Chapter 9

Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, slow and golden, brushing across the patchwork quilt. It crept across the room, softening the worn floorboards and casting a quiet glow over the jumble of books, discarded clothes, and the Quidditch posters.

And for once the light didn't sting.

It didn't burn its way across his skin. Didn't shine too brightly, as if mocking him for surviving when so many hadn't. It just was—warm, simple, and utterly indifferent to the things he carried.

Harry blinked, slow and careful, as though any sudden movement might break the spell.

There was no pounding behind his eyes. No sharp pain burrowing beneath his ribs. No pressure at the base of his skull, reminding him that he was still broken, still marked.

Just the soft rustle of trees outside the window. The familiar creak of pipes somewhere downstairs. The faint, unmistakable clatter of pans in the kitchen.

Carefully, he shifted the covers aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The wooden floor was cool beneath his feet. He ran a hand through his hair—pointless, as always—and padded towards the stairs, following the scent of something so warm and familiar it stopped him for a second at the landing.

Eggs. Toast. Bacon.

His stomach gave a sudden, loud growl.

He froze, slightly embarrassed, before the absurdity of it hit him: he was hungry.

Not the dull, empty ache he'd ignored for days. Not the kind of eating you did because someone placed a plate in front of you and watched until you forced something down.

No—this was real.

He took the last few steps down and stepped into the kitchen.

Mrs Weasley stood at the stove, humming under her breath, her wand tapping the frying pan rhythmically. The morning light lit up the floral pattern on her apron, and her hair was tied back in a way that made her look somehow both motherly and battle-hardened.

The kitchen itself was the same as ever—teacups clinking on shelves, the clock on the wall still pointing "home" for most of the hands, and the air filled with the unmistakable warmth of the Burrow. It felt like the house was exhaling around him, steady and alive.

Mrs Weasley glanced over her shoulder—and beamed.

"Oh, Harry, good. You're just in time." She flicked her wand, and a plate drifted towards the table, piled high. "Sit. Eat."

And so he did.

No arguments. No half-hearted protest. He slid into the chair and picked up his fork, and—without forcing it, without pretending—he ate.

And the food tasted good.

Really good. Like it hadn't in ages. The toast was perfectly crisp, the eggs just the right side of soft, and the bacon still crackling faintly as if it had only just left the pan. But more than that—it felt right. Like something had clicked back into place without warning.

When he finished, he pushed the plate back, not with guilt or exhaustion, but with something new. Something strange.

A quiet pride, low and unfamiliar in his chest.

Mrs Weasley dried her hands and turned to him, her gaze gentle but sharp in that way she had—the kind of look that always seemed to know more than you wanted it to.

"It's good to see your appetite back, dear," she said, her voice warm but tinged with something thick, something like relief.

Harry ducked his head. Compliments made him itch—he never knew what to do with them.

"Er—yeah. I suppose I was hungry."

He stood, thanked her quietly, and slipped out before she could say anything else. The kitchen faded behind him, but the comfort clung to his shoulders.

By the time he reached his room again, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had gathered, as if by silent agreement. Hermione was curled up in the armchair by the window with a book half-forgotten in her lap, Ron was sitting on the bed cross-legged and already unwrapping a chocolate frog, and Ginny was perched by the desk, drumming her fingers against the wood.

Harry clapped his hands together, trying to summon some energy into his voice—trying to sound like someone who had a plan. "Right," he said, clearing his throat. "Let's get on with it."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "You know," he said, popping the frog into his mouth and chewing noisily, "instead of sending Hagrid an owl, we could just go visit. Ask about the Thestral hair in person."

Harry blinked. "You reckon he'd want that?"

Ron shrugged, licking chocolate off his thumb. "Of course he would. He's probably lonely. We haven't seen him properly in—what? A week?"

"He'd love it," Hermione said, her voice gentle. "And honestly, it'd be good for all of us. Bit of fresh air. Bit of grounding."

"Yeah," Harry murmured, the thought settling in. "I just… hope he's doing alright."

Ron grinned. "Bet he's still wrangling Grawp. Can't picture Hagrid without that giant tagging along. I reckon Grawp's still trying to figure out small talk. 'Grawp… like… butterbeer?'"

He dropped his voice into a low growl, pulling a face so accurate it sent Hermione into a snort-laugh and Ginny into a proper giggle.

Hermione tried—and failed—to compose herself. "Actually, Grawp has made a lot of progress. He helped during the war. And I've heard he's been really gentle with the younger students."

"Gentle?" Ron scoffed, stretching out on the bed. "They were pelting each other with pumpkin pasties last time we visited. That's not bonding—that's lunch with velocity."

Ginny nudged Harry's arm, eyes alight. "Remember when Grawp caught one mid-air and just ate it? I've never seen a first-year scream so loudly."

Ron laughed. "Alright, that was impressive. I'll give him that."

"And imagine him teaching Care of Magical Creatures," said Ginny, a mischievous glint lighting her eyes. "He'd need a classroom the size of the Quidditch pitch."

Harry gave a dry chuckle. "Picture Grawp with a little blackboard and a stub of chalk barely bigger than a twig. 'Today… lesson… Flobberworms!'" he growled, mimicking Grawp's ponderous speech.

Hermione laughed despite herself, rolling her eyes. "You're all completely ridiculous. But honestly—do you think Hagrid would even want to go back to teaching? After everything?"

Harry's smile faltered. The question caught him somewhere deep in his chest. Hermione was right, as she so often was—Hagrid hadn't been quite the same since the war. Few of them had. There was a slowness to his voice now, a heaviness in his steps that hadn't been there before. He still smiled and still thumped your back hard enough to knock you off balance—but something behind his eyes seemed dimmer. Quieter.

"We could ask him," Ron said, his tone gentler now. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, brow furrowed. "See how he's getting on. Might do him some good to know we're thinking about him."

Hermione nodded. "And we do actually need the Thestral hair," she added, ever the practical one. "It's not just a social call."

Ron grimaced. "What if he doesn't want to leave Grawp, though? Last time we saw him, he looked completely stressed out. Like Grawp was about one tantrum away from pulling the roof off his hut."

Harry hesitated. He remembered that visit—how Hagrid had tried to wave off the exhaustion, making excuses about Grawp being "just a bit restless lately." But the truth had shown in the droop of his shoulders, in the way he'd rubbed his temples when he thought they weren't looking.

"We could help," Harry said quietly. "With Grawp, I mean. He listens to us… sort of."

