Harry felt like he was eleven again as he followed George up the rickety stairs of The Burrow. The old house creaked in all the same places, like it remembered who he was. Each step made his heart beat a little faster—not from the effort, but from the giddy anticipation of mischief. He hadn't felt like this in ages.
At the top landing, George pushed open a door and headed straight for the window like it was the most natural thing in the world. He shoved it open, letting in the evening breeze and the faint scent of summer grass.
"This way, mate," George said, flashing a grin over his shoulder before climbing out with the grace of someone who'd done this a hundred times.
Harry hesitated. For a second, his stomach twisted with that familiar feeling: part excitement, part "this is definitely against some safety rule". But then he shook it off. This was The Burrow. Rules barely applied here.
He hoisted himself up and clambered out the window, nearly smacking his forehead on the eaves. Graceful as ever. Still, he made it out alive and found himself standing on the slanted rooftop. The breeze ruffled his hair, and for a second, everything was still.
The view took his breath away.
Rolling fields stretched into the horizon, painted in golds and greens by the dying light. Trees swayed gently, and the sky above was just beginning to darken, a few stars winking into view.
Harry inhaled deeply. The air smelt like possibility and freedom—and butterbeer, apparently.
"Welcome to my sanctuary," George said, already seated and holding out a bottle with a casual flourish. He looked oddly regal perched there, like a prince of mischief.
Harry took it with a grin and sat beside him, feeling the roof tiles shift slightly under his weight. He tried not to imagine himself sliding off into the pigpen below.
George popped the cap off his own bottle and took a swig before gesturing out at the view. "Fred and I used to sneak up here all the time. Mum would be yelling bloody murder downstairs, and we'd be up here planning pranks or pretending we were dragon hunters or—Merlin, one time we swore we saw a UFO."
Harry laughed. "I do remember your mum chasing you two around. Her hair was practically on fire."
"Yeah," George said fondly. "She was terrifying in the best way."
There was a comfortable pause. The wind rustled the trees, and the last light of day painted the sky in oranges and purples.
"So," George said after a moment, glancing over at him, "how've you really been? Not the 'public hero Harry Potter' version. The actual you."
Harry took a slow sip of his butterbeer and let out a breath. "I'm… trying to figure that out, honestly. It's weird. No battles. No prophecies. No one screaming at me to save the world. I don't have a plan, and for once, that feels kind of okay."
George nodded like he understood. "You're allowed to take a break, you know. Save-the-world quotas should come with a proper holiday. Preferably with no Dark Lords or interviews."
Harry smirked. "Or Rita Skeeter popping up behind a potted plant."
"Exactly!" George exclaimed. "Though rumour has it you're next in line for Minister of Magic. I heard it from Stan Shunpike at the Leaky Cauldron, so obviously it must be true."
Harry snorted into his drink. "Stan? He once told the Veelas that he'd become one."
George raised an eyebrow. "Well, clearly he's qualified for politics."
They both laughed, the sound light and real. It felt good.
"But really," George said, leaning back on his elbows, "you don't want the job?"
Harry stared at him. "George, I can't even get through a grocery run without someone asking me to sign a Chocolate Frog card. Do I look like someone who wants to be minister?"
"Fair enough," George said. "To be honest, I was worried you'd do something daft like join a Quidditch team."
Harry blinked. "Wait. What? Why would I do that?"
George looked personally offended. "Because it's Quidditch! You were a bloody brilliant Seeker!"
"Yeah, and I also nearly died during half the matches."
"Details," George waved him off. "Did Ginny ever tell you she's thinking about trying out for the Holyhead Harpies?"
Harry sat up straighter. "No! She never mentioned that."
George tilted his head. "Really? She's serious about it. She's got the fire. Fred and I always told her she could fly circles around anyone."
Harry smiled, pride and affection bubbling up inside him. "Yeah. She's got that look—like she's ready to punch the world if it tells her she can't."
