FicWad

The sea battered the cliffs beyond Shell Cottage, but inside the small, dimly lit room, the real storm was Harry—writhing, choking on his own screams.

Everything blurred. Pain seared through him, savage and unrelenting.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard the front door crash against the wall, footsteps thundering along the corridor.

“Harry!” Mrs Weasley’s voice sliced through the silence, thick with panic.

He couldn’t answer. His lungs fought for air but caught only on a ragged, broken sob. The edges of his vision darkened, his mind slipping under, dragged towards something cold and endless.

A weight dropped onto the bed beside him. Cool hands pushed back his sweat-drenched hair, trembling slightly. Mrs Weasley’s touch was familiar, safe—but tonight, not even that could reach him.

“We’re here, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice taut with fear. “We’ve got you. You’re not on your own.”

Another wave of pain ripped through him, fierce and blinding, and a raw cry tore itself from his throat. His whole body jolted against the mattress.

Faces hovered at the edges of his vision—Bill, pale and grim in the doorway; Mr Weasley hovering close by, his expression tight with helplessness; Ron and Hermione pressed together, stricken with fear; and Ginny, clutching her arms around herself as though she might fall apart.

He wanted to tell them to go. He wanted to scream at them to stop looking at him like that—as if he were already lost.

But he couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe.

Bill’s voice broke through, low and urgent. “It’s bad. I don’t know what else to try.”

Nothing worked. Every potion only seemed to make things worse. His magic—whatever remained of it—thrashed against the help, wild and desperate, as though it no longer recognised him.

Blood welled at the corner of his mouth. He felt it trickle down his chin, warm and wrong.

Mr Weasley edged closer, his voice shaking despite the calm he was trying to hold onto. “Just breathe, Harry. That’s it, son. Just breathe.”

I’m trying, Harry thought, panic rising like bile. I’m trying.

Hermione bent over him, her voice cracking under the strain. “We’re here, Harry. We’re not leaving. Please—just hold on.”

Hold on.

Hold on to what?

He was so tired—bone-deep, aching tiredness that seeped into his marrow. It felt like the battle was already lost, like all that was left was to bleed out slowly enough to watch it happen.

Mrs Weasley wrapped him tightly in a blanket, rocking him gently. He didn’t know whether it was meant to soothe him or herself.

The voices around him blurred and splintered, pieces breaking off like fragments of a broken window:

“How could this happen?”

“…attacked in his office…”

“…imposter at the Burrow…”

Mr Weasley’s voice cut through, strained and cracking. “I told you—Harry’s been at the Burrow.”

“No—I never asked!” Percy snapped, defensive and shaking.

“Yes, you did. You were at the Ministry yesterday—you asked about Harry.”

“I wasn’t!” Percy barked, panic sharpening his voice. “I was out—fireplace inspections!”

Another moan escaped Harry, his stomach lurching at each word.

Mrs Weasley’s gasp sliced through the room, sharp as a curse.

“It wasn’t Percy,” she breathed, horror dawning in her voice. “It was Yaxley. Yaxley, disguised as Percy.”

The room spun, tilting under the weight of the realisation. Harry could see it—Yaxley’s false smile, the easy trust, the enemy walking freely amongst them.

Mr Weasley muttered a vicious curse. Harry flinched.

“If Yaxley’s still out there,” Mr Weasley rasped, his voice hollow, “then nowhere is safe.”

His shoulders sagged as though the weight of it had crushed him. “It’s my fault. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known.”

Harry wanted to tell him no. That it wasn’t his burden to carry.

But the words lodged in his throat, pinned beneath the crushing weight of his own guilt.

Because somewhere deep down, Harry knew the truth: it was his fault too.

He wasn’t strong enough to protect them. Not quick enough. Not clever enough.

He wasn’t enough.

Mrs Weasley’s grip tightened fiercely on Mr Weasley’s shoulder.

“You couldn’t have known,” she said, steady and sure, though her hand trembled. “We’ll get through this. We always do.”

Mr Weasley didn’t answer. His head remained bowed, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of it all.

Near the door, Hagrid shifted where he stood, a great mountain of grief, his voice low and rough when he finally spoke.

“Ain’ no family stronger than yours, Molly. Don’ forget tha’.”

But the words scarcely touched the cold that had settled over the room.

Harry screwed his eyes shut, clinging to the only thing he could still feel—Mrs Weasley’s hand wrapped firmly around his own—even as he slipped further into the pain, deeper into the creeping chill.

The world narrowed to that one, fragile thread.

And somewhere in the hollowed-out ache of his chest, Harry braced himself for the fight he knew was coming—the fight for his life.

This time, though, he wasn’t sure he would win.

The darkness was finally winning.

