FicWad

Ron lay on his bed, the afternoon sun filtering through the curtains, creating a warm cocoon around him. It was one of those rare moments of peace he cherished, a brief escape amid the chaos that often engulfed his life. Just as he began to drift into a daydream, a muffled knock on the door pulled him back into reality. Curiosity piqued, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded over, a smile spreading across his face as he opened the door to find Hermione standing there, her expression a blend of concern and determination.

“Hey, Hermione! Come in,” he welcomed her, gesturing for her to enter. Relief washed over him as she stepped inside. The familiar presence of his best friend always had a way of easing his mind.

Hermione settled into a chair opposite him, her brow furrowed with an intensity that made Ron sit up a little straighter. “You know that look you gave me at lunch earlier? It seemed like you suspected that Harry was hiding something, didn’t it?”

Ron nodded, a sigh escaping his lips. “Yes,” he admitted, his voice low with worry. “Harry lied about feeling better when Ginny said he was napping. But I heard him getting sick in the bathroom again. He keeps refusing to take any of the healing potions, and it’s really starting to worry me.”

A crease formed between Hermione’s brows, her concern deepening. “What do you mean by ‘he keeps refusing’? Harry has always been so diligent about taking care of himself,” she mused, her voice trembling slightly.

“It’s like he doesn’t trust the potions anymore,” Ron explained, frustration creeping into his tone. “He said they weren’t helping with his pain, but he agreed to take them if he got sick again. I can’t help but feel like he’s just saying what he thinks I want to hear.”

Hermione’s gaze fell to her hands in her lap as she mulled over Ron’s words in silence. She struggled to come up with an explanation for Harry’s sudden change in behaviour, her mind racing with possibilities.

“I wonder what could be causing this,” Ron pondered aloud, his brow furrowed in thought. “It’s unlike Harry to refuse help, especially when it comes to his health. There must be something more going on that we’re missing,” he concluded, a glimmer of concern in his eyes.

Hermione nervously bit her lip and absentmindedly tugged at her hair, clearly distressed. “He confided in me about his desire to end his life,” she confessed in a hushed tone. ”And I feel lost on how to help him.”

Ron was visibly shocked by Hermione’s revelation, shaking his head in disbelief. “Surely, Harry can’t be serious about something so drastic,” he exclaimed. “We must find a way to lift his spirits and show him the value of his life.”

Expressing her own concern, Hermione sadly acknowledged, “I fear Harry doesn’t realise the profound impact he has on those around him. We must ensure he understands the significance of his existence and the positive influence he has on others.”

“Maybe he just needs a distraction,” Ron suggested, trying to inject some positivity into the dark mood that had settled over them. “I would certainly welcome one myself.”

Hermione looked up at him, clearly curious. “What kind of distraction do you have in mind?”

Ron caught her gaze, eyes alight with a sudden thought. “Come on, you’ve been his best friend for years. You should know what Harry’s favourite pastime is by now.”

Exasperation flickered across Hermione’s face. “How am I supposed to know his favourite hobby when you two are practically joined at the hip?”

“Really, Hermione?” Ron shot back, incredulous. “You mean to say you don’t know that Quidditch is Harry’s greatest passion?”

“Quidditch?” Hermione echoed sceptically, her brow furrowing like she’d just bitten into a lemon. “You think playing Quidditch is a good idea for him?”

“Yes!” Ron replied, excitement bubbling over. “Getting back on the pitch could be just what he needs right now. Fresh air, exercise, and something to take his mind off everything else.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue but then stopped, struck by the conviction in Ron’s tone. “You want Harry to play Quidditch right now? He was sick just this morning. It seems ridiculous.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but Harry has been looking better recently,” Ron insisted, a newfound urgency in his voice. “Some fresh air and light physical activity might help distract him from feeling unwell. It’s worth a try.”

“How do you propose to play Quidditch with just the two of you? No hoops, no quaffle, and Harry still recovering?” Hermione’s voice was a blend of scepticism and practicality.

Ron took in her hesitance and considered the dull drumming of anxiety in his own chest. “Who said it would be just us two?” he shot back, his tone brightening. “You and Ginny can join us. I’ll improvise something as a makeshift quaffle. It doesn’t have to be an official game. It’ll just be a fun way to spend time together.”

