The summer sun spilled over the grounds of Hogwarts like golden treacle—slow, warm, and far too gentle for how Harry Potter felt inside. The towers of the castle were bathed in soft amber, and the Black Lake shimmered under the light, perfectly still, mirroring a sky too blue to be true.
It should've felt peaceful. Healing, even. A balm to everything that had come before.
But it didn't.
Not for him.
Harry stood at the lake's edge, trainers half-sunk into the soft grass, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The breeze ruffled his hair—light, warm, the sort that should've felt comforting. He barely noticed it. Couldn't enjoy it. There was a weight in his chest again, a tight, dull pressure that never really left. It was like an echo of something that had happened long ago—but not long enough.
The sort of feeling that turned up without warning and wouldn't let go.
He breathed in deeply. The scent of wildflowers, sun-warmed grass, and lake water filled his nose—so vivid, so alive, it almost made his stomach turn. The world had no business being so beautiful when he felt like this. It was like listening to a lullaby in the middle of a battlefield.
His eyes swept over the grounds. Students lounged in the sun, laughing loudly, tossing enchanted frisbees that whirred through the air in loops and spirals. Someone had conjured a small bonfire and was roasting marshmallows, giggling as the flames danced. Hagrid's hut stood where it always had, smoke curling lazily from the crooked chimney.
It all looked so bloody normal.
Harry didn't feel normal.
He didn't know what he felt, to be honest. Empty, maybe. Or too full of something he couldn't put a name to. Like there was a storm bottled up inside him, pressing at the seams. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The ache in his chest pulsed—quiet now, but steady.
They were all just moving on, weren't they? Laughing, smiling, acting like it was all over. And maybe for them, it was. The war, the fear, the losses—they'd packed it all away as though it belonged in the past. Meanwhile, he felt like he was still living it in real time.
"Harry!"
The voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back. He turned.
Ginny was walking towards him across the grass, her hair catching the sunlight like it had been kissed by fire. For a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—the ache in his chest wavered. She had that effect on him sometimes. Like a lantern flickering in the fog.
But then she got closer, and he saw her expression change. The smile on her lips softened, faltered. She'd noticed. She always did.
"Hey," she said gently, voice low, concerned. "You alright?"
Harry forced a smile, the kind that felt like stretching a face that didn't belong to him. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just… taking it all in."
Ginny tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing in that way she had when she knew he was lying. "You've been 'taking it all in' for ages now. Not really your style, is it? You standing still this long."
He gave a weak chuckle—more breath than laugh. "Yeah, well. Thought I'd give it a go."
She came to stand beside him, her arm brushing his. She didn't say anything at first, just looked out across the lake with him. That should've helped. Her presence usually did. But the heaviness didn't lift. If anything, it only made him feel it more.
"You don't have to pretend, you know," she said, voice soft.
He didn't answer straight away. He wasn't sure where to begin. He'd spent so long carrying things on his own it felt weird to hand any of it over—even to her.
"I'm just knackered," he mumbled. "That's all."
Ginny didn't buy it. Of course she didn't. She stayed quiet, waiting. She was good at that—being patient without pushing.
His gaze drifted across the crowds again. "They're all laughing. Celebrating. Like it's all done and dusted now. The war. Voldemort. Everything."
He didn't realise he was clenching his jaw until he felt the tension in it.
"I thought I'd feel… something different, now that it's over. Relief, maybe. Or peace. But instead it's like—I dunno—like I'm still stuck somewhere the rest of them walked away from."
Ginny glanced at him, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's not over for you, is it?"
Harry shook his head. "I don't know how to stop feeling like I'm waiting for the next fight. Or the next thing to go wrong."
A silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable. Harry stared at the lake again, watching the way it caught the light. It looked too perfect. Too still.
"I don't want to drag you into this," he muttered. "You've had enough on your plate."
Ginny reached out, gently slipping her hand into his. "Don't talk rubbish. You're not dragging me anywhere. I'm already here, yeah? Right beside you."
He looked down at their joined hands. Her fingers were warm, firm. Real. Somehow that grounded him more than anything else had all day.
"I saw you flinch yesterday," she said quietly. "At dinner. When someone dropped a glass."
Harry's stomach sank.
He swallowed. "Didn't think anyone clocked that."
"I did," she said simply.
Of course she did.
"You're not sleeping much either," she added. "Don't bother lying—I've seen the bags under your eyes. You're starting to give Snape a run for his money."
Harry huffed out a soft laugh, despite himself. "Poor Snape," he muttered. "Even dead, we're still taking the mickey out of his skincare."
Ginny cracked a small grin but then sobered. "Harry… Is something going on? Something you haven't told me?"
He hesitated. The words rose to his lips, but guilt kept sealing them shut. He didn't want her to worry. She'd already worried enough. And what if it was nothing? What if he was just being… paranoid?
"I'm alright," he repeated, quieter this time. "Just… feels like everyone else has moved on. And I'm…"
"You're what?" she asked gently.
He looked down at his trainers. They were scuffed and muddy, still the same pair he'd worn in the battle. He hadn't replaced them. Hadn't replaced much of anything.
"Stuck," he whispered. "Feels like I'm stuck in all of it. Like I'm still waiting for something bad to kick off again."
Ginny didn't say anything at first. Then she reached for his hand. Her fingers slid into his, warm and steady, and just like that—he wasn't floating anymore. She anchored him, as she always did, without fanfare or speeches or magic.
"You don't have to go through this on your own, you know," she said, her voice low. "You never did."
"I know," he said, meaning it more than he could put into words. "But I think… I forgot what that feels like."
Ginny squeezed his hand. "Then I'll remind you. Every sodding day, if I have to."
He blinked, his throat suddenly tight. "That sounds exhausting."
She smirked. "Good thing I'm stubborn, eh?"
