Harry felt eleven again as he trailed after George up the rickety staircase of The Burrow. The old house creaked in all the same places, like it remembered him. Each groaning floorboard seemed to drum in time with his heart—not from the climb, but from the bubbling, mischievous anticipation he hadn't felt in what seemed like years.
At the top landing, George pushed open a door without hesitation and made straight for the window, as though this were perfectly ordinary.
He shoved it open, letting in the soft evening breeze and the faint smell of freshly cut grass.
"This way, mate," George called over his shoulder, flashing that signature grin before swinging himself out of the window with the easy grace of someone who'd done it a hundred times before.
Harry paused, stomach flipping with that familiar blend of excitement and the distinct knowledge that this was definitely against some sort of safety rule. But then—this was The Burrow. Rules were more like… suggestions here.
With a small huff, Harry pulled himself up and scrambled through the window, narrowly missing cracking his head on the eaves. Elegant, as always. Still, he made it in one piece and found himself standing on the sloped rooftop, the breeze tugging at his hair.
And the view—Merlin, the view stopped him in his tracks.
The fields rolled out in every direction, stretching to the edge of the world, brushed gold and green by the last streaks of sunlight. The trees swayed lazily, and the sky overhead was beginning to darken, with the first stars just winking into life.
Harry drew in a long breath. The air smelled like summer. Like space to breathe. Like possibility. And faintly—like butterbeer.
"Welcome to my sanctuary," George announced grandly, already seated. He looked oddly at home there, perched like the rightful king of mischief.
Harry grinned and settled beside him, the roof tiles shifting slightly under his weight. He tried not to picture himself sliding straight off into the garden.
George cracked open his own bottle, taking a generous swig before nodding out at the view. "Fred and I used to sneak up here all the time. Mum'd be yelling murder downstairs, and we'd be up here planning pranks or pretending to hunt dragons or—" He gave a small, crooked smile. "One time we swore blind we'd seen a UFO."
Harry laughed. "I remember your mum chasing you both round the house—her hair practically on fire."
"Oh yeah," George said, his voice fond and a little distant. "She was absolutely terrifying. In the best possible way."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the breeze playing at their sleeves, the sky painted in rich purples and fading golds.
"So," George said eventually, flicking his gaze over, "how've you really been? And don't give me the 'celebrity Harry Potter' line. I mean you—the you under all that hero rubbish."
Harry took a slow sip of his butterbeer, eyes fixed on the darkening sky. "Honestly? I'm still working that out. No battles. No Dark Lords. No prophecies breathing down my neck. And weirdly… I don't have a plan. For once, that feels sort of… alright."
George nodded, understanding without making a fuss of it. "You're allowed a break, you know. I'm fairly certain saving the entire wizarding world earns you at least a few years off. Preferably somewhere with no Daily Prophet reporters or looming Death Eaters."
Harry gave a small smirk. "And definitely no Rita Skeeter popping out from behind ornamental ferns."
"Exactly!" George said, raising his bottle. "Though word on the street is you're next in line for Minister of Magic. Stan Shunpike swears blind it's true, so obviously it's rock-solid."
Harry snorted into his drink. "Stan? He once told a group of Veela he was one."
George looked delighted. "Well, clearly he's got a strong future in politics, then."
They both laughed.
"But really," George said, leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him, "you don't fancy the job?"
Harry stared at him. "George, I can't even get through a trip to the grocer's without someone shoving a Chocolate Frog card in my face. Do I look like I want to be Minister?"
"Fair enough," George said easily. "Honestly, I was more worried you'd do something daft like try out for a Quidditch team."
Harry blinked. "Hang on—what? Why would I do that?"
George looked genuinely scandalised. "Because it's Quidditch, Potter. You were a bloody brilliant Seeker."
"Yeah, and I nearly died in half the matches."
"Minor detail," George waved him off. "Did Ginny ever tell you she's thinking about going for Holyhead Harpies try-outs?"
Harry sat up straight. "No! She never said."
George tilted his head. "Really? She's properly serious about it. She's got the fire. Fred and I always reckoned she could fly rings round anyone."
Harry smiled, warmth blooming in his chest. "Yeah. She's got that look—you know, the one where she's ready to hex the whole world if it tells her she can't do something."