While Ron’s enthusiasm swirled around him like the silence before a Quidditch match, Hermione's expression grew troubled. The harsh realities of Harry’s injuries haunted her thoughts. “There are so many ways this could go wrong for Harry,” she expressed, her voice laced with concern. “Plus, I’m terrible at Quidditch, and you know how much I hate flying around on broomsticks! I also want to help Harry, but...”

She hesitated, aware of the burden she felt. The anxiety over her own limitations wrapped its tendrils around her resolve. But just as suddenly, she caught Ron’s eager gaze, and the infectious excitement lit up his face. It was hard to resist, especially when it came to Harry.

“Argh! Okay, I’ll play,” she finally relented, though reluctance threaded through her voice like a thin veil. Despite her consent, she felt a dull, foreboding sensation settle deep in her stomach, a warning she couldn't shake.

Ron, who hadn’t been listening to the part where Hermione considered the magnitude of the situation, was already daydreaming about what could be. “Oh, Harry’s going to be thrilled when he hears!” he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with possibilities. “This is going to be awesome!”

Hermione arched an eyebrow as a wave of protective instinct washed over her. “If Harry’s hurt, I promise to do more than just jinx you. Trust me, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Ron merely chuckled, unfazed by her words. “Take it easy, you maniac,” he replied, an irrepressible smirk tugging at his lips. “Obviously, I’ll ensure his safety. We haven’t asked him yet; he may refuse, but I doubt it. That’s not who he is.”

Ron stood at the foot of the stairs, his eyes darting between Harry, who lay peacefully asleep on the sofa, and Ginny, who sat across from him, her brow furrowed and eyes glued to the latest edition of the Daily Prophet.

“Any good news in there?” Ron finally broke the silence, nodding towards the paper.

Ginny shook her head vehemently, the frown deepening on her face. “Not really. Just more requests for Harry to make public appearances and other irrelevant stuff.”

Ron glanced back at Harry, remembering the exhilaration of flying that always lit up his friend’s smile. “How’s he holding up?”

“I think he’s alright.” Ginny’s tone was faintly optimistic, but it was tinged with worry, a brush of uncertainty across her features.

Ron’s gaze shifted back to Harry, peaceful in his sleep. “Hey, Harry!” he called, shaking Harry's shoulder with a playful vigour.

Ginny shot out a hand to grab Ron’s arm, panic sparking in her eyes. “What’re you doing?”

As if pulled from a deep dream, Harry stirred, his eyelids fluttering, before settling on Ron and Ginny.

“Are you alright, mate?” Ron asked, a hint of concern creeping into his voice.

Harry blinked several times, confusion knitting his brows together. “Did something happen?”

“No,” Ginny hurried to reassure him with a gentle tone, her fingers brushing through his unruly hair like a warm breeze. “Go back to sleep. Ron just woke you up for no reason.”

“That’s not true!” Ron protested, unable to hide his grin. “I wanted Harry to play Quidditch.”

Ginny’s expression hardened as she admonished him, “Harry’s not fit to play right now. Do you want him to get hurt?”

“It’s just a friendly game,” Ron defended, his excitement bubbling up. “We’ll play with a quaffle; it won’t be too challenging.”

Dumbfounded, Ginny looked at Ron as though he had lost his mind. “I said—”

“I can play,” Harry interrupted, his eyes flickering with something Ron hadn’t seen in a while—determination.

Ron’s grin widened as Ginny’s expression shifted to sheer disbelief.

“I haven’t flown in ages,” Harry continued, almost bouncing in his seat, “but I don’t have a broom anymore. I lost my Firebolt when we left Privet Drive. I’ll need to borrow one.”

“We have spare brooms you can use,” Ron offered eagerly, urgency filling his voice. “Go grab one.”

“Alright,” Harry nodded, energy threading through his limbs as he stood. “Let me change first. I’ll be back in a bit.”

With every step, Harry climbed the stairs with a vitality that seemed contagious, rekindling a flicker of hope in Ron’s heart. However, as soon as Harry disappeared from sight, Ginny’s piercing glare found its way back to Ron, sharp and accusative.

