The sea roared against the cliffs beyond Shell Cottage, waves thundering ceaselessly against the rocks. But inside the small house, in a cramped, dimly lit room heavy with the scent of potions and salt, the true storm raged not outside, but within Harry.
His body twisted violently atop the mattress, slick with sweat, every muscle straining. His chest heaved as he gasped and choked, raw screams ripping from his throat before he could stifle them. Blistering and savage pain lanced through him as if he were being split apart from the inside out.
He was aware, vaguely, of shouting. Distant at first, like a whisper through a wall, then suddenly closer, sharper.
"Harry!"
Mrs Weasley's panicked and cracking with fear voice broke through the fog. The front door had slammed open, and moments later her footsteps rang out along the corridor. She burst into the room in a flurry of motion, followed closely by Mr Weasley.
He couldn't speak or even cry out again. The pain was consuming now, spreading like cursed fire through his limbs. His lungs strained for breath, but all he managed was a feeble, broken sob.
Something heavy dipped into the bed beside him. Cool hands pressed gently to his forehead, brushing aside his damp hair with trembling fingers.
"We're here, sweetheart," Mrs Weasley whispered, her voice hoarse with unshed tears. "We've got you, Harry. You're not alone."
Her touch was warm and so achingly familiar it nearly broke him.
But not even that could soothe the agony curling through his chest.
Another violent convulsion ripped through him, and a fresh scream tore loose, cracked and animalistic. His back arched off the bed before he collapsed again, panting.
Around him, blurred faces hovered. Bill stood frozen in the doorway, features bloodless and tight, jaw clenched so hard. Mr Weasley lingered behind his wife, helplessness written in the lines of his face. Ron and Hermione were shoulder to shoulder, stricken, while Ginny clung to the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest.
He wanted to tell them to leave and to stop watching him unravel like this. To quit standing there silently grieving him while he was still alive.
He didn't want them to see this.
But he couldn't speak. He could barely think through the haze of it all.
"It's bad," Bill muttered, voice thick with frustration and dread. "None of the stabilising charms are working, and nothing's holding."
"It is like his magic's fighting us," Hermione added from Harry's side, wand shaking slightly as she cast another diagnostic spell. "As though it doesn't recognise his body anymore."
He felt something wet and metallic on his chin; blood. He could taste it.
He was drowning in it now. Panic clawed at him.
"Harry, just breathe. That's it. In and out, son, come on." Mr Weasley had crouched beside the bed, voice shaking despite the calm he so often wore like armour. "We've got you."
But the breath wouldn't flow. Not properly. Not enough. And somewhere deep inside, something dark twisted again, coiling tighter, tighter—
"Please," Hermione whispered, her tone cracking. "Harry. Stay with us."
He wanted to. Merlin, he desired to. But there was nothing to hold on to.
Only Ginny's firm hand in his. Her thumb brushed against his knuckles, her touch burning through the cold that had seeped into his bones.
Mrs Weasley had wrapped a blanket around him and was rocking slightly, as if he were a child again, ill at Hogwarts and needing comfort. Maybe she didn't even realise she was doing it. Perhaps it was the only thing she could do.
The surrounding voices blurred and fractured, and snippets of panic spilled out.
"How could this happen—?"
"…attacked at the Burrow…"
"…assaulted our son in his office—"
Then, through the haze:
"I told you, Percy, Harry's been at home all week," Mr Weasley said tightly. "You saw him yesterday, remember?"
"No," he snapped, voice high and cracking. "I wasn't even at the Ministry on that day. Didn't I mention I had fireplace inspections? I never went near the house!"
A beat of silence.
And then Mrs Weasley gave a horrible gasp that seemed to punch the air from the room.
"It was not Percy," she said, staring at nothing. "It was Yaxley. Yaxley, disguised as our son."
The quiet that followed was crushing.
Bill swore under his breath. Ginny's hand in Harry's twitched.
It all made terrible sense. It was too neat and too cruel.
Yaxley. At the Burrow. Inside their home. Wearing Percy's face.
And Harry had let him in.
He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, too much to bear. It had been his mistake. Again.
Mr Weasley's voice was flat now, hollow. "If Yaxley's still out there… then nowhere is safe."