George chuckled. "Oh, she gets that from Mum. And from us, obviously. We made sure she never sat on the sidelines."
He paused, his voice softening just a fraction. "Also made sure any bloke she dated wasn't a total git."
Harry nearly choked on his butterbeer. "Cheers for the confidence."
George raised his bottle in a lazy salute. "You passed. Just about."
The mood shifted, just slightly. George's grin lingered, but it didn't quite reach his eyes now.
"But seriously, Harry," he said, more quietly this time, "she's been through a lot. She's tough—don't get me wrong—but when she hurts, she doesn't shrink. She burns."
Harry's chest tightened, the weight of those words settling in deep. He met George's gaze, steady and sure. "I won't. I promise."
George held his eyes for a long moment, then gave a single, satisfied nod. "Good."
They sat in silence for a while, watching as the fields below melted into shadows and the stars pricked brighter holes in the sky.
George leaned back against the old wooden beam, cradling his butterbeer like it was something familiar and steady. He looked thoughtful, though that ever-present glint of mischief still flickered behind his eyes. "You know," he said suddenly, jolting Harry from his thoughts, "she's always been cagey about her love life. Probably figured Fred and I'd prank her if she told us anything."
Harry smirked. "She's probably right."
George's eyes glinted. "You ought to watch yourself, Potter. I could start causing trouble again. Wouldn't take much."
A wave of fondness washed over Harry, as warm as the butterbeer in his hands. For a heartbeat, he could almost see the twins bursting into the Great Hall, fireworks trailing behind them, laughing until they couldn't stand straight. Fred's grin, Fred's voice—it all felt close and far, all at once.
"I'll be careful," Harry said, mock-shivering. "Last thing I need is another redhead with a wand trying to hex my eyebrows off."
"That's my boy." George grinned and clapped him on the back, almost knocking him sideways. Even in the fading light, he still looked so much like the fearless prankster Harry remembered—just with a little more weight in his gaze now.
George took an exaggerated slurp from his butterbeer, loud enough to make Harry laugh. It felt good. It felt normal.
"So… you and Angelina, then?" Harry said, trying for casual but feeling that small, familiar twist in his chest—the one that always caught him when people talked about moving on, making plans, living full lives.
George spluttered. "Merlin's pants, give a bloke some warning!"
"I didn't know it was official," Harry teased, grinning. "Or are you just sharing broomsticks?"
George narrowed his eyes, properly offended. "Oi. Keep your nose out of my love life, young man. Don't think I won't hex a former Chosen One."
They both laughed, properly laughed, like nothing had changed. Like there'd never been a war. Like Fred might just be climbing onto the roof any second now with two more butterbeers and a terrible joke.
But the laughter didn't last.
George's grin faded as his gaze drifted towards the horizon. "I'm going to propose," he said, his voice steady—too steady. Harry heard the steel in it, though, like the decision had settled something solid inside him. "And yes, I mean it."
Harry blinked. It was the last thing he'd expected to hear. "Blimey. I'm… really happy for you, George. She's lucky."
George's smile softened into something smaller, quieter. "I'm the lucky one," he said. "She laughs at my jokes. Properly laughs."
Harry watched him, eyebrows raised. It was strange, seeing George like this—unguarded, sincere, not hiding behind some ridiculous punchline.
"She's my calm, you know? Especially now. After…"
He trailed off. He didn't need to finish.
Fred's name didn't have to be said. It was everywhere—threaded through the silence, stitched into George's every breath.
Harry swallowed hard. His mind flickered with memories—the twins in their joke shop window, the sound of their laughter bouncing off Hogwarts' stone walls, and that horrible stillness after the Battle.
Fred lying there, motionless.
That image never really left him.
Harry gave a small nod, his throat tight. There was nothing to say, not really. Just… be here. Be present.
The stars were slowly pushing their way into the sky, one by one. It looked endless—like it might just have room for all the things Harry still couldn't bring himself to say.
"So," Harry nudged George with his shoulder, needing the weight to shift, "what's the grand plan? Gonna do it mid-Quidditch match? Or while you're being chased by a swarm of rabid gnomes?"
