitant like a timid bird testing the wind.

“But you don’t want to worry your friends?” George interjected, his tone knowing and kind.

Harry responded with a brief nod, the familiar struggle within him flaring anew.

“I understand,” George replied, his eyes softening. “There’s nothing wrong with setting boundaries. I used to think the same way until Fred showed me I, too, can trust others as long as I’m honest. Since then, I’ve seen that people trust me more easily. I used to believe it was just a coincidence—being in the right place at the right time.”

“Was it?” Harry asked, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

“No.” George chuckled lightly, an infectious grin spreading across his face. “I discovered I’m gifted with attractive looks and a charming attitude that encourages people to open up to me. Seriously, Harry, if I had known that from the beginning, I could’ve avoided a lot of unnecessary drama. I would’ve used it to my advantage much earlier on.”

Harry couldn’t help but snicker. “I find that hard to believe—” he started to say, but the look that George shot him made him stop. “I meant the drama part,” he corrected hastily, laughing at his friend’s playful glare.

George’s smile softened as he reflected. “I know... it’s hard to believe Fred and I were destined for greatness.” His voice shifted, a hint of sadness creeping in. “Let me tell you a secret. I never discussed my problems with anyone save Fred. I confided in him completely, believing that no one else could be trusted—not even my parents.” He tilted his head down, staring solemnly at the foam in his practically empty butterbeer.

“Fred and I shared a lot of adventures together,” George continued, his voice steady despite the emotions flickering behind his eyes. “We knew most people would say we were silly and stupid, and we took pride in causing trouble wherever we went. But that made it all the more worthwhile because we had each other, see? He had my back when I needed it, and I had his too. Without him, I couldn’t have accomplished half of what I do today. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Harry held onto his untouched drink, taking in George’s words, and nodded slowly. “I know,” he whispered.

“Ron may be the biggest prat to ever walk the earth,” George remarked with a chuckle, causing Harry to let out a laugh, the tension easing between them. “But I know him, Harry—not because he’s my brother, but because I know for a fact he’d do anything for the one person he calls his best friend. Ron is fiercely loyal like that.”

Harry felt a swelling of guilt wash over him as George spoke. He hadn’t given Ron much credit lately, caught up in his own worries about safety for his friends, neglecting to recognise the unwavering bond they shared. He knew he needed to make it up to Ron to express his appreciation.

“To lose an ear and a twin in such a short time... that’s more than most people could handle,” George said, his voice wavering slightly. “I couldn’t even summon a Patronus back then. I’m only saying this because… I don’t want you to regret it if you lose someone significant without telling them how much they meant to you.” He swiped at the tears streaming down his cheeks. “I never got the chance to say it to Fred.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured abruptly, the weight of George’s memories filling the air like smoke.

George raised his head, sorrow shadowing his features. “The hardest part of losing someone isn’t saying goodbye. It’s learning to live without them while continually attempting to fill the emptiness they left in your heart. You never completely recover from a loss, you know? But I chose to move forward. I believe that’s what Fred would’ve wanted—that I respect his legacy rather than sit around grieving. I hope that one day I’ll be able to find peace within myself.”

Harry nodded in understanding, feeling the same rugged ache in his heart. If his surroundings could have reflected his inner turmoil, they would have screamed from the unbearable pain of the losses he had endured.

“I understand how difficult it is,” Harry said softly. “With time, it’ll be the small, daily things that I remember the most—the laughter, stories, and smiles...” His voice trailed off, haunted by the memories yet to come.

“Though the pain may seem endless, those very memories will help push the sorrow away and bring back happier feelings in time,” George said gently. “You don’t have to face this alone, Harry. People are constantly willing to help ease the pain that one feels. I’m available whenever you need it. Even if it’s simply a change of scenery and a bottle of Firewhisky. My door is open.”

Harry managed a slight smile, comforted by the kindness in George’s offer.

Silence fell once more, their surroundings serenading them with the rustling of leaves. After a while, George reached out, squeezing Harry’s shoulder gently. “Don’t worry. I’ll smack Ron’s head for you personally. So drink up, mate!” He offered a mischievous grin that pulled Harry from his thoughts.

