FicWad

Harry felt eleven again.

Something about following George up the creaky, narrow staircase of The Burrow stirred a forgotten sense of wonder in him. The house groaned beneath their feet, every floorboard offering its familiar complaint, as though greeting him with weary affection. It appeared less like a building and more of a living thing, a life that had seen too much and was still waiting to exhale.

He wasn’t sure if it was the Butterbeer, the nostalgia, or the faint hope that things might eventually turn out all right in the end. His heart thudded with a strange anticipation. Not the charged, dangerous kind he had grown used to, but a distinct thing. Mischievous.

At the top landing, George made for a door with the calm confidence of someone who still knew every inch of the place blindfolded. He pushed it open without knocking, and Harry recognised the room instantly. It was one of the smaller, cluttered bedrooms with faded wallpaper and a sloping ceiling—the sort of space built for secrets, hideaways, and childhood plans.

Without any hesitation, George crossed to the window and flung it wide. A gust of evening breeze swept in, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass, honeysuckle, and the faint earthy tang of gnome dung drifting from the garden.

“This way, mate,” he called over his shoulder, his eyes bright. With the effortless grace of someone who had clearly done it far too many times, he swung one leg over the sill and climbed out onto the roof.

Harry hesitated, blinking at the open window and the sheer madness of the idea.

He set his bottle on the ledge, drew a steadying breath, and followed. His attempt was less that of a practised climber and more of someone performing an awkward dance in a broom cupboard. He banged his shin, nearly lost a trainer, and narrowly avoided cracking his head on the eaves. His stomach lurched—a flicker of dizziness that vanished as quickly as it came.

But he made it.

He straightened on the sloped tiles and froze.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed.

The view alone stopped him.

Fields spread out in every direction, rolling away like waves, gold and green in the fading light. Hedgerows cast long shadows across the land while the treetops stirred gently in the wind. The sky deepened, brushed with streaks of violet and orange as the first stars blinked into place.

He breathed it in: summer, wood-smoke, grass, and something that smelt of old memories. It was the scent that made you remember things you hadn’t realised you had forgotten.

And beneath it all lingered the faint sweetness of Butterbeer.

“Welcome to my sanctuary,” he said grandly, already seated like a prince on his crooked rooftop throne. He leaned back on his elbows, bottle in hand, perfectly at ease in that haphazard George-ish way, as though the laws of balance and physics were too polite to inconvenience him.

Harry grinned and sat carefully beside him, the tiles shifting slightly under his weight. He tried not to imagine tumbling backwards into a flowerbed.

He popped the cap off his bottle with a flick of his wand and took a long sip before nodding toward the horizon. “Fred and I used to sneak up here all the time. Mum would shout herself hoarse downstairs, and we would be up here plotting revenge. Or pretending to be dragon hunters. Or—I swear this is true—we convinced ourselves once we’d seen a Muggle flying saucer.”

Harry laughed before he could stop himself, the sound bubbling out of him. “I remember her chasing you two around the house with a frying pan. Swore one of you had transfigured her best cushion into a puffskein.”

“Oh yes,” George said fondly. “Proper terrifying, she was. You’ve never known fear until a woman in a floral apron wielding a rolling pin has cornered you.”

They fell into a peaceful silence, the kind Harry had only ever managed with a handful of people in his life. A stillness that sought nothing more than company.

The sky darkened. Crickets sang below. Somewhere in the distance, a lone owl hooted as it skimmed the fields.

After a while, George spoke again, his voice quieter now. “So. How have you really been?” he asked, still watching the stars. “And don’t give me the ‘I’m fine’ line. That one’s expired. I want the version that doesn’t fit neatly into a headline.”

Harry glanced over and hesitated, staring into his bottle as if it held a better answer than the one in his head. He wanted to lie. He nearly did. The words were there, but they stuck somewhere behind his teeth.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I keep thinking I should have a plan, and I had a strategy at some point. Or rather… I had something to run from. Or towards. But at this moment…”

“No Dark Lords, Death Eaters, or cryptic dreams,” George offered, raising his brows.

Harry gave a quiet huff. “Exactly. Just… life. Ordinary lifestyle. And it’s mad, but I think I’m only now learning how to live it.”

He nodded slowly. “Well, no one tells you how to, do they? How to be all right again. People believe the battle ends, and that’s it. Happily ever after. But there are still mornings. And chores. And memories that hit you like a bludger when you least expect them.”

He took a sip and then glanced sideways. “You’re allowed not to have a plan, mate. Honestly, I’d be more worried if you did.”

Harry looked down at his boots, at the tiles, at the place where the roof dipped toward the sky.

“It’s as if there’s this… space,” he breathed. “Where someone used to be. I don’t know whether I’m meant to fill it or just leave it.”

George tilted his head. “Sometimes emptiness simply means breathing room. It doesn’t always need to be filled.”

They sat again in silence; the breeze tugging at their sleeves while the stars multiplied above them in slow, deliberate constellations.

He cleared his throat. “Mind you, Stan Shunpike says you’re next in line for Minister for Magic. So that’s something.”

Harry nearly choked on his Butterbeer. “Stan? He once told a group of Veela he was one.”

George grinned, triumphant. “Exactly. Which means he’s qualified for politics.”

They both laughed.

“But really,” he said, leaning back on his elbows with his legs stretched in front of him as if he hadn’t a care in the world, “you don’t fancy the job?”

Harry turned his head slowly, blinking. “Mate, I can’t even go to the grocer’s without someone shoving a Chocolate Frog card under my nose and asking me to sign it. Do I honestly strike you as a person who wants to be Minister for Magic?”

George gave a lazy shrug. “Fair point. I cannot imagine Shacklebolt putting up with all that either.” He paused, a wicked gleam lighting his eyes. “Though truth be told, I was more worried you’d do something really daft.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Dunno,” he said, perfectly straight-faced. “Try out for a Quidditch team or another equally responsible pursuit.”