George chuckled. "She gets that from Mum. And from us, obviously. We might've pushed her a bit, making sure she didn't just sit on the sidelines."
He paused, and his voice softened. "We also wanted to make sure any bloke she dated wasn't a complete git."
Harry nearly choked on his butterbeer. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
George raised his bottle in a mock toast. "You passed the test. Barely."
The mood shifted slightly. George's smile faded just enough to reveal something gentler underneath.
"But seriously, Harry," he said, more quietly now. "She's been through a lot. Just… don't hurt her, alright? She's strong, yeah, but when she hurts, she doesn't go small. She burns."
Harry swallowed, the weight of George's words settling over him like a heavy cloak.
"I won't," he said, voice low and certain. "I promise."
George gave him a long look, then nodded. "Good."
They sat in silence for a while, the stars growing brighter above them, the fields below fading into shadows.
George leaned against the old wooden beam, cradling a half-empty butterbeer like it was a long-time friend. He looked unusually thoughtful, though the spark of mischief hadn't quite left his eyes. "She's private about her love life," he said suddenly, pulling Harry out of his spiral of thoughts. "Probably thinks Fred or I would prank her if she told us anything." He gave a crooked smile and added, "Can't blame her, really."
Harry smirked. That sounded exactly like Ginny.
George winked. "You should watch your back, Potter. I might start stirring up trouble again."
A wave of nostalgia rolled over Harry like warm butterbeer on a cold night. He could practically see the twins bursting into the Great Hall with fireworks, laughing so hard they nearly fell over. Fred's voice, Fred's grin—it all came rushing back, sharp and soft all at once.
"I'll be careful," Harry said, pretending to shiver. "The last thing I want is a redhead with a wand hexing my eyebrows off."
"That's my boy." George grinned and clapped him on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Somehow, even in the fading light, George still looked like the same fearless prankster he'd always been—just with a little more weight behind his eyes.
He took a loud slurp from his butterbeer. Harry laughed, grateful for the sound. It felt good. It felt normal.
"So… you and Angelina, huh?" Harry asked, trying to keep his tone light. But even as the words came out, he felt the weird twist in his chest—the one that always came when people talked about moving on, making plans, and living full lives.
George spluttered. "Merlin's pants, warn a guy next time!"
"I didn't know it was official," Harry teased. "Or are you two just sharing broomsticks?"
George squinted like he was offended. "Oi. Don't go nosing into my love life, young man. I'm not above hexing former Chosen Ones."
They both laughed, and for a second, it was like no time had passed. Like there'd never been a war. Like Fred might come climbing onto the roof with two more butterbeers and a terrible joke.
But the laughter didn't last.
George's smile faded, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. "I'm going to propose," he said. His voice didn't waver, but Harry heard the steel behind it—like the decision had anchored him somehow. "And yes, I mean it."
Harry blinked. It was the last thing he'd expected. "Wow. I'm… really happy for you, George. She's lucky."
George's smile softened into something quieter. "I'm the lucky one," he said. "She laughs at my jokes. Actually laughs."
Harry watched him closely. It was strange, seeing George like this—unguarded. Sincere. Not hiding behind punchlines.
"She's my calm, y'know? Especially now. After… well."
He didn't finish. He didn't have to.
Fred's name didn't need to be spoken. It was everywhere—etched into the silence, folded into George's every breath.
Harry swallowed hard. His mind flickered with memories: the joke shop window filled with colour, the sound of twin laughter echoing through Hogwarts, and that awful silence after the Battle. Fred was lying still.
The image never really left him.
Harry nodded, his throat tight. There was nothing to say. Just… be here. Be present.
The stars were creeping out overhead, one by one. The sky looked endless, like it had room for all the things Harry still couldn't say.
"So," Harry nudged George with his shoulder, needing the shift, "what's the plan? Gonna propose mid-Quidditch match? Or while being chased by a swarm of angry gnomes?"
George chuckled. "Tempting. But I don't want to upstage your future proposal with my dazzling theatrics."
