Harry sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the goblet that held the swirling silver potion. The ritual was ready. The adults—Slughorn, Hagrid, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley—were waiting downstairs, tense and expectant. Everything they had prepared for was coming down to this.
His hand hovered over the cup.
Something inside him pulled tight, almost panicked.
Not yet.
He needed something first, though he didn't quite have the words for it. He just… knew. The thought of moving forward, of facing whatever was coming next without seeing Ron, Hermione, and Ginny one last time—it felt unbearable, like stepping off a cliff without looking back.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He could almost hear Hermione's voice in his head, telling him it was reckless to delay the ritual even a minute. Ron would back her up, trying to hide how scared he was. Ginny—Ginny would understand. She always did.
Still, asking felt selfish. Everyone was depending on him to be ready.
But if he left without saying goodbye properly—without having that moment—it would tear something inside him that couldn't be fixed.
His voice barely came out when he called for Mrs. Weasley.
"I… I need a little more time," he said. "Please."
She looked at him for a long, searching moment.
And then, to his surprise, she nodded, though her mouth was tight with worry. "If you start feeling worse," she said sharply, "you must call for us at once."
Harry promised, knowing he probably wouldn't.
Wrapped in blankets that Ginny had insisted on fussing over, Harry shuffled outside with the three of them—Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—toward the back of the cottage. They moved slowly, careful of him, as if he might shatter if they hurried.
Dobby's grave was there, tucked against the edge of the cliffs, where the wild sea stretched endlessly behind it.
The stone was simple and weather-worn:
HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF.
Someone—maybe Luna—had left fresh flowers. Bright, messy colours against the dull grass.
Harry lowered himself carefully down, biting back a grimace as a bolt of pain twisted through his ribs. Ginny fussed with the blankets again, tucking them around him, her hands gentle and shaking just a little.
Harry touched the cold stone with trembling fingers.
I wish you were here, Dobby. I wish you could tell me how to be brave.
The grief was a living thing inside him. Heavy. Wet. It clogged his throat and burnt behind his eyes.
He lifted his gaze to the sky—the bright, endless blue—and tried to breathe past the lump that had lodged there. The sea below rumbled in constant motion, a steady comfort against the ache clawing through his body.
But then—another sharp stab of pain. He tensed, clenching the edge of the blanket, willing it to pass, willing his friends not to notice.
"Are you okay?" Ginny's voice broke into his spiralling thoughts.
Harry blinked and forced himself to meet her gaze. Her brown eyes, wide with worry, felt like a balm and a wound at the same time. He could see Ron and Hermione hovering too, concern carved deep into their faces.
He hated it. Hated that he was the reason they looked like that.
They deserved better than this broken, dying version of him.
"I do get pain sometimes," Harry admitted, voice low and rough. He hated admitting it, hated showing even that small crack. But he saw the way their faces tightened even more, and it felt like something twisted inside him. "But I'm fine. Really." He tried to smile, but it felt brittle.
Ron didn't look convinced. "Maybe we should head back inside—" he began.
Harry cut him off with a shake of his head. "No. I want to stay. I want to be here… with him."
The grave felt like an anchor, holding him steady against the storm inside.
The others let it go, though the air between them grew heavier, thick with all the things they weren't saying.
Ginny shifted closer, laying her head gently against his chest. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the beat of her heart, steady and strong, grounding him when he felt like he might float away.
He thought about Dobby's death again—about all the deaths. About Fred, about Lupin and Tonks, about Sirius and Dumbledore. About the way death kept pulling at him, over and over, and how maybe this time, it would finally succeed.
He wondered, absently, if dying hurt.
"I miss Dobby," Hermione said suddenly, her voice small and aching.
Harry opened his eyes. She was sitting cross-legged by the grave now, running her fingers through the grass.
"He was braver than any of us," she said. "He always stood up for what was right, no matter what it cost him."
Ron gave a soft laugh that cracked a little at the edges. "I still can't believe he called me Wheezy," he said. "Little bloke was determined."
Harry found himself smiling faintly, but it was a smile full of grief. "He wasn't just brave," he said. "He was… loyal. He was a true friend."
The word felt too small, too hollow for what Dobby had been.
"You were his hero, Harry," Hermione said, voice thick. "He loved you. He trusted you."
Harry swallowed, the pain in his chest tightening.
I don't deserve that.
"He chose to help you," Ron said firmly, almost as if he could hear Harry's thoughts.
"But he died because of me," Harry whispered. His voice was almost lost under the sound of the sea.
Ginny sat up, fierce and unyielding. "He died because Bellatrix killed him. Not because of you."