The raw edge in Ginny's voice hit him harder than he expected. It wasn't just what she said—it was how she said it. Like she meant every word with her whole heart. Like it wasn't just a sentence but a lifeline. A reminder that he wasn't drifting on his own in the dark.
For a second, he couldn't breathe.
The ache in his chest pulsed like a bruise being pressed too hard. He tried to shut it out—closed his eyes, tried to listen to the soft lapping of the lake nearby—but even that comfort seemed far away, muffled under the weight pressing down on him. He wanted to yell. Break something. Cry. Anything to get it out.
But he didn't. He clenched his jaw until it ached.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice came again, softer now. Like a gentle tide. "I'm here."
He turned, slowly, like moving through water. Her eyes met his—warm and steady and completely open. She saw him, really saw him, and somehow that made it both easier and harder to breathe.
He let out a breath, long and tired, like the wind had finally given up on holding up the sails. "I just…"
He stopped. The breeze ruffled his hair, and for one strange, fleeting second, he felt like maybe it could blow the pain right off him. But no. It stayed.
He tried again.
"I just… sometimes, it still hurts." His voice was quiet, almost apologetic. "Like I've lost something. Or someone. Even though we won."
He let out a soft, broken laugh. "I thought things would feel different after. Like I'd be alright once it was all over. But I'm not. Not really."
Ginny didn't say anything right away. She didn't try to fix it or rush to respond. She just stayed there, letting the silence stretch without making it feel heavy.
Then, gently: "Of course it hurts. You've lost people, Harry. People you loved. You've been through more than anyone should have to."
Her words were kind, but they cut straight through him, peeling back layers he hadn't realised he'd still been holding together with sheer will.
But he wasn't talking about that kind of hurt, and he just let it go for the sake of not arguing with her.
"I know," he murmured. "I just… I keep thinking it'll go away. That I'll wake up and feel normal again."
Ginny tilted her head, her expression soft. "I don't think there's a going back to normal, not after all that. But that doesn't mean there won't be good days. Or laughter. Or… peace."
Harry swallowed. His throat felt thick. "I think I'm scared," he said finally. "And not just of the past. I'm scared that this… whatever this is… isn't going away. That I'm stuck with it. And that I'll drag all of you down with me."
"You're not dragging us anywhere," Ginny said, firm now, but still gentle. She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his. "You've always been the one carrying us. Let someone carry you for once."
He blinked, caught off guard by how much he needed to hear that. Part of him had been afraid—really afraid—that if he showed how broken he still felt, everyone would just… back off. But Ginny hadn't. She was moving closer.
"Is it selfish that I just want things to be alright?" he asked, his voice low. "That I want to laugh and not feel guilty? To have a normal day without thinking about everything we've lost?"
Ginny reached up, her hand resting lightly on his cheek. "That's not selfish, Harry. That's just being human."
He tried to smile, and it came out wobbly. "Sometimes I forget how to do that."
"Well," she said with a little smirk, "lucky for you, I'm an expert at being human. Stick with me—I'll show you the ropes."
That earned a small laugh—quiet but real. He leaned into her touch without thinking, grounding himself in her warmth.
"I've missed this," he said. "Just… you. Talking to me like I'm still me."
"You are still you," she said gently. "Just a bit dented. Like a well-loved cauldron."
He snorted. "That's romantic."
She grinned. "You're welcome."
He didn't mean to cry. Not really. But something inside cracked open then—quietly, like a door finally creaking on old hinges—and the tears came, soft and steady. Ginny said nothing. She just pulled him into her arms, and he let her.
"It's alright," she whispered, her breath brushing against his ear. "Just let it out."
The sun warmed his back, the wind kissed his face, and for the first time in days—maybe weeks—Harry felt the sharp edges inside him begin to soften.
She pulled back just enough to press her forehead to his, her eyes shining with unshed tears of her own.
"You're not on your own, Harry. You never were."
He leaned in before he could overthink it and kissed her softly, gently. It wasn't about passion or fire. It was about breathing again. About reminding himself he was alive. And that she was, too.
When they pulled apart, the air felt a little lighter. The pain was still there but quieter somehow. Less jagged.
"Cheers," he murmured.
"Anytime," Ginny said, giving his hand a small squeeze. "Though I do accept payment in the form of Chocolate Frogs."
Harry smiled—really smiled this time—and sat beside her on the grass, their hands still intertwined. The Black Lake shimmered before them, calm and quiet, like the world was finally giving them room to breathe.
He didn't know what came next.
But for now, for this moment, he was alright.
The halls of Hogwarts were cold and empty, echoing with the sounds of Harry's own footsteps. He kept to the shadows, moving quickly, barely daring to breathe whenever he passed a hallway where a staff member might be patrolling. His heart hammered in his chest—not from fear of being caught, but from something else. The same terrible urgency that had pulled him out of bed.
It wasn't long before he reached the dungeons.
Each step felt heavier now, not from exhaustion but from the weight of not knowing. Of needing to know. Of fearing what the answers might be.
When he finally reached the door, he didn't hesitate. He knocked—three firm raps—and waited, barely breathing.
Moments later, the door creaked open.
Professor Horace Slughorn stood there, blinking blearily in the candlelight. His bald head shone with a sheen of sleep, and his thick silver moustache twitched as he recognised his visitor.
"Harry, m'boy!" Slughorn boomed, his face lighting up with bleary surprise. "What an unexpected treat—at this hour, no less!"
Harry offered a faint smile. "Sorry to wake you, Professor."
"Oh, poppycock!" Slughorn exclaimed, waving a plump hand airily as he stepped aside. "Come in, come in—you're always welcome in my little sanctuary."
Harry stepped inside. The warmth of the room wrapped around him like a thick blanket. It smelt like old books and something sweet—probably crystallised pineapple. The fire was still crackling, casting a soft amber light across the armchairs and the cluttered desk strewn with parchment and potion vials.
