Ron lay sprawled on his bed, one arm dangling off the side, as the warm afternoon sun filtered lazily through the curtains. The golden light wrapped around him like a soft blanket, casting sleepy shadows across the room.
He was just starting to drift into a comfortable doze when a knock broke the moment.
"Ugh," he muttered, rolling off the bed and dragging his feet to the door. When he opened it, Hermione stood on the other side, her arms folded, eyes sharp.
"Hey, Hermione." He gave her a quick smile. "Come in."
She didn't return the smile. That was the first red flag.
As she stepped into the room and settled into the chair near his bed, Ron felt the shift in the air. Hermione only ever had that tight, crinkled look on her face when something was really bothering her—like when she got a 99 out of 100 marks on a Charms essay or when Harry disappeared with the Marauder's Map for hours without telling them.
"You saw that look I gave you at lunch, right?" she asked, her voice clipped, straight to business. "You knew I was onto something."
Ron nodded slowly, the warm fuzziness of his nap now completely gone. "Yeah. I figured. It's Harry, isn't it?"
Hermione leaned forward. "He's hiding something. I could tell."
"Yeah," Ron said, rubbing his face tiredly. "He told Ginny he was just tired… said he was feeling better. But I heard him again—throwing up in the bathroom this morning. He doesn't want to take any of the potions."
Hermione's mouth opened slightly, her expression shifting from concern to shock. "He refused them?"
"Yeah. Said they weren't doing anything. But then he promised he'd take them if it got worse. The thing is… I don't think he meant it. He was just trying to get me off his back."
Hermione dropped her eyes to her lap. Her hands were trembling slightly, fingers twitching against her clothes. "Something's not right," she said softly. "He told me something a few minutes ago. Something awful."
Ron's stomach tightened. "What?"
She hesitated, then whispered, "He told me… he sometimes wishes he wasn't here anymore. That it'd be easier if he were dead."
The room went still.
Ron blinked. "He said that? Harry?"
Hermione nodded. "He looked so tired, Ron. Not just physically… like he's carrying something we can't see."
Ron ran both hands through his hair, tugging at it in frustration. "Bloody hell. I thought maybe he was just being stubborn. But that? That's not stubborn. That's—" He broke off. "We have to do something. He can't keep feeling like that."
"He doesn't see what we see in him," Hermione said quietly. "The way people look up to him. How much he's fought for everyone. He thinks he's a burden."
"Well, he's not," Ron snapped. "He's a bloody hero! He just… needs reminding. Maybe he needs a distraction. Something to break through his thoughts."
Hermione gave him a sceptical look. "Like what, exactly?"
Ron's eyes lit up, like a candle flaring to life. "Come on. You know what Harry loves most in the world."
"Treacle tart?" she guessed weakly.
"Well, that too," Ron admitted, "but I was thinking Quidditch."
Hermione stared at him like he'd suggested robbing Gringotts. "You want to drag Harry onto a broomstick when he's barely able to stand upright?"
Ron shrugged, grinning sheepishly. "Not drag. Invite. Gently. With enthusiasm."
"You're insane."
"Maybe. But I think it could help. Flying clears his head. It's like… the one place he always feels free, you know?"
Hermione groaned, pressing her palms to her face. "There are about a thousand reasons this could end badly. For one, you don't even have proper equipment. Second, I'm a disaster on a broomstick—"
"Alright, alright," he said, holding up his hands. "We don't need proper equipment. I'll dig up something to use as a Quaffle, maybe an old pillow or the ghoul in pyjamas I still have to get rid of."
Hermione stared at him, equal parts horrified and reluctantly intrigued. "So, you want me, the world's worst flier, and Ginny, who's got a competitive streak the size of a Hungarian Horntail, to go flying with Harry—who might pass out midair?"
"Well, when you put it like that…" Ron scratched his neck. "Yeah, actually. That's the plan."
Hermione sighed deeply, massaging her temples. "This is either the best idea you've ever had or the most colossally stupid."
Ron grinned. "Why not both?"
She looked at him for a long moment. Then: "Fine. But if Harry so much as wobbles on that broom, I'm calling it off and jinxing you every single day."
"That's fair," Ron said, already half-dreaming of the wind in his hair. "We'll take it slow. Keep it light. And maybe… maybe it'll help him remember what it's like to feel okay again."
Hermione still looked troubled, but her voice softened. "I hope you're right. Because I don't know what else to do anymore."
Ron reached out and gave her hand a quick squeeze. "We're in this together. Always."
A reluctant smile tugged at Hermione's lips. "Even if I crash into a tree?"
"Especially then," Ron said with a wink. "I'll even help you pick out the bark."
The world was soft and distant, like the echo of a dream slipping through his fingers. Harry stirred faintly, a dull warmth against his cheek—couch cushions. Safe. Quiet. For once, no screaming, no green light, no Voldemort. Just the low murmur of voices.
He didn't want to wake up.
Still, the rustling of paper and the sound of his name tugged him upward.