"I told him not to try and save me again," Harry said, feeling the guilt thicken and harden inside him. "I told him. But he didn't listen. He died—he died—because he thought I was worth saving."
"And you are," Hermione said fiercely. "You are."
Harry let the words fall over him, not quite believing them but wanting to.
Ron rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. "Dobby made his choice. Just like we all did."
Harry looked around at them—the three people who had fought beside him, bled beside him, and stayed with him when he had nothing left to offer. He felt a deep, aching love for them that almost hurt more than the pain in his body.
"You three…" His voice broke. He tried again. "You're my family. You always have been."
Hermione's face crumpled, and she quickly wiped her eyes.
Ron looked away, pretending to study the sea.
Ginny pressed her forehead against his. "And you're ours," she whispered. "Always."
Harry closed his eyes, letting their warmth, their love, seep into him. Even if the ritual went wrong, even if this was the end—he would carry this with him. Their love. Their loyalty. The fierce way they still believed in him, even when he couldn't believe in himself.
"I love you," Harry said simply. "All of you. Thank you… for everything."
The words hung between them, tender and raw, stirring the air like a soft current. For a moment, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny just stared at him—blinking, almost unsure how to respond—as if Harry had peeled back something hidden and fragile inside himself. It was like a door had been cracked open to a room he'd kept locked his entire life, and now the light was spilling out.
Harry felt the vulnerability like an ache under his ribs, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. The words rushed out, unbidden, like water finally finding a crack in the dam.
"Not everyone is lucky enough to have friends like you," he said, voice thick. "Before Hogwarts… before you guys… I didn't have any friends at all. Dudley made sure of that."
He swallowed hard, feeling the old shame crawl up his spine. He hated thinking about those days, hated remembering the smallness, the loneliness, and the way the world had seemed closed off to him.
"I was different. And I paid for it every single day."
The crash of the waves filled the silence, the sound pulling at him, steady and relentless. He let his eyes drift toward the sea, toward the far-off line where the water met the sky. His memories flickered to life in his mind—faint images of a cupboard, of locked doors, of cold meals and colder stares.
"When I got my letter… I didn't even imagine making friends," he confessed. "I thought Hogwarts would just be another place where I'd be… on my own. A freak. Out of place."
His hand tightened over the blanket, grounding himself.
"But then," he said, voice growing a little lighter, "you showed up."
He turned his eyes to Ron, smiling faintly.
"At the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. I remember thinking I'd probably miss the train and end up back with the Dursleys. But you… you helped me. You sat with me. You shared your sandwiches. You were the first friend I ever had."
Ron shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, his ears steadily turning a deep shade of red. "Yeah, well… You looked really lost, mate. Figured you needed someone."
Harry let out a soft, almost breathless chuckle. "I did. More than I even knew."
He hesitated, emotion clogging his throat. It would be so easy to retreat, to brush it off with humour. But he made himself stay in that raw place, made himself say what needed to be said.
"I was so confused back then," Harry admitted. "Spells, magical creatures, all the history everyone else seemed to know… I didn't have a clue. I felt like I didn't belong, like I was pretending to be someone I wasn't."
Ron grinned, his embarrassment fading. "You were pretty clueless," he teased gently. "But look at you now! Saviour of the Wizarding World! The Boy Who Lived! The Chosen One! The—you know, all that nonsense."
He gestured grandly, making Harry groan and hide his burning face in his hands.
"Please stop," Harry muttered through his fingers. "You make it sound ridiculous."
"Because it is ridiculous!" Ron said, laughing now. "You're still the same bloke who writes random stuff in Trelawney's essay."
"And jumping onto a troll's back and then shoving your wand up its nose," Hermione added slyly, her smile mischievous.
Harry gave a weak laugh, his heart both aching and warming at their teasing.
He lowered his hands and looked up at them—really looked. "You know," he said slowly, "I couldn't have done any of it without you. Not just essays or trolls. Everything. Surviving every year… finding the stone… fighting that bloody basilisk… the Triwizard Tournament…"
His throat tightened again. He forced the words out.
"I wouldn't have even made it past the first night without you."
The truth of it hit him like a wave. How many times had they saved him? How many times had they simply stood beside him when the whole world was ready to tear him apart?
Ron opened his mouth to reply, but Harry rushed on, determined to say it all.
"If you hadn't sat next to me on the train… if Dobby hadn't blocked the barrier and kept me from getting expelled second year… if you hadn't followed me into the forest or played that life-size chess game… I wouldn't be here now."
Ron gave a theatrical shudder. "Don't remind me of the forest. Still have nightmares about those bloody spiders."
Hermione and Ginny laughed, and for a moment, the heaviness lifted.