It took him without warning—one moment he was gasping for air, the next he was falling. Weightless. Empty.

The voices around him warped and thinned, stretching away into echoes. He could still feel the pull of the world—hands clutching his, panicked voices calling his name—but he was slipping too quickly, sliding into something bottomless and cold.

Somewhere above him, distant now, he heard Mrs Weasley sob, sharp and broken.

“He’s losing consciousness!” Hermione’s voice cut through the fog, sharp with terror.

“Is he breathing?” Ron’s voice followed, ragged, desperate.

Harry wanted to tell them not to worry. Wanted to tell them he was just tired, that he only needed to rest.

But his body no longer listened.

Everything was heavy. His heart faltered in his chest, then picked up again—staggering, uncertain.

“We’ve got to keep him warm—keep talking to him—don’t let him drift away—” Mr Weasley’s voice shook badly now.

He could feel their hands on him—Mrs Weasley tucking the blanket tighter, Hermione casting warming charms that barely chased the ice from his limbs, Ron gripping his arm as though he could hold Harry in the world simply by not letting go.

Ginny was crying. Soft, quiet sounds like she was trying to stop herself but couldn’t.

“Harry, mate—stay with us, yeah?” Ron’s voice cracked, thick with fear. “You’re going to be alright. Just—just hold on.”

Harry tried to move his fingers, to let them know he’d heard. His hand twitched feebly beneath Mrs Weasley’s grasp.

But the darkness pulled harder.

He drifted again, slipping into flickering memories that didn’t feel entirely real—flashes of the Burrow burning, someone screaming his name, the cold, merciless touch coiling around his spine.

A jagged groan tore from him, pain breaking through the numbness, and he felt Mrs Weasley’s hand clench around his.

“Stay with us, dear,” she whispered fiercely, her voice thick with tears. “You’re strong, Harry. You’re stronger than this.”

But Harry wasn’t sure anymore.

He didn’t feel strong.

He felt like glass—fractured, splintering.

Another wave of heat swept over him as Hermione tried again, her voice trembling as she cast spell after spell.

The magic scorched his skin, too sharp, too much. He whimpered, the sound barely a breath, before slipping further away.

“He needs St Mungo’s,” Percy said quietly, his voice shaking. “Proper healers—immediately.”

“We can’t move him,” Mr Weasley rasped. “It’s too dangerous. Not like this. Not with Yaxley still out there.”

Silence fell, heavy and terrible.

There was nowhere safe.

And Harry—Harry was so very tired.

Tired of running.

Tired of fighting.

Tired of pretending he could still win.

It was the light that woke him.

Not much—just a pale, sickly grey seeping through the heavy curtains.

But after so long lost in the dark, even that meagre light burnt like fire behind his eyelids.

A low groan escaped him, cracked and broken.

Every part of him ached. His head throbbed with a slow, merciless rhythm. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was.

Didn’t know if he was alive—or if the pain meant something worse.

Then—voices.

Soft. Murmuring. Nearby.

There was a weight at his side, warm and steady—Mrs Weasley’s hand, still wrapped tightly around his.

Harry forced his eyelids to crack open.

The room swam into view—blurry, dim, but real.

Mrs Weasley was slumped in a chair beside the bed, her head nodding with exhaustion, her fingers still laced with his, as though she hadn’t dared let go all night.

Mr Weasley sat nearby, hollow-eyed, his face grey with worry, a battered mug of untouched tea trembling in his hands.

Ron lay in a heap at the foot of the bed, fast asleep but still clutching Harry’s ankle, as if he might vanish if Ron let go.

Hermione perched in a chair in the corner, clutching a book she clearly wasn’t reading, her eyes rimmed red and swollen.

And Ginny—Ginny sat closest, knees drawn to her chest, her chin resting on them, watching him with the desperate intensity of someone afraid he might disappear if she so much as blinked.

Harry’s throat was too raw to speak.

The words snagged somewhere deep inside him, caught behind the thick, aching lump that had settled there.

They’d stayed.

They hadn’t left him.

He didn’t deserve it—not after dragging them into this, not after nearly getting them all killed.

But still, here they were.

Tired. Broken. Frightened.

But here.

His fingers twitched weakly against Mrs Weasley’s hand. She gasped, jolting upright.

“Harry?” she breathed, her voice trembling.

Mr Weasley was at her side in an instant, setting his mug down with a clatter. Ginny unfolded herself in a heartbeat, reaching out, brushing his knuckles with shaking fingers.

Hermione dropped her book and leaned forwards, her face taut with worry.

Even Ron stirred from his exhausted sleep, rubbing at his eyes, bleary and bewildered.

Harry swallowed, his mouth painfully dry. It took everything he had to rasp a single word.