“You know Harry isn’t feeling well, Ron. If anything happens to him—”

“He seemed eager to go,” Ron argued, his voice rising slightly in defence. “So why not let him have some fun? He’ll be okay, Ginny. Let him enjoy himself for once.”

“Enjoy himself?” Ginny’s tone was harsh, and Ron could see the anguish spilling out of her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Ron’s heart dropped. He could feel the guilt creeping beneath his skin. “He needs this,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “When was the last time you saw him so happy, especially since he’s been wanting to end his life?”

The words fell between them, heavy and damaging. Ginny’s eyes widened, fury mixed with disbelief. “Harry would never think that!” she exclaimed. “He has so many reasons to keep going.”

But Ron, caught in the tide of revelation, felt his determination solidify. “He confided in Hermione after lunch,” he admitted softly, words stumbling out with a weight of sadness. “He mentioned that he’s feeling hopeless and doesn’t see a reason to keep fighting.”

Ginny’s expression turned to one of anguish as she stared at Ron.

“That’s precisely why I think we should go through with this!” Ron’s words flowed out with urgency. “I understand the timing isn’t ideal, but when is it ever perfect? We need to distract him, boost his morale.” His voice trembled as memories of Hermione’s warnings haunted him. “Otherwise, his depression might consume him. You can hex me later, but Harry needs this distraction now more than ever.”

Just then, the sound of rushed footsteps echoed down the stairs, and Harry reappeared, broom clutched in his hand, a light beaming in his eyes. “Ready?”

Before Ginny could say another word, Ron stepped forward, a smile spreading across his face. “Always.”

Hermione followed down the stairs, sharing knowing looks with Ginny, silently conveying their reservations about indulging in yet another one of Harry’s impulsive plans.

Harry's heart raced with anticipation as he stood near the weathered wooden goalpost that marked one end of their makeshift Quidditch pitch. The sun above was a radiant ball of gold, spilling its warmth onto the lush garden and making the grass glimmer as if it had been sprinkled with dew. It was a perfect day for a Quidditch match—a day that had the potential to distract him from the shadows lingering in the corners of his mind.

As he clutched his broomstick, the familiar weight felt almost comforting, a reminder of all the exhilarating moments spent soaring through the air. Around him, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione were gearing up for the friendly skirmish, their faces lit with playful rivalry.

Ron clutched the Quaffle tightly in his hand, the same one he had used magic to transform earlier. As he stood in the centre of the Quidditch pitch, facing his friends, his voice rang out. “Alright, everyone,” he began, clearing his throat before continuing, “Since there are four of us, we need to even out the teams. I’ll choose Ginny to join me.”

Harry exchanged looks with Hermione. He could sense her scepticism even before she spoke up, her forehead creasing in concern. “That doesn’t seem fair, Ron. Both you and Ginny are skilled Quidditch players.”

A sly grin grew on Ron’s face. “Don’t worry, Hermione. You have Harry on your team. Trust me, we don’t stand a chance.”

Harry laughed. The banter warmed him, pulling him away from darker thoughts that threatened to creep in.

Ginny’s competitive spirit ignited as she arched an eyebrow at Ron. “Why am I even on your team? I’m ready for a challenge!” With a flick of her hair, she added, “I won’t let Harry win this game.”

Harry took in the sight of her fierce determination, and it filled him with a mix of admiration and amusement. “Are you sure about that, Ginny?” he teased, emboldened by her challenge.

“Bring it on, Potter!” she shot back, meeting his playful stare with a combination of defiance and affection. “Just because we’re dating doesn’t mean you’ll have an easy win.”

Amused by Ginny’s competitive edge, Harry raised an eyebrow, his eyes dancing with excitement. “Is that a threat?” he asked playfully.

Ginny responded with a mischievous grin, “Only if you feel the need to be threatened.”

As Ron and Hermione exchanged knowing smiles, Harry felt a lightness cling to the air around them. He had missed this—missed the camaraderie, the laughter, the simplicity of friendship. Whatever uncertainties loomed in the depths of his mind, these moments made everything else fade away, even for a short while.