He appeared to be a man whom someone had quietly broken.
"It's my fault," he added hoarsely, rubbing both hands over his face. "I should've seen it. I really should have known."
Harry wanted to speak, to tell him no. That none of this was. That it was Yaxley. The aftermath of too many battles.
But the words caught in Harry's throat, crushed beneath the weight of a guilt so suffocating it seemed to press down on every breath.
Because deep down, where no one could reach, where even Ginny's hand couldn't quite touch, he knew.
It was his fault.
Not entirely, perhaps. Not in a way anyone else would blame him for. But he felt it. The slow-burning truth of it.
He hadn't been fast enough.
Failed to be clever.
Everything was insufficient.
Mr Weasley sat silent, his head bowed, the lines of his face drawn tight with something heavier than mere shock. Now, his shoulders slumped, unable to bear the weight.
And beside him, Mrs Weasley tightened her grip on his shoulder, her hand firm, fingers trembling despite the resolve in her voice.
"You couldn't have known," she said, her tone gentle but iron-strong. "We'll get through this. We always do."
Harry wanted to believe her.
But the cold in the room told a different story. It settled in the corners, creeping under skin and bone, coiling around the edges of hope.
Near the door, Hagrid shifted, massive hands balled into fists at his sides. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, barely above a whisper.
"Ain' no family stronger than yours, Molly. Don' forget tha'."
His words were kind. Meant well.
But they fell like pebbles into an ocean; it rippled, then swallowed whole.
Harry pressed his eyes shut, trying to block out the ache, the sound of muffled sobs, and the smell of antiseptic that was clinging to him. He could feel Ginny's hand still clasped around his, but even that thread was fraying.
The world was narrowing. Collapsing inward.
And in the hollow behind his ribs, he braced himself. Not for the pain that was always there, ebbing and flowing, but for what was to come.
The fight.
The only thing that mattered.
The battle for his life.
And this time… he wasn't sure he could win.
The darkness surged fast and greedily suddenly. It swallowed him whole before he could cry out. One moment he was breathing; the next he was falling. No warning. No grip.
Voices shattered into distant echoes. Shapes blurred. Colours drained.
Yet through all faintness and fraying, he could still feel them. The pull of their hands. The sound of someone calling his name, far above. Like they were reaching down into deep water, and he was sinking too fast for them to follow.
"He's losing consciousness!" Hermione's high, strained, and shaking with fear voice rang out.
"Is he breathing?" Ron asked again, desperate now, frantic.
Harry wanted to reassure them. Wanted to tell them he was only resting, tired, and that he would be fine in a minute.
But his lips wouldn't move. His limbs weren't his.
As though he'd stepped out of his own skin and left something important behind.
His heart faltered, then kicked on again weakly and erratically.
"Keep him warm. Don't let him drift away. Talk to him," Mr Weasley's voice shook now too, cracking at the edges.
They all surrounded him. He could feel it. Mrs Weasley tucking the blanket in tighter around his chest, Ron's hand gripping his wrist, Hermione casting warming charms with fingers that trembled no matter how hard she tried to hide it.
Ginny was crying.
Soft, broken sounds that cut deeper than the pain ever could.
"Harry, mate. Stay with us, yeah?" His best friend's voice cracked like glass. "You're gonna be alright. Just… just hold on."
He wanted to respond. He attempted to move his hand, even a twitch, to show he was still in there.
And something moved, just the faintest tremble beneath Mrs Weasley's grip.
But the darkness was pulling harder now.
He was slipping.
And with him came flashes; disjointed images, memories warped by suffering. The Burrow in flames. Screaming. A silver thread unravelling in the cold. Someone's hand reaching for his, and him not being quick enough to catch it.
A broken sound escaped his throat. Not a word. Not even a cry. Just a raw, ragged groan of pain.
Mrs Weasley's fingers clamped down.
"Stay with us, dear," she whispered fiercely now. "You're strong, Harry. You are stronger than this."
But was he?
The question echoed through the hollow of him, bouncing between bones.
He didn't feel powerful.
Hermione cast another charm. Magic seared along his skin, and he whimpered, barely audible, before slipping again.
"He needs St Mungo's," Percy said, low and urgent. His voice shook. "Proper Healers. We can't keep doing this on our own. He's not stable."