"Any good news?" Ron's voice. Unmistakable.
Harry kept his eyes closed. If he stayed still long enough, maybe they'd think he was asleep again.
"No," Ginny answered, her voice tight. "Just more rubbish. They want him to make a statement. Show his face. Smile for the public."
Harry winced inwardly. Of course they did.
A pause, then Ron again: "How's he doing?"
Harry could almost picture Ginny shrugging. "I think he's alright."
That was generous. He felt like he was stitched together with exhaustion and barely-held-together nerves. His body might be here, sprawled on the sofa, but the rest of him were scattered—pieces left behind at Hogwarts, at all the ones who had fallen, in that final scream echoing through the night.
A hand nudged his shoulder, gentle but unexpected. "Hey, Harry!"
His heart jerked in his chest. Panic flared, eyes flying open. Shapes hovered above him—Ron's freckled face, Ginny's sharp glare.
"What—what's going on?" Harry croaked, blinking fast. His voice sounded foreign, too dry.
"You alright?" Ron asked, backing up a step, concern blooming across his face.
Ginny shot Ron a look sharp enough to draw blood. "Why did you wake him?"
"I thought maybe he'd want to fly," Ron said, sheepish. "You know… Quidditch. Friendly game. Light stuff."
Harry rubbed his face. His brain felt foggy, like it had been packed with cotton. "Did something happen?"
Ginny leaned closer, her fingers brushing his hair in a way that made his chest ache. "No. Ron just woke you up. Go back to sleep."
"That's not fair!" Ron protested. "He hasn't flown in ages. A little time outside might help."
"Or it might push him over the edge," Ginny snapped, her voice low and fierce. "He's not ready."
Harry sat up slowly. Something in Ron's words stirred something ancient in his chest—hunger. Not for food or sleep, but for air, wind, and sky.
"I can play," he said suddenly, surprising himself.
Both of them looked at him. Ron lit up like Christmas. Ginny looked like he'd just declared he wanted to duel a dragon.
"I haven't flown since… since everything. And my Firebolt's gone. Lost it when we left Privet Drive." The words tasted bitter. "I'll need to borrow a broom."
"We've got spares!" Ron said instantly. "Come on, let's do it."
Harry nodded, feeling something strange rush through him—hope. It didn't feel like healing. Not quite. But it was movement. Something that wasn't pain. "Alright. I'll go get changed."
He pushed to his feet and climbed the stairs two at a time, his legs still shaky but his heart thudding with something close to excitement. He didn't question it. If he paused long enough, the shadows would start creeping in again.
Behind him, Ginny rounded on Ron.
"You know he's not okay," she whispered. "He's barely hanging on. If anything happens to him—"
Ron's voice was quiet but urgent. "He wants this. You saw his face. He lit up. When was the last time you saw him like that?"
Ginny folded her arms tightly, trying to hold herself together. "That doesn't mean he's ready."
Ron hesitated, then said the words like they hurt to say aloud. "He told Hermione he doesn't want to keep going."
Ginny's face paled. Her lips parted, but no words came out.
"He's drowning, Ginny," Ron continued, voice cracking. "He needs something. Even just this. Just one moment to feel like himself again. Let him fly."
Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and Harry reappeared, a borrowed broom gripped tightly in his hand. His hair was still a mess, but his eyes were brighter, like something had flickered back on.
"Ready?" he asked, smiling.
Ron stepped forward. "Always."
Ginny didn't move at first. Then Hermione appeared behind them, arms folded, giving Ron a dry, pointed look. She said nothing, but her eyebrows did the talking: Really?
Ginny met Hermione's eyes. There was no approval there—but there wasn't judgement, either. Just quiet understanding.
Ginny sighed. "Be careful," she said to Harry. "Promise me."
Harry paused. Looked her in the eyes. "I promise."
She didn't believe him. Not entirely. But she nodded anyway.
Harry's heart thudded a little faster in his chest as he stood by the weathered wooden goalpost, the edges of the old wood worn smooth by time and the hands of whoever had hoisted it into place. He glanced up. The sky was impossibly blue, the kind of blue that made everything feel just a bit lighter. The sun blazed high above, casting gold over the Burrow's lush garden, and the grass shimmered like it had been dusted with stars. It was the sort of day that made you forget—just for a moment—about worries and loss and the ache that had taken root somewhere deep inside his chest.
For now, there was only Quidditch.
His fingers curled more tightly around the familiar grip of the broomstick, the bristles frayed at the ends but reliable. It was one of the few things in his life that had always made sense. Stable. Fast. Trustworthy.
He inhaled deeply, letting the scent of sun-warmed grass and faint wood smoke fill his lungs. Around him, the others were gathering. Ron bounced the Quaffle from hand to hand, his expression a mix of determination and nerves. Ginny looked sharp and confident, her hair catching the sunlight like fire. Hermione—well, Hermione looked sceptical.
Ron stepped to the centre of their makeshift pitch, puffing himself up like a miniature Quidditch captain. "Alright, everyone," he called, his voice cracking slightly before he cleared his throat. "Since there's four of us, we'll do two-on-two. I pick Ginny."