He sat up a little. “What? Why would I—why would I do that?”

George looked scandalised, as though he had insulted the sacred art of flying itself. “Because it’s the sport, Potter. You were a ruddy brilliant Seeker. Chased the Snitch like your life depended on it. Which, now that I think about it, it usually did.”

“Exactly,” Harry muttered. “Nearly died in half of those matches.”

“Minor detail,” George said, waving a hand. “Character-building.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite fight the smile tugging at his mouth. Part of him missed it: the rush of the chase, the roar of the crowd, the clarity he only once found on a broom. Yet, even thinking about flying made his chest ache. There were memories sewn into the wind—victories, losses, and faces that never returned to the stands.

George tilted his head, watching him with the quiet sharpness born of years of mischief. “Did Ginny ever tell you she is considering trying out for the Harpies?”

Harry straightened. “No. She didn’t say anything.”

“Really?” He sounded surprised. “She’s dead serious about it. Been training nearly every day. Got a fire in her, that one. Fred and I always said she could fly rings round anyone, including you.”

Warmth spread through Harry’s chest, gentle and steady. He could picture her now—wind in her hair, jaw set with that fierce determination that came from pure grit, not pride. She never flinched, not even under pressure. That had drawn him to her long before he’d had the sense to admit it.

“Yeah,” he murmured, with a small smile forming. “She’s got that look. The one that dares the world to say no so she can hex it for trying.”

George chuckled. “That’s Mum in her, that is. But also us. We never let her sit out just because she was the youngest. Taught her to aim a dungbomb before she could tie her own shoes.”

Harry laughed. “You corrupted her.”

“Absolutely,” he said proudly. Then, after a pause, his tone softened enough for him to notice. “And we kept an eye out. Made sure any bloke sniffing around wasn’t a total pillock.”

He gave a startled cry. “Cheers, mate. I’m always glad to know I passed the screening process.”

George raised his bottle and tapped it against Harry’s. “Just about,” he said. “We debated a Bat-Bogey Hex first but figured Ginny would handle that herself.”

They laughed again, though the sound faded into something quieter and older—the silence that follows laughter when memory takes its place.

George’s grin wavered, and he glanced down at his hands. “But seriously,” he went on, voice lower now, steadier, “she has been through more than people realise. Everyone talks about the war as if it were only the battles, but it wasn’t. It was waiting, worrying, wondering if you were ever coming back.”

Harry’s throat tightened.

George met his eyes, with no trace of humour left. “She’s strong, stronger than others. But when she hurts, she doesn’t fall apart; she burns quietly, the way Mum does.”

“I know. And I won’t… I will not let her down,” Harry said, the promise catching in his throat.

He studied him for a long moment before giving a single, firm nod. “Good.”

They sat in silence for a while after that. There was no need to fill the air with anything more than what already surrounded them: the wind in the trees, the soft creak of the tiles beneath their feet, and the stars above, multiplying like sparks from a wand.

Eventually, George leaned back against the chimney stack, swirling the last of his Butterbeer with idle fingers. “You know,” he said, as if picking up a thought he had been turning over for some time, “she never told Fred or me anything about her love life. She kept it to herself. Presumably imagined we’d prank her poor bloke if she revealed too much.”

Harry smirked. “Can’t say she was wrong.”

“Oh, definitely not,” George agreed. “You’d better be careful, Potter. I could start up again. Imagine the headlines: War Hero Hexed by Future Brother-in-Law for Snogging Sister Too Loudly in Garden.”

He laughed then, a low, unguarded sound that warmed him from the inside out. For a moment, he could almost see Fred—legs dangling off the edge of the roof, bottle in hand, grinning like nothing bad had ever touched them.

“I’ll be careful,” he said mock-solemnly. “The last thing I need is another redhead trying to hex my eyebrows off.”

George clapped him on the back hard enough to nearly knock him sideways. “That’s my boy.” He took a noisy, exaggerated slurp from his Butterbeer, as though determined to drag them both away from the edge of melancholy.

Harry snorted. “So,” he said, nudging him with his elbow, “you and Angelina, then?”

He spluttered theatrically. “Merlin’s beard, Potter, give a man a warning!”

“Didn’t realise it was serious. Or are you simply sharing broomsticks?”

He gave him a mock glare, properly affronted. “Keep your nose out of my love life, Chosen One. I’ll remind you; I still know where your socks go missing.”

Harry grinned. “Don’t need to hex me. Just ask Ginny. She’s already better at it.”

They both laughed again, but the laughter didn’t last.

George’s grin faded. His gaze drifted beyond the garden, past the crooked fence and the gentle rise of the orchard, out towards the horizon where the sky bled from lavender into a deepening blue.

“I’m going to propose,” he said, the words almost too even, his voice steady in that deliberate way people sound when they’re holding something heavy, still.

Harry blinked. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Of all the things George might have announced up here—plans for a prank, a new joke product, an elaborate theory about gnomes forming a union—that hadn’t been on the list.

“Blimey.” His voice finally returned to him. “I… I’m thrilled for you, mate. She’s lucky.”

George’s smile softened, and it took on something quieter and truer.

“No,” he said, shaking his head just once. “I am the fortunate one. She giggles at my jokes. Properly laughs.”

There was no smirk in his speech, no punchline waiting to pounce. Only truth. And Harry, who’d always associated him with chaos and laughter that ran ahead of pain, found himself oddly moved. Something in him eased at that, the way George could still find joy where grief had once lived.

He studied him, not the prankster, not the boy with fireworks in his fists and tricks up his sleeves, but the man who sat beside him in the twilight, trying to shape a future that had been broken.

“She’s my calm,” he whispered, his speech more fragile now. “Especially these days. After…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Fred’s name hung in the air, thick and ever-present. Not spoken, but stitched into every silence, into the corners of George’s voice, and into the lines that hadn’t been on his face months ago.

Harry swallowed hard. Images pressed against the back of his mind: Fred and George side by side behind the counter at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, grinning like they’d invented happiness.