The ache in Harry's chest loosened just enough to let a smile through.
Harry grinned, feeling lighter. "Honestly, Ron, I thought you were going to wet yourself."
"I almost did!" Ron protested indignantly. "Anyone would, if a spider the size of a bloody car was trying to eat them!"
Laughter rippled among them, pure and easy. It swept away the grief for just a moment—the sadness, the fear, the looming uncertainty. In its place was something golden and bright: the simple, enduring joy of having each other.
When the laughter faded into soft smiles, Harry turned to Hermione, feeling another rush of gratitude rise inside him.
"And you," he said, voice softer now. "Hermione… you've been my anchor. My brain. My moral compass."
He chuckled under his breath. "You always knew when I was being an idiot, which… was most of the time."
Hermione flushed, ducking her head bashfully. "Well, someone had to keep you alive."
Harry smiled wider. "You did more than that. You kept me human."
She looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
"You were my light when I couldn't see anything but darkness," Harry whispered. "You believed in me when I didn't even know who I was."
Hermione gave a watery laugh, wiping at her eyes. "I just saw who you really were before you did."
Ron leaned over, smirking. "Oi, don't get too sentimental. We still have to live with his big head after this."
Harry barked out a laugh, feeling the emotion bubbling over in him—grief and love, sorrow and hope, all tangled together.
He looked at them—really looked—and realised that whatever happened next, these moments were what mattered. Not the battles. Not the fame.
This.
This love, this loyalty, this ridiculous, fierce friendship.
"I love you a lot," Harry said again to Hermione, simply. "You're my home. You always will be."
Ginny squeezed his hand, Ron thumped his shoulder awkwardly, and Hermione leaned in to hug him tightly.
Harry smiled warmly at Hermione, the sight of her teary eyes stirring something deep in his chest. His throat tightened, but he forced himself to breathe steadily, soaking in the moment. He knew he needed to.
Moments like these didn't come around often, Harry thought. Maybe they never would again.
Ginny tucked herself closer against him, her hand slipping into his. He squeezed her hand gratefully, feeling the comforting weight of it.
A soft, gentle breeze brushed over them, carrying the scent of the sea and flowers, and Harry wished he could freeze this second, lock it away in his heart forever—the smiles, the laughter, the overwhelming love he felt for these three people who had shaped his life more than anyone else ever could.
For a little while, none of them spoke. They just sat together by Dobby's grave, wrapped up in each other's presence. The setting sun bathed the cliffs in gold and pink, and Harry found himself memorising everything—the way Ron's hair caught the light, how Hermione still blinked rapidly against tears, and how Ginny's thumb traced absent circles against the back of his hand.
The ache in Harry's chest deepened, but it wasn't only sadness this time. It was gratitude so fierce it almost hurt.
"I'm sorry if I brought the mood down," Hermione whispered, breaking the silence, her voice still thick with emotion.
"You didn't," Harry said immediately. His voice came out rougher than he intended. He swallowed hard and tried again. "You're… You're right, Hermione. You always are."
He managed a weak chuckle, and Ron rolled his eyes in agreement, grinning lopsidedly.
"You've been there for me through everything," Harry continued, speaking slowly, feeling every word. "Even when Ron… well, when Ron wasn't exactly as supportive."
Harry cast Ron a side glance, half teasing, half serious.
"Oi!" Ron protested, crossing his arms stubbornly, though there was a faint flush creeping up his neck. "I'm always on your side, Harry. You wouldn't call me your best mate if I wasn't."
There was a flicker of real hurt beneath Ron's joking protest, and Harry saw it—felt it—and guilt nipped at him. He sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead.
"I know," Harry said, softer now. "You are. But… you did doubt me during the Triwizard Tournament. That hurt. More than I ever let on."
The words were out before he could stop them. For a second, Ron just stared at him, stunned into silence, and Harry regretted it—regretted reopening old wounds. But it felt important to say it now, before it was too late.
Ron's face tightened, and he looked away toward the horizon. "I said I was sorry, didn't I?" he muttered. "I was stupid. I—I was jealous and scared. I've always been scared of being second best."
Harry's heart twisted painfully.
Merlin, they were all so broken, weren't they? He wished he could go back and tell that scared, angry boy in fourth year that none of it mattered—that their friendship was bigger than jealousy, bigger than fear.
"I know," Harry said again, with more feeling. He leaned forward, forcing Ron to look at him. "And I forgave you a long time ago. I couldn't stay angry at you. You're my brother, Ron."
There was a long pause, the kind of silence that didn't need filling. Ginny squeezed Harry's hand again, and Hermione wiped another stray tear from her cheek, smiling shakily.