Harry saw it before Hermione even opened her mouth—the quick furrow of her brow, that twitch of disapproval she hadn't yet voiced.
"That doesn't seem very fair," she said, folding her arms. "You and Ginny are both experienced players. That leaves me and Harry at a disadvantage."
Ron shrugged, his grin spreading. "Oh, come on. You've got Harry. The Chosen One, remember?" He said with a mock-solemn tone, then cracked a grin. "We don't stand a chance."
Harry couldn't help but laugh, the familiar rhythm of Ron's teasing wrapping around him like a warm blanket. For the first time all week, he felt… normal.
Ginny rolled her eyes at Ron and stepped forward, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Honestly, why am I even on your team?" she shot at Ron. "I'm ready for a real challenge."
She turned to Harry then, her eyes sharp and full of fire. "Don't think I'll go easy on you, Potter," she warned, tossing her head. "You're going down."
There was something electric in the way she said it. That teasing glint in her eye. That quiet dare. Harry's lips quirked into a grin, heart lifting despite the heaviness he'd been dragging around like a second shadow.
"Are you sure about that, Weasley?" he countered, matching her stare. "You sound pretty confident for someone who's about to lose."
"Bring it on," Ginny shot back, and Harry could see the affection tucked neatly behind her defiance. "Dating me doesn't earn you a handicap."
Harry raised an eyebrow, mock-offended. "I was hoping it might."
Ron laughed, shaking his head. "You two are disgustingly flirty."
Hermione gave a long-suffering sigh, though her eyes sparkled. "This match is doomed."
For a moment, the laughter hung in the air, bright and genuine, and Harry felt it in his bones—that lightness he hadn't realised he'd missed so badly. It was like being twelve again, when Quidditch and homework were the biggest worries in the world. Before prophecy and war and all the grief he hadn't had time to grieve.
Ron clapped his hands. "Alright! First team to twenty goals wins. Let's make this good!"
"Twenty?" Hermione blinked. "We'll be out here until midnight!"
Harry grinned. "You just need better stamina."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"
"You're with me," Harry reminded her with a wink. "We make a good team."
She hesitated, giving him a once-over. Her smile dimmed a little. "Are you sure you're okay? You look a bit pale."
Harry felt that flicker of guilt, the one that always followed concern. He didn't want her worrying. Didn't want any of them worrying. Especially not today.
"I'm fine," he lied, even as the dull throb in his head pulsed in quiet protest. "Promise."
She didn't look convinced, but she nodded.
The truth was, he probably wasn't okay. He hadn't slept well in days. The burning feeling kept clawing its way into his sleep, and when it didn't, the headaches did. His stomach had been off, too—he'd spent more time staring into the loo this morning than he cared to admit.
Ginny had noticed. She always did. She'd told him—more than once—that he should rest. She even tried to make him nap on the sofa. But he couldn't. His body ached with exhaustion, but his mind wouldn't stop spinning long enough to let him sleep.
It was Ron, bless him, who found Harry slumped against the toilet and coaxed him into lying down for a while. But even then, Harry hadn't felt rested. Just… heavier.
Still, when Ron mentioned a quick game of Quidditch to blow off steam, Harry couldn't say no. He missed this. He missed feeling like a kid, like a friend, like someone who could laugh without guilt.
So here he was, ignoring the warning signs in his body, pretending everything was fine, and stepping onto his broom like it was just another lazy afternoon.
As he kicked off the ground, the familiar rush of air whipped past his face, tugging at his hair and scattering the fog in his mind. It wasn't gone—but it was quieter now. It always was when he flew.
Ginny zipped by overhead, looping into a tight spiral. Ron followed, wobbling slightly as he adjusted his grip on the broomstick. Both of them were grinning like mad.
Ron pointed dramatically toward Harry and Hermione. "You lot ready to lose?"
Hermione rolled her eyes and spun the Quaffle in her hands. "Focus on your own game, Ronald."
Ginny hovered just behind her brother, flashing a wicked smile. "Don't worry—we'll make sure you two know what funreally means."
Harry couldn't help the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. This—this was what he needed. Not sleep. Not potions. Not quiet.
Just this moment. Just the sky, and the laughter, and the people who made him feel human again.
And with that, the game began.
They kicked off the ground together, the broomsticks rising fast into the orange-tinted sky. The wind roared past Harry's face, cold and wild, and something inside him soared along with it. It had been a year—maybe more—since they'd played like this. No school, no crowds, no House points at stake. Just them, just the sky, and the game.
And still, up here… it felt like nothing had changed.
The moment the air hit his skin, something uncoiled in his chest. The tension, the heaviness, the things they didn't say—they all fell away. He grinned without meaning to.
A quick look passed between him and Hermione. No words, just a spark of shared understanding. They were a team. Always had been. Whatever Ginny and Ron threw at them, they'd handle it. Together.