George chuckled. "Tempting. But I wouldn't want to upstage your future proposal with my stunning theatrics."
Harry snorted and leaned back against the warm rooftop, his gaze trailing up to the stars. "Unforgettable," he said. "That's the goal, right?"
Silence stretched between them—but not the sharp kind. It was the sort that made space. The kind you could settle into. The kind that made you feel safe enough to say things you hadn't dared say out loud.
Harry's fingers curled slightly over the edge of the roof. The thought had been gnawing at him for days—weeks, maybe—but now it clawed its way to his throat.
"I… I've been meaning to tell someone something. But—"
"But you don't want to worry us?" George finished for him, his voice soft, steady. Like he already knew.
Harry didn't answer straight away. His heart thumped hard against his ribs. He hated how quickly George had clocked it. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he was grateful.
A breeze tugged at his hair.
He gave a small nod.
Because the truth was, Harry still felt like he was carrying something fragile. Not a secret, exactly—but a weight. A fear. And even now, up here with George and the stars spread wide above them, part of him didn't want to speak it into the air. Because once he did, it would be real.
"I get it," George said quietly. "There's nothing wrong with keeping people at arm's length. I used to think like that, too. But then Fred…"
His voice caught, just briefly, but he carried on.
"Fred showed me it's all right to trust people—if you're honest with them. Turns out, the more I said things out loud, the more people seemed to trust me back."
Harry glanced at him, caught off guard by the honesty.
George noticed and raised an eyebrow, his mouth quirking into a crooked grin. "What? Thought I was all jokes and no depth, did you?"
Harry smirked. "Didn't say that."
"But you were thinking it," George said, shrugging like it didn't bother him in the slightest. "Fair enough. I used to think people only trusted me because I was lucky. Right place, right time. That sort of thing."
Harry leaned back, curious now. "Was it?"
George's grin turned smug. "Nah. Turns out I'm devastatingly attractive and impossibly charming. Can't help that, can I?"
Harry snorted. "Blimey. And here I thought modesty was your best quality."
George pressed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. "Don't be jealous, Potter. Some of us are just the full package."
A faint laugh slipped out before Harry could stop it. He hadn't laughed like that in a long while. Not properly. It felt strange. Good—but strange.
Even as he smiled, there was that familiar tug in his chest—a quiet reminder of how rare moments like this had become. So much of life these days was just noise, fear, and grief. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed this—simple, ridiculous banter. Something that didn't come with a fight or a headline.
George's grin faded a little, his voice softening. "Truth is… Fred was the only person I ever really told everything to. Properly everything. The stuff I didn't even know how to say out loud? He just knew."
The shift came quickly—like the wind changing direction. Harry sat up a bit straighter, feeling the weight settle between them.
"We were a team, me and Fred," George said, quieter now. "People called us troublemakers—and fair enough, we were—but it wasn't just about causing chaos. It was our way of saying, 'We're here. We're alive. We're not afraid.'"
Harry's gaze flicked to George's butterbeer. His fingers were trembling slightly against the glass now. He wasn't smiling anymore.
"We always had each other's backs. No questions. I could be halfway through a half-baked scheme and Fred'd be right there beside me, wand out, grinning like a lunatic. And if I failed, he was the one helping me pick up the pieces—usually while taking the mickey out of me."
Harry's throat tightened. He knew loyalty—Ron, Hermione—they'd risked everything for him. But this… this was something else. Fred and George had practically shared a soul.
"You know what I mean?" George asked, his eyes flicking up, and there was something raw in his expression now—like he needed Harry to understand. To really see him.
Harry nodded, slowly. "Yeah. I do."
George let out a quiet breath, then gave a faint, crooked smile. "Ron's still a prat, though."
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.
"But," George went on, "he's a loyal prat. Not just 'cos he's my brother. I know Ron. If push came to shove, he'd walk through hell barefoot to protect his best mate."
Harry's chest ached. He hadn't been fair to Ron lately. He'd kept him at arm's length, trying to carry everything on his own. It had felt safer. Less risky. But maybe he'd been wrong.
George kept going, his voice low now. "After Fred died, I couldn't even cast a Patronus. For weeks. Nothing. It was like someone'd switched all the light off in me."