Ron's mouth twitched into a grin, and he said, "Well, just for that, I'm gonna start giving you a hard time about my sister."
Harry laughed, grateful for the shift in mood. "Please don't. I don't think I could survive Mrs. Weasley's wrath if she thought I hurt Ginny."
Ginny elbowed Ron sharply, her eyes glinting with warning. "Don't even think about it, Ronald Weasley," she said, her voice fierce even as she winked playfully. "Or I'll make sure Hermione gives you a harder time than you ever imagined."
Hermione smirked at this, crossing her arms. "Don't tempt me."
"Oh, brilliant," Ron grumbled, trying and failing to look put-upon. "Now you're both against me."
Harry and Hermione burst into laughter, and even Ron couldn't keep the mock scowl on his face for long.
The laughter felt like medicine, sweet and necessary, and for a moment, the ache in Harry's chest lessened.
When the laughter faded, Harry turned to Ron, more serious now. The weight of what he needed to say pressed against him.
"But truly, Ron," Harry said, voice thick with emotion, "thank you. I mean it. You're the best friend I've ever had. You're family. And I hope… in twenty years, we'll still be laughing about all this. About everything we survived. About everything we built together."
Ron's grin faltered slightly, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. He clapped Harry on the shoulder, harder than necessary, his voice rough. "We will, mate. We will."
Harry swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat.
Ron added, with a mischievous glint, "You're just saying all this because you're scared of what I'll do to you for snogging my sister."
Harry chuckled nervously, shooting Ginny a helpless look. "Maybe a little bit," he admitted, grinning.
Ginny shook her head, but her smile was soft, affectionate.
The laughter faded into a quieter, steadier kind of peace. The sky was deepening into twilight now, stars just beginning to wink into existence overhead.
Then Harry noticed Hermione's face crumpling again, tears spilling over before she could catch them.
"Oh, Hermione—," he said, stricken.
She shook her head fiercely, wiping at her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I just—this means everything to me. You… you both mean everything to me."
Without waiting, she threw her arms around them both, squeezing so hard Harry could barely breathe—but he didn't mind. He hugged her back tightly, feeling Ron's hand thump awkwardly against his back in a kind of one-armed hug.
Ron chuckled, his voice muffled against Hermione's hair. "Oi, let Harry breathe, 'Mione. He's already half-dead from snogging Ginny all day."
Ginny swatted him on the arm, but she was laughing too.
Hermione sniffled and pulled back, sitting down again, her cheeks flushed and shining with tears. She wiped her face furiously, but the smile on her face was wide and genuine.
The words left Harry's mouth almost casually, like he could pretend this wasn't tearing him apart.
"Thanks, Hermione."
He tried to make it sound light. He even pulled the corners of his mouth into a small, tight smile, as if that could make the ache in his chest less obvious.
As if a smile could hide the way his heart was splintering.
Hermione looked up, startled at first, her brow furrowed. But when she saw his face, her confusion melted into something softer, something sadder.
Harry pressed on before he lost his nerve.
"You're…" His voice wavered, and he forced another shaky smile. "You're the best friend I could've ever asked for."
He laughed under his breath—broken, thin. "You always believed in me. Even when I was a right mess. Even when I didn't deserve it."
Hermione's lips parted, trembling.
"You kept me going," Harry said, the smile slipping, faltering under the weight of the truth. "You… you made me better. You taught me what it meant to be brave. And kind. And human."
He blinked hard, willing back the burning in his eyes. He wouldn't cry. Not now. He had to be strong—for her. For all of them.
"You're like a sister to me," he said, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat. "You're my family. You always have been."
The smile finally broke then—splintered under the flood of emotion he couldn't hold back.
Hermione's face crumpled as tears spilt down her cheeks again, silent and unstoppable.
Across from them, Ron turned sharply, his face pale, his hands fisting at his sides like he didn't know what to do with the hurt twisting in his chest.
"Look what you're doing to her," Ron said, but his voice cracked, betraying him. There was no real anger. Only heartbreak.
Ron pulled Hermione into his side, holding her fiercely as she sobbed against him. Harry looked away, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from falling apart completely.
He dug his fingers into the hem of his jumper, grounding himself in the feel of the rough wool.
You can't fall apart now. You have to be strong for them.
Harry gave a wet, strangled laugh, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes. "Merlin, listen to me," he said hoarsely. "I sound like one of those blokes who writes letters before they go off to die in some noble battle. Next thing you know, I'll be leaving you my Firebolt and a bloody list of my favourite Chocolate Frog cards."
He meant it to be funny.
He meant it.
