Harry sat hunched on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, the goblet cupped in both hands. It was heavier than it should have been, as though the weight of everything it contained had seeped into the metal itself.
The potion shimmered softly inside, a slow, silvery swirl that caught the afternoon light and twisted it into strange shapes. It reminded him faintly of memories being drawn from a Pensieve, except this wasn't memory—it was something far more dangerous. More final.
Everything was ready.
Slughorn, Hagrid, Mr and Mrs Weasley—they were all waiting outside the door. The protective wards had been reinforced, the ritual painstakingly prepared down to the last syllable, and the dose of the potion stabilised with absurd precision. The timing was crucial, Hermione had said. The window was narrow. No margin for doubt.
Harry's fingers tightened faintly around the stem of the goblet, the cool metal pressing into his skin.
He could feel it now—the quiet, unmistakable coil of panic tightening in his chest.
He didn't know exactly what it was he needed—only that he couldn't do this.
Not without seeing them first.
It was a small thing, perhaps. A selfish thing. But the thought of stepping over that threshold—of beginning whatever this was meant to be—without saying anything to Ron, Hermione, or Ginny, made something seize inside him.
They were the last people who'd seen him whole.
He pressed the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, trying to push away the heaviness behind them. A shiver worked its way through his shoulders. He was so tired. Not just bone-tired, not just soul-deep—all the way through. Like the light had gone out somewhere inside him and he'd only just noticed.
He could hear Hermione's voice in his head now—clear, brisk, and a little exasperated.
"Harry, you can't delay this, not even for a minute. The stabilisation of the brew depends on immediate ingestion once activated. You know that."
She'd be pacing, likely chewing her bottom lip, not meeting his eyes in case she cried. Ron would be there too, standing awkwardly behind her, his hands stuffed into his pockets, trying to act like everything was fine. He'd make a joke, maybe. Something stupid and half-hearted, because he wouldn't know what else to do.
And Ginny…
Ginny wouldn't try to talk him out of it. She wouldn't try to talk him into it either. She'd just look at him—that way she had—and somehow, that would be enough. Somehow, it always had been.
Still, asking felt wrong. Unfair. Everyone had already given so much, had risked so much. They were all waiting for him now. For this moment. Counting on him not to falter.
But if he walked out of this room and began without seeing them—without speaking to them—it would feel like something tearing loose inside him. Something fragile. Something he might not be able to put back again.
The silence pressed in. The goblet still rested in his hands, smooth and unyielding, the potion within undisturbed.
He drew a shaky breath and raised his voice, just enough to be heard beyond the door. It cracked as it came out.
"Mrs Weasley?"
There was barely a pause before she appeared, her hand already on the door as though she'd been standing on the other side the entire time. Which, knowing her, she probably had.
She didn't say anything at first. Just took one look at him, and in her face he saw no anger. Only concern, and the quiet exhaustion of someone who had already watched too many people she loved stand at the edge of something unknown.
"I…" He cleared his throat and tried again. "I need a bit more time. Just—just a few minutes. Please."
Her eyes didn't soften, exactly, but there was something in them—some flicker of understanding that hadn't dulled over the years, no matter how many battlefields she'd nursed.
She gave a small nod, though her mouth was pressed tight.
"If you start feeling worse," she said, voice low but firm, "you call for us. At once, Harry. Promise me."
He nodded, the lie sitting heavy on his tongue. "I promise."
She lingered a moment longer, her eyes sweeping over him as if trying to memorise every line of his face. As though she might miss something vital. But in the end, she didn't say whatever it was that had risen to the tip of her tongue. She simply pulled the door shut behind her.
Wrapped in layers of blankets Ginny had insisted on—though Harry suspected most of the fuss was more for her sake than his—he shuffled slowly across the windswept back garden of Shell Cottage, the dull throb in his side pulsing with every step. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny flanked him on either side, moving with careful silence.
They didn't speak. There was a heaviness in the air that didn't need words. The wind did all the talking—cold and salt-slick off the sea, whistling low through the grass, carrying with it a hush that pressed against the bones.
Ahead, nestled near the cliffs where land gave way to a vast expanse of sea and sky, stood Dobby's grave. It was just as Harry remembered—small, modest, and defiant in its simplicity. The weathered headstone bore only the words, etched by hand:
HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF.
Someone had left fresh flowers at the base—irregular, mismatched blooms in cheerful, clashing colours. Luna, most likely. No one else would have thought to pair tulips with dandelions and a single white feather. They looked as though they'd been placed there with no thought for arrangement, only heart.
Harry eased himself down slowly into the grass, wincing as pain lanced through his side like a red-hot wire. He said nothing, but Ginny was already there, kneeling beside him, rearranging the blankets with trembling fingers she tried to keep steady.
"I'm fine," he murmured, though he knew she wouldn't believe it. He didn't quite believe it himself.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the stone, cool and rough beneath his touch.
I wish you were here, Dobby. I wish you could tell me how to be brave.
The grief came fast and full. It pressed behind his ribs and lodged in his throat, threatening to spill out in a breath too heavy to contain. It didn't matter how many days had passed—it still hit him like a curse. Sudden. Unfair.
He looked out across the sea, the horizon pulled tight with pale grey clouds. Waves heaved below, colliding with the cliff face in restless rhythm.
A fresh jolt of pain twisted through him, sharp and sudden, and his hand clenched at the edge of the blanket before he could stop himself.
Ginny's head snapped up. "Are you all right?" she asked, low but urgent.
Harry forced his eyes open and met her gaze. There it was again—that brightness in her face that wasn't light at all but worry she couldn't quite hide.
Ron and Hermione stood a few steps behind, still and watchful. Ron's arms were crossed tightly over his chest. Hermione's eyes were too wide.
"I get… pain sometimes," he said at last, reluctant. The words scraped out, raw-edged and uncomfortable. "It's not as bad as it looks. I'm fine."
The smile he attempted was thin, barely more than a twitch. No one believed it, least of all himself.