Unwelcome memories stirred—Ron lying pale and limp on the floor, the poisoned mead, the panic. That night felt like it belonged to another life. And yet, it all came rushing back with the smell of this room.
"Sit yourself down, my dear boy," Slughorn said cheerfully, already bustling towards a side table. "Fortunate timing—I've just brewed some butterbeer. You'll have a glass, won't you? Or perhaps something stronger? No? Butterbeer it is."
Harry nodded, though his stomach was far too tight for anything. Still, he sank into the nearest chair, gripping the armrest to steady himself.
Slughorn poured the drinks with an easy flourish and handed Harry a brimming goblet. The butterbeer was warm, familiar—but Harry barely noticed the taste.
"So," Slughorn said, lowering himself into the opposite chair with a small grunt, his cup wobbling slightly in his hand. "What brings you to my door at this most curious hour, hmm? A touch of insomnia? Or perhaps you've come to recruit me on some new Gryffindor adventure?"
Harry didn't answer straight away. He stared into his glass, watching the froth settle.
Do I tell him? Haven't I asked enough already? He gave me the memory. I should leave it.
But the part of him that had dragged him here in the first place wouldn't let it go.
"Professor," Harry began carefully, "I was wondering… would you be willing to talk to me about Horcruxes again?"
He looked up—and immediately regretted it.
Slughorn choked on his butterbeer, spluttering and dabbing furiously at his moustache with a monogrammed handkerchief. His eyes bulged in alarm.
"Horcruxes?" he repeated, his voice suddenly lower, less buoyant. "Harry, my dear boy—why in Merlin's name are you asking about them now?"
Harry blinked. That wasn't anger. That wasn't panic. It was something else.
Is he… worried about me?
And somehow, that made it worse.
He looked down quickly, his grip tightening on the goblet. "I've just been thinking about it," he muttered. "Can't seem to get it out of my head."
Slughorn didn't reply at once. He studied Harry, his small, shrewd eyes narrowing—not suspiciously, but with the careful attention of someone trying to peel back a layer.
Harry hated how seen it made him feel.
"That's a rather peculiar question to ask, Harry," Slughorn said slowly, his voice dropping an octave, rich and deliberate now. "You're not asking for… any particular reason, are you?"
Harry froze. The question hit harder than he'd expected. He looked away, his thoughts spinning wildly. He hadn't planned out exactly how this would go—just that it needed to happen.
The silence stretched, pressing in on him as panic began to bubble in his chest.
Slughorn leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting from genial curiosity to something a touch more guarded. "What is it, exactly, you're trying to understand, my dear boy?" His voice remained mild, but there was an edge there now.
Harry's hands curled into fists inside his pockets. His palms were slick with sweat. His heartbeat thudded so loudly in his ears that he was certain Slughorn must hear it too.
"You said…" Harry forced the words out, his throat tight. "You said Horcruxes hold a piece of someone's soul. Right?"
"Yes," Slughorn said carefully, his jovial twinkle gone. His features had settled into something grave. "I did. But Harry, that's very dark magic—dreadful stuff. Horrifying. Unnatural. Not the sort of thing one ought to dwell on."
Harry swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. "What happens if that Horcrux… ends up inside a person?" he asked, barely managing to keep his voice steady. "Not an object. A living person. And later, it gets destroyed—what happens to that person's soul? Does it stay whole? Or does it… break apart too?"
Slughorn froze, the colour draining slightly from his face. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he said nothing.
Harry could feel the weight of it—he'd asked something dangerous. Something perhaps no one had dared to ask before. But he couldn't stop now.
"Well…" Slughorn began, shifting uneasily in his chair. "I've… never encountered such a situation. Typically, a Horcrux is hidden in an object—something inanimate, you see. Something that cannot bleed or feel or age. But a person? That would be… a terrible mistake. A living body, a human soul—neither would tolerate it well. It would… it would wither."
Harry's stomach lurched. His skin prickled cold.
"But what if it wasn't on purpose?" he pressed, his voice trembling now despite his best efforts. "What if it just… happened? By accident. Like the soul fragment had nowhere else to go and it… latched onto someone?"
Slughorn looked genuinely horrified. His plump hands gripped the armrests, knuckles pale.
"Intent makes no difference, I'm afraid," he said, his voice low, and all trace of bluster gone now. "Once a soul is split and a fragment attaches itself to another living soul… well, it contaminates what it touches. The soul it binds to becomes… damaged. Marked. And when the Horcrux is destroyed… any part of the soul tangled up with it—that part is lost as well."
"That damage…" Slughorn's moustache twitched. "It doesn't go away."
Harry's breath came shallow, like the room had shrunk around him.
"So if the Horcrux is destroyed…" His voice cracked. "The person dies too?"
Slughorn gave a small, sorrowful nod. "Yes. Not necessarily in body, but in soul. It would be… a kind of death. A spiritual decay. A death of… of the self."
A chill swept through Harry, settling deep in his chest. The silence wrapped tighter around them.
Desperation clawed its way up his throat. "But is there a way to fix it?" he asked quickly, leaning forward. "To heal a damaged soul? If someone didn't ask for it—if they never wanted it—can't they be saved?"
Slughorn watched him for a long, heavy moment. Pity clouded his face now, but there was something else too—a quiet regret, as though he wished he had a better answer to offer.
"I… I simply don't know, Harry," he said at last, his voice gentler now. "Dumbledore—he always believed there might be a way. He had hope when most would not have even dared to wonder. But if such a thing exists… well, it's never been written, never been proven. Those who create Horcruxes aren't interested in healing, you see. Only in power. And power seldom leaves room for… redemption."
Harry's mind reeled. If even Dumbledore didn't know the answer—what chance did he have?