Hermione looked thoughtful, the way she always did when she was mentally cataloguing a problem from every angle. "We've helped before. Maybe Hagrid would actually appreciate a bit of support this time. He's not great at asking for it."

Silence stretched for a few seconds as they all considered it.

Then Hermione sat up straighter, brushing imaginary lint from her jumper as if that settled things. "So. We're agreed then? We'll go visit Hagrid today?"

Ron grinned, the glint back in his eyes. "Definitely. Let's go cheer up a half-giant."

Harry smiled. Something in his chest eased.

But Ginny's smile faded as she turned to him. Her eyes searched his face, sharp and knowing. "Harry… don't take this the wrong way, but…" Her voice softened, almost hesitant. "Are you sure you're well enough to travel? You've been through a lot. I'm just… worried."

The warmth flickered. A knot of frustration twisted in his stomach.

He inhaled slowly, forcing calm into his limbs.

He was tired of being treated like this. Of every sideways glance, every whispered conversation he wasn't meant to hear. Of Hermione hovering like she expected him to faint at any second. Of Ginny's eyes constantly scanning his face for signs he didn't even recognise in himself.

"I'll be fine," he said, maybe a bit too quickly. He sat up straighter, trying to sound more sure than he felt. "I miss Hagrid. Honestly… getting out of the house might do me some good."

Ginny's brow furrowed, clearly unconvinced. She bit her lip, like there was more she wanted to say but didn't know how to frame it without sounding patronising.

"I don't know, Harry," she said at last, her voice quiet. "Maybe you should rest a bit longer. You've been unwell. Your body needs time. You still wake up with pain sometimes. You don't have to push yourself to prove anything."

He could feel the burn rising—low and hot in his chest.

"I said I'm fine," he snapped, sharper than he meant to. "Why does everyone keep acting like I'm about to keel over?"

Ron raised an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest. "You passed out three times this week. We're not acting, mate."

Harry glared at him.

Ron held up his hands, mock-placating. "I'm just saying—what if something does happen? We're out in the middle of the forest, and I've got to lift you all the way back to the Burrow. That's not really how I imagined spending my afternoon."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "I'm not going to pass out again. I know my own limits."

Ron gave a snort. "Do you, though?"

That look—the half-pitying, half-irritated one Ron had mastered since fifth year—made Harry want to punch something. Preferably a wall. Possibly Ron.

Ginny moved closer, quieter now, but unflinching. "That burning in your chest—the one you keep pretending isn't there. It's happened more than once. You hide it, but I notice. It scares you, doesn't it?"

He froze.

His hands curled into fists in his lap. "I haven't felt it in—"

Hermione cut in, gently but firmly. "Harry, you don't have to push yourself. Hagrid will understand. He always does."

Ron gave him a crooked smile, more genuine this time. "Or he'll show up at the front door with a bucket of rock cakes the size of Quaffles. Either way, you're not going to lose him."

But Harry didn't laugh.

The pressure in his chest only seemed to tighten, sharp and coiled. Everyone was looking at him again—carefully, cautiously, like he might fall apart at any moment. It wasn't comforting. It was maddening. He hated it.

"I said I'm fine," he snapped, his voice cracking out before he could stop it. It rang sharp in the room, the words slicing through the air like a hex. "But obviously none of you believe me. Brilliant. Fine. I'll just stay in bed if that makes everyone feel better, shall I?"

He folded his arms across his chest, the gesture petulant and defensive—and he knew it. He felt the childishness of it almost the moment he did it, the way the anger curled around his shame. But he couldn't take it back now. He was too furious.

Ginny's expression was unreadable, but her voice was steady. "I'm not going," she said, quietly but clearly. "I'm staying here. With you."

Harry blinked. That… he hadn't expected. He should've, perhaps. She always had this infuriating habit of standing her ground—especially when it came to him. But still, hearing it aloud landed like a stone in his chest.

"I knew you'd say that," Hermione murmured. She gave Ginny a glance full of quiet understanding, then looked back at Harry. Her voice was calm, but with that certain steel she always carried in moments like this—when she'd already made up her mind and there was no point trying to change it. "He shouldn't be left alone."

"Right," Ron muttered, stepping forward, a furrow forming deep between his brows. "Well. If you two are going to be stuck here while we're off risking our lives in the Forbidden Forest, I've got one condition."

He jabbed a finger towards Harry and Ginny, adopting a look so serious it might've been funny if Harry hadn't felt so miserable.

"I expect the pair of you to behave. And I mean it. Strictly platonic."

Harry stared at him, nonplussed. "Are you actually being serious right now?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ginny shot back, her tone bristling with offence. "You won't even be here—how exactly do you plan on enforcing that? Set up an alarm charm on the stairs?"

Ron's face turned crimson, the tips of his ears burning. He opened his mouth like he was about to argue but clearly hadn't figured out how to phrase whatever idiotic thought was trying to escape.

"Enough," Hermione said firmly, stepping between them with a glare that could have frozen boiling water. "Let's not waste time on absurdity."

Harry might've appreciated the interruption more if the knot in his chest hadn't kept tightening. He wanted to be angry at Ron for being a prat. At Hermione for stepping in like she always did. At Ginny—for staying behind, like he was some project that needed constant supervision.

But mostly, he was angry with himself. For being the reason they were all standing here in the first place.

"Let's talk about your father," Hermione said, suddenly all briskness again.

Ginny turned to Ron without waiting for approval. "We'll wait until you're back before telling him anything."

Hermione nodded. "We'll need to be careful with what we say."

Harry leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "You'll have to be smart about it. If he hears even half of what we're actually planning, he'll go spare. You know he will."

A hush settled over the room.

Hermione met his eyes, serious now. "We'll tell him some of it. Enough to keep him calm. But not everything."

Harry's mouth curled into a cold, bitter smile. "Oh, brilliant. So we're lying now. Just going to leave out the part where someone might die? That always goes down well."

Hermione's expression didn't change, but he saw the flicker of hurt behind her eyes.

"I just don't want to worry him unnecessarily," she said quietly.

Harry gave a hollow laugh. It sounded wrong in his throat—scraped and rough, like something rusted. "Right. Because waiting until he's grieving is so much more considerate. Might as well rip the plaster off, yeah?"

Ron scowled. "What is with you lately?"

Harry shrugged, but it came off more like a flinch. "Just saying. Maybe honesty's underrated round here."

Ginny moved closer, her hand reaching for his again. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He's just upset he can't visit Hagrid."

Harry pulled his hand away—not roughly, but enough to make a point. "I said I'm fine."