“…’m sorry…”

The room stilled.

Ginny’s grip on his hand tightened. “Don’t,” she whispered fiercely. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry.”

Hermione’s face crumpled; silent tears slid down her cheeks once more.

Ron scrubbed at his face with both hands, as though trying to rub the terror from his skin.

Mr Weasley leaned in closer, his voice thick and firm. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, son. Nothing at all.”

Harry shut his eyes again. It hurt to look at them.

He didn’t deserve this much love.

Not when he’d failed them.

Not when it still wasn’t over.

Mrs Weasley’s hand swept gently over his damp hair, her touch warm and unsteady.

“You fought so hard, Harry,” she whispered. “And you’re still here. That’s enough.”

Still here.

Harry let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Some of the tightness in his chest eased, just a little.

He wasn’t alright.

He wasn’t safe.

He wasn’t sure he ever would be.

But for now—for this one fragile morning—he was alive.

And he wasn’t alone.

A loud knock rattled the door of Shell Cottage, making everyone inside jump. Chairs scraped back and wands were drawn in an instant—everyone, that is, except Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, who were already on their feet, eyes wide with a mixture of nerves and hope. They’d been waiting for Professor Slughorn—their last, real chance to save Harry.

Bill moved swiftly, wand raised, and murmured the incantation to admit the visitor. As the Secret-Keeper for Shell Cottage, he’d given Slughorn the necessary permission to find them.

The door creaked open.

“Professor Slughorn!” Hermione exclaimed, voice catching in relief as she rushed forward.

The Potions Master stepped across the threshold, lugging a heavy cauldron in one hand. Ron darted forward to help, easing it onto the already cluttered dining table. Vials, bundles of herbs, and a thick copy of the Anima book littered the surface. The door closed behind them with a soft thud, but the fleeting moment of relief was quickly swallowed by the heaviness that had settled over the house.

Without a word, they led Slughorn to Harry’s room.

The moment his eyes landed on Harry—pale, motionless, burning with fever—the professor’s usual jovial air faltered. Though he forced a smile, Mrs Weasley, wringing her hands in the doorway, saw it at once for what it was: a flimsy mask for guilt and fear. Slughorn had once been proud to call Harry his pupil. Now, confronted with the boy’s broken state, he looked as though he carried a great weight on his shoulders.

“I’ve brewed something that may help,” he said quietly, reaching into his robes. From the folds he drew a small glass vial, filled with a thick, purple liquid that caught the light in strange, oily glints. His hand trembled, just slightly. “A healing elixir. Very strong. I made it for Harry, but… if this doesn’t work—” He broke off.

He didn’t need to finish.

Mrs Weasley took the vial with trembling fingers, cradling it close.

Slughorn cleared his throat, straightened his back, and addressed Hermione, Ginny, and Ron. “The potion. It must be brewed fresh—there’s no way around it. It can’t be made in advance. I’ll need about an hour. It’s… complex. One misstep, and we lose our chance.”

He turned and shuffled back into the kitchen, setting the cauldron down with deliberate care. The tension in the cottage drew tighter, coiling around them like a rope.

Ron exchanged a look with Hermione, his face drawn.

“I mucked up half my potions in school,” he muttered. “Good thing it’s not me brewing, or Harry’d be a goner before the hour’s up.”

Hermione nudged him with her elbow, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite everything. She stepped forward, her voice firm though her hands were clenched at her sides.

“Professor, may I assist?”

Slughorn gave a kind smile, touched, but shook his head.

“Thank you, my dear, but this is delicate work. Best left to someone with… grey in his whiskers.”

Hermione hesitated, then nodded, stepping back. She hated feeling helpless.

Slughorn opened the Anima book to a bookmarked page and began. A soft rhythm soon filled the cottage—chopping, grinding, stirring. Each movement was measured, exact. No one spoke. Even the air seemed to wait.

Ron and Hermione lingered close, eyes tracking every movement. Bill passed in and out, checking on the potion, exchanging brief nods with Slughorn. Ginny stood near the door, arms wrapped around herself, glancing into Harry’s room every few minutes, as though afraid he might vanish if she looked away too long.

The smell of magic brewing crept through the house—rich and spiced, strange and potent. Time crawled. Each tick of the mantel clock rang out like a warning.

At last, Slughorn straightened. His face shone with sweat, but his hand did not waver. The second to the last of the key ingredients had been stirred in.

“One final step,” he said. “We need Harry’s blood.”

Ginny was gone before anyone else moved, bolting for the bedroom. Ron and Hermione hurried after.

In the room, Mr and Mrs Weasley and Hagrid stood gathered at Harry’s bedside. He looked impossibly fragile—far too still, skin ghostly under the lamplight.