But his voice cracked on the last word, and suddenly Hermione was crying harder, Ron looked like he'd been punched in the gut, and Ginny pressed her forehead against Harry's shoulder, her whole body shaking with silent sobs.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, guilt and love and fear all burning through him at once.
I'm sorry, he thought desperately, even as he tried to smile again. I just didn't know how else to say goodbye.
But the fear was too big.
The truth was too big.
"I'm scared," Harry whispered, so low he wasn't sure they could even hear him. "I'm scared I won't get another chance. To say everything I need to say."
He swallowed hard, the salt of his own tears burning his tongue.
"I'm scared that this… that this might be the last time."
Hermione shook her head furiously, still clinging to Ron.
"You'll have more chances, Harry," she choked out. "This isn't the end. It isn't."
But Harry could feel it pressing in around him—the heavy, terrible certainty that he might not walk away from what was coming.
He tried to smile again, for them.
A brave, broken smile.
But the tears slid down anyway, hot and helpless.
Ginny slid her hand into his.
Ron reached across, grabbing his shoulder, his grip almost bruising.
They didn't say anything else.
They didn't need to.
Harry sat there, surrounded by them, letting the pain run through him like a river he couldn't dam up anymore.
Harry rested his hand on the little mound of earth, tracing the jagged stones with trembling fingers. For a long, aching moment, he just breathed, letting the cold wind whip through his hair, letting the silence say all the words he couldn't.
Thank you, Dobby, he thought fiercely. Thank you for saving us. For being brave when I couldn't be. For believing in freedom enough to die for it.
He closed his eyes, swallowing the grief that kept clawing up his throat.
I'm so sorry you're not here to see the world you fought for. I'm so sorry we didn't save you in time.
Goodbye, Dobby. I promise… we'll make it matter.
He bowed his head one last time, the tears sliding quietly down his cheeks, unseen.
When he finally rose, his legs unsteady, the others were waiting around him.
Waiting to hold him together if he couldn't do it himself.
He gave Dobby's grave a last, lingering look, his heart aching so badly he thought it might tear open.
Then he turned and walked back to them, back to what he still had.
The lights of Shell Cottage glimmered ahead, fragile and warm against the darkness.
Harry held onto that light as he walked, stumbling, but never stopping.
He didn't know what was coming next.
He only knew he loved them too much to leave anything unsaid.
No matter what it cost him.
Harry's world was slipping out of focus. The flickering candlelight blurred at the edges of his vision, throwing long, shifting shadows across the table. He barely registered the way everyone's eyes kept darting toward him—full of worry, full of pity—as if he might crack apart any second. The air felt thick and damp, clinging to him like a heavy cloak he couldn't shrug off. It made it hard to breathe, hard to think.
Even though they all sat together, pretending to eat, the room felt wrong. Too quiet. The wind rattled the old windows, howling like something was trying to get inside. Harry flinched at every creak and groan of the wood, feeling like the whole place was echoing the storm inside him.
Across the table, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley picked at their food without speaking, their faces drawn and tired. They weren't joking or telling stories like they usually would. Their silence said more than any words could—this wasn't just dinner. This was the last calm before something dangerous, something they were all trying not to think about too hard.
The ritual. The potion. The thing they were about to try in a desperate attempt to fix him.
Fix him.
Harry didn't even know if he believed it could work.
He swallowed a mouthful of the Invigoration Draught, hoping for some spark of strength, some jolt of energy that would make everything seem more manageable. But it only made things worse. The bitter potion burnt down his throat, and the moment it hit his stomach, a wave of nausea crashed over him so hard he had to grip the table to stay upright. His head pounded as if someone was hammering nails into it, and every breath he took sent a raw, burning pain through his chest.
He pressed his fingers against his temples, hoping to rub the pain away, but it only throbbed harder. His vision swam. The world tilted dangerously. He couldn't fight it anymore—couldn't pretend everything was fine, couldn't even pretend he was strong.
Maybe this was it.
Maybe he was finally slipping away for good.
Oddly, he didn't feel scared. Not really. Just… tired. So tired it hurt. He was so worn down he couldn't even summon the energy to be afraid of dying. A part of him, deep down, almost welcomed it. If he had to go, at least he was here—at the Shell Cottage. Not alone. Surrounded by people who cared about him. That thought, small and bittersweet, made him want to cry.
All he wanted now was to sleep. To let go.
He closed his eyes.
He was barely aware of the panicked voices at first—distant, as if underwater. But then they grew louder, sharper, slicing through the heavy fog in his mind.
"Harry! Harry!"
Someone shook his shoulder gently.
"Are you alright?" Ginny's voice—soft but urgent—cut through the noise first, grounding him.