Ron shifted. "Maybe we should go back—?"
"No." Harry's voice was firmer than he'd meant. He looked away, back at the grave. "I want to stay. Just a bit longer. I need to be here… with him."
No one argued. But the silence that followed thickened.
Ginny sat beside him and leaned into his side, her head resting gently against his chest. He closed his eyes, willing himself to stay present, to not drift off into the dark recesses of his thoughts. Her presence was steady. Her heartbeat a quiet counter to the pull of everything else.
His mind, traitorous as ever, conjured names in quick succession—Dobby. Fred. Lupin. Tonks. Sirius. Dumbledore. So many lost. Too many for someone his age to carry. Yet he did. Carried them like stones in his pockets. Some days he sank beneath them.
"I miss Dobby," Hermione said suddenly. Her voice was soft. She was sitting cross-legged now, close to the grave, fingers toying with the grass.
"He was braver than any of us," she added. "He never hesitated. He always knew what the right thing was—and he did it. Even when it cost him."
Ron let out a sound between a scoff and a laugh. "Still can't believe he called me Wheezy."
Harry exhaled, a breath that wasn't quite a laugh either. "He wasn't just brave," he said, fingers trailing across the stone once more. "He was loyal. All the way through. He was—" He paused. Swallowed. "He was a proper friend."
But even that word felt inadequate. Too small for what Dobby had been.
Hermione looked at him, eyes shining. "You were his hero, Harry," she said softly. "He loved you. He trusted you completely."
A lump formed in his throat, hot and unmovable. His jaw clenched. His chest tightened again.
I don't deserve that.
Ron's voice came low and uncharacteristically gentle. "He chose to help you, mate."
But Harry barely heard him. The wind, the waves, the sharp ache in his ribs—it all faded under the weight of a single truth.
"He died because of me," Harry whispered, staring at the grave as though it might suddenly offer absolution. "He was trying to save me. He shouldn't have had to."
Ginny rose beside him, her movements sharp and sure, a blaze of indignation in her eyes.
"He died because Bellatrix killed him," she said, voice low and tight with fury. "Not because of you."
Harry stared down at his hands, jaw clenched. He could still feel the weight of Dobby's body in his arms—the cold limpness of him. It haunted him, not in dreams but in the quiet moments, like this one, when the ache was too close to speak around.
"I told him not to try and save me again," Harry muttered. The guilt churned in his stomach, thick and curdling, something heavy and permanent. "I told him. I begged him not to. But he didn't listen. He—he died… because he thought I was worth saving."
"You are," Hermione said at once. Her voice cracked with emotion. "You always were."
Harry didn't argue. He just let the words land. Somewhere, deep down, he wanted to believe her. But that place inside him still whispered otherwise.
Ron stepped forward then, quiet and steady, and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. It was a simple gesture. But it said everything.
"Dobby made his choice," Ron said quietly. "Same as the rest of us."
And Harry looked at them. Ron, with his stubborn loyalty and surprising wisdom; Hermione, blazing with conviction; and Ginny, fierce and unwavering, her eyes fixed on his as if willing strength into him.
They had stood with him through every trial, every darkness. They had followed him through fire, through death, through decisions that might have broken lesser people. They were scarred, all of them, but still standing. Still with him.
"You three…" His voice caught. He swallowed and tried again. "You're my family. You always have been."
Hermione's eyes filled at once. She turned away quickly, blinking hard and wiping her face with the sleeve of her cardigan. Ron looked off at the sea, clearing his throat as if the wind had suddenly picked up dust.
Ginny leant in close, her forehead pressing softly against his temple. Her voice was barely more than a breath.
"And you're ours," she whispered. "Always."
Harry closed his eyes. He let it wash over him—that warmth, that fierce, undoubting love. The kind of love that asked nothing and gave everything.
If the ritual went wrong…
If this is the end…
Then this—this—was what he would carry with him. This moment. These people.
"I love you," he said, the words low and rough, stripped bare. "All of you. Thank you… for everything."
The words hung in the air like something sacred, weightless and full. No one rushed to answer. The silence was its own kind of reply.
Harry felt like he'd cracked something open inside himself—some old, locked-away place that had long forgotten light. And now the light had poured in, unrelenting and warm.
Still, something more rose up inside him—urgent and unspoken. The words gathered and spilt before he could stop them.
"Not everyone's lucky enough to have friends like you," he said, voice thick. "Before Hogwarts… before you lot… I didn't have anyone. No friends. Dudley made sure of that."
He paused. Just saying the name dredged up old memories—dank cupboards, bruises, silence, and the awful sense that he was invisible and too visible at once. A freak.
"I was different. And I paid for it. Every day."
The sea spoke in low, patient growls against the cliffs, steady and ancient.
Harry's gaze drifted to the horizon, to that far, blurred line where sea met sky. His thoughts stretched with it—flickers of a childhood lived in cupboards and shadows, meals scraped from cold plates, kindness a foreign language.
"When I got my letter," he said, "I thought it was a mistake. I didn't think I'd make friends. I thought Hogwarts would just be another place where I didn't belong."
He looked down, twisting the edge of the blanket in his fingers.
"But then…" He smiled faintly, glancing up at Ron. "You showed up."
Ron's ears turned pink at once. Harry's smile deepened.
"At the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters," Harry said. "I thought I'd missed the train. I thought I'd be stuck with the Dursleys forever. But you… you helped me. You showed me how to get through. Sat with me. Shared your sandwiches. You were my first friend."
Ron let out an awkward laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, well. You looked properly lost. Figured you needed someone to stop you from getting flattened by the trolley witch."
Harry chuckled softly, the sound catching at the edges of his ribs.
"I did. I needed you. More than I ever knew."
He swallowed again. His throat felt tight. Raw.
"It was all so overwhelming at first," he admitted. "The spells, the history… everyone seemed to know things, and I didn't even know what a wizard was until Hagrid told me. I kept waiting for someone to tell me it had all been a joke. That I didn't belong."
