The summer sun poured over the Hogwarts grounds like honey—slow, golden, and comforting. It lit the towers of the castle in soft amber and scattered sparkles across the surface of the Black Lake. The water was so still it looked like glass, reflecting the flawless blue sky above. Everything about it should have felt peaceful. Serene. Healing.
But not to Harry Potter.
He stood near the edge of the lake, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders tense, the warm breeze tousling his hair as if trying to soothe him. He barely noticed it. A tight, restless feeling had lodged itself in his chest again—a low ache that pulsed like a memory refusing to fade. It had crept up on him twice already that day, sharp and sudden, and now it hovered, quiet but insistent.
He took a deep breath. The air smelt of fresh grass, wildflowers, and lake water—so alive it was almost overwhelming. Still, the ache didn't ease. He hated how even beauty could feel wrong now, like a song played in the wrong key.
His eyes scanned the grounds. Students sprawled in the sun, laughing, cheering, and throwing enchanted frisbees across the lawn. Someone was roasting marshmallows with a controlled Incendio. Hagrid's hut stood proudly in the distance, smoke curling from its chimney. It all looked so… normal.
Harry didn't feel normal.
He didn't know what he felt, exactly. Hollow? Heavy? Maybe both. A ghost rattling around inside his own body.
Then—"Harry!"
The voice jolted him. He turned and saw Ginny Weasley walking toward him, her fiery red hair catching the sunlight like it was made of flame. For a second, the ache in his chest flickered. She was like that. She could do that. Just be light when everything else feels dark.
But as she came closer, the brightness in her smile dimmed. She'd seen it too—his face, his posture. His silence.
"Hey," she said softly, worry already tightening her features. "What's wrong?"
Harry managed a smile, but it felt stiff, like a mask he hadn't worn in a while. "Nothing," he said too quickly. "Just… admiring the view."
Ginny raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You've been admiring it for nearly half an hour. Not exactly your style, Mr. Can't-Sit-Still-For-Five-Minutes."
He gave a short, breathy laugh, but it lacked real amusement. She wasn't wrong.
She stepped closer. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," he replied. It was automatic now. He'd said it so many times over the years, it came out without thinking.
But Ginny knew him. Knew when fine meant falling apart.
Harry's eyes drifted toward the crowds again. "Everyone's celebrating. Laughing. It's like… it's over for them. The war. The fear. Everything. And I'm just…" He trailed off, unable to explain the sharp divide between him and everyone else.
Ginny followed his gaze. Her voice was gentle. "They're not trying to forget, you know. They're just trying to live again."
"You think I don't want that?" Harry murmured, more to himself than to her. "But every time I try to let it go, it's like something pulls me back under."
A silence settled between them. Comfortable, but heavy.
He didn't want to talk about it. Not really. He didn't want to drag her into the fog still clinging to him. She'd fought her own battles. She deserved peace. Not his problems.
But Ginny didn't move. She didn't fill the silence with small talk or back away like she was giving him space. She just stood beside him—solid, quiet, present. That, more than anything, made the ache in his chest twist.
She finally spoke. "I saw you flinch at dinner yesterday. When someone dropped a glass."
Harry stiffened. Of course she noticed. She always did.
"You're not sleeping much either," she added. "Don't try to deny it—I've seen the circles under your eyes. They're starting to rival Snape's, and that's saying something."
Harry huffed out a soft laugh, despite himself. "Poor Snape," he muttered. "Even dead, we're still taking jabs at his skincare."
Ginny cracked a small grin but then sobered. "Harry… Is something going on? Something you haven't told me?"
He hesitated. The words rose to his lips, but guilt kept sealing them shut. He didn't want her to worry. She'd already worried enough. And what if it was nothing? What if he was just being… paranoid?
"I'm okay," he repeated, quieter this time. "Just… feel like everyone else has moved on. And I'm…"
"You're what?" she asked gently.
He looked down at his trainers. They were scuffed and muddy, still the same pair he wore in the battle. He hadn't replaced them. Hadn't replaced much of anything.
"Stuck," he whispered. "I feel like I'm stuck in everything that happened. Like I'm still waiting for something bad to happen again."
Ginny didn't say anything at first. Then she reached for his hand. Her fingers slid into his, warm and steady, and just like that—he wasn't floating anymore. She anchored him, as she always did, without fanfare or speeches or magic.
"You don't have to go through this alone," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You never had to."
"I know," he said, meaning it more than he could express. "But I think… I forgot what that feels like."
Ginny squeezed his hand. "Then let me remind you. Every day, if I have to."
He blinked, his throat suddenly tight. "That sounds exhausting."
She smirked. "Lucky for you, I'm stubborn."
The raw edge in Ginny's voice hit him harder than he expected. It wasn't just what she said—it was how she said it. Like she meant every word with her whole heart. Like it wasn't just a sentence but a lifeline. A reminder that he wasn't drifting alone in the dark.
For a second, he couldn't breathe.
The ache in his chest pulsed like a bruise being pressed too hard. He tried to shut it out—closed his eyes, tried to listen to the soft lapping of the lake nearby—but even that comfort seemed far away, muffled under the weight pressing down on him. He wanted to yell. Break something. Cry. Anything to get it out.
But he didn't. He clenched his jaw until it ached.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice came again, softer now. Like a gentle tide. "I'm here."
He turned, slowly, like moving through water. Her eyes met his—warm and steady and completely open. She saw him, really saw him, and somehow that made it both easier and harder to breathe.
He let out a breath, long and tired, like the wind had finally given up on holding up the sails. "I just…"
He stopped. The breeze ruffled his hair, and for one strange, fleeting second, he felt like maybe it could blow the pain right off of him. But no. It stayed.
He tried again.
"I just… sometimes, it still hurts." His voice was quiet, almost apologetic. "Like I've lost something. Or someone. Even though we won."
He let out a soft, broken laugh. "I thought things would feel different after. Like I'd be okay once it was all over. But I'm not. Not really."
Ginny didn't say anything right away. She didn't try to fix it or rush to respond. She just stayed there, letting the silence stretch without making it feel heavy.
Then, gently: "Of course it hurts. You've lost people, Harry. People you loved. You've been through more than anyone should."
Her words were kind, but they cut straight through him, peeling back layers he hadn't realised he was still holding together with sheer will.
But he wasn't referring to that kind of hurt, and he just let it be for the sake of not arguing with her.
"I know," he murmured. "I just… I keep thinking it'll go away. That I'll wake up and feel normal again."
Ginny tilted her head, her expression soft. "I don't think there's a going back to normal, not after everything. But that doesn't mean there won't be good days. Or laughter. Or… peace."
Harry swallowed. His throat felt thick. "I think I'm scared," he said finally. "And not just of the past. I'm scared that this… whatever this is… isn't going away. That I'm stuck with it. And that I'll drag all of you down with me."
"You're not dragging us anywhere," Ginny said, firm now, but still gentle. She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his. "You've always been the one carrying us. Let someone carry you for once."
He blinked, startled by how much he needed to hear that. Part of him had been afraid—really afraid—that if he showed how broken he still felt, everyone would just… step away. But Ginny hadn't. She was moving closer.
"Is it selfish that I just want things to be okay?" he asked, his voice low. "That I want to laugh and not feel guilty? To have a normal day without thinking about everything we lost?"
Ginny reached up, her hand resting lightly on his cheek. "That's not selfish, Harry. That's human."
He tried to smile, and it came out wobbly. "Sometimes I forget how to be that."
"Well," she said with a little smirk, "lucky for you, I'm an expert at being human. Stick with me. I'll show you the ropes."
That earned a small laugh—quiet but real. He leaned into her touch without thinking, grounding himself in her warmth.
"I missed this," he said. "Just… you. Talking to me like I'm still me."
"You are still you," she said gently. "Just a bit dented. Like a well-loved cauldron."
He snorted. "That's romantic."
She grinned. "You're welcome."
He didn't mean to cry. Not really. But something inside cracked open then—quietly, like a door finally creaking on old hinges—and the tears came, soft and steady. Ginny said nothing. She just pulled him into her arms, and he let her.
"It's okay," she whispered, her breath brushing against his ear. "Just let it out."
The sun warmed his back, the wind kissed his face, and for the first time in days—maybe weeks—Harry felt the sharp edges inside him soften.
She pulled back just enough to press her forehead to his, her eyes shining with unshed tears of her own.
"You're not alone, Harry. You never were."
He leaned in before he could overthink it and kissed her softly, gently. It wasn't about passion or fire. It was about breathing again. About reminding himself he was alive. And that she was, too.
When they pulled apart, the air felt a little lighter. The pain was still there but quieter somehow. Less jagged.
"Thanks," he murmured.
"Anytime," Ginny said, giving his hand a small squeeze. "Though I do accept payment in the form of chocolate frogs."
Harry smiled—really smiled this time—and sat beside her on the grass, their hands still intertwined. The Black Lake shimmered before them, calm and quiet, like the world was finally giving them space to breathe.
He didn't know what came next.
But for now, for this moment, he was okay.
The halls of Hogwarts were cold and empty, echoing with the sounds of Harry's own footsteps. He kept to the shadows, moving quickly, barely daring to breathe whenever he passed a hallway where a staff member might be patrolling. His heart hammered in his chest—not from fear of being caught, but from something else. The same terrible urgency that had pulled him out of bed.
It wasn't long before he reached the dungeons.
Each step felt heavier now, not from exhaustion but from the weight of not knowing. Of needing to know. Of fearing what the answers might be.
When he finally reached the door, he didn't hesitate. He knocked—three firm raps—and waited, barely breathing.
Moments later, the door creaked open.
Professor Horace Slughorn stood there, blinking blearily in the candlelight. His bald head shone with a sheen of sleep, and his thick silver moustache twitched as he recognised his visitor.
"Harry!" Slughorn exclaimed, his face brightening with sleepy surprise. "My dear boy, what an unexpected pleasure—at this hour!"
Harry offered a weak smile. "Sorry to wake you, Professor."
"Oh, nonsense," Slughorn said, waving a hand airily and stepping aside. "You're always welcome. Come in, come in."
Harry stepped inside. The warmth of the room wrapped around him like a blanket. It smelt like old books and something floral—probably the tea Slughorn always drank. The fire was still going here, casting a soft glow across the armchairs and the cluttered desk piled with parchment and potion bottles.
Memories stirred at the back of Harry's mind—Ron lying pale and limp on the floor, the poisoned mead, the panic. That horrible night felt like a lifetime ago. And yet, it all came rushing back with the scent of the room.
"Sit, sit," Slughorn said cheerfully, already bustling toward a side table. "I've just brewed some butterbeer—you'll have a glass, won't you?"
Harry nodded, but his stomach was too tight for food or drink. He sank into the nearest chair anyway, his fingers curling around the armrest, trying to ground himself.
Slughorn poured the drinks with practised ease and handed one to Harry. The butterbeer was warm, smooth, and familiar—but still, Harry hesitated.
He took a small sip. Just enough not to seem rude. The taste barely registered.
"So," Slughorn said, lowering himself into the opposite chair with a grunt. "Tell me, Harry. What brings you here at this hour?"
Harry didn't answer right away. He stared into his glass, watching the foam swirl.
Do I tell him? Do I really want to go there again?
Part of him said no. You've already asked too much. You got the memory. You've done your part. Let it go.
But the other part—the louder part—was desperate.
"Professor," Harry began, his voice low, careful. "I was hoping… you might be willing to talk to me about Horcruxes again."
He lifted his gaze to meet Slughorn's—and instantly regretted it.
The professor choked on his butterbeer, coughing violently and clutching at his chest. His eyes widened in alarm, and for a moment Harry thought he might refuse, shut down, or throw him out.
But slowly, Slughorn steadied himself. He dabbed at his moustache with a handkerchief and looked at Harry with something close to… concern?
"Horcruxes?" he repeated, voice quieter now. "Why are you asking about them again, Harry?"
Harry blinked. That wasn't anger. That wasn't fear. That was something else. Was Slughorn worried? About him?
Why does that make this worse?
He looked away, his fingers tightening on the glass. "I'm just… curious," he said carefully. "It's been on my mind. That's all."
Slughorn didn't respond right away. He studied Harry, eyes narrowing—not suspiciously, but with a kind of gentle scrutiny. Like he was trying to see beyond the words, into whatever Harry wasn't saying.
And Harry hated how exposed he felt.
"That's a rather strange question to ask, Harry," Slughorn said slowly, his voice dropping an octave. "Are you sure you're not asking for… any particular reason?"
Harry froze. The question hit harder than expected. He looked away, his thoughts spiralling. He hadn't planned out exactly how this conversation would go—just that he had to have it. The silence stretched as panic bubbled in his chest.
Slughorn leaned forward, his expression shifting into something more curious, but still guarded. "What exactly are you trying to understand?" he asked, the edge in his voice not quite gone.
Harry's fingers curled into fists in his pockets. His palms were sweating. It felt like his heart was beating too loud—loud enough that Slughorn must have heard it. "You said… you said Horcruxes hold a piece of someone's soul," Harry began, voice tight. "Right?"
"Yes, I did," Slughorn answered carefully. His expression grew grim, the jovial twinkle long gone from his eyes. "But that's very dark magic, Harry. It's horrifying, unnatural—nothing anyone should take lightly."
Harry swallowed hard. His throat was dry. "What happens if that Horcrux… ends up inside a person?" he asked. "Not an object. A living person. And later it gets destroyed—what happens to that person's soul? Is it still whole? Or does it… break apart too?"
Slughorn went still. His face paled slightly. For a long moment, he didn't speak.
Harry could feel the weight of it—he'd asked something dangerous. Maybe even something no one had ever dared to think about. But he had to know.
"Well…" Slughorn began, adjusting his position in the chair. "I've never come across that kind of situation before. You see, normally, a Horcrux is hidden in something—something that can't feel or bleed or age. But putting it in a person? That would be a terrible mistake. The human body, the human soul—it wouldn't cope. It would wither."
Harry's stomach twisted. He felt cold.
"But what if it wasn't on purpose?" He pressed, barely able to keep the tremor out of his voice. "What if… it just happened? By accident. Like the soul fragment had nowhere else to go and just latched onto someone?"
Slughorn looked horrified. His hands gripped the armrests, knuckles pale. "Intent doesn't matter," he said. "Once a soul is split and a piece ends up inside another… it poisons what it touches. The soul it attaches to becomes… damaged. Marked. And when the Horcrux is destroyed—so is any part of the soul it's entangled with. That damage… it doesn't go away."
Harry felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs.
"So if the Horcrux is destroyed…" His voice broke. "The person dies too?"
Slughorn nodded, gravely. "Yes. Not in body, perhaps—but in soul. It's a kind of death that can't be undone. A spiritual decay."
A chill ran down Harry's spine. The silence in the room seemed to stretch and grow heavier with every second.
He leaned forward, desperate now. "But is there a way to fix it? To heal a damaged soul? If someone didn't ask for it—if they never wanted it—can't they be saved?"
Slughorn looked at him for a long time. There was pity in his eyes now, and something else—regret.
"I… I don't know," he admitted quietly. "Dumbledore believed it might be possible. He had hope, where others wouldn't even ask the question. But if such a method exists, it's never been written down. No one who's made a Horcrux ever seemed to care about healing. Only about power."
Harry's mind reeled. If Dumbledore didn't even have the answer, what hope did he have?
"Professor…" Harry's voice was almost a whisper. "How long could someone live like that? With part of someone else's soul inside them?"
Slughorn let out a long, shaky breath. "Hard to say. It would depend on the strength of the soul, I suppose. But over time… it would be agony. Their mind, their emotions… maybe even their magic. All of it could start to unravel. A slow deterioration. Some might not even realise what's happening until it's too late."
Harry could feel his hands trembling. His chest tightened as though invisible ropes were wrapping around his lungs.
He wasn't just asking for the sake of the war. He wasn't just trying to understand Voldemort's magic.
He was asking about himself.
Slughorn was watching him now with deep concern. "Harry? Are you feeling alright?"
Harry tried to nod, but his body didn't want to listen. He could feel the blood draining from his face. "I'm fine," he muttered, but the words came out hollow. His vision swam.
"Harry, really—are you—?"
"I need to go."
It came out sharper than he intended, almost a gasp. He pushed back his chair with a loud scrape and stood quickly, heart thudding so fast it hurt.
He didn't wait for permission. He turned and left the room in a daze, Slughorn's worried voice calling faintly after him as he disappeared down the corridor.
As soon as Harry stepped out of the room, the cold air hit him like a punch to the gut. He barely made it to the nearest bathroom before the nausea took over. His whole body shook with violent shivers as he stumbled into a stall, clutching the sides for balance. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor, the chill of the tiles seeping through his clothes. He doubled over and vomited again and again until there was nothing left but dry heaving and gasps for breath.
His forehead rested against the wall, slick with sweat, eyes squeezed shut. Everything spun around him. His limbs felt too heavy to move, and his heart pounded like it wanted to escape his chest.
Get up, he told himself. Get it together. You can't let anyone see you like this. Not like this.
But it was so hard. His body wouldn't listen. His hands trembled. His head throbbed. He felt like he was falling apart, piece by piece, and no one even knew.
He stayed there for a long moment, letting the cold wall hold him up. He wished it would swallow him whole.
Finally, using the wall for support, Harry pushed himself to his feet. His legs wobbled, and the world tilted slightly, but he managed to stumble out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his robe.
He walked back to Gryffindor Tower in a daze. The castle corridors stretched endlessly before him, silent and dim, and each step felt heavier than the last. His thoughts were tangled, messy. All he could feel was the ache in his chest, the pressure behind his eyes, and the heavy lump in his throat.
When he finally reached the dormitory, he didn't bother taking off his shoes. He collapsed onto his bed like a puppet with its strings cut. The curtains around his four-poster hung like walls, but they didn't block out the pain.
Tears came quickly—too quickly to stop. He pressed his face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sobs. His chest hurt from holding it in for so long.
Why does it still feel like I'm fighting? He thought bitterly. Why can't I just… be okay now?
He had thought it would be over. That once the Horcruxes were gone, once Voldemort was gone, he'd finally feel free. But instead, the quiet felt heavier than any battle. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was suffocating.
His heart felt like it was breaking under the weight of everything he'd lost. Dumbledore. Fred. Remus. Tonks. So many others. Faces flashed behind his closed eyes, and guilt gnawed at him like a parasite.
He didn't know who he was anymore. The war had stripped him raw, left him hollow. He was supposed to be a hero, wasn't he? The Chosen One. The boy who lived.
But lying there now, crying into his pillow with his hands clenched in the sheets, Harry didn't feel like a hero. He just felt… tired. Worn out. Alone.
He didn't know how to move forward from here. He didn't know if he could.
The morning sun poured through the tall arched windows of the Gryffindor dormitory, slanting across the stone floor in warm golden stripes.
Harry sat on the edge of his bed, staring at a small, pathetic pile of clothes that were supposed to count as "packed". He hadn't even folded them properly. The sight somehow made his chest heavier, not lighter. Everything about today felt weird—too quiet, too final.
This was it. The last day.
He scratched the back of his neck, feeling the familiar twinge of unease stir in his gut. Slughorn's ramblings from last night still clung to his thoughts.
Harry sighed and glanced at the bed beside his. Ron's bed. Empty, rumpled, suspiciously dotted with biscuit crumbs. Normally, Ron would still be snoring loud enough to shake the walls. But the absence somehow made the room feel colder.
Before Harry could sink too deep into melancholy—
BANG!
The door slammed open, and in stumbled Ron, all limbs and drama, tripping over his own shoes and nearly taking out a chair on his way in.
"Harry!" he boomed like a human foghorn, clutching a loaf of toast in one hand and waving madly with the other like he hadn't seen Harry in years, not twelve hours.
Harry blinked at the sudden noise, momentarily wondering if this was some kind of farewell hallucination. Then Ron plopped down on the bed beside him, grinning like an idiot, and it was all so Ron that Harry couldn't help smiling.
"Blimey, you look awful," Ron said cheerfully, handing over Harry's glasses with the sort of delicate care usually reserved for broomsticks or exploding potions. "You forgot these again, or were you just trying to navigate by sound this morning?"
Harry shoved them on and squinted at his best mate. "Thanks," he muttered, clearing his throat. "And youlook like you just lost a fight with a wardrobe."
Ron puffed out his chest dramatically. "I'll have you know, this is post-battle chic. Very exclusive. All the rage in Diagon Alley."
Harry snorted, and just like that, the tension that had been winding tight in his chest loosened a bit. Maybe not everything had changed.
Ron clapped him on the back. "C'mon, up you get. Time to seize the day and all that. Rise and shine, oh Chosen One!"
Harry groaned. "Why do you sound like Sir Cadogan?"
"Because someone has to boss you around now that you've saved the wizarding world and all. Can't have you thinking you're invincible."
Harry smirked, and in a fit of retaliation, flung his pillow at Ron's head. Ron caught it effortlessly, as if he were a seasoned Quidditch player and not someone who'd been kicked off the team for eating during practice.
But as Harry stood up, the room tilted violently.
His stomach clenched. His knees wobbled.
And then—thud.
He hit the floor like a sack of spellbooks.
"Harry!" Ron was instantly at his side, toast forgotten, voice laced with alarm. "Mate, are you—what the hell just happened?"
"I'm fine," Harry mumbled, even though the ceiling was still spinning like a malfunctioning Time-Turner. "Just stood up too fast."
Which was technically true. It was also true that he hadn't slept, hadn't eaten much, and had been carrying around the emotional equivalent of a full-grown troll on his back for… well, the past seventeen years.
Ron's brow furrowed. "You sure? You've looked like dragon dung since the battle ended. And that's saying something. You're usually more on the 'eternally exhausted' side of things, but lately, you've hit a whole new level."
Harry gave him a weak smile. "Thanks, mate. Love the encouragement."
Ron didn't laugh. Just crouched there with that serious face he only wore when things were properly dire.
Harry sighed and sat up slowly, resting against the wall. "I'm just… tired. Everything's catching up, I guess."
Ron shrugged, helping him to his feet with a surprising amount of gentleness. "Then go to sleep or eat something."
That sounded like a Ron answer.
Together, they made their way down the winding staircase, each step echoing with the memories of a thousand Gryffindor students who'd lived, laughed, cried—and occasionally exploded something—within these walls.
The common room buzzed with energy. Laughter and chatter bounced off the ancient stone, and for the first time that morning, Harry felt like he could breathe.
It smelt like buttered toast, ink, and hearth smoke. Home.
"I wonder what it'll be like," Harry said quietly as they stepped onto the common room floor. "Living at the Burrow. Being… normal."
Ron gave him a sidelong look, then grinned. "Well, for one, Mum's cooking is definitely better than anything Hogwarts ever served. Just don't get between her and a frying pan."
Harry chuckled. "That's comforting."
"Besides," Ron added, a little more seriously now, "you're family, you know. Always have been."
Harry didn't answer right away. His chest ached again—but this time, it wasn't dread. It was something softer. Something warmer.
He looked around the common room—the couches, the fireplace, the portrait hole—trying to memorise it all.
He was leaving Hogwarts behind. But he wasn't leaving alone.
Harry's footsteps echoed faintly as he slipped through the doors of the Great Hall, the wood creaking softly behind him. People were already seated at the long tables, chatting, eating, and smiling. It should have felt comforting, familiar—but it didn't. Not to him.
The hall looked the same, more or less, but something inside him had changed. Everything felt distant. Muted. As if there was a pane of glass between him and the world around him. He could hear the clink of forks, the soft hum of conversation, even the occasional burst of laughter—but it all felt like it belonged to someone else's life.
He had forced himself out of bed that morning. Every bone in his body had protested, aching with something deeper than fatigue. A sickness he couldn't name clung to him like a second skin—tight, invisible, and inescapable. His stomach had felt hollow, but not with hunger. It was more like something had been scraped out of him, leaving only this gnawing emptiness behind.
As he scanned the room, his eyes landed on her—Ginny. Sitting beside Hermione at the Gryffindor table. Just seeing her made something twist painfully in his chest. A part of him wanted to go back—back to before everything had fallen apart, back to when a glance from her could make him smile without thinking.
But now… he just felt heavy.
He walked over and slid onto the bench across from her.
"Hi," she said softly, offering a gentle smile.
Her voice was warm, but there was worry in her eyes. Harry managed a weak smile in return, more out of habit than anything else. His gaze dropped almost immediately, settling on the untouched plate of eggs and toast in front of him. The smell alone turned his stomach.
"You should eat," Ginny said, reaching across the table to lightly squeeze his hand. Her touch was soft—soothing—but he couldn't hold it. He didn't deserve that comfort. Not when so many others would never get to feel it again.
He pulled his hand back gently. "I'm not really hungry," he said, trying to keep his voice even. The words barely made it past the tightness in his throat.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Ron and Hermione looking over. Hermione's eyes were narrowed in concern, and Ron had that frown he wore when he was trying not to seem worried but couldn't quite pull it off.
Harry hated that look. Hated making them worry. Hated the way everything he did now seemed to cast a shadow on the people he cared about.
"Mate," Ron said, his voice quieter than usual. "You need to eat. We're heading back to the Burrow soon, yeah? Mum'll be thrilled if you've got something in your stomach before we get there."
"Yeah," Harry murmured, barely louder than a whisper. He didn't lift his eyes from the table.
He wanted to say more—to explain that he wasn't trying to ignore them, that he was just…tired. Not just physically, but in a way that sleep couldn't fix. He was so full of grief and guilt and noise that he couldn't hear his own thoughts most days.
But all of that was too much. Too messy. And he didn't want to break down in the middle of breakfast.
Instead, he took a deep breath and forced himself to pick up a piece of toast. Ginny was still watching him, her eyes kind and steady, silently urging him on. He took a small bite, chewing slowly. It was dry. Tasteless. Like ash in his mouth. Swallowing felt like dragging splinters down his throat.
He put the toast down.
"I'll eat more once we're back," he said. "At the Burrow. I promise."
He didn't know if it was true, but he needed them to believe it. Mrs. Weasley would hover and worry and pile his plate high, and he didn't have the energy to argue with her.
Hermione gave him a small nod, though her eyes were still clouded with concern. Ron offered a crooked smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Harry placed his hands on the table, the wood cool against his palms. He let out a slow breath, but the tightness in his chest didn't ease. The silence between them felt heavy now, thick with everything he couldn't say.
He couldn't stand it.
"I'll be right back," he muttered, pushing up from the bench. "Need the loo."
No one stopped him.
He walked quickly, head down, pretending not to notice the way their eyes followed him until he disappeared out the door.
He slipped down a side corridor, his fists jammed deep in his pockets. Their eyes—too full of sympathy, too full of everything he didn't want to deal with—were behind him now. He didn't know where he was going exactly, only that he needed to be away.
The corridor was dim and quiet. His footsteps echoed faintly as he moved, not quite rushing but not dawdling either. There was only one place that came to mind, one place that still felt untouched by some students and all its horrible truths.
The library.
It wasn't just a room full of books. For Harry, it had become something else—somewhere quiet and predictable. A place where pain didn't follow quite so closely and memories didn't shout quite so loud. The shelves didn't look at him with pity. The books didn't ask if he was alright.
He pushed open the heavy door, and it gave its usual creak—the same creak it always had. That small sound hit him with a strange sense of comfort. Some things really hadn't changed.
Inside, Madam Pince sat at her desk, hunched over a thick book, her bony fingers carefully following the lines of faded text. Her hair was pulled into its usual tight bun, not a strand out of place. Harry had always thought she looked a bit like a hawk—sharp, alert, unapproachable. But now, with her eyes fixed on the page, she looked… tired. Not just in body, but in spirit. There were shadows under her eyes and something hollow about the way she held herself.
Even here, the war had left its mark.
Harry lingered in the doorway, unsure if he should go further. His mind was still tangled with the aftermath of everything—the battle, the dead, the silence that followed. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to feel it.
But he couldn't afford to ignore it either.
He needed answers. Not about the future—not yet—but about what came after. About souls and what lingered. Maybe something in one of these books could help him make sense of it all. Maybe there was something the others hadn't told him. Something even Dumbledore had left unsaid.
"Mr. Potter."
Her voice snapped him out of it. Sharp. Stern. No-nonsense. Just like always.
He blinked, then took a few steps closer. "Uh—hello, Madam Pince," he said, trying not to sound as awkward as he felt. "I was wondering… do you have any books about souls?"
Her eyes narrowed behind her spectacles, her expression unreadable. "Souls?" she repeated, voice thin with surprise. "There are plenty of texts. But be advised, many are restricted to staff. I don't tolerate misuse of the collection."
"Right. Of course," he said quickly, trying to sound casual. "I'm only interested in whatever I'm allowed to take out. Something for… light summer reading."
She stared at him.
"'Light reading,'" she echoed flatly, as though the words themselves were a personal insult. "And what exactly makes you think you ought to be reading about souls at all?"
Harry froze. The question hit too close. Her gaze felt like it was peeling back layers he hadn't even meant to show. He knew what she was asking—what was he really doing here?
But the truth—about the war, the horcrux, the things he still didn't understand—it wasn't something he could put into words. Not yet. Not here.
He shrugged, forcing his voice to stay even. "Just trying to stay busy, I guess. Better than sitting at home staring at the wall."
She looked at him like she didn't believe a word of it.
"I find your sudden interest in self-education… puzzling," she said, her voice cool. "You've never been one to frequent this place. Not without urgent reason. And now you expect me to believe you're eager for a bit of casual reading?"
Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His hands were still buried in his pockets, clenched into fists.
"I—I know I haven't been here much," he admitted. "But I do read. Sometimes. I'm just… curious, that's all."
He hated how weak that sounded. But it was the best he could manage.
For a moment, Madam Pince said nothing. She simply studied him, her eyes flicking over his face like she was trying to see past whatever lie he'd wrapped himself in. The silence stretched out between them until Harry began to regret coming at all.
Then finally, she spoke. "Your persistence is oddly timed. But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to let you browse. Briefly. Your train won't wait forever."
Relief hit him like a wave. "Thank you!" he said, louder than he meant to. Without wasting another second, he turned and headed straight for the shelves she'd indicated.
The familiar scent of old parchment and leather filled his nose. The rows of books stretched high around him like silent sentinels, their spines glinting faintly in the light. His fingers hovered near the edges, not yet touching, as he tried to decide where to start.
There were so many questions he didn't know how to ask. So many answers he wasn't sure he was ready to find.
But he had to start somewhere.
The Hogwarts Express puffed along the countryside like it had all the time in the world, sending streaks of green blurring past the window in a dizzying whirl. Inside one particularly cramped compartment, however, time felt like it had stopped—or maybe collapsed in on itself from sheer awkward tension.
Harry, slumped in a corner seat, looked like someone had wrung him out like an old dishrag and then sat him in a puddle of his own misery. He didn't say a word. He barely blinked. His glasses had slipped halfway down his nose, and his hair was a mess—not the usual heroic kind of mess, but the "I might've wrestled a dementor in my sleep" kind.
Ginny sat beside him, their hands loosely intertwined. She glanced sideways at him, her brows drawn tight. With a small sigh, she shifted and gently nudged his head into her lap.
"There," she whispered, running her fingers slowly through his tangled hair. "You just rest, okay?"
Harry didn't answer. He didn't even flinch. He was out cold within minutes.
Across the compartment, Ron sat with his knees awkwardly bumping Hermione's, his arms crossed, his expression hovering somewhere between concern and confusion.
"I've never seen him look that… miserable," Ron muttered, eyes glued to Harry like he expected him to spontaneously combust.
Hermione let out a sigh sharp enough to slice through the air. "Ron, he just lost Dumbledore. We all did."
"I know that," Ron said defensively. "But there's something else going on. He's not just grieving—he's… I don't know. Off."
Hermione tilted her head and studied Harry. He twitched in his sleep, face scrunched up like he was stuck in a nightmare.
"Maybe we should just ask him," she said quietly.
Ron snorted. "Right. Because nothing says 'healing' like interrogating your best mate the second he wakes up from a nap."
"Well, doing nothing hasn't helped either," Hermione shot back, clearly irritated. "What's your plan? Sit here and stare at him until he cracks?"
"That was sort of the idea, yeah."
She groaned. "Brilliant."
The compartment descended into silence again, broken only by the rhythmic clack of the train and Harry mumbling something incomprehensible in his sleep. Ginny's expression tightened as she caught a few garbled words.
"He told me he's scared," she said suddenly.
Ron and Hermione both looked at her.
Ginny glanced down at Harry, brushing his fringe from his forehead. "Last night. He said he feels stuck. Like he's supposed to move on, but he just… can't."
Hermione leaned forward, brows raised. "He told you that?"
"Yeah," Ginny said, her voice quieter now. "He looked… panicked. Like he wanted to run but didn't know where to go."
Ron scratched his chin, frowning. "That explains why he nearly face-planted at the dormitory. Said he stood up too fast, but I don't buy it."
"He didn't eat either," Hermione said, chewing on her bottom lip. "He just stared at his plate like it had betrayed him."
"Maybe it did," Ron muttered. "You've seen the porridge at Hogwarts lately?"
Hermione gave him a look.
"Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood," Ron mumbled, clearly not succeeding.
The compartment shrank around them as if the walls were leaning in. Harry shifted in Ginny's lap, his face contorting in discomfort. He whimpered, low and quiet.
Hermione's voice dropped to a whisper. "Is he sick? Like… physically?"
Ginny shook her head. "I don't think it's that simple."
"Of course it's not," Ron muttered. "Nothing with Harry ever is. It's always cursed scars and prophecy and… exploding staircases."
"No staircases exploded," Hermione corrected.
"You weren't there."
Ginny ignored them. She stroked Harry's hair again, soothing him as best she could. "Whatever this is, he doesn't want to talk about it. But he needs us."
Hermione nodded, reaching over to place a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Then we help him. No more guessing games or awkward silences."
Ron hesitated, then gave a little shrug. "Alright. We'll help him."
Ginny smiled faintly, her voice steady. "Together."
Ron echoed her. "Together."
There was another beat of silence, slightly less tense than before. Then, unexpectedly, Harry stirred and mumbled something into Ginny's lap.
"What'd he say?" Ron whispered, leaning forward.
Ginny listened closely. "I think he said… 'snorkack.'"
Hermione blinked. "Snorkack?"
Ron snorted. "Well, at least he's not dreaming about Voldemort for once."
Harry let out a soft groan, still half-asleep, then turned his face into Ginny's stomach and mumbled again.
"Okay, now it's 'fanged gerbil,'" Ginny reported, eyebrows raised.
Hermione shook her head in disbelief. "Right. We definitely need to talk to him when he wakes up."
"Yeah," Ron said. "But maybe after we get the name of his dream therapist. Sounds like a real adventure."
The three of them chuckled softly, the tension finally easing just a bit.
Harry stirred again—but this time, he looked peaceful. Not fine, not healed. But not alone either.
Harry's first thought when he woke up was that he'd been hit by a Bludger.
Or maybe a train.
Wait—he was on a train.
The whistle screamed again, jerking him fully awake. His eyes flew open, and for a moment, he had no idea where he was. The countryside rolled by in a golden blur. He blinked, confused, and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Ugh… What time is it?" he croaked.
"About time you woke up," Ron said, not even looking up as he tried to cram a shoe into a bag already bursting at the seams. "We thought you were dead."
"I checked his pulse," Ginny said mildly from beside him. "Twice."
Harry frowned. "You what?"
"You've been out for hours, Harry," Hermione said, looking over from the opposite seat with an exasperated smile. "Literally since we pulled out of the station. Ginny tried talking to you at one point, and you mumbled something about 'invisible cheese.'"
"I was clearly dreaming," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "And probably hungry."
"You also snored."
"I do not snore."
"All three of us agree you do."
Harry groaned and sat up straighter. The movement sent a jolt of stiffness through his spine, and he winced. He must've slept like a rag doll in a trunk.
Ginny leaned toward him, her hand light on his arm. "You alright?"
"I think so." He looked around blearily. "Are we almost there?"
The train had started to slow, and he could see London looming in the distance beyond the window.
Ron glanced out. "Yep. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, here we come."
Harry tried to help them pack, but his brain still felt foggy—like someone had cast a mild Confundus Charm and then forgotten to take it off.
By the time they stepped off the train, the platform was a frenzy of movement. Owls hooted, parents shouted names, and trunks rolled and banged against each other. Everything was loud and colourful and fast—and Harry's mind was still two steps behind it all.
He found himself standing still, blinking, while people swarmed around him.
"Harry!" called Mr. Weasley cheerfully, waving. "Come on!"
But Harry didn't move. Something was wrong.
He scanned the crowd again, a strange feeling growing in his stomach. A familiar tightness. Dread, maybe. Or worry.
Ginny tugged gently on his sleeve. "Harry?"
He didn't answer.
Where were the Dursleys?
They usually stood stiffly at the edge of the crowd, Uncle Vernon red in the face, Petunia looking like she'd smelt something unpleasant, and Dudley clutching a melting ice cream. Always. That's how it worked.
But… not this time.
"Harry?" Ron asked, stepping beside him. "You look like you saw a ghost."
"I'm just—" Harry blinked again. "I'm waiting. My uncle should be here."
Ron's brow creased. "Your… what?"
"My uncle. He was supposed to pick me up." Harry's voice faltered. "He always does."
Ron laughed, then faltered when Harry didn't.
"Wait, you're serious?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because… Harry, you're not going back to the Dursleys."
Harry turned toward him, confused. "I'm not?"
"No! Of course not!" Ron looked genuinely baffled. "You're coming to the Burrow. You've been wanting to live in the Burrow for ages."
"What do you mean?" Harry's throat felt dry. "No one told me that."
Ron exchanged a look with Hermione and Ginny, all of whom were suddenly watching him with concern.
Hermione stepped closer. "Harry, we did tell you. Multiple times. After… the battle. Don't you remember?"
Harry's heart thudded painfully. "No, I—I don't."
Mrs. Weasley rushed over just then, her arms immediately engulfing him in a warm, slightly suffocating hug. "Oh, there you are! Are you alright, dear?"
"I think so?" he said weakly. "Maybe?"
He pulled back to look at her, trying not to sound like he was spiralling. "Mrs. Weasley, did I ever tell you I wasn't going back to the Dursleys?"
Her expression darkened with concern. "You said your goodbyes to them last summer, love. They went into hiding, remember?"
"What?" Harry stared at her. "Hiding from who?"
Mr. Weasley appeared beside her. "Harry, do you remember your seventeenth birthday?"
Harry paused.
A beat passed.
Then another.
He opened his mouth. "Yeah, of course I—" But the words died on his tongue.
He didn't.
He didn't remember it. At all. Not even a flicker.
"I—no, wait. I must," he said quickly, shaking his head. "That's ridiculous. Of course I'd remember my ownbirthday."
But his mind was a blank page. Not even a faint smudge where a memory used to be. Just… nothing.
"Harry," Ginny said softly, "we were all there. You stayed at the Burrow after. You told us things, personal things—about the war, about what it was like. But you were there."
"This can't be happening," Harry muttered. He rubbed his temples like that might spark something. "Why can't I remember anything? Did I hit my head or something?"
"You didn't hit your head," Hermione said quickly.
"Are we sure about that?"
"Pretty sure," Ron said. "Although you did trip over Crookshanks last week and landed face-first in the garden gnome pit."
"That's not true, and you know it," Hermione snapped.
"Harry," Mr. Weasley said gently, stepping closer, "sometimes after trauma, people forget things. It's not unusual. You've been through an awful lot. Don't be alarmed."
"I'm not alarmed," Harry lied. "I'm… I'm fine."
He wasn't. He absolutely was not. There were blank spots in his memory now. Whole conversations, apparently. Goodbyes. A birthday. It felt like someone had taken a pair of scissors to the film reel of his life.
"I don't understand," he whispered. "It's like… I'm missing a part of myself."
"You're not missing anything that can't come back," Mrs. Weasley said firmly, wrapping an arm around him again. "We'll help you remember. You're not alone."
Harry swallowed hard. "What if I never do? What if I forgot something important? What if I—what if I've forgotten someone important?"
Ginny looked at him. "We'd tell you."
"You promise?"
She nodded. "Cross my heart."
Harry took a deep breath and looked around the station again. The faces, the movement—it all felt unreal, like he'd woken up in someone else's memory. He tried to laugh, but it came out shaky.
"So… I'm going to the Burrow, then?"
"Yep," Ron said brightly. "Unless you want to wait here for your uncle, who's currently in wizard witness protection."
Harry gave a weak smile. "No thanks. I think I've had enough confusion for one day."
But inside, a tiny, cold knot remained.
Because if he'd forgotten something this big… what else was missing?
And why did it feel like the answer might not be something he wanted to remember?