He didn’t speak. There were no words he could say that would come close to being enough. So he just sat there, anchored beside him on the roof, and let the silence express what they couldn’t.

For a heartbeat, his chest seemed to pulse, a phantom ache that had nothing to do with wounds and everything to do with what still lived inside him.

Above them, the stars blinked to life, quiet and ancient and impossibly distant.

“So,” Harry said eventually, tapping George’s arm with his shoulder, prompting the moment forward with it, “what’s the plan, then? Going to drop to one knee mid-Quidditch match? Or wait until you’re both being attacked by a swarm of rabid gnomes for maximum drama?”

George gave a soft huff of laughter, shaking his head. “Tempting. Could always train a flock of canaries to sing ‘Marry Me’. But no. I don’t want to steal your thunder when you eventually get around to proposing. Wouldn’t be fair, would it?”

Harry chuckled and leaned back against the slope of the rooftop, the tiles warm beneath his palms, the wind brushing past his fringe. “Unforgettable,” he murmured. “That’s the goal, isn’t it?”

Silence returned, but it wasn’t heavy this time. It was stillness that invited you to speak if you needed to. The kind that held room for the things you’d been carrying around for too long.

Harry stared out into the dark, fingers curling gently on the edge of the roof tile. He hadn’t meant to say anything, not tonight. But something about George—the rawness in his voice, the steadiness of him—made it harder to hold back.

“I’ve been meaning to open up to Ron and Hermione, even Ginny,” he began, the words snagging in his throat as if they weren’t quite ready. “But…”

“But you don’t want to worry them,” he finished for him, his tone quiet but sure. Not pushing. Just knowing.

He didn’t answer straightaway. His heart beat a little harder, like it always did when a person got too close to the truth. He hated how George had seen it so quickly, how easily, but he was… relieved.

He gave a small nod.

Because it wasn’t a secret, not exactly. But it was something fragile. The thing he hadn’t wanted to hold up to the light. The war was over, the prophecy fulfilled, and people had stopped looking at him like they expected him to achieve the impossible. On some nights, he’d wake tasting ash on his mouth, questioning its source, a memory or anything worse.

“I get it,” George said, turning the bottle slowly between his hands. “After Fred… I didn’t want anyone knowing how bad it really was. Not Mum, not Ron. No one. I kept telling myself it was better that way. Neater. Cleaner. Did not wish to make people worry.”

His voice hitched, just once.

“But it turns out… saying things aloud doesn’t worsen them. It makes you feel a little less mad. Fred taught me that, actually. He had this manner of calling out my rubbish without making it sting.”

Harry glanced over, his chest tight.

George met his gaze, and for a second, he looked exactly like he had at Hogwarts: quick-witted, eyes gleaming with mischief, but there was something else there now. A depth, hard-earned. Grief had carved additional spaces into him, but somehow, it had left room for kindness.

“What?” he said, raising a brow. “Didn’t think I had it in me to be reflective? Thought I’d start juggling Dungbombs any moment?”

Harry smirked. “I did not say that.”

George grinned. “But you considered it. It’s alright. Most people do. I used to believe the only reason the others trusted me was because I was funny. I made things easier. Not because I was… well. Me.”

He shrugged, but it didn’t feel careless.

“Then Angelina came along and told me I was a daft git but a decent one.”

Harry snorted.

George looked pleased. “Honestly, mate, you’ve got the same look about you. You continue to wait for someone to tell you that you have done enough.”

Harry’s throat tightened again, but he couldn’t gaze away. “I don’t know if I have,” he admitted quietly. “Finished completely. Moved on entirely. I feel like I should have figured it all out at this point. But some days, I’m just…”

“Waking up in the middle of the night wondering who you are now that no one’s trying to kill you?” He guessed.

Harry gave a half-laugh. “Yeah. That.”

“Then you’re already doing better than you think,” his tone was quiet. “Because you are still here striving.”

He leaned forward, set his empty bottle down, and stretched his arms behind his head with a long sigh.

“Truth is…” George said, his voice quieter now, with none of the mischief he usually wore like armour. “Fred was the only person I ever really told every single thing to. Even the stuff I wasn’t able to say out loud—he just… knew.”

The change came at once, quick and clear. Harry sat up a little straighter, feeling something settle between them, heavier than words and silence. He didn’t speak, but simply listened. He did not trust his voice yet; everything about this felt too close.

“We were a team, me and Fred,” George said, staring out at the darkening sky. “People used to call us troublemakers, and fair enough, we were. But it wasn’t just about causing chaos. Not really. It was our way of saying we were here, that we were alive, that we weren’t afraid.”

Harry’s eyes dropped to the Butterbeer in George’s hand. His fingers trembled slightly against the glass. There was no grin now, no humour left in his gaze.

“We always looked out for each other. No questions asked. I could be halfway through a mad idea, and Fred would be right there with me, wand ready, laughing his head off. And when it went wrong, which it typically did, he was the one helping me sort it out. Usually while making fun of me.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He understood loyalty. He’d lived and nearly died for it with Ron and Hermione. They were a part of him in ways that were hard to explain. But this, the twins, was different. It went deeper, something built into them from the start. He wondered if that kind of bond ever broke, or if some piece of it just stayed behind, waiting.

“You understand what I mean?” George asked, finally turning to look at him. There was a certain emotion on his face now, open and unsure, as if he didn’t know if Harry could truly grasp it but wanted him to try.

The night air cooled against Harry’s skin. He nodded slowly, feeling the weight of it settle in his chest. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

George let out a breath through his nose and gave a faint, crooked smile that barely touched his eyes. “Ron’s always a prat, though.”

Harry blinked at the sudden shift.

“But,” he went on, lighter now though still serious, “he is a loyal idiot. Not simply because he’s my brother. I know him. If the world turned upside down tomorrow, he would continue to show up, wand in one hand and some ridiculous plan in the other, just to stand beside you.”

