FicWad

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the goblet in his hands. The potion inside swirled silver and slow.

Everything was ready.

Slughorn, Hagrid, Mr and Mrs Weasley—they were waiting outside his room. The ritual had been prepared. Every precaution taken. Every moment leading to this.

His fingers curled slightly round the stem of the goblet.

A coil of panic twisted low in his chest.

Not yet.

He didn’t know exactly what he needed—only that he couldn’t do it. Not now. Not without seeing them.

Not without saying something.

The idea of stepping forward, of his friends drinking the potion, without seeing Ron, Hermione, and Ginny again—it was unbearable. Like walking off a cliff blindfolded.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

He could almost hear Hermione now, lecturing him through clenched teeth about the risks of delay, about protocol, about the narrow window of stability for the potion. Ron would agree, trying not to look too worried himself. And Ginny—

Ginny would understand.

She always did.

Even so, asking felt selfish. Everyone had done their part, and were counting on him not to falter.

But if he left this room and proceeded without that last moment—without talking to them—something inside him would break. Something he might never put back together.

He swallowed against the tightness in his throat, and called out, voice thin and hoarse.

“Mrs Weasley?”

She appeared almost at once, as if she’d been hovering just beyond the door.

“I… I need a little more time,” he said quietly. “Please.”

She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at him, long and searching. Not angry. Just… worried. And tired.

At last, she gave a short nod, though her lips were pressed tight.

“If you start feeling worse,” she said, her tone brisk but not unkind, “you call for us. At once, Harry. Promise me.”

“I promise,” he said, though they both knew he might not.

She hesitated at the door, like she wanted to say more—but in the end, she just left him to the silence.

And the waiting.

And the goblet still untouched in his hands.

Wrapped in blankets Ginny had fussed over far more than necessary, Harry shuffled slowly across the back garden of Shell Cottage with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny flanking him like sentries. They didn’t speak much. The wind carried too much silence already.

Dobby’s grave lay tucked near the edge of the cliffs, where the land dropped away to sea and sky. The headstone, still simple and weathered, bore only the words:

HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF.

Someone—probably Luna—had left fresh flowers. Bright, haphazard colours jutted out from the grass, defiant against the wind.

Harry sank down slowly, grimacing as a sharp pain twisted in his side. Ginny was there instantly, fussing with the blankets again, her fingers trembling slightly despite the care she took.

Harry reached out, brushing the cold surface of the stone.

I wish you were here, Dobby. I wish you could tell me how to be brave.

Grief swelled in his chest, thick and suffocating. It lodged behind his eyes and throat, prickling at the edges of his composure.

He looked out at the sea—wide, endless, always in motion. Its rhythm calmed something in him. The crashing of the waves filled the space where words had no place.

But then—another jolt of pain. It flared sharp and sudden through his ribs, and he clenched the edge of the blanket, trying to ride it out without drawing attention.

“Are you all right?” Ginny’s voice was low but urgent.

Harry forced his eyes open and met hers. There it was again—worry, bright and aching in her face. Ron and Hermione stood close, both clearly trying not to look as alarmed as they were.

He hated it. Hated being the reason they looked like that.

“I get pain sometimes,” he said quietly, almost reluctantly. The words scraped out like they cost him something. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

The smile he gave them felt hollow the moment it left him.

Ron didn’t look reassured. “Maybe we should head back—”

“No,” Harry cut in, firmer than he meant to. “I want to stay. I want to be here… with him.”

And he did. The grave was steadying in a way nothing else had been. A quiet place where he could breathe, even through the ache.

They let the matter drop, but the silence that followed was thicker than before. Full of everything they weren’t saying.

Ginny shifted closer and rested her head against his chest. He closed his eyes, letting the weight of her, the steady rhythm of her heart, anchor him against the part of him that still felt like it might drift away entirely.

He thought of Dobby’s death again. Of Fred’s. Of Lupin and Tonks. Sirius. Dumbledore.

Death had followed him for so long—it felt almost natural now. Like something he carried in his bones.

“I miss Dobby,” Hermione said suddenly. Her voice was quiet, as if any louder might break the fragile stillness around them.

She was sitting cross-legged now, running her fingers through the grass at the foot of the grave.

“He was braver than any of us,” she murmured. “He always knew what was right. And he did it, even when no one else would.”

Ron gave a short, cracked laugh. “Still can’t believe he called me Wheezy.”

Harry let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Almost. “He wasn’t just brave,” he said. “He was loyal. He was a proper friend.”

He reached out again, fingers brushing the stone, as if Dobby might feel it somehow.

The word friend felt far too small—too hollow—for what Dobby had truly been.

“You were his hero, Harry,” Hermione said, her voice tight with emotion. “He loved you. He trusted you.”

Harry swallowed hard. The pain in his chest cinched tighter, like something physical.

I don’t deserve that.

“He chose to help you,” said Ron quietly, almost as though he’d read Harry’s mind.

“But he died because of me,” Harry murmured. His voice barely rose above the sound of the wind and the distant crash of waves.

Ginny straightened beside him, sharp with defiance. “He died because Bellatrix killed him. Not because of you.”

“I told him not to try and save me again,” Harry said. The guilt sat heavy in his gut, thickening with every word. “I told him. But he didn’t listen. He died—he died—because he thought I was worth saving.”

“And you are,” Hermione said fiercely. “You always were.”

Harry didn’t argue. He let the words fall over him like rain—cold, uncertain, half-believed. But he wanted to believe them. Merlin, he wanted to.

Ron rested a hand on his shoulder, just for a moment. A simple, steady weight.

“Dobby made his choice,” Ron said. “Same as the rest of us.”

Harry looked at them then—his friends, his family. They had fought beside him, bled beside him, stood by him when he’d had nothing left but fear and fragments. And still, they were here.

“You three…” His voice broke. He swallowed and tried again. “You’re my family. You always have been.”

Hermione’s eyes filled. She turned quickly, dabbing at them with her sleeve. Ron glanced away, pretending to watch the waves. Ginny leant in, her forehead gently resting against his.

“And you’re ours,” she whispered. “Always.”

Harry closed his eyes, letting it wash over him—their warmth, their stubborn love, their unwavering belief in him, even now. Even when he couldn’t believe in himself.

If the ritual goes wrong… he thought, but didn’t say. Even if this is the end… He would carry this. He would carry them.

“I love you,” he said simply. “All of you. Thank you… for everything.”

The words lingered in the air, tender and unguarded. None of them spoke. Ron, Hermione, Ginny—they just looked at him, as though he’d cracked something open inside himself that none of them were quite ready to touch.

It felt like he’d opened a door he hadn’t even realised was locked—and now the light had spilled out.

He didn’t stop there. The vulnerability pressed against his chest, and the words came like water through a broken dam.

“Not everyone’s lucky enough to have friends like you,” he said, voice thick. “Before Hogwarts—before you lot—I didn’t have any friends at all. Dudley made sure of that.”

He paused, the old shame prickling down his spine. Just saying the name made his skin crawl.

“I was different. And I paid for it. Every single day.”

The sea answered for them, rumbling low against the cliffs, constant and ancient.

He turned his gaze outwards—towards the far-off line where sea met sky. For a moment, his memories flickered—flashes of cold dinners, locked cupboards, silence and bruises and endless, endless loneliness.

“When I got my letter,” he said quietly, “I didn’t think I’d make friends. I thought Hogwarts would just be another place where I’d be on my own. A freak. Out of place.”

He looked down, his hand tightening in the folds of the blanket around his knees.

“But then,” he said, and a ghost of a smile played at the corners of his mouth, “you showed up.”

He glanced at Ron, the smile gaining just a little strength.

“At the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. I thought I’d missed the train. I thought I’d be stuck with the Dursleys forever. But you… you helped me. You sat with me. You shared your sandwiches. You were my first friend.”

Ron flushed a deep crimson, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, well…” he muttered. “You looked properly lost. Figured you needed someone.”

Harry let out a soft, breathless chuckle. “I did. More than I ever knew.”

He paused. The emotion rose thick in his throat, threatening to choke the words back down. It would’ve been easy—habit, even—to make a joke, to brush it aside with a grin. But he didn’t. He made himself stay in that raw, unguarded place. Made himself say what needed saying.

“I was so lost back then,” he admitted. “Spells, magical creatures… all the history everyone else already seemed to know. I didn’t have a clue. I felt like I didn’t belong—like I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t.”

Ron grinned, his earlier embarrassment ebbing into something gentler. “You were properly clueless,” he said, nudging Harry’s knee with his own. “But look at you now—Saviour of the Wizarding World! The Boy Who Lived! The Chosen One!” He threw his arms wide, voice booming with mock grandeur. “The—you know—all that rubbish.”

Harry groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “Please stop. You make it sound ridiculous.”

“Because it is ridiculous,” Ron said with a bark of laughter. “You’re still the same bloke who scribbled rubbish in Trelawney’s essays and once thought Expelliarmus was the answer to everything.”

“And who leapt on a troll’s back before shoving his wand up its nose,” Hermione added slyly, her smile fond and gleaming with mischief.

Harry let out a shaky laugh, torn between embarrassment and affection. His chest ached, but it was a better sort of ache. The kind that came from being seen—known—loved.

He lowered his hands and looked at them—really looked at them.

“You know,” he said slowly, voice quieter now, “I couldn’t have done any of it without you. Not just the essays. Or the trolls. All of it. Surviving first year… finding the stone… fighting that bloody basilisk… the Triwizard Tournament…”

His throat tightened again. But he didn’t stop.

“I wouldn’t have made it past the first night without you.”

The truth of it hit him squarely in the chest. He let it. How many times had they saved him? Not just from dark magic or Death Eaters—but from himself? From silence, from loneliness?

Ron looked like he was about to speak, but Harry pressed on, rushing to say it before the moment passed.

“If you hadn’t sat with me on the train… If Dobby hadn’t blocked the barrier second year… If you hadn’t followed me into the forest, or played that life-sized chess game… I wouldn’t be here.”

Ron gave an exaggerated shudder. “Don’t remind me of the forest. I still have nightmares about those bloody spiders.”

Hermione and Ginny laughed, and for the briefest moment, the grief thinned. The fear, the uncertainty—it all receded like a tide, leaving behind something warm and golden.

Harry grinned, a true grin this time, the kind that reached his eyes.

“Honestly, Ron, I thought you were going to wet yourself.”

“I almost did!” Ron said indignantly. “Anyone would’ve, if a spider the size of a ruddy car was trying to eat them!”

Their laughter burst out, full and unrestrained. It tumbled across the windswept cliff like something free. For a heartbeat or two, it felt like everything was going to be all right. Not because the world was safe—but because they were here.

And when the laughter faded, when only the echoes and the sea remained, Harry turned to Hermione.

His voice softened. “And you…”

She blinked, caught off-guard by the shift in tone.

“Hermione… you’ve been my anchor. My brain. My moral compass.”

He gave a quiet chuckle. “You always knew when I was being an idiot. Which… was most of the time.”

She flushed and looked down, brushing at her sleeve. “Well. Someone had to keep you alive.”

Harry smiled. Not the weary sort, but one tinged with something gentler.

“You did more than that,” he said. “You kept me human.”

Hermione looked up sharply, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“You were my light,” Harry said, voice barely above a whisper. “When I couldn’t see anything but darkness. You believed in me… even when I didn’t believe in myself.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She gave a laugh—half sob, half smile—as she wiped it away. “I just saw who you really were before you did.”

Ron leaned over, smirking. “Oi, don’t get too sentimental. We’ve still got to live with his swollen head after this.”

Harry barked out a laugh, the sound raw but real. Emotion bubbled inside him—grief and love, sorrow and hope—all tangled together in a way that made it hard to breathe.

He looked at them and understood, with a quiet, aching certainty, that whatever came next, this was what mattered. Not the battles. Not the glory. Not the bloody damaged soul.

This.

This love. This loyalty. This ridiculous, stubborn, beautiful friendship.

“I love you a lot,” he said again to Hermione, plainly. “You’re my home. You always have been.”

Ginny gave his hand a gentle squeeze. Ron thumped his shoulder in that rough, brotherly way of his. Hermione leaned in, arms tight around his neck, burying her face against him.

Harry smiled at her through the sting behind his eyes, her tears stirring something deep and old and rooted in his chest. His throat burned. But he breathed through it—slow, steady—determined to be present for every second.

Moments like these didn’t come often. Maybe they never would again.

Ginny shifted closer against him, tucking herself along his side. Her hand found his again, fingers threading through his, warm and familiar. He squeezed back, grounding himself in that touch.

A soft breeze drifted in from the sea, carrying the scent of salt and flowers. Somewhere behind them, the waves rolled against the cliff face, patient and constant.

And Harry wished—longed—to trap this moment, lock it away in his chest, preserve every heartbeat of it. The colours of the sky. Ron’s ginger hair catching fire in the light. The way Hermione blinked quickly against tears. Ginny’s thumb tracing slow, steady circles over his knuckles.

The ache in his chest deepened, but it wasn’t just pain anymore. It was gratitude. Fierce. Piercing. Almost too much to bear.

For a while, they didn’t speak. They just sat, still and close, gathered around Dobby’s grave, wrapped in each other like a charm too old and too strong to break.

Then, softly, Hermione whispered, “I’m sorry if I ruined the mood.”

“You didn’t,” Harry said at once and managed a faint chuckle.

Ron rolled his eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh.

“You’ve been there through everything,” Harry went on, voice low and steady now, though every word came heavy with feeling. “Even when… well. Even when Ron wasn’t.”

He cast Ron a sideways look—half teasing, half not.

“Oi,” Ron said, folding his arms. His voice was indignant, but there was a faint flush climbing up his neck. “I’m always on your side. You wouldn’t call me your best mate if I wasn’t.”

But beneath the protest was something else—something real. A flicker of hurt. And Harry saw it. Felt it. And regretted the jab, just a little.

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his forehead. “I know. You are. But… you did doubt me. During the Triwizard Tournament.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. And once they had, he didn’t take them back.

“That hurt,” he said quietly. “More than I let on.”

Ron went still. For a long moment, he just stared at Harry, stunned. Then he looked away, out to sea, his jaw tight.

“I said I was sorry, didn’t I?” he muttered. “I was stupid. I know that. I—I was jealous and scared, all right? I’ve always been scared of being second best.”

Harry’s heart twisted.

Merlin, they were all so tired, weren’t they? So human. So full of guilt and fear and love.

He wished he could go back—back to that lonely fourth year—and tell that angry, frightened version of Ron that none of it mattered. That they’d come through it. That this—this—was what lasted.

“I know,” Harry said again, with more weight. More truth. He leaned forward, catching Ron’s eye.

“I forgave you ages ago. I couldn’t stay angry at you. You’re my brother, Ron.”

There was a long pause—the kind of silence that didn’t need filling. Ginny gave Harry’s hand another gentle squeeze. Hermione dabbed at her cheek again, smiling shakily through tears.

Ron’s mouth tugged into a grin. “Well, just for that, I’m going to start giving you grief about my sister.”

Harry laughed—genuinely, this time—grateful for the shift in mood. “Please don’t. I’m not sure I’d survive your mum’s wrath if she thought I upset Ginny.”

Ginny elbowed Ron hard, her eyes glinting. “Don’t even think about it, Ronald Weasley,” she said, mock-threatening but with a spark of mischief. “Or I’ll make sure Hermione gives you more grief than you’ve ever known.”

Hermione folded her arms, smirking. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Ron muttered, trying for put-upon and missing by a mile. “Now I’ve got both of you against me.”

Harry and Hermione burst into laughter, and Ron cracked, chuckling despite himself. The sound of their laughter—familiar and full—was a balm. It cut through the ache in Harry’s chest and left something lighter behind.

When it faded, Harry turned back to Ron. Something heavier sat behind his smile now—something he needed to say.

“But seriously,” he said quietly, voice rougher than before, “thank you, Ron. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. You’re my family. And I hope… in twenty years’ time, we’ll still be laughing about all of this. About everything we made it through.”

Ron’s grin faltered a little. His expression softened—vulnerable for just a moment—then he clapped Harry on the shoulder, a bit too hard. “We will, mate,” he said, voice thick. “We will.”

Harry swallowed, the lump in his throat pressing harder.

Then Ron added, with a glint in his eye, “You’re only saying all this because you’re scared of what I’ll do if you break Ginny’s heart.”

Harry let out a slightly nervous chuckle, glancing helplessly at Ginny. “Maybe a bit.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, though her smile was fond, full of something steady and sure.

The laughter faded, but what remained was something calmer. Warmer. A kind of peace that settled over them as the sky deepened into twilight. Stars began to prick the darkening blue overhead, quiet and distant.

Harry caught a movement out of the corner of his eye—Hermione’s face crumpling again. Tears spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them.

“Oh, Hermione—” he said, moving instinctively towards her.

She shook her head sharply, brushing her face with the back of her hand. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I just—this means everything. You two. All of you. You’re everything to me.”

Before they could answer, she threw her arms around them both, hugging them so tightly Harry felt his ribs protest—but he didn’t care. He held on.

Ron gave a muffled grunt from beside her. “Oi, Hermione—ease up. Harry’s already half-dead from snogging Ginny all day.”

Ginny thwacked him on the arm, but she was laughing too.

Hermione sniffed, pulling back with a small, self-conscious laugh. She sank back into her seat, cheeks flushed, eyes still glistening. She tried to wipe them discreetly, but the smile on her face gave her away.

Harry turned to her again. The words came almost casually, like if he said them lightly enough, they might not cut so deep.

“Thanks, Hermione.”

He tried to sound light. Even smiled—just a little. But the ache in his chest pressed harder, sharp and splintering.

Hermione blinked, a little surprised, then looked closer. When she saw the truth on his face, her own expression softened.

Harry didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

“You’re…” He hesitated. Swallowed. “You’re the best friend I could have asked for.”

He let out a quiet laugh—thin and cracked. “You believed in me. Even when I was a right mess. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

Hermione’s lips trembled. Her eyes welled again.

“You kept me going,” Harry said. The smile dropped now—couldn’t hold. “You made me better. You taught me what it meant to be brave. And kind. And human.”

He blinked furiously, the sting behind his eyes unbearable. He wasn’t going to cry—not now. Not when he still had more to say.

“You’re like a sister to me,” he whispered, pushing the words out through the tightness in his throat. “You’re my family. You always have been.”

And that was it. The words shattered the last of his composure.

The smile broke. The grief behind it spilled over.

Hermione’s face crumpled again as fresh tears slid down her cheeks—quiet, unrelenting.

Across from them, Ron turned sharply. His face had gone pale, his fists clenched uselessly at his sides, like he didn’t know where to put the ache twisting in his chest.

“Look what you’re doing to her,” he said, but his voice cracked on the last word. It wasn’t anger—not really. Just pain. Raw and helpless.

He reached for Hermione, pulled her against him, and she buried her face in his chest, sobbing. He held her close, tighter than Harry had ever seen.

Harry looked away, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. His fingers curled into the hem of his jumper, gripping the coarse wool like it might anchor him.

Don’t fall apart. Not now. Not when they need you.

He let out a choked laugh, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. “Listen to me,” he said, hoarsely. “I sound like one of those poor sods writing letters from the front. Give it another minute and I’ll be leaving you my Firebolt and a list of my favourite Chocolate Frog cards.”

He tried to make it a joke.

He really did.

But his voice cracked on the last word, and the air seemed to break with it. Hermione sobbed harder. Ron looked like he’d been punched. Ginny leaned into Harry, pressing her forehead to his shoulder, her whole frame trembling.

Harry shut his eyes, the tears burning behind them. He couldn’t hold it in—guilt, love, fear, all crashing in on him at once.

I’m sorry, he thought desperately, trying to summon another smile. I just didn’t know how else to say goodbye.

But the fear was too big now.

The truth was too sharp.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, so quietly he wasn’t sure they’d heard. “I’m scared I won’t get another chance. To say everything I need to say.”

He swallowed hard, the salt of his own tears catching in his throat.

“I’m scared this might be the last time.”

Hermione shook her head, still clinging to Ron like she couldn’t let go. “No,” she choked out. “You’ll have more chances, Harry. This isn’t—this can’t be the end.”

But Harry could feel it pressing in. The weight of what was coming. The cold certainty that he might not walk away this time.

Still, he smiled. Tried to. For them.

It was a brave smile.

A broken one.

The tears slipped past it anyway.

Ginny’s hand found his, fingers slipping into his with quiet urgency.

Ron reached over and grabbed his shoulder—rough, steady. Bruising comfort.

None of them said anything after that.

They didn’t need to.

Harry sat in the silence, letting it fill him. Letting the pain run its course. He couldn’t hold it back anymore, and maybe that was all right. Maybe it was time to stop trying.

He reached out and rested his hand on the little mound of earth before him. His fingers traced the jagged stones marking the grave, trembling.

For a long moment, he just breathed. Letting the wind whip through his hair. Letting the silence speak where words couldn’t.

Thank you, Dobby, he thought fiercely. Thank you for saving us. For being brave when I wasn’t. For choosing freedom, even though it costs you everything.

His eyes slipped shut. The grief clawed at his throat again.

I’m sorry you’re not here to see the world you fought for. I’m sorry we didn’t save you in time.

Goodbye, Dobby. I promise—we’ll make it matter.

He bowed his head once more. The tears slid quietly down his face, unseen.

When he finally rose, legs trembling beneath him, the others were waiting.

Waiting to steady him, if he couldn’t do it himself.

He looked down at the grave one last time, chest aching, stretched too tight with everything he couldn’t say.

Then he turned. Walked back to them. Back to what was left.

The lights of Shell Cottage glimmered ahead—small, warm, fragile against the dark.

Harry walked towards them, stumbling but unyielding.

He didn’t know what came next.

Only that he loved them too much to leave anything unsaid.

No matter what it cost him.

Harry’s world was slipping out of focus. The candlelight flickered, blurring at the edges of his vision, casting long, shifting shadows across the table. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him—watchful, quiet, laced with something that looked too much like pity. Like they expected him to shatter at any moment.

The air felt thick and damp, clinging to him like a heavy cloak he couldn’t shrug off. It made breathing difficult. Thinking worse.

They were all sitting together, plates untouched, forks clinking half-heartedly against crockery. But it wasn’t a meal—not really. It was staging. A pause. The kind of quiet that comes before a storm when no one wants to speak aloud what they all know is coming.

The ritual. The potion. The desperate attempt to fix him.

Fix him.

Harry wasn’t sure he even believed in the idea anymore.

Across the table, Mr and Mrs Weasley moved their food around without speaking. No stories, no warmth, no chatter. Just drawn faces and downcast eyes. Their silence said everything—they were afraid.

Harry took another mouthful of the Invigoration Draught, hoping it would bring some kind of lift, some flicker of energy or strength. But the potion hit his throat like fire, bitter and sour, and the moment it reached his stomach, a surge of nausea rolled through him like a crashing wave. His hands clutched at the edge of the table, knuckles white.

His head throbbed violently. Every breath felt raw, as if he’d been running for miles. Pain bloomed behind his eyes, relentless and sharp.

He pressed trembling fingers to his temples, trying to push it back, but the pounding only grew worse. The world tilted. His vision swam. And suddenly he couldn’t pretend anymore. Couldn’t fake being fine. Couldn’t fake being strong.

Maybe this is it, he thought, distantly. Maybe I’m slipping for good.

Strangely, he wasn’t frightened. Not really.

Just tired.

So tired it made his bones ache.

He was too drained even to be afraid of dying. Somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice welcomed the idea. At least here—at Shell Cottage—he wasn’t alone. That thought, fragile and aching, made something twist inside him.

He just wanted to sleep. To let go.

He closed his eyes.

The voices came first, muffled and far-off, as though underwater. Then sharper. Urgent.

“Harry! Harry!”

A hand shook his shoulder, gently but firmly.

“Harry, are you alright?” Ginny’s voice. Clearer now. Frightened, but steady. It anchored him.

He forced his eyes open. Everything blurred for a moment. Shapes swam and settled. Ginny’s face hovered in front of him—her brow creased, her brown eyes wide with worry. Her hand was on his arm, grounding him.

“I’m okay,” he rasped.

It wasn’t true. They all knew that. But it was the only thing he could manage.

He tried to sit up, tried to look less like he was about to collapse, but the room swayed again and he had to close his eyes to keep from falling sideways. When he opened them again, Ginny hadn’t moved. Her gaze held something fierce now—something stubborn and unyielding. Like she could make him stay upright by force of will alone.

“You’re not okay,” she said quietly. “You need to lie down.”

There was no reprimand in her voice. Just quiet insistence. A way out he hadn’t been able to ask for.

Harry hesitated. Some foolish part of him wanted to refuse—to show he was still strong, still standing. But he wasn’t. Not really. And the pain in his chest was too much.

He gave a small, silent nod.

Ginny barely waited for him to nod before turning to the others. Chairs scraped back from the table all at once, the heavy silence snapping as the room erupted into quiet, purposeful movement.

“I’ll carry yeh, Harry,” Hagrid said, already half-risen, his enormous hands twitching at his sides, like he was afraid Harry might break if he touched him.

“No—” Harry shook his head, though the motion made his skull throb. “Just… help me walk. Please.”

Hagrid’s face softened immediately. He understood. He always did. Moving with uncharacteristic gentleness, he came to Harry’s side and placed one vast, steady hand beneath his elbow.

“Alright. Easy now,” he murmured.

Harry pushed himself upright. His knees nearly buckled beneath him, but he clenched his jaw and forced himself to stand, leaning heavily into Hagrid’s support. Each step felt like dragging himself through treacle, each breath a fresh flare of pain down his throat and into his chest.

Ginny stayed close on his other side, her hand brushing lightly against his back—comfort without pressure, presence without weight.

“Slow and steady,” she said softly. “You’re doing brilliantly.”

Ron and Hermione hovered just behind, silent, but close enough to catch him if he slipped. Hermione reached out and squeezed his shoulder briefly. The warmth of her touch, fleeting and familiar, cut through the numbness that had settled inside his ribs.

Step by step, he moved. He focused on his bed—safe, still, somewhere he could finally let go without feeling like he had to hold himself together for everyone else.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Whether the ritual would work. Whether he’d even wake up again.

He glanced sideways at Hagrid, unease prickling at the back of his neck. Normally, Hagrid wore his heart on his sleeve. His face always gave him away—delight, worry, pride, heartbreak. But now, his expression was tight, unreadable. His shoulders were drawn in, and his mouth had settled into a firm, grim line.

It unsettled Harry more than he liked to admit.

“Hagrid?” he asked, his voice rough. “You alright?”

Hagrid startled slightly, as though yanked out of some deep, unwelcome thought. He gave a low, awkward cough and waved a hand.

“Eh? Yeah—yeah, I’m fine, Harry. Just thinkin’, tha’s all.”

But his voice didn’t carry its usual warmth, and Harry saw how his eyes didn’t quite meet his. The furrow in his brow hadn’t eased. His hands kept flexing and unflexing by his sides.

When they reached the bedroom, the sight of it hit Harry like a sigh. The walls, the small trunk at the end of the bed, the patch of moonlight spilling across the wooden floor. All of it was familiar. And yet tonight, even that felt distant. Blurred by pain, by exhaustion, by fear.

He sank down onto the edge of the bed, breath shuddering. Just sitting upright was an effort.

Before he could say a word, Hagrid moved.

Two strides and he was there, pulling Harry into a hug that all but swallowed him whole. Enormous arms wrapped around him, strong but trembling. Harry stiffened in surprise. Then, slowly, he let himself relax into it.

Hagrid’s whole body was shaking. Not with grief yet, but with the effort of holding it back.

A lump rose in Harry’s throat. He hadn’t realised how much he needed this—needed to feel held, needed to feel wanted. Like he wasn’t a burden. Like he was someone worth fighting for.

When Hagrid finally stepped back, his face crumpled.

The first sob came out of him loud and sudden, raw and uncontainable. It tore through the stillness of the room, echoing against the stone walls.

Hagrid staggered back a step, fumbling in his coat for a spotted handkerchief. It looked absurdly small in his huge hands. He pressed it to his eyes, but it did nothing. The tears came in great, broken waves, and he couldn’t stop them.

Harry just sat there, watching. He wanted to say something—anything—but his throat wouldn’t work.

He hated this. Hated seeing Hagrid like this.

Hagrid was supposed to be the strong one. The one who made things better with a badly told story or a half-burnt rock cake. Seeing him like this, unravelled and helpless, did something to Harry. Something deep. Something that hurt more than anything else.

Slowly, Harry reached out and rested a hand on Hagrid’s arm. The fabric was rough beneath his fingers. Solid. Real.

“Hagrid…” Harry’s voice was barely more than breath.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Hagrid choked, shaking his head, the words catching somewhere deep in his chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ter— It’s just—”

He faltered, swallowing against the weight of it all, as though the words were shards in his throat.

“You’re gettin’ weaker,” he said at last, his voice splitting down the middle. “Every time I see yeh, you look… smaller somehow. Paler. And I—I can’t stand it, Harry. I just can’t.”

At the door, movement caught Harry’s eye. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny lingered just outside, as though they couldn’t bring themselves to fully enter the room. Ron had his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched and tense. Hermione’s eyes were wide and wet. Ginny stood with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her face drawn and pale.

Harry tried to smile at them, but it felt wrong. Everything did.

He turned back to Hagrid, forcing his voice into something steadier than it felt.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, willing the words to hold some truth. Say it enough times, maybe it becomes real.

But they both knew it wasn’t.

Hagrid sniffled, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes like a schoolboy trying not to cry. He gave a wobbly smile, meant to be reassuring, but it only made something in Harry twist painfully.

“I believe in your friends,” Hagrid said hoarsely. “And I believe in yeh. I always have. I always will. It’s just…”

He hesitated, then swallowed hard, eyes shining.

“You’ve been like a son ter me.”

The room swayed slightly. Harry blinked several times, trying to hold steady. He hadn’t expected that. Not out loud.

“I…” He faltered, then gathered himself.

“You’ve been like a father to me,” he said quietly. “You were the first person who ever looked at me and saw someone worth caring about. You gave me a home before I even knew what that was.”

Images rose unbidden: the warm press of Hagrid’s hand on his shoulder in Diagon Alley; the gentle way he’d passed him Hedwig’s cage; the quiet fury in his voice when anyone dared speak ill of Harry.

“I owe you everything,” Harry said, blinking fast. “Everything good that’s ever happened to me started with you.”

For a long moment, Hagrid just looked at him, blinking hard. Then, slowly, he sank down onto the floor, knees cracking as he folded himself into the space before Harry, so they were eye to eye.

“You’re a good lad,” Hagrid said gruffly. “Too good fer this world, sometimes.”

Harry shook his head. “I’m just surviving. That’s all I ever seem to do.”

“No,” Hagrid said firmly, gripping his hand. “You’re fightin’. You’ve never stopped.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. He wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not in front of all of them.

“You’ve been through more than anyone ever should,” Hagrid went on, his voice thick. “Battles, curses, dragons, the lot. Merlin’s beard, yeh practically lived in the hospital wing.”

A small, humourless smile tugged at the corner of Harry’s mouth. That was true enough.

“And now this,” Hagrid said, his hand still holding Harry’s tightly, like it might anchor them both. “This slow, awful thing. It’s not fair, Harry. It’s not.”

“No,” Harry murmured. “It’s not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, exactly. But it was real. Solid. Like a bridge holding them both up.

After a while, Harry took a deep breath, slow and rattling.

“But we’ll get through it,” he said, mostly to himself. “I have to believe that. I have to.”

He looked up, meeting Hagrid’s eyes.

“I need you to believe it too,” he said. “Please. For me.”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure Hagrid could manage it. The tears welled again, close to spilling. But then the half-giant squared his shoulders and gave a shaky nod.

“Alright, Harry,” he said. His voice trembled—but it didn’t break. “Alright. I believe yeh.”

Harry smiled. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t brave. But it was true.

He squeezed Hagrid’s hand once more, and didn’t let go.

“Don’t worry,” said Hermione quietly, her voice cutting through the thick air like a lantern in fog. It wasn’t loud, but it was steady—and somehow that was what mattered most.

Harry held onto it, the sound of her voice anchoring him when everything else felt like it might fall away.

“We’ll give it everything we’ve got. Just like always.”

She gave him a small smile—gentle, sure—and something in his chest loosened, just a little. Enough to breathe.

“Yeah,” Ron added, stepping out from behind her. He tried for a grin, but it didn’t quite land—it wobbled, more grimace than anything. “When have I ever let you down?”

Harry let out a faint laugh. Even he could hear how hollow it sounded. Ron’s voice had cracked halfway through the line, and it was clear he hadn’t meant it as a joke, not really.

Hermione gave him a look—the sort she usually reserved for forgotten essays or Quidditch injuries he pretended weren’t serious.

“Not exactly the most comforting thing to say, Ron.”

She shook her head, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward.

“And you wonder why I always have a backup plan,” she muttered, more to herself than to anyone else.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Just trying to lighten the mood. All this doom and gloom’s a bit… much, don’t you think?”

Harry wished he could laugh with them. He wished it was that easy.

But each beat of his heart felt heavy. Like it was counting down to something none of them could stop.

“Ah yes,” Hermione said, tone bone-dry. “Ronald Weasley—poster boy for subtlety and grace under pressure.”

Her teasing warmed the room, just for a moment. Like sunlight cutting through cloud. Harry let it settle over him, this brief flicker of something close to normal. So rare now. So precious.

“If this spell fails,” she went on, her voice suddenly sharp as flint, “you’ll wish you’d taken it more seriously.”

Ron’s grin slipped. Fear flickered across his face—raw, unguarded.

“Will it fail?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

The words landed hard. Harry felt them hit like a blow.

He saw Ron glance towards Hagrid, whose face was still pale and blotchy with emotion, his huge hands clenched and restless.

None of them knew what was coming.

Hermione crossed her arms, standing tall even though she looked exhausted.

“I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen once we cast it,” she admitted, her tone even. “But panicking now won’t help.”

Ron nodded stiffly, swallowing hard, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Then the door creaked open.

Slughorn entered, trailing the scent of herbs, parchment, and something faintly floral. His presence changed the atmosphere—like a line had been drawn. There was no more pretending.

“I trust you’ll all rise to the occasion,” he said, his voice unusually grave. His eyes drifted from Harry to Ron to Hermione to Ginny, lingering a fraction too long, like he was memorising their faces.

Harry wondered whether Slughorn truly believed what he’d said—or if he simply didn’t have anything else to offer.

Behind him, the rest of the Weasleys had begun to gather.

Mr and Mrs Weasley stepped forward first. They didn’t speak right away. They didn’t have to.

Mr Weasley pulled Ginny and Ron into a fierce embrace. His hands were firm, steady—full of a strength Harry hadn’t realised he needed to see.

“You can do this,” he said simply. “It starts with believing you can.”

Harry’s throat closed. He hadn’t known how much he’d wanted to hear those words—how much he needed that kind of belief.

Mrs Weasley pressed a kiss to Ginny’s hair, then Ron’s. Her eyes were red, but her smile didn’t falter. Not even a little.

“We believe in you. All three of you,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “You’ll face what’s coming—together.”

Together.

The word landed in Harry’s chest like a heartbeat.

And then—before he could fully process what was happening—Mr and Mrs Weasley turned to him.

Their arms opened.

There was no hesitation.

Harry stepped forward—and they pulled him close, as though he’d always belonged there. No questions. No conditions.

He closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar smell of Mrs Weasley’s perfume, the wool of Mr Weasley’s jumper, the warmth of a family that had claimed him long ago.

No words were needed.

But still, he found himself whispering:

“Thank you.”

His voice cracked.

But no one minded.

Mrs Weasley pressed a kiss to his forehead, soft and lingering. Mr Weasley gave his shoulder a firm squeeze, the warmth of it steadying Harry, grounding him when he felt like he might simply fall apart.

When they finally let go, Harry swiped quickly at his eyes, hoping—foolishly—that no one had seen.

Of course they had. But no one said a word.

Slughorn stepped forward again, holding out three small cups. The scent of the potion inside—bitter, strange—hit Harry at once, dragging him sharply back to the present.

One by one, Ron, Hermione and Ginny each took a cup. The liquid within shimmered darkly, shifting in colours he couldn’t quite name.

Harry’s stomach gave a sick twist.

This was it.

They moved into a loose circle around his bed, faces pale, but set. No one spoke. They didn’t need to.

Harry looked at each of them—Ron, Hermione, Ginny. Their eyes met his in turn.

Thank you.

I’m sorry.

Be brave.

He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out rough.

“Thank you,” he said, thickly. “For everything. I don’t know what’s waiting on the other side of this, but…” He swallowed. “I’m proud of us. Of all of you.”

Their smiles were small, fragile things—but real. Tired, afraid, and yet filled with something fierce and unwavering.

This is family, Harry thought. Not by blood. But by choice. By everything we’ve shared.

Slughorn raised the Anima book and opened it, the yellowed pages crackling faintly.

“Emenda eum animum,” he read aloud, the Latin strange on his tongue.

“You must drink the potion first,” he said, glancing at them all. “Then speak the incantation together—wands directed at Harry. It must be perfectly in unison.”

It sounded simple. But Harry’s hands were trembling in his lap.

The others raised their cups, a shaky sort of toast forming without discussion.

“To Harry,” Ginny murmured.

They drank.

The potion scorched its way down their throats. Ron gagged, Hermione coughed into her sleeve, and Ginny’s face screwed up in pain. But none of them faltered.

They raised their wands. Though fear flickered in their eyes, their hands remained steady.

“Emenda eum animum!” they chanted, voices joining in perfect time.

The air shivered.

From the tips of their wands, silver light burst forth—dazzling and hot—and twined together in a single blinding beam.

Harry couldn’t breathe.

He could feel it—all of it. Their magic, yes, but more than that. Their love. Their belief. Their hope.

It struck him in the chest like lightning.

His body jerked violently. A gasp tore from his lips.

And then, through his blurring vision, he saw it—

Ron crumpling.

Hermione falling.

Ginny dropping to her knees.

And then—nothing.

The world spun sideways and vanished into black.