Morning sunlight spilled across the room, soft and golden. It warmed the duvet, brushed against his face, and for once, it didn't sting. It didn't feel like the sun was mocking him, blazing down on a life he no longer fit inside. No—it felt like it had remembered him.
Harry blinked against the light, his eyes adjusting slowly. The brightness didn't yank him awake like a blow to the ribs. It eased him into the morning, gentle, almost kind.
He stayed still for a moment, listening. No headaches. No burning in his chest. Just the steady rhythm of his breathing, the quiet creaks of the Burrow coming to life downstairs.
Is this what normal feels like?
He couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up without pain dragging at his ribs, without the heavy pulse of his damaged soul pressing against him.
Slowly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cool under his feet. He padded downstairs, drawn by a smell so good it almost didn't seem real—eggs, toast, bacon. His stomach growled loudly, startling him.
For weeks, he'd only eaten because everyone kept watching him, as though an empty plate might fix the worry in their eyes. But now… he actually wanted the food.
Mrs Weasley was at the stove, humming softly as she flipped something in the pan. The kitchen felt warm. Safe. Like the house itself was wrapping around him.
She glanced over her shoulder and smiled, her face brightening when she saw him.
"Morning, dear. Just in time." She slid a heaped plate in front of him. "Sit. Eat."
And to his surprise, he did. He ate like he hadn't in days. Maybe it was the smell, maybe it was Mrs Weasley's quiet presence, or maybe something inside him had finally shifted. The food tasted right. Real. And when he cleared his plate, there was no twist of nausea, no guilt clawing at him.
Just a quiet pride, sitting low and unfamiliar in his chest.
Mrs Weasley dried her hands on her apron, watching him with that soft, knowing look—the one that made him feel cared for and slightly cornered all at once.
"It's good to see your appetite back," she said, her voice thick with honest relief.
Harry ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. Compliments like that always sat awkwardly on his skin, as if simply existing deserved recognition.
"Er… yeah. Thanks. I suppose I was hungry."
Why does it feel strange to feel okay?
Even as he left the kitchen, the thought clung to him like dust. Part of him wanted this—wanted the ordinary. The other part was already bracing for it to vanish.
Later, upstairs, he found the others—Ron, Hermione, Ginny—and gathered them in his room. He clapped his hands together, forcing a flicker of energy into his voice.
"Right. Let's get on with it."
Ron raised an eyebrow. "You know, instead of sending Hagrid an owl, we could just go and visit him. Ask about the Thestral hair in person."
Harry blinked. "You reckon he'd want that?"
Ron shrugged. "Yeah. He's probably lonely. We haven't seen him properly in ages."
"He'd love it," Hermione said, nodding. "And honestly, it'd be good for all of us."
Harry's mouth tugged into a reluctant smile. "Yeah, maybe. I just hope he's doing alright."
Ron grinned. "Bet he's still stuck wrangling Grawp. Can't picture him without that giant following him around. I reckon Grawp's still trying to figure out small talk. 'Grawp… like… butterbeer?'" He dropped his voice into a low rumble, earning a laugh from everyone.
Hermione sighed but couldn't quite hide her grin. "Actually, Grawp's made a lot of progress. He helped during the war. And I heard he's been really gentle around the younger students."
"Gentle?" Ron scoffed. "They were lobbing pumpkin pasties at each other. That's not bonding—that's a food fight."
Ginny nudged Harry's shoulder, her eyes bright. "Remember when Grawp caught one in mid-air and just ate it? I've never seen a first-year scream so loudly."
Ron snorted. "Alright, that was impressive. I'll give him that."
"And imagine him teaching Care of Magical Creatures," Ginny added, her 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 laughed in spite of 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 faltered a little. She had a point. Hagrid hadn't quite been the same since the war. None of them had, really.
"We could ask him," Ron offered, his voice gentler now. "Just see how he's getting on. Might cheer him up."
Hermione nodded. "And we do actually need the Thestral hair."
"What if he doesn't want to leave Grawp, though?" Ron added. "Last time we saw him, he looked completely stressed out."
Harry hesitated. "We could help. With Grawp, I mean. He listens to us—sort of."