"You'll see Hagrid again soon," Hermione said gently. "He'll want to see you too."

But her words washed over him without sinking in. He didn't feel reassured. He didn't feel anything except that ever-present, aching wrongness. The kind that clung to his ribs and turned everything warm into something heavy.

No one spoke.

Hermione stood abruptly, smoothing the front of her jumper with a brisk swipe of her hand. "Come on, Ron."

Harry didn't watch them go. He just sat there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the patch of sunlight warming the floorboards near the window.

It glowed golden and indifferent—spilling through the curtains like nothing had changed, like the world hadn't shifted under his feet. It didn't care how badly he wanted to feel like himself again.

And in that moment, Harry didn't know whether he hated the sunlight… or envied it.

The dying embers in the fireplace glowed low and red, casting a drowsy light over the stone walls of Slughorn's quarters. Shadows danced lazily among the clutter, illuminating the eccentric chaos that only Slughorn could ever call orderly. The air hung heavy with the faintly metallic tang of recent potion-brewing, mingled with something sweet and oddly nostalgic—like candied ginger gone slightly off.

Glinting vials lined every shelf, catching the light. Dozens of portraits—some magical, some stubbornly still—crowded the walls, their subjects beaming at some long-past triumph. And in the middle of it all sat two velvet armchairs so overstuffed they looked as though they might sigh if anyone dared sit in them.

Ron wrinkled his nose and looked around warily. "You reckon he's hiding in a cauldron again?" he muttered, half serious.

Hermione gave him a withering look as she stepped further into the room. "He's probably in the storeroom—or the classroom. Your mum asked for another batch of healing potion for Harry, remember? He might still be brewing it."

"Right," Ron murmured. He didn't add that part of him had hoped for a distraction—some cheerful anecdote, or one of Slughorn's usual theatrics. Anything to delay the truth they'd come to share.

They stood there for a beat longer, neither quite ready to leave the faint warmth of the fireplace nor eager to face the cold of the castle beyond. But the moment passed, and with a reluctant exhale, they turned away from the flickering hearth and stepped into the corridor.

The chill hit immediately. The dungeons always held a damp kind of cold, but now—even with the war long over—it felt different. The corridors were quiet. Not serene, but stilled.

"It's weird," Ron said at last, voice low. "All this silence. I keep expecting Peeves to come flying past, chucking ink bottles at our heads."

Hermione gave a small, tight smile, her arms folded against the cold. "I know what you mean. It's like Hogwarts is still… waiting. Recovering."

"At least it looks normal again," Ron offered. "Mostly."

"Looks, yes," she replied. "Feels… not quite."

He gave a soft snort. "Would it ever feel normal if we weren't in the middle of some crisis? I miss the days when Snape breathing down my neck was the worst part of the week."

Hermione nudged his arm, but her smile didn't reach her eyes.

They emerged into the pale morning light, the castle doors creaking closed behind them. The sky was soft and grey, the kind of overcast that made colours seem muted. The wind smelt of damp grass and distant smoke. And down on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Hagrid's hut stood just as it always had—squat, sturdy, and comfortingly unchanged.

Fang's bark echoed across the grounds before they even reached the front steps—deep, booming, and unmistakable.

The door burst open a moment later, and there stood Hagrid, filling the entire frame with his sheer size, his wild beard fluffed by the breeze.

"Well, would yeh look who it is!" he bellowed, beaming from ear to ear. Without hesitation, he swept both of them into a hug that crushed the breath from Ron's lungs and left Hermione blinking through her hair.

"Hi, Hagrid," Hermione laughed, her voice high and warm. "It's good to see you."

"Oi! Not the face, Fang!" Ron cried, squirming as the enormous boarhound launched himself up, tongue lolling and wet nose pressed against Ron's cheek. "Hagrid, call him off—he's trying to eat me!"

"Ah, he's just saying 'hello," Hagrid said, grinning as he pulled the dog back by the collar. "Go on, then, come in! Got the kettle boilin', and I baked yesterday—don't laugh, Hermione, it didn't turn out half bad."

The familiar warmth of the hut wrapped around them the moment they stepped inside. It smelt of damp earth, smoke, and baked bread. A half-eaten pie sat on the table next to an empty tankard, and an enormous cauldron in the corner had been repurposed into a makeshift planter, with curling green vines spilling over its edges.

Hermione smiled faintly at the chaos. It was the same as ever—messy, mismatched, and full of a particular kind of comfort that only Hagrid's home could provide. Even the tray of rock-hard treacle fudge still sat in pride of place on the sideboard, untouched and quietly threatening.

They sat in their usual oversized chairs, steaming mugs in their hands, and let the familiar creak of the wooden beams and the pop of the fire fill the silence.

But under the surface, tension lingered. Not the good kind—the kind that hinted at stories about Blast-Ended Skrewts or new magical creatures—but the kind that pressed against the back of the throat, waiting for someone to be brave enough to speak.

"So," Hagrid said at last, peering over his mug, "what brings yeh here this time? Not that I'm complainin', mind—but is Harry with yeh?"

He looked so hopeful.

There was a pause—only a second or two, but it felt longer.

"Thanks for the tea," Ron said, fiddling with the edge of the chair arm. "We—we wanted to check in on you. And, er… talk."

Hermione took a deep breath. There was no sense in tiptoeing round it.

"It's about Harry."

Hagrid's face fell in an instant, his brow drawing together in concern. "What's wrong? Where is he?"

"He's not well," Hermione said gently. "He's resting at the Burrow. He's been… through a lot."

Hagrid's expression crumpled with worry. "Restin'? Yeh mean—he's ill? How bad is it?"

Ron ran a hand through his hair again, this time more out of nerves than habit. "Yeah. Really ill. He's trying to hide it, but… It's not going away."

Hagrid's great shoulders sagged as he sank into his armchair with a thud. For a moment, he didn't speak—just stared into the fire.

"I knew summat wasn't right," he muttered at last. "When he didn't come down himself… Harry'd never stay away if he could help it."

"He wanted to come," Hermione said softly. "We practically had to stop him. He hates sitting still. Hates being looked after."

"That sounds like him," Hagrid said with a faint, wistful smile. "Always runnin' off to save someone else. Even when he's the one who needs savin'."

There was a pause. Outside, the wind rustled through the trees at the edge of the forest, and Fang gave a low huff in his sleep.

"What's happened this time?"

Hagrid's voice was gruff, but it trembled faintly at the edges—like he already feared the answer.