With a renewed sense of hope, Harry raised his bottle to the dark sky. “Cheers!” he called, clinking his bottle against George’s, the sounds resonating under the gaze of the stars as they enjoyed the precious moment.

The summer evening felt suffocatingly warm in the living room of The Burrow. Tension hung palpable in the air, twisting the cosy atmosphere into something sharp and uncomfortable.

Ron paced in front of Ginny, his fists clenched and his brow furrowed. “I specifically told you to stay out of this!” he demanded, his voice tight with frustration as he faced his sister.

Ginny stood her ground, arms crossed defiantly over her chest. “How can you expect me to stay silent when Harry is involved?” she retorted, her disbelief and concern melding into a fierce expression. “I will not sit idly by and watch, so don’t even bother trying to stop me. And stop treating him poorly!”

“What am I supposed to do?” Ron shot back, the heat of anger spilling over. “He refuses to communicate openly, and we have no idea what he’s keeping from us. He wants us to pretend everything is normal, but I can’t just go along with that!”

“Ron, you really need to work on controlling your temper,” Ginny advised, her voice steady and calm, a stark contrast to the tempest brewing in Ron’s chest. “That might be one of the reasons Harry avoids speaking to you.”

“That’s rich, coming from you!” Ron snapped. “You act like everything’s fine when clearly something’s bothering him.”

With a deep breath, Ginny reminded herself to stay composed. “Harry grew up believing that he couldn’t depend on others for support. Even when people show that they care, he still has his doubts. Instead of trying to understand the reasons behind his behaviour, you choose to lash out. He’s not purposely trying to hurt anyone, but he’s been hurt so many times in the past.”

“I just wanted to lend a hand,” Ron muttered, the fire in his voice cooling slightly. “Is that too much to ask for? I just feel like he’s never going to change.” His frustration hung heavily in the air, mingling with the echoes of past fights and the unshakeable feeling of betrayal.

“I understand that you had good intentions,” Ginny said compassionately, her heart aching for both her brother and Harry. “But can’t you see? Harry is under so much stress right now; it might be challenging to get him to open up. Just don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t feel ready to talk. Give him the space he needs to open up in his own time.”

“Sure, right. He has shut us out before,” Ron whispered, a shadow settling over his features. “Hermione and I had to constantly encourage him to communicate more. But I know it’s not easy for him.”

“There’s a lot more at play here,” Ginny added softly, her eyes downcast. “It’s not about trust right now; it’s almost as if he’s trying to shield us from his worries, like he’s already moved on and doesn’t want us to bear any burden. I just hope he will open up to us and not keep everything to himself.” Her voice trailed off, tinged with a haunting sadness.

“It’s his selfishness coming into play again, as always. He’s exceptionally talented at it,” Ron spat out bitterly, the words hitting Ginny like a slap. “I can’t believe he’s shutting us out like this, especially considering everything we’ve experienced together.”

“Why can’t we ever figure out what he’s thinking?” Ginny whispered, a flare of anxiety piercing through her resolve. “There must be more to it.” A sense of dread crept into her heart, leaving her feeling unsettled and apprehensive.

“Then screw this!” Ron said abruptly, abandoning the conversation. He stood and rushed toward the stairs, determination fuelling his steps. “I’ll confront him tomorrow and hope he remembers how to use his mouth—to talk, that is!”

“Could you please stop and listen for once?” Ginny shouted after him, frustration bubbling over. She watched as he stormed off, his footsteps heavy, unable to hide the hurt behind her voice. Despite her pleas, Ron’s footsteps faded into the distance as he disappeared into his room, forcefully closing the door behind him.

The morning sunlight cascaded into Ron’s room like a playful spectre, teasing him awake just as he finally succumbed to sleep. Groggy and disoriented, he rubbed the remnants of his restless night from his eyes and stumbled downstairs, his mind still lost in a fog. It was, however, the alarming sound that jolted him fully awake—a retching sob from the bathroom next to Harry’s room.

His heart thudded fast, a wild rhythm that matched his anxious pulse. “Harry!” he called, knocking softly on the door.

“I’ll be right there; just give me a sec,” came Harry’s strained response. Ron pressed closer, unease coiling tightly in his stomach as he listened to the unsettling sounds echoing from inside—the flush of the toilet, the sterile rush of water from the sink.