Hermione looked thoughtful. "We've helped before. Maybe he'd appreciate a bit of support."
Silence settled over the room as they all considered it. Then Hermione straightened, brushing imaginary dust from her jumper.
"So. We're agreed then? We'll go and visit Hagrid today?"
Ron grinned. "Definitely. Let's go and cheer up a half-giant."
Harry smiled, something warm unfurling in his chest. Being with them—Ron's daft humour, Hermione's steady planning, Ginny's spark—it made the weight feel lighter somehow. Less like a burden, more like… home.
But 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 long breath, trying to steady the churn in his chest. He was so tired of feeling fragile, of everyone treating him like he might crack if they so much as breathed too hard. He sat up straighter, forcing his voice into something calm and controlled.
"I'll be fine. I can manage it," he said, a bit too quickly. "I miss Hagrid. And honestly… getting out of the house might actually do me some good."
Ginny didn't look convinced. She bit her lip, clearly holding something back. Hermione was nearby, arms folded tightly, her face set in that familiar mixture of logic and fear.
"I don't know, Harry," Ginny murmured at last. "Maybe you should rest a bit longer. You've been unwell. Your body needs more time to heal."
Frustration rose sharp and fast, boiling under his skin. He tried not to snap, but the words came out harder than he meant.
"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?"
"We're not acting, mate," Ron said, arms crossed, trying to sound reasonable but with that same bloody 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 my idea of a good day."
Harry shot him a glare. "I'm not going to pass out again. You think I don't know my own limits?"
Ron gave a dry snort, clearly unconvinced. He didn't even bother arguing. That look on his face—that 'sure, whatever you say' look—made Harry's blood simmer.
Ginny stepped closer, her eyes soft but unflinching. "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 say it out loud—but I've figured it out."
His stomach twisted. He hated how easily she could see through him. "But I haven't felt it in—" he started, desperate to argue, desperate to cling to something that might not even be true.
Hermione cut across him, her voice quiet but firm. "Hagrid will understand. You know he will. He always does."
"Yeah," Ron added, offering a crooked grin. "Or he'll come charging through the door when he finds out you're sick. Either way, you'll see him soon enough."
But Harry didn't laugh. The tightness in his chest only worsened. Their concern, the constant careful looks—it made him feel like some fragile thing they had to tiptoe around. He hated it.
"I said I'm fine!" he snapped, his voice rising sharp and fast. "But obviously none of you believe me. Brilliant. Fine. I'll stay in bed if that makes everyone feel better."
He folded his arms across his chest like a sulky child, and the shame of it landed almost immediately—but he was too angry to care.
"I'm not going," Ginny said firmly, stepping back a little. Her voice was calm, but resolute. "I'm staying here with you."
Harry blinked, surprised. He should've expected it, really—but hearing it still landed like a punch to the ribs.
"I knew you'd say that," Hermione said gently, glancing between them. There was sympathy in her voice, but also that same quiet resolve that made her impossible to argue with.
Ron, however, had other things on his mind.
He jabbed a finger between Harry and Ginny, wearing the most serious expression Harry had ever seen on him. "While we're gone, I expect you two to behave. And I mean it. Strictly. Platonic."
Harry stared at him. "Are you actually being 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 flushed red, and he looked like he wanted to yell something but hadn't quite figured out what. Hermione quickly stepped in, sensing the argument about to erupt.
"Let's talk about your father," she said briskly, her tone cool and decisive. No room for debate.
Ron's mouth twisted in frustration. "What about him?"
"We'll wait until you're back before telling him anything," Ginny said, her voice softer now, but still firm.
Hermione nodded in agreement. "We'll need to be careful how we explain things."
Harry leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Be careful what you say. If he finds out about the potion plan… he's going to lose it."
A heavy silence settled over them.
Hermione's expression was serious. "We'll tell him some of it. But not everything."
"Oh, brilliant," Harry said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "You're just going to conveniently leave out the bit where you might die? I'm sure he'll love that when he finds out later."
"I just don't want to worry him unnecessarily," Hermione said quietly.
Harry let out a hollow laugh. "He's going to be devastated anyway. Might as well rip the plaster off now."
Ron shot him a sharp look. "What's with you lately?"