He paused. His jaw clenched, and Harry saw him blink hard.
"I'm only telling you this because…" His voice faltered, then steadied. "Because if you ever lose someone—and I hope to Merlin you don't—you'll want to know you said what mattered. While you still can."
A tear slid down George's cheek. He didn't wipe it away.
"I never got to tell Fred," he whispered. "Not properly."
Harry looked away, swallowing hard. The guilt curled up in his chest like cold smoke. Sirius. Dumbledore. Cedric. His mum. His dad. There were so many ghosts trailing after him, and most of them had gone without goodbyes.
"I'm sorry," Harry said, his voice rough.
George nodded slowly. "You never really get over it. Not properly. You just… learn to live around it. The hole they leave—it doesn't close. You just figure out how to stop falling into it."
Harry stared at his bottle, as if there might be answers sitting at the bottom.
"You've lost people too," George said quietly. "I can see it. The way you walk. The way you hold your wand. Like it's something heavy you've got to carry."
Harry's fingers tightened round the neck of the bottle. George wasn't wrong. Some days, it did feel like he was dragging the weight of every name carved into the headstones at Godric's Hollow.
"You're right," Harry murmured. "It's the little things I miss the most. The way they smiled. The way they made me feel… safe. Even when everything else was falling to pieces."
George reached out and rested a hand on Harry's shoulder. It was simple, but it steadied him—like someone had tied him back to the earth.
"The memories sting for a while," George said, his voice soft. "But they start helping, too. You'll laugh again. Not 'cos it stops hurting—but 'cos they'd want you to."
Harry nodded, throat thick.
"You're not on your own," George added, giving his shoulder a little shake. "You never were. And you don't have to be. If you ever need to vanish for a bit, or let off steam, or drink an absolutely irresponsible amount of Firewhisky—I'm your man."
That finally dragged a smile out of Harry. Crooked. A bit lopsided. A bit cracked. But real.
"Thanks, George."
They sat in silence again, but this time it wasn't the heavy sort. It was easy. Peaceful, even. Like the world had finally slowed enough to let them breathe.
Then George gave Harry's shoulder a squeeze and grinned. "Right then. I'll give Ron a proper smack round the head for you."
Harry laughed, the sound catching him off guard. "Cheers to that."
George raised his bottle. "To the idiots we love."
Harry lifted his own, tilting it towards the stars. "To the ones we miss."
Their bottles clinked together with a soft chime, the sound carrying into the quiet of the night. For a brief, fleeting moment, the grief felt lighter—shared between two people who knew exactly what it meant to lose someone. And what it meant to keep going anyway.
The summer heat clung to everything—thick, suffocating. The usually warm, inviting living room at The Burrow now felt sharp round the edges—tight, uneasy. The air didn't move, and neither did the heaviness in Harry's chest.
He'd just come down from the roof with George. They'd said goodnight and gone their separate ways, each slipping into the quiet that followed the day's exhaustion. Harry was halfway to his room, hand already on the doorknob, when voices stopped him cold.
Ron and Ginny. Arguing.
About him.
He knew he shouldn't listen—but they weren't exactly being quiet. Their words carried up the stairs like thunder rattling through the old house.
"Ginny, I told you to stay out of this!" Ron's voice was tight. Frustrated. Angry.
Harry froze, heart thudding hard against his ribs. He should go inside. Pretend he hadn't heard. But his feet wouldn't move.
"How can you expect me to stay out of it?" Ginny shot back, fire blazing in her tone. "This is Harry we're talking about."
Harry swallowed hard. His name again. Always his name. He hated this. Hated being the cause of the fight.
Ginny's voice burned through the heat. "You think yelling at him is going to fix anything? You keep acting like he's the problem, but have you even tried listening to him?"
Ron's footsteps pounded the floor. "How can I listen when he won't say a bloody word? He's shutting us out—pretending everything's fine when it's not!"
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn't meant to. He didn't know how to talk about it—about the Horcrux, about all of it. It wasn't that he didn't want to. It just felt… impossible. Too big. Too sharp.