"Professor…" Harry's voice was barely more than a whisper. "How long could someone live like that?"
Slughorn let out a long, unsteady breath. "It would vary, I imagine. Depends on the strength of the soul carrying the burden. But over time…" He hesitated, his eyes darkening. "It would be agony, Harry. The mind… the emotions… even the magic. All of it might start to fray. A slow, cruel deterioration. And some… some might not even realise it's happening until it's far too late."
Harry could feel his hands trembling. His chest tightened, as though invisible ropes were cinching round his lungs.
He wasn't asking just for the sake of the war. He wasn't merely trying to understand Voldemort's magic.
He was asking about himself.
Slughorn was watching him now, brow furrowed, his concern plain. "Harry? Are you quite alright?"
Harry tried to nod, but his body wouldn't cooperate. He could feel the blood draining from his face.
"I'm fine," he muttered, but the words rang hollow. His vision swam.
"Harry, really—are you—?"
"I need to go."
It came out sharper than he meant, almost a gasp. His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he shoved it back and stood up too quickly, his heart hammering so violently it hurt.
He didn't wait for permission. He turned on his heel and left at once, Slughorn's worried voice chasing faintly after him as he disappeared down the corridor.
The moment Harry stepped into the chill of the dungeon hallway, the cold hit him like a punch to the ribs. His legs wobbled beneath him. He barely made it to the nearest bathroom before the nausea overtook him. His whole body shook with violent shudders as he stumbled into a stall, clutching the sides to stay upright. His knees gave out and he collapsed onto the floor, the icy tiles biting through his clothes.
He doubled over and retched again and again, until there was nothing left but dry heaving and rasping breaths.
His forehead sagged against the cold wall, slick with sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut. The world tilted around him, spinning, spinning. His limbs were too heavy to move, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs as though it was trying to break free.
Get up, he told himself fiercely. Get it together. You can't let anyone see you like this. Not like this.
But it was so hard. His body wouldn't listen. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. His head throbbed. It felt like he was falling to pieces, bit by bit, and no one even knew.
He stayed there a long while, letting the cold wall hold him up, almost wishing it would swallow him whole.
At last, gripping the wall for support, Harry forced himself to his feet. His legs trembled beneath him, and the world gave a sickening lurch, but somehow, he managed to stagger out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his robe.
He made his way back to Gryffindor Tower in a daze. The castle corridors stretched before him, endless and dim. Each step dragged heavier than the last. His thoughts were a tangled mess, his mind spinning in half-formed fragments.
All he could feel was the hollow ache in his chest, the prickling pressure behind his eyes, the thick lump wedged in his throat.
When he finally reached the dormitory, he didn't bother to take off his shoes. He collapsed onto his bed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The curtains hung around his four-poster like heavy walls, but they didn't shut out the ache.
The tears came quickly—too quickly to stop. He buried his face in the pillow, trying to smother the sound of his sobs. His chest ached from holding it in for too long.
Why does it still feel like I'm fighting? He thought bitterly. Why can't I just… be alright now?
He'd thought it would be over. That once the Horcruxes were gone, once Voldemort was gone, he'd finally be free.
But the quiet was worse than the fighting. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was suffocating.
His heart felt like it was crumbling under the weight of it all. Dumbledore. Fred. Remus. Tonks. So many others. Their faces flickered behind his eyes, and guilt gnawed at him like a parasite.
He didn't know who he was anymore. The war had stripped him bare, left him hollow. He was meant to be a hero, wasn't he? The Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived.
But lying there now, clutching at the sheets, sobbing into his pillow, Harry didn't feel like a hero. He just felt… exhausted. Threadbare. Alone.
He didn't know how to go forward from here.
He didn't know if he could.
The morning sun streamed through the tall, arched windows of the Gryffindor dormitory, slanting across the stone floor in soft, golden stripes.
Harry sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the sad little pile of clothes he'd managed to shove together and call "packing." He hadn't even folded them properly. Somehow, that made his chest feel heavier, not lighter. The whole day felt strange—too quiet, too final.
This was it. The last day.
He scratched the back of his neck, a familiar, uncomfortable twist curling in his stomach. Slughorn's words from last night still lingered, stubborn as ever.
Harry sighed and glanced towards the bed next to his—Ron's bed. Empty, rumpled, and scattered with biscuit crumbs. Normally, Ron would still be snoring loud enough to rattle the windows, but the silence now made the room feel colder.
Before Harry could sink too far into his own head—
BANG!
The door slammed open and Ron barrelled in like a hurricane, all flailing limbs and half-tied shoelaces, nearly sending a chair flying as he stumbled inside.
"Harry!" Ron bellowed, as though they hadn't seen each other in years rather than the night before. He had a fistful of toast in one hand and was waving frantically with the other, crumbs trailing in his wake.
Harry blinked at the sudden explosion of noise, briefly wondering if this was some kind of farewell hallucination. But then Ron flopped onto the bed beside him, grinning like a complete idiot, and it was so unmistakably Ron that Harry couldn't help but smile.
"Blimey, you look rough," Ron said cheerfully, shoving Harry's glasses into his hands with surprising care—about the same as he usually reserved for his broomstick. "Left these downstairs again, didn't you? Or were you planning to navigate by echo this morning?"
Harry shoved them on and squinted at him. "Cheers. And you look like you've been trampled by a hippogriff."
Ron puffed out his chest. "It's called post-battle chic. Very exclusive. You wouldn't have heard of it—only sold in the trendiest corners of Diagon Alley."
Harry snorted, and just like that, the knot in his chest loosened, even if only slightly. Maybe not everything had changed.
Ron clapped him on the back. "Come on, up you get. Time to seize the day, oh Chosen One."
Harry groaned. "Why do you sound like Sir Cadogan?"