The Quaffle shot into the air, and Harry flew forward without thinking—muscle memory kicking in. He looped tight, eyes tracking the red blur, while Hermione veered off at an angle, her broom tilting sharply. She was quicker than he remembered. Sharper. Years of reading and spellwork hadn't dulled her instincts. If anything, she moved like someone who wanted to win this time.
They boxed Ron and Ginny toward the left goalpost, weaving tighter and tighter like they were pulling a net around them. Hermione passed the Quaffle behind her back—showy—and Harry caught it clean.
Then Ron's voice rang out across the field.
"Oi! Two on two, not two on one!"
"Sounds like you're scared!" Harry shouted back, laughing.
"More like fair play's gone out the window," Ron huffed.
"Since when did you care about fair play?" Hermione teased, dodging a wild grab from him.
Ginny, of course, was already on the move—quick, low, and viciously accurate. She cut through their line like a knife through fabric, snatching the Quaffle mid-pass with an elegant roll and turning on a Knut.
Harry swore under his breath and leaned in, gaining speed. Hermione was just behind him, both of them narrowing in on Ginny as she shot forward like a blazing comet.
Before they could catch her, she passed cleanly to Ron.
"Go, go, go!" she shouted.
Ron barreled toward the hoops, arms locked around the Quaffle. Harry pushed forward, heart pounding, trying to intercept. Beside him, Hermione shot forward like an arrow and—without warning—leapt off her broom.
"Bloody hell, Hermione!"
She caught the Quaffle mid-dive, twisting in the air and landing hard in the grass. Harry winced. That had to hurt. But Hermione popped up, breathless and triumphant, like she'd just won the World Cup.
"Did you see that?!" she gasped, grinning as she lobbed the Quaffle into the air again.
"She's showing off," Ron muttered, swooping down to catch it before anyone else could. "Try and stop this!"
He shot upward with a burst of speed. Harry gave chase instantly, laughing despite himself. He wasn't sure if this counted as a match or just chaos.
Time blurred after that. There were no referees, no rules they stuck to for long—just wild chases and surprise dives and shouted insults across the pitch. Their laughter mixed with the beating of wings and the sound of wind rushing past their ears. The sun dipped lower, casting their shadows long over the Burrow's backyard field.
"Let's fake left!" Hermione panted, flying just ahead of him.
"Right's better—he always bites on left!" Harry called back.
They cut right.
But Ron didn't fall for it. He'd grown up playing with Fred and George. He knew tricks.
Before Harry could correct, Ginny shot out from behind Ron like a missile. The Quaffle blazed past them and hit the hoop with a satisfying thunk.
Goal.
"YES!" Ron whooped.
Harry blinked. "What just happened?"
Hermione threw up her hands. "We just got outplayed!"
Harry let out a breathless laugh, clapping Ron on the back as they hovered midair. "Not bad. Not bad at all."
Ginny tossed her hair back, positively glowing. "Told you I wouldn't let you win."
They kept playing. The score tilted. 9 to 6. Then 10 to 7. 12 to 8.
Harry didn't even mind losing. Not here, not now. Every time someone scored, they shouted and cheered like they were thirteen again. No war. No scars. Just sky.
"I vote next time we practise defence!" Hermione called out as she hovered near Harry, brushing windswept curls out of her face.
"Or maybe dodging lessons," Ron added, grinning.
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Or maybe stop passing to each other like you're telepathic twins."
Harry soared upward, looping once through the warm summer air before spiralling down with a grin. His arms ached. His legs burned. But everything about this felt right.
"We'll have a rematch," he called as he landed, shaking out his arms. "And I'll buy a Firebolt next time."
"Oh, bring it on, Potter," Ginny laughed, squinting up at him with mock defiance. "You'll still lose."
Ron beamed. "I can't believe we actually beat you two. This is one for the record books."
"You're welcome," Ginny added, placing her hands on her hips like a smug captain holding a trophy. "I carried this team."
Harry, breathing hard, leaned back against the Burrow's old wooden fence. It was cool against his sweat-damp shirt. He let himself rest there, heart still thudding from the match, and just watched them—his friends. His family.
"Ginny," he said softly, "you were brilliant. I mean it."
She glanced over at him, her cheeks flushed, but her smile was quiet, almost tender. "Thanks. I was trying to impress someone."
Harry chuckled. "You didn't need to try."
As they walked off the pitch, the sky turning a dusky lavender above them, Harry felt it again—something tugging at his chest. Not pain. Not quite.
Just… a longing.
Fred and George should've been here. Fred would've heckled every missed goal. George would've rigged the Quaffle to explode.
The match had been perfect. But some things still echoed.
Harry closed his eyes for a second and breathed in the scent of grass, summer, and sweat. He felt exhausted, happy, and heavy all at once.
This was what they'd fought for.
And maybe they were allowed to have it.
"Thanks for convincing me to play again," Harry said, panting lightly as he walked beside Ron. His muscles ached, and his shirt clung to him with sweat, but there was a faint smile on his face. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, something had cut through the fog hanging over him.