"You're not helping by losing your temper," Ginny said, more even now, but still firm. "Harry's been through hell. He doesn't trust easily—he never has. And maybe that's not about us. Maybe that's just… how he's learnt to survive."
Ron scoffed. "You think I don't know that? I do. But I'm sick of tiptoeing round him. We're his friends—we're supposed to matter."
Harry flinched. You do. You always have. He wanted to shout it. But the words stuck behind the wall he'd built inside himself.
"He's not trying to hurt us, Ron," Ginny pressed. "He's hurting. There's a difference."
There was a pause. When Ron spoke again, his voice was quieter. Worn. "I just wanted to help. I don't know what else to do."
Harry leaned against the wall, guilt settling deep in his bones. They're trying. And I'm just… shutting down.
Ginny sighed. "You can't push him. He needs time. And space. And maybe… maybe he needs to believe he's not doing all this on his own."
Ron's reply came, bitter and soft. "He's always done this. Me and Hermione—we've always had to drag it out of him. He never trusts anyone unless they pull it from him, piece by piece."
The words hit Harry like a Bludger to the ribs. He hadn't realised. Not properly. He thought maybe they didn't notice. Or that they didn't care as much as he'd hoped.
Ginny's voice softened, but the weight in it deepened. "It's not trust, Ron. It's fear. He's always trying to protect us—even if it means pushing us away. But he's not as strong as he likes to pretend. Not now."
Harry swallowed, hard. He wished she wasn't right. He wished he could be stronger. But he wasn't. Not anymore.
"And what, we just let him bottle it all up?" Ron snapped. "Let him drown in it while we stand about waiting, hoping he'll eventually talk?"
Ginny didn't answer straight away. When she did, her voice was barely a whisper. "I'm scared too, Ron. I don't know what's going on with him, but… something's not right. And if he keeps carrying it all on his own, I don't know what it'll do to him."
Harry's stomach twisted. He hated making her feel like that. He'd never meant to scare anyone.
"I'm done waiting," Ron said suddenly. His voice was sharp, firm. Decided. "I'll talk to him tomorrow. No more guessing games. He can be angry if he likes—but he's going to talk."
"Ron, please," Ginny called after him. "Just—don't make it worse."
But Ron was already stomping towards the stairs.
Harry scrambled into his room, pressing himself flat against the wall. His heart hammered as Ron passed by, none the wiser. A moment later, a door slammed shut.
Ginny stayed downstairs, quiet now. Through the thin crack in the door, Harry could just make out her silhouette, dim in the low light. Her shoulders had slumped, her arms hung uselessly at her sides. She looked drained. Hurt.
He wanted to go to her. To say something—anything. But he didn't.
Instead, he closed the door and sat heavily on his bed. He needed air. He needed space.
He needed to figure out how to stop being the reason they all seemed to be falling apart.
The morning sun crept through the curtains, throwing streaks of gold across the floorboards of the Burrow. Harry could feel it warming his face, but it didn't bring comfort—just a reminder that another day had begun.
His stomach twisted, nausea curling inside him like something alive. He pressed his forehead to the cold bathroom tiles, breathing hard, trying to force it down.
His hands were shaking again.
He hated this.
Another retch tore through him. His body convulsed, though he'd already brought up everything. Still, it fought on. He gripped the edge of the toilet bowl, his palms slick with sweat. Behind his closed eyes, the flashes returned—Voldemort's voice, screams, fire, pain, being a Horcrux, Ron and Ginny arguing.
He hadn't even been asleep. Just lying there, staring into the dark, waiting for the silence to feel safe.
A knock jolted him.
"Harry?" Ron's voice, low but tight with worry.
Harry swallowed, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and forced his voice to steady. "Be there in a sec. Just—just give me a minute."
He ran the tap, splashing cold water over his face. His reflection made him flinch—eyes bloodshot, skin pale, hair plastered to his forehead like he'd just walked through rain. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. Maybe he hadn't.
When he opened the door, Ron was waiting, arms crossed, brow furrowed.
"You all right?" Ron asked, studying him closely.
Harry shrugged. "Just tired."
It sounded weak. Ron clearly didn't buy it.
"You're sick," Ron said, his voice firmer now. "You sound like you've been hexed."