“Harry?” he prompted again, gripping the doorknob as the door creaked open, revealing a pale-faced Harry. The red veins in his tired eyes spoke of a restless night, reminiscent of Ron’s own struggles.

“Ron, do you need anything?” Harry’s voice was a mere whisper, carrying hints of fatigue that made Ron’s worry intensify.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?” Ron pressed, stretching the boundaries of concern etched into his brow.

“Nah—it’s nothing. Just tired,” Harry dismissed, trying to retreat into the shadows of his room.

Stubbornness welled up in Ron. “I’ll go fetch Mum,” he declared, the words spilling out before Harry could protest.

“Wait—no!” Harry’s voice rose in urgency, but Ron had already dashed up the stairs.

In mere moments, Ron returned to Harry’s room with Mrs. Weasley, who wielded an array of potion bottles like a healer preparing for battle. They found Harry huddled in the corner, his shaking hands over his face, shielding himself from the world. When their presence finally registered, he looked up, visibly embarrassed.

“Harry, my dear,” Mrs. Weasley spoke in a soft, worried murmur. She moved closer, her motherly instinct surging forth. “Ron told me you weren’t feeling well.”

“Mrs. Weasley, I assure you, I’m fine,” Harry insisted, shifting away from the enveloping warmth of her concern. “I just need to rest.”

Ron’s arms crossed in defiance, scepticism painting his face. “I heard you being sick—this isn’t something you can just ignore.”

“I threw up because of something I ate,” Harry defended, though a faint tremor betrayed his bravado. “But I’m already feeling much better.”

Molly’s gentle touch brushed Harry’s forehead, her brow knitting with concern. “You have a fever, dear. Take this.” She pressed the purple potion into his hands, and Harry took it obediently. “Now, rest. I’ll check on you later.” She left the room, her concern lingering like a warm breeze.

With the door closing softly behind her, an awkward silence enveloped Ron and Harry, two friends lost in their unspoken thoughts. Ron stood rooted, searching for the right words, while Harry cast his gaze downward, uncertain of how to voice the tumult within.

“Harry…” Ron finally ventured, hesitation cloaked in his tone.

A weary sigh escaped Harry’s lips. “Are you here to pry into what’s troubling me? Because I’m not ready to talk about it yet.” A moment of reflection passed, then he added, “At least not right now.”

When their eyes finally locked, Ron’s demeanour shifted—his expression softened, revealing a glimmer of relief, a silent affirmation shared between them that no words could capture.

“That’s okay,” Ron replied, and a small smile broke through. “I’m just glad you’re still here, mate.”

Harry hesitated, a flicker of warmth igniting in his chest. He missed this connection—the simplicity of their friendship, the camaraderie amidst all the chaos surrounding them. “Ron,” he whispered, a quiet rasp cutting through the air. “I hate to ask, but could you give me some space? I could really use some rest.”

Nodding, Ron quickly exited, closing the door with a gentle click.

Ginny stirred the soup in the pot, the warm steam rising in swirling patterns that danced around her face. Yet her thoughts were not on breakfast. She glanced toward the staircase, the familiar creaks an unwelcome reminder of Harry’s absence. The quiet of the Weasley kitchen felt heavier without him, and her heart sank a little more with each passing minute.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” she finally asked Ron, breaking the silence that had settled like a thick blanket over them. His buoyant grin was unmistaken amidst the fog of her worry.

With an impish glint in his eye, Ron leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the moment. “I had a pleasant conversation with Harry,” he replied, the tease of mischief curling his lips.

Her heart quickened, a mix of curiosity and apprehension swirling within her as she prodded further. “What were you two discussing?”

Ron hesitated, the grin slipping ever so slightly from his face. “Oh, nothing important. Just some catching up,” he said, the nonchalance awkwardly masking something deeper.

Confusion tugged at Ginny’s brow. Something didn’t sit right, and a sense of intuition buzzed in her mind—he was hiding something. “Where is he now? Still resting?” She pressed, unable to quell the whispering worry.