Hermione set her mug down slowly, careful not to spill the contents, though her hands had started to shake. The warmth from the fire did little to steady her nerves. She looked at Hagrid, her brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

"It's his soul, Hagrid," she said at last, barely above a whisper. "It's—damaged."

Hagrid blinked, staring at her as though she'd just told him the moon was falling out of the sky. "Damaged?" he echoed hoarsely. "But how can a soul be damaged?"

Hermione drew in a breath and leaned forward, her voice low and careful, as if the words themselves might hurt to speak aloud.

"Do you remember the night Harry's parents were killed?" she began, her eyes never leaving Hagrid's. "The night Voldemort marked him?"

Hagrid nodded, slow and heavy. "'Course I do. Brought 'im outta the ruins meself…"

Hermione nodded gently. "That night left more than a scar, Hagrid. It bound Harry to Voldemort in a way we didn't fully understand until much later. A part of Voldemort's soul—" she swallowed, "—latched onto Harry. It lived inside him. And now… now that the war's over, and that piece is gone… it's left something behind. A wound magic can't heal."

The silence that followed was thick and unspoken. The fire gave a soft pop, casting golden sparks into the hearth. Fang, sensing the shift in the room, let out a quiet whine and laid his great head on Hagrid's knee.

Hagrid rubbed at his eyes with one massive hand, as though trying to blink back the truth. "Poor lad," he muttered eventually. "Always carryin' everyone else's burdens. Always takin' the hardest road. He doesn't deserve this. Not after everything."

Ron spoke next, his voice rough, like he'd been holding it in too long. "It's catching up with him, Hagrid. He's not—he's not well. And he's getting worse."

Hagrid turned to him, his face stricken. "Worse how?"

Ron stared down at his own fingers curled around the mug. "He forgets things. Not just names—important things. Moments. And sometimes, he—" Ron swallowed, his throat working, "—he coughs up blood. He tries to hide it, but… it's not hard to tell. He's in pain, Hagrid. All the time."

Hermione nodded, her expression drawn and pale. "We've been researching for days. Looking through every text, every curse-breaking manuscript, every theory in magical medicine. We're trying to find anything that might help repair a soul."

"An'… did yeh?" Hagrid asked, hope flickering into his voice. "Find anything?"

"We did," Hermione said slowly. "Or we think we did. It's an ancient potion—rare, difficult to brew, and dangerous if even slightly wrong. But it could work. Professor Slughorn found a surviving recipe in Dumbledore's old collections."

"All the ingredients are… tricky," Ron added.

Hagrid straightened slightly, his eyes narrowing with purpose. "What d'yeh need?"

Hermione hesitated for a beat. "A tail hair from a wild Thestral."

For a moment, Hagrid didn't speak. His brow furrowed beneath his tangled fringe. "Wild?" he repeated slowly. "Hermione, most Thestrals near Hogwarts are practically tame. Raised here, used ter people. A wild one—that's no small thing."

"We know," Ron said. "That's why we came to you. You're the only one who might know where to find one."

Hagrid scratched his beard, eyes distant. The silence stretched so long that Ron opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Hagrid nodded slowly.

"I might know a spot," he said. "North edge of the forest. There's a cliff clearing—remote, quiet. Saw one there last spring. Skittish thing. Black as pitch. They don't come 'round often. Not where people are."

"You think you could get close enough?" Hermione asked.

"I can try," he said, puffing out his chest slightly. "Takes patience with Thestrals. And trust. But if it'll help Harry—I'll do it."

Hermione exhaled, relief softening her features for the first time that day. "Thank you, Hagrid. Truly."

"I'll pack me kit tonight. Head out first light. Won't take chances—but I'll bring yeh what yeh need."

"And Hagrid," Ron said, "when you come back… he'd like to see you. He misses you."

Hagrid paused at that, his back to them, his shoulders rising and falling. "I miss 'im too," he said thickly. "Tell him I'm comin'. Tell him ol' Hagrid hasn't forgotten him."

They stayed for hours after that. He told stories—one after another—about his summer with magical creatures. How he'd rescued a baby manticore from a pack of foxes. How a rogue Puffskein had bitten his thumb. And how, most hilariously, he'd chased a Niffler cub through an entire garden full of gnomes.

"Little rascal nicked my belt buckle!" He said, laughing so hard his beard shook. "Chased him fer near on an hour—and then he went and peed on me boots as thanks!"

Hermione laughed. Even Ron grinned, despite the heaviness of everything else.

"And—oh!" Hagrid added proudly. "I'm teachin' again this year. Back to Care of Magical Creatures."

Hermione hesitated, the laughter dying quietly in her throat. "Hagrid… I'm not taking it this year."

The words seemed to hang in the air, awkward and heavy. Hagrid's face fell, his smile slowly fading. "What? But—but Hermione, yeh've always been brilliant in my class. You're one o' the best students I ever had."

"I know," she said gently. "And I loved it. But I've got too much on. I need to focus on my N.E.W.T.s."

Hagrid nodded slowly, clearly trying not to let the disappointment show, though it was written plainly across his face.

Before the silence could stretch, Ron cut in quickly, "How's Grawp? Still gardening?"

Hagrid's face lit up at once. "Grawp's brilliant! Got a cave all to himself now, near the edge of Hogsmeade. Loves it quiet, says trees are 'too shouty.' Decorates it with flowers, he does. Gave me a hug last week an' didn't even crack a rib!"

Ron laughed, Hermione joining in.

"We should visit him sometime," she said warmly.

Hagrid's eyes shone. "He'd love that. And you're always welcome. Always."

Ron and Hermione lingered just outside Hagrid's hut for a moment longer, the door now closed behind them. The warm, earthy scent of woodsmoke clung to their clothes.

Neither spoke straight away. There was nothing more to say. Hagrid's promise hung between them, solid and solemn. He would try. And that had to be enough.

Hermione's brow creased in thought. Ron glanced sideways at her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"You ready?" he asked quietly.

She met his gaze, her expression taut with worry but laced with unwavering resolve. "We haven't got time not to be."

They shared a look—part shared dread, part grim determination—and turned towards the castle. Their shoes crunched against the grass, pace quickening with purpose. The wind picked up as they crossed the grounds and slipped back into the torchlit corridors of Hogwarts.

The walk to Slughorn's office took them past familiar corners of the castle, each corridor echoing faintly with memories: hurried steps to class, laughter after curfew, near-misses, and close calls. But today, Hogwarts felt quieter. Older. As though the castle itself understood something fragile was at stake.