He forced his eyes open. Everything looked blurry. It took a second for her face to come into focus—the way her brows knitted together, her brown eyes wide with worry. Her hand was still on his arm, steady and warm.
"I'm okay," Harry rasped.
It was a lie. They all knew it. But he didn't have the strength to say more.
He tried to sit up straighter, but the room tilted again, and he had to close his eyes for a moment just to stay steady. When he looked at Ginny again, there was something fierce in her gaze, a stubborn spark that made something flicker weakly to life inside him. As if she was willing him to keep fighting.
"You're not okay," Ginny said softly. "You need to lie down."
Her voice wasn't pushing him, just offering him a way out he was too proud to ask for.
He hesitated. Some stupid, stubborn part of him didn't want to cause a scene. Didn't want them to worry more than they already were. But the ache in his body was too much. He nodded, once.
Ginny barely waited for him to agree before she turned to the others. Chairs scraped back. The room around the table, once frozen in tension, now buzzed with frantic movement.
"I'll carry yeh, Harry," Hagrid offered, already half-rising from his chair, his huge hands twitching as if he was afraid Harry would break.
"No—" Harry shook his head weakly, hating how small his voice sounded. "Just—help me walk. Please."
Hagrid's face softened immediately. He understood. He always did. He moved carefully to Harry's side and took his elbow in one massive, gentle hand.
"Alright, easy now," Hagrid said quietly.
Harry pushed himself upright with effort. His knees buckled, but he gritted his teeth and stayed standing, leaning heavily on Hagrid. Every step felt like wading through deep water, every breath like dragging air through a throat lined with fire. Ginny stayed close to his other side, her hand brushing lightly against his back, steadying without smothering.
"Slow and steady," she murmured. "You're doing great."
Ron and Hermione hovered just behind, ready to catch him if he stumbled. Hermione's hand briefly squeezed his shoulder, a silent promise that they wouldn't let him fall. The touch sent a brief flicker of warmth through his frozen chest.
Step by step, Harry moved forward, focusing on the thought of his bed—safe, warm, somewhere he could finally let himself fall apart without feeling ashamed.
He didn't know what was waiting for him tomorrow. Didn't know if the ritual would work or if he would even wake up at all.
Harry sneaked glances at Hagrid, unease prickling at the back of his neck. Normally, Hagrid was an open book—his emotions spilt out as easily as his stories about dangerous creatures. Tonight, though, Hagrid's face was shuttered, his broad shoulders stiff, his mouth pressed into a grim line.
Harry's stomach twisted. It scared him more than he cared to admit. Hagrid never hid what he felt, not from Harry.
"Are you alright, Hagrid?" Harry asked, breaking the silence in a voice smaller than he intended.
Hagrid flinched like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. He gave a rough cough and waved a hand vaguely in the air.
"Hm? Oh, yeah, yeah, fine, Harry. Just thinkin', y'know?"
But his voice lacked its usual warmth, and the words felt like they didn't belong in his mouth. Harry saw the way Hagrid's brow furrowed deep with worry, how his hands flexed and unflexed at his sides, restless and unsure.
They reached his room. The familiar space welcomed him, but tonight even that comfort felt distant, like he was seeing it through a fogged window.
Harry stepped inside and dropped onto the edge of his bed, exhausted just from standing upright. Before he could say anything else, Hagrid moved. In two long strides, he scooped Harry into a gentle hug, his huge arms wrapping around him like a fortress.
Harry tensed at first, surprised. Then, slowly, he let himself melt into it. Hagrid was trembling—he could feel it. Beneath the strength of the embrace, there was desperation, like Hagrid was afraid Harry would slip away if he let go.
A lump rose in Harry's throat, thick and painful. He didn't realise how badly he needed this—needed to feel wanted, needed, and loved—until that moment.
When Hagrid finally pulled away, his face crumpled.
The first sob tore itself from him, loud and messy and raw. It filled the room, bounced off the stone walls, wrapped around Harry's heart and squeezed.
Hagrid stumbled backwards, fumbling for a spotted handkerchief that looked pitifully small against his hands. He pressed it to his eyes, but it was no use. The tears came in great, gasping waves, and nothing could stop them.
Harry just sat there, helpless, watching his friend fall apart.
He hated this—hated it more than anything. Hagrid was supposed to be strong. Hagrid was the one who always made things better, with a clumsy joke or a ridiculous story about a three-headed dog. Seeing him like this… it cracked something deep inside Harry's chest.
Slowly, he reached out and laid a hand on Hagrid's arm, the rough fabric of his coat scratchy under Harry's fingers.
"Hagrid…" Harry said, his voice a threadbare whisper.