“He woke up early,” Ron answered, a hint of discomfort flitting across his features. “But he’s back in bed now. Isn’t feeling well. I suspect he may have caught a cold.”

Her heart thudded uncomfortably. “Sick? But he seemed perfectly fine yesterday. What could have caused this sudden illness?” Ginny’s voice rose slightly, the very notion of Harry unwell igniting a spark of anxiety in her chest.

“Agreed,” Ron replied, the worry now mirrored in his expression. “It’s quite puzzling. I heard he was feeling unwell and in pain earlier this morning.”

The unease gripped Ginny tighter. “Did he mention anything else? Any specific symptoms or how he’s faring?” Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke, the thought of Harry suffering without her by his side sending shivers down her spine.

Ron shook his head, his demeanour shifting to one of concern. “He’s running a high temperature. Mum gave him a potion to help reduce it. She said she’d monitor his condition later on.”

“I’ll go check on him now,” Ginny said resolutely, rising from her seat, only to be halted by her mother.

“Not yet, my dear. Let him get some rest. I’m preparing some soup for him, which you can take later,” Mrs. Weasley reassured her gently, the warmth in her voice contrasting with Ginny’s rising dread. “I’m sure he’ll start feeling better soon.”

Ginny inhaled slowly, the smell of bacon and eggs wafting through the air, reminding her that life—even in this peculiar bubble—continued. She returned to her task, seemingly helping her mother prepare breakfast, yet her mind wandered to Harry, tangled in concern and dread.

“Where’s George, Mum?” Ron broke the silence out of the blue.

“He left early this morning,” Mrs. Weasley replied, her voice tinged with an absent sadness. “It might be a while before we see George around here again.”

The soft sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway as Ginny approached Harry’s room. It was close to noon when Molly had asked her to deliver a steaming cup of soup, hoping it would bring some comfort to Harry, who was sick in bed. Ginny’s heart raced with concern as she gently knocked on the door. Silence met her.

With a cautious push, she entered, her breath catching in her throat at the sight before her. Harry lay curled up in bed, his back facing her, trembling as if the world had turned into an icy prison. Drenched in sweat, he seemed lost within the cocoon of his blanket.

“Harry?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath against the thick atmosphere of worry. She moved closer, reaching out to rest her hand against his shoulder, feeling the warmth radiate from him. When her forehead touched his, she gasped. He was burning up.

A flicker of consciousness pierced through Harry’s fevered haze. He turned slightly to acknowledge her presence, managing a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Ginny,” he murmured, his voice weak and shaky.

“You’re running a high fever and shaking,” she said, her worry deepening. She hurried to wrap him tighter in the warm blanket, hoping to ensconce him in comfort. “Have you taken any fever-reducing potion?”

Harry nodded, though it seemed to sap all the strength he had left. Ginny’s heart twisted at the sight; he looked so vulnerable.

She hurried down the stairs, relaying the news to her mother. Mrs. Weasley followed Ginny back to Harry’s room, a worried frown etched on her face. Ron trailed behind, eyes narrowed with concern.

“Harry, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait an hour before taking another dose,” Mrs. Weasley said softly, with a hint of apology lacing her words.

Ginny settled at Harry’s side, a bowl of steaming soup in her hands, offering it to him with all the gentleness she could muster. “Here, maybe this will help until you can take your potion.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, his voice a whisper of its usual bravado.

Ron moved to adjust Harry’s pillows, trying to make him more comfortable. Ginny gently placed Harry’s glasses on his face.

As he cautiously accepted the bowl, Harry’s hands trembled, betraying him, and Ginny noticed. Embarrassment surged within him as he fought to conceal it. “I’ll be fine, Ginny,” he said, trying to sound brave, but the tremor in his voice was unmistakable.

“No, you won’t,” Ginny replied, her voice firm yet soft. “Your hands are shaking too much. Let me help you.” Ignoring his protests, she scooped a spoonful of the warm, thick soup and held it to his lips.

Tentatively, Harry opened his mouth, the growl of his stomach breaking through his worry. A warm burst of flavour enveloped him, momentarily distracting him from the chills wracking his body.

Ron chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “You better get better soon, Harry. Otherwise, Ginny will be the one calling the shots around here,” he teased, a grin lighting up his face.