Ginny’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

“The potion’s almost finished. We just—we need his blood.”

Hermione’s fingers scrabbled inside her beaded bag, finally closing around the hilt of a small silver knife. She knelt beside Harry’s bed, her heart hammering so loudly she could scarcely hear herself think.

“Harry,” she whispered.

His eyelids fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion. He blinked up at them, unfocused, confused—but he didn’t flinch when Hermione gently took his hand in hers.

“We need a bit of blood,” she said softly. “For the potion. It’ll only sting for a moment.”

Harry gave a slight, wavering nod and turned his head away. Hermione swallowed hard, steadied herself, and made a swift cut across his fingertip. Blood welled up almost at once.

She caught it in a small glass phial, sealing it with a quiet incantation before healing the cut with a trembling flick of her wand. The skin knitted closed as if it had never been broken.

“Thank you,” she murmured, but Harry was already slipping back into an uneasy sleep.

They rushed back to the kitchen, the pressure in the air now unbearable—as if the walls themselves were pressing in.

Slughorn stood waiting by the cauldron. Hermione passed him the phial wordlessly.

He uncorked it and held it above the potion, his hand steady as a surgeon’s. Three drops fell.

For a dreadful heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the potion began to shift—its dull, lifeless grey brightening into a brilliant silver. It thickened, swirling slowly, pulsing faintly with an eerie, luminous glow.

No one spoke. No one dared.

Finally, Slughorn stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow with a shaking hand.

“It’s ready,” he said, his voice low.

Ginny darted forward, her hands trembling so badly she nearly dropped the goblets she carried. She set three down with a soft clink that rang far too loudly in the silence. She had played this moment over and over in her mind, but now that it had come, fear gnawed at her insides like teeth.

Mrs Weasley watched her, brow furrowed.

“Ginny, love, why three goblets?” she asked, the confusion in her voice edged with worry. “You only need one. It’s for Harry.”

Ron shifted in his chair, avoiding everyone’s eyes. He glanced at Hermione, then at Ginny. His palms were slick against the fabric of his robes, and he could feel his heartbeat like a drumbeat in his chest.

Ginny swallowed, her throat tight. “They’re for us, Mum,” she said quietly, barely more than a whisper.

Mrs Weasley straightened, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, ‘for you’?” she asked sharply, stepping closer, as though proximity might force the answer out of her.

Before Ginny could speak, Hermione broke in, her voice rushed and brittle.

“The book says that anyone helping to restore Harry’s soul has to drink the potion,” she said. Her face was pale as parchment, and she twisted the end of her sleeve in one hand without realising.

Mr Weasley frowned deeply. “That sounds… dangerous,” he said, the quiet weight in his voice enough to still the room. “Are you certain?”

Before Hermione could answer, Slughorn stepped forward.

“It’s correct,” he said solemnly, all trace of his usual geniality gone. His expression was grave, his tone heavy. “Only those who share a true and powerful bond with Harry can attempt it.”

Mr Weasley’s arms folded tightly across his chest. He looked from Ginny to Ron to Hermione.

“Does it guarantee it’ll work?” he asked, his voice low and even.

Slughorn shook his head.

“No. Drinking the potion only prepares them for the spell. It’s the ritual itself that matters. A very delicate piece of magic—and very dangerous.”

Around the table, the questions came like sparks off a fire.

“How will we know if it’s working?” Bill asked, his knuckles white against the wood of the table.

“We won’t,” Slughorn replied grimly. “Not straightaway. According to the book, those performing the spell will lose consciousness—so will Harry. If the bond holds… they’ll wake. If it fails…” He didn’t finish.

He didn’t need to. The silence that followed was heavy and still, filled with all the things no one dared to say aloud.

Hermione leaned forward, urgency sharpening her voice. “What happens after we cast the spell? What do we do?”

Slughorn let out a weary sigh. “Nothing,” he said heavily. “Once the spell is cast, no one can interfere. Not under any circumstances. If the ritual is interrupted—even by accident—it will fail.”

The air in the room thickened. Outside, the sea roared against the cliffs, louder now—harsher, almost angry, as if it, too, sensed what was at stake.

Percy’s voice broke the silence, tight with fear.

“And if it doesn’t work?” he asked. “What happens to them?”

No one answered.

Even Slughorn faltered, dabbing at his forehead with a trembling hand. The silence that followed was worse than any reply.

Before anyone could speak, Mrs Weasley surged forward, sudden and desperate. Her hands snatched up the ancient book from the table, flipping frantically through the yellowed pages. Her other hand clutched at her chest, as though she were trying to keep herself from falling apart.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny drew back instinctively. Everyone knew the strength of Molly Weasley’s temper—when it flared, it left nothing standing. And now, it burned hotter with every breath.