Harry dropped his gaze. "It's nothing. Probably something I ate."
He stepped back into his room, tried to shut the door, but Ron wedged his foot in.
"I'm getting Mum," Ron said suddenly, already turning.
"No—Ron, wait—" Panic clawed at Harry's chest, but Ron was gone, thundering up the stairs before he could stop him.
A few minutes later, Harry sat hunched on the edge of his bed, bracing himself for the inevitable fuss. His heart thumped as quick footsteps returned.
Mrs Weasley entered, carrying a tray with potions and a damp flannel. Her face was soft with worry, that particular kind of motherly concern that somehow made Harry feel comforted and guilty all at once.
"Oh, Harry, love," she said gently, kneeling beside him. "Ron said you weren't well."
Harry tried to sit up straighter, but his whole body ached. "I'm fine. Honestly. I just need to lie down."
Mrs Weasley reached out, pressing her cool hand to his forehead.
"You've got a fever," she murmured, then handed him a small glass vial. "Here. Take this, dear. It'll help."
Harry stared at the potion, thick and violet, swirling sluggishly.
For a second, he wanted to shove it away, to insist he was fine, to pretend everything was normal.
But he was so, so tired of pretending.
He downed it in one go, wincing at the bitter taste.
"There we are," she said softly. "That should settle your stomach. You rest now. I'll be back in a bit to check on you."
As she left, the quiet wrapped around him again, dense and heavy.
Ron lingered awkwardly in the doorway.
The weight between them hung in the air, unsaid but impossible to ignore. Harry knew the questions were coming, and he dreaded them.
He wasn't ready.
Not yet.
Not without falling apart.
Ron finally broke the silence. "You scared me, mate."
Harry didn't answer straight away. He stared at the floor, chest tightening painfully. "I didn't mean to," he said at last, voice low. "I just… couldn't hold it in anymore."
Ron shuffled forward, awkward but determined. "You don't have to say anything. I mean—look, I get it. Well. Sort of. Not really. But I want to."
Harry glanced up. For a moment, he caught that familiar look in Ron's eyes—loyal, stubborn, a bit afraid. Something in Harry's chest eased, just a fraction.
"I'm not ready," Harry said quietly. "To talk about it. Not yet."
Ron nodded, like he'd already expected that. "That's all right. Just… don't shut me out, yeah? Not completely."
Harry gave a tiny nod. "I'll try."
And this time, he meant it.
Ron's mouth twitched into a small, crooked smile. "I'm just glad you're still here."
The words hit Harry harder than he expected. He hadn't realised quite how much he'd needed to hear that.
"Thanks," he murmured. "Really. I'm going to try and get some sleep."
"Yeah. All right." Ron backed out, pulling the door nearly closed behind him, but leaving it open just a crack.
Harry sank into the pillows, exhaustion already dragging him under. The potion was working, tugging him towards a deep, dreamless sleep.
For the first time in days, it didn't feel like such a bad thing to rest.
Harry lay curled beneath the covers, drenched in sweat. Every part of him ached—his skin burned, his muscles trembled, and his thoughts drifted somewhere far away, like they no longer belonged to him. The blanket clung to his damp skin, heavy and suffocating, but even through the fever's heat, he couldn't stop shivering.
Time had slipped away completely. Everything blurred.
A soft knock sounded at the door, but it barely registered.
Please don't come in, he thought miserably. I just want to be left alone.
The door creaked open anyway.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice reached him, quiet and careful, cutting faintly through the haze.
He didn't answer. Couldn't. He just lay still, eyes shut, hoping she'd think he was asleep and go.
But she didn't.
The mattress dipped as she sat down beside him. Her hand, cool and steady, settled gently on his shoulder. He flinched, not from fear, but because it felt so distant—like she was reaching for him through thick glass.
"You're burning up," Ginny said softly, her voice laced with quiet worry. "Have you had anything for the fever?"
Harry gave the smallest of nods. It felt like it took all the strength he had left.
There was a pause. Then he heard her stand and leave, footsteps fading down the hall.
He wished he could follow her—just to escape the weight pressing against his ribs—but he couldn't bring himself to move.