“Don’t you have anything better to do, Ron?” Ginny shot back, but there was a fondness in her voice that made her words less cutting.

“I’m just here for support,” Ron retorted mockingly, glancing at Harry. “And to make sure you both stay in line.”

As Ron lingered, a subtle tension hung in the air. The unspoken dynamic between Harry and Ginny felt charged, an electric hum that neither dared to explore fully under the watchful eyes of Ron, ever the protective big brother.

Finally, Ron declared a retreat, groaning dramatically as he left the room, leaving Harry and Ginny in softened silence.

As Ron ambled out of the room, Ginny could feel the weight of his teasing gaze lingering, but her attention remained solely on Harry. She could see the shadows under his eyes and hear the faint rattles in his breath, each a reminder of how vulnerable he truly was. As she held the warm bowl of soup to his lips, she felt an unfamiliar mixture within her—an urge to protect him and a comforting warmth blooming in her chest.

“Open wide,” she said softly, coaxing him, her voice light but with an undercurrent of worry.

Harry, however, hesitated, the embarrassment of being babied almost overwhelming. Yet, as the tantalising scent of the soup wafted towards him, the growling of his stomach silenced his pride. He obliged her and opened his mouth, allowing Ginny to guide the spoon inside. The warm liquid slid past his lips, a flood of comfort opening a small window to his raging fever.

“How’s that?” Ginny asked brightly, hoping to lighten the heavy air that enveloped them.

“Really good,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse, and with each spoonful, he felt a flicker of warmth cascade through his weakened body.

“Sorry about Ron,” Ginny began, scooping more soup into a spoon. “He can be quite exasperating.”

“It’s alright,” Harry admitted with a smile. “He gets on my nerves sometimes, too.”

With a teasing lilt in her voice, Ginny added, “Definitely knows how to push everyone’s buttons,” as she carefully brought another spoon to his lips.

“I’m actually glad he’s my best friend,” Harry said after a moment, reflecting on the bond they shared. “Life would be incredibly boring without him.”

Her laughter echoed through the room, a sound that was infectious enough to ease the weight that pressed down on them.

“Even though he can be irritating,” Ginny offered, “he’s actually quite kind-hearted.” The realisation seemed to surprise her.

Harry met her gaze, a quick nod affirming her observation. “He can be,” he conceded.

“It’s clear he cares about you,” Ginny said, sincerity in her eyes. “He’s determined to help you through whatever you’re going through.”

“I wish it were that easy,” Harry murmured, vulnerability creeping into his voice. “Sometimes, it feels like I have to carry this alone.”

She leaned closer, her gaze fierce. “You don’t have to. I promise you, we’re all here for you. Please don’t shut us out.” Her voice quavered with an emotion so raw it startled them both.

The rhythmic spoon-feeding continued, with Ginny sneaking glances at Harry’s expression. She had always liked caring for him, seeing him vulnerable yet trusting her enough to let her in. There was something remarkable about witnessing Harry in these quiet moments—stripped of the powerful hero persona the world thrust upon him.

“Just a little more,” she encouraged as he took yet another bite. “You need your strength back before you can save the world again.”

“Very funny,” he replied, yet managed to smirk despite the fatigue draining his energy.

Ron, still hovering in the doorway, quirked an eyebrow at Ginny. “Is that so? You used to have a major crush on this hero.”

Ginny promptly shot him a look that could silence an avalanche, but it was too late. Harry’s cheeks flushed a bright shade of red, highlighting the fever that had left him pallid just moments before. “Shut it, Ron,” he muttered, flustered but not unhappy. The comfort of Ginny’s presence seemed to overpower the embarrassment of Ron’s teasing.

With one last reassuring glance at her brother, Ginny redirected her focus. “Next spoonful is coming up!” she chimed.

Suddenly, Harry flinched, taking Ginny by surprise. His body jerked slightly, and all at once, the warmth in his eyes dulled and was replaced with disorientation. “Whoa…”

She laid a hand on his forehead, feeling the heat radiate from him. “Harry?” Panic flickered in Ginny’s chest, but she forced calm into her voice, manoeuvring their moment carefully. She let the bowl rest in her lap for a moment, her attention fully on him now.

