Ron lay on his bed, the warm afternoon sun filtering through the curtains and enveloping him in a cosy cocoon. It was one of those rare, cherished moments of peace, a brief respite from the chaos that often consumed his life. As he began to slip into a daydream, a muffled knock on the door pulled him back to reality. Curiosity piqued, he swung his legs over the bed and padded over, a smile spreading across his face as he opened the door to find Hermione standing there, her expression a blend of concern and determination.
"Hey, Hermione! Come in," he welcomed, gesturing for her to enter. Relief washed over him, her familiar presence soothing his mind.
Hermione's brow was furrowed with intense focus as she settled into the chair across from Ron. The serious expression on her face made him sit up a little straighter, anticipating what she was about to say. "You noticed that look I gave you at lunch earlier, didn't you? I suspected Harry was hiding something then."
Ron nodded solemnly, a worried sigh escaping his lips. "Yes, I did. Harry lied about feeling better when Ginny said he was resting. But I heard him getting sick in the bathroom again. He keeps refusing to take any healing potions, and it's really starting to worry me." His voice was low and tinged with concern.
"What do you mean, 'he keeps refusing'? Harry has always been so diligent about his health," she said, her voice wavering slightly.
"It's like he doesn't trust the potions anymore," Ron explained, frustration seeping into his tone. "He said they weren't helping with his pain, but he agreed to take them if he got sick again. I can't help but feel like he's just saying what he thinks I want to hear, you know?"
Hermione's gaze dropped to her trembling hands in her lap as she mulled over Ron's words in tense silence. Her mind raced with possibilities, desperately searching for an explanation for Harry's sudden, uncharacteristic change in behaviour.
"I wonder what could be causing this," Ron pondered aloud, his brow furrowed with worry. "It's so unlike Harry to refuse help, especially when it comes to his health. There must be something more going on that we're missing." A glimmer of deep concern shone in his eyes.
Hermione nervously bit her lip and absentmindedly tugged at her hair, clearly distressed. "He confided in me about his desire to end his life," she confessed in a hushed tone. "And I feel lost on how to help him."
Ron was visibly shocked by Hermione's revelation, shaking his head in disbelief. "Surely, Harry can't be serious about something so drastic," he exclaimed. "We must find a way to lift his spirits and show him the value of his life."
"I fear Harry doesn't grasp the profound impact he has on those around him," she acknowledged, her brow furrowing with concern. "We must ensure he understands the significance of his existence and the positive influence he has on others."
"Maybe he just needs a distraction," Ron suggested, his eyes lighting up with a glimmer of optimism. "I know I could certainly use one myself right about now."
Hermione's gaze lifted, her curiosity piqued. "What kind of distraction did you have in mind?"
Ron's gaze locked onto Hermione's. "Come on, you've been his best friend for years. Surely you know what Harry's favourite pastime is by now."
Exasperation flickered across Hermione's face. "How am I supposed to know his favourite hobby when you two are practically joined at the hip?" She retorted, brow furrowed like she'd just bitten into a lemon.
Ron stared at her, incredulous. "You mean to say you don't know that Quidditch is Harry's greatest passion?"
Hermione scoffed. "Quidditch? You think playing Quidditch is a good idea for him?" she asked sceptically, concern etched on her features.
"Yes!" Ron exclaimed, his voice brimming with excitement. "Getting back on the pitch could be just what he needs right now. The fresh air, the exercise, and having something to focus on other than everything else—it might be exactly what Harry requires."
Hermione opened her mouth, ready to argue, but then paused, struck by the conviction in Ron's tone. "You want Harry to play Quidditch right now? But he was sick just this morning. It seems rather reckless."
Ron's response came with a newfound urgency. "I know it sounds crazy, but Harry has been looking better recently. Some fresh air and light physical activity might help distract him from feeling unwell. It's worth a try, Hermione. I really think it could do him good."
"How do you propose to play Quidditch with just the two of you? No hoops, no quaffle, and Harry is still recovering?" She questioned; her voice was tinged with a blend of scepticism and pragmatism.
Ron considered the dull drumming of anxiety in his own chest as he took in Hermione's hesitance. "Who said it would be just us two?" He shot back, his tone brightening. "You and Ginny can join us. I'll improvise something as a makeshift quaffle. It doesn't have to be an official game—it'll just be a fun way for us to spend time together."
Hermione's expression grew troubled as Ron's enthusiastic energy swirled around her, like the eerie silence before a Quidditch match. The harsh realities of Harry's injuries haunted her thoughts. "There are so many ways this could go wrong for Harry," she said, her voice laced with concern. "Plus, I'm terrible at Quidditch, and you know how much I hate flying around on broomsticks! I also want to help Harry, but..."