"I'd forgotten how much I missed this."
The wind on his face, the rush of the chase, the thrill of laughter—it had stirred something inside him he thought had gone numb.
Ron gave him a grin and nudged his shoulder. "Anything for my best mate." His voice was bright and casual, but Harry caught the flicker of relief in it. Ron had been worrying, he knew. They all had.
"And congrats on the win," Harry added, even though the sting of defeat still lingered in his ribs like a bruise. "Good thing Ginny was on your team—without her, you'd have been flattened."
Ron laughed. "Oi, I had a couple of good saves!" Then he glanced toward Ginny and added with a smirk, "But yeah… I definitely owe her. That move at the end? She nicked the Quaffle right out of your hands."
"Don't remind me," Harry muttered, trying not to laugh. He could still hear the roar of the others cheering and feel the shock as Ginny shot past him.
Ginny was sitting a few feet away, drinking water, her face still flushed from the match. Ron's praise rang out again: "Ginny, that last manoeuvre was brilliant! The look on Harry's face—priceless."
Harry saw her wince. She didn't even look up.
"Can't I enjoy a little peace without a commentary?" She grumbled under her breath, rubbing at her temples. Her expression was tight, guarded—like she wanted to smile, but something in her wouldn't let her.
Harry understood that feeling all too well.
From the sidelines, Hermione finally approached them, brushing windblown curls from her face. "I'm sorry," she said, her eyes on Harry, a mix of guilt and worry in them. "I didn't think it would turn into something so intense."
Harry shook his head, offering her a tired smile. "Don't apologise. It was fun. You played great." He meant it. Hermione wasn't a natural flier, but she'd pushed herself out there. That counted for something.
The excitement followed them to the Burrow, buzzing in their bones like leftover magic. But as Harry sat down at the dinner table, the weight of the day slammed back into him. His body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry in the sun. Every muscle throbbed. His brain felt like sludge.
He piled food onto his plate like it might fix the way his chest ached or his legs trembled, but even as he ate, he could barely taste it. His eyelids drooped. His fork slowed.
Too much. Should've stopped. Should've known better.
Across the table, Ron's voice cut through the haze again: "Ginny, seriously, that was amazing. You should go pro. The way you took the Quaffle from Harry—"
Ginny raised a brow, unimpressed. "Ron, please. Do I need to hex you to get you to stop talking about it?"
Harry snorted softly into his potatoes. At least she's back to normal. Sort of.
And then, like a cold draught blowing through a warm room, came the dreaded voice of Mrs. Weasley.
"Ronald Weasley!"
Harry tensed, instinctively shrinking a little in his seat. He didn't even look up.
"What were you thinking?" Her voice was sharp, thick with concern. "Harry's not well! You let him play?"
Ron opened his mouth, but Mrs. Weasley was already marching over, her eyes blazing.
"You know how fragile his condition's been!" she scolded, glaring at both boys now. "What if something had happened to him out there?"
Harry's face burned. He wanted to explain. To tell her he'd chosen to play. That Ron hadn't forced him. That for once, he'd felt alive. But the words wouldn't come. Guilt clamped around his throat.
"Mum, I—" Ron tried.
"Don't 'Mum' me! He could've collapsed out there! What if he'd fallen from his broom?"
Ron's face twisted with guilt, but his voice rose with frustration. "Nothing happened! He's fine! He wanted to play!"
Harry stared down at his untouched food, feeling like a child again. Like he was being scolded for sneaking out of bed past curfew. Except this time it wasn't about rules—it was about fear. Hers. Theirs. His.
He tried to say something—anything.
"Mrs. Weasley, I was just—"
"No, Harry." Her voice cracked like a whip. "No excuses. I'm sorry, but this can't happen again. Not until you're fully better. Quidditch is off-limits."
Her words struck deep. More than he expected. He knew she was right. He really did. But it still hurt, being treated like glass. Like he couldn't be trusted with his own body anymore.
"You've put yourself at risk, Harry," she added, softer now, but not gentler. "After everything we've done to keep you safe…"
Ron slammed his fork down. "That's not fair! Don't take it out on him! He didn't do anything wrong—this was my idea!"
Harry looked up, startled. Ron's face was red, not just from the heat of the kitchen but from anger. Loyalty.
Mrs. Weasley turned her fury toward him. "Then you're both to blame!"
The table fell into silence. Ron stabbed at his food with a kind of helpless rage. Hermione looked like she wanted to disappear.
Harry sat still, the sounds around him fading. The warmth from the game, the laughter, the relief—it was gone now. And in its place was a tired ache in his chest.
Why did I think I could just be normal again? Just for one match?
A few minutes later, the back door creaked open.
"Evening, all," came Mr. Weasley's voice, weary but calm.
Harry turned slightly, grateful for the change in energy. Mr. Weasley gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder as he sat down beside him.
"I managed to get a quick message to Kingsley about the stone," he said with a sigh. "Poor bloke's running around like a madman. Ministry's in chaos."