"Because someone's got to boss you about now you've saved the entire wizarding world. Can't have you getting ideas."
Harry smirked and, in perfect retaliation, hurled his pillow straight at Ron's head. Ron caught it one-handed—remarkably Quidditch-like for someone who'd been chucked off the team for eating mid-practice.
But when Harry stood, the room lurched violently.
His stomach clenched. His knees buckled.
Thud.
He hit the floor hard, like a sack of spellbooks.
"Harry!" Ron was on him at once, toast abandoned, voice sharp with panic. "Oi—Harry—what was that? What just happened?"
"I'm fine," Harry muttered, though the ceiling was still spinning like a wonky Time-Turner. "Just stood up too fast."
Which, technically, was true. It was also true that he hadn't slept properly in days, hadn't eaten much, and had been lugging around the emotional weight of a full-grown troll since—well, probably birth.
Ron narrowed his eyes. "You sure? You've looked like dragon dung since the battle, and that's saying something. You've always been the 'constantly knackered' type, but lately… you've really outdone yourself."
Harry gave a weak laugh. "Cheers, mate. Really uplifting, that."
But Ron didn't laugh back. He just crouched there, watching him with that serious, focused expression he only pulled out when things were properly bad.
Harry sighed and sat up slowly, leaning against the wall. "I'm just… tired. Feels like it's all catching up now."
Ron shrugged, offering him a hand and pulling him up with more gentleness than Harry expected. "Then sleep. Or eat something. It's not complicated, mate."
That sounded exactly like a Ron answer.
Together, they made their way down the winding staircase, each step echoing with the memories of a thousand Gryffindor students who'd lived, laughed, cried—and, occasionally, blown something up—within these walls.
The common room was already buzzing with life. Laughter and chatter bounced off the stone walls, familiar and warm, and for the first time that morning, Harry felt like he could breathe.
It smelt of buttered toast, ink, and hearth smoke. Home.
"I wonder what it'll be like," Harry said quietly as they stepped onto the common room floor. "Living at the Burrow. Being… normal."
Ron shot him a sideways glance, then grinned. "For one thing, Mum's cooking knocks the socks off anything Hogwarts ever dished up. Just don't get between her and a frying pan. You'll regret it."
Harry chuckled. "Reassuring."
Ron's grin faded, just a little. "Besides, you're family, you know. You always have been."
Harry didn't answer straight away. His chest ached—but this time, it wasn't dread. It was something softer. Warmer.
He looked around the common room—the old couches, the crackling fireplace, the worn portrait hole—trying to fix it all in his memory.
He was leaving Hogwarts. But he wasn't leaving alone.
The soft creak of the Great Hall's doors followed him as he slipped inside. The usual bustle was already underway—plates clinking, conversations humming, people laughing. It should have felt like home. It should have felt right.
But it didn't.
It all seemed distant now, like he was standing on the other side of some invisible barrier. He could hear it, see it—but he wasn't part of it.
His body still felt like lead, every step an effort. He'd dragged himself out of bed that morning, but the ache that gripped him was more than just tiredness. Something deeper clung to him—tight and suffocating. His stomach was hollow, but not with hunger. It was like something had been scraped out of him and left nothing behind but a gnawing emptiness.
And then he saw her.
Ginny.
She was sitting at the Gryffindor table beside Hermione, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. The sight of her made his chest twist painfully. Part of him wanted to go back—back to before the war, before everything had cracked wide open, back to when just seeing her could lift his whole day.
But now… now he just felt heavy.
He crossed the hall and slid onto the bench across from her.
Ginny looked up at once. "Hi," she said softly, her voice warm, but her eyes clouded with worry.
Harry forced a small smile, more out of habit than anything else. His gaze dropped to the plate in front of him—eggs and toast, untouched. Even the smell of it made his stomach turn.
"You should eat," Ginny murmured, reaching across the table to give his hand a gentle squeeze. Her touch was soft and grounding, but Harry couldn't hold it. He didn't deserve that. Not when so many others would never get the chance to feel this again.
He slipped his hand away carefully. "Not really hungry," he said, his voice tight, low. The words caught in his throat.
Across the table, Hermione had stopped talking. She was watching him now with that sharp, perceptive gaze of hers—the one that saw too much. Ron sat beside her, trying to look casual, but his brow was creased in that way it always was when he was properly worried.
Harry hated that look. Hated the way his own silence seemed to spread out around them, dragging the air down with it.
"Mate," Ron said, quieter than usual, the usual humour gone from his voice. "You've got to eat something. We'll be heading back to the Burrow soon, yeah? Mum'll have our heads if you turn up looking like you've not seen a meal in a week."
Harry managed a weak nod but didn't lift his eyes from the table. "Yeah."
He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell them that he wasn't trying to push them away—that he was just so tired. Not the sort of tired you could sleep off, but the kind that buried itself deep, tangled up in grief and guilt and noise until you couldn't think straight.
But all of that felt too big. Too tangled. Too close to the surface.
And he wasn't going to fall apart in the middle of breakfast.
Not here. Not now.
Harry took a slow breath and forced himself to pick up a piece of toast. Ginny was still watching him—steady, patient, kind—her gaze gently urging him on.
He took a bite. Small. Mechanical. It was dry. Tasteless. Like ash sitting heavy on his tongue. Swallowing felt like dragging splinters down his throat.
He put the toast back on his plate.
"I'll eat more once we're back," he said quietly. "At the Burrow. I promise."
He didn't know if it was true, not really. But he needed them to believe it. Mrs Weasley would fuss, she always did, piling his plate sky-high and hovering over him like a hawk, and he simply didn't have the energy to argue with her.
Hermione gave a small nod, though the tight line of her brow betrayed her unease. Ron attempted a crooked smile, but it sat strangely on his face—forced, stretched, not quite real.