She hesitated, acutely aware of the heavy burden she felt. Anxiety over her own limitations wrapped its tendrils around her resolve. But just as quickly, she caught Ron's eager gaze, and the infectious excitement lit up his face. It was hard for Hermione to resist, especially when it came to helping Harry.
"Argh! Okay, I'll play," she finally relented, though reluctance threaded through her voice like a thin veil. Despite her consent, a dull, foreboding sensation settled deep in her stomach—a warning she couldn't shake.
Ron, lost in his own daydreams, had not been listening to Hermione's concerns about the gravity of the situation. "Oh, Harry's going to be thrilled when he hears!" he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "This is going to be awesome!"
Hermione arched an eyebrow, a wave of protective instinct washing over her. "If Harry's hurt, I promise I'll do more than just jinx you. Trust me, you'll regret it."
Ron merely chuckled, unfazed by her words. "Take it easy, you maniac," he replied, an irrepressible smirk tugging at his lips. "Obviously, I'll make sure Harry's safe. We haven't even asked him yet; he may refuse, but I doubt it. That's just not who he is."
Concern etched across his face, Ron hovered at the base of the stairs, his anxious gaze flitting between the sleeping form of Harry on the sofa and Ginny, who sat nearby, her brow deeply creased as she pored over the Daily Prophet.
"Any good news?" Ron's voice cut through the heavy silence as he leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the newspaper in front of them.
Ginny's head shook forcefully, her brow furrowing deeper in frustration. "Not really. Just more requests for Harry to make public appearances and other nonsense."
Ron glanced back at Harry, recalling the pure joy that would spread across his friend's face whenever they flew together. "How's he doing?"
Ginny's tone held a glimmer of optimism, but it was clouded by a hint of concern, a subtle trace of unease visible in her expression. "I think he's alright."
Ron's eyes softened as they landed on Harry, who slumbered peacefully. "Hey, Harry!" He called out. He gave his shoulder a gentle, playful shake.
Ginny's expression instantly shifted to one of alarm. She swiftly reached out and grasped Ron's arm, her eyes wide with panic. "What are you doing?" she demanded.
Stirring from his deep, restful sleep, Harry's eyelids fluttered open. He blinked groggily, his gaze eventually focusing on Ron and Ginny standing over him.
"Are you alright, mate?" Ron asked, his voice tinged with concern as he studied Harry's bewildered expression.
Harry blinked rapidly, his brows knitting together in puzzlement. "Did something happen?" he asked, his tone laced with uncertainty.
Ginny's gentle voice cut in, soothing and reassuring. "No," she said, her fingers tenderly brushing through Harry's unruly hair. "Go back to sleep. Ron just woke you up for no reason."
"That's not true!" Ron protested. "I wanted Harry to play Quidditch with me."
Ginny's expression hardened. "Harry's not fit to play right now. Do you want him to get hurt?" She admonished.
"It's just a friendly game," Ron defended, undeterred. "We'll play with a quaffle; it won't be too challenging." We'll play with a quaffle; it won't be too challenging." His excitement bubbled up, a grin spreading across his face.
Dumbfounded, Ginny stared at Ron as though he had lost his mind. "I said—" she began, her voice laced with frustration.
"I can play," Harry interrupted, his eyes flickering with a steely determination Ron hadn't seen in a while.
Ginny's expression shifted to sheer disbelief as Ron's grin widened, undaunted by her objections.
Excitement bubbled within Harry as he spoke, his body practically vibrating with anticipation. "I haven't flown in ages, but I no longer have my Firebolt—I lost it when we left Privet Drive. I'll need to borrow a broom if I'm going to take to the skies again."
"We have spare brooms you can use," Ron eagerly offered. "Go grab one."
Harry nodded, feeling a surge of energy coursing through his body as he stood up. "Alright, let me change first. I'll be back shortly," he replied.
Harry bounded up the stairs, his energy infectious. Ron felt a glimmer of hope stir within him. But the moment Harry vanished from view, Ginny's piercing gaze snapped back to Ron, her eyes sharp and accusing.
"You know Harry isn't feeling well, Ron. If anything happens to him—" Ginny's voice trembled with concern.
"He seemed eager to go," Ron argued, his tone rising defensively. "So why not let him have some fun? He'll be okay, Ginny. Let him enjoy himself for once."
Ginny's response was harsh. "Enjoy himself?" Ron could see the anguish etched across her face. "You know what I mean."
A wave of guilt washed over Ron, his heart sinking. He spoke in a hushed, trembling voice, "He needs this. When was the last time you saw him so genuinely happy? Especially since..." Ron's voice trailed off, unable to finish the devastating thought.
"Since what?"