Ron's grin softened. "You were hopeless," he said fondly. "But you figured it out. You always did. You didn't just belong, Harry—you led us. You got us through."
Harry let out a groan and dropped his face into his hands, willing them to just stop before he melted into the ground.
"Please," he muttered, voice muffled. "Stop. You're making it sound ridiculous."
"That's because it is ridiculous," said Ron, with a bark of laughter loud enough to carry over the wind. "You're still the same bloke who used to scribble complete rubbish on Trelawney's essays and honestly thought 'Expelliarmus' was the solution to everything."
"And," Hermione put in slyly, her eyes glinting, "who once leapt on a troll's back before shoving his wand up its nose."
Harry gave a shaky sort of laugh, half mortified, half… well, something else. Affection, maybe. The ache in his chest wasn't the suffocating kind—it was sharper, yes, but warmer too. The kind that came when someone actually saw you, knew all your flaws and still… stayed.
He lowered his hands and looked at them. Ron with his windblown hair and smirk he couldn't quite hide. Hermione, smiling in that fond, infuriating way that made him feel about eleven years old again. Ginny, quiet but steady beside him, her presence like a heartbeat he could always find.
"You know," Harry said slowly, voice quieter now, "I couldn't have done any of it without you. Not just the essays. Or the trolls. All of it. Surviving first year… finding the Stone… fighting that bloody basilisk… the Triwizard Tournament…"
His throat tightened, but he kept going.
"I wouldn't have made it past the first night without you."
The truth of it hit him like a Bludger, right in the chest. And for once, he didn't push it away. How many times had they saved him? Not just from Death Eaters or cursed objects, but from that creeping emptiness? From silence? From being completely alone?
Ron shifted, like he was about to speak, but Harry pressed on before the moment could slip away.
"If you hadn't sat with me on the train… If Dobby hadn't blocked the barrier second year… If you hadn't followed me into the forest or played that life-sized chess game… I wouldn't be here."
Ron gave an exaggerated shudder. "Don't remind me about the forest. I still have nightmares about those bloody spiders."
Ginny and Hermione both laughed, and for the briefest moment, the grief that had been sitting on all their shoulders thinned. The fear, the uncertainty—it all ebbed, leaving behind something softer. Something almost golden.
Harry grinned, the kind that actually reached his eyes.
"Honestly, Ron, I thought you were going to wet yourself."
"I almost did!" Ron shot back indignantly. "Anyone would've, if a spider the size of a ruddy car was trying to eat them!"
Their laughter rang out, unrestrained, tumbling across the windswept cliff. For a heartbeat or two, Harry could almost believe it—believe that everything might be all right. Not because the world was suddenly safe, but because this was still here.
When the sound faded and the sea filled the silence, Harry turned to Hermione.
"And you…" His voice softened, something unspoken threading through it.
She blinked at him, caught off guard.
"Hermione," he said, the name steady and deliberate. "You've been my anchor. My brain. My moral compass."
A quiet chuckle escaped him. "You always knew when I was being an idiot—which, let's face it, was most of the time."
Her cheeks flushed faintly as she looked down, brushing at her sleeve. "Well. Someone had to keep you alive."
"You did more than that." His voice had dropped almost to a whisper now. "You kept me human."
Hermione looked up sharply, her eyes glistening.
"You were my light," Harry went on. "When everything else was darkness. You believed in me… even when I didn't."
A tear slid down her cheek. She laughed—a sound tangled between a sob and a smile—and brushed it away. "I just saw who you were before you did."
Ron leaned over, smirking. "Oi, don't get too sentimental. We'll never survive his swollen head."
Harry barked out a laugh, the sound rough but real. Emotion swelled in his chest—grief and love and hope all knotted together in a way that almost stole his breath.
Looking at them now, he understood with a quiet, aching certainty: whatever came next, this was what mattered. Not the battles. Not the glory. Not the scars, visible or otherwise.
This.
This impossible, stubborn, beautiful friendship.
"I love you," he said plainly to Hermione. "You're my home. You always have been."
Ginny squeezed his hand gently. Ron thumped his shoulder in that careless, brotherly way. Hermione leaned in, wrapping her arms tight around his neck, pressing her face into him.
Harry smiled through the sting behind his eyes, her tears stirring something deep and rooted inside him. His throat burnt, but he breathed through it—slow, deliberate—determined to hold onto every second.
Moments like these didn't come often. Maybe they never would again.
Ginny shifted closer against his side, her fingers threading through his once more. He squeezed back, grounding himself in her touch, in them.
A soft breeze drifted in from the sea, cool and salt-heavy, carrying the faint sweetness of the wildflowers that clung stubbornly to the cliff edge. Somewhere far below, the waves went on breaking against the rock face—patient, ceaseless—like they had been doing long before Harry was born and would keep doing long after.
He wanted—longed—to hold this moment still. To trap it, tuck it deep inside where nothing could reach it. He wanted the colour of the sky, all molten gold fading to rose, fixed in his mind. Ron's hair, catching the light like embers about to flare. Hermione's lashes were trembling as she blinked too fast, just as she had the day Hagrid had brought them back from the forest after the battle with the troll. Ginny's thumb traced slow, steady circles over his knuckles, her touch as sure and grounding as the moment she'd walked across the common room to kiss him before a Quidditch match.
The ache in his chest deepened, but it wasn't the old hollow, gnawing ache he'd carried since Sirius fell through the veil or since Dumbledore had slid from the Astronomy Tower. This was different. Sharper. Fiercer. Gratitude that burnt.
No one spoke for a while. They simply sat there—still, close—gathered around Dobby's grave. The headstone gleamed pale in the light, the carved words plain and true. They were wrapped around each other as though bound by a charm too ancient for any spellbook. Stronger than the Fidelius. Stronger than the Unbreakable Vow.
Then Hermione whispered, almost as if she feared breaking something fragile, "I'm sorry if I ruined the mood."