Harry snorted and leaned back on the warm rooftop, his eyes finding the stars. "Unforgettable," he said. "That's the goal, right?"
A hush fell between them. But it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that made you feel safe enough to say things you weren't sure you were ready to say.
Harry's fingers clenched slightly on the edge of the roof. The thought had been crawling in his chest for days—weeks, maybe—but now it clawed its way to his throat.
"I… I've been meaning to tell someone something. But—"
"But you don't want to worry us?" George asked, soft and kind, like he already knew.
Harry didn't answer right away. His heart thudded against his ribs. He hated how easily George had read him. Or maybe he was grateful.
A breeze tugged at his hair.
He nodded.
Because the truth was, Harry still felt like he was carrying something breakable. Not a secret, exactly, but a fear. A weight. And even now, in the quiet with George beside him and the stars overhead, part of him didn't want to say it out loud. Because once he did, it would be real.
"I get it," George said, voice softening. "There's nothing wrong with keeping people at a distance. I used to think the same way. But then Fred…" His voice faltered slightly before recovering. "Fred showed me it was okay to trust people—as long as I was honest. The more I opened up, the more people seemed to trust me right back."
Harry glanced at him, surprised. He didn't expect something that… sincere.
George noticed and raised an eyebrow with a crooked grin. "What? You thought I was all jokes and no depth?"
Harry smirked. "I didn't say that."
"But you were thinking it," George said, then shrugged. "Fair enough. I used to think people just happened to trust me because I was lucky. Right place, right time. That sort of thing."
Harry leaned back, curiosity creeping in. "Was it?"
George's grin turned smug. "Nope. Turns out, I'm devastatingly attractive and impossibly charming. Can't help that, can I?"
Harry snorted. "Wow. And here I thought modesty was your best trait."
George put a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. "Don't be jealous, Potter. Not everyone can have the whole package."
A faint laugh slipped out before Harry could stop it. He hadn't laughed like that in a while. Not a real laugh, anyway. It felt strange. Good, but strange.
But even as he smiled, there was a little tug in his chest—a reminder of how rare moments like this had become. So much of his life lately was just noise and fear and grief. He hadn't realised how much he missed this kind of simple, ridiculous banter.
George's smile faded a bit, and his tone shifted. "Truth is… Fred was the only one I ever told everything to. Like, really everything. The stuff I couldn't say out loud to anyone else? He already knew."
The shift in energy was sudden. Like a gust of wind changing direction. Harry straightened slightly, alert to the weight behind George's words.
"We were a team, me and Fred," George said, quieter now. "People called us troublemakers—and yeah, fair enough, we were. But it wasn't about causing chaos for fun. It was our way of saying, 'We're here. We're alive. We're not afraid.'"
Harry watched the way George's gaze dropped to his butterbeer. He wasn't smiling anymore. His voice was steady, but his fingers trembled slightly against the glass.
"We had each other's backs," George said. "Always. No questions. I could be halfway through a half-baked plan, and Fred would be right there, wand drawn, grinning like a maniac. And if I failed, he was the one who'd help me pick up the pieces—usually while making fun of me."
Harry's throat tightened. He'd felt that kind of loyalty too—Ron, Hermione. But even then, it wasn't quite the same. Fred and George had practically shared a soul.
"You understand what I'm saying?" George asked, eyes flickering up. There was something almost desperate in his expression. Like he needed Harry to understand. To see him.
Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah. I do."
George let out a quiet breath, then gave a sad little chuckle. "Ron's still a prat, though."
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the shift.
"But," George added, "he's a loyal prat. And not just because he's my brother. I know Ron. If it came down to it, he'd walk through hell barefoot if it meant protecting his best mate."
Harry's chest ached. He hadn't been fair to Ron lately. He'd kept him at arm's length, trying to shoulder everything alone. It was easier to think that way—less risky. But maybe that had been a mistake.
George went on, voice quieter now. "After Fred died, I couldn't even summon a Patronus. For weeks. Just… nothing. It was like everything bright had been drained out of me."