Harry pressed his palms flat to the table. The wood was cool beneath his skin. He exhaled slowly, but the tightness in his chest refused to shift.
The silence between them pressed in—thick, suffocating, heavy with everything he wasn't saying.
He couldn't bear it.
"I'll be right back," he mumbled, pushing to his feet. "Need the loo."
No one tried to stop him. No one asked if he was alright.
But he felt their eyes on him—following him, quiet, aching—as he left.
His footsteps were brisk, almost too fast, his head low, his fists shoved deep into his pockets. He didn't want to see the pity in their faces. He didn't want to feel it.
He just needed to be away.
The corridors were quieter here, the noise of the Great Hall fading with each step. His shoes scuffed against the flagstones, the faint echo following him like a shadow. He wasn't really walking to the loo. He wasn't really sure where he was going at all.
But then the answer arrived—uncomplicated, solid, familiar.
The library.
It wasn't just shelves and books, not to him. It had become something else. Somewhere still. Somewhere no one expected him to speak, to perform, to be anything but silent.
The library didn't pity him.
The library didn't ask if he was alright.
The heavy door creaked as he pushed it open—that same creak, the same as always. The sound settled strangely in his chest. Some things hadn't changed.
Madam Pince was perched at her desk, hunched over a book that looked older than most of the portraits on the walls. Her bony fingers traced the lines of text with slow precision. Her hair was scraped back into its usual severe bun, not a strand out of place.
Harry had always thought she looked a bit like a hawk—sharp-eyed, untouchable, forever on the brink of swooping down on misbehaving students.
But now, in the quiet, without the crowds or the commotion, she simply looked tired. Worn down. The sort of tired that sat in the bones, that settled in and stayed.
Even here, the war had left its mark.
Harry hovered by the doorway, uncertain. He'd come looking for something—what, exactly, he wasn't sure. Space, maybe. Silence. Or maybe answers.
Not about the future—not yet—but about what came after. About souls. About what lingered.
Maybe something in these shelves could help. Maybe there was something Dumbledore had left unsaid. Maybe there was something no one else had thought to tell him.
Because the ache hadn't left.
And he wasn't sure he could carry it forever.
"Mr. Potter."
The voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Sharp. Stern. No-nonsense. Exactly as he remembered.
Harry blinked and took a few steps closer to her desk. "Er—hello, Madam Pince," he said, trying not to sound as awkward as he felt. "I was wondering… do you have any books about souls?"
Her eyes narrowed behind her spectacles, her thin mouth pressing into a line. "Souls?" she repeated, her voice sharp with surprise. "There are plenty of texts on the subject. But you should know, many are restricted to staff and advanced scholars. I do not tolerate the misuse of this collection."
"Right. Of course," Harry said quickly, keeping his tone as casual as he could manage. "I'm only after whatever I'm allowed to take out. Something for, er… light summer reading."
There was a silence.
Madam Pince stared at him, her mouth twitching as if the phrase itself offended her on some deep, personal level.
"'Light reading,'" she echoed, her voice as flat as an ironed scroll. "And what, precisely, makes you think you ought to be reading about souls at all?"
Harry froze.
The question landed harder than it should have, her sharp gaze slicing clean through his flimsy excuse. He knew what she meant—what was he really doing here?
But the truth—the Horcruxes, the war, the things still gnawing at the edges of his mind—he couldn't say all that.
So he shrugged, forcing his voice to sound steady. "Just… trying to stay busy. Better than sitting at home staring at the wall."
She did not look convinced. In fact, she looked dangerously close to kicking him out on principle.
"I find your sudden enthusiasm for self-education rather… suspect," she said crisply, her thin brows arching. "You have not, historically, been a regular visitor to this library. Not without immediate and often chaotic need. And now I'm to believe you're here for… casual reading?"
Harry shifted uncomfortably, clenching his fists deeper in his pockets.
"I know I haven't exactly lived in here," he admitted, the words tasting like defeat. "But I do read. Sometimes. I'm just… curious, that's all."
The silence that followed was agonising. Madam Pince watched him for a long moment, her sharp eyes glinting like she was cataloguing his every twitch, weighing the value of his honesty.
Harry felt smaller under her scrutiny than he had in front of any Death Eater.
Then—finally—she spoke.
"Your timing is questionable," she said, in that clipped, disapproving way that made her sound like she was guarding national secrets rather than a room full of dusty books. "But I suppose it would not do any harm to let you browse. Briefly. Do not think I won't know if you mishandle anything."
Relief swept over him like a rush of warm air.
"Thank you!" he said, a little too loudly. Without waiting for her to change her mind, he hurried off towards the section she had indicated.
The familiar scent of old parchment and leather greeted him as he stepped between the shelves. The rows of spines loomed around him like silent sentries, their titles faintly embossed in worn gold.
His fingers hovered just above the books. Not touching. Not yet.
There were so many questions he didn't know how to ask. So many answers he wasn't sure he was ready to find.
But he had to start somewhere.
The Hogwarts Express puffed along the countryside as though it had all the time in the world, streaks of green blurring past the windows in a dizzying whirl. Inside one particularly cramped compartment, though, time felt as if it had stopped—or perhaps collapsed in on itself from sheer, suffocating awkwardness.
Harry sat slumped in the corner seat, looking rather like someone had wrung him out like an old dishcloth and left him to soak in his own misery. He didn't speak. He barely even blinked. His glasses had slipped halfway down his nose, and his hair—never tidy—wasn't its usual windswept mess. It was the sort of dishevelled that suggested he might have spent the night wrestling a Dementor.
Beside him, Ginny sat with their hands loosely entwined. She glanced sideways at him, her brow creased with quiet worry. With a soft sigh, she shifted and carefully guided his head into her lap.
