FicWad

The sea raged against the cliffs beyond Shell Cottage, but inside the tiny room, the real storm was Harry—writhing, choking on his own screams.

Everything blurred. Pain burnt through him, savage and unrelenting, like something was trying to tear him open from the inside out.

He barely heard the crash of the front door and the frantic footsteps hammering closer.

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

He couldn’t answer. His lungs fought for air but filled only with a shuddering, broken sob. He felt himself slipping, sinking deeper into the blackness gnawing at the edges of his mind.

A weight dropped beside him on the bed. Hands brushed through his soaked hair, trembling. Mrs. Weasley’s touch was familiar, safe—but tonight even that safety couldn’t reach him.

“We’re here, sweetheart,” she whispered, voice tight with fear. “We’ve got you. You’re not alone.”

The pain cracked through him again, so fierce it forced another cry from his throat, raw and helpless. His body jolted against the bed. He caught a glimpse of faces swimming in the gloom—Bill’s grim, shadowed face at the door, Mr. Weasley hovering uncertainly, Ron and Hermione crushed together by fear, and Ginny clutching her own arms like she could hold herself together.

He wanted to tell them to leave. Wanted to scream at them to stop looking at him like that—as if he was already lost.

But he couldn’t even speak. Couldn’t even breathe properly.

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

Every potion they gave him made it worse, not better. His magic—whatever was left of it—seemed to rage against the help, like a trapped animal lashing out blindly.

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

Mr. Weasley stepped closer, voice trembling as he tried to sound steady. “Just breathe, Harry. Just breathe, son.”

I’m trying, Harry thought desperately. I’m trying.

Hermione bent over him, her voice cracking. “We’re all here, Harry. We’re not going anywhere. Please just hold on.”

Hold on.

Hold on to what?

He was so tired—so utterly, devastatingly tired. Like the fight was already lost, and all he was doing now was bleeding out slowly enough to watch it happen.

Mrs. Weasley wrapped him tightly in a blanket, rocking him gently. He wasn’t even sure if it was for him or for her.

Around him, the voices grew louder, more desperate. He picked out pieces, floating past him like driftwood:

“How could this happen?”

“…attacked in his office…”

“…imposter at the Burrow…”

Mr. Weasley’s voice, strained and cracking, fought through the haze. “I told you that Harry’s at the Burrow.”

“No—I never asked!” Percy barked, defensive and panicked.

“Yes, you did. You were at the Ministry yesterday, and you asked about Harry,” Mr. Weasley insisted.

“I wasn’t!” Percy nearly shouted. “I was out! Fireplace inspections!”

Another moan escaped Harry’s throat. His stomach twisted, lurching at every word.

Mrs. Weasley’s gasp stabbed the air, sharper than any curse.

“It wasn’t Percy.” Her voice trembled with the weight of the revelation. “It was Yaxley. Disguised as Percy.”

The room tilted again. Harry could almost see it—the false smile, the false trust, the enemy slipping past them all like smoke.

Mr. Weasley muttered a curse so vicious Harry flinched.

“If Yaxley’s still out there,” Mr. Weasley rasped, voice thick with horror, “then nowhere is safe.”

He folded in on himself, shame etched into every line of his body. “It’s my fault,” he whispered. “I should have known. I should have been more careful.”

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

But the words stayed trapped in his chest, buried under the crushing weight of his own guilt.

Because deep down, Harry knew it was his fault, too.

He wasn’t strong enough to protect them. He wasn’t fast enough or clever enough. He wasn’t enough.

Mrs. Weasley gripped Mr. Weasley’s shoulder fiercely. “You couldn’t have known,” she said, steady and certain even though her hand shook. “We’ll fight through this. We always do.”

Mr. Weasley didn’t answer. His head stayed bowed.

Hagrid, standing near the door like a mountain of grief, spoke at last, voice low and rough. “Ain’t no family stronger than yers, Molly. Don’ forget it.”

The words barely touched the darkness settling over the room.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, clinging to the only real thing he could feel—Mrs. Weasley’s hand, warm and solid around his own—even as he drifted further into the pain, deeper into the cold.

The world narrowed down to that one fragile tether.

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

And this time, he wasn’t sure he was going to win.

Because the darkness was finally winning.

It swallowed Harry whole without warning—one moment he was gasping for air, and the next, he was falling. Weightless. Empty.

The voices around him turned into echoes, hollow and distant. He could still feel the world trying to pull him back—hands gripping his, the sharp, panicked calls of his name—but he was slipping too fast, sliding down into something cold and bottomless.