After a few moments, Ron cleared his throat once more, centring their focus. “Alright, let’s get started! The first team to reach twenty goals wins! Let the game begin!”

With determined glances exchanged, Harry and Ginny nodded, ready to launch their competitive spirits into the sky. But Hermione, ever the realist, interjected with her anxiety. “Twenty? We’ll be here until midnight.” Her worry was evident as she glanced anxiously between Ron and the others.

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle, feeling a sense of ease in the banter. “Don’t worry, Hermione,” he reassured, though a flicker of unease lurked just beneath the surface. “You’re with me. We make a pretty good team.”

Yet when Harry turned his gaze to Hermione, a flicker of doubt clouded her features. “Are you sure you’re up for it, though? You look pale,” she voiced her concern, her tone dripping with genuine worry.

He wanted to dismiss her fears. “I’m fine, really. Let’s just focus on winning this game.” But even as he spoke, he felt the familiar weariness creep through his bones, a weight that had been there for longer than he cared to admit.

“Okay,” Hermione relented, albeit reluctantly.

Desperate to distract himself from his own physical discomfort, Harry had been tempted to take a nap, as promised to Ginny. However, sleep eluded him, plagued by headaches and nausea that kept him awake. It was only when Ron found him feeling unwell in the bathroom that Harry took a brief moment to rest on the couch. Despite his weakened state, the prospect of playing Quidditch with Ron proved to be too enticing for Harry to pass up, leading him to stubbornly ignore his health issues for the time being.

Harry’s heart raced with nostalgia and excitement. Quidditch had always been an escape for him, a way to soar above the drudgery of the world. As he climbed onto his broomstick, he pushed aside the nagging ache in his head, determined to immerse himself in the thrill.

“Ready?” Ron shouted, holding the Quaffle tight against his chest.

Harry nodded, his spirits lifting as Ron tossed the Quaffle into the air. In that moment, everything else melted away. As he soared up into the sky, the wind whipped through his hair, invigorating him in a way the rest had not. The feeling of flying, untethered and awash with joy, wrapped around him like a comforting blanket. He glanced back at Hermione, her face a mixture of concentration and disbelief as Ginny rocketed past her, their competitive spirits aflame.

The game unfolded like a well-rehearsed dance; Harry darted and zigzagged through the air, snatching the Quaffle from Ron's clutches time after time. Sweat dripped down his brow, but he hardly noticed as he revelled in the rush of the competition. Engrossed in the adrenaline, he pushed through the fatigue, his heart pumping with exhilaration as he and Ginny weaved through the air like apparitions.

“Come on, Hermione!” Ginny cheered, blocking one of Hermione’s shots with practiced ease. Hermione’s face contorted into one of determined frustration. Finally, after several back-and-forth exchanges, a moment of chaos erupted when Harry’s bold move collided him directly into Ron.

“Whoa!” Ron shouted, stumbling as the Quaffle slipped from his grasp. It floated tantalisingly towards Hermione, who, with swift reflexes, seized the chance and scored a goal, doubling her excitement. Harry couldn’t help the rush of pride he felt for her; she had often downplayed her athletic abilities, but in that moment, she was pure magic on the field.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the intensity of the match escalated. Harry and Ginny took turns scoring, matching each other's skill with awe and determination. Ron struggled to keep up, his face flushed with effort and laughter as he shouted encouragement.

Just one goal away from the victory mark, Harry could feel the weight of exhaustion beginning to pull at his limbs. Yet, a fierce determination ignited within him, an insatiable need to win, the rush of the game carrying him along. With every fibre of his being, he focused on the ball, ready to claim the victory for him and Hermione.

But as he sped forward, Ginny shot past him, the quaffle in her grasp. The world slowed; his heartbeat thundered disproportionately loud. He could see her effortlessly manoeuvring the ball towards the goal. “No, not like this!” he thought desperately, trying to regain control.

Too late. Ginny scored, the Quaffle sailing through the hoop unchallenged. Cheers erupted, Ron hollering with delight as he and Ginny landed on the ground, high-fives foiled by their contagious laughter.