"I'm sorry, Harry," Hagrid choked out, shaking his head violently. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean ter— It's just—"
He broke off, trying to find words through the wreckage of his emotions.
"Yeh're gettin' weaker, Harry," Hagrid said at last, his voice cracking down the middle. "Every time I see yeh, yer paler… smaller somehow… and I can't—I can't stand it."
At the doorway, movement caught Harry's eye. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were there, hovering at the edge of the room like ghosts, their faces pale and stricken. Ron had both hands jammed deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched. Hermione's eyes were already shining with unshed tears. Ginny's arms were wrapped tightly around herself.
Harry offered them a weak smile, but it felt wrong on his face. Everything felt wrong.
Turning back to Hagrid, he forced himself to sound braver than he felt.
"I'll be fine," he said, trying to thread some strength into the words, trying to make it true just by saying it.
He knew it wasn't. They all knew it. But lies sometimes were the only thing keeping them upright.
Hagrid sniffled, rubbing the back of his hand across his face like a child. He tried to smile, tried to be strong for Harry, but it only made Harry's heart hurt more.
"I believe in yer friends, Harry," Hagrid said hoarsely. "I believe in yeh. Always have. Always will. It's just…" He shook his head, swallowing hard. "Yeh've been like a son to me."
The room tilted slightly. Harry had to blink several times to stay steady.
He hadn't expected to hear that. Not out loud.
"I…" Harry started, then stopped, trying to gather the right words. His throat felt too tight.
"You've been like a father to me," he said finally, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "You were the first one who ever looked at me and saw something… someone worth caring about. You gave me a home when I didn't even know what one looked like."
Memories surfaced unbidden—the first trip to Diagon Alley, Hagrid's enormous hand resting gently on his shoulder, the warmth in his smile when he gave Harry Hedwig, and the fierce way he had defended Harry when no one else would.
"I owe you everything, Hagrid," Harry said, his eyes shining. "Everything good in my life… it started with you."
For a long moment, Hagrid just stared at him, blinking hard. Then, slowly, he sank down onto the floor, so they were eye to eye.
"You're a good lad, Harry," he said roughly. "Too good for this world, sometimes."
Harry shook his head. "I'm just… surviving. That's all I ever seem to do."
"No," Hagrid said firmly, squeezing Harry's hand so tightly it almost hurt. "Yeh're fightin'. Yeh're livin'. Yeh never gave up, not once."
Harry bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. He couldn't afford to break down. Not now.
"You've been through more than anyone should, Harry," Hagrid went on, voice thick. "The dangers, the battles, the hospital wing—Merlin's beard, yeh practically lived there… And yet yeh're still standin'. Still fightin'."
Harry thought back—he couldn't help it—to every scar, every fall, and every night spent staring up at the ceiling, wondering if he'd make it through the next day.
And now… this. This slow, creeping weakness that sapped his strength day by day. This new battle he hadn't chosen; he couldn't escape.
"And now this," Hagrid whispered, his hand still gripping Harry's like an anchor. "It's not fair, Harry. It's not fair."
"No," Harry agreed quietly. "It's not."
Silence stretched between them, heavy but somehow not unbearable.
Finally, Harry took a deep breath, feeling the rasp of it all the way down to his aching ribs.
"But we'll get through it," he said, more to himself than to anyone else. "I have to believe that. I have to."
He lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Hagrid.
"I need you to believe it too," Harry said. "Please. For me."
For a moment, he thought Hagrid might collapse again. But then the half-giant squared his shoulders, blinking back tears with all the stubbornness Harry knew so well.
"Alright, Harry," Hagrid said in a voice that shook but didn't break. "Alright. I believe yeh."
Harry smiled, small and real, and squeezed his hand one more time.
"Don't worry," Hermione said, her voice soft but steady, cutting through the heavy air like a lantern in thick fog.
Harry clung to the sound of it, letting it pull him back from the edge.
"We'll give it everything we've got, just like always."
She smiled at him—gentle, sure—and somehow that simple smile made the knot in Harry's chest loosen just a little.
"Yeah," Ron added, stepping out from behind her, trying for a grin. It looked more like a grimace. "When have I ever let you down?"
Harry managed a weak chuckle, but even he could hear how forced it sounded. Ron's voice cracked halfway through the joke, betraying the fear they were all trying to pretend wasn't there.
Hermione gave Ron a look—the kind she usually saved for when he forgot his homework.
"That's not the most reassuring thing you could have said, Ron."
She shook her head, but there was a small smile tugging at her mouth, betraying her affection.
"And you wonder why I always have a backup plan," she added under her breath, like it was some inside joke they all shared.