Harry didn’t answer straightaway. His chest ached. He hadn’t been fair to Ron lately. He’d kept his distance, even from Hermione, and told himself it was to protect them, but maybe it was fear. Letting people close always meant there was something to lose.

George’s voice dropped again, gentler. “After Fred died, I couldn’t cast a Patronus. Not in the slightest. For weeks. Possibly months. It was like someone had turned off all the light in me.”

He paused, his jaw tightening, and blinked once, hard, but he did not look away.

“I’m only saying this because…” George hesitated, steadying himself before continuing. “Because if you ever lose a loved one, and Merlin knows you’ve already lost more than most, you’ll want to know you said what mattered while you still could.”

A tear slid down George’s cheek. He didn’t wipe it off.

“I never got to tell Fred. Not properly.”

Harry looked down, biting the inside of his mouth. The guilt rose inside him again. He thought of Sirius, of Dumbledore, of Cedric, of Remus and Tonks and the long list of names he sometimes whispered in the dark when no one could hear. Of his parents’ faces he’d only seen through his mind’s eye. So many gone without warning and goodbye. The memory brought the familiar sting behind his eyes and that dull, dragging ache in his chest, the feeling that never quite went away.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. His voice came out rough, scraped raw.

George nodded slowly. “You never really get over it. Not properly. You simply learn to live with it. The hole they leave doesn’t fill up. You just figure out how not to fall into it.”

He stared at his bottle and didn’t even want to drink from it. He wanted only answers. A certain thing that would tell him how to go on when the ghosts pressed too close.

“You’ve lost people too,” George whispered. “I can see it in how you move. The way you hold your wand—as though it’s something heavy. As if you owe it to someone.”

Harry’s grip tightened around the bottle. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. It was true. There were days when holding his wand felt like a reminder that he was still here when others were not.

“You’re right,” Harry mumbled. “It is the minor details I miss most. The way they smiled made me feel things might be okay, even when they weren’t.”

George didn’t answer at once. He reached out and placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. The simple touch grounded him, pulling him back from thoughts that went too far.

“The memories hurt for a while,” he said. “But they help too. You’ll laugh again. Not because the pain fades, but because they’d want you to.”

Harry nodded. His throat was tight, but he managed it.

“You’re not alone, mate,” he added, giving his shoulder a small shake. “You never were. And you don’t have to pretend to be. If you ever need to disappear for a bit, or punch something, or drink far too much Firewhisky, I’m here.”

That pulled a smile from Harry.

“Thanks.”

They sat in silence again, but this time it didn’t hurt. It made room for breath. It fixed nothing, but for the first time in days, he wasn’t completely alone.

George gave his shoulder a squeeze and stated, with a faint glint in his eye, “Right. I’ll give Ron a proper smack on the head for you, just in case.” He raised his bottle. “To the idiots we love.”

Harry laughed, surprised. It felt like a window opening. He lifted his own drink, eyes on the sky. The stars above were clear and bright against the dark night. “To the ones we miss,” he said.

Their bottles met with a soft clink, the sound carrying across the roof. The weight of loss didn’t disappear, but they shared it.

The evening faded quietly, leaving only the stillness that comes after laughter.

Harry had just come down from the roof, where he’d been sitting with George. Their talk had left him both grounded and unsteady, as though someone had opened a door inside him only to reveal a room full of things he hadn’t wanted to face.

They went their separate ways with quiet words, drained by the silence and the strain. Harry descended the creaking stairs slowly, his mind looping George’s voice in his head. About Fred and loss. About what it meant to still be here.

He was halfway to his room, fingers brushing the worn brass doorknob, when voices stopped him cold.

Ron and Ginny.

They were downstairs arguing. About him.

Harry froze, his stomach tightening. He knew he should turn away, go into his bedroom and shut the door, but the whispers weren’t exactly hushed. They carried up through the floorboards with all the subtlety of thunder over a field.

“I told you to stay out of this, Ginny!” Ron’s tone was sharp—angry, but underneath it was something else. Frustration. Desperation.

Harry’s hand fell from the doorknob. He stood utterly still, as if movement might somehow make it worse.

“How can you expect me to avoid it?” Ginny’s voice rose, fiercer now. “This is Harry we’re talking about!”

He flinched. His name again. Other people always brought up his name in their battles, as though he were a problem to solve. A burden they couldn’t carry quietly.

He hated this.

“You think yelling at him is going to fix anything?” Ginny demanded. “You keep acting like he is the issue, but have you even tried listening to him?”

Ron’s footsteps moved below; agitated pacing, boots on old floorboards.

“How can I listen when he won’t speak?” Ron snapped. “He has shut down completely, pretending he’s fine when he clearly isn’t!”

Harry closed his eyes. The heat pressed tighter around him. He hadn’t meant to be silent. He just didn’t have a clue how to begin. It was easier to fight monsters than explain what came after—the quiet that never truly felt safe.

“You’re not helping by shouting at him, Ron!” Ginny fired back. “Harry’s been through hell—more than we know. He doesn’t trust easily, and maybe that’s not about us.”

There was a pause.

Then he scoffed, though there was little venom in it. “You think I don’t realise that? I do. But I’m sick of walking on eggshells around him. We are his best mates—we’re supposed to matter.”

Harry’s breath caught. He was willing to run downstairs and say; but his feet stayed rooted, guilt anchoring him like lead.

“He’s not shutting us out to cause pain,” Ginny said, softer now but still firm. “He is hurting. There’s a difference.”

Silence stretched. When Ron spoke again, his voice was low and worn. “I just wanted to help. I do not have any idea what else to do.”

Harry leaned back against the wall, the tension in his spine making it ache.

She sighed, and it sounded like defeat. “You can’t force him. He needs space. Time. And perhaps he has to know he is not carrying everything alone.”