As he landed, he caught Ginny’s glowing smile and Ron’s exuberant laughter. Even in his tired state, Harry felt warmth spread through him, knowing that despite the temporary aches, moments like these were what truly mattered.

“Great game!” Ron exclaimed, clapping Harry and Hermione on the back. The thrill of competition still crackled in the air, despite the exhaustion that settled heavily on Harry’s shoulders.

“I can’t believe we actually won!” Ron’s face was aglow with pride, a wide smile stretching from ear to ear.

“I told you I wouldn’t let Harry win,” Ginny chimed in, beaming as she tallied her accomplishments in a sport she had mastered. She stood with her hands on her hips, revelling in the moment like a champion who had just lifted the trophy.

Harry, wearied yet fondly amused by Ron’s enthusiasm, leaned against the cool wood of the Burrow fence. “You were absolutely brilliant, Ginny. I knew you could do it,” he replied, his voice infused with genuine admiration.

As they walked, memories of sun-drenched afternoons spent playing Quidditch at the Burrow flooded Harry’s mind. He missed Fred and George intensely—how they would have doubled Ron’s enthusiasm and turned even simple victories into grand victories of epic proportions.

“Thanks for convincing me to play again,” Harry said to Ron, feeling a rush of gratitude that quelled his fatigue for a moment. “I had almost forgotten how much fun it was.”

“Anything for my best mate,” Ron shrugged, nudging him playfully once more, his infectious spirit brightening the air around them.

“Congratulations on the win,” Harry added. “Good thing Ginny was on your team; otherwise, you would’ve lost!”

Ron laughed. “Yeah, I definitely owe her one for this win,” he acknowledged.

Hermione, who had been watching from the sidelines, let out a sigh of relief as the game concluded. “I’m sorry,” she said, turning to Harry.

Harry simply shrugged and patted her reassuringly on the back. “It’s all part of the fun. You played really well out there,” he complimented her proudly.

Harry rode the wave of excitement from the game all the way to dinner, but the rush of adrenaline quickly subsided as exhaustion set in. The intense match had drained him of his energy, leaving him surprised that he hadn’t collapsed sooner. Harry, feeling the weight of his fatigue, loaded his plate with food in hopes of restoring his energy during the meal. While eating, he could feel his eyelids drooping and knew that he would need to rest soon.

“Great job on that last manoeuvre, Ginny!” Ron continued, his voice radiating excitement. It swelled with pride, and Ginny’s cheeks flushed with a mixture of joy and irritation. She loved Quidditch, but the adoration from Ron felt overwhelming.

“Can’t I just enjoy my victory in peace?” Ginny muttered under her breath, trying to slip back into the shadows of her usual reservedness.

Once inside, the air turned thick with Mrs. Weasley's protective instincts. Upon realising that Harry had joined the game, her frown deepened. “Ronald Weasley!” she exclaimed, scanning the room as if searching for the culprit. “What were you thinking? You know how unwell Harry has been!”

Harry felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, glancing towards Ron, who wore a pleading look.

“Mum, I—”

“Do not ‘Mum’ me! You could have put him in danger!” she scolded, her voice filled with a mix of concern and fury. “You should know better than to expose him like that!”

“Nothing happened! He’s fine!” Ron defended Harry as if it were a rugby match, his voice rising in desperation. Harry could feel the fatigue pulling deeply at his limbs, and he knew he should speak up to calm Mrs. Weasley. But the apprehension in his throat made it difficult to articulate his thoughts.

“Harry, please—” Ron implored.

“You had better pray I don’t take away those broomsticks, Ronald!” Mrs. Weasley threatened. “Otherwise, you’ll find yourself grounded for the entirety of the summer!”

“Mrs. Weasley, it was just—”

“No excuses, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley interjected. “I’ve already reached a decision. This behaviour will not be tolerated.” Her face flushed with anger, mirroring the fiery shade of her hair. “Out of all people, you should know better than to disregard your own health. This level of carelessness is highly disappointing. You have compromised all the measures we’ve taken to keep you safe! Until you are in better health, Quidditch is off-limits for you,” she reprimanded.

Seeing the hurt in Harry’s eyes as his mother scolded him, Ron quickly came to his defence, exclaiming, “That isn’t fair!” while standing up for Harry. “Don’t blame him. He did nothing wrong. It was my fault!”