"You didn't," Harry said at once, the words escaping before he even thought. His voice was low but certain. He gave her the faintest of smiles.
Ron rolled his eyes in exaggerated fashion, letting out a long sigh.
"You've been there through everything," Harry went on, his tone steady now, though each word sat heavy in his throat. "Even when… well. Even when Ron wasn't."
He glanced at Ron, a shade too sharp to be only teasing.
"Oi," Ron said, arms folding over his chest. He tried to look offended, but the colour creeping up his neck betrayed him. "I've always been on your side. You wouldn't call me your best mate if I wasn't."
Harry caught the flicker of hurt beneath it and felt a pinch of regret. He let out a slow breath, rubbing at the scar just above his eyebrow, the way he did when he couldn't quite think straight.
"I know. You are. But… you did doubt me. During the Triwizard Tournament."
The words slipped out before he could stop them, and once they had, he didn't try to take them back.
"That hurt," he admitted quietly. "More than I ever said."
Ron's posture stiffened. For a moment, he just stared at Harry, startled, before looking away, eyes fixed on the darkening line of the horizon. His jaw tightened.
"I said I was sorry, didn't I?" he muttered. "I was… I was stupid. I know I was. I was jealous, and I was scared, all right? I've… always been scared of being second best."
The words landed like a stone in Harry's chest. Merlin, they were all so tired, weren't they? Not just from the war, but from years of carrying each other's hurts. Years of mistakes and pride and coming back anyway.
He thought of Ron in the Shrieking Shack, pale and furious over what he thought was Harry's betrayal. Of Ron walking away from the tent, his shadow swallowed by snow. Of Ron returning, soaked and shivering, diving into that freezing pool to save him.
"I know," Harry said again, with more weight this time. He leaned forward until Ron was forced to meet his gaze. "I forgave you ages ago. Couldn't stay angry with you even if I'd tried. You're my brother, Ron."
The quiet that followed didn't demand filling.
Ginny's fingers tightened around his hand. Hermione dabbed at her cheeks again, managing a tremulous smile.
Ron's grin returned, crooked and bright. "Well, just for that, I'm going to start giving you grief about my sister."
Harry's laugh burst out of him, genuine and unguarded. "Please don't. I'm not sure I'd survive your mum's wrath if she thought I'd upset Ginny."
Ginny elbowed her brother, eyes alight. "Don't even think about it, Ronald Weasley. Or I'll make sure Hermione gives you more grief than you've ever known."
Hermione crossed her arms with a smirk. "Don't tempt me."
"Oh, brilliant," Ron groaned, mock-offended but already fighting a smile. "Now I've got both of you against me."
Harry's and Hermione's laughter came at once, the sound mingling with the crash of the waves below. Ron broke a heartbeat later, shaking his head but chuckling anyway.
The sound of them laughing together—it had a strange kind of magic to it. Like the light of the Gryffindor common room fire after a freezing walk back from the pitch. It cut through the heaviness in Harry's chest, leaving something warmer behind.
When the laughter ebbed, Harry turned back to Ron. His smile lingered, but something steadier, deeper, sat beneath it now.
"But seriously," he said quietly, his voice gone rough, "thank you. You're the best friend I've ever had. You're my family. And I hope… in twenty years, we'll still be laughing about all of this. Everything we made it through."
Ron's grin faltered, softening. For a moment, there was something raw in his eyes. Then he clapped Harry on the shoulder—too hard, as ever—and said, voice thick, "We will, mate. We will."
Harry swallowed hard, the lump in his throat pressing until it hurt. He could feel the muscles in his jaw working, as though holding back everything that wanted to spill out.
Then Ron said, with a glint in his eye, "You're only saying all this because you're scared of what I'll do if you break Ginny's heart."
Harry gave a short, nervous laugh, glancing helplessly at Ginny for rescue. "Maybe a bit," he admitted.
Ginny rolled her eyes, but there was warmth in her smile—something steady and sure, as if she already knew his heart better than he did.
The laughter ebbed away, leaving a quieter sort of stillness in its place. Something gentler. The air seemed to soften as twilight deepened around them. Overhead, the first stars pricked the darkening blue, faint and far-off, as if the world beyond the cliff had drawn in a long breath.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught movement—Hermione's face folding in on itself. Her eyes shimmered, and before she could stop them, tears slid down her cheeks.
"Oh, Hermione—" He leaned forward instinctively, but she shook her head, brushing at her face with the back of her hand.
"Sorry," she whispered, voice catching. "I just—this means everything. You two. All of you. You're everything to me."
Before either of them could answer, she flung her arms around both boys, pulling them into a hug so fierce Harry felt the pressure in his ribs—but he clung back all the same, burying his face against the crook of her shoulder.
Ron gave a muffled grunt. "Oi, Hermione—ease up. Harry's already half-dead from snogging Ginny all day."
Ginny swatted him across the arm with a mock glare, though she was laughing too.
Hermione sniffed and pulled back, cheeks flushed, eyes still glistening. She gave a small, embarrassed laugh and sank into her seat again, trying—and failing—to wipe her cheeks discreetly. The smile tugging at her mouth gave her away.
Harry turned to her, speaking almost casually, as though keeping it light might stop the words from cutting as deep as he knew they would. "Thanks, Hermione."
She blinked, caught by the quiet weight in his voice, and when she looked closer, the truth on his face made her own soften.
He didn't stop—couldn't.
"You're…" He faltered, swallowed, and forced it out. "You're the best friend I could have asked for."
A faint laugh escaped him—thin and cracked. "You believed in me. Even when I was a right mess. Even when I didn't deserve it."
Hermione's lips trembled; her eyes brimmed again.
"You kept me going," Harry said. The smile he'd been holding fell away entirely. "You made me better. You taught me what it meant to be brave. And kind."
The sting in his eyes burnt hot now, and he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.
"You're like a sister to me," he whispered, pushing the words out through the tightness in his throat. "You're my family. You always have been."