Ron’s reply came slower, heavy with exhaustion. “He’s always been this way. Hermione and I constantly had to drag it out of him, inch by inch. It seems as if he doesn’t trust anyone unless we pull the truth out with our bare hands.”

The words hit Harry like a Bludger to the chest.

Ginny’s voice was quieter, but every word landed as fact. “It is not about faith, but fear. Harry’s spent years trying to protect everyone he loves, even if it means pushing them away. He has been the one who has survived for so long; it’s a hard habit to break. But he’s not invincible, Ron. Not anymore.”

Harry pressed a fist to his chest. He wanted to argue, to insist he could still be strong, but the truth sat bitter on his tongue. He wasn’t. Not lately.

“And what—we just allow him to bottle it all up?” He bit out. “Let him drown in it while we stand around hoping one day he opens up?”

There was no reply at first.

Then Ginny said quietly, “I’m scared too. Something’s wrong. You can feel it in him. He’s like he is not all here, but he’s still fighting some battle the rest of us can’t see. And if he keeps carrying it alone, I don’t know what it’ll do to him.”

Harry’s stomach turned. He hadn’t meant for her to notice it, to carry any of it. He thought he’d hidden it better.

Ron’s voice came again, clipped and final. “I am done waiting. I’m talking to him tomorrow. He can be furious with me if he wants, but we’re going to talk. Properly.”

“Ron, please,” Ginny called after him. “Don’t make it worse.”

But Harry heard the footsteps thudding up the stairs before she’d even finished. Panic shot through him. He darted into his room and pressed flat against the wall just in time.

He passed without pause, too wound up to notice the figure barely breathing in the shadows. A door slammed shut further down the hall.

Silence returned.

Through the narrow gap in the doorframe, Harry could see Ginny standing at the bottom of the stairs. Her silhouette was dim in the low light, arms hanging limp at her sides. The fight had left her shoulders sagging, and the fire in her eyes had faded into something closer to heartbreak.

He reached for the door, fingers trembling. He wanted to go to her. To apologise. To explain. But no words came. Nothing he said would make it better.

Instead, he closed it gently, sat on the edge of the bed, and dropped his head into his hands.

The morning light crept through the thin curtains. Dust swirled lazily in the shafts of sunlight, catching the warm glow as if mocking the heaviness pressing against Harry’s chest.

He was already awake—had been for hours, if he’d ever truly slept at all. His body ached in that hollow, sickly way that came after too many nights of staring into the dark, hoping the silence might offer a reprieve. It hadn’t.

The nausea started early. Not sudden, but slow and creeping, curling in his stomach like something growing. By the time he’d dragged himself to the bathroom down the hall, it was a living thing, gnawing at him from the inside.

He sank to his knees, pressing his forehead against the cool tiles of the floor, arms trembling beneath him as another dry heave shook through his frame. There was nothing left to bring up, yet still his body convulsed, shuddering as though trying to purge more than bile.

His palms slipped on the porcelain rim, slick with sweat, and he gritted his teeth, riding the wave of pain and helplessness.

He hated it. Not just the sickness and the weakness. All of it—the loss of control.

Behind his closed eyelids, the flashes came again: Voldemort’s high, cold voice echoing like steel against stone. Screams. Fire. The rush of green light and the way the locket had whispered to him and turned on him. The hollow echo that had filled his head every time he had felt the Horcrux stir. Ron and Ginny’s voices raised in anger, arguing because of him. Always because of him.

He wasn’t even sure when he’d last slept properly. What did it matter? Dreams had become another kind of punishment. Sleep didn’t help; it only pulled the past closer.

A soft knock broke his spiral.

“Harry?”

It was Ron. His tone was quiet but laced with concern; too tense, like he was trying not to sound as worried as he clearly was.

He swallowed hard, wiped his sleeve across his mouth and tried to force some steadiness into his voice.

“Be there in a sec. Just give me a minute.”

He turned on the tap and let the cold water run, then splashed his face until the chill bit his skin. It did little to wake him. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror and recoiled slightly.

He looked pale, with a greyish tinge beneath his eyes. Bloodshot. Hollowed out. His fringe clung damply to his forehead, and there were faint shadows under his cheekbones, like bruises that never quite faded. He gave the impression that he had gone a few rounds with a Dementor.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and opened the door.

Ron was waiting. He crossed his arms, tightened his jaw, and furrowed his brow with the concern that Harry had seen too many times before, the kind that made him feel exposed.

“You all right?” His best friend asked.

He gave a shrug that appeared more like a grimace. “Just tired,” he replied flatly.

He knew it was a lie, a weak one.

Ron narrowed his eyes. “You’re as white as Nearly Headless Nick,” he observed grimly. “And you sound as though someone cursed you.”

Harry avoided his gaze. “It’s nothing,” he deflected. “Probably something I ate.”

He headed back inside his room, hoping he would drop the matter. But the moment he tried to push the door closed, Ron’s foot blocked it.

“I am going to get Mum.”

“No, don’t,” he gasped. Panic surged through him like a jolt of magic gone wrong. “I’m fine, really—”

But Ron was already off, thundering up the stairs two at a time, his voice trailing ahead of him as he called for Mrs Weasley.

Harry sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, heart hammering. He wanted no fuss because he didn’t deserve it. He just wanted to disappear into his own silence again, undisturbed.

But a few minutes later, she showed up, rushing in with a tray balanced in one hand and a cool flannel draped over the other. She said nothing at first. She looked at him, and her face softened into something that made his chest ache.

That kind of kindness was the worst. The feeling of being loved like a son came back to him. And it made him feel as though he were a fraud.

“Oh, love,” she murmured, setting the tray down on the bedside table and kneeling beside him. “Ron said you weren’t well.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, trying to sit up straighter. “I’m all right,” he insisted. “Really. Just need to lie down for a bit.”

Mrs Weasley didn’t fall for it. She reached up and gently pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. Her touch was cool and familiar and so terribly motherly it caused something behind Harry’s ribs to crack a little. It shouldn’t have hurt, being cared for, but it did. It made him remember every person who never had the chance of being looked after again.