Harry could only watch in silence as his best friend passionately defended him.

“Then both of you are to blame!” she snapped, her voice ringing through the kitchen like an alarm bell.

Ron’s face turned stormy, the tension building as he retaliated with frustration, attacking his baked potato with undue vigour.

The table was swallowed in silence, sharp tension weighing heavily on each of them. Hermione’s gaze darted nervously from one boy to the other, uncertain how to intervene without fanning the flames.

Harry felt the weight of the confrontation cloaked in shadows; he barely touched his food. The flavours turned bland; the potato seemed to grow cold as he lost himself in his thoughts.

Mr. Weasley arrived home, his tired smile illuminating the room. “I could only give Kingsley a brief note about the stone,” he said, plopping down beside Harry, the warmth of his presence momentarily lifting Harry’s spirits. “He was constantly coming and going from his office, surrounded by people.”

“Thank you, Mr. Weasley,” Harry mumbled, eyes cast downward, afraid that any weight of disappointment from Mr. Weasley would shatter the already fragile pieces of his conscience. The Quidditch match had not gone well, and he could hardly muster any defence for himself.

“It’s a good thing you’re here now,” Mr. Weasley continued, his tone far too optimistic for Harry’s heavy heart. “I saw Teddy at the ministry today!”

The mention of Teddy made Harry crack a hesitant smile. Teddy—an infant who had barely begun his journey in a world fraught with difficulties—brought a moment of reprieve amidst Harry’s turbulent thoughts. It felt like a breath of fresh air, a glimpse of hope that brightened the dull corners of his mind.

“Isn’t he the son of Remus and Tonks?” Mrs. Weasley chimed in, her face lighting up with joy, momentarily washing away the shadows of earlier events.

“Yes, he is,” Mr. Weasley confirmed, his eyes twinkling. He turned to Harry. “And if I remember correctly, he’s your godson too, Harry?”

Harry nodded, tilting his head slightly, the connection tugging at something deep within him. “How’s he doing?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He hadn’t met Teddy yet, but the thought of that tiny life, so full of potential, warmed his heart.

“He’s doing quite well, considering everything,” Mr. Weasley replied, and his smile broadened. “For only a month old, the little tyke can already change his appearance at will.”

“He’s a metamorphmagus?” Hermione asked, excitement sparking in her voice, her eyes wide with the wonder of magic.

“That’s right,” Mr. Weasley confirmed, and enthusiasm filled the kitchen. “And thankfully, he didn’t inherit his father’s lycanthropy, as Andromeda recently informed me. Instead, he seems to have inherited his mother’s magical abilities.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, clapping her hands together with delight.

Mr. Weasley leaned towards Harry, genuine warmth radiating from his demeanour. “It would be wonderful for you to pay a visit to Teddy, Harry,” he suggested. “I can imagine how thrilled he would be to meet his godfather, especially considering the special bond you shared with his parents.”

A wave of longing surged through Harry, but it was quickly snatched away by the reality of his illness. “I would love to, Mr. Weasley,” he replied softly, his heart aching. “It’s just... my illness keeps me from doing so right now.”

Ginny, seated beside him, squeezed his hand under the table, her touch grounding him in the moment.

Mr. Weasley placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find a way to make it happen, Harry,” he said gently. “Andromeda would surely be willing to bring Teddy here so you can spend time together.”

Gratitude welled up within Harry, and he smiled, comforted by the thought. “That would mean a lot. Thank you.”

“Who does Teddy take after, Dad?” Ron asked, curiosity lighting his tone.

“It was quite challenging to determine initially,” Mr. Weasley said thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “Considering Teddy’s abilities, Andromeda did mention that he had black hair from the moment he was born.”

Harry imagined little Teddy possessing Tonks’ ability to change his appearance, interspersed with the constant black hair. Remus, with his hazel hair, stood in contrast to Tonks’ vibrant transformations, and in that thought, Harry found a flicker of hope.

Mr. Weasley raised his cup to his lips and took a sip of water, continuing, “I am confident he will achieve great things, just as his parents did. Despite the fact that he lost them so young, Teddy has loving families to help him through this and grow up.”