Ron hesitated. "Since he's been wanting his life to end."
The charged words hung heavy in the air between them. Ginny's eyes flew wide, a mix of fury and disbelief etched on her face. "Harry would never think that!" she cried out, her voice laced with anguish. "He has so many reasons to keep going, to keep fighting!"
"After lunch, he opened up to Hermione," he confessed in a sombre tone. "He said he feels utterly hopeless and has lost the will to go on."
Ginny's face fell, etched with anguish as she gazed at her brother.
Ron's words poured out with a sense of urgency. "That's precisely why I think we should go through with this!" he insisted. "I know the timing isn't ideal, but when is it ever perfect?" His voice trembled as memories of Hermione's warnings haunted him. "We need to distract him and boost his morale. Otherwise, his depression might consume him. You can hex me later, but Harry needs this distraction now more than ever."
The sound of rushed footsteps thundered down the stairs, and Harry suddenly reappeared, a broom clutched tightly in his hand. A glimmer of excitement danced in his eyes as he looked at them. "Ready?" he asked, his voice brimming with anticipation.
Before Ginny could respond, Ron stepped forward, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Always," he replied eagerly, his tone laced with a familiar sense of adventure.
Hermione followed closely behind, exchanging a knowing look with Ginny. Their expressions conveyed a mix of understanding and subtle reservation about indulging in yet another one of Harry and Ron's impulsive plans.
Harry's heart raced with anticipation as he stood near the weathered wooden goalpost that marked one end of their makeshift Quidditch pitch. The sun above was a radiant ball of gold, spilling its warmth onto the lush garden and making the grass glimmer as if it had been sprinkled with dew. It was a perfect day for a Quidditch match—a day that had the potential to distract him from the shadows lingering in the corners of his mind.
Gripping his broomstick, Harry felt a sense of reassurance wash over him—this well-worn tool had carried him through countless thrilling flights. Around him, his friends Ron, Ginny, and Hermione eagerly prepared for their light-hearted aerial duel, their expressions brimming with good-natured competitive spirit.
Ron gripped the Quaffle. Stepping into the centre of the Quidditch pitch, he faced his friends, his voice ringing out with a hint of nervous anticipation. "Alright, everyone," he began, clearing his throat before continuing, "since there are four of us, we need to even out the teams. I'll choose Ginny to join me."
Harry's eyes flickered to Hermione, sensing her scepticism even before she spoke. Her forehead creased in concern. "That doesn't seem fair, Ron. Both you and Ginny are skilled Quidditch players."
A sly grin spread across Ron's face. "Don't worry, Hermione. You've got Harry on your team. Trust me, we don't stand a chance."
Harry chuckled, the familiar banter warming him and pushing away the darker thoughts that had threatened to take hold.
Ginny's competitive spirit flared as she arched an eyebrow at Ron, her eyes glinting with determination. "Why am I even on your team? I'm ready for a real challenge!" she declared, tossing her hair with a flick of her head. "I won't let Harry win this game," she added, her voice laced with a hint of playful defiance.
Harry watched Ginny's fierce expression with a mix of admiration and amusement. "Are you sure about that, Ginny?" he teased, emboldened by her challenge.
"Bring it on, Potter!" Ginny shot back, meeting his playful stare with a combination of defiance and affection. "Just because we're dating doesn't mean you'll have an easy win."
Amused by Ginny's competitive edge, Harry raised an eyebrow, his eyes dancing with excitement. "Is that a threat?" he asked playfully.
Ginny responded with a mischievous grin. "Only if you feel the need to be threatened."
As Ron and Hermione exchanged warm, knowing smiles, a sense of lightness and comfort seemed to permeate the air around them. Harry felt a rush of nostalgia, deeply missing the easy camaraderie, the laughter, and the simple joys of their friendship. Whatever uncertainties or worries lingered in the back of his mind faded away in these precious moments, if only briefly.
After a beat, Ron cleared his throat, refocusing their attention. "Alright, let's get started! The first team to reach twenty goals wins! Let the game begin!" he announced, his voice brimming with excitement.
With determined glances exchanged, Harry and Ginny's competitive spirits soared, ready to take to the skies. But Hermione voiced her concern with a furrowed brow. "Twenty? We'll be here until midnight!" Her anxious gaze darted between Ron and the others, betraying her worry.
Harry couldn't help but chuckle, a familiar ease settling over the banter. "Don't worry, Hermione," he reassured, though a flicker of unease lurked beneath his confident tone. "You're with me. We make a pretty good team."
As Harry's eyes met Hermione's, a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. "Are you sure you're up for this?" she asked, her voice laced with genuine concern. "You look awfully pale."