He paused. Harry watched as George blinked hard, his jaw clenched tight.
"I'm only telling you this because…" His voice faltered, then steadied. "Because if you ever lose someone—and I hope you don't—you'll want to be able to say the things that matter. While you still can."
A tear slipped down George's cheek. He didn't wipe it away.
"I never got the chance to tell Fred," he whispered. "Not really."
Harry looked away, swallowing hard. The guilt hit him in waves. Sirius. Dumbledore. Cedric. His parents. There were so many ghosts trailing behind him, and most of them had left without goodbyes.
"I'm sorry," Harry said, his voice rough.
George nodded slowly. "You never really recover. Not completely. But you learn to live around it. That hole they leave behind—it doesn't close. You just… learn to stop falling into it."
Harry stared at his bottle, wishing it had answers at the bottom.
"You've lost people too," George said softly. "I can see it in you. The way you walk, the way you hold your wand, like it's more burden than tool."
Harry's fingers curled tighter around the neck of the bottle. George wasn't wrong. Sometimes, it did feel like he was carrying the weight of every name on the headstones at Godric's Hollow.
"You're right," Harry murmured. "It's the little things I miss most. The way they smiled. The way they made me feel safe… even when everything else was falling apart."
George reached out and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but it grounded him.
"The memories will sting for a while," George said. "But then they'll start to help. You'll laugh again. Not because it stops hurting—but because they'd want you to."
Harry nodded, a lump in his throat.
"You're not alone," George added. "You never were. And you never have to be. If you ever need to disappear for a bit, or vent, or just drink an irresponsible amount of Firewhisky—I'm your guy."
That finally pulled a smile out of Harry. A real one this time. Crooked, a little broken, but real.
"Thanks, George."
They sat in silence again, but it wasn't the heavy, painful kind. It was… peaceful. Like the world had slowed down just enough for them to breathe.
Then George gave Harry's shoulder a squeeze and grinned. "Right. I'll give Ron a proper smack upside the head for you."
Harry laughed. "Cheers to that."
George raised his bottle. "To the idiots we love."
Harry raised his own, staring up at the stars. "To the ones we miss."
Their bottles clinked, and the quiet chime echoed under the night sky. For one fleeting moment, the grief felt lighter—shared between two people who knew exactly what it meant to lose someone and what it meant to keep going anyway.
The summer heat clung to everything, thick and suffocating. The usually warm and inviting living room of The Burrow now felt sharp around the edges—tense, uneasy. The air didn't move, and neither did the heaviness in Harry's chest.
He had just come down from the roof with George. They'd said goodnight and gone separate ways, each disappearing into the silence that followed the day's exhaustion. Harry was heading to his room, hand already on the doorknob, when voices stopped him cold.
Ron and Ginny. Arguing.
About him.
He knew he shouldn't eavesdrop—but they weren't exactly being quiet. Their voices carried up the stairs like thunder rumbling through the house.
"Ginny, I told you to stay out of this!" Ron's voice was tight, tense. Angry.
Harry froze, heart starting to thump harder. He should go inside, pretend he hadn't heard—but his feet didn't move.
"How can you expect me to stay out of it?" Ginny shot back. "This is Harry we're talking about."
Harry swallowed hard. His name—again. He hated this. Hated being the reason they were fighting.
Ginny's voice burnt with frustration. "You think yelling at him is going to fix anything? You keep acting like he's the problem, but have you even tried listening to him?"
Ron's footsteps thudded as he paced the floor. "How can I listen when he won't say a bloody word? He's shutting us out, pretending everything's fine when it's clearly not!"
Harry closed his eyes. He hadn't meant to come off that way. He just didn't know how to talk about it—about the horcrux. The weight of it all felt impossible to put into words.
"You're not helping by lashing out," Ginny said, more calmly now. "Harry's been through hell. He doesn't trust easily—he never has. And maybe that's not about us. Maybe it's just… the way he's learnt to survive."