They stopped in front of the heavy oak door that marked the entrance to Professor Slughorn's office. Hermione raised her hand and knocked—softly, almost hesitantly. Her knuckles barely made a sound against the polished wood.

For a few seconds, there was no response. Just when Ron opened his mouth to suggest knocking again, the door swung open.

"Well, well!" came Slughorn's jovial voice, and he filled the doorway like a particularly delighted armchair come to life. "Ms Granger and Mr Weasley! What a delightful surprise!"

His eyes twinkled beneath bushy brows, and he stepped back at once, gesturing grandly into the room. "Come in, come in! Always time for two of my pupils. Unless—heavens—you're in the middle of some calamity?"

"We're all right," Hermione said quickly, stepping inside with Ron close behind. The warmth of the room greeted them, thick with the familiar scent of simmering potions—burnt sugar, wet stone, and something faintly floral.

"Actually, we've just come from Hagrid's," she continued, brushing a wisp of hair behind her ear. "We needed something from the Anima Book."

At once, Slughorn's face brightened even further, his belly giving a pleased wobble as he bustled toward a cluttered desk. "Ah! So you've cracked the riddle, have you? Knew you would, Miss Granger. Knew it. If anyone could untangle that ancient rot, it'd be you." He turned with a conspiratorial wink. "And I trust our dear half-giant is lending a hand with the more… hands-on aspects?"

Hermione nodded, allowing a small smile. "He's tracking down one of the ingredients for us."

"Marvellous, marvellous," Slughorn breathed, clearly impressed, as he picked up a tray lined with glinting glass vials. "I was just preparing these for delivery to the Burrow, in fact. A strengthening draught, a dreamless sleep tonic, and a stabiliser—I thought your young Mr Potter might need them."

Hermione's expression softened. "He will. Thank you, Professor."

Ron shifted his weight, his voice more direct. "He's hanging on. Bit of a state, to be honest. He just ate like a hippogriff this morning. But he's still got a bit of fight in him."

Slughorn chuckled, setting the vials down carefully on a silver tray. "Ah, yes—the appetite of a war hero. Nothing short of legendary, from what I've heard."

Then his tone turned slightly more serious. "Still, it's no small thing, what you're all trying. Soul magic is delicate work. Frightfully unpredictable. But if anyone can make it work… well, I'd put my galleons on the three of you."

Ron looked slightly embarrassed but gave a nod of thanks.

Slughorn brightened again. "And since you're heading that way, perhaps you'd do me the kindness of delivering these?" He gestured to the tray. "I'd planned to drop them off myself, but my knees haven't quite forgiven me."

"Of course," Hermione said, stepping forward to take the tray with both hands.

"Brilliant!" Slughorn beamed. "Do give your mother my warmest regards, Mr Weasley—and my apologies. I do hope she hasn't had a potion emergency in the last half-hour."

Ron smirked. "She'll manage. She's been brewing Pepper-Up since before I could walk."

With a hearty laugh, Slughorn turned to the fireplace, waving his wand to summon the Floo powder. "Well, my dears. Shall we?"

Ron and Hermione exchanged one final look. Then, holding the tray between them and stepping carefully into the firelight, they vanished with a whoosh.

The sounds of the Burrow drifted upwards—pots clinking gently, chairs creaking, and the occasional burst of laughter from below. Someone was chopping vegetables with rhythmic confidence, and Ginny's voice floated up now and then in quick bursts of conversation.

Harry lay curled on his side atop the narrow bed. The room was dim, save for the slant of golden afternoon light through the crooked window. He hadn't drawn the curtains. He hadn't moved much at all.

His eyes were shut, but not from sleep. Sleep had long ago abandoned him—when the pain began.

He wasn't sure what he was waiting for. Relief? Strength? Something worse?

His stomach twisted again, tighter this time, a slow sickening knot that unfurled and coiled back like something alive. His fingers curled into the threadbare blanket beneath him.

You're fine, he told himself again, the phrase circling. Just tired. Bit sore. It'll pass.

But it wasn't passing. Hadn't for days. And he was running out of ways to lie to himself, let alone everyone else.

A louder laugh came from below—Ginny's, light and easy. The kind of laugh that belonged to summer holidays, to freedom. Not to whatever this was.

She didn't know.

None of them did. He'd made sure of it—masking the worst of it behind quick smiles and half-hearted reassurances. They deserved that much. Deserved a summer free from war, from pain. From him.

The twisting in his gut surged abruptly. His breath hitched.

He stumbled to his feet before he could think, legs stiff, head spinning. The nausea came in thick waves now, and he barely reached the bathroom before the retching began.

He clung to the edge of the sink, his knuckles white, his body wracked with a force that felt like punishment. His throat burnt. His vision blurred.

Then came the coppery taste. Sharp. Metallic.

Blood.

He choked, coughing hard enough to see stars behind his eyes. He spat into the sink. Red. Too much red.

No. Please, not again…

The sound of footsteps thundered up the stairs, quick and heavy—familiar.

"Harry?"

Ron's voice was tight with concern. A knock followed, then another.

"You alright in there, mate?"

Harry tried to answer, but nothing came out. His hand slipped on the edge of the sink.

The door opened—he'd forgotten to lock it—and Ron burst in, pale and wide-eyed. For a beat, he just stood there, frozen by the sight of his best friend hunched over the basin, blood spattered across porcelain and hands trembling.

"Harry—bloody hell—what the hell's going on?"

Harry forced a breath and straightened up with effort, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He tried to summon a grin, but it came out more like a grimace.

"It's fine," he croaked, voice rough and barely audible. "Just… a stomach thing. Must've been something I ate."

Ron stepped closer, eyes darting from the sink to Harry's face. "You're throwing up blood," he said bluntly. "That's not a stomach thing, Harry. That's a serious thing."

Harry swayed slightly, catching himself on the sink. The room tilted, then stilled. His head pounded.

"Don't tell your mum," he said, almost pleading. "Please. She's got enough on her plate. I'll be fine."

Ron stared at him like he'd gone completely mad. "She should know. Everyone should. You think pretending this isn't happening is going to make it go away?"

Harry didn't respond. He couldn't meet Ron's eyes. His throat tightened, not from illness this time, but from something worse.

Shame.

"I've taken the potions. They help, for a bit," Harry murmured, voice dull. "But it always comes back. Stronger."

"So what, you're just going to suffer in silence until you keel over?" Ron snapped, exasperated. "That's the plan now?"

Harry closed his eyes. The fight was draining out of him, slipping away.