"We cannot move him," Mr Weasley snapped, the fear breaking through at last. "Not with Yaxley still out there."
The silence that followed was terrible.
Because it was true.
There was nowhere safe.
And Harry was exhausted.
Tired of running, fighting, and hoping. Of pretending he still had something left to give.
The weight of all his failures, the cost, the grief, dragged at him.
And deep in the quiet, beneath the voices and the worry and the frantic spells, he let out a single, trembling breath.
It was the light that woke him.
Not much of it, just a thin, sickly grey thread pushing in past the heavy curtains, as though the morning itself wasn't quite brave enough to face what lay inside.
But after so long spent buried in the dark, even that faint glimmer struck like a flash of lightning behind his eyelids.
A low, fractured groan escaped his throat, dry and gravelly.
Every bone and muscle ached with dull, unrelenting agony. His head throbbed with a gentle, pounding rhythm, as if something inside him was knocking to be let out.
Breathing caused pain. Thinking was distressing.
Existing hurt.
For a lengthy, suspended moment, confusion overwhelmed him.
He didn't know if he was still in the land of the living or if this was some kind of strange limbo between here and whatever came after.
Would suffering follow him there, too?
Then—
Voices.
Soft, murmuring. Familiar yet distant.
There was a weight on his side.
Fingers curled tightly around his own.
Mrs Weasley.
He forced his eyelids to crack open.
The room blurred into shape. Dim. Quiet. Motionless.
He was back at Shell Cottage.
She slumped in the armchair at his bedside, her head drooping forward in sleep, still clutching his hand as if she had never let go. Her face was pale and blotchy, the tiredness that no amount of rest could fix.
Mr Weasley sat just behind her, hunched and grey-faced, a chipped mug of untouched tea going cold in his hands. His eyes were red-rimmed but dry, held tight through years of quiet strength.
Ron was curled awkwardly at the foot of the bed, one arm draped across Harry's leg as if he was anchoring him in place, as if letting go would mean losing him all over again.
Hermione was perched in the corner, a thick book balanced in her lap, her thumb caught in the same page as if she'd been pretending to read but hadn't turned it in hours. Her face showed evidence of tears, with glassy eyes and flushed cheeks.
And then—
Ginny.
Closest to him.
Knees drawn tight to her chest, arms looped around them. Her look locked on his features with the raw, unflinching intensity of someone clinging to a single point of hope.
She kept her gaze open. Didn't wander. Just stayed on him.
As if she were terrified he might vanish again if she looked away.
The ache in Harry's throat thickened. Words rose but got caught behind the lump that had lodged there, too big and heavy to speak past.
They had remained.
They were still here. All of them.
He wasn't worthy of it.
Not after everything.
Not after dragging them through the wreckage of his mistakes. Not after nearly getting them killed again.
And yet, here they were.
Tired. Shaken. Hollow-eyed.
But here.
His hand twitched against Mrs Weasley's, weak as a breath.
She startled upright, gasping. "Harry?" She breathed, voice trembling with something between fear and hope.
Mr Weasley was on his feet at once, the mug slipping from his fingers and clattering to the table. Ginny unfolded from her spot in an instant, reaching for his other hand, brushing her fingertips across his knuckles as if to make sure he was real.
Hermione dropped her book. The soft thud forgotten as she leaned forward, lips parted, expression drawn tight with worry.
Even Ron, bleary-eyed and tousled, jerked up from where he lay, blinking at him like he'd stumbled into a dream he wasn't certain he trusted yet.
Harry opened his mouth.
No words came out at first, but only the dry rasp of a breath, his tongue heavy within.
He tried again.
"…I'm sorry…"
It was barely a whisper. But the apology fell into the silence.
Ginny's grip on his hand tightened. Her eyes blazed.
"No," she whispered fiercely. "Don't you dare say that."
Her voice cracked on the last word. But the raw, protective, and wounded fury in it made his heart lurch.
Hermione crumpled, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
Ron turned away slightly, scrubbing a finger across his face as though trying to erase the fear etched there.
"No," said Mr Weasley, his tone low but thick with emotion. "There's no need to apologise, son."
Son.
Harry shut his eyes.