Harry wanted to brush off her worries. "I'm fine, really," he insisted. "Let's just focus on winning the game." But even as the words left his lips, he felt a familiar exhaustion seep into his bones—a heaviness he'd been carrying for longer than he cared to admit.
Hermione relented, albeit reluctantly. "Okay," she said.
Desperate to distract himself from his own physical discomfort, Harry had been tempted to take a nap, as promised to Ginny. But sleep eluded him, plagued by pounding headaches and queasiness that kept him awake. It was only when Ron found him feeling unwell in the bathroom that Harry finally allowed himself a brief moment to rest on the couch. Yet despite his weakened state, the prospect of playing Quidditch with Ron proved too enticing for Harry to pass up, leading him to stubbornly ignore his health issues.
As Harry climbed onto his broomstick, his heart raced with nostalgic excitement. Quidditch had always been his escape, a way to soar above the drudgery of the world. Pushing aside the nagging ache in his head, he was determined to immerse himself once more in the pure thrill of the game.
As if on cue, Ron and Ginny flew into view, riding their shiny broomsticks, a matching grin stretching across their faces. Ron, with a ruddy complexion that reflected both the sun and his excitement, puffed out his chest. "Ready to lose, you two?"
"Focus on your own game, Ron!" Hermione shot back, twirling the Quaffle in her hands, her piercing gaze now set on the approaching siblings. "It's all in good fun, after all!"
"Good fun?" Ginny chuckled. "You can count on us to make sure you know what that really means."
And so, the event commenced.
They immediately took to the air, broomsticks slicing through the dusk as they took their positions. The exhilaration of the wind whipping past Harry's face sent a familiar thrill tingling through him. They hadn't played competitively for a year, yet in the air, everything felt like old magic—it brought back memories of Hogwarts, camaraderie, and the sheer excitement of the game that had once dominated their youthful lives.
With a quick glance exchanged between Harry and Hermione, a silent understanding formed. They needed to channel their abilities—their teamwork would wield a formidable force against Ron and Ginny's battling repertoire.
The Quaffle was tossed into the air, and as it soared, Harry and Hermione shot forward. Harry executed a tight loop, anticipating where the ball might land, while Hermione changed trajectories with a surprising quickness. Together, they penned their opponents against the goalposts, weaving strategies their opponents struggled to interpret.
As the Quaffle spun manoeuvrably between them, Ron let out an indignant shout. "No fair ganging up on us!"
Ginny wheeled around, canny as always, darting in and out like a hawk seeking its prey. "You two are going to regret that!"
In a flash, Ginny stole the Quaffle with a deft move, sending Harry and Hermione into hot pursuit. Just as they closed in, Ginny unleashed a swift pass back to Ron, who shot toward the hoops. Harry hastened to block the upcoming score, while Hermione darted alongside him, their instincts synchronised like clockwork.
As Ron neared the goal, Hermione leapt off her broom for a splendid intercept, managing to snatch the Quaffle on the very edge of a harrowing dive, crashing into the soft grass below. The impact knocked the breath out of her, but the triumph outweighed the minor injury.
"Did you see that?" She puffed, tossing the Quaffle back into the air, her spirit undampened.
However, Ron was already there, swooping down toward Hermione. He caught the Quaffle and soared upward, looking to score. "You better catch up!" he shouted, a playful challenge that only ignited their competitive spirit.
The game continued; time ebbed and flowed as it often did during Quidditch matches. Their laughter rang out amongst the shouts, punctuated by the thrill of their plays and the occasional near-miss of the Quaffle. As the sun dipped lower, their competition evolved into pure joy—every goal attempt, counter, and celebration became stories etched into the air.
Hermione and Harry shared brief exchanges during the relentless chase, formulating an unspoken bond that danced effortlessly above the pitch. "Let's fake it!" Hermione suggested during a breathless moment, her myriad ideas illuminating every corner of the game.
"No right! Let's cut left!" Harry betrayed a slight smile, thrusting forward.
But Ron was clever, anticipating a feint, and Ginny had perfectly aligned herself behind him, resulting in a surprise shot. The Quaffle rocketed into one of the hoops with such force that Hermione and Harry barely managed to blink before Ron and Ginny erupted with a victorious cheer.
"Wow, nice one!" Harry said, slapping Ron on the back, while Hermione, panting, tousled her hair and beckoned to get the Quaffle back.
The play continued, and Harry felt the rush of adrenaline frame the fleeting moments.
As the match drew to the inevitable conclusion, the sun sank low, casting long shadows on the field. Ron and Ginny scored another, and another, their competitive spirits surging higher with every goal. They completed an extraordinary 12 versus 8, an accomplishment they celebrated with boisterous laughter and playful jabs.