As Harry rose to carry his empty plate to the sink, he felt the blood drain from his face. The remnants of food clung to the ceramic like his last bursts of energy clung to him. Grasping onto the counter for support, he blinked hard to steady himself, but the room began to spin. The familiar rise of heat flooded through him, a telltale sign his fever might be making a comeback.

Trying to regain his composure, Harry took deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. He didn’t want to disturb the Weasleys, who were still enjoying their meal at the table. Despite his blurry vision, he made a slow and steady journey from the kitchen to his bedroom. Managing to reach his bed, his knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed onto the soft mattress. The world seemed to swirl around him, and darkness crept in at the edges of his vision.







Despite Harry’s best efforts to conceal his sickness from the Weasleys, it lingered for several days. He tried to act normal for a day but couldn’t keep up the charade; although he collapsed in bed unseen, his state was evident. Blaming Ron’s insistence on a Quidditch match for Mrs. Weasley’s scolding wouldn’t be entirely fair, as that was just one of many woes he faced. To avoid the family’s prying eyes, especially Mrs. Weasley’s concerned gaze, Harry secluded himself in his room, claiming to need rest. Ron, feeling guilty for pressuring Harry into playing, respected his wish for solitude and left him be.

Harry tried to ignore the fever that coursed through his body, telling himself he’d bounce back and that he was just a little under the weather, but denial weighed heavily on his heart. The truth loomed like a dark cloud—it wasn’t just the chill of autumn creeping in; it was the sickness that had been hanging onto him like an uninvited guest for days.

Outside his door, he could hear Ron’s voice, a blend of annoyance and concern as he defended Harry’s need for solitude. “It’s only for today,” Ron said, as though trying to convince not only Hermione and Ginny but also himself. “He’s not dying; he simply wants to stay in bed and regain his energy…”

If only it were that simple. Harry winced as he sat up, the world tilting around him. His head spun, and he gripped the edge of the bed to steady himself. But he knew that as soon as he showed his face, all those tender, worried looks would sharpen into concern, and it would only make him feel worse. They were always so damn perceptive, those Weasleys. They could read him like an open book.

Taking a deep breath, he attempted to lay back down, but the sensation of the room spinning was overwhelming. He squeezed his eyes shut and burrowed deeper into the blankets, listening to the muffled voices outside his sanctuary. Hermione’s voice was persistent, tinged with an urgency that reminded him of their endless discussions about preparing for the next assignment or examining potions’ tricky nuances.

“Harry’s been working himself too hard!” she exclaimed, her worry palpable even from behind the closed door. “You know he always tries to act tough; it doesn’t mean he is. If he’s not feeling well, Ron, maybe we should just check on him—”

“No, Hermione!” Ron interrupted. “He’ll come out when he’s ready. He needs to rest. Besides, he’ll get mad if he feels like we’re suffocating him.”

Harry chuckled softly at Ron’s defence, but the laughter turned into a cough, which felt as though it pulled something from deep within his chest. He pressed a cool cloth to his forehead and closed his eyes again. Just a moment of peace, he told himself. He had to recover, to find his strength again, from whatever had come to plague him.

But even now, as he lay in bed, he couldn’t shake the thought that he should have listened to his body. The exhilaration mixed with exhaustion, and the thrill of being alive only seemed to amplify the harshness of his illness.

From outside his door, he could hear Ginny’s persistent knocking. “Harry! Come on! Everyone’s worried about you!”

He appreciated her concern. He always had, but it was a twisted thing to feel like a burden even now. “I’m fine!” he called out, his voice croaking unsteadily.

There was a pause on the other side of the door, and then Ron replied more gently, “Really, mate? You sound like death warmed over. Just let me know if you need something… Anything.”

“I just need some quiet,” Harry said, though those words hung in the air like a fading spell, thinking that sleeping would make him feel better when he awoke.







The next day, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny sat uneasily on the living room sofa, talking about Hagrid’s uncertain whereabouts. Their faces were clouded with a distant look, as they reflected on Hagrid’s attempt to discover a wild Thestral. Ron drummed his fingers against the cushion, trying to drown out Hermione’s anxious chatter. It had been two days since they last saw him, and the silence was thick with worry.