That word did something sharp to him. A sentiment he couldn't name.
He didn't feel like their own.
He felt like nothing but a burden to everyone.
Mrs Weasley's fingers swept gently through his hair, the motion slow and trembling, as though she were soothing a child from a nightmare.
"You fought so hard, Harry," she murmured, brushing the sweat from his brow. "And you're still here. That's all that matters now."
Still here.
It echoed in his mind.
He hadn't won, nor did he lose, either.
He was simply in their presence.
Breathing. Beaten. Frayed at the seams.
But not gone.
A trembling breath escaped him. And something in his chest loosened enough for the pain to shift. It did not vanish. But it settled, quieter than before.
He wasn't all right.
Not even close.
He was neither safe nor whole. He didn't know if he ever would be again.
But for now, for this fleeting, fragile morning—
He was alive.
He had company.
A resounding rap shattered the stillness of Shell Cottage, making everyone inside jolt in alarm. Chairs scraped sharply against the floorboards as wands were drawn in a blur of movement; reflexes honed by too many months on edge.
All, save Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.
They were already standing, as though the knock had not startled them but summoned them. Their eyes were wide, pulses quickening with a fraught cocktail of nerves and desperate hope. They'd been waiting for this day, for him, their last, real chance to rescue Harry.
Bill moved first, purposefully and steadily despite the mounting tension. With his wand held aloft, he crossed the room and muttered the charm to unlock the wards. As the secret-keeper of Shell Cottage, he alone could grant access to visitors. He had given the teacher the name and the place, and now they waited.
The door gave a reluctant creak as it swung inward.
"Professor Slughorn!" Hermione gasped, her voice thick with barely contained relief as she rushed towards him, eyes already scanning for what he might have brought.
The Potions Master stood framed in the doorway, hunched slightly from the weight of a large, lidded cauldron he carried in one hand. A satchel bulging with phials and bundles of herbs hung from his shoulder, and sweat beaded his brow despite the cooling sea breeze.
Ron was at his side in seconds, reaching to relieve him of the burden. Together they manoeuvred the cauldron onto the already cluttered dining table, which groaned beneath its extra weight. Vials clinked softly against each other, parchment notes fluttered, and a thick, dog-eared copy of Anima lay half open amongst it all.
The door shut behind them with a muffled thud that sounded somehow ominous. Whatever brief flicker of hope had lit the room was now swallowed by the same oppressive dread that had loomed ever since Harry collapsed.
He lay still and silent, a ghost of himself. His skin was almost translucent under the lamplight, a cold sweat glistening on his brow, dark hair plastered to his forehead. His breaths were shallow and irregular, and now and then a tremor shuddered through his thin frame. The fever was burning through him.
No one wasted time with pleasantries. The moment was too urgent, too fragile.
They led Slughorn down the narrow corridor, each footstep seeming too loud, too slow.
As the old professor crossed the threshold into the bedroom, he faltered.
Slughorn's jovial mask cracked at the edges. His round face paled, his moustache twitched, and though he forced the corners of his mouth upward, it was clearly a performance, a charade that fooled no one.
"I've brewed something that may help," he said at last, voice unusually low. He reached into the folds of his cloak and drew out a small glass phial. The thick purple liquid within glowed faintly in the lamplight, its surface slick with a strange, oil-like sheen that caught the colours of the room and warped them.
His hand trembled.
"A healing elixir," he mumbled. "Very strong. I've tailored it for Harry, but if this doesn't work—"
He did not finish the sentence.
Mrs Weasley stepped forward and took the phial in trembling fingers. She held it close to her chest, as if it might warm with hope.
Slughorn cleared his throat and straightened, pulling his shoulders back with a visible effort. He turned to Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, who stood shoulder to shoulder, watching him with the solemn intensity of soldiers awaiting orders.
"I'm here to brew the potion properly, and it needs to be made fresh, you understand. You cannot prepare or store this concoction beforehand. The properties decay almost immediately, and we need it at full potency. It's a complex one. I'll require at least an hour. Possibly more. One mistake, even the tiniest miscalculation…" He glanced back at the doorway, where Harry lay unseen. "And we lose our chance."