"I just didn't want to ruin things," he said softly. "It's been… good, hasn't it? Normal. You, Hermione, Ginny… everyone's smiling again. I didn't want this to be another summer of worrying about me."

Ron shook his head slowly, anger melting into something quieter. "You're part of the 'everyone,' you idiot."

Harry let out a faint breath that might've been a laugh. "Doesn't feel like it."

Another silence fell. From downstairs came the sound of Mrs Weasley's voice calling the family to lunch—cheerful, bustling, unaware.

Ron rubbed his face roughly. "Right. Fine. But if you so much as twitch at that table, I'm dosing you with whatever Slughorn sent over. No questions asked."

Harry gave a weak nod. "Deal."

Between the two of them, they managed to make it back to Harry's room so he could wash his face and change into a clean shirt. Then, with Ron hovering beside him, they descended the stairs together.

Mrs Weasley beamed the moment she saw them.

"There you are, dear! Just in time. Sit down, sit down—Hermione, pass the gravy, would you?"

Ginny turned from the stove, her face flushed from the heat, and gave Harry a soft smile that made his chest ache.

"Thought you'd slept through the whole day," she teased lightly. "You alright?"

He nodded, his throat dry. "Yeah. Just needed a bit more rest."

Hermione was already watching him carefully, eyes flicking over his face as he took his seat beside her. She didn't press—didn't need to. Her concern was quiet but clear.

"How was your nap?" she asked, her voice low and gentle.

Harry managed a half-smile. "Good," he lied. The word scraped against his tongue. "Feel a lot better."

Hermione didn't reply straightaway. She simply watched him a moment longer, her brow furrowing ever so slightly. Then, with deliberate gentleness, she passed him the bread.

Shepherd's pies steamed invitingly in the centre of the table, their buttery crusts flecked with golden brown. Bowls of roast vegetables were passed around—glazed carrots and parsnips crisped at the edges—along with a thick, creamy pea soup that sent up curling wisps of steam.

Harry sat at the table, shoulders hunched, spoon idle in his hand. He stared down at his plate, the food swimming before him. He knew it would taste good—brilliant, probably. But the scent made his stomach twist with something that was definitely not hunger.

He picked at the food, nudging the edge of his pie with the back of his fork. Conversation buzzed all around him—Hermione and Ginny were chatting about something to do with the Floo Network, Mr Weasley was muttering irritably about another baffling editorial in the Daily Prophet, and Ron was on his third helping already. But it all felt… muffled, like he was under the Invisibility Cloak again—watching, not part of it.

He could feel Ron watching him, though. Waiting.

Don't flinch. Don't wince. Don't let them see.

He tried to steel himself, tried to act like nothing was wrong, but the pain was there—constant now. Not sharp, but deep and pulsing, like something rotten had taken root in his chest and was growing heavier by the hour.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the ladle. The metal clinked against the dish, and he winced inwardly. Carefully, he served himself a small spoonful of shepherd's pie, pretending to fuss with the edges as if he were still deciding what else to have. He didn't look up. Didn't dare meet Ron's eyes.

Neither of them had brought it up again. But the silence between them now was heavy with it.

"Hagrid said he's going to come visit soon, Harry!" Hermione's voice, bright and a little too purposeful, cut through the hum of conversation.

Harry looked up, startled. "Oh," he said, and then managed a weak smile. It felt wrong on his face, like trying to grin with a mouth full of ash. "That's… that's nice."

Hagrid. Just the name brought a rush of warmth to his chest—but also something colder beneath it. Guilt. Hagrid, who'd always believed in him, even when Harry hadn't. Hagrid, who'd probably spent the morning elbow-deep in a Thestral paddock, risking Merlin-knew-what for a potion Harry hadn't even convinced himself would work.

He stirred his mashed potatoes in slow, pointless circles. The silver of his fork glinted in the lamplight. His stomach gave a faint growl in protest, but it was hollow—more memory than appetite. He raised a forkful of pie to his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Pretended.

Just keep eating. Keep smiling. Don't ruin this.

Across the table, Mr Weasley cleared his throat.

"Did I hear correctly—you two went to Hogwarts earlier today?"

Harry's hand stilled.

"Yes, Mr Weasley," Hermione answered quickly, a little too quickly. "Sorry we didn't mention it before. It was… urgent."

At the stove, Mrs Weasley paused mid-stir, turning to glance back at them with her usual warm smile dimmed slightly by concern.

"Urgent?" she echoed, setting her spoon aside. "Is everything all right?"

Hermione took a breath, then plunged on. "We think we've found something. A potion—one that might help Harry. It's… experimental, but it could help repair some of the damage. To his soul."

The room went still.

Mrs Weasley clutched the edge of the counter, her expression shifting from concern to something closer to hope. "Oh, Harry… That's—well, that's wonderful."

Harry didn't respond. His grip tightened on his fork. Hope felt dangerous now—too easily broken, too easily mistaken for something it wasn't. How many times had they thought they'd found answers? How many times had they been wrong?

Mr Weasley leaned forward, interest flickering in his eyes. "What sort of potion is it? Do you know the ingredients?"

Hermione was picking nervously at the tablecloth now. "We have the recipe. It's a list of rare ingredients, some of them quite… unusual."

Everyone was watching her now. Ron had gone still. Ginny, who'd hardly touched her food, was staring at her plate, fork suspended mid-air.

"That's why we went to see Hagrid," Hermione said. "We needed to ask him about one of them. Something… hard to get."

"What sort of something?" asked Mrs Weasley gently, still holding the spatula like she'd forgotten she was cooking.

Hermione's voice dropped a little. "A Thestral's tail hair."

There was a moment's silence, just long enough for the ticking clock on the wall to seem suddenly very loud.

Mr Weasley raised his eyebrows. "Not something you hear every day," he said, though his voice held more curiosity than concern. "That's actually in the book?"

Hermione nodded. "It is. And Hagrid… well, he knows where to find it."

Harry kept his face as still as he could manage, forcing his features into an expression of calm neutrality, but his hands had gone cold. Clammy, almost. He hated this—hated sitting at the table while plans were made forhim, while people around him offered pieces of themselves, risking things on his behalf.

A fresh wave of nausea curled in his gut, though he couldn't tell if it was from the food or from the guilt twisting somewhere deeper. The shepherd's pie on his plate was untouched, a little mound of it sliding sideways as he pressed his fork against it without really thinking.

"What else?" Mr Weasley asked, his voice gentle but firm. "What other ingredients do you need?"

Hermione didn't answer straightaway.