"There," she murmured, her fingers threading gently through his tangled hair. "You just rest, alright?"
Harry didn't reply. He didn't so much as flinch. Within minutes, he was fast asleep.
Across from them, Ron sat with his knees awkwardly bumping Hermione's, arms folded, his expression caught somewhere between concern and confusion.
"I've never seen him look that… miserable," Ron muttered, still staring at Harry as though he half-expected him to explode.
Hermione gave a long, sharp sigh. "Ron, he's just lost Dumbledore. We all have."
"I know that," Ron said quickly, defensive now. "But this is different. It's not just grief—he's… off. Properly off."
Hermione studied Harry, her eyes softening as she watched him twitch in his sleep, his face drawn and uneasy.
"Maybe we should just ask him," she said quietly.
Ron snorted. "Oh, brilliant idea. Yeah, let's interrogate him the second he wakes up from the first bit of sleep he's had in days."
"Well, doing nothing isn't exactly working, is it?" Hermione shot back, her irritation starting to simmer. "What's your plan, then? Stare at him until he spontaneously opens up?"
"That was sort of the idea, yeah."
She groaned, long and theatrical. "Brilliant."
Silence settled over them again, thick and awkward, broken only by the rhythmic clack-clack of the train and the soft mumbling coming from Harry as he twisted in Ginny's lap, caught somewhere in a restless dream.
Ginny's brow tightened as she caught a few muddled words.
"He told me he's scared," she said suddenly.
Ron and Hermione both looked at her, their conversation halting.
"Last night," Ginny went on, her voice low and careful. She brushed Harry's fringe gently off his forehead. "He said he feels stuck. Like he's meant to move on, but he just… can't."
Hermione leaned forward, curiosity and concern knitting her brow. "He told you that?"
Ginny nodded, still watching Harry. "Yeah. He looked… panicked. Like he wanted to bolt but had nowhere to go."
Ron frowned, scratching his chin. "That explains why he nearly face-planted in the dormitory this morning. Said he stood up too quickly, but I knew that was rubbish."
Hermione bit her lip. "He barely touched his breakfast either. Just sat there staring at his plate like it had personally insulted him."
"Maybe it had," Ron muttered. "You've seen the porridge they've been serving lately?"
Hermione gave him a sharp look.
"Sorry," Ron mumbled, ducking his head. "Just trying to lighten the mood."
It didn't work. The compartment felt smaller now, the walls pressing in, the silence growing heavier.
Harry whimpered softly in his sleep, his face crumpling like he was trapped in a bad memory.
Hermione's voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you think he's ill? Properly ill?"
Ginny shook her head slowly. "It's not that simple."
"Nothing with Harry ever is," Ron muttered. "It's always cursed scars and prophecies and… exploding staircases."
"No staircases exploded," Hermione said flatly.
"You weren't there."
Ginny ignored them. She kept running her fingers through Harry's hair, steady and soothing. "Whatever this is, he doesn't want to talk about it. But he needs us."
Hermione reached across and rested her hand lightly on Harry's shoulder. "Then we help him. No more guessing. No more awkward silences."
Ron hesitated, then gave a small shrug. "Alright. We help him."
Ginny smiled faintly, her voice firm. "Together."
There was another pause, the silence hanging—but this time, it wasn't quite as heavy as before. Then, quite suddenly, Harry stirred and mumbled something into Ginny's lap.
"What did he just say?" Ron whispered, leaning in as though Harry might reveal some great secret.
Ginny tilted her head, listening carefully. "I think he said… 'Snorkack.'"
Hermione blinked. "Snorkack?"
Ron gave a short, surprised laugh. "Well, at least he's not dreaming about You-Know-Who for once."
Harry groaned softly, shifting in his sleep, then turned his face into Ginny's stomach, mumbling again.
Ginny's eyebrows shot up. "Okay… now it's 'fanged gerbil.'"
Hermione stared at him. "Fanged gerbil?"
Ginny nodded, amused. "Sounds like it."
Ron grinned. "Brilliant. When he wakes up, we're absolutely asking about that."
Hermione shook her head, though the edge of her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. "We still need to talk to him properly. About… all of it."
"Yeah," Ron agreed, watching Harry as he settled more comfortably. "But maybe after we find out the name of his dream therapist. Sounds like they're doing cracking work."
Ginny let out a quiet laugh, and even Hermione couldn't help but join in, their soft chuckles filling the little compartment, easing the tension at last.
Harry shifted again—but this time, he looked peaceful. Not fine. Not fixed. But not alone either.
Harry's first thought when he woke was that he'd been hit by a Bludger.
Or perhaps a train.
Wait—he was on a train.
The whistle screamed again, jolting him fully awake. His eyes flew open, and for a brief, disorienting moment, he had absolutely no idea where he was. The countryside blurred past in gold and green ribbons. He blinked, bleary and confused, and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Ugh… What time is it?" he croaked.
"'Bout time you woke up," Ron said, not even glancing up as he tried to jam a shoe into a bag that was already dangerously close to splitting. "We thought you'd pegged it."
"I checked his pulse," Ginny added mildly from beside him, entirely unfazed. "Twice."
Harry frowned. "You what?"
"You've been out for hours, Harry," Hermione said from across the compartment, her voice brisk but touched with a fond sort of exasperation. "Literally since we left the station. Ginny tried waking you at one point—you muttered something about invisible cheese."
"I was obviously dreaming," Harry mumbled, scrubbing his face with his hands. "And probably hungry."
"You were also snoring."
"I don't snore."
"All three of us agree you do," Hermione said, raising an eyebrow.
Harry let out a groan and sat up properly, a sharp pull of stiffness running down his back. It felt like he'd been folded into a suitcase and shaken.
Ginny leaned towards him, her hand warm on his arm. "You alright?"