Ron scoffed. "You think I don't know that? I do. But I'm sick of walking on eggshells around him. We're his friends. We're supposed to matter to him."
Harry flinched. You do matter. He wanted to say it out loud—but the words felt stuck behind the wall he'd built inside.
"He's not trying to hurt us, Ron," Ginny continued. "He's hurting. There's a difference."
There was a pause. Then Ron's voice, quieter. "I just wanted to help. I don't know what else to do."
Harry pressed his back to the wall, guilt settling into his bones. They're trying. And I'm just… shutting down.
Ginny sighed. "You can't force him. He needs time. Space. And a reason to believe he's not alone."
"He's always done this," Ron muttered bitterly. "Hermione and I—we've always had to push him just to get him to talk. It's like he doesn't trust anyone unless they drag it out of him."
That one hit Harry like a punch. He hadn't realised how much it hurt them—how much they noticed. Maybe he thought they didn't.
Ginny's voice was softer now, but heavier somehow. "This isn't about trust. It's about fear. He's trying to protect us, even if it means pushing us away. But he's not as strong as he pretends to be. Not right now."
Harry felt a lump rise in his throat. He wished she wasn't right. He wished he were stronger. But he wasn't. Not anymore.
"And what, we just let him bottle it all up?" Ron snapped. "Let him drown in it while we wait around and hope he eventually speaks?"
Ginny didn't answer right away. When she finally did, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm scared too, Ron. I don't know what's going on with him, but… something's wrong. And if he keeps carrying it all by himself, I don't know what it'll do to him."
Harry's stomach turned. He hated making her feel that way. He hadn't meant to scare anyone.
"I'm done waiting," Ron said suddenly. His voice was clipped, decisive. "I'll talk to him tomorrow. No more guessing games. He can be angry if he wants—but he's going to talk."
"Ron, please," Ginny called after him. "Just—don't make it worse."
But Ron was already stomping toward the stairs.
Harry scrambled into his room, pressing himself against the wall. His heart pounded as Ron passed, not seeing him. The door slammed behind him a moment later.
Ginny stayed behind, quiet now. Harry could just make out her silhouette in the dim light. Her shoulders slumped, her arms hanging at her sides. She looked tired. Hurt.
He wanted to go to her. To say something—anything. But he didn't.
Instead, he closed the door and sat on his bed. He needed air. He needed space.
He needed to figure out how to stop being the reason they all seemed to be falling apart.
The morning sun crept through the curtains, throwing golden light across the floorboards of the Burrow. Harry could feel it warming his face, but it didn't bring comfort—just a reminder that another day had begun. His stomach twisted, nausea curling inside him like a living thing. He pressed his forehead to the cold bathroom tiles, trying to breathe through it.
His hands were shaking again.
He hated this.
Another retch tore from his throat. His body convulsed, empty now, but still fighting. He gripped the edge of the toilet bowl, sweat slick on his palms. Behind his closed eyes, flashes of the war and last night danced in sickening bursts—Voldemort's voice, pain, screams, fire, being a Horcrux, Ron and Ginny arguing.
He hadn't even been asleep. Just lying awake, staring into the dark, waiting for the silence to feel safe.
A knock at the door jolted him.
"Harry?" Ron's voice came, soft but urgent.
Harry swallowed hard, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jumper, and forced his voice to sound steady. "I'll be right there. Just—just a sec."
He turned on the tap, splashing cold water over his face. His reflection in the mirror startled him—eyes red, skin pale, like he hadn't slept in days. Maybe he hadn't. He barely remembered anymore.
When he opened the door, Ron was standing there, brow furrowed, looking like he hadn't slept either.
"You all right?" Ron asked, peering at him closely.
Harry forced a shrug. "Just tired."
But even as he said it, he knew it sounded wrong. Weak. Unconvincing. Ron wasn't buying it.
"You're sick," Ron said, more certain now. "You sound like hell."