“You’ve got a fever,” she noted softly, more to herself than to him. “And you’re clammy. And pale.”

Harry glanced away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

Mrs Weasley tutted, shaking her head as she soaked the flannel in cold water and wrung it out. “No need for apologies, dear. That’s not how it works.”

Pressing the cloth gently to his forehead, she watched his eyes flutter closed.

“Have you been eating properly?” She asked, not unkindly. “Sleeping?”

Harry hesitated. “Not really hungry lately. I couldn’t sleep last night.”

Mrs Weasley’s hand paused, just for a beat. “Nightmares?”

He gave a small nod. He wasn’t able to explain them well, even if he tried. There weren’t enough words to describe what it felt like to relive a war every time he blinked.

She didn’t press him. Instead, she reached for one potion—pale green and faintly fizzing in its vial.

“This one’ll settle your stomach,” she told him. “And the other is for your fever. You’ll need to rest, dear. You’re no good to anyone, least of all yourself, if you run yourself into the ground.”

Harry took the vials with trembling fingers. He stared at the contents for a moment before downing one in a single gulp. It had an unpleasant taste. The bitterness clung to his tongue, metallic and sharp, another reminder that healing never tasted good.

Mrs Weasley watched him, then reached out and gave his hand a small squeeze. “You rest now. I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.”

As the door clicked shut behind her, the quiet returned; not the soft, peaceful kind, but thick and smothering, and Harry felt himself slipping beneath the weight of it.

He hadn’t noticed his best friend still standing there.

Leaning awkwardly against the doorframe, Ron looked uncertain, as though he wanted to step forward but wasn’t sure if he had permission. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and hunched his shoulders slightly, as if he couldn’t decide whether to speak or just leave.

Harry’s stomach turned again, but not from sickness this time. He knew what was coming: questions, concern, maybe worse, understanding. And he did not feel ready for any of it.

He wanted to close his eyes and sink into the mattress, to let the potion do its work and carry him somewhere far from this tight, painful now. But Ron didn’t move. And neither did he.

“You scared me, mate,” he confessed hoarsely after a lengthy pause, his tone rough at the edges.

Harry kept his gaze fixed on the worn patch of floor beneath his trainers. He hated the sound in Ron’s voice and that he was the reason for it.

He waited a moment before answering, long enough to pretend it did not sting.

“I didn’t mean to,” he managed, almost under his breath. “I just… couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

His best friend gave a small nod and stepped further into the room. He lingered near the foot of the bed, large and unsure, like he wasn’t sure how much space he could take up.

“You do not have to say anything,” Ron reassured him. “I don’t expect you to explain everything, I mean. It’s just…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I get that something’s wrong. But whatever it is, I want to help.”

Harry looked up, blinking slowly. His best friend was watching him with that familiar expression: brows drawn, mouth tight, but eyes steady. And something else, too: fear. For him.

“I’m not ready,” he admitted quietly after a pause. His voice cracked on the last word, but he did not hide it. “To talk about it. Not yet.”

Ron’s face did not change. If anything, he looked a bit relieved, like he’d expected worse. “That’s all right,” he accepted simply. “Just… don’t shut me out, yeah? Not completely.”

He nodded. “I’ll try,” he promised. He meant it, though he didn’t fully trust it.

His best friend’s mouth twitched into a crooked, hesitant smile. “I’m glad you are still here.”

Harry stared at him. The words landed with unexpected force. He hadn’t realised how much he’d needed to hear that—not you’re fine, or you’ll be okay. Just that: still here.

He swallowed, voice thick. “Thanks. Really. I will try to get some sleep.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah. Right. Good.”

He turned to leave, then hesitated, glancing back. Without a word, he left the door slightly ajar—a crack, but enough. A silent gesture. I am here. If you need me.

Harry lay curled tightly beneath the covers, his body drenched in a cold sweat. Every muscle throbbed with the dull ache of exhaustion, and his skin felt as though it had been scorched from the inside out—hot to the touch but prickling with chills all the same. The blanket, damp and tangled, clung to him, and yet still he shivered, as if some shadow had seeped into his bones and refused to leave.

Time had ceased to mean anything. The minutes had blurred into hours or maybe days. He couldn’t tell anymore. His thoughts drifted in fragments: echoes of nightmares, of battles fought and moments lost. Voices. Screams. The weight of Voldemort’s mind clawing through his own.

Sometimes he was still there in the Forbidden Forest, waiting to die.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the memory. It did not help.

A soft knock sounded at the door, but the noise barely registered.

Don’t come in, he thought weakly. Please. Just go.

It creaked open anyway.

“Harry?”

Her voice, gentle and careful, threaded into the fog.

Ginny.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Every part of him felt too heavy to move, too frayed to respond. He lay still and silent, pretending to be asleep, praying that she might take the hint.

But she stayed put.

Instead, the bed shifted as she sat down beside him; the mattress dipped under her weight. A moment later, her hand, cool and steady, touched his shoulder.

He flinched. Not out of fear. Not because he didn’t want her there. But because it felt so distant, like she was reaching for him from the other side of a wall he couldn’t tear down.

“You’re burning up,” she murmured, brushing his damp fringe gently aside. “Have you taken anything for the fever?”

Harry gave the faintest nod, though it took everything in him just to manage that.

There was a brief pause, and then he heard her move, footsteps soft and swift, and the door creaked shut behind her. A strange ache pulled in his chest as she left. Some portion of him wished she would come back, but the larger and the louder part still wanted nothing more than silence.

The room stretched long and quiet. He drifted in and out of consciousness, not sleeping exactly, but floating somewhere on the edge, where memories and thoughts blurred together and everything felt impossibly far away.

The door opened again. He had no idea how much time had passed: ten minutes, an hour, or even longer.

It wasn’t only Ginny who appeared beside him.