"I think so," he said, his voice still scratchy. He looked out the window, blinking hard. "Are we nearly there?"
The train was slowing now, London's skyline beginning to rise in the distance.
Ron peered out. "Yeah, just about. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters—home sweet home."
Harry tried to help pack but his mind still felt thick and sluggish, like someone had cast a mild Confundus Charm and forgotten to lift it. By the time they clambered off the train, the platform was already buzzing with the usual end-of-term chaos—parents waving, trunks bumping along, owls hooting indignantly, voices echoing over the crowd.
Harry just stood there for a moment, dazed, as everyone else swirled around him.
"Harry!" called Mr Weasley, cheerfully waving them over. "Over here, all of you!"
But Harry didn't move. Something was… off.
A strange feeling clawed at his chest—a tight, twisting weight he didn't quite understand. His eyes darted through the crowd, searching for something he was certain should be there.
Ginny gave his sleeve a gentle tug. "Harry?"
He didn't answer.
Where were the Dursleys?
They were always here. Without fail. Standing stiffly at the very edge of the platform—Uncle Vernon red-faced and impatient, Aunt Petunia looking like she'd just walked past a skip, Dudley sulking into a half-melted ice cream. It was miserable, it was uncomfortable, it was… expected.
But they weren't here.
"Harry?" Ron asked, stepping beside him. "You alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm just—" Harry blinked rapidly, still scanning the crowd. "I'm waiting. My uncle should be here."
Ron's brow creased. "Your… what?"
"My uncle. He's meant to pick me up. He always does."
Ron let out a short, confused laugh—then stopped when he saw Harry wasn't joking.
"Wait—you're serious?"
"Of course I'm serious. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Harry… you're not going back to the Dursleys."
Harry turned towards him, frowning. "I'm not?"
"No!" Ron's face scrunched in disbelief. "You're coming to the Burrow. You've always wanted to come back to the Burrow."
Harry's mouth went dry. "But no one told me that."
Ron glanced helplessly at Hermione and Ginny. They were both watching Harry now, their expressions clouded with concern.
"Harry," Hermione said gently, stepping closer. "We did tell you. After… everything. After the battle. More than once."
Harry's heartbeat thudded, painful and insistent. "I don't— I don't remember that."
Mrs Weasley barrelled over just then, enveloping Harry in one of her signature bone-crushing hugs. It was warm, familiar—and just on the edge of suffocating.
"Oh, there you are, dear! Are you alright?" she asked, pulling back just enough to inspect his face, her hands fussing at his shoulders and his hair like she could straighten his whole world with a quick pat.
"I think so?" he croaked. "Maybe?"
He met her gaze, trying not to sound as though he was spiralling. "Mrs Weasley, did I ever… did I ever tell you I wasn't going back to the Dursleys?"
Her expression faltered, concern creasing her brow in an instant. "But you said your goodbyes to them last summer, love. They went into hiding, remember?"
Harry blinked. His stomach gave a strange lurch. "What? Hiding from who?"
Mr Weasley appeared at her side, his face gentle but serious. "Harry, do you remember your seventeenth birthday?"
Harry's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
He stalled. Searched. Dug through his memory, certain it must be there.
"Yeah, of course I—"
But the words crumbled on his tongue.
He didn't remember it.
Not even the faintest trace. His own birthday—completely gone. Like someone had siphoned it straight out of him.
"I—no, wait, I must remember," he said quickly, shaking his head as if he could knock the memory loose. "That's ridiculous. Of course I'd remember my own birthday."
But his mind was a blank canvas. No candles, no Burrow, no faces, no sounds. Just white space. Empty.
"Harry," Ginny said quietly, stepping in, "we were all there. You stayed at the Burrow. You were with us."
"This can't be happening," he muttered, pressing his fingers to his temples, as though he could light a spark in the dark. "Why can't I remember? Did I hit my head or something?"
"You didn't hit your head," Hermione said firmly.
"Are we sure about that?"
"Pretty sure," Ron said, though his voice wobbled slightly. "Although you did trip over Crookshanks last week and landed headfirst in the garden gnome pit."
"That's not true and you know it," Hermione snapped, but Ron's grin was weak—it didn't stick.
Mr Weasley's voice broke in gently. "Harry, sometimes when people go through something… terrible, their minds… well, it's not unusual to lose pieces of memory. It's your brain trying to protect you, that's all. It doesn't mean they're gone forever."
"I'm not worried," Harry lied, his throat tight. "I'm fine. Honestly."
He wasn't fine.
He wasn't anywhere near fine.
There were holes now. Whole stretches of memory simply missing. Conversations. Goodbyes. His own birthday. It felt like someone had taken scissors to the film reel of his life and simply snipped out the parts they didn't want him to have.
"I don't understand," he whispered. "It's like… it's like I'm missing bits of myself."
"You're not missing anything that can't come back," Mrs Weasley said firmly, pulling him back into her side like she could hold him together by sheer will. "We'll help you remember, Harry. You're not on your own."
His voice came out small. "What if I never do? What if I've forgotten something important? What if I've… forgotten someone important?"
Ginny met his eyes, steady as ever. "We'd tell you."
"Promise?"
She nodded, sure as anything. "Cross my heart."
Harry took a slow, shaky breath and looked round the bustling station. The swirl of people, the noise, the movement—it all felt distant, unreal, like he'd wandered into someone else's memory by mistake.
He tried to laugh. It wobbled halfway out of him. "So… I'm going to the Burrow, then?"
"Yep," Ron said quickly, bright and a bit too loud. "Unless you fancy hanging about here waiting for your uncle—who's, by the way, in wizard witness protection."
Harry let out a faint, real smile. "No thanks. Think I've had enough confusion for one day."
But deep down, there was still a knot. Cold. Tight. Quiet.
Because if he could forget something this big…
What else might he have lost?