Harry dropped his eyes. "It's nothing. Probably just something I ate."
He stepped back into the room, trying to shut the door behind him, but Ron stuck his foot in the way.
"I'm getting Mum," Ron said suddenly, turning before Harry could stop him.
"No—Ron, wait—" Panic surged in Harry's chest, but Ron was already halfway up the stairs.
A few minutes later, Harry sat curled on the edge of his bed, trying to brace himself for the inevitable fuss. His heart pounded as footsteps hurried back down the stairs.
Mrs. Weasley entered, holding a tray with potions and a damp cloth. Her expression was full of gentle worry, the kind that made Harry feel both comforted and ashamed.
"Oh, Harry, dear," she said softly, kneeling beside him. "Ron said you were unwell."
Harry tried to straighten up, but everything ached. "I'm fine. Really. I just need to lie down for a bit."
Mrs. Weasley reached up and touched his forehead. Her hand was cool and soothing.
"You've got a fever," she murmured, then pressed a small vial into his hand. "Take this, love. It'll help."
Harry looked at the potion, the thick purple liquid swirling inside. He hesitated. Part of him wanted to push it away, to say no, to pretend everything was normal.
But that would be a lie.
And he was tired of lying.
He drank it, wincing at the bitter taste.
"There," she said gently. "That should ease things. You rest. I'll check on you soon."
As she left the room, Harry felt the silence close in again. Ron stayed behind, lingering awkwardly in the doorway.
The tension between them was thick, unspoken. Harry knew Ron had questions, and he dreaded them. He couldn't explain—not yet. Not without falling apart.
Ron finally broke the silence. "You scared me, mate."
Harry didn't answer right away. He stared at the floor, his chest tightening. "I didn't mean to," he said eventually. "I just… couldn't hold it in anymore."
Ron stepped closer, unsure. "You don't have to say anything. I mean… I get it. Sort of. Not really. But I want to."
Harry glanced up. For a second, he saw that familiar look in Ron's eyes—loyalty, stubbornness, a bit of fear. It made something in Harry's chest loosen.
"I'm not ready," Harry said quietly. "To talk about it. Not yet."
Ron nodded. "That's all right. Just… don't shut me out, yeah?"
"I'll try."
And he meant it.
Ron gave him a small smile. "I'm just glad you're still here."
Harry blinked, surprised at how much those words meant. He hadn't realised how much he'd needed to hear them.
"Thanks," he whispered. "Really. I'm going to try and get some sleep."
"Yeah. Okay." Ron backed out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.
Harry sank back against the pillows. The potion was already working, pulling him toward a heavy, dreamless sleep.
Harry lay curled beneath the covers, drenched in sweat. Every inch of him ached—his skin burnt, his muscles trembled, and his thoughts felt like they were drifting somewhere far away. The blanket around him was damp and clinging, but even through the heat of fever, he couldn't stop shivering. He had no sense of time anymore. Everything just blurred.
A soft knock at the door barely registered.
Please don't come in, he thought. I just want to be alone. But the door creaked open anyway.
Ginny's voice came gently through the haze. "Harry?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't, really. He just lay there, eyes closed, hoping she'd think he was asleep and leave.
But she didn't.
He felt the mattress dip as she sat down beside him, then her hand—cool and careful—rested on his shoulder. He flinched slightly at the touch, not from fear, but from how far away it felt. Like she was reaching through thick glass to get to him.
"You're burning up," Ginny said softly, her voice threaded with worry. "Have you taken anything for the fever?"
Harry gave the smallest of nods. That tiny movement felt like climbing a mountain.
Ginny didn't say anything for a moment. Then he heard her stand quickly and leave the room, footsteps fading.
He wished he could follow her—just to escape the heat pressing down on his chest. But he couldn't move.
Minutes—or maybe longer—passed before the door opened again. This time it wasn't just Ginny. He heard Mrs. Weasley's gentle voice first, followed by Ron's heavier footsteps trailing behind.
"Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley said softly, "you can't take another dose of the potion yet. But we made you some soup. It might help until then."
Harry opened his eyes just long enough to meet her gaze. "Thanks," he mumbled, his throat dry and raw.
She placed a hand gently on his forehead, then left the room with a worried look back.
Ron hovered awkwardly for a second, then stepped forward and fluffed Harry's pillow with more effort than was really needed.
"You look like rubbish, mate," Ron said with a half-smile, trying to joke but unable to hide the worry in his eyes.
Harry managed a tired, lopsided smile. "Feel like it too."
Ginny settled beside him again, a bowl of steaming soup in her hands. She placed his glasses carefully on his face, the familiar weight grounding him slightly. Her touch was warm, patient—like she knew he needed time.
When she offered the bowl, Harry tried to take it. His hands trembled so violently, the spoon rattled against the edge.
"I've got it," Ginny said, not waiting for him to argue. "Let me help."
"I can do it," he muttered weakly, though even he didn't believe it.
"No, you can't," she said, but her voice was kind, not mocking. "And it's okay."
She scooped up a spoonful and gently brought it to his lips.
Harry hesitated—but the smell of the soup hit him, and his stomach gave a loud, desperate growl. Reluctantly, he opened his mouth and let her feed him. The warmth spread through him instantly, easing the ache in his throat, and for a moment, the fever didn't feel quite so overpowering.
"Better?" Ginny asked softly.
He nodded, just barely. "Yeah. Thanks."
Ron leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed. "If you don't hurry up and get better, Ginny's going to be calling all the shots," he said with a teasing grin.
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Do you ever stop talking?"
Ron smirked. "Just making sure Harry's still breathing. And that you're not poisoning him."
"Get out, Ron," she muttered—but there was affection in her voice, the kind only siblings shared.
Ron lingered for another beat, looking at Harry again. Then, with a dramatic groan, he turned and walked out. "Call me if he starts glowing or something," he said as he left.
The room went quiet.
Harry glanced up at Ginny. She hadn't moved, still holding the bowl, still watching him like he might vanish if she blinked. Her brows were furrowed, and there was something raw in her eyes—something he didn't think he deserved.
"You don't have to stay," he said. "I'm just… tired."
She shook her head. "I'm not going anywhere."
Harry looked away. He hated this—being weak in front of her. Being seen like this. He was supposed to be the strong one. The one who stood up and fought. But now, he could barely lift a spoon.
"I don't want you to see me like this," he admitted quietly, surprising even himself.
Ginny reached out, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. Her touch was soft but steady. "Too late for that," she whispered. "And I'd rather see the real you than some version that pretends not to hurt."
Harry's chest tightened. A lump formed in his throat, and he looked at her, really looked.
"You all keep saying you're here for me," he said. "But this… this thing inside me—it's too much. I don't even know what to do with it half the time. How can I ask you to carry part of it too?"
"You don't have to ask," Ginny said. Her voice broke slightly, but she didn't back down. "We're already carrying it, Harry. Because we care. Because we love you."
The word hit him hard—'love'—not in the romantic way, not even necessarily as a confession, but in its truest, rawest form.
"I don't know what to say," he whispered.
"You don't have to say anything," she replied. "Just let us stay."
Ginny's hand moved in slow, steady arcs, the silver spoon glinting faintly in the morning light filtering through the curtains. The soup smelt faintly of thyme and potatoes, warm and familiar. Harry opened his mouth without thinking, tasting the faint saltiness as she fed him again. The spoon clinked gently against the bowl—soft, repetitive, oddly soothing.
Everything felt heavy. His limbs, his thoughts, even the air pressing around him. But here, in this quiet corner of the Burrow, in this tiny room with the open window and the sound of bees humming outside, he didn't feel like he had to fight anymore. At least not right now.
Ginny glanced at him between spoonfuls, her eyes gentle, watching him in that way she always had when she thought he wasn't looking. There was something in her gaze that felt more healing than any potion.