And that was it. His voice cracked, his control splintering. The grief broke through, spilling over like a tide he couldn't hold back.
Hermione's face crumpled again as fresh tears rolled unchecked.
Across from them, Ron turned sharply. His face had gone pale, and his fists clenched at his sides, as if he didn't know what to do with the knot of emotion twisting in his chest.
"Look what you're doing to her," he said, his voice breaking on the last word. It wasn't anger—Harry could hear it—it was raw, helpless pain.
Ron stepped forward and pulled Hermione into him. She didn't resist, just buried her face in his chest, sobbing quietly as his arms tightened around her—tighter than Harry had ever seen Ron hold anyone.
Harry looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. His fingers curled into the coarse hem of his jumper, gripping it as though the wool could keep him tethered to the here and now, when every part of him felt dangerously close to splintering.
A sound escaped him—a laugh, though rough and choked, as if it had been dragged up from somewhere it didn't belong. He scrubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes.
"Listen to me," he rasped. "I sound like one of those poor blokes writing home from the front. Give me another minute and I'll be leaving you my Firebolt and a list of my favourite Chocolate Frog cards."
He tried to pitch it as a joke. He meant it to land lightly.
But his voice cracked on the last word, and the air seemed to crack with it. Hermione's quiet crying broke into harsh sobs; Ron's expression folded in on itself, like he'd taken a blow. Ginny leaned into him without a word, pressing her forehead to his shoulder, her whole frame trembling against his.
Harry shut his eyes. The tears he'd been holding back burnt, stubborn and hot. And then they were spilling—guilt, love, fear—all of it rising and too strong to resist.
I'm sorry, he thought, the words a desperate plea in his chest. I just didn't know how else to say goodbye.
But the fear was too big now. The truth was too sharp.
"I'm scared," he whispered, so softly he wondered if the wind might carry it away before it reached them. "I'm scared I won't get another chance. To say everything I need to say."
He swallowed, tasting the salt of his own tears.
"I'm scared this might be the last time."
Hermione shook her head, still clinging to Ron as though she could anchor herself in him. "No," she choked out, her voice fierce through the tears. "You'll have more chances, Harry. This isn't—this can't be—the end."
But Harry could feel it pressing in on him: the weight of what was coming, the steady cold certainty that he might not walk away this time.
Still, he smiled for them. Tried to. It was a brave smile, or he hoped it looked that way. But it was cracked all the same, and the tears slipped past it before he could stop them.
Ginny's hand slid into his, her fingers closing with quiet urgency, as if she could hold him in place by sheer will.
Ron's hand landed on his shoulder—rough, steady, the kind of grip that said, ′You're not going anywhere without me.′
None of them spoke after that. The silence between them was full, thick with the things they already knew.
Harry let it fill him. Let the ache run its course. He couldn't keep it out anymore, and maybe he didn't need to. Maybe it was time to stop trying.
He leaned forward and rested his hand on the little mound of earth before him. The stones marking the grave were jagged beneath his fingertips, sharp enough to sting.
For a long moment, he simply breathed, letting the sea wind whip through his hair, letting the air smell of salt and wildflowers. Letting the silence speak where words never could.
Thank you, Dobby, he thought fiercely. Thank you for saving us. For being braver than I was. For choosing freedom, even though it cost you everything.
His eyes slipped shut. The grief clawed hard at his throat again.
I'm sorry you're not here to see the world you fought for. I'm sorry we didn't save you in time.
Goodbye, Dobby. I promise—we'll make it matter.
He bowed his head once more, and the tears slid down his face, quiet and unseen.
When he finally rose, legs trembling from the strain of holding himself together, the others were waiting.
Waiting to steady him if he couldn't do it himself.
He looked down at the grave one last time, his chest aching, stretched too tight with all the words he couldn't speak aloud. Then he turned and walked back to them.
The lights of Shell Cottage glimmered ahead—small, warm, and fragile against the vast dark.
Harry moved towards them, stumbling but unyielding.
He didn't know what came next. Only that he loved them too much to leave anything unsaid. No matter what it cost him.
Harry's world was beginning to blur at the edges, as though the candlelight itself were conspiring against him. The wavering flames danced across the table, stretching into long, restless shadows that twisted over the walls. Every flicker made it harder to hold focus, harder to keep the room in place.
He could feel their eyes on him. Not speaking, but saying far too much in the way they looked—careful, deliberate, with a strain of something uncomfortably close to pity. It made his skin prickle. They looked as though they expected him to fall apart at any moment. As though the smallest touch might splinter him for good.
Breathing felt like an effort, as if he had to fight for every lungful. Thinking was worse still.
They all sat at the table, plates set before them, forks in hand. But no one was really eating. Forks scraped faintly against china every so often, the sound sharp in the otherwise muffled room. It wasn't a meal—it was staging. A pause. That hollow, watchful stillness before the break in the clouds, when no one dared name the storm they knew was coming.
The ritual. The potion. The hope—no, the desperation—that it might… fix him.
Fix him.
Harry wasn't sure he believed in the idea anymore.
Across the table, Mr Weasley prodded his dinner absently, his face pale and drawn. Beside him, Mrs Weasley's hands moved with mechanical precision as she cut a potato into small, neat pieces, though she never lifted her fork. No warm chatter. No gentle teasing. Not even the soft hum of conversation that usually filled the Weasley kitchen. Just silence. And in that silence, their fear was deafening.
Harry forced himself to lift the cup to his lips again, the Invigoration Draught sloshing faintly inside. The liquid hit his tongue—bitter, acrid, sharp—and burnt its way down his throat like acid. He grimaced but swallowed. For half a heartbeat, he hoped. Hoped for the faintest spark of strength, a trace of energy.
Instead, the nausea came. Swift. Merciless. It rolled through him like a great, dark wave. His grip on the edge of the table tightened, fingers curling hard enough to whiten the knuckles.
Then came the pounding—sharp and insistent—just behind his eyes. Every breath scraped at his chest. The pressure built, relentless. He pressed shaking fingers to his temples, willing it to stop, but the world only tilted harder.