“Harry, dear,” came Mrs Weasley’s warm, familiar voice, low and gentle. “You’ve had your last dose for now. We can’t give you more just yet, but I’ve brought some soup. Try to get something down, love.”

He forced his eyes open, lids heavy and stinging. Everything blurred for a moment; light and shadow were swimming. Then her face came into focus, kind and worried, a damp cloth in one hand and a tray in the other.

“Thanks,” he croaked. His throat felt as if it were full of sand.

She gave him a soft smile and pressed the flannel to his forehead. Her touch was soothing, grounding. Harry never quite got used to her maternal nature, no matter how many years they welcomed him into the Weasleys’ home.

She brushed a few strands of damp hair from his face, then quietly set the tray on the bedside table. “Try a few spoonfuls when you can,” she instructed. “And let someone know if you felt worse. You’ve got us all half worried to death.”

Harry nodded weakly, though his chest tightened with guilt. He didn’t mean for anyone to worry. He just hadn’t known how to stop it.

With one last glance, Mrs Weasley left the room.

Even with the fever easing, something still seemed off inside him, as if his body had failed to catch up with the rest of him.

Ron trailed behind her, feeling uneasy and unsure of whether to stay or go.

“You look awful, mate,” he remarked, attempting a grin. It came out lopsided and brittle.

Harry let out a faint sound, almost a laugh. “Feel like it, too.”

He seemed to relax just a touch. He stepped forward and fluffed Harry’s pillow in a rather unhelpful, overly enthusiastic manner.

Ginny returned then, carrying a small bowl of soup, steam curling up into the warm air. She moved with the same quiet confidence she always had, but her eyes were sharper now—watchful.

“Here,” she offered, settling beside him. She slid his glasses gently onto his nose. The familiar weight steadied him a little, bringing the room back into clearer shape.

Harry reached for the bowl, but his fingers trembled so badly the spoon clattered against the ceramic with a sharp clink.

“I’ve got it,” Ginny asserted quickly, before he could protest.

“I can do it,” he muttered, though even he didn’t believe it.

“No, you can’t,” she stated plainly, “and that’s all right.”

She lifted a spoonful and held it out for him. His pride wavered, but hunger won. The idea of being fed like a child made something twist in his gut. But the smell hit him: rich, comforting, and warm, and his stomach growled loud enough to betray him.

He parted his lips and let her feed him. The broth was hot and salty, sliding down his throat and warming the edges of him in a way nothing else had for days.

“Better?” she asked softly, wiping the corner of his mouth with a flick of her thumb.

Harry nodded, just barely. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Ron leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold.

“If you don’t get a move on and pull yourself together,” he teased, his voice casual, “Ginny’s going to run the entire household. Honestly, it’s already feeling like she’s in charge.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Do you ever shut up?”

Ron grinned. “Just making sure he’s still breathing. And that you’re not poisoning him.”

“Out,” she muttered, though her lips twitched with reluctant fondness.

He lingered for a beat longer, his expression shifting. He looked at Harry; not in that awkward, skirting around it way he usually did, but properly. Directly.

Then, with a mumbled groan and a clumsy half-wave, he turned and disappeared down the hallway.

The room fell silent once more.

Harry’s gaze drifted upwards, drawn to the soft clink of the spoon tapping gently against the rim of the bowl. Ginny hadn’t moved. She continued to sit next to him, leg tucked, clutching the soup gingerly, as though it were fragile. Her eyes, wide and unwavering, stayed fixed on his face, as if she feared he would disappear if she dared blink.

There was something in her expression that caught in his chest, raw and unguarded, hovering behind the determined set of her jaw. Worry, yes. But more than that. It made his stomach twist.

He didn’t deserve it.

“You don’t have to stay,” he murmured, each word scraping against his sore throat. “I’m just… tired.”

Ginny shook her head without hesitation. “I will not leave.”

Harry looked away, swallowing against the lump rising stubbornly in his throat. He hated being seen like this: sweat-drenched, shaking, too weak to hold a spoon. It was awful that she had to witness him in this state. He was supposed to be strong. He had been, hadn’t he? Had he not stood up when it mattered and walked into the forest when no one else could?

But now… now he was this.

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” he admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them, quieter than a whisper. And yet they seemed to fill the room.

To his surprise, she did not flinch. She simply reached out, brushing his fringe back from his clammy forehead with fingers that were cool and sure and steady.

“Bit late for that,” she said softly. “And I’d rather see the real you than some version that pretends not to hurt.”

Her words stopped him cold.

For a moment, he didn’t know where to look. He blinked at her as though seeing her anew. The fierce set of her brow, the gentle line of her mouth. She wasn’t trying to fix him or asking him to be better. She was simply… here.

“I don’t understand why you all keep telling me you’re here for me,” Harry insisted after a second, his tone rough with strain. “But this—this thing inside me, Ginny—it’s too much. It is always there. I have no idea what to do with it most days. It only sits on me, like it is waiting for something. And how can I ask you or anyone to carry that with me?”

“You don’t have to,” she replied, and this time her voice shook a little. “We’re already carrying it, Harry. All of us. Because we want to. Because we love you.”

The word landed with the softest thud, and yet it echoed louder than any other thing had in weeks.

Love.

Not shouted across a battlefield. Not confessed under pressure or pain. Just… said. Plain and simple. Like it had always been there and would forever be.

“I do not know what to say,” he managed.

“You don’t have to tell us anything,” Ginny murmured, lowering her gaze for only a second. “Please let me stay.”

Harry felt something shift in him then. A loosening, perhaps. Or a softening. The pain hadn’t vanished, nor the ache in his chest. The war lodged somewhere in his memory, but it didn’t feel as heavy now. Her hand remained on his while she sat there, clutching the bowl as though it was important, and he was too.

Ginny dipped the spoon into the soup again, her movements slow and careful. The silver caught the morning light filtering in through the curtains, casting golden flecks across her fingers. The broth smelt faintly of thyme and potato—something warm and familiar. It reminded Harry of late evenings at the Burrow—laughter and chaos and everything safe.