“There has to be a wild Thestral somewhere,” Hermione insisted, her anger evident as she pulled back her bushy hair, frizzier than ever in the humid air. “I know they’re rare, but they can’t have disappeared entirely. There’s got to be one somewhere.”

Ron forced a smile, trying to assure not only Hermione but also himself. “Hagrid will find one. He can see Thestrals, unlike most people. We just need to be patient.”

But as the hours dragged on, patience waned. Harry had secluded himself in his room for over twenty-four hours, causing further concern among them. Hermione glanced at the clock; it was ticking now, a constant reminder of the time slipping away. Ginny tapped her fingers nervously on the sofa arm, her concern evident.

“I can’t take this anymore,” Ginny finally said. “We need to check on him.”

The three friends exchanged resolute looks and ascended the stairs, determination coursing through them. The tension grew heavier as they approached Harry’s room. Ginny reached for the doorknob, only to find it locked.

“Why would he lock his door?” she asked, her voice tinged with confusion. “He never does that.”

Ron scowled, crossing his arms. “And what’s the point? We can magically open it.”

Hermione nodded. “Something must be wrong. He’s hiding something again.” She took out her wand, pointed it at the doorknob, and said, “Alohomora!” The knob clicked, and she hurriedly twisted it to reveal Harry's room.

It seemed serene at first. The golden rays of the summer sun poured in through the open window, carrying a warm breeze. But as they stepped inside, the light revealed something unsettling. Ginny gasped.

“Harry!” she cried, rushing to his side. His pillow was soaked in blood, and his eyes were squeezed shut, as if fighting against the pain.

“Ron, hurry downstairs and grab a fever-reducing potion from Mum. Tell her Harry’s extremely unwell again,” she instructed, her voice trembling with urgency.

Ron nodded and dashed out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

Hermione, biting her lip in worry, used a cleaning charm to remove the bloodstains from Harry’s pillow. She sat on the edge of his bed, visibly frightened.

“Harry?” Ginny pleaded softly, her heart racing. But Harry remained still and silent, shrouded in the oppressive weight of his pain.

“Why do you always keep things hidden from us?” Hermione murmured, glancing at Harry with a mix of concern and disappointment.

Ron returned moments later, breathless, with the potion in his hand. Mrs. Weasley followed closely behind, her eyes widening at the sight before her.

“What’s happening here?” she exclaimed, her voice filled with distress. She dropped to her knees, taking in Harry's weakened state and the blood trickling from his nose.

“Ginny, give your mother space,” Hermione urged, shifting to make room.

Mrs. Weasley shot a stern look at Ron. “Didn’t I warn you that this could happen?” she scolded. Ron lowered his head, guilt flooding his features.

Taking the vial from Ron’s hand, Mrs. Weasley turned her full attention to Harry. “Harry?” she said gently, reaching toward his face. When he didn’t respond, her voice turned firmer. “Harry! Open your eyes.”

After a moment of struggle, Harry opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh light. They met hers, full of confusion and pain. “Mrs. Wea—”

“Shh, don’t speak,” she interrupted softly. “Just trust me.” She held the potion out, guiding it to his lips while Ron steadied it for him. Harry took a deep breath, purging the pain with a grimace, and swallowed the potion in a desperate gulp, collapsing back into his pillow.

“Where else does it hurt?” Mrs. Weasley asked, her voice soothing.

Harry silently pointed to his forehead, tears welling in his eyes. “It hurts. It burns,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I can only provide a healing potion for your pain, dear,” Mrs. Weasley murmured, regret clouding her voice. “It may relieve your headache, but…” Her words trailed off as she produced a shimmering vial from her pocket.

Ron gingerly held the potion to his lips. He drank, shivering as the elixir coursed through him. “It’s still there,” he whimpered, pressing his forehead against the cool fabric of the pillow.

“I wish I could do more,” Mrs. Weasley said gently, brushing his hair back away from his face. “You’re not alone, Harry. We’re here with you. No more hiding, okay?”

Harry turned his head slightly, eyes closing against the light and truth.