Harry nodded slowly but couldn't lift his eyes. "Thanks," he mumbled, feeling small again. Like he'd let everyone down.
Mr. Weasley didn't press him. He just smiled kindly. "It's good you're here now. We've got you."
And somehow, those simple words loosened the knot in Harry's chest.
"I saw little Teddy at the Ministry today," Mr. Weasley added.
Harry blinked. Teddy.
The name alone brought a fragile smile to his lips. His godson. Remus's son. Tonks's.
"Isn't he the son of Remus and Tonks?" Mrs. Weasley asked, some of her anger finally softening.
Mr. Weasley nodded. "He is. And Harry's his godfather, remember?" He turned to Harry, eyes warm.
Harry nodded again. "Yeah… I remember."
How could he forget?
Harry's heart ached in that strange, quiet way it sometimes did—full and hollow at the same time. "How's he doing?" he asked, barely above a whisper. His voice carried a soft edge of hope, but it wavered with the weight of everything he didn't say—how much he missed Remus and Tonks, how much he wished he could be there.
He hadn't met the baby yet. He hadn't held him or even seen a picture. But still, the thought of Teddy wrapped itself around his heart like a thread of light in the dark. A new life born from so much loss. Something bright was left behind.
Mr. Weasley's face lit up. "He's doing quite well, considering," he said, his tone warm and proud. "For only a month old, the little tyke's already changing his appearance at will."
Harry blinked. His chest tightened—not with sadness this time, but something closer to awe. "Already?" he echoed.
"He's a Metamorphmagus?" Hermione asked, sitting up straighter, eyes sparkling with interest.
"That's right," Mr. Weasley replied, the kitchen filling with his excitement. "And from what Andromeda says, he didn't inherit Remus's lycanthropy, thank Merlin. Just Tonks's unique gift."
Mrs. Weasley let out a delighted laugh and clapped her hands together. "Oh, what a blessing!"
Harry forced a smile, but it trembled at the edges. Teddy didn't get the curse. He got the magic. It felt like the universe was trying to make amends—but it could never truly balance the scales. Not really.
"You should visit him, Harry," Mr. Weasley said, leaning forward a little, his voice gentle. "I think it'd do you both some good. I can only imagine how happy he'll be to meet his godfather."
Harry's heart clenched. He looked down at his hands resting in his lap—too thin, too pale. His illness was always there, lurking just beneath the surface, dragging him back every time he tried to feel something normal again.
"I'd love to," Harry said quietly, his voice cracking on the last word. "But… I can't. Not yet."
He didn't want to see the sadness in their eyes, so he didn't look up. The silence stretched a little too long until he felt Ginny's fingers slide gently into his under the table, squeezing tight. Just that—no words, no questions. Just her.
Mr. Weasley reached across and rested a hand on Harry's shoulder. It was warm and steady. "Don't worry," he said softly. "We'll find a way. I'll talk to Andromeda—maybe she can bring Teddy here for a visit."
Harry swallowed hard, the lump in his throat nearly choking him. "That would mean the world. Thank you," he managed.
Ron cleared his throat, breaking the heaviness a little. "So, Dad—who does he look like?"
Mr. Weasley chuckled and scratched his chin. "That's the funny thing. When he was born, he had a full head of black hair—looked just like Remus, but then it shifted. Pink, blue, green. He's already got his mum's flair."
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, imagining it. A tiny baby with ever-changing hair, wrapped in a blanket of magic and loss. He wondered if Teddy would ever know how brave his parents were. How loved.
"He's got a good future ahead," Mr. Weasley said, lifting his glass of water. "He'll grow up surrounded by people who care deeply for him. That matters. That's what keeps us all going, in the end."
Harry nodded faintly, but the words barely sank in. A strange dizziness had started to creep in—light at first, like standing up too fast. But it didn't fade. It grew, swelling behind his eyes and in his chest, until the whole room felt like it was swaying. His stomach turned. His skin went cold.
He tried to stand, gripping his plate with shaking fingers, but the weight of it felt too much. The leftover scraps smeared across the ceramic like some kind of cruel metaphor—something used up, discarded. He made it to the sink, one hand bracing himself on the counter.
Not here. Not now. Not in front of them.
His breath hitched. Heat bloomed across his face and neck, a fever building from the inside out. The kitchen blurred, voices muffled, as if he were underwater.
Please… not again.
He turned without a word and stumbled from the room, each step a battle. He didn't hear if anyone called after him. All he could hear was the rush of his own blood and the faint roaring in his ears.
The stairs stretched like a mountain, but somehow, he made it to his room. The moment his knees hit the edge of the bed, he collapsed forward, too weak to even pull the covers back.
The mattress rose up to meet him, soft and cold. His legs gave out completely, and the world around him spun violently. Shadows flickered at the corners of his vision, creeping in like smoke.
He didn't fight the dark. He couldn't. All he could do was let go and hope—hope that when he opened his eyes again, there would still be light.