"Almost done," she said, her voice low and warm. "You've got to build up your strength—can't save the world on an empty stomach."
Her words made him smile, weak but real. The corners of his mouth tugged up even though his face felt too tired to move.
"Hilarious," he muttered, the sound scratchy in his throat. It hurt to talk, but he wanted to answer her. Always did.
The bed creaked quietly beneath him as he shifted. The sheets were damp with sweat. He hated that—being this helpless, this fragile—but Ginny didn't flinch. She didn't look away.
Just then, footsteps thudded on the stairs. Ron appeared in the doorway, arms crossed and smirking. "I still can't believe she used to have a massive crush on you," he said, with all the subtlety of a bludger to the face.
Harry's breath caught. Ginny stiffened.
Oh no.
"Shut it, Ron," she snapped, her tone sharp but flustered. Her cheeks turned pink, and Harry's followed suit, heat crawling up his neck. It wasn't just the fever this time.
Ron was already gone, disappearing down the hall, his laughter echoing faintly as he went.
Ginny let out a long sigh and turned back to Harry, forcing a smile. "Right then," she said, lifting the spoon again, her tone bright and forced. "Open up."
But Harry didn't get the chance. The room tilted.
He flinched hard, instinctively grabbing at the blanket. His stomach lurched, and for a second, he thought he might be sick. Cold sweat broke out on his back, and everything blurred. His body jerked, sudden and uncontrollable.
"Whoa…" he breathed, barely audible. The world narrowed to a tunnel.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice sharpened. She reached for him quickly, her fingers brushing his forehead.
Her hand was cool against his burning skin. His whole face felt hot, like it was on fire, but inside he was shivering. He could feel the tremble in his chest, like something inside was unravelling.
"Just dizzy," he muttered. His voice cracked on the second word.
Ginny set the bowl aside and placed both hands on his shoulders, steadying him. Her grip was gentle but firm. She didn't hesitate—not even for a second. Somehow, that helped more than anything.
"Let's lie you back, okay?" she said softly.
She shifted the pillows behind him, guiding him as he leaned back. The movement made his stomach turn, but her hands steadied him. Then, slowly, she let him lean against her shoulder.
"I've got you," she whispered.
The warmth of her body seeped into him—strong, comforting. Her shirt was soft, and her heartbeat was steady in his ear. He let himself melt into her, letting his muscles go slack for the first time all day. He breathed her in: the faint scent of her shampoo, something floral and clean, mixed with the comforting smell of the Burrow—broom polish, bread, and old books.
"You know," he murmured, barely thinking about the words, "I always thought you were the strongest person I knew."
Her fingers paused for just a second, then resumed their gentle movements—one hand absently stroking the side of his arm.
"I'm not," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm just doing what I can."
"That's what makes you strong."
A silence settled over them. The kind that didn't need filling. Outside, the wind rustled the trees. The floor creaked faintly beneath the house. Somewhere in the kitchen, a kettle whistled.
Harry felt the tension start to bleed from his body. He wasn't healed. Not yet. But for the first time in days, maybe longer, he felt like he might be.
"I'm here," Ginny said.
He didn't open his eyes. He didn't need to. "Will you stay?"
"I'll stay," she replied, with no hesitation.
She could've said a hundred things—but she didn't need to. Just that one promise, solid and sure, anchored him.
There was a soft knock at the door. It creaked open, and Mrs. Weasley's head appeared, her face lined with concern.
"Ginny, dear," she said quietly, "I've drawn a cool bath for Harry. It might help with that fever."
Her voice was gentle, but he could hear the worry tucked inside it. They'd tried everything. Potions… Even a few desperate Muggle remedies.
Nothing worked. The fever clung to him like a curse.
Ginny nodded, not looking away from him. "Thanks, Mum."
Mrs. Weasley offered a small smile and withdrew.
Harry blinked up at Ginny, his head still foggy. "You don't have to—"
"I know," she said softly. "But I want to."