"For practice, maybe we can focus on defending next time?" Hermione suggested, unable to hide her defeat behind a grin. The losses felt trivial, swallowed up in their collective joy.
"Or we could learn how to dodge!" Ron added with a laugh, only to receive mock glares from his sister.
Harry, light-hearted despite their loss, soared upward in a loop, casting joy into the evening air. As he hovered there, he gave his friends a mischievous smile before diving down, grasping both the essence of friendship and sport. "Next time, we'll have a rematch. And I'll have my Firebolt."
"Bring it on!" Ginny laughed, squinting up at him as he landed amongst them, content with how doubly bright their evening had been.
"I can't believe we actually pulled it off!" Ron's face radiated pure pride, his wide grin stretching from ear to ear.
Ginny chimed in, her face alight with joy. "I told you I wouldn't let Harry win," she said, beaming as she tallied her accomplishments in the sport she had masterfully dominated. Hands planted firmly on her hips, Ginny revelled in the moment like a champion who had just hoisted the trophy high overhead.
Weary but tenderly entertained by Ron's boundless excitement, Harry rested his back against the pleasantly cool wooden fence of the Burrow. "Ginny, you were absolutely brilliant. I knew you had it in you," he said, his voice brimming with sincere admiration.
As they strolled, memories of sun-drenched Quidditch afternoons at the Burrow flooded Harry's mind. He ached with profound longing for the infectious enthusiasm of Fred and George, who would have doubled Ron's excitement and transformed even small victories into grand, epic triumphs.
"Thank you for convincing me to play again," Harry said to Ron, a rush of gratitude swelling within him and momentarily easing his weariness. "I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed this."
Ron shrugged, nudging Harry playfully. "Anything for my best mate," he replied, his infectious enthusiasm brightening the air around them.
"Congratulations on the win," Harry added. "Good thing Ginny was on your team—without her, you would've lost!"
Ron laughed. "Yeah, I definitely owe her one for this victory," he acknowledged.
Hermione, who had been observing from the sidelines, let out a sigh of relief as the game ended. "I'm sorry," she said, turning to Harry with a contrite expression.
Harry simply shrugged and gave her back a reassuring pat. "It's all part of the fun," he said warmly. "You played wonderfully out there."
Exhilarated from the thrilling game, Harry carried that energy all the way to dinner. But as the adrenaline rush faded, overwhelming exhaustion swept over him. The gruelling match had completely drained him, to the point that he was shocked he hadn't given in to his weary body sooner. Weighed down by fatigue, Harry piled his plate high, desperate to regain his strength during the meal. Yet even as he ate, his heavy eyelids began to droop, signalling that he desperately needed rest.
"Ginny, that last manoeuvre was brilliant!" Ron exclaimed, his voice brimming with excitement and pride. "The look on Harry's face when you took the Quaffle from his hand."
Ginny's cheeks flushed, a mix of joy and irritation washing over her. She revelled in the thrill of Quidditch, but the effusive praise from her brother felt stifling, robbing her of the quiet satisfaction she craved.
"Can't I just savour my victory in peace?" Ginny muttered under her breath, longing to retreat into the comforting shadows of her usual reserved demeanour.
The air grew thick with Mrs. Weasley's protective instincts as she realised Harry had joined the game. Her brow furrowed with concern. "Ronald Weasley!" she exclaimed, scanning the room anxiously. "What were you thinking? You know how unwell Harry has been!"
Harry felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, glancing towards Ron, whose expression pleaded for understanding.
"Mum, I—" Ron began, but Mrs. Weasley cut him off.
"Do not 'Mum' me!" she scolded, her voice laced with both worry and frustration. "You could have put him in danger! You should know better than to expose him like that!"
Ron frantically defended Harry, his voice rising in desperation as if they were in the midst of a heated rugby match. "Nothing happened! He's fine!" he insisted.
Harry could feel the deep, weary pull of fatigue in his limbs, but the apprehension constricting his throat made it difficult to speak up and calm Mrs. Weasley's evident distress.
"Harry, please—" Ron pleaded.
Mrs. Weasley's threat carried a sharp edge of fury. "You had better pray I don't take away those broomsticks, Ronald! Otherwise, you'll find yourself grounded for the entirety of the summer!"
Struggling to find the right words, Harry tried to interject, "Mrs. Weasley, it was just—"
"No excuses, Harry," Mrs. Weasley snapped, her face flushed with fiery anger that mirrored the shade of her hair. "I've already made my decision, and this reckless behaviour will not be tolerated." Her voice dripped with disappointment as she reprimanded him. "Out of everyone, you should know better than to disregard your own health. This level of carelessness is highly upsetting. You've undermined all the measures we've taken to keep you safe! Until you've fully recovered, Quidditch is strictly off-limits."
Observing the pain etched across Harry's face as his mother reprimanded him, Ron quickly sprang to his friend's defence. "That's not right!" He cried with a fervent exclamation. "Don't blame him. He's done nothing wrong. It was my fault!"
Harry could only mutely witness his best friend's impassioned efforts to vindicate him.
"Then you're both at fault!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the kitchen with the sharpness of an alarm.
Ron's face darkened, tension building as he retaliated with frustrated aggression, stabbing his baked potato with forceful jabs. The table was enveloped in a heavy, oppressive silence, the sharp tension palpable to each of them. Hermione's eyes darted nervously between the two boys, unsure how to intervene without further escalating the confrontation.
Harry felt the weight of the confrontation pressing down on him, and he barely touched his food. The flavours turned dull, the potato growing cold as he lost himself in troubled thoughts.
Weary but relieved, Mr. Weasley returned home, his exhausted smile casting a comforting glow. As he sank down beside Harry, the familiar warmth of his presence momentarily lifted the boy's spirits. "I could only give Kingsley a quick note about the stone," he sighed. "Kingsley was rushed off his feet, darting in and out of his office with a flurry of people around him."
Harry's eyes fell to the floor, unable to meet Mr. Weasley's gaze. "Thank you, Mr. Weasley," he mumbled, his voice small and dejected. The Quidditch match had been a disaster, and Harry could barely summon the courage to defend himself, fearing that any hint of disappointment from Mr. Weasley would shatter his already fragile sense of self.
Despite Harry's sombre mood, Mr. Weasley's tone remained stubbornly optimistic. "It's a good thing you're here now," he said, offering Harry a warm smile. "I saw Teddy at the ministry today!"
The mere thought of young Teddy coaxed a faint, yet genuine smile from Harry's lips.
Mrs. Weasley's face blossomed with delight, the shadows of earlier hardship momentarily receding. "Isn't he the son of Remus and Tonks?" She chimed.
"Yes, he is," Mr. Weasley confirmed, his eyes twinkling with warmth. "And if I remember correctly, he's your godson too, Harry?" He asked, turning to Harry.
Harry's heart swelled with a profound, bittersweet emotion as he nodded gently, his head tilting in a gesture of tender concern. "How's he doing?" he asked, his voice barely audible, tinged with a mix of hope and trepidation. Though he had not yet met the newborn, the mere thought of that tiny, vibrant life filled Harry with a warmth that seemed to radiate from within.
"He's doing quite well, considering everything," Mr. Weasley replied, his smile broadening. "For only a month old, the little tyke can already change his appearance at will," he added, marvelling at the infant's remarkable abilities.
"He's a metamorphmagus?" Hermione asked excitedly, her eyes growing wide with wonder.
"That's right," Mr. Weasley confirmed, enthusiasm filling the kitchen. "And thankfully, he didn't inherit his father's lycanthropy, as Andromeda recently informed me. Instead, he seems to have inherited his mother's magical abilities."
Mrs. Weasley's face lit up with delight. "Oh, that's wonderful news!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together joyfully.
Mr. Weasley leaned closer. "It would be wonderful for you to visit Teddy, Harry," he suggested, eyes shining with hope. "I can only imagine how thrilled he'd be to finally meet his godfather, given the special bond you shared with his parents."
A wave of longing surged through Harry, but the harsh reality of his illness quickly extinguished it. "I'd love to, Mr. Weasley," he replied softly, his voice tinged with regret and a dull ache in his heart. "But my illness prevents me from doing so right now."
Beside him, Ginny squeezed his hand under the table, her touch grounding him in the moment and offering silent comfort.
Mr. Weasley rested a warm, comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. "Don't worry, Harry," he said softly, his voice soothing. "We'll make sure you get to spend time with Teddy. I'm sure Andromeda will be happy to bring him over."
Harry felt a surge of gratitude, a small smile spreading across his face as the reassuring words washed over him. "That would mean the world to me. Thank you so much."
Ron's eyes gleamed with curiosity as he turned to his father. "So, Dad, who does little Teddy take after?"
Mr. Weasley stroked his chin thoughtfully. "It was quite challenging to determine initially," he said. "Andromeda mentioned that Teddy had black hair from the moment he was born, despite possessing Tonks' talent for transformation."
Harry pictured little Teddy, his appearance shifting like his mother's, but with the constant, dark hair he inherited from his father.
Mr. Weasley raised his cup and took a sip of water. "I'm confident Teddy will achieve great things, just as his parents did. Though he lost them so young, Teddy has loving families to support him as he grows up."
A sudden wave of dizziness overcame Harry as he stood up to clear his empty plate. He felt the colour draining from his face, leaving him pale and unsteady. The leftover food scraps clung to the plate, mirroring the waning strength in his limbs. Gripping the counter for support, Harry blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but the room began to spin around him. A familiar, feverish heat rose up from within, a telltale sign that his illness was returning with renewed intensity.
Struggling to regain his composure, Harry took a series of deep, shuddering breaths in a desperate attempt to calm his racing mind. He couldn't bear the thought of disturbing the Weasleys, who were still peacefully enjoying their meal around the table. Despite his blurred and wavering vision, he forced himself to make the slow, unsteady journey from the kitchen to the sanctuary of his bedroom. Somehow, he managed to reach the bed, but his weakened legs could no longer support him, and he collapsed onto the soft, yielding mattress. The world spun sickeningly around him, and darkness began to creep insidiously into the edges of his sight.
Despite Harry's best efforts to conceal his sickness from the Weasleys, the illness lingered for several agonising days. He desperately tried to act normal for a day, but the charade quickly crumbled as he collapsed, unseen, in his bed—his worsening condition painfully evident. While Ron's insistence on the Quidditch match contributed to Mrs. Weasley's scolding, it was just one of the many burdens weighing on Harry. Seeking refuge from the family's prying eyes and Mrs. Weasley's concerned gaze, Harry secluded himself in his room, pleading the need for rest. Feeling guilty for pressuring Harry, Ron respected his friend's wish for solitude and left him to recover in peace.
Harry's body burnt with fever, but he tried to ignore the sickness coursing through him. He told himself he'd bounce back, that he was just a little under the weather. But denial weighed heavily on his heart.
Outside, Ron's voice rang out, a blend of annoyance and concern as he defended Harry's need for solitude. "It's only for today," Ron said, as if trying to convince not just Hermione and Ginny but himself. "He's not dying; he just wants to rest and regain his strength."
If only it were that simple. Harry grimaced in pain as he slowly pushed himself upright, the room spinning dizzily around him. A sharp pang throbbed through his temples, and he clutched the bed frame, willing the nausea to subside. He dreaded facing the Weasley family, knowing their warm, worried gazes would instantly shift to overt concern the moment they saw his haggard, weary expression. They had an uncanny ability to see right through his attempts at stoicism, reading his innermost thoughts and emotions as easily as an open book.
Overwhelmed by the spinning room, he sank back into the bed, taking a shaky breath. Squeezing his eyes against the dizziness, he burrowed deeper into the comforting warmth of the blankets, straining to make out Hermione's voice beyond the muffled sounds from the hall. Her tone was laced with a familiar urgency, the same as when they'd pored over assignments or dissected the complexities of potion-making.
"Harry's been pushing himself too hard! You know how he always tries to act tough, but it's just a front. If he's truly not feeling well, Ron, maybe we should check on him—"
"No, Hermione!" Ron quickly cut her off. "He'll come out when he's ready. He needs to rest right now." Ron's tone was firm but also tinged with understanding. "Besides, you know he'll just get upset if he feels like we're smothering him."
Harry chuckled softly at Ron's defence, but the laughter quickly turned into a violent, hacking cough that felt as though it was ripping something deep within his chest. He pressed a cool, damp cloth to his burning forehead and closed his eyes, desperately seeking even a moment of respite. He had to recover, to regain his strength, from whatever ailment had come to plague him.
Yet even now, as he lay trembling in bed, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he should have heeded the warnings of his own body. The exhilaration of being alive had become intertwined with an overwhelming exhaustion, amplifying the harsh reality of his illness.
From beyond his closed door, Harry could hear Ginny's persistent knocking and her worried cries. "Harry! Come on! Everyone's so worried about you!"
He appreciated Ginny's concern—he always had. But it twisted his heart to feel like a burden, even now. "I'm fine!" he called out, his voice trembling unsteadily.
There was a brief pause, and then Ron's gentle voice replied, "Really, mate? You sound absolutely dreadful. Just let me know if you need anything at all."
"I just need some quiet," Harry said, though the words hung heavy in the air like a fading spell. He was hoping that sleep would make him feel better when he awoke.
The next day, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny sat uneasily on the living room sofa, their faces clouded with worry as they discussed Hagrid's uncertain whereabouts. Hermione's anxious chatter filled the tense silence, while Ron drummed his fingers against the cushion, trying to distract himself from the growing concern they all felt. It had been two days since they last saw Hagrid, and a sense of dread hung heavy in the air as they reflected on his dangerous attempt to discover a wild Thestral.
Hermione's brow furrowed with frustration as she tucked a wild strand of frizzy hair behind her ear, the humid air only exacerbating its unruly nature. "There has to be a Thestral out there somewhere," she insisted, her tone laced with a hint of desperation. "I know they're rare, but they can't have vanished completely. There's just got to be one left."
Ron offered a reassuring smile, though his own uncertainty was palpable. "Hagrid will find one, I'm sure of it," he said, trying to convince not only Hermione but also himself. "He can see Thestrals, unlike the rest of us. We just need to be patient."
As the hours sluggishly ticked by, their collective patience began to fray. Harry had secluded himself in his room for over a day, sparking growing worry among his friends. Hermione anxiously glanced at the clock, its constant ticking a maddening reminder of the time rapidly dwindling away. Beside her, Ginny's fingers drummed against the sofa, her brow furrowed with concern.
Finally, Ginny could stand the tension no longer. "I can't take this anymore," she said, her voice tight with emotion. "We have to check on him."
They exchanged resolute, steely glances, their jaws set with determination as they ascended the stairs. Tension thickened the air around them as they neared Harry's room. Ginny reached for the doorknob, only to find it firmly locked.
"Why on earth would he lock his door?" she asked, bewildered. "He never does that."
Ron scowled, crossing his arms defensively. "Well, it doesn't matter. We can just use magic to open it," he declared firmly, unwilling to be deterred.
"Something must be wrong. He's hiding something again." Without hesitation, Hermione drew her wand, aimed it at the doorknob, and whispered, "Alohomora!" The lock clicked open, and she hurried inside Harry's room.
At first glance, the space seemed tranquil, bathed in the golden glow of summer sunshine streaming through the open window. But as they stepped further in, a troubling sight came into view. Ginny's eyes widened in alarm.
"Harry!" she cried, rushing to his bedside. His pillow was soaked in crimson, and his eyes were tightly shut, as if he were fighting through agonising pain. Worry etched deep lines across Ginny's face.
"Ron, hurry downstairs and grab a fever-reducing potion from your mom. Tell her Harry's extremely unwell again," Hermione instructed, her voice quivering with urgency.
Nodding, Ron dashed out of the room, his pounding footsteps echoing down the hall.
Biting her lip in worry, Hermione used a cleaning charm to meticulously remove the bloodstains from Harry's pillow. She perched on the edge of his bed, her expression etched with visible fear.
"Harry?" Ginny pleaded softly, her heart pounding with worry. But Harry remained motionless and silent, his face etched with the heavy burden of his pain.
"Why do you always hide things from us?" Hermione murmured, her brow furrowed with a mix of concern and disappointment as she gazed at Harry.
Moments later, Ron hurried back, breathless and clutching the potion in his hand. Mrs. Weasley rushed in after him, her eyes widening in alarm at the scene before her.
"What's happening?" she exclaimed, her voice laced with distress. Dropping to her knees, she took in Harry's weakened state and the trickle of blood from his nose.
Ginny, give your mother some space," Hermione gently urged.
Mrs. Weasley shot a stern, disapproving look at Ron. "Didn't I warn you that this could happen?" she scolded, her voice laced with frustration. Ron lowered his head, his features etched with guilt.
Taking the small vial from Ron's trembling hand, Mrs. Weasley turned her full attention to Harry, her expression softening with concern. "Harry?" she said tenderly, reaching a hand toward his pale, unmoving face. When he failed to respond, her voice grew firmer, tinged with worry. "Harry! Open your eyes, dear."
After a moment of agonising struggle, Harry's eyes finally fluttered open, blinking against the harsh, unforgiving light. His gaze met Mrs. Weasley's, which was filled with profound concern and anguish. "Mrs. Wea—" he croaked weakly.
"Shh, don't try to speak," she interrupted gently, her voice soft and reassuring. She held a potion out, guiding it carefully to his cracked lips as Ron steadied the vial for him. With a deep, pained breath, Harry swallowed the potion in a desperate, gulping motion, the medicinal liquid momentarily easing his suffering before he collapsed back into the pillow, spent.
"Where else does it hurt, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her tone soothing and maternal as she reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
Harry silently raised a trembling hand to his forehead, tears welling in his pained eyes. "It hurts. It burns," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Mrs. Weasley's heart ached as she looked at the suffering boy. "I can only provide a healing potion for your pain, dear," she murmured regretfully. "It may relieve your headache, but..." Her words trailed off as she produced a shimmering vial from her pocket.
Ron gingerly held the potion to his lips and drank, shivering as the elixir coursed through him. "It's still there," he whimpered, pressing his burning forehead against the cool fabric of the pillow.
Mrs. Weasley brushed Harry's hair back from his face, her touch gentle and soothing. "I wish I could do more," she said softly. "You're not alone, Harry. We're here with you. No more hiding, okay?"
Harry turned his head away slightly, eyes squeezing shut against the light and the truth of her words.