Without a word, he opened his mouth, and she fed him another spoonful. The rhythm was quiet and steady. The soup slid down his throat, easing some of the rawness, and he could feel the warmth return to his limbs, bit by bit.

She glanced at him between spoonfuls; her gaze watchful but calm, like she’d done this a hundred times before. The absence of pity in her eyes healed him more than any medicine.

“Almost finished,” she said, her voice light, though her stare was still too bright. “You’ve got to build your strength—can’t go saving the world on an empty stomach.”

Harry gave the smallest smile. “Hilarious,” he muttered hoarsely. It hurt to speak, but he wanted to answer her all the same.

Shifting slightly, he winced as his sweat-dampened shirt clung to his skin. The bed creaked beneath him, and his muscles protested every movement. He hated this part too—the weakness. The helplessness. The feeling that he had somehow failed, even though it was all over.

The sudden sound of footsteps pounded up the stairs, heavy and unmistakable.

A moment later, Ron appeared in the doorway again, arms folded, eyebrows raised with that annoyingly smug expression he always wore when he thought he’d found something worth teasing.

“I still can’t believe she used to have a massive crush on you,” he announced, as subtle as a Bludger to the head.

Harry froze, heat blooming instantly beneath his skin and crawling up his neck. It was definitely not a fever this time. Ginny stiffened beside him.

“Shut it, Ron,” she snapped, cheeks flushed crimson now. Her voice was sharp enough to cut through steel, but her embarrassment was clear as day.

His best friend, utterly unbothered, was already sauntering away, his laughter echoing faintly down the hall. “Just saying,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s weird, is all.”

Ginny let out a long breath, her gaze narrowed in the general direction of the door. “I swear, someday I’m going to jinx his mouth shut.”

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. “He’s not wrong,” he said, half-smiling.

She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. “Right. That’s plenty of talking. You’re not well enough to be cheeky yet.”

She dipped the spoon again, scooping more soup than he thought the bowl could still hold, and held it out towards him.

“Open up.”

But Harry didn’t get the chance.

The world tipped sideways. His vision fractured, not gradually but all at once, as if the floor had dropped beneath him. His breath caught sharply in his throat as he flinched, hands scrabbling for the edge of the blanket. A wave of nausea rose in his stomach, hot and acidic, and for a moment he thought he might be sick.

He squeezed his eyes shut, heart hammering against his ribs. Cold sweat broke out across his back, soaking through the fabric of his pyjama top. Everything felt wrong. Colours swam at the edges of his sight until he could barely make out the surrounding room.

Then came the worst part: his body jolted, sudden and sharp, as if something inside him had slipped loose. A shiver wracked him, violent and bone-deep. He couldn’t stop shaking.

“Blimey,” he breathed. The word hardly made it past his lips, more air than sound. His voice sounded distant.

The bedroom had narrowed, closing in around him, a tunnel of noise and light and pressure pressing hard behind his eyes.

“Harry?” Ginny’s words cut through the haze, clear and urgent. She was already leaning in, reaching for him before he even thought to call out.

Her hand found his forehead, cool and steady, and he almost sobbed at the touch; it was the only thing that didn’t hurt.

She drew a sharp breath. “You’re burning,” she murmured, worry trembling in her voice.

Still shivering, Harry croaked, “Just dizzy.” It was a lie, and they both knew it. His voice cracked halfway through, thin and rasping, as if even the words were tired.

Ginny set the bowl aside without a word, both hands resting firmly on his shoulders. “Let’s get you lying back,” she whispered, already reaching for the pillows. “Slowly.”

He didn’t protest. His limbs felt like lead, but she moved with quiet determination, guiding him down as though she’d done it a dozen times before. He let himself lean into her, legs drawn weakly beneath the blanket, head coming to rest against the curve of her shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” Ginny whispered.

And he believed her. For the first time in a while, it felt easier to breathe.

Her warmth settled around him. She smelt faintly of lavender and broom polish, something familiar and clean, edged with the soft scent of home: firewood, fresh bread, and comfort. It reminded him of the hospital wing and the small hope that someone might make the hurting stop.

His breath, shaky but slowing, caught against her collarbone. He could hear her heartbeat: quiet, steady, and close.

“You know,” he murmured, not sure why he was speaking at all, “I always thought you were the strongest person I knew.”

Ginny didn’t answer right away. Her fingers traced soft, absent patterns along his forearm. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “I am not. I’m just doing what I can.”

He watched her for a long moment; the words settling deep, beyond reason.

“That’s what makes you strong,” he said quietly.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was gentle, whole. Outside, the trees rustled in the breeze, and the faint whistle of a kettle rose from below, mingling with the soft creak of the old floorboards.

Ginny shifted slightly, adjusting his head on her shoulder. “I’m here,” she breathed.

Harry didn’t open his eyes. “Will you stay?”

“I’ll be here,” she promised at once.

He wanted to believe that that was sufficient.

A gentle knock came on the door. Both turned toward the sound as Mrs Weasley stepped in, her face lined with worry. “Ginny, love,” she informed, keeping her voice calm, “I’ve run a cool bath for Harry. It might help bring the fever down a bit.”

There was gentleness in her tone, but also something heavier: the quiet strain of someone running out of ways to aid. They’d tried everything: potions, soups, even a few Muggle remedies Hermione had suggested. Nothing made a dent. The sickness clung to him like a second skin.

“Thanks, Mum,” she said, still not looking away from him.

Mrs Weasley gave a small, tired smile and lingered a moment longer before closing the door quietly behind her.

Harry’s gaze flicked back to Ginny. His voice was barely there. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” she responded softly, cutting him off with a slight shake of her head. “But I want to.”

He closed his eyes and let himself rest. Sleep, he hoped, might offer some relief. He was tired of feeling like this and didn’t have a clue what else to do. But deep inside, something restless stirred.