Despite Harry's best efforts to pretend he was fine, the sickness refused to loosen its grip. It clung to him for days, dragging him down little by little. At first, he tried to hide it—to smile through the pain, to crack half-hearted jokes at breakfast, and to insist he was "just tired". But the truth had a way of slipping through the cracks. The mask didn't last long.
By the end of the first day, he couldn't keep up the act anymore. His legs had buckled the moment he reached his room, and he collapsed onto the mattress, shivering, unnoticed. The sheets felt too hot and too cold at once, and his skin prickled with sweat. His whole body throbbed with exhaustion that went deeper than bone. It wasn't just the fever. It was everything.
Ron had caught a bit of Mrs. Weasley's fury for dragging Harry to the Quidditch match—though Harry had insisted it wasn't Ron's fault. Still, that guilt lingered in the air like smoke after a fire. And now, too sick to play the part of the unbothered guest, Harry asked for time alone. It was the only thing he could control.
Ron had nodded stiffly, guilt flashing across his face, and backed off. "Alright. Rest up," he'd said. "Just shout if you need anything." Then he'd quietly closed the door behind him.
Harry had expected relief—but what he got was silence. Heavy, pressing silence. It settled over him like a second blanket, and not a comforting one.
His skin burnt with fever, but he tried to convince himself it wasn't serious. Just a bug. A few hours of sleep, and he'd bounce back. He always did. Didn't he?
You've handled worse, he told himself. A bit of sickness is nothing compared to dragons, Death Eaters…
But even that thought felt distant and strange, like it belonged to someone else. His head pounded. Every heartbeat thudded painfully behind his eyes. And beneath the denial, something darker stirred—dread, maybe. Or fear.
From the hallway, Ron's voice echoed faintly, a mix of exasperation and worry. "It's only for today," he was saying. "He's not dying—he just needs rest."
Harry let out a weak breath and tried to sit up, but the room spun wildly, tilting like the deck of a ship in a storm. His stomach lurched. He clutched the edge of the bed, knuckles white, and waited for the dizziness to pass.
If only it were that simple, he thought, teeth clenched.
Pain surged behind his temples, sharp and hot. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, but his chest ached with each shallow inhale. He knew the Weasleys would worry the moment they saw him. They always did. Especially Mrs. Weasley—her eyes never missed anything. And Ginny… Ginny had a way of looking at him that made pretending impossible.
I can't face them like this. Not now. Not when I look like I've been hit with a dozen Stunners and dragged through a bog.
The thought of their concern, their sympathy, made something twist painfully in his chest. He didn't want pity. He didn't want to be the one everyone tiptoed around again. So he lay back down, trembling slightly, and buried himself beneath the covers, trying to disappear into the warmth.
Through the wall, he heard Hermione's voice rise, her usual sharp edge softened with concern. "Harry's been pushing himself too hard. He always does. He acts like everything's fine when it's not. Ron, we should check on him—"
"No, Hermione." Ron cut in quickly. "He'll come out when he's ready." There was a pause. "He just… he needs space right now. You know he hates being hovered over."
Harry gave a weak, amused snort—part gratitude, part disbelief. Ron wasn't always the most sensitive person, but when it counted, he understood.
The snort triggered a sudden, hacking cough that tore through Harry's chest. He curled in on himself, body wracked by the force of it. It felt like something inside was trying to claw its way out. When it finally passed, he lay still, chest heaving, wiping sweat from his forehead with a damp cloth he'd conjured earlier. He was shaking.
Merlin, get a grip. It's just a fever. People get sick all the time. Stop acting like it's the end of the world.
But deep down, he wasn't sure he believed that.
A soft knock broke the stillness. Then Ginny's voice, worried and close. "Harry? Come on. You've been in there all day. We're all worried."
Her voice reached something inside him—some small, aching place he'd been trying to ignore. He wanted to open the door. He wanted to see her, to let her sit beside him and tell him everything would be fine. But he couldn't. Not like this.
"I'm fine!" He croaked out, though it sounded anything but.
A pause. Then Ron again, gentler this time. "Mate… you sound awful. Look, no one's going to barge in or anything. Just say the word if you need anything, yeah?"
Harry closed his eyes, throat tight. "I just need some quiet," he whispered.
The hallway fell silent. He wasn't sure if they'd left or if they were still standing there, listening through the door.
Maybe sleep will fix this, he thought, though the doubt lingered. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and everything will feel normal again.
But as he drifted into uneasy rest, with the muffled sounds of concern still hanging in the air, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something was shifting inside him. That the sickness was more than just physical. That a storm was coming—and he was already caught in its eye.
The next day dragged on like a punishment.
Harry didn't leave his room. He didn't even try. He stayed curled up on the bed like something broken, something not meant to be touched or seen. Every part of him hurt. Not just his body—though that was bad enough—but deeper, like the pain had sunk into his bones. Into his thoughts. He couldn't tell where the physical pain ended and the emotional one began. Maybe they were the same now. Maybe they'd always been.
He barely moved. His breaths came slow and shallow, as if anything more might shatter him. The pillow beneath his cheek was cold and wet, streaked with old blood from another nosebleed. He hadn't noticed when it started. Or when it stopped.
He was falling apart. He knew it.
And he couldn't let them see.
Not again.
Not like this.
They had already seen too much. His screams, the way he flinched when someone touched him too quickly. They didn't say it out loud, but he saw it in their eyes. He made them worry. He made them afraid.
So he stayed quiet. Locked the door. Pressed his face into the pillow and pretended silence meant strength.
Muffled voices drifted up through the floorboards. Familiar ones—low, worried, pacing. He pictured Ron's fingers tapping against the armrest of the old couch, Hermione pacing with those tiny, tight steps she took when she was nervous, and Ginny sitting still and tense, fists clenched in her lap like she was trying not to break something.
They were talking about Hagrid. He'd gone out two days ago chasing some Thestral and hadn't come back. And yet Harry couldn't bring himself to care. Not properly. His chest hurt too much. Like something heavy and hot was pressing down on it. Breathing felt like work.
He wanted to sit up. Pretend he was fine. Show them he still had some fight left in him. But his body wouldn't move. He was pinned by invisible chains, his muscles twitching with pain.
Behind his eyes, the darkness stirred.
He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just let the silence bleed into him like a wound that wouldn't heal.
He heard their voices again.
"I can't just sit here," Ginny's voice snapped through the stillness like a whip. "We need to check on him."
Harry barely flinched, but the sound cut through the fog. He could hear Hermione reply—soft, uncertain.
"You think something's wrong?"
Ginny didn't answer. Her footsteps moved toward the stairs. Two more sets followed.
They stopped outside his door. He could feel them there.
A pause. Then Ginny's voice again, quieter. "Locked. He never locks his door."
"That's it. That's not normal," Ron said, his voice low and tense. "We're unlocking it."
"Alohomora," Hermione whispered, wand in hand.
The door creaked open.
Then Ginny gasped.
"Harry!"
She was beside him in a flash, dropping to her knees. Hermione followed, her breath catching. Ron stayed in the doorway, frozen.
Harry didn't move. He couldn't. His head had rolled to one side, hair damp with sweat, crusted with blood. The pillow looked like something out of a battlefield, soaked and stained.
He heard Hermione's sharp intake of breath.
"Ron—go," she said. "Get your mum. Now. And the fever potion—go!"
Ron didn't argue. His footsteps pounded back down the stairs.
Ginny grabbed his hand. "Harry?" Her voice shook. "Harry, please, can you hear me?"
He wanted to say yes. Wanted to squeeze her hand back, let her know he was still in there somewhere.
But he couldn't.
He was stuck inside himself. Like his body had turned to stone, like his mind was wrapped in fog. He could hear them, but from far away. Their voices were like echoes underwater.
Hermione's wand flicked, cleaning the blood with trembling hands.
"This is happening again," she whispered. "Why is it always like this? Why does he never tell us until it's too late?"
Her words pierced something inside him. Guilt flooded his chest like cold water. He wanted to explain. To tell her he wasn't trying to shut them out. He was just trying to survive.
But even thinking hurt.
Then came the sound of footsteps—urgent, fast—and the door slammed open.
Mrs. Weasley stormed in, Ron right behind her.
The moment her eyes landed on Harry, her face changed. One hand flew to her mouth. She rushed to his side.
"Oh, Harry, my dear," she breathed. "What's happened to you?"
Ginny moved aside just enough for her mother to kneel. Hermione stepped back, arms folded tight around herself.
Mrs. Weasley reached for Harry with trembling but gentle hands.
"Harry? Sweetheart, can you look at me?"
He blinked. Light stabbed into his skull. Everything felt too bright, too loud, too much. Her face wavered in front of him—warm, worn, and worried.
"Mrs. Wea—"
"Shh," she hushed, stroking his cheek. "Don't talk, love. Just drink this."
Ron handed her a small vial. She tilted it gently to Harry's lips. He swallowed. The potion burnt down his throat, leaving behind a dull, heavy warmth. Some of the pain faded—but not all. Not enough.
He sank back against the pillow, chest rising and falling too fast.
Mrs. Weasley brushed his hair back, voice low and soothing.
"Where does it hurt most, Harry?"
His vision blurred again. His throat tightened. He raised one shaking hand to his chest.
"It burns," he whispered. "It's not stopping."
Her face fell.
"I wish I could take it from you," she said. "I'd do it in a heartbeat."
She pulled out another vial and helped him drink it. His body kept shaking, even as the fire in his chest dulled to an ember.
"It's still there," he said hoarsely. "Always there."
She touched his face so gently, he almost cried. It was the kind of touch he imagined a mother might give. The kind he never got to have.
"You're not alone," she whispered. "Do you hear me? You don't have to go through this alone anymore."
Harry turned his head away, eyes shut tight. But the tears still came. Quiet. Constant.
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
But deep down, where the pain and fear lived, a single word echoed.
Maybe.