“You knew,” she hissed, turning on them. Her voice cracked like a whip, fierce with fury and fear. “You knew!”

“Molly, calm down—” Mr Weasley started, stepping forward, but his voice trembled with panic.

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down, Arthur!” she snapped. She thrust the book at him, her hand shaking. “It says it right here—if they fail, if they can’t heal Harry, they’ll suffer the same fate!”

A collective gasp swept the room. Bill turned ashen. Percy gripped the back of a chair to steady himself. Even Arthur looked as though the ground had dropped out beneath him, his mouth working soundlessly.

Ginny stood frozen, her heart thudding like a hammer against her ribs. The truth of it, the magnitude, crushed the air from her lungs.

“We kept it from you,” Ron said hoarsely, the confession torn from him. “We didn’t want you to know.”

Mrs Weasley inhaled sharply, chest heaving.

“And why not?” she demanded, her voice rising. Her fists clenched at her sides, trembling with more than anger now—fear, deep and maternal.

“Because we knew how you’d react,” Ginny said, voice barely above a whisper. Her guilt twisted inside her. “You wouldn’t have let us go through with it. You’d have stopped us before we had a chance.”

“We had to keep it secret,” Hermione added, her voice taut and raw. “If we’d waited for permission, we might’ve lost Harry before we ever got to try.”

The words hung in the air. Mrs Weasley’s face contorted, shifting through hurt, disbelief, and a mother’s deepest dread. They were meant to stand together, as a family. But now the truth had cracked something open.

She turned to Slughorn, eyes blazing.

“Horace,” she said, her voice trembling with rage, “did you know? Were you in on this?”

Slughorn’s shoulders drooped. He bowed his head slightly, shame clinging to him like mist.

“Healing a soul is never simple,” he said grimly. “I ought to have told you. I know that. But I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

Her face turned scarlet. Her mouth opened—about to unleash her fury—but Mr Weasley’s voice cut across the room first.

“Preposterous!” he thundered. The windows rattled. For a moment, he looked taller, broader, filled with a rare and terrible anger. “Madness! Utter recklessness! How could any of you consider such a thing?”

The children flinched, instinctively drawing closer to one another. Their father’s anger was rare, and all the more powerful for it.

“There must be another way!” Mrs Weasley cried, rounding on Slughorn, her expression wild with desperation. “There has to be!”

Slughorn met her gaze, solemn and steady.

“There isn’t,” he said quietly.

“Don’t say that!” Mr Weasley snapped, his face contorted with frustration. “How could you possibly know?”

Slughorn’s reply came quietly—too quietly. The calmness in his voice made it all the more unbearable.

“I can’t know for certain,” he said. “But Dumbledore’s conclusions were clear—this was the only path he deemed viable. If there had been another, he would have told us.”

Mrs Weasley shook her head with force, as though she could physically reject the truth. Her eyes were wide, stricken.

“No,” she whispered. “No, I don’t believe it. I won’t.”

Slughorn’s gaze darkened with something like regret, though his voice remained composed.

“You’re free to look for another way, Molly. I’ll help you, if there’s anything to be found. But we’re running out of time. Harry’s soul—what remains of it—is breaking down more rapidly than we feared.”

There was a sharp crack as Mr Weasley slammed his palm on the table, making everyone jump. His face was flushed, his breath coming fast and shallow.

“This is outrageous!” he bellowed. “We’ve spent our lives protecting our children, sheltering them from this war and all its horrors—and now you’re telling me that the only way to save Harry is by endangering them?”

He faltered, the anger draining away like water through cupped hands. His shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself, then turned a hard, burning gaze on Slughorn.

“Arthur,” Slughorn said softly, as if trying to reach him across the divide. “I swear to you, if there were another—”

“Don’t,” Mr Weasley interrupted, sharply. “Just—don’t.”

The silence that followed was deafening. It settled over the room like a pall, heavy and suffocating. No one moved. Everyone seemed locked in their own storm of dread and helplessness.

Then Ginny spoke.

“Mum. Dad.”

Her voice was quiet, but it carried. She stepped forward, chin lifted, her hands clenched at her sides.

“We know the risks. We’re not walking into this blindly. We’re choosing it. Because Harry chose us—again and again.”

Her words hung in the air, plain and unwavering.

“He saved us,” Ron said, stepping to her side. His voice was rough, cracking with emotion. “Every time. And he never asked for anything in return. It’s not right that he should suffer for something he didn’t choose.”

Hermione nodded fiercely, eyes burning.

“This isn’t just about loyalty,” she said. “It’s about what’s right.”

“Please,” Ginny whispered, her voice breaking. “Please trust us.”