It was too much.
He couldn't pretend any longer. Couldn't force a smile or square his shoulders and make them believe he was fine. Couldn't be strong, not tonight.
Maybe this is it, he thought vaguely. Maybe I'm slipping for good.
He was surprised by how little fear that thought brought with it. No rush of panic. No cold dread curling in his gut. Just… weariness. Bone-deep, soul-deep tiredness.
So tired that the thought of letting go felt almost like relief.
Here, at Shell Cottage, he wasn't alone. If it happened now—if he drifted away into that dark—he wouldn't be lying on cold stone or mud, staring up at a faceless sky. That, at least, was something.
He closed his eyes.
At first, the voices were faint and muffled, as though coming from somewhere far beneath the surface of water. Then, they cut through. Urgent.
"Harry! Harry!"
A hand on his shoulder—firm, but careful.
"Harry, are you alright?" Ginny's voice.
The sound steadied him, drew him up out of the dark. He forced his eyes open. For a moment the world swam—shapes and shadows shifting, refusing to settle. But then her face came into focus.
Her brow was knitted in worry, her eyes—warm, dark, and fierce—fixed on him. One hand gripped his arm as though she could hold him in place by touch alone.
"I'm okay," he croaked.
It was a lie. They all knew it. But it was the only thing he could say without breaking completely.
He tried to straighten up, to look less like someone on the verge of collapse, but the effort made the room pitch dangerously. He shut his eyes again to stop it, and when he opened them, Ginny hadn't moved. Her gaze was harder now. Determined.
"You're not okay," she said softly. "You need to lie down."
No rebuke. No fuss. Just a steady, quiet truth. The kind you couldn't wriggle out of.
Part of him bristled at it. The part that still wanted to prove he could keep going—that he wasn't beaten yet. But that was pride talking. And pride was useless when your chest felt like it was being crushed from the inside.
He gave the smallest nod.
Ginny was on her feet before he'd finished it, turning to the others. The scrape of chairs on the floor broke the fragile stillness as the room shifted into careful, purposeful motion.
"I'll carry yeh, Harry," Hagrid said gruffly, rising half out of his chair. His huge hands twitched as though he was worried he might snap Harry in two if he wasn't careful.
"No—" Harry's head jerked, and pain shot through his skull. "Just… help me walk. Please."
Hagrid's face softened, his beetle-black eyes warm with understanding. "Alright. Easy now."
Harry pushed himself upright, his palms braced against the table for longer than he meant to. The effort made his vision pulse, and for a moment his knees wobbled so violently he thought they might give out altogether. He clenched his jaw and forced them to hold.
Hagrid's arm was there immediately, solid and steady at his side. Harry leaned into it—not much, but enough to feel the unyielding weight of support beneath him.
Each step was slow and deliberate. His boots felt leaden, dragging against the floorboards. Breathing was no better; every inhale caught in his throat, scraping raw before settling heavily in his chest.
On his other side, Ginny walked close, her hand resting feather-light against his back. It wasn't pushing, wasn't guiding—just there. A constant, quiet reassurance.
"Slow and steady," she murmured, her voice warm against the cool air. "You're doing brilliantly."
Behind them, Ron and Hermione kept pace. They didn't speak, but Harry could feel them watching—ready to catch him if he faltered. Hermione's hand came forward once, her fingers curling briefly over his shoulder before slipping away. The familiar warmth of that touch spread through him, faint but cutting through the heavy numbness that had been creeping into his ribs.
He kept his eyes ahead, fixed on the door to the small bedroom. His bed was in there. A place where he could finally stop holding himself together for everyone else.
Tomorrow felt like another country—out of reach, shrouded in fog. He didn't know what it would bring. Whether the ritual would do anything. Whether he'd even open his eyes again after closing them tonight.
Hagrid's stride beside him was slower than usual, careful. Harry glanced up at him, unease prickling the back of his neck. Normally Hagrid's feelings sat plain on his face—worry, joy, pride, heartbreak—so open that anyone could read them. But now, his features were locked. His brow drawn in, his mouth pressed to a line that didn't shift.
"Hagrid?" Harry rasped, his voice catching. "You alright?"
The half-giant gave a faint jolt, as if yanked from a thought he'd been trying to bury. He gave a low cough and waved a hand vaguely.
"Eh? Yeah—yeah, I'm fine, Harry. Jus' thinkin', tha's all."
The words were right. The voice was wrong.
Hagrid didn't look at him properly when he said it. His eyes stayed a fraction too low, fixed on some point ahead. The furrow in his brow didn't ease. His huge hands, not holding Harry, kept curling and uncurling in a restless rhythm.
They reached the bedroom at last. The sight of it struck Harry with a strange kind of relief—the pale spill of moonlight across the floorboards, the faint, familiar smell of salt from the sea beyond the cottage. But even here, the edges of things felt blurred. Pain dulled everything, and the exhaustion was worse—sinking into his bones.
Harry let himself lower onto the bed's edge, his breath catching on the way down. The mattress dipped beneath him, and for a moment he simply sat there, too spent to move further.
Hagrid crossed the room in two strides. Before Harry could so much as lift his head, he was gathered into an embrace so large it shut out the rest of the world. Hagrid's arms wrapped around him.
Harry froze for a moment, startled, before the fight went out of him. His forehead rested against the rough weave of Hagrid's coat. He could feel the half-giant shaking—not from grief yet, but from the sheer strain of holding it back.
A lump rose in Harry's throat, sudden and tight. He hadn't realised until now how much he'd needed this—needed to be held, needed to be reminded he wasn't just someone to be kept alive for the sake of a war. That he wasn't a burden to be managed. That he mattered.
When Hagrid finally pulled back, his huge face crumpled. The first sob broke out of him—loud, raw, and sharp enough to cut through the quiet.
He stumbled a step back, fumbling in his coat pocket for a spotted handkerchief that looked far too small in his great hands. He pressed it to his eyes, but it didn't stand a chance. The tears kept coming, spilling fast and heavy.
Harry sat frozen, his chest aching in a way that had nothing to do with the illness. Words wouldn't come. His throat wouldn't let them.
Hagrid was meant to be the one who stood firm. The one who had a joke ready when things were too dark, who could make the world a little more bearable with a story about some ridiculous creature he'd nearly adopted. Seeing him undone—seeing him break—lodged something sharp inside Harry that he couldn't shift.
And it hurt worse than anything the sickness had managed yet.
Harry's fingers found Hagrid's arm. The fabric beneath them was coarse, warm from his body heat, and steady in a way Harry desperately wanted to be.
"Hagrid…" His voice barely made it past his lips, more air than sound.
The half-giant shook his head before Harry could say more. "I'm sorry, Harry," he managed, the words catching and dragging somewhere deep in his chest. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean ter— It's just—"
He stopped, his throat working, as if the rest of it would cut on the way out. When he spoke again, his voice cracked right down the middle.
"You're gettin' weaker," he said at last. "Every time I see yeh, you look… smaller. Paler. And I—I can't stand it, Harry. I just can't."
Harry swallowed, the words settling heavily in his stomach. He wanted to tell Hagrid he was wrong, that it wasn't that bad, but even forming the thought felt hollow.
Movement at the door drew his eyes. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny stood just outside the threshold, as though stepping fully into the room would make something too real. Ron's hands were jammed so deep in his pockets that his shoulders hunched around his ears. Hermione's gaze was fixed on Harry, wide and glistening. Ginny's arms were locked tightly around herself, her face pale and still.
Harry tried to smile for them, but the muscles in his face didn't seem to remember how. The expression sat wrong and twisted, and he let it drop.
Turning back to Hagrid, he forced some steadiness into his voice, willing it to sound more certain than it felt. "I'll be fine," he said.
But they both knew it was a lie.
Hagrid gave a clumsy swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand, the way a boy might pretend he hadn't been crying. A faint, wobbly smile crossed his face, meant to reassure, but it only made something inside Harry knot painfully.
"I believe in your friends," Hagrid said, his voice hoarse. "And I believe in yeh. Always have. Always will. It's just…" He faltered, swallowing again, his eyes too bright. "You've been like a son ter me."
The words hit Harry with more force than he'd expected. For a moment, the room tilted. He blinked hard, gripping onto the thought to steady himself.
"I…" He hesitated, then pushed through. "You've been like a father to me," he said quietly. "You were the first person who looked at me and thought I was worth knowing. Worth caring about. You gave me a home before I even knew what a home was."
Memories rose unbidden: Hagrid's huge hand settling on his shoulder in Diagon Alley, the proud smile as he passed over Hedwig's cage, and the unshakeable fury in his voice whenever someone dared speak against him.
"I owe you everything," Harry went on, his voice rough. "Everything good that's ever happened to me started with you."
Hagrid didn't speak at first. He only blinked, hard and slow, before lowering himself onto the floor with a groan of protest from his knees so they were level.
"You're a good lad," he said gruffly. "Too good fer this world, sometimes."
Harry shook his head. "I'm just surviving. That's all I've ever done."
"No," Hagrid said, gripping his hand so firmly it grounded them both. "You're fightin'. You've never stopped."
Harry bit the inside of his cheek. The sting helped hold the tears back.
"You've been through more than most wizards could dream up in their worst nightmares," Hagrid continued, voice thick. "Battles, curses, dragons… Merlin's beard, you practically lived in the hospital wing."
That almost brought a smile to Harry's face.
"And now this," Hagrid said, still holding fast to his hand. "This slow, rotten thing. It's not fair, Harry. It's not."
"No," Harry said quietly. "It's not."
The silence that settled wasn't easy, but it was solid. A truth neither of them had to pretend away.
Harry drew in a deep breath, slow and uneven. "But we'll get through it," he said, half to himself. "I have to believe that. I have to."
He met Hagrid's eyes. "I need you to believe it too. Please. For me."
For a heartbeat, he thought Hagrid might break again. The tears swelled, threatening to spill. But then the half-giant's shoulders squared, and he gave a single, trembling nod.
"Alright, Harry," he said. His voice shook—but didn't give way. "Alright. I believe yeh."
Harry managed a small smile.
He squeezed Hagrid's hand once more and didn't let go.
"Don't worry," Hermione said quietly. The words weren't loud, but they cut cleanly through the heavy stillness pressing in on them all. There was a steadiness to her voice—a solid, certain note that held far more weight than volume ever could.
Harry found himself clinging to it. Not physically, but in the same way you might grab hold of something in the dark when you don't quite know where the ground is. Everything else felt as though it might slip away at any second; her voice was the one thing holding.
"We'll give it everything we've got," she went on, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Just as we always have."
She managed the smallest of smiles—gentle, deliberate—and something inside his chest eased. It wasn't much, just enough that his lungs loosened and the air came a fraction easier.
"Yeah," Ron said, stepping out from behind her. He attempted a grin, but it was half-hearted, skewing sideways until it looked more like he'd bitten into something sour. "When have I ever let you down?"
Harry let out a short laugh. It sounded wrong, even to his own ears—thin and strained. Ron's voice had cracked halfway through the line, and it was obvious he hadn't meant it as a joke. Not entirely.
Hermione shot Ron a look—one Harry knew well. It was the same one she used when he'd forgotten to finish an essay or when Harry had insisted that the gash on his arm after a Quidditch match "wasn't that bad".
"Not exactly the most reassuring thing to say, Ron," she said, arching an eyebrow.
She gave a small shake of her head, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her, twitching upwards.
"And you wonder why I always have a backup plan," she muttered, more to herself than to either of them.
Ron rolled his eyes. "I'm just trying to keep the mood from going completely miserable. All this… doom and gloom—it's a bit much, don't you think?"