Harry shrugged, trying to appear unfazed, though his stomach was in knots. "Just saying. Maybe honesty's underrated round here."
Ginny reached out and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "He's just upset he can't visit Hagrid," she said softly.
Harry pulled his hand away. "I said I'm fine."
"You'll see Hagrid again soon," Hermione said, her voice warm and kind.
But her words felt like they passed right through him. The ache in his chest didn't shift. And the silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable.
Hermione stood, smoothing down her clothes. "Come on, Ron."
Harry didn't watch them leave. He just kept staring at the patch of sunlight on the floor, burning bright and indifferent—like it didn't care in the slightest how badly he wanted 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 faintly 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 about. "You reckon he's hiding in a cauldron somewhere?"
Hermione rolled her eyes, stepping further into the room. "He's probably in the potion storeroom or in the classroom. Remember, your mum asked for more healing potion for Harry. He might still be working on them."
"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 the pages—dim, quiet, and just a bit 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 around herself. "It's like the castle's holding its breath. At least they managed to repair the worst of it."
"Yeah. 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 about 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 out onto the open grounds. The morning air bit at their cheeks, and in the distance, Hagrid's hut sat 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'd 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 enormous 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 gave a delighted woof and thumped his tail, clearly overjoyed 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 as warm and cluttered as ever. Hermione smiled at the familiar chaos: a tottering stack of books on magical creatures 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 straight 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 lingering—an undercurrent neither of them could quite ignore.
"So," Hagrid said, peering at them with an expectant look, "wha' brings yeh here this time? Not that I mind, mind—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 not to tiptoe round it. "It's about Harry."
At once, Hagrid leant forward, his brow creasing in worry. "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 slipped from Hagrid's face. "Restin'? Yeh mean… he's ill?"
Ron rubbed the back of his neck, the humour draining from him. "Yeah. Really ill."
Hagrid's mouth opened and closed like he was trying to form words and failing. "But—but he's Harry," he said at last, his voice tight. "He always bounces back. What's happened this time?"
Hermione set her mug down, her fingers suddenly trembling. "It's his soul, Hagrid. It's—damaged."
Hagrid stared at her as though she'd just spoken Parseltongue. "Damaged? How can a soul be damaged?"
She leant 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 just a scar," Hermione said quietly. "Voldemort tethered a part of himself to Harry, and now that connection… it's taken its toll. Magic can't always fix something that's been broken for 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 spoke up, his voice low but urgent. "And now it's catching up with him. He's… he's not doing well, Hagrid. He's getting worse."
Hagrid's massive shoulders sagged, as though someone had knocked the wind right out of him. He swallowed hard, blinking quickly. "Worse how?"
"He forgets things," Ron said, staring down at his hands. "Sometimes he coughs up blood. He's in pain all the time. He doesn't say it, but… we can see it."
Hermione nodded, her expression tight. "We've been searching for a way to repair his soul. Anything that might help."
"Did yeh find something?" 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 ready 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 are too used ter people. Wild ones are rare—jumpy, too."
"We were hoping you'd know where to find one," Ron said.
Hagrid scratched his beard thoughtfully. Silence stretched out until at last, he nodded slowly. "I might know a place. They don't come 'round often, but I saw one last spring near the cliffs on the north edge of the forest. But it'll be tricky… they spook easy. Yeh'll need patience—and guts."
Ron grinned faintly. "You've got both."
Hagrid puffed his chest out 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 softly. "We need it as soon as possible."
Hagrid nodded grimly. "Then I'll go straight away, soon as I pack me kit. And I'll bring it back meself. I want ter see Harry. I want ter 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 on 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 company. He told them all about his summer adventures—rescuing magical creatures, getting bitten by a grumpy 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 away for just a moment. Even Ron cracked a smile.
Then Hagrid beamed proudly. "Oh—and I'm back 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 me 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 immediately. "Grawp's great! He's got a cave near Hogsmeade now—likes the quiet. He even decorates it with flowers. Says trees are too loud." He chuckled. "He's got real gentle these days. Gave me a hug last week that didn't even crack a rib!"
Ron and Hermione laughed, genuinely relieved.