Minutes—or maybe longer—passed before the door opened again. This time, it wasn't just Ginny. He caught Mrs Weasley's gentle tones, with Ron's heavier footsteps trailing behind.
"Harry, dear," Mrs Weasley said softly, "you can't have another dose of potion just yet. But we've brought you some soup—it might help in the meantime."
Harry forced his eyes open, only for a moment, and met her gaze. "Thanks," he croaked, his throat painfully dry.
She placed a hand on his forehead, cool and comforting, and brushed his sweat-soaked fringe aside. Then she left the room with one last lingering glance, her mouth pressed in a worried line.
Ron hovered awkwardly for a second, then stepped forward and fluffed Harry's pillow rather aggressively.
"You look like absolute rubbish, mate," Ron said, trying to smirk but unable to hide the concern in his eyes.
Harry managed a faint, crooked smile. "Feel like it, too."
Ginny settled beside him again, a bowl of steaming soup in her hands. She carefully set his glasses on his nose—the familiar weight grounding him just a little.
When she offered him the bowl, Harry reached for it, but his hands shook so badly the spoon clattered against the side.
"I've got it," Ginny said at once, not waiting for him to argue.
"I can do it," he muttered weakly, though even he didn't believe it.
"No, you can't," she said gently, not unkind. "And that's fine."
She scooped up a spoonful and held it out to him.
Harry hesitated—but the smell hit him, and his stomach gave a loud, undignified growl. Reluctantly, he parted his lips and let her feed him. The warmth spread through his aching throat, and for a brief moment, the fever seemed a little less suffocating.
"Better?" Ginny asked, her voice soft.
He gave the barest nod. "Yeah. Thanks."
Ron leaned on the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. "If you don't get a move on and get better, Ginny's going to be running the whole show," he said, attempting to sound casual but clearly watching him carefully.
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Do you ever shut up?"
Ron grinned. "Just checking he's still breathing. And that you're not poisoning him."
"Get out, Ron," she muttered, though there was unmistakable fondness in her voice.
Ron hesitated a beat longer, his eyes lingering on Harry. Then, with a mock groan, he turned and trudged off. "Shout if he starts glowing or something," he called over his shoulder as he left.
The room fell quiet.
Harry glanced up at Ginny. She hadn't moved—still holding the bowl, still watching him like she was afraid he might vanish if she so much as blinked. Her brow was creased, something raw flickering in her eyes—something he didn't think he deserved.
"You don't have to stay," he said. "I'm just… tired."
She shook her head. "I'm not going anywhere."
Harry looked away. He hated this—being like this in front of her. Being seen like this. He was supposed to be the strong one. The one who stood up and fought. Not the boy who could barely lift a spoon.
"I don't want you to see me like this," he admitted quietly, surprising even himself.
Ginny reached out, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. Her touch was light but sure.
"Bit late for that," she whispered. "And I'd rather see the real you than some version that pretends not to hurt."
Harry's chest tightened, a lump forming in his throat. He looked at her properly now, really looked.
"You all keep saying you're here for me," he said, his voice rough. "But this… this thing inside me—it's too much. Half the time I don't even know what to do with it. How can I ask you to carry part of it too?"
"You don't have to ask," Ginny said. Her voice trembled just slightly, but she didn't pull back. "We're already carrying it, Harry. Because we care. Because we love you."
The word struck him—love—not as some grand confession, but plain and real and somehow heavier than anything else.
"I don't know what to say," he whispered.
"You don't have to say anything," she murmured. "Just let us stay."
Ginny's hand moved in steady circles, the silver spoon glinting in the morning light slipping past the curtains. The soup smelt faintly of thyme and potatoes—warm, familiar. Without thinking, Harry opened his mouth, letting her feed him. The spoon clinked softly against the bowl—quiet, rhythmic, oddly calming.
Everything felt heavy—his limbs, his thoughts, even the air around him. But here, in this small, sunlit corner of the Burrow, with the window cracked open and the faint buzz of bees drifting in, he didn't feel like he had to fight. Not right now.
Ginny glanced at him between spoonfuls, her gaze gentle, the way she always watched him when she thought he wasn't looking. There was something in her eyes that eased him more than any potion could.