“It’s okay… just a bit dizzy,” he admitted, his voice shaky as he attempted to steady himself. Ginny watched him intently, her heart racing as she contemplated her next move.

“Why don’t you lean back?” she suggested, tilting his pillows just so and then gently pushing him upright enough so his head could rest comfortably against her shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

Harry’s pulse quickened—not from fever, but from something more stirring. As he nestled into her, the temperature around them seemed to rise, not from the summer sun outside but from the warmth of their shared moment. “I always thought you were the strongest person I knew,” he murmured, his eyelids fluttering.

“I’m not that strong,” Ginny replied, though the soft tone of her voice carried a sweetness that made her words feel genuine. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“And you are,” he said, and their silent communication bridged the gap that Ron’s jokes had created. In that moment, time slowed, and their worries seemed to fade. There was only Ginny, Harry, and the soothing sound of the spoon slipping back into the bowl.

His eyes fluttered closed, and Ginny fought the urge to comb his hair back or brush away the damp strands clinging to his forehead. It felt too intimate—with Ron lingering nearby, after all.

“I’m here,” she said softly, knowing that it meant more than mere words. In that declaration, she battled the fear of losing him, a fear she had long struggled against since the war ended but never truly faced.

“Will you stay with me?” Harry murmured, his voice just a breath above a whisper, almost as if surrendering the weight of the world to her right then and there.

“I’ll stay,” she promised, and though they were just words, the fierce resolve behind them fortified her heart.

They lingered in that moment, and Ginny recognised that life sometimes carried an irony—a blend of heartache and warmth. In the haze of fever and fatigue, perhaps there lay an unspoken understanding forging the bonds that had always tethered them together.

Across the room, Ron stood watching, only half-listening to the banter between his sister and Harry. Part of him felt the unmistakable urge to intervene, to remind them of boundaries. Yet, as he took in the sight before him—the way they leaned into each other and the tender air between them—he felt a reluctant acceptance. Ginny was fierce and protective, and Harry would always find a way back to her.

Moments later, Molly peeked her head inside Harry’s room. “Ginny, I have drawn a cool bath for Harry. It might be beneficial in reducing his fever,” she declared, the warmth of her maternal instincts shining through even as worry creased her brow. Virtually every remedy from both the wizarding and Muggle worlds had been wielded against Harry’s stubborn illness, and so far, only disappointment had come from their efforts.

Ginny simply nodded in response, acknowledging her mother’s suggestion.

Ron went back to Harry’s room a few minutes later, only to find it unoccupied. He approached the desk and picked up the empty soup bowl. He could have easily dismissed the sight, yet something deeper grabbed his attention. There, wedged between the pages of books, lay an array of papers revealing glimpses into Harry’s recent thoughts. Frowning, he pulled one out and read.

Internal torment, confusion, mental collapse, and antisocial behaviour

A chill washed over Ron as he reread the words. They echoed ominously, each descriptor a slice of concern that twisted up in his gut. Why on earth was Harry writing such things?

The slanted sunlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating the book that had been propped open where he found the list. Its pages detailed illnesses in a way that made Ron squirm—a grim catalogue of symptoms, impacts, and fatality risks. They felt far too real, far too pertinent. Ron realised he didn’t want to be standing there any longer—anything but confront the ominous thought that sat on his chest.

But his eyes were drawn back to the array of books on Harry’s desk. Titles likeThe Soul,Souls and Their Mysteries, andSoul: An Introductiondominated the space, each seemingly innocent cover hiding depths of knowledge that suggested much more weight than the usual Hogwarts textbooks. Ron’s heart raced. Why was Harry reading those?

Just then, the sound of Ginny’s voice broke through his spiralling thoughts.

“Harry, are you alright in there?” she called, a mixture of concern and affection laced in her words.

“I’m fine,” came Harry’s voice, though its slightly strained tone sent another jolt of worry through Ron. “I’ll be done soon.”

In that moment, something inside Ron snapped. He had to know. This wasn’t right; he wasn’t just going to stand around and watch his best friend suffer in silence. A wave of determination filled him as he turned towards Ginny, who was about to retreat to her room.