"Maybe we'll go and 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, their moods sombre but their resolve solidifying. The path ahead was uncertain, but there was no turning back. Sharing a quick look—half determination, half anxiety—they set off towards 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 brushing the wood. For a moment, they weren't sure if anyone was inside.
To their surprise, the door opened almost straightaway.
"Well, well!" said Professor Slughorn, beaming as he appeared in the doorway, his face lighting up. "Miss Granger and Mr Weasley! What a delightful pair of unexpected visitors!"
He ushered them inside 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've just come from Hagrid's," Hermione said. "We needed something from the Anima Book."
Slughorn's eyes sparkled. "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 getting on, 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 all right."
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?"
"Yeah, no problem," Ron said with a shrug.
"Wonderful!" Slughorn beamed. "Tell your mother I'm terribly sorry I couldn't make 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 towards 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 drifted up from the Burrow's kitchen, warm and familiar. Harry lay curled up on the narrow bed in his room, eyes screwed shut, though sleep had long since abandoned him. His stomach churned with a horrible twist—part nausea, part nerves, part something darker he couldn't quite name. He'd stayed upstairs to 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 over and over, the words feeling more like a lie each time.
Downstairs, Ginny's laughter floated 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 clinging to every meal.
But his body had other plans.
A fresh wave of nausea rolled over him. He barely made it to the bathroom in time, clutching at the edge of the sink as his knees buckled. His throat burned. The taste of blood was sharp, metallic, unmistakable.
His breath came in ragged gasps. His arms trembled. Not again… please, not again…
Behind him, heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.
"Harry?" Ron's voice—tight, urgent. A knock. Then another. "You alright in there, mate?"
Harry couldn't speak. He could hardly breathe. Another wrenching heave dragged through him, the pain stabbing through his chest.
The door creaked open. Harry didn't even have the strength to protest. A moment later, Ron was at his side, swearing under his breath.
"Harry! Bloody hell—what—"
Harry forced a weak, shaky smile. "It's fine," he croaked, barely audible. "Just… a stomach thing. I'll be alright."
Ron crouched beside him, pale and panicked. Harry knew what he'd seen. The blood in the toilet. The sweat sticking to Harry's hairline. The way his whole body shook.
"This isn't just some stomach bug," Ron snapped. "You're throwing up blood, Harry. That's not fine. You need help, and you know it."
"I said I'm okay," Harry insisted, gripping the edge of the sink to steady himself as he hauled himself upright. His legs felt like lead. "Please don't tell your mum. She'll worry."
Ron stared at him like he'd gone mad. "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 cut in, 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 going to rot quietly in a bathroom instead of getting help?"
Harry looked away. The fight had drained out of him. His voice came out low, flat. "I'll take something if it gets worse."
If? Ron looked incredulous. "Mate, it is worse."
Harry didn't argue. What was the point? He was tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of hurting. Tired of being the one everyone worried about.
Downstairs, plates clinked. Chairs scraped against the floor. Lunch was ready.
Ron straightened up, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. "I swear to Merlin, if you so much as wince at the table, I'm pouring a potion down your throat myself."
Harry let out a faint, breathy chuckle. "Deal."
They made their way downstairs in silence, Ron sticking close, as if Harry might keel over at any second.
The smell of roast chicken and fresh bread hit him first—warm and comforting, almost too much for his unsettled stomach. Mrs Weasley beamed as they entered. Ginny stood at the stove, her hair tied up, her cheeks pink from the heat.
Hermione smiled as Harry approached, but her eyes searched his face with quiet 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 barely restrained fire. "Good," he lied, the word dry and hollow on his tongue. "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 Daily Prophet. Even Ron digging into his third helping couldn't lift the weight 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.
His 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 and 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 crumbling. Hagrid's name brought with it a rush 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 stirred the mashed potatoes on his plate in slow, aimless circles. His stomach gave a low growl, but the thought of actually eating made his throat tighten. 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. "Sorry we didn't mention it sooner. It was… urgent."
At 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 his 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 leant forward, curious now. "What sort 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 sort 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 the 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, 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 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 fixed 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 something.
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. Of 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, wasn't it? 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 since 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, her 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 sofa 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 got 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 straight 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.