He turned without waiting for a reply and headed toward the kitchen, his footsteps heavy with urgency. He set the cauldron down again with deliberate precision and unfastened his satchel, laying out ingredients with a practised hand.
The atmosphere in the cottage tightened, as if the very walls understood the stakes and dared not exhale.
Ron exhaled shakily beside Hermione. His face was drawn, his freckles standing out starkly against his pale skin.
"I mucked up some of my Potions coursework," he muttered. "If I were the one brewing, Harry'd be six feet under before the hour's up."
She elbowed him, though gently, and her lips twitched; half a smile and a grimace. "Don't say that," she said, voice taut. "You've saved his life before. So have I. So has your sister. We'll do it again."
"I'd rather not have to do it without him next time," Ginny stated from behind them, arms wrapped tightly around her middle. She didn't take her eyes off the hallway where Harry lay. Her tone was quiet, but it carried.
Hermione stepped forward, hands clenched at her sides. "Professor, please. May I assist you?"
Slughorn glanced over his shoulder and offered a weary, appreciative smile. "A kind offer, Miss Granger, and a brave one. But no, this brew requires an old hand. And unfortunately, I happen to be the sole person present who's gone properly grey about the whiskers."
She hesitated, clearly biting back her protest, then nodded.
Slughorn opened Anima to a bookmarked page, weighted the edges down with two vials, and began.
A soft rhythm permeated the cottage: the steady tap of a silver knife against the chopping board, the grind of pestle against mortar, and the low glug of liquid poured into the cauldron. The room filled with the strange, heady scent of potion-making. It smelled spiced and earthy, with a metallic and sharp tinge.
No one spoke.
Ron and Hermione lingered nearby, watching every movement with rapt, helpless eyes. Bill passed through the kitchen now and again, glancing at the liquid, exchanging the briefest nods with Slughorn. They needed no words.
Ginny stayed in the hallway, casting glances towards Harry's bedroom.
Time moved like treacle. The tick of the mantel clock was maddening. It was too slow, and every second was a hammer-blow of anxiety.
Then, at last, the professor straightened. His brow glistened with sweat, and potion splashes stained his robes, but his hands were steady.
"The penultimate ingredient is in," he said hoarsely. "Only one step remains."
He looked up, his gaze grave.
"We need Harry's blood."
No sooner were the words spoken than Ginny was gone, bolting from the room.
Ron and Hermione hurried after, following the sound of her footsteps down the corridor.
In the bedroom, Harry lay exactly as they had left him, unmoving save for the faint, fluttering rise of his chest. His fringe had fallen away, and the shadows beneath his eyes looked bruised in the lamplight.
Mr and Mrs Weasley, Hagrid, and Percy gathered close, their expressions united in helpless sorrow. Hagrid's massive shoulders trembled, and he sniffled quietly into a spotted handkerchief.
Ginny stood at Harry's side, her voice a whisper that shook at the edges.
"The potion's almost ready," she said. "We only need his blood."
Hermione's hands were already at her hip before anyone had spoken. She fumbled at the clasp of her beaded bag, breath coming fast and shallow. Her fingers scrabbled desperately through the endless contents—bottles, bandages, books—until, at last, they closed around the cool hilt of a small silver knife.
The weight made her stomach turn.
She knelt beside Harry's bed with trembling knees; the dagger clutched in one hand, her wand in the other. Her heart was hammering so violently she could feel it in her throat and her ears.
"Harry…" she whispered.
His eyelids fluttered.
Slowly, with visible effort, they opened. His usually bright green eyes were clouded and dull, heavy-lidded with fever and exhaustion. He blinked up at her, unfocused, his gaze moving between the blurred shapes that surrounded him.
Hermione leaned closer, her grip tightening on his hand, which lay limp and cold atop the blanket.
"We need a bit of your blood," she said softly, forcing her voice to stay calm. "For the potion. It won't hurt… not much."
Harry didn't speak. His eyes, though dimmed, flickered with understanding. Slowly, he gave a barely perceptible nod and turned his head away, exposing his fingers without resistance.
Hermione gnawed the inside of her cheek hard, as if the pain might steady her. Then, with a breathless mutter of apology, she pressed the blade to his fingertip and drew a quick, clean line across the skin.
A trickle of blood welled up at once, dