The soft warmth of morning sunlight filtered through the bedroom window, painting everything in gold. It felt like the sun had finally remembered where he lived. Harry blinked against the light, eyes adjusting slowly. For the first time in what felt like ages, the brightness didn't sting. It comforted him, gently tugging him out of sleep instead of yanking him awake like some cruel alarm.
He lay there for a moment, still and quiet. No headaches. No burning feeling. Just the steady rhythm of his breathing and the hush of the Burrow coming to life. Strange. Peaceful, even. He rubbed his eyes and tried to hold onto the feeling, afraid it might vanish the moment he moved.
Is this what normal feels like? He wondered. He couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up without the pain of his damaged soul crushing his chest.
Reluctantly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet hit the cool wooden floor. As he padded toward the kitchen, a delicious smell met him halfway—eggs, toast, and bacon. His stomach gave an eager growl, shocking him. For weeks, food had just been something he forced down because people kept giving him that worried look. But now? He actually wanted it.
Mrs. Weasley was at the stove, humming softly as she flipped something in a pan. The air felt warm and homey—like it was giving him a hug. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled, her eyes lighting up when she saw him.
"Morning, dear. Just in time," she said, sliding a generous portion onto a plate. "Sit. Eat."
And to his own amazement, Harry did. He devoured every bite like he hadn't eaten in days. Maybe it was the smell, or maybe it was just Mrs. Weasley's gentle presence, but it all tasted… good. Real. By the time he'd cleared his plate, his stomach felt overly full, but instead of guilt or nausea, there was pride. A strange, quiet pride.
Mrs. Weasley dried her hands on her apron, watching him with that familiar look—the one that made him feel both cared for and slightly cornered. "It's so good to see your appetite return," she said gently, her voice laced with honest relief.
Harry blinked. Compliments like that always made him feel awkward, like he'd accidentally done something noteworthy by simply existing.
"Er… thanks," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess I was hungry."
Why does it feel weird to feel okay? He wondered as he stood and stretched, trying to shake off the unease. Part of him welcomed this new sense of normalcy. The other part was convinced it couldn't last.
Later, in his room, he gathered the others—Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—and tried to focus. There were things to do and plans to make. He clapped his hands together with mock enthusiasm. "Alright. Let's get to it."
Ron raised a brow. "You know, instead of sending Hagrid an owl, we could just go visit him. Ask about the Thestral hair in person."
Harry glanced at Ron, surprised. "You think he'd be up for that?"
"He'd love it," Hermione chimed in. "He's probably lonely. I mean, come on, when's the last time we properly visited him?"
Harry couldn't help the smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, maybe. I just hope he's doing alright."
"Bet he's still spending half his time with Grawp," Ron said, snorting. "Can you imagine that big guy trying to master small talk? 'Grawp… like… butterbeer?'" He deepened his voice into a slow rumble, and everyone laughed.
Hermione rolled her eyes but grinned. "Actually, Grawp has come a long way. He helped during the war, you know. And I heard he's been gentle around the younger students."
"Gentle?" Ron scoffed. "They were lobbing pumpkin pasties at each other. That's not bonding; it's a food fight!"
Ginny giggled and nudged Harry's shoulder. "Remember the time he actually caught one midair and ate it? I've never seen a first-year scream that loud."
Ron laughed. "Okay, that was impressive. I'll give him that."
"And imagine him teaching Care of Magical Creatures," Ginny added, eyes dancing. "He'd need a classroom the size of the Quidditch pitch!"
Harry chuckled. "Picture Grawp with a tiny blackboard and a piece of chalk the size of a twig. 'Today… lesson… Flobberworms!'"
Hermione let out a laugh despite herself. "You lot are ridiculous. But no, really—do you think Hagrid would even want to go back to teaching? After everything?"
Harry's smile faded slightly. She had a point. Hagrid hadn't been the same since the war. None of them had, really.
"We could ask him," Ron offered, more gently now. "Just see how he's doing. Maybe it'll cheer him up."
Hermione nodded. "And we really do need the Thestral hair."
"What if he doesn't want to leave Grawp, though?" Ron added. "Last time we saw him, he looked stressed out of his mind."
Harry hesitated. "We could help. With Grawp, I mean. He listens to us—sort of."
Hermione looked thoughtful. "We have helped before. Maybe he'd appreciate the support."
A brief silence fell over the room as they each considered it. Then Hermione straightened, brushing imaginary dust from her jumper.
"So. We're agreed, then? We'll visit Hagrid today?"
Ron gave an eager nod. "Definitely. Let's go cheer up a half-giant."
Harry grinned, something warm blooming in his chest. Being around them—Ron's mischief, Hermione's planning, Ginny's spark—it made the world feel a little less heavy. A little more like home.
Ginny's brow creased with worry as she turned to him, her voice soft but serious. "Harry… don't take this the wrong way, but… Are you sure you're well enough to travel? You've been through a lot. I'm just—worried."
Harry drew in a slow breath, trying to steady the storm swirling inside him. He was tired of feeling fragile, tired of everyone treating him like he might fall apart any second. He straightened his back slightly, forcing calm into his voice.
"I'll be fine. I can manage it," he said, maybe a little too quickly. "I miss Hagrid. And honestly… I think getting out of this house might actually help."
Ginny didn't look convinced. She bit her lip, clearly holding something back. Hermione stood nearby, arms folded tightly, her face stiff with that familiar look—part logic, part fear.
"I don't know, Harry," Ginny murmured at last. "Maybe… maybe you should rest a bit longer. You've been unwell. Don't you think your body needs more time to heal?"
Harry felt his irritation rise like boiling water under a lid. He tried not to snap, but his voice came out sharper than intended.
"I said I'm fine." He clenched his fists in his lap. "I feel good today. I want to see Hagrid. Why does everyone keep acting like I'm about to collapse at any moment?"
"We're not acting, mate," Ron said, arms crossed, trying to sound calm but with that same damn note of concern. "You passed out three times last week. Hermione's right—this trip could be dangerous. What if something happens and I have to, I don't know, carry you through a forest? That's not exactly on my bucket list."
Harry shot Ron a glare. "I'm not going to pass out again. You think I don't know my own limits?"
Ron snorted, clearly unconvinced. He didn't even bother answering. That look on his face—that "sure, whatever you say" look—made Harry's blood boil.
Ginny stepped closer, her eyes gentle but unyielding. "Harry… that burning sensation you've been feeling? It's happened more than once. You try to hide it, but I notice. It comes and goes, and I know it scares you. You don't have to admit it out loud, but… I figured it out."
Harry's stomach twisted. He hated how easily she could see through him. "But I haven't felt it in—" he began, trying to argue, trying to defend something he wasn't even sure was true anymore.
Hermione cut in quietly. "Hagrid will understand. You know he will. He always does."
"Yeah," Ron added with a crooked smile, trying to lighten the mood. "Or he'll storm in here and knock down the door when he finds out you're sick. Either way, you'll see him soon enough."
Harry didn't laugh. His chest tightened instead. All their concern, all their worried glances—it made him feel like he was on display, like a sick kid being humoured. He hated that feeling.
"I said I'm fine!" he snapped, his voice rising. "But clearly none of you believe me. So, great, fine—I'll stay in bed if that makes everyone feel better."
He crossed his arms like a sulky kid, which only made him feel more ridiculous. But he was too angry to care.
"I'm not going," Ginny said firmly, stepping back a bit. Her voice was calm, but resolute. "I'm staying here with you."
Harry blinked, surprised. Even though he should've expected that, hearing it still hit him like a punch in the gut.
"I knew you'd say that," Hermione said gently, glancing between them. Her voice held sympathy, but also that same quiet resolve that made her impossible to argue with.
Ron, however, had other thoughts.
He pointed a finger between Harry and Ginny with the most serious look Harry had ever seen on his face. "While we're gone, I expect you two to behave. And I mean it. Strictly. Platonic."
Harry stared at him. "Are you serious right now?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Ginny snapped, clearly offended. "You won't even be here—how exactly are you planning to monitor us? Set up an alarm charm?"
Ron's face was red now, and he looked like he wanted to yell something but didn't know what. Hermione stepped in quickly, sensing a brewing explosion.
"Let's talk about your father," she said, her tone cool and commanding. No room for argument.
Ron's mouth twisted in irritation. "What about him?"
"We'll wait until you're back before telling him anything," Ginny said, voice softer now, but firm.
Hermione nodded in agreement. "We need to be careful how we explain things."
Harry leaned forward, dropping his voice. "Be careful what you say. If he finds out about that potion plan… he's going to lose it."
Silence settled heavily around them.
Hermione looked serious. "We'll tell him some details. But not everything."
"Oh, perfect," Harry said, sarcasm dripping. "You're just going to conveniently leave out the bit where you might die? I'm sure he'll really appreciate that when he finds out the truth later."
"I just don't want to worry him unnecessarily," Hermione replied quietly.
Harry let out a bitter laugh. "He's going to be devastated anyway. So why not just rip the bandage off?"
Ron shot him a glare. "What's with you lately?"
Harry shrugged, trying to seem unfazed, but his stomach was in knots. "I'm just saying. Maybe honesty is underrated around here."
Ginny reached out and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "He's just upset he can't visit Hagrid," she said softly.
Harry yanked his hand away. "I said I'm fine."
"You'll see Hagrid again soon," Hermione said, her voice warm and reassuring.
But her words felt hollow. The ache in Harry's chest didn't go away. And the silence that followed hung thick in the air.
Hermione stood up, smoothing down her robes. "Let's go, Ron."
Harry didn't watch them leave. He just stared at the spot on the floor where the light from the window fell, burning bright and indifferent, like it didn't care how badly he needed to feel normal again.
The dying embers in the fireplace cast a soft, flickering light across the walls of Slughorn's spacious quarters. The air was thick with the unmistakable scent of lingering potions—sweet, sharp, and slightly metallic. The room, cluttered yet cosy, bore the mark of its eccentric occupant: shelves lined with glinting vials and colourful concoctions, portraits of beaming former students crammed together on the walls, and a pair of velvet armchairs so overstuffed they seemed to sigh under their own weight.
Ron wrinkled his nose and glanced around. "You think he's hiding in a cauldron somewhere?"
Hermione rolled her eyes, stepping further into the room. "He's probably in the potion storeroom or back in the lab. Remember, your mum asked for more healing potion for Harry. He might be working on those."
"Right," Ron muttered, running a hand through his hair.
With a reluctant sigh, they left the warm, potion-scented room behind and stepped into the shadowed silence of the castle's corridors. The air outside Slughorn's quarters felt colder somehow, heavier. The hallways now felt like a memory pressed between pages—dim, quiet, and a little too still.
"It's weird, isn't it?" Ron said, his voice low. "All this quiet. I keep expecting Peeves to come flying past, chucking ink bottles at us."
"I know," Hermione replied, hugging her arms to herself. "It's like the castle's holding its breath. At least they managed to repair the worst of it."
"Yeah. It looks normal again, just… doesn't feel it."
She glanced sideways at him, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Would it really feel normal if we weren't running around trying to save someone?"
Ron snorted. "Fair point. I miss the good old days when the most stressful part of the week was Snape breathing down my neck."
They stepped through the castle's front doors and into the open grounds. The morning air bit at their cheeks, and in the distance, Hagrid's hut stood like a squat guardian at the edge of the forest—familiar, comforting, and somehow untouched by time.
Fang's deep, booming bark greeted them before they even knocked. A moment later, the door creaked open, and Hagrid's massive frame filled the doorway.
"Well, would yeh look who it is!" He boomed, beaming, and swept them both into a hug so strong Ron's feet left the ground.
"Hi, Hagrid!" Hermione laughed, her voice bright with genuine affection.
"Oi! Not the face, Fang!" Ron yelped, laughing as the giant boarhound shoved his wet nose into Ron's neck and attempted to lick every inch of his face. "Hagrid, tell him I'm not dinner!"
Fang let out a delighted woof and thumped his tail, clearly delighted by the reunion.
"Come in, come in," Hagrid said, waving them inside with one massive hand. "Got the kettle on already."
Inside, the hut was warm and cluttered as ever. Hermione smiled at the organised chaos: a stack of books on magical creatures teetering beside a half-eaten pie, a dented cauldron doubling as a planter for a curling green vine, and a tray of rock-hard treacle fudge no one dared to touch. It felt like stepping into the past—a comforting, haphazard, slightly sticky past.
They settled into his oversized chairs, their mugs of tea steaming between their hands. But beneath the laughter and familiar cosiness, Hermione could feel tension lurking—an undercurrent neither of them could ignore.
"So," Hagrid said, peering at them with an expectant look, "wha' brings yeh here this time? Not that I mind, mind yeh—but is Harry comin' too?" His eyes sparkled hopefully.
There was a beat of silence.
"Thanks for the tea," Ron said, avoiding the question for half a second. "We wanted to check in on you. And, well… talk."
Hermione hesitated, then decided to stop dancing around it. "It's about Harry."
At once, Hagrid leaned forward, his brow furrowing. "What's wrong? Where is he?"
"He's… not with us," Hermione said slowly. "He's resting. He's been through a lot."
The smile slid from Hagrid's face. "Restin'? Yeh mean… he's sick?"
Ron rubbed the back of his neck, his humor evaporating. "Yeah. Really sick."
Hagrid's mouth opened and closed like he was trying to form words and failing. "But—but he's Harry," he said finally, voice tight. "He always bounces back. What happened this time?"
Hermione placed her mug down, her fingers suddenly trembling. "It's his soul, Hagrid. It's—damaged."
Hagrid stared at her as if she'd just spoken in Parseltongue. "Damaged? How can a soul be damaged?"
She leaned in gently, her voice soft. "Do you remember the night Harry's parents were killed? When Voldemort marked him?"
He nodded slowly, his eyes glistening.
"That night left more than a scar," Hermione said. "Voldemort tethered a part of himself to Harry, and now that connection… it's taken a toll. Magic can't always fix what's been broken that long."
For a moment, no one spoke. The fire crackled in the grate. Fang whined softly and rested his massive head on Hagrid's knee.
Hagrid blinked hard. "Poor lad," he murmured. "Always puttin' everyone else first. Always takin' the worst of it. He doesn't deserve this. Not after everything."
Ron jumped in, his voice quiet but urgent. "And now it's catching up to him. He's… not doing well, Hagrid. He's getting worse."
Hagrid's massive shoulders sagged. He looked like someone had knocked the wind clean out of him. He swallowed hard, blinking quickly. "Worse how?"
"He forgets things," Ron said, looking down at his hands. "Coughs up blood sometimes. He's in pain all the time. And he doesn't say it, but… we can see it."
Hermione nodded, her expression tight. "We've been looking for a way to repair his soul. Something, anything, that could help."
"Did yeh find one?" Hagrid asked immediately, the tiniest flicker of hope lighting his face.
Hermione nodded. "We found a potion—old, complex, and dangerous. But it might work. Professor Slughorn helped us find the instructions. We just need the ingredients."
Hagrid sat up straighter, already prepared to help. "What d'yeh need from me?"
"We need a tail hair from a Thestral," Hermione said carefully. "But it has to be a wild one."
"Wild?" Hagrid frowned. "That's not easy, Hermione. Most of the ones near Hogwarts know humans too well. Wild ones are rare—skittish too."
"We were hoping you'd know where to find one," Ron said.
Hagrid scratched his beard thoughtfully. Silence stretched until finally, he nodded slowly. "I might know a place. They don't come 'round often, but I saw one last spring in the cliffs near the north edge of the forest. But it'll be tricky… they spook easy. Yeh need patience—and guts."
Ron grinned faintly. "You've got both."
Hagrid puffed his chest a little. "Well, I am good with creatures. Even the fussy ones. But I won't lie—it won't be easy."
"We don't have much time," Hermione said quietly. "We need it as soon as you can."
Hagrid nodded grimly. "Then I'll go as soon as I can pack me kit. And I'll bring it back meself. I want ter see Harry. I want to see how he's really doin'. I couldn't bear the thought of him sufferin' like that and not bein' there."
Hermione's eyes softened. "He'd love that, Hagrid. He's missed you."
The sadness in Hagrid's face lifted just a little. "Tell him I'm comin'. Tell him ol' Hagrid's on the way."
They stayed for hours after that, comforted by Hagrid's presence and warm fire. He told them all about his summer adventures—rescuing magical creatures, getting bitten by a cranky Puffskein, and, most hilariously, chasing a niffler cub through a field of gnomes.
"Little rascal kept nickin' my belt buckle!" Hagrid chuckled, his whole body shaking with laughter. "I chased him 'round for a solid hour before I caught him—and then he peed on me boot!"
Hermione burst out laughing, her worries melting for just a moment. Even Ron cracked a smile.
Then Hagrid beamed proudly. "Oh—and I'm back to teachin' Care of Magical Creatures this year!"
Hermione's smile faltered. "Hagrid, I… I'm not taking it this year."
The joy drained from Hagrid's face like water from a leaky cauldron. "What? But… you're brilliant in my class. You could teach it."
"I want to focus on my N.E.W.T.s," Hermione said gently. "I'm really sorry."
Ron shifted awkwardly, clearly feeling the weight of Hagrid's disappointment.
Before it could get too awkward, Ron blurted, "Tell us about Grawp! What's he up to these days?"
Hagrid brightened instantly. "Grawp's great! He's got a cave near Hogsmeade now—likes the quiet. He even decorates it with flowers. Said trees are too loud." He chuckled. "He's gotten real gentle. Gave me a hug last week that didn't crack a rib!"
Ron and Hermione laughed, genuinely relieved.
"Maybe we'll go visit him sometime?" Hermione offered.
"Oh, he'd love that!" Hagrid said, his eyes shining. "You're always welcome."
Ron and Hermione said their goodbyes to Hagrid, their moods sombre but their resolve firm. The path ahead was uncertain, but there was no turning back. Sharing a quick look—half determination, half anxiety—they set off toward Professor Slughorn's office, their pace quickening with purpose.
When they reached the familiar oak door, Hermione raised her hand and knocked gently, her knuckles barely tapping the wood. For a moment, they weren't sure if anyone was inside.
To their surprise, the door opened almost immediately.
"Well, well!" said Professor Slughorn, beaming as he appeared in the doorway, his face lighting up. "Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley! What a delightful pair of unexpected guests!"
He ushered them in with a sweeping gesture, clearly pleased to see them.
"Come in, come in! Don't be shy. Sit down—unless you're in a dreadful hurry?"
They stayed on their feet, polite but focused.
"Actually, we just came from Hagrid's," Hermione said. "We needed something from the Anima Book."
Slughorn's eyes lit up. "Ah! So you've cracked the code, have you? Brilliant work as always, Miss Granger. And I take it Hagrid's handling the… messier side of things?"
"Yes, he's helping us collect the ingredient," she confirmed with a nod.
"Splendid, splendid," Slughorn said, clearly impressed. He waddled over to a table, carefully balancing a bundle of vials in his arms. "I was just about to drop these off at the Burrow for young Mr. Potter. How's he doing, by the way?"
Hermione hesitated, then offered a reassuring smile. "He's hanging in there. As well as he can, really."
Ron chimed in, a bit more bluntly. "Bit moody. Eats like he hasn't seen food in weeks. But yeah—he's okay."
Slughorn chuckled, setting the potions down. "Ah, the appetite of a growing wizard. Good to hear. Since you're on your way back, would you mind delivering these for me?"
"Sure, no problem," Ron said with a shrug.
"Wonderful!" Slughorn beamed. "Tell your mother I do apologise for not making it in person—hopefully she didn't have a potion emergency in the meantime."
"I'm sure she managed," Ron replied with a grin.
With a hearty laugh, Slughorn gestured toward the fireplace. "Well then, shall we?"
Moments later, Ron and Hermione stepped into the emerald flames. With one last glance back at the cosy room, they vanished in a swirl of sparks.
The sound of clinking pans and gentle chatter filtered up from the Burrow's kitchen, warm and familiar. Harry lay curled up on the narrow bed in his room, eyes squeezed shut though sleep had long since fled. His stomach churned with an ugly twist—part nausea, part nerves, part something darker he couldn't name. He'd stayed upstairs for a rest, but there was no peace to be found. Only the ache. Only the shame.
You're fine. Just tired. Just sore. It's nothing.
He told himself that again and again, the words sounding more like a lie each time.
Downstairs, Ginny's laughter rose faintly through the floorboards. She sounded happy. She doesn't know. None of them do. He'd fought hard to keep it that way—his pain carefully hidden beneath fake smiles and half-truths. They deserved a break. They deserved a summer without grief hanging over every meal.
But his body had other plans.
A fresh wave of nausea gripped him. He barely made it to the bathroom in time, fingers scrabbling for the edge of the sink as his knees buckled. His throat burnt. The taste of blood was unmistakable—metallic, bitter, terrifying.
His breath came in gasps. His arms shook. Not again… please, not again…
Behind him, heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs.
"Harry?" Ron's voice, tense and urgent. A knock. Then another. "You alright in there, mate?"
Harry couldn't speak. He couldn't even breathe properly. He slumped forward again, the retching dragging another stab of pain through his chest.
The door creaked open. Harry didn't even have the strength to tell Ron to stop. A second later, Ron was beside him, swearing under his breath.
"Harry! Bloody hell—what—"
Harry forced a weak, shaky smile. "It's fine," he rasped, barely audible. "Just… a stomach thing. I'll be alright."
Ron crouched down beside him, his face pale with panic. Harry knew what he'd seen. The blood in the toilet. The sweat soaking his hairline. The trembling.
"This isn't just some stomach bug," Ron snapped. "You're bleeding, Harry. That's not fine. You need help, and you know that."
"I said I'm okay," Harry insisted, gripping the sink edge to steady himself as he staggered upright. His legs felt like lead. "Please don't tell your mum. She'll worry."
Ron stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "She should worry! I'm worried! And if you think I'm just going to let this go—"
"There's nothing anyone can do," Harry interrupted, more bitterly than he meant to. "Potions won't fix it. They just… dull it for a bit. Then it comes back worse."
Ron's expression twisted in frustration. "So what? You're just gonna rot quietly in a bathroom instead of getting help?"
Harry looked away. The fight drained from his voice. "I'll take something if it gets worse."
"If?" Ron echoed, incredulous. "Mate, it is worse."
Harry didn't argue. What was the point? He was tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of pain. Tired of being the one everyone worried about.
Downstairs, plates clinked. Chairs scraped across the floor. Lunch was ready.
Ron stood, rubbing a hand over his face in exasperation. "I swear to Merlin, if you so much as wince at the table, I'm pouring a potion down your throat myself."
Harry managed a half-hearted chuckle, more breath than sound. "Deal."
They made their way downstairs in silence, Ron sticking close, as if Harry might collapse at any moment.
The smell of roasted chicken and fresh bread hit him first—warm and inviting, almost too much for his unsettled stomach to bear. Mrs. Weasley beamed as they entered. Ginny stood at the stove, her hair tied up, cheeks pink from the heat.
Hermione smiled as Harry approached, but her eyes searched his face with concern. "How was your nap?" she asked gently, taking the seat beside him.
Harry swallowed hard. His hands were clammy. He glanced at Ron, who was already glaring at him with a barely restrained fire. "Good," he lied, the word dry and hollow in his mouth. "I feel a lot better."
Hermione smiled, but it faltered as she looked between the two boys.
Harry tried to focus on the food. Mrs. Weasley had outdone herself—steaming shepherd's pies, roasted vegetables, thick pea soup. It all smelt amazing. Comforting.
But Harry's stomach twisted again, and not from hunger.
He poked at his food, barely tasting it. The table buzzed with conversation, but it all blurred together. Hermione chatting with Ginny. Mr. Weasley muttering about the Prophet. Even Ron digging into his third helping couldn't lift the heaviness pressing down on Harry's chest.
He could feel it—Ron watching him. Waiting.
Don't wince. Don't flinch. Don't let them see.
But the pain was still there, humming just beneath the surface. And Harry wasn't sure how much longer he could keep hiding it.
Harry's fingers hovered over the shepherd's pie, the ladle trembling slightly in his grip. He scooped a small portion onto his plate, careful not to take too much. His eyes never left the food. He didn't dare look at Ron. Things had been tense since the argument that morning—sharp words that still echoed in his mind, even though no one had mentioned it since.
"Hagrid said he'll come visit you soon, Harry!" Hermione's voice broke through the silence.
Harry glanced up, startled. He tried to smile. It didn't feel real on his face, more like a mask he'd forgotten how to wear. "That's… that's nice," he muttered.
But inside, he felt like he was caving in. Hagrid's name brought with it a flood of warmth—and guilt. So many people still believed in him. Still tried. And here he was, pretending to be fine, when every breath felt like it might shatter him from the inside out.
He poked at the food with his fork, stirring the mashed potatoes in slow, aimless circles. His stomach growled traitorously, but when he thought about actually eating, his throat tightened. The pie might as well have been stone. Still, he forced himself to raise a forkful to his mouth and take a bite. Chew. Swallow. Pretend.
Across the table, Mr. Weasley spoke up. "Did you two visit Hogwarts earlier?"
Harry froze, his grip tightening on the fork.
"Yes, Mr. Weasley," Hermione answered quickly, her tone polite but a little rushed. "I'm sorry for not mentioning it earlier. It was… urgent."
From the stove, Mrs. Weasley turned, spatula in hand, her cheerful expression dimming. "Urgent?" she repeated, concern already creeping into her voice.
Harry kept his head down, pretending to be focused on the food. He could feel Hermione looking at him, could feel the weight of what they all knew but weren't saying aloud. His shoulders tensed. He didn't want this conversation. Not here. Not now.
Hermione took a breath, steadying herself. "We think we've found something that might help. A potion—something Professor Slughorn mentioned in the book. It could help repair the damage to Harry's soul."
The room stilled.
Mrs. Weasley gasped. "Oh, Harry, that's… that's wonderful!"
Harry didn't react. Couldn't. It didn't feel real—not yet. Hope had become a dangerous thing, something that left you vulnerable and bleeding when it failed.
Mr. Weasley leaned forward, curious now. "What kind of potion is it? What does it require?"
Hermione's fingers picked nervously at the edge of the tablecloth. "It's a… well, it's a list. Of ingredients. Rare ones."
Harry could feel everyone watching her now. Ron stiffened beside him. Ginny sat unusually still, her fork untouched.
"That's why we visited Hagrid," Hermione continued. "To ask for one of the ingredients."
Mrs. Weasley began serving food again, but her brow was furrowed. "What kind of ingredients, dear?"
Hermione swallowed. "A Thestral's tail hair."
There was a pause.
Mr. Weasley's eyebrows shot up. "That's not something you hear every day," he said, sounding more intrigued than alarmed. "It's actually in Slughorn's book?"
"It is," Hermione nodded, her voice quiet. "And Hagrid knows where to find it."
Harry kept his face blank, but his hands had gone cold. He hated this—sitting here while others made plans for him, fought for him, and risked things for him. He should be doing something. He should be the one fixing this.
"What else?" Mr. Weasley pressed. "What other ingredients do you need?"
Hermione hesitated. Harry didn't need to look at her to feel the tension crackling beside him. He could sense it in Ron's silence and in Ginny's quick, shallow breaths.
"One of the things… it has to come from you, Mr. Weasley."
The words dropped like stones into the room.
"Me?" Mr. Weasley blinked in surprise. "What could you possibly need from me?"
Hermione's hands curled in her lap. Her voice was thin when she finally spoke again. "Are you familiar with the Veil in the Department of Mysteries?"
Harry's chest went tight. The Veil. Sirius. That haunting archway. The cold silence. The way it had swallowed him whole.
"The Veil?" Mr. Weasley's face grew grim. "Of course I am. Why?"
Hermione straightened. "We need a piece of the archway. The stone it's made from. The book said that it holds ancient magic—something that might help restore balance to a fractured soul."
Harry glanced up, just briefly. Mr. Weasley's eyes had gone dark with concern.
"That place is restricted," he said slowly. "Even I don't have free access. And it's guarded constantly."
"Do you think the minister might grant you permission?" Ginny asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Mr. Weasley looked at her, then at Harry. "Kingsley's a good man," he said. "He believes in Harry. If I explain what this is for—if I tell him what's at stake—I think he'd listen."
Harry felt something stir inside him at that. Not hope, exactly. But maybe… the absence of despair.
"That's all we need," Hermione said gently. "Just the two things."
Mr. Weasley nodded, thoughtful. "Then I'll speak to him first thing tomorrow."
Silence settled again. Mrs. Weasley resumed serving the pie, her movements slower now, more careful.
Harry looked down at his plate. The food hadn't moved. Neither had his appetite. He could feel Ginny watching him, but he didn't meet her eyes.
I don't deserve this, he thought bitterly. Not the help. Not the kindness. Not any of it.
His hand trembled slightly, so he shoved it under the table. Another bite. Just one more. Pretend to eat. Pretend to be okay.
Cutlery clinked quietly, the room heavy with unspoken thoughts. But Mr. Weasley didn't return to his food. His eyes, filled with worry, stayed locked on Hermione.
"What do you intend to do with the stone?" He asked gently, but there was urgency in his voice. "How does it help Harry?"
Harry didn't move, didn't lift his head. He felt the question like a hand pressing down on his chest. Of course that was what everyone was wondering. What the hell were they doing? Trusting some half-translated instructions from a book and an ancient stone pulled from the depths of the ministry?
Hermione's voice broke the silence. Soft, shaky. "We… we make a potion from it."
Harry glanced at her. Sweat beaded at her temple, and he could almost hear the frantic spinning of thoughts behind her eyes. She hated speaking when she was hiding some facts.
Mr. Weasley tried to ease the mood. "I hope the potion tastes better than it sounds. Tail hair and stone don't sound particularly appetising to me."
A few chuckles circled the table, forced and hollow.
Harry gave a tight, automatic smile. It was the best he could manage. His stomach turned at the thought of the potion—of the stone. Of what they were asking it to fix. What he was asking them to risk.
Hermione's smile faltered too, the light in her eyes dimming beneath the strain. She looked down at her plate, barely touching the food.
Later, Harry sank into the armchair in the living room, its cushions familiar but failing to offer the comfort they once had. He pressed his back against it, trying to lose himself in the stillness, but his mind wouldn't let him.
He was supposed to feel hopeful. That's what this was, right? A chance to fix what was broken. A chance to live.
But the idea of being "fixed" felt like a cruel joke. The damage inside him didn't feel like something that could be healed with a potion. It wasn't just scars or pain. It was a hole. A hollowed-out part of himself he'd long stopped trying to understand.
He hated that they were doing all this. Not because he didn't appreciate it—he did, more than he could say—but because he didn't believe he deserved it. How could they keep pouring themselves into him when he didn't feel whole enough to give anything back?
The soft creak of the floorboards pulled him from his thoughts. Hermione appeared beside him, slipping into the seat next to his. She didn't say anything at first, just sat there with him. She always knew when words weren't needed—when just being there mattered more.
He glanced sideways at her, managing a dry smile. "You really know how to work a room, Hermione. That whole 'let's feed Harry a potion made from magical debris' speech was inspirational."
Hermione gave him a mock glare, cheeks turning slightly pink. "Shut up, Harry," she muttered. "You try explaining something like that to someone's father. I was terrified."
He tilted his head. "Didn't seem like it."
"Yeah, well, I was. And thanks for the support, by the way."
"Anytime," he said with a smirk.
She nudged him lightly with her elbow. "You could've helped. Or at least pretended to."
"I was too busy trying to survive lunch. You know I'm fragile."
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled, the kind of smile that warmed the edges of the day. "Fragile, right. I've seen you face down Death Eaters with less drama."
He shrugged. "That was easier. At least they didn't expect me to talk about feelings or drink weird potions."
She laughed softly, but Harry noticed the tremble behind it. The same one in his own chest.
A long silence stretched between them. The kind that felt natural. Hermione began picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion, eyes focused but distant.
"Does the book say anything about needing three people for the soul thing?" Harry asked suddenly. The question had been lodged in his throat for hours. "Or can one person do it alone?"
Hermione blinked. She looked like she hadn't expected that. "I don't know," she said honestly, fidgeting with the thread. "We haven't gotten through all of it. It's… it's complicated. But Ron, Ginny, and I decided to help regardless. Doesn't matter who it's meant for. We're in this."
She glanced up at him, almost nervously. "Are you… upset we made that choice?"
Harry stared at the empty fireplace. "No. I just don't understand why you'd all risk yourselves for me."
She didn't interrupt. She just let him speak. Maybe she knew he needed to say it out loud.
"I've been living like this for so long, Hermione… Like I've been on borrowed time since my parents died. I thought… after the war, maybe it would be over. The pain. The guilt. But it's just a different kind now."
He could feel the tears behind his eyes, but he didn't let them fall.
"I'm tired," he whispered. "Tired of pretending I'm okay. Tired of hoping for something better. Sometimes I think maybe I wasn't meant to survive all that. Maybe that was the mistake. Maybe I was better off dead."
Hermione's hand reached out, wrapping around his. Steady. Grounding.
"I see you, Harry," she said quietly. "Even when you're hiding. I know you're tired, but I also know you've never stopped fighting. Even now. You keep going even when it hurts. That means something."
He wanted to believe her. Merlin, he wanted to.
"And—" she hesitated.
"And what?"
Her eyes were soft, but sure. "I still want to see you and Ginny get married. Have a family. I think you'd be an amazing dad."
Harry blinked, blindsided by the shift. His heart thudded hard in his chest. "Why are you bringing that up now?"
"Because you keep talking like you won't have a future. But you can, Harry. You deserve one. You deserve happiness—even if you don't believe that yet."
He didn't respond right away. The thought of a future—of kids, of Ginny, of peace—felt like something from another lifetime. But somewhere deep down, something flickered. Not hope, not yet. But the memory of it.
"I'll try," he said finally. "I can't promise more than that."
"That's enough," Hermione whispered.
She stood after a moment, her hand brushing his. "I'll let you rest. You looked half-dead before I even sat down."
"Wait—" he started, then stopped himself.
She gave him a knowing smile. "I'll be upstairs if you need anything."
He watched her go, the room growing quiet again. He sat there for a long time, letting the silence stretch. His body still ached, the pain dull but constant. He didn't let it show. Not when they were all trying so hard to hold him up.
But inside, he was crumbling. Still, for the first time in a while, he wasn't crumbling alone.
And maybe that was something.