Mrs Weasley stared at them, her breath ragged. Her shoulders slumped beneath the weight of their words. Then, as if something inside her finally gave way, she took a faltering step backwards.

Arthur caught her before she could fall, wrapping his arms around her with quiet urgency.

A sob tore from her throat. She clung to him as though letting go would break her.

“I’m just—so scared,” she choked out. “Percy—Percy was attacked, the Burrow’s not safe any more—and now this—this—”

“I know,” Arthur murmured, resting his chin atop her head, his voice thick. “I know, Molly. But we have to trust them. They’re not children any more. They’ve grown stronger than we ever imagined.”

They stood like that, wrapped in grief and fear, the truth of what lay ahead a chasm they could not cross for them.

Then came a sound—soft, barely more than a creak.

The doorway shifted.

All eyes turned.

Harry stood there.

A ghost of himself, all sharp edges and shadows, he leaned heavily against the doorframe. His knuckles were white where they gripped the wood, his arms trembling beneath the strain of holding himself upright.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t lift his head. But he didn’t fall.

They could see it in him—the weight of it all, the exhaustion written across his face like bruises. The injuries, the scars, the hollow look in his eyes—none of it compared to what he carried within.

An ache that wouldn’t heal.

A darkness that gnawed at the corners of his soul.

He wanted to give in. Merlin, it would have been so easy.

But he didn’t.

Somehow, impossibly, Harry stayed standing.

Mrs Weasley’s gasp broke the silence.

“Harry—what are you doing out of bed?”

Her voice was sharp, almost scolding, but beneath it was something raw—something desperate.

“You’re not strong enough. You should be resting, dear—please—”

Her words cut through him.

Rest.

How could he rest, when so many never would again?

When the dead weighed heavier than any injury?

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came. His throat was scorched dry by the things he hadn’t said—by guilt, by grief, by the unbearable fact of still being alive.

He swallowed once. Twice. It didn’t help.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely.

The words dropped into the room like stones. Too small for the weight they were meant to carry.

I’m sorry I’m alive.

Sorry I couldn’t save them.

Sorry you have to look at what’s left of me—

He shifted, and the world spun. A steadying hand caught his arm—Hagrid’s, warm and unshakable—but even that small act of kindness landed like a blow.

He didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve any of this.

“I never meant…” he tried, but the words disintegrated in his mouth.

He closed his eyes, tight, trying to hold it all in. But the wave was rising again—too fast, too strong.

“I never meant for anyone to get hurt… because of me.”

His voice barely carried. He didn’t know if they’d heard him. He wasn’t even sure it mattered.

Each breath was a battle. His body screamed to stop, to lie down, to let go. But he forced himself to stand, to keep speaking—because if he didn’t say this now, he might never find the strength again.

“I’m… so sorry,” he whispered, thick with unshed tears.

Mrs Weasley’s face crumpled.

And then—arms.

All around him. Tugging him in. Holding him together before he could fall apart completely.

He didn’t know whose arms they were—Ron’s, Hermione’s, Hagrid’s—it didn’t matter. He let himself be drawn in. Too tired to resist. Too hollow to pretend he didn’t need it.

Their warmth pressed against the empty spaces inside him. It couldn’t fill them. But it was something.

He clung to them. Shaking. Shamed.

He shouldn’t have come. He was only making things worse. Making them worry. Making them hurt.

Slowly, the embraces eased, peeling away with reluctance.

The room came back into focus through a haze of pain and weariness.

And then—Ginny.

She stood before him, unflinching, her eyes bright with tears she hadn’t let fall.

She didn’t speak. She just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, fierce and sure, as though she could hold him together by sheer force of will.

Harry folded into her. Buried his face in her shoulder.

She smelled of lavender and old woodsmoke—of something safe. Something remembered.

“It’s all right, Harry,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

That word struck him like a spell.

Together.

How could they still want him?

After everything he’d cost them?

He shook in her arms, silent sobs racking through him, too drained even to cry properly.

And still she held him. Though she was small, she held him up.

He drew a breath, shuddering, and lifted his head.

Her eyes met his. Steady. Sure.

No blame.

No anger.

Just love.

A single tear slipped down Harry’s cheek, scalding against his skin like acid on ice.

Ginny reached up, her fingers trembling as she brushed it away. Her touch was so gentle it nearly undid him completely.

In her eyes, he saw something he hadn’t dared believe in for days—hope.

Fragile. Flickering. But alive.

He clung to it like driftwood in a storm—desperate, uncertain, but unwilling to let go.

With Ginny steadying him, Harry managed to stay upright, though it felt like walking on crumbling ground. The grief in his chest pressed down like stone, a constant, merciless weight. And yet—her arm around his waist, her presence beside him—somehow, it was enough to keep moving.

Not courage. Not really.

Just desperation.

He leaned into her as they made their slow way back to his room, every step a struggle. His limbs felt heavy, uncooperative, like he was dragging the wreckage of his heart behind him. Each movement was clumsy, painful, and slow.

Behind them, voices murmured—Hagrid, Ron, Hermione, Mr and Mrs Weasley—staying back, giving them space.

A kindness he hadn’t had the strength to ask for.

When they reached the room, Harry all but collapsed onto the bed. The mattress gave a soft creak beneath him, oddly comforting in its familiarity. He leaned back against the headboard, the cool wood pressing between his shoulder blades.

The quilt twisted beneath his hands. He gripped it, searching for something solid, something that wouldn’t shift under him.

Ginny sat beside him, close enough that he could feel her warmth. It didn’t reach the cold lodged in his chest, but he was grateful for it all the same. He glanced at her—drawn, pale, her smile just barely holding on.

It hurt to look at her.

To see how much he’d hurt her.

The silence between them thickened, heavy with all the words they didn’t know how to speak. Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, jagged and unsure. He wanted to tell her he was sorry. That he was afraid. That everything inside him was falling apart.

But the words tangled in his throat, too twisted by fear to come out.

His fingers clenched in the quilt, his mind fraying at the edges.

And then, at last, he broke.

“I’m… forgetting things,” he whispered.

The words scraped raw against his throat. His voice sounded strange—thin, brittle, like it might crack and fall to pieces.

“There are moments when I don’t know where I am. I look around and nothing feels right. Like I’m somewhere I’m not meant to be. Like I’m someone else entirely.”

He forced himself to breathe.

“Sometimes I can’t even remember who my friends are.”

His fists tightened, shaking now.

“I can barely remember myself.”

The words dropped into the silence. Ginny’s breath caught beside him, sharp and small—but she said nothing. She didn’t have to. He saw the fear in her eyes, the helpless ache of it.

Harry dropped his gaze to his hands. They were trembling uncontrollably, the fear crawling from the inside out, showing itself whether he wanted it to or not.

Panic curled around his ribs, tight and suffocating, until he wasn’t sure if he was breathing at all.

Ginny moved closer. She wrapped her arms around him carefully, folding herself against him like she could shield him from the storm.

“Shhh…” she whispered, her voice soft and low. She stroked small, steady circles on his back, trying to soothe, to calm. But Harry could hear the tremor she tried to hide.

“You’re going to be all right. I promise.”

But he couldn’t believe her.

He wanted to. He wanted to.

But the fear inside him was too big.

Too loud.

He shook his head against Ginny’s shoulder, the words spilling from his mouth before he could stop them.

“Just now,” he said hoarsely, “when your mum came up to me… I didn’t recognise her. I looked straight at her and…” His throat closed up, thick with shame. “It was like looking at a stranger.”

Tears burned hot behind his eyes. He scrubbed at them with the back of his hand, furious, but it only made the shame heavier—thicker—choking him from the inside.

“I’m scared, Ginny,” he whispered, and it was as if saying it cracked something open inside him.

“I’m terrified of forgetting everything. Of forgetting… you.”

The panic came in fast—tightening like iron bands around his chest. The room began to close in, the air thinning, the walls pressing inward until all he could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat.

Ginny brought her hand up, cupping his cheek. She gently tilted his face until his eyes met hers.

Her smile trembled at the corners, but it was real. Fractured, yes—but real.

“There’s nothing you could ever forget,” she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Not really. I’m here, Harry. I’m right here.”

But the words, kind as they were, didn’t quite reach the broken parts of him. The fear had already sunk its roots too deep.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. It came out barely audible, a breath more than a word. “I’m so sorry.”

Ginny shook her head, fierce and fast. “Don’t you dare apologise,” she said, her voice breaking as she pulled him close again.

“You don’t have to hide from me. Not from me.”

For a long moment, Harry just held on—his breathing ragged, his thoughts frayed—clinging to her like she was the last steady thing left in a world turned inside out.

When the worst of it had passed—though the ache never left—he lifted his head just enough to speak, his voice low and broken.

“Do Ron and Hermione know?”

The question came like a guilty whisper. He already knew the answer. He could feel it in his bones.

Ginny hesitated. He saw it in her face—the flicker of pain, the way her lips pressed tight, like the truth hurt even to say.

But she didn’t lie.

“Everyone knows,” she said quietly. “Mum, Dad, Hermione… Ron. They all know.”

Her voice wavered. And Harry, seeing the sorrow etched so clearly in her face, felt something inside him splinter all over again.

He shut his eyes, letting the weight of it all crush him.

“I wish there was something I could do,” he whispered, his voice rough and hollow.

Ginny took his hands in hers, holding them gently but firmly. Her thumbs moved slowly over his knuckles, grounding him.

“We know it’s not your fault,” she said softly. “We know you’re fighting through more than we can see. What matters is that we get through it—together. With kindness. With patience.”

Her words should have comforted him. Maybe, somewhere deep down, they did. But mostly, they made the guilt rise again—hot and sharp—pressing behind his ribs.

He looked at her, blinking against the sting of more tears. Even now, with fear glinting in her own eyes, Ginny remained steady. Unshaken.

She deserved someone stronger than this. Stronger than me.

The guilt twisted, sharper now, laced with old memories—ones he could neither forget nor silence.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said suddenly, his voice raw. “What happened… at the Burrow.”

Ginny didn’t flinch. She didn’t move away. She stayed where she was, listening, her gaze never faltering.

“I was useless,” he choked. “I didn’t protect your parents. I let them down. You must’ve looked at me and seen nothing but a coward.”

The memories rose behind his eyes—Yaxley’s cold smile, the panic—his helplessness. The shame of it all twisted in his stomach.

“I knew something was wrong,” he said, barely able to get the words out. “And I was too slow. Too sick. Too broken to stop it.”

His hand pressed hard against his forehead, like he could push the memory out of his mind. As if he could force it to leave him.

“What Yaxley did… what happened…” His voice faltered again. “I should’ve done something. I should’ve been able to stop it. You must hate me.”

But Ginny didn’t answer.

She simply reached forward and wrapped her arms around him again, holding on as though nothing he’d said could ever make her let go.

“Harry,” Ginny said softly, her voice trembling at the edges but never quite breaking. “I don’t hate you. I couldn’t hate you. They’re alive. They’re safe. That’s what matters.”

But Harry shook his head, hard, shame rising like bile in his throat.

It wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

“I feel weak,” he admitted, the words tearing out of him, rough and jagged. “I feel useless. Like I’m just… waiting for the next thing to go wrong—and I’ll fail all over again.”

He swallowed, his mouth dry, the fear climbing in his chest until it felt like it might suffocate him.

“I can’t live with any more deaths on my hands, Ginny,” he whispered. “I can’t.”

He saw the pain flicker in her eyes, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t let it knock her down. Instead, she reached out, rubbing slow, steady circles into his back, her hand light and careful, as though afraid he might splinter beneath her touch.

“Shhh,” she murmured, pressing her forehead gently against his. “Don’t think about what’s gone. Think about now. We’ve got now. And you’re not alone, Harry. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The words folded around him like warmth, like a breath in a frozen room—but still, the sharp edge of fear remained, just beneath the surface, waiting to tear through him the moment he let his guard down.

“Will you promise to fight for us?” she asked quietly, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze.

Harry hesitated. The weight pressing down on him—grief, failure, illness—was suffocating. But somewhere deep inside, flickering like a dying ember, something stirred.

“I’ll try,” he said, his voice rough but honest.

Ginny gave a small, wobbly smile, then leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead—soft and reverent. She pulled him close again, her arms a shield against the cold pressing in at the edges of the room.

And for a moment, he let himself believe that maybe it would be enough.

But the shadows never stayed gone for long.

Harry drew back slightly, his hands shaking as he cupped her face, his touch gentle, but urgent.

“But I need you to promise me something too,” he said, the words catching in his throat.

Ginny’s eyes widened, her expression shifting, fear blooming across her features.

“What is it, Harry?”

He took a breath that felt like it scraped down his ribs.

“If things don’t go the way we hope—”

“No.” Her voice came sharp and immediate, laced with panic. She shook her head, tears already threatening. “Please don’t say that. Don’t even think it.”

“I have to,” he said, more forcefully this time. “You have to hear me. Because we don’t know what’s coming. We never did. You have to promise you’ll go on.”

Ginny’s tears broke free, slipping down her cheeks unchecked.

“But we’ve got the cure,” she said, barely more than a breath. “The potion’s ready. You’re going to get better. You have to.”

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t argue. He simply leaned forward, brushing his thumb gently across the tears on her face.

Then he kissed her—softly, but with every part of him. It wasn’t a goodbye, not quite, but it was something. Something he couldn’t put into words.

He pulled back only enough to rest his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling, shallow and broken.

“I love you,” he said quietly. Three words—simple, trembling, and everything.

Ginny let out a laugh, cracked with emotion, tears still spilling down her cheeks. Her hands came up to cradle his face like she was afraid to let go.

“I love you more,” she whispered.

And for one heartbeat, Harry let himself believe it. Truly believe it.

Even with the fear coiled tight inside him.

Even with the darkness crouched at the edge of the room, waiting.