Somewhere far above him, he heard Mrs. Weasley sob once, broken and helpless.

“He’s losing consciousness!” Hermione’s voice cracked sharply through the fog, frantic.

“Is he breathing?” Ron’s voice—raw, terrified.

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

But his body didn’t listen anymore.

Everything was heavy. His heart stuttered painfully in his chest, then picked up again in an uneven, staggering rhythm.

Mr. Weasley’s voice, shaking badly now: “We have to keep him warm—keep talking to him—don’t let him drift away—”

He felt hands all over him—Mrs. Weasley tucking the blanket tighter, Hermione casting warming charms that barely touched the ice crawling up his limbs, and Ron squeezing his arm like he could anchor him to the living world just by holding on hard enough.

Ginny was crying. Not loud, not dramatic. Quiet, small gasps, like she was trying to hide it but couldn’t stop.

“Harry, mate—stay with us, okay?” Ron’s voice was thick with fear. “You’re gonna be alright. Just hold on.”

Harry tried to move his fingers to give some sign he heard them. They barely twitched under Mrs. Weasley’s hand.

The pull of unconsciousness yawned wider.

He drifted down again, deeper, slipping through memories that weren’t really there—flashes of the Burrow burning, the sound of someone screaming his name, the feeling of something cold and merciless curling around his spine.

A jagged groan escaped him—pain breaking through even the numbness—and he felt Mrs. Weasley’s hand tighten around his.

“Stay with us, dear,” she whispered, her voice fierce through her 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—already cracked, already splintering.

Another wave of heat washed over him as Hermione tried again to heal him, murmuring desperate spells under her breath.

The magic burnt against his skin, too sharp, too much—he whimpered again before sliding even further away.

“He needs St. Mungo’s,” Percy said quietly, voice shaking. “He needs real healers—now.”

“We can’t move him,” Mr. Weasley said hoarsely. “It’s too dangerous. Not in his condition. Not with Yaxley still out there.”

For a second, no one spoke. The truth hung there, cruel and heavy: there was no safe place anymore.

And Harry… Harry was tired of running.

Tired of fighting.

Tired of pretending he could win.

It was the light that woke him.

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

But after so long lost in darkness, even that weak light burnt like fire behind his eyelids.

Harry groaned, the sound low and broken.

Every muscle in his body ached. His head throbbed with a slow, merciless beat. Breathing hurt. Even 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 voices.

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

Harry forced his heavy eyelids to crack open.

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

Mrs. Weasley was there, slumped in a chair by the bed, her head nodding with exhaustion, her fingers still locked with his like she hadn’t dared let go all night.

Mr. Weasley sat nearby, his face hollow and grey with worry, clutching a battered mug of untouched tea in his shaking hands.

Ron lay curled in a heap at the foot of the bed, fast asleep but still gripping Harry’s ankle like he might disappear if he didn’t hold on.

Hermione was perched in a corner chair, clutching a book she wasn’t reading, her eyes rimmed red.

Ginny—Ginny sat closest, knees pulled to her chest, her chin resting on them, watching him like she was afraid he might vanish if she blinked.

Harry’s throat was too raw to speak.

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

They stayed.

They didn’t leave me.

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

And yet, here they were.

Tired. Broken. Terrified.

But still here.

Harry’s fingers twitched weakly against Mrs. Weasley. She gasped, sitting up sharply.

“Harry?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Mr. Weasley was instantly at her side, setting the mug down with a clatter. Ginny unfolded herself in an instant, reaching for Harry’s hand, brushing his knuckles with trembling fingers.

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

Even Ron stirred from his exhausted sleep, rubbing his eyes, blinking blearily at him.

Harry swallowed hard. His mouth was dry, and it took everything he had just to rasp out a single word.

“…’m sorry…”

The room went still.

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

Hermione’s face crumpled, tears slipping free again.

Ron reached up and scrubbed his face hard with both hands, as if he could wipe away everything that had happened.

Mr. Weasley leaned closer, voice thick. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, son. You hear me? Nothing.”

Harry shut his eyes again because looking at them hurt more than anything else.

He didn’t deserve this much love.

Not when he’d failed them.

Not when the pain still wasn’t over.

Mrs. Weasley smoothed the damp hair from his forehead again, her hand warm and shaking.

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

Still here.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding, the tension in his body loosening, just slightly.

He wasn’t okay.

He wasn’t safe.

He wasn’t sure he ever would be again.