Harry didn't look at her. He could feel the tension radiating off her like heat from a stove. The pause dragged just long enough for the silence to settle, taut and expectant. Even Ron, who had been halfway to stabbing a roast potato, had gone still beside him. Ginny, just across the table, was breathing a little too fast, her knuckles white where she gripped her fork.

Hermione's voice, when it came, was soft and brittle. "One of the things… it has to come from you, Mr Weasley."

There was a pause. Mr Weasley blinked, surprised. "From me?" he repeated, brow furrowed. "What could you possibly need from me?"

Harry's chest felt tight—too tight. He didn't want to look up, didn't want to see the confusion etched into Mr Weasley's kind face. Hermione's hands were clasped tightly in her lap, white at the knuckles. Her voice came again, thinner this time.

"Are you familiar with the Veil in the Department of Mysteries?"

And there it was.

Harry felt his whole body go still. The word—Veil—echoed through him. For a moment, all he could see was that shadowy archway, tattered with whispering curtains, and Sirius's figure vanishing behind it, swallowed whole by silence and stone.

Mr Weasley's face grew grim. "The Veil?" he said, sitting up straighter. "Yes, of course I am. Why?"

Hermione drew in a steadying breath. "We need a piece of the archway," she said, each word careful and deliberate. "The stone it's made from."

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Harry glanced up, just for a second. Mr Weasley's eyes had darkened with concern, his expression now thoughtful but wary. The same look he'd worn when Harry had first told him about Voldemort's return.

"That place is restricted," Mr Weasley said slowly. "Even I don't have clearance to walk in and take something. It's guarded day and night."

"Do you think the minister might grant you permission?" Ginny asked quietly, the words barely above a whisper.

Her voice cut through the tension. Harry looked at her. Her brown eyes were bright, searching her father's face not with pleading, but with conviction.

Mr Weasley hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Kingsley's a fair man. If I explain what this is for—if I tell him what's at stake—I think he'd listen."

Something stirred in Harry then. Not hope, exactly—he didn't trust hope anymore—but a quiet, flickering absence of despair. As if someone had cracked a window open after weeks of stale air.

"That's all we need," Hermione said gently. "Just the two things."

Mr Weasley gave a short, contemplative nod. "Then I'll speak to him first thing tomorrow."

A silence settled, thicker now. Mrs Weasley moved again at the stove, but her motions were slower, more hesitant.

Harry lowered his gaze back to his plate. The food hadn't moved. Neither had his appetite.

His hand, curled around the fork, gave a tiny tremor. He shoved it beneath the table, hiding the shake in the folds of the tablecloth. Just another bite. Pretend to eat. Pretend to be fine.

Cutlery clinked against plates, subdued. The conversation didn't resume. There was too much unspoken tension lingering between every word.

Mr Weasley set his fork down at last. His brow was still creased, his eyes fixed on Hermione again.

"What do you intend to do with the stone?" he asked, his voice low but carrying. "How does it help Harry?"

Harry's chest constricted. The question was a fair one—reasonable, even. But hearing it aloud felt like being called out. Like being exposed.

They want to understand it, and you barely do yourself. This whole plan—they were chasing shadows. Relying on translated scraps of ancient magic and potion recipes buried in books no one had touched in centuries. What if it's nothing? What if it's worse than nothing?

Hermione didn't answer right away. Her forehead was shiny with sweat, and her fingers twisted a napkin in her lap until it tore slightly at the edge.

"We… we brew a potion with it," she said at last. "The stone, combined with the Thestral hair and the other reagents—it forms a kind of restorative draught. One meant for… for fractured souls."

Harry finally looked at her. She was pale beneath the lamplight, her eyes dark and anxious but unwavering. He could tell she was holding something back—something she hadn't said yet. She hated that. Hated secrets. But this one, it seemed, she had chosen to carry for him.

Mr Weasley leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against the table. "Well," he said, attempting lightness, "I do hope it tastes better than it sounds. Tail hair and magic stone don't exactly whet the appetite."

A few chuckles rippled around the table, hollow and forced. Even Ron gave a weak smile. Mrs Weasley let out a small, polite laugh as she ladled soup into Ginny's bowl.

Harry managed a tight smile of his own. It didn't reach his eyes.

The thought of the potion—of what it was meant to fix—made his stomach churn all over again.

He didn't even know if this potion would work. And if it didn't—

Hermione's expression had gone distant. She was staring at her plate, her food barely touched. The light in her eyes had dimmed beneath the strain of everything they hadn't said out loud.

Harry swallowed hard, pushing down the gnawing ache in his gut.

Later that afternoon, the house had fallen quiet in the way it only ever did when exhaustion outpaced even worry. Upstairs, doors clicked shut, voices dimmed to murmurs, and the Burrow settled into its usual rhythm of sighs and creaking floorboards. Harry made his way down the narrow staircase with slow, careful steps.

He sank into the armchair near the hearth, the one with the threadbare arms and the slightly sagging cushion.

He leaned back into the chair and let his eyes drift over the mantle, over the family photographs that watched silently from their frames. Fred's grinning face winked out and then back again from one of them.

Harry closed his eyes.

He was supposed to feel hopeful. Wasn't that the point of all this? Of the Anima's potion, of the trip to Hagrid, of Hermione's research, and of Ron and Ginny's unspoken loyalties? A second chance. A cure. A fix.

But it didn't feel like hope.

It felt like being caught in a current he hadn't chosen. Like the world was moving forward with plans made in his name, and he was being carried along with no real say in any of it. He knew they meant well, and he wanted to believe. But wanting and believing were two very different things, and belief didn't come easily anymore.

Not when the thing inside him didn't feel broken so much as absent. Not a wound, not something cracked and waiting to be mended. Just… gone. A hollow place he couldn't reach, and didn't want anyone else to try.

He hadn't realised how tightly he was gripping the armrest until his knuckles ached.

The floor creaked behind him—softly, deliberately.

Hermione appeared beside him without a word, her footsteps quiet on the worn carpet. She folded herself into the seat next to his, tucking one leg underneath her and pulling a knitted throw over her knees. For a while, she said nothing.

That was one of the things Harry had always admired about her. She knew when silence meant more than words.

Still, when he spoke, it was without thinking, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

"You really know how to work a room, Hermione," he muttered, glancing sideways at her. "That whole 'let's feed Harry a potion made from ancient stone and magical horse hair' bit? Truly inspiring."

She shot him a look, though there was no real heat in it—just a slight pinkness rising to her cheeks. "Shut up, Harry," she said, folding her arms. "You try explaining something like that to someone's father. I was terrified."

He raised an eyebrow. "Didn't look like it."

"Well, I was. And for the record, you weren't exactly leaping to my defence."

"I was busy trying to survive lunch. You know I'm delicate."

She rolled her eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Right. Delicate. The same bloke who walked into the Forbidden Forest ready to die but can't handle a shepherd's pie."

He shrugged, letting the smile tug at his lips too. "Death Eaters were easier. At least they didn't expect me to talk about feelings or swallow weird potions."

Hermione laughed—softly, but Harry caught the slight tremble in it. Like her laughter had to push past something heavy before it reached the surface.

Silence stretched between them again, but it was the comfortable sort, the kind that had grown between them over the years—quiet, resilient, familiar. Hermione picked at a loose thread on the cushion, her fingers moving absently.

Harry's gaze drifted back to the mantel.

Then, almost without realising he was speaking, he said, "Does the book say anything about needing three people? For the ritual or potion or whatever it is?" He hesitated. "Or can one person… do it alone?"

Hermione froze, just for a second. Then she blinked, the question clearly catching her off guard. "I—I don't know," she admitted, twisting the thread a little tighter between her fingers. "We haven't finished translating the last section. Some of it's in runic spell-latin, and honestly, it's a bit of a nightmare." She gave a sheepish smile. "But Ron, Ginny, and I talked about it. We're going to help. No matter what the book says."

She looked up then, her expression cautious. "Are you… upset we made that decision without asking you first?"

Harry frowned. Not in anger—more in confusion. "No. I just…" He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to put the words together in a way that didn't sound ungrateful. "I don't understand why you'd all risk yourselves for me."

Hermione's brow creased. "Why not?"

"Because it's me," he said. The words came out sharper than he meant them to. "Because every time someone tries to save me, they get hurt. Or worse. Because I'm the one who messed this up in the first place—I let Voldemort inside me, let my soul be damaged—"

"That wasn't your fault," she interrupted quickly, her voice fierce in a way that only Hermione could make sound both angry and protective.

He shook his head. "Maybe not. But it still happened. And now you're all willing to risk yourselves again just to… what? Patch me up so I can go back to pretending I'm okay?"

"No one's asking you to pretend, Harry," she said quietly.

"I've been living like this for so long, Hermione…" Harry said. "Like I've been on borrowed time since the night my parents died."

He wasn't looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the hearth, unfocused, but the weight in his words had settled heavily in the space between them.

"I thought… after the war, after Voldemort… maybe that would be it. Maybe it would stop." He paused, jaw tightening. "The pain. The guilt. The feeling that one wrong step and everything would fall apart again."

A silence hung in the air, thick and oppressive, until he let out a long, shaky breath.

"But it didn't stop. It just changed. It's like I've swapped one kind of hurt for another. And the worst part is—I think I've gotten used to it."

His voice cracked slightly on the last word, and he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, willing the sting of tears to pass.

"I'm tired," he said, more softly now. "Tired of pretending I'm fine. Tired of smiling when it's easier to stay quiet. Tired of hoping that it'll get better, only to wake up every day feeling like I'm still not meant to be here."

His throat felt tight, like something was clawing its way up from his chest. He swallowed it down hard.

"Sometimes I wonder if the mistake was surviving. If maybe I wasn't meant to." He gave a bitter sort of laugh, hollow and small. "Everyone keeps saying how lucky I am. But maybe I was better off dead."

He didn't dare look at Hermione, but he felt her move.

Her hand found his—warm, certain—and wrapped around it with quiet strength. She didn't squeeze, didn't try to force comfort on him. She just held it, solid and steady, as if to say, I'm still here.

"I see you, Harry," she said after a moment. Her voice was quiet, but there was steel behind it. "Even when you're hiding. Even when you don't want to be seen."

He closed his eyes. The weight of her words pressed somewhere deep inside his chest.

"I know you're tired," she continued gently. "But I also know you. You never stop fighting. Even when it's silent, even when no one's watching—you keep going. That matters. It means something."

He wanted to believe that. Merlin, he wanted to believe it. But the belief itself felt just out of reach—like remembering a dream that faded the second you opened your eyes.

Hermione hesitated beside him. He heard it in the soft intake of breath, the shift of her weight.

"And…" she said, her voice trailing off.

He turned his head slightly. "And what?"

Her expression, when he finally looked at her, wasn't pitying. It wasn't forced or falsely cheerful. It was something deeper—soft with hope, but firm with certainty.

"I still want to see you and Ginny get married," she said matter-of-factly. "I want to see you in a ridiculous suit and Ginny rolling her eyes while pretending not to cry. I want to see you stumble through your vows and kiss her like it's the only thing keeping you upright."

Harry blinked at her, stunned by the sudden shift. His stomach flipped, and not unpleasantly. "What are you—why are you saying that now?"

"Because," she said, her hand still in his, "you keep talking like you don't have a future. But you do. You can. You could have a family, Harry. You could be a father. A good one. I think you'd be—" she paused, smiling faintly—"an incredible dad."

His heart gave a strange lurch. That word—father—hit him harder than he expected. It conjured flashes of warmth and grief, of baby blankets and broomsticks, of a shadow he barely remembered but carried with him always.

"I don't know how to be that," he murmured.

"No one does, not at first," Hermione said. "But you've got love, Harry. More than most. You've got Ginny and Ron and me. You've got you—and that's more than enough to start with."

He didn't reply straight away. The thought of a future—of peace, of children, of laughter that didn't end in silence—felt like something from someone else's life. Something imagined, like those happy memories people clung to in the Pensieve.

But somewhere, in some quiet corner of himself, something flickered. Not hope. Not quite. But maybe the memory of what it felt like to have hope.

"I'll try," he said at last, his voice low. "That's all I've got in me. I can't promise anything more than that."

Hermione nodded once. "That's enough."

She stood slowly, brushing her skirt smooth, her hand lingering against his shoulder for a moment before pulling away.

"I'll let you rest," she said softly. "You looked half-dead before I even sat down. Still do, if I'm honest."

Harry gave a faint snort. "Charming."

She turned to go, then hesitated in the doorway.

"I'll be upstairs if you need anything," she added, casting one last glance over her shoulder.

He watched her leave, her footsteps fading into the floor above. The silence returned—heavy, familiar—but somehow, it didn't press in quite as hard.

He leaned back into the armchair again, exhaling slowly. His body still ached in that dull, background way he was used to. The pain was nothing new. But it didn't feel quite so sharp now. Not so isolating.