Ron rolled his eyes. "Just trying to lighten the mood, you know. All this doom and gloom is a bit exhausting."
Harry wished he could laugh along. He wished it were that easy.
But every beat of his heart felt heavy, like it was counting down to something they couldn't stop.
"Ah yes," Hermione said dryly, nudging Ron with her elbow. "The great Ronald Weasley—master of tact and sensitivity."
Her teasing warmed the room for a brief second, like a fireplace in winter. Harry soaked it up, feeling the love in it, the familiarity. The normalness. It was so precious now, normal.
"If this plan fails," Hermione continued, her voice taking on a lighter, more dangerous tone, "you'll wish you'd taken it a bit more seriously."
Ron's smile faltered. Fear flickered across his face, raw and honest.
"Will it fail?" he asked, voice small.
The words hit Harry like a cold splash of water.
He caught the glance Ron threw at Hagrid—at the way Hagrid's face was still blotchy and twisted with worry—and he understood.
They were all terrified. None of them knew what was about to happen.
Hermione crossed her arms, her confidence a thin shield she refused to lower.
"I don't know exactly what'll happen once we cast the spell," she admitted. "But if you start panicking now, it'll only make things worse."
Harry watched Ron swallow hard and nod, though his hands fidgeted by his sides.
The door creaked open again.
Slughorn entered, bringing with him the smell of potions and old parchment. His presence shifted the room; the moment became more official, heavier somehow.
"I trust you will all navigate this trial successfully," Slughorn said gravely, his eyes lingering on each of them in turn.
Harry wondered if Slughorn actually believed that—or if he just didn't know what else to say.
Behind Slughorn, the Weasleys gathered closer.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley moved forward first, their love wrapping around their children like an invisible cloak.
Mr. Weasley pulled Ron and Ginny into a tight hug, his hands strong and steady despite the tremble in his voice.
"You can do this," he said simply. "It starts with believing you can."
Harry felt the sting of tears behind his eyes and blinked hard.
He hadn't realised how much he craved that kind of faith—pure, uncomplicated.
Mrs. Weasley pressed a kiss to Ginny's hair, then Ron's. Her eyes were red, but her smile didn't falter.
"We believe in you. All three of you," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "You'll face whatever comes together."
Together.
That word settled into Harry's chest like a heartbeat.
Then, to Harry's surprise, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley turned to him, arms open.
Without thinking, Harry stepped forward—and they pulled him into their embrace like he belonged there, like he was truly one of them.
He closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of Mrs. Weasley's floral perfume and the scratchy wool of Mr. Weasley's jumper.
No words were needed.
For the first time in a long time, Harry felt completely and utterly safe.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice cracking.
Mrs. Weasley kissed his forehead softly, and Mr. Weasley squeezed his shoulder, the affection grounding him, holding him up when he felt like he might collapse.
When they finally let go, Harry wiped at his eyes quickly, hoping no one noticed.
But of course they had. And no one said a word.
Slughorn stepped forward again, potion cups in hand, snapping Harry back to the moment.
One by one, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny each took a cup, the liquid inside swirling darkly.
Harry's stomach twisted.
This was it.
They formed a loose circle around his bed, their faces pale but determined.
Harry caught each of their eyes in turn—Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—silent words passing between them.
Thank you.
I'm sorry.
Be brave.
Harry cleared his throat.
"Thank you," he said thickly, "for everything. I don't know what's waiting for us on the other side of this, but…" He swallowed. "I'm proud of you. Of all of us."
His friends smiled at him—tired, scared, and so full of love that Harry thought his heart might break.
We're family, he realised. This is what family is.
Slughorn held up the Anima book, flipping it open to reveal an ancient incantation:
"Emenda eum animum."
"You must drink the potion first," Slughorn instructed. "Then say the spell together. Aim your wands at Harry."
Simple enough. And yet Harry's hands trembled in his lap.
The others clinked their cups together in a shaky toast.
"To Harry," Ginny whispered.
They drank.
The potion burnt its way down their throats like fire and ash.
Harry saw Ron gag slightly, Hermione cough into her sleeve, and Ginny wince.
But they didn't hesitate.
They raised their wands, hands steady despite the fear sparking in their eyes.
"Emenda eum animum!" they chanted as one.
The room seemed to hum with power.
A brilliant silver light burst from the tips of their wands, swirling together into one searing beam.
Harry's breath caught.
He could feel it—their magic, their love, their hope—all rushing toward him in a wave.
The light slammed into his chest.
For a moment, everything stopped.
Harry gasped, his body convulsing.
He barely had time to see his friends—Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—crumple to the floor before the world tilted and darkness swallowed him whole.