Harry wished he could join in. That he could laugh at Ron's attempt and brush away the knot tightening in his gut. But the heaviness in his chest wasn't shifting. Each thump of his heart felt weighted, deliberate, as though it were counting down to something none of them could stop.
"Ah yes," Hermione replied, tone perfectly dry. "Ronald Weasley—paragon of tact and composure under pressure."
The tease pulled the air in the room into something warmer. Just for a moment. Harry let it touch him, that flicker of almost-normal. He'd learnt to treasure moments like that—so rare now, they might as well be magic in themselves.
But Hermione's expression hardened in the next heartbeat. "If this spell fails," she said, voice turning sharp, "you'll wish you'd taken it more seriously."
Ron's smile faltered. A flicker of something raw passed over his face—uncertainty, quick and unguarded.
"Will it fail?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
The question landed with the weight of a Bludger. Harry felt it.
Ron's eyes shifted towards Hagrid. The half-giant's ruddy face was blotched pale, his massive hands flexing and curling, unable to stay still.
Hermione folded her arms, straightening as though to keep herself from swaying. She looked exhausted, but her voice stayed even. "I don't know exactly what will happen once it's cast," she admitted. "But losing our nerve now isn't going to help."
Ron gave a stiff nod, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. His fingers twitched against his sides.
The hinges of the door gave a long creak, and they all turned.
Slughorn stepped in, bringing with him the faint scents of herbs, parchment, and something floral that didn't quite belong. His eyes swept over the room, and the air shifted—not lighter, but different. As if an invisible line had been drawn across the floor; the time for pretending was gone.
"I trust," Slughorn began, his voice unusually measured, "that you'll all rise to the occasion." His gaze moved from Harry to Ron to Hermione and finally to Ginny, lingering just a fraction too long, as though he were fixing each of their faces in his memory.
Harry wondered, with a sudden uncomfortable twist, whether Slughorn truly believed they could do it… or if he simply didn't have anything else to offer.
Behind him, the rest of the Weasleys had begun to gather, drawn together as though by some unspoken summons.
Mr and Mrs Weasley stepped forward first. They didn't speak straightaway.
Mr Weasley reached for Ginny and Ron at once, pulling them into a fierce embrace.
"You can do this," Mr Weasley said simply, his voice low but certain. "It starts with believing you can."
Harry's throat tightened. He hadn't known how much he'd needed to hear that—how much he'd wanted someone to believe in them without question.
Mrs Weasley pressed a kiss to Ginny's hair, then Ron's. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but her smile did not falter—not once.
"We believe in you. All three of you," she said, her voice warm and thick with feeling. "You'll face what's coming—together."
Together.
The word struck Harry square in the chest. He felt it pulse there, as though it had its own heartbeat.
And then—before the meaning could fully settle—Mr and Mrs Weasley turned to him.
Their arms opened.
No hesitation.
They stepped forward, and they drew him in, holding him with the same fierce certainty they'd shown their own children. It was not the embrace of guests or friends—it was home, without conditions.
He closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar scents: Mrs Weasley's floral perfume, the faint scent of cooking herbs lingering in Mr Weasley's jumper, the warmth of wool and the enveloping safety of people who had chosen him long ago.
No words were needed.
But still, the whisper escaped him. "Thank you."
His voice cracked. He didn't care. Neither did they.
Mrs Weasley pressed a kiss to his forehead—gentle, lingering—while Mr Weasley's hand came down on his shoulder, a solid, grounding weight that kept Harry from feeling as though he might simply fall apart.
When they finally released him, Harry swiped quickly at his eyes, as though the motion might undo what had been seen. Of course they'd noticed. But no one said a thing.
Slughorn stepped forward again, holding three small cups. The sharp, unfamiliar scent that rose from them—bitter, metallic, with something faintly medicinal—hit Harry instantly, tugging him back to the present.
Ron, Hermione, and Ginny each accepted a cup in turn. The liquid inside shimmered darkly, colours shifting and folding over one another in a way that made Harry's stomach twist.
This was it.
They formed a loose circle round his bed, faces pale but set. No one spoke—the silence itself a kind of agreement.
Harry looked at each of them in turn. Ron's mouth was tight, his knuckles pale round his cup. Hermione's brow was drawn in concentration, though her eyes shone. Ginny held herself still, jaw set, gaze locked on his.
He cleared his throat. It didn't help. His voice was still rough when it came.
"Thank you," he said, thickly. "For everything. I don't know what's waiting on the other side of this, but…" He swallowed hard. "I'm proud of us. Of all of you."
Their answering smiles were small, fragile things—but real. Tired, yes. Afraid, certainly. Yet lit from within by something fierce and unshakeable.
This is family, Harry thought. Not by blood, but by choice. By everything we've faced and survived.
Slughorn raised the Anima book, its yellowed pages whispering faintly as he opened it.
"Emenda eum animum," he read aloud, the Latin unfamiliar and heavy on his tongue. "You must drink the potion first, then speak the incantation together—wands aimed at Harry. It must be perfectly in unison."
It sounded so simple. Harry's hands still trembled in his lap.
Without discussion, the others raised their cups in a shaky toast.
"To Harry," Ginny murmured.
They drank.
The potion burnt down their throats. Ron gagged; Hermione coughed into her sleeve; Ginny's face screwed up, eyes watering—but none of them stopped.
They lifted their wands. Fear flickered behind their eyes, but their grips stayed firm.
"Emenda eum animum!" they called together, the words striking the air in perfect time.
The air itself seemed to shiver.
From the tips of their wands burst a searing silver light—dazzling, hot—and the beams twisted together into a single, blinding thread.
Harry couldn't breathe. He could feel it—not just the magic, but all of it. Their love. Their belief. Their hope.
It struck him in the chest with violent force.
His body jolted; a gasp tore from his lips.
Through his blurring vision, he caught the last thing he'd see before the dark: Ron collapsing, Hermione folding forward, Ginny falling to her knees—
—and then nothing.
The world pitched away, swallowed whole by black.