"Almost done," she said, soft and steady. "You've got to build your strength—can't go saving the world on an empty stomach."
The corner of Harry's mouth lifted, weak but genuine. It was all he could manage, but it was real.
"Hilarious," he muttered, his throat scratchy. It hurt to speak, but he wanted to answer her. Always did.
The bed creaked softly as he shifted. The sheets stuck uncomfortably to his damp skin. He hated this—hated feeling so useless, so breakable—but Ginny didn't pull away. She didn't look at him like he was something fragile.
Footsteps thudded on the stairs. A moment later, Ron appeared in the doorway, arms folded, a grin spreading across his face.
"Still can't believe she used to have a massive crush on you," he said, as unsubtle as ever.
Harry's breath caught. Ginny's shoulders tensed.
Oh no.
"Shut it, Ron," she snapped, sharp but clearly flustered. Her cheeks flushed pink. Harry's ears burned, the heat rising up his neck—not from the fever this time.
Ron was already gone, sauntering off down the hall, his laughter echoing faintly behind him.
Ginny let out a long breath and turned back to Harry, forcing a smile. "Right, then," she said, lifting the spoon again, her tone bright but strained. "Open up."
But Harry didn't get the chance. The room lurched.
He flinched hard, clutching at the blanket instinctively. His stomach twisted sharply, and for a moment he thought he might be sick. Cold sweat prickled across his back, his vision swimming. His body jolted, sudden and out of his control.
"Whoa…" he breathed, barely more than a whisper. The world shrank, narrowing into a tunnel.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice sharpened with alarm. She reached for him quickly, her fingers brushing against his forehead.
Her hand was cool against his burning skin. His face felt on fire, but deep inside he couldn't stop shivering. A tremble rattled through his chest, like something inside him was coming apart.
"Just dizzy," he muttered, his voice cracking halfway through.
Ginny quickly set the bowl aside, pressing both hands to his shoulders, steadying him. Her touch was firm but careful, no hesitation, no fear. Somehow, that anchored him more than anything.
"Let's get you lying back, yeah?" she said gently.
She shifted the pillows behind him, guiding him down slowly as he leant back. The movement churned his stomach, but Ginny's hands didn't falter. Bit by bit, she eased him down until his head could rest against her shoulder.
"I've got you," she whispered.
Her warmth settled around him—solid, steady. Her shirt was soft against his cheek, and her heartbeat was a calm, even rhythm in his ear. He let himself sink into her, his muscles loosening properly for the first time all day. He breathed her in—faint traces of her shampoo, something clean and floral, mixed with the familiar, comforting scent of the Burrow—broom polish, fresh bread, old books.
"You know," he murmured, his words slipping out before he'd thought about them, "I always thought you were the strongest person I knew."
Her fingers paused briefly, then resumed their soft, absent strokes along his arm.
"I'm not," she said, barely audible. "I'm just doing what I can."
"That's what makes you strong."
Silence settled over them—the good kind. The kind that didn't need filling. Outside, the wind rustled through the trees. The floor creaked softly beneath the house. Somewhere downstairs, a kettle started whistling.
The tightness in Harry's chest began to ease, bit by bit. He wasn't better. Not yet. But for the first time in what felt like days—maybe longer—he thought he could be.
"I'm here," Ginny murmured.
He didn't open his eyes. He didn't need to. "Will you stay?"
"I'll stay," she said at once.
There were a hundred other things she could've said. She didn't need to. Just that one promise, firm and simple, was enough.
A soft knock sounded at the door. It creaked open, and Mrs Weasley appeared, her face lined with worry.
"Ginny, love," she said quietly, "I've run a cool bath for Harry. It might help bring the fever down."
Her voice was gentle, but Harry could hear the strain beneath it—the quiet desperation. They'd tried everything. Potions. Old remedies. Even a few Muggle tricks in the end.
Nothing worked. The fever clung to him like a stubborn curse.
Ginny nodded, not taking her eyes off Harry. "Thanks, Mum."
Mrs Weasley gave her a small smile, then pulled the door to behind her as she left.
Harry's gaze, still a little glazed, drifted back to Ginny. "You don't have to—"
"I know," she said softly, cutting him off. "But I want to."