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, startling everyone inside. Chairs scraped back, and wands were drawn in an instant—everyone except Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, who leapt to their feet with a mixture of nerves and hope. They had been waiting for Professor Slughorn, their last real chance to save Harry.

Bill moved quickly, wand still drawn, and muttered the spell to let the visitor through. Being the Secret-Keeper of Shell Cottage, he had given Slughorn permission to find them without any trouble.

The door swung open.

“Professor Slughorn!” Hermione cried, her voice breaking with relief as she rushed to greet him.

The potions master stepped inside, lugging a heavy cauldron in one hand. Ron hurried to help, easing it onto the dining table, which was already cluttered with vials, herbs, and a thick, battered copy of the Animatextbook. The door shut behind them with a soft click, but the brief burst of relief faded just as quickly, swallowed up by the crushing worry that filled the house.

Without wasting a moment, they led Slughorn into Harry’s room.

The moment he laid eyes on Harry’s pale, feverish face, the professor’s confident air cracked. Though he forced a smile, Mrs. Weasley, standing in the doorway wringing her hands, saw it for what it was—a mask for guilt and fear. Slughorn had once been proud to call Harry his student. Now, seeing him like this, he looked like he was carrying a stone on his back.

“I’ve brewed something that may help,” Slughorn said quietly, reaching into the folds of his robe. He pulled out a small glass vial, filled with thick purple liquid that caught the light oddly. His hand shook, just barely. “It’s a healing elixir. Very strong. I made it just for Harry. But… if this doesn’t work…” His voice faltered. He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

Mrs. Weasley took the vial with trembling hands, holding it close.

Slughorn cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “I must brew the potion fresh—it can’t be made in advance. It’ll take about an hour, and it’s… complicated. One mistake, even a slight one, and we’ll lose our chance.”

He shuffled back toward the kitchen, setting up his cauldron with methodical care. The tension in the cottage tightened.

Ron exchanged a glance with Hermione, his face pale.

“I messed up half my potions at school,” he muttered under his breath. “Good thing it’s not me brewing, or Harry would be dead before the potion was ready.”

Hermione elbowed him lightly, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite the fear gnawing at her. She stepped forward, forcing steadiness into her voice.

“Professor, may I assist you?”

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

“Thank you, my dear, but this is delicate work. Best leave it to me.”

Hermione bit her lip, stepping back with reluctant obedience. She hated feeling useless.

Slughorn opened the Anima book to a marked page and began. A soft, rhythmic sound filled the cottage: chopping, grinding, stirring. Every movement was slow, deliberate. No one spoke. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Ron and Hermione hovered nearby, eyes following every stir of the ladle. Bill kept passing through, checking the potion and exchanging tense nods with Slughorn. Ginny stayed rooted near the doorway, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, peeking into Harry’s room every few minutes as if to reassure herself he was still there.

The smell of brewing magic filled the house—a rich, spicy scent that grew heavier as the potion thickened. Minutes dragged by like hours. Every tick of the clock on the mantel was a hammer against their nerves.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Slughorn straightened up. His face was lined with sweat, but his hands stayed steady. Three key ingredients had been added; only one step remained.

“We need Harry’s blood,” he said softly.

Ginny bolted toward Harry’s room, Ron and Hermione on her heels. They found Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Hagrid gathered around Harry’s bed. He looked so small, so breakable, his skin a sickly shade of grey under the dim light.

Ginny’s voice trembled when she spoke.

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

Hermione’s fingers fumbled inside her bag, pulling out a small silver knife. She knelt by Harry’s bedside, her heart pounding so loudly she could hardly hear herself speak.

“Harry,” she whispered.

His eyelids fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion. He blinked up at them, confused, but didn’t pull away when Hermione took his hand.

“We need a little blood… for the potion,” she said gently. “It’ll only hurt for a second.”

Harry gave a small, shaky nod and looked away, bracing himself. Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and made a quick cut across his fingertip. A bead of blood welled up instantly. She caught it carefully in a small glass vial, sealing it with a spell and healing his cut with a trembling flick of her wand.

“Thank you,” she whispered to him, but Harry was already drifting back into restless sleep.

They ran back to the kitchen. The tension was unbearable now, a tangible thing pressing against their chests.

Slughorn was waiting. Without a word, Hermione handed over the vial.

He uncorked it and, with a surgeon’s precision, tipped three drops into the cauldron.

For one terrible second, nothing happened. Then the potion began to shimmer, the dull grey brightening into a brilliant, silvery light. It thickened, swirling with an otherworldly glow that seemed to pulse with life.

Everyone leaned closer, hardly daring to breathe.

Finally, Slughorn stepped back, wiping his forehead with a trembling hand.

“It’s done,” he said quietly.

Ginny rushed to the table, her hands trembling so badly she almost dropped the goblets. She placed three ornate cups down, the sound of them clinking against the wood far too loud in the tense silence. She had gone over this moment a hundred times in her mind, but now that it was real, the fear inside her gnawed like sharp teeth against her stomach.

Mrs. Weasley watched her, frowning.

“Ginny, love, why three goblets?” She asked, her voice edged with confusion. “You only need one. It’s just Harry.”

Ron shifted awkwardly in his chair, darting a look at Hermione and then at Ginny. His palms were slick with sweat. He could hear his own heartbeat thudding against his ribs, heavy and fast, like a drum calling them into battle.

Ginny swallowed hard. Her chest tightened. “They’re for us, Mum,” she said, her voice barely stronger than a whisper.

Mrs. Weasley straightened, her frown deepening. “What do you mean, for you?” she asked sharply, leaning in as if she could force the answer out of her daughter’s trembling lips.

Hermione spoke up before Ginny could answer, her words rushed and shaky. “The book says anyone helping to heal Harry’s soul has to drink the potion,” she explained, her voice hoarse with fear. Her face was deathly pale, and she twisted the edge of her sleeve with frantic fingers.

Mr. Weasley’s eyebrows knit together. “That sounds… dangerous. Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low, serious.

Before Hermione could reply, another voice spoke from across the table.

“It’s correct,” Slughorn said heavily, stepping forward. His usual cheerful demeanour was gone, replaced by a grim solemnity that sent a fresh wave of dread through the room. “Only those who share a deep, true bond with Harry can attempt to heal his soul.”

Mr. Weasley didn’t look reassured. He folded his arms tightly across his chest.

“Does drinking it guarantee it’ll work?” he pressed.

Slughorn shook his head. “No. Drinking the potion is just the beginning. Afterward, they have to perform a spell—a very delicate, very dangerous one.”

Questions were fired from every corner like sparks from a fire.

“How will we know if it’s working?” Bill asked tensely, his hand curling into a fist on the table.

“We won’t, not straightaway,” Slughorn admitted, his voice dropping lower. “The book says the ones casting the spell will pass out—both them and Harry. If the ritual holds, they’ll eventually wake up. If it fails…” He trailed off, the unfinished sentence hanging like a noose over the room.

Hermione leaned forward urgently. “What happens after we cast the spell? What do we do?”

Slughorn gave a weary sigh. “Nothing. Once the spell is cast, no one can interfere. Not until they wake. If the ritual is interrupted—even by accident—it will fail.”

The air in the room grew dense, stifling, as if the walls themselves were leaning in to listen. Outside, the crash of distant waves sounded harsher, angrier, as if the sea knew what was at stake.

Percy’s voice, tight with fear, cut through the heavy silence.

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

The silence that followed was worse than any answer. No one moved. Even Slughorn hesitated, dabbing at the sweat on his brow with a trembling hand.

Before anyone could speak, Mrs. Weasley surged forward. Her movements were frantic, wild with fear. She grabbed the old, worn book from the table and flipped through it, her fingers flying over the brittle pages. Her other hand clutched at her chest, as if trying to hold herself together.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny shrank back instinctively. Mrs. Weasley’s temper was famous—and when it burnt, it left wreckage behind. Her anger now simmered just beneath the surface, hotter with every breath.

“You knew about this,” she hissed, glaring at them. Her voice cracked like a whip, laced with fear and fury. “You knew!”

Mr. Weasley stepped forward quickly. “Molly, calm down,” he urged, though his own voice shook with panic. “Let’s not—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, Arthur!” she snapped. She shoved the book toward him with a trembling hand. “It says right here—if they fail to heal Harry, they’ll face the same fate!”

The room erupted in shocked gasps. Bill went pale as parchment. Percy grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself. Even Arthur looked stricken, his mouth opening and closing uselessly.

Ginny stood frozen, her heart hammering painfully in her chest. The weight of it all—the risk, the terror, the awful possibility—threatened to crush her where she stood.

“We kept it from you,” Ron admitted, the words tearing from his throat. His heart pounded mercilessly against his ribs, each beat sounding louder in the crushing silence.

Mrs. Weasley drew in a sharp breath, her chest heaving.

“And why is that?” she demanded, her voice rising in pitch and fury. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, trembling not just with anger but with raw fear.

“Because we knew how you’d react,” Ginny said quietly, her stomach twisting with guilt. Her voice wavered under the weight of her mother’s furious gaze. “You wouldn’t have let us try. You would’ve stopped us before we even had a chance.”

“We had to keep it a secret,” Hermione added, her voice strained, brittle. “If we told you… we might have lost Harry before we even tried to save him.”

Their words fell into the room. Mrs. Weasley’s face shifted through a storm of emotions—betrayal, terror, heartbreak—as she tried to absorb it all. This was meant to be a family fighting side by side. Instead, it felt like the ground beneath them was splitting apart.

Mrs. Weasley planted her hands firmly on her hips, her stare cutting like knives as she turned to Slughorn.

“Horace,” she said, her voice trembling with fury, “did you know? Were you part of this too?”

Slughorn’s expression tightened. He bowed his head slightly, guilt hanging heavy around him like a thick cloak.

“Healing a soul is fraught with risk,” he said heavily. “I should have told you… but I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Weasley’s face flushed scarlet. She opened her mouth to shout, but Mr. Weasley got there first.

“Preposterous!” Mr. Weasley thundered, his voice shaking the windows. Rage, rare and powerful, surged through him like wildfire. The children instinctively drew closer together, rattled by the sight of their father’s fury. “It’s madness! Irresponsible! How could anyone sanction something so reckless?”

“There must be another way!” Mrs. Weasley cried, turning on Slughorn with a desperate, wild look. “There hasto be!”

Slughorn’s face was grave.

“There isn’t,” he said simply.

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

Slughorn’s voice was calm, almost unbearably so.

“I don’t know for certain. But Dumbledore’s judgements were clear—this is the only viable path he found. If there had been another way, he would have told us.”

Mrs. Weasley shook her head violently, as if trying to shake the terrible truth from her mind.

“I don’t believe it. I won’t!”

Slughorn’s eyes darkened with something like sadness, but his voice remained steady.

“You are free to search for another solution, Molly. I’ll help if there’s anything to be found. But time is not our ally. Harry’s soul—what’s left of it—is breaking down faster than any of us realised.”

Mr. Weasley slammed his palm down onto the table with a crack, startling everyone. His face was flushed, his breathing ragged.

“This is outrageous!” he roared. “We have spent our entire lives protecting our children—shielding them from the horrors of this world—and now you tell me the only way to save Harry is to risk their lives?”

He faltered then, the anger draining into something quieter, sadder. He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself before fixing Slughorn with a hard, blazing look.

“Arthur,” Slughorn said gently, trying to reach through the maelstrom of emotion. “I swear to you, if there were another way—”

“Don’t,” Mr. Weasley cut in sharply, his voice like a knife. “Just don’t.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Heavy and oppressive, it settled over them like a burial shroud. Each person seemed trapped in their own private storm of fear and despair.

Finally, Ginny spoke, her voice cutting through the gloom with surprising strength.

“Mum. Dad.” She lifted her chin, steady despite the tremble she fought to control. “We know the risks. We’re not being reckless. We’re choosing this. Because Harry chose us—over and over again.”

Her words hung in the air, a quiet but undeniable truth.

“He saved us,” Ron said, stepping forward, his voice rough with emotion. “Every time he had the chance. He didn’t even think twice. It’s not fair that he should suffer alone for something he didn’t cause.”

Hermione nodded fiercely beside them.

“This isn’t just about loyalty. It’s about right and wrong.”

“Please,” Ginny whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Please trust us.”

Mrs. Weasley’s shoulders sagged under the weight of their pleas. Her face crumpled, and she took a half-step back as if the strength had left her legs. Mr. Weasley moved quickly, wrapping his arms around her in a fierce embrace.

A broken sob tore from her throat. She clutched at him desperately, the dam finally breaking.

“I’m just—so scared,” she wept. “Percy—Percy was attacked; the Burrow isn’t safe anymore—and now this—this—”

Mr. Weasley rested his chin atop her head, holding her tightly as her grief poured out.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice thick. “I know, my love. But we have to trust them. They’re not children anymore. They’re stronger than we ever imagined.”

The family stood there, wrapped in the rawness of the moment, the terrible choice laid bare before them.

A subtle shift stirred in the air, a ripple through the heavy silence of the room.

The doorway creaked softly, and every head turned.

Harry stood there, barely more than a shadow, a hollow shape stitched together by stubbornness alone. His hand clutched the doorframe, white-knuckled, his legs trembling under him as if they might give out at any second.

He could feel the weight of their eyes on him—confused, alarmed—but he couldn’t lift his head to meet their gaze.

He didn’t want to see the fear there. He already carried enough of it inside him.

The bruises, the scars, the fresh wounds—they were nothing compared to what he felt inside.

A hollow ache.

A blackness that dragged at his bones, whispering that it would be easier to just let go, to fall, to vanish.

But he didn’t.

Somehow he stayed upright.

Mrs. Weasley’s gasp broke the silence.

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

Her voice was sharp, almost accusing, but beneath it trembled something desperate, something afraid.

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

Her words clawed at him.

Rest.

How could he rest?

When so many others would never wake again?

When did the dead weigh heavier on his shoulders than any injury?

Harry tried to speak, but the air refused to leave his lungs. His throat burnt, dry and raw from all the things he hadn’t said.

He swallowed, once, twice, as if he could force it down—the guilt, the grief, the unbearable shame of still breathing.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped.

The words fell into the room like stones, heavy and final. They didn’t even begin to cover it.

I’m sorry I’m alive. I’m sorry I couldn’t save them. I’m sorry you have to see me like this, broken, useless, dragging the ruin of myself into your home like some ghost that won’t lie down.

He shifted, and the world tilted.

A warm, massive hand steadied him—Hagrid, always there, always solid—but even that small kindness pierced him deeper. He didn’t deserve this care. Didn’t deserve any of it.

“I never meant…”

The words crumbled in his mouth.

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the sting, the rising wave that threatened to drown him here, in front of them all.

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

His voice barely carried across the room.

Every step forward was a war waged against his own failing body. His muscles screamed; his chest heaved for breath. He wanted to stop, to collapse, to sink back into the nothingness that called to him so sweetly—but he made himself move.

Because if he didn’t say this now, he might never have the strength again.

“I’m… so sorry,” he whispered, the words slipping through his throat thick with tears.

Mrs. Weasley’s face crumpled.

The dam broke.

And then—arms around him, everywhere, pulling him in, gathering him up like he might disappear if they didn’t hold tight enough.

He couldn’t tell who was hugging him—it didn’t matter. He let himself fall into it, too weak to resist, too empty to pretend he didn’t need it. Their warmth pressed against the hollow places inside him, trying to fill them—but the hollowness was vast, a bottomless ache that no amount of comfort could fully touch.

He clutched at them blindly, feeling small and helpless and ashamed.

He shouldn’t have come down here.

He was just making it worse.

Making them worry more and hurt more.

He should have stayed hidden, where the sight of him wouldn’t tear at their hearts.

The embraces eased, slow and reluctant, and the world swam into focus again through a haze of exhaustion and pain.

And then—Ginny.

She stood before him, fierce and unflinching, her brown eyes shining with unshed tears.

She didn’t hesitate.

She stepped into him, wrapping her arms around his battered body like she could somehow hold all his broken pieces together.

Harry folded against her, burying his face in her shoulder, the scent of her hair—clean, floral, safe—wrapping around him like a memory of better days he could barely remember.

“It’s okay, Harry,” she murmured, voice cracking under the weight of all she couldn’t say.

“We’ll get through this. Together.”

The words shattered something inside him.

Together.

How could they still want him?

After everything he had cost them?

He shook against her, silent sobs racking his frame, too exhausted even for tears to properly fall. He pressed closer, seeking something he couldn’t name, something he had lost long before he even knew he needed it.

Her arms tightened around him. She was so small compared to the weight he carried—but somehow, she held him up.

Slowly, Harry lifted his head.

Her eyes met his—steady, unflinching.

They didn’t blame him.

They didn’t hate him.

They loved him.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, burning like acid against his cold skin.

Ginny’s hand came up to brush it away with trembling fingers, her touch so gentle it almost broke him all over again.

In her eyes, Harry saw something he had forgotten how to believe in: hope.

Flickering, fragile—but alive.

He clung to it the way a drowning man clings to driftwood, desperate and unsure, but unwilling to let go.

With Ginny’s support, Harry managed to stay upright, but it felt like balancing on crumbling ground. The unbearable weight of grief pressed down on his chest, a constant, merciless ache, yet somehow, with her arm around him, he found the strength to move. It wasn’t courage, not really. It was desperation.

He clung to her as they shuffled painfully back to his room, his every step a grinding reminder of how much he’d lost—and how hollow he’d become. His legs barely obeyed him, each movement slow and clumsy, as though he were dragging the wreckage of his heart behind him.

He heard the low murmur of voices behind them—Hagrid, Ron, Hermione, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley—staying behind, giving them space. A small mercy he hadn’t known how to ask for.

When they finally reached his room, Harry all but collapsed onto the bed, the familiar creak of the mattress beneath him oddly comforting. He leaned back against the headboard, the cool wood pressing into his spine, anchoring him to the here and now.

The soft quilt tangled beneath his hands. He clutched it, desperate for anything steady as the storm inside him raged on.

Ginny sat down beside him, close enough that he could feel the heat of her body, though it barely reached the icy hollow in his chest. He glanced at her—pale and tired, her brave smile trembling at the corners.

It hurt to look at her. It hurt to see how much she was hurting because of him.

The silence between them thickened, heavy with all the words neither of them could say. Harry’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was, how terrified he was—but the words stuck, tangled up with the fear choking him.

His fingers twisted in the quilt as he tried to steady himself. His mind felt frayed at the edges, thoughts slipping away.

Finally, he broke.

“I’m… forgetting things,” Harry whispered, the words scraping raw against his throat. His voice sounded brittle, as if it might shatter under the weight of the truth.

“There are moments when I don’t… I don’t know where I am. I look around, and everything feels wrong, like I’m trapped in someone else’s life.” He forced a shaky breath. “Sometimes I can’t even remember who my friends are.”

He pressed his fists into the quilt, desperate to stop the trembling in his hands.

“I can barely remember myself.”

The confession hung there, heavy and ugly, sinking deep into the room’s silence. Ginny’s breath hitched softly beside him, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

He saw it all—the fear, the helplessness—in her eyes.

Harry dropped his gaze to his hands. His fingers shook uncontrollably now, as if his body was betraying the fear he couldn’t hide. Panic coiled tighter and tighter around his chest until he couldn’t tell if he was breathing at all.

Ginny moved closer, gently wrapping her arms around him, her warmth folding over him like a shield against the cold inside.

“Shhh…” she whispered, her voice low, soothing, but Harry could still hear the tremor she tried to hide. She rubbed slow circles on his back, each movement a small act of defiance against the darkness closing in around him.

“You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

But Harry couldn’t believe it. He wanted to—Merlin, he wanted to—but the fear was too big, too loud.

He shook his head against her shoulder, the words spilling out of him before he could stop them.

“Just now,” he said hoarsely, “when Mrs. Weasley came up to me… I didn’t recognise her. I stared right at her and…” His throat closed up, thick with shame. “It was like staring at a stranger.”

Tears burnt hot behind his eyes. He scrubbed at them furiously, but the shame only grew, thick and choking.

“I’m terrified, Ginny.”

The words cracked open something inside him.

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

The panic tightened around him like iron bands. He felt the walls pressing in, the air thinning, the world narrowing to the terror pounding in his chest.

Ginny’s hand moved to cup his cheek, gently forcing him to meet her gaze. Her smile was small, broken at the edges, but it was 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 her words, kind as they were, didn’t reach the broken parts of him. The fear was already too deeply rooted.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, barely able to get the words out. “I’m so sorry.”

Ginny shook her head fiercely. “Don’t you dare apologise,” she whispered fiercely, pulling him closer.

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

For a long moment, he just clung to her, his breathing ragged, trying to find something solid in the wreckage of himself.

Finally, when the worst of the storm had passed—though the ache never left—Harry lifted his head slightly, voice rough and broken.

“Do Ron and Hermione know?”

The question came out like a guilty whisper. He dreaded the answer, already knowing it deep down.

Ginny hesitated. He saw it—the flicker of pain in her eyes, the way her mouth tightened like she was fighting against telling him the truth. But she didn’t lie.

“Everyone knows,” she said at last, so softly he almost didn’t hear.

“Mum, Dad, Hermione… Ron. They all know.”

Her voice wavered. And Harry, seeing the sadness written plainly on her face, felt something inside him splinter all over again.

He closed his eyes, letting the crushing weight of shame and fear swallow him whole.

“I wish there was something I could do,” Harry whispered, his voice hoarse, almost lost against the stillness of the room.

Ginny’s hands tightened around his, grounding him, her thumbs brushing gently over his knuckles.

“We all understand the challenges you’re facing,” she said, her voice soft but steady, her strength threading through every word. “Even if none of us expected it… what matters now is that we get through this together—with kindness, with patience.”

Her words should have comforted him. Maybe they did, in some distant part of himself. But mostly, Harry just felt the guilt claw deeper into his chest.

He stared at her, blinking hard against the burn of tears. Even now, with fear shimmering in her own eyes, Ginny stood tall. Unwavering. Resilient.

She deserved someone stronger than this. Stronger than me.

The guilt shifted, sharpening into a painful edge as memories battered him—memories he couldn’t push away no matter how hard he tried.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he choked out, his throat thick with regret. His hands tightened helplessly around hers. “What happened… at the Burrow.”

Ginny didn’t move away. She just listened, her eyes never leaving his.

“I was useless,” Harry said, voice cracking under the weight of it. “I didn’t protect your parents. I—I let them down. You must have hated me for that. You must’ve looked at me and seen nothing but a coward.”

The images flashed behind his eyelids—Yaxley’s cruel grin. Harry remembered the helplessness, the terror of finding out the people he loved most were attacked and he was being too slow, too sick, too broken to stop it.

“When I think of it—” His words caught, the memory twisting like a knife in his stomach. “What Yaxley did… what happened…” His voice trailed off as nausea curled in his gut. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his forehead, as if he could crush the memory away.

“I should have done something,” he rasped. “I should have protected them. You must hate me.”

For a long moment, Ginny said nothing. Then she leaned closer, so close that Harry could feel the steady beat of her heart against his side.

“Harry,” she said quietly, her voice trembling at the edges but never breaking. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. They’re alive. They’re safe. And that’s what matters.”

But Harry shook his head fiercely, shame burning through him.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

“I feel weak,” he confessed, the words dragging out of him like barbs. “I feel useless. Like I’m just… waiting for the next disaster to happen, and I’ll fail all over again.”

He swallowed thickly, the fear rising in his chest until he thought he might choke on it.

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

He saw the flicker of pain cross her face, but she didn’t let it break her. Instead, she reached out and rubbed his back, slow and soothing, her touch careful as if afraid he might shatter completely.

“Shhh,” she murmured, pressing her forehead lightly to his. “Don’t think about what’s already gone. Think about right now. We have now. And you’re not fighting this alone. I’m here. Always.”

The words wrapped around him like a balm, but Harry still felt the sharp edges of fear under his skin, ready to tear him open at any moment.

“Will you promise to fight for us?” Ginny asked softly, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye.

Harry swallowed hard. The weight of it all—the sickness, the failures, the fear—pressed down on him like a mountain. But somehow, he found a small, fragile part of himself that could still respond.

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

Ginny gave a small, trembling smile and pressed a kiss to his forehead, the touch light and reverent. She pulled him closer, her arms a shield against the darkness creeping in around him.

For a fleeting moment, he let himself believe it might be enough.

But then the shadows returned, deeper than before, and Harry knew he couldn’t leave it unsaid.

He drew back, his hands shaking slightly as he took her face in his palms, his touch gentle but desperate.

“But I need you to promise me something too,” he said, his voice unsteady.

Ginny’s eyes widened, fear creeping into her expression.

“What is it, Harry?”

His throat tightened, but he forced the words out.

“If things don’t go the way we hope…”

Ginny shook her head violently, her voice rising in panic.

“Please don’t say that. Don’t even think it.”

“I have to,” Harry said fiercely, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs. “You have to hear me. You have to know. Because we can’t always predict what’s going to happen. We never could.”

Tears welled in Ginny’s eyes, slipping down her cheeks unchecked. “But we have the cure,” she said, her voice breaking. “We have the potion. You’re going to get better. You have to.”

Harry didn’t argue. He didn’t have the strength. Instead, he leaned forward, brushing his thumb over the tear tracks on her cheeks. He kissed her—soft and deep and aching with all the things he didn’t know how to say.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, the two of them breathing the same shattered breath.

“I love you,” he said simply, because it was the only truth he could trust anymore. It was everything—fear, hope, desperation, sorrow—wrapped into three trembling words.

Ginny let out a broken laugh through her tears, her hands framing his face like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go.

“I love you more, Harry,” she whispered.

And for a heartbeat, just one, he let himself believe in that love.

Even as the fear curled tighter inside him.

Even as the darkness waited patiently at the edges of the room.

Even as sleep pulled him under, Harry kept his hand wrapped tightly in Ginny’s, terrified of letting go.

She stayed beside him, her thumb tracing slow, endless circles over the back of his hand, a silent promise that he wouldn’t have to face the darkness alone.

And with her warmth anchoring him, Harry finally surrendered to sleep, though even in dreams, the fear and love tangled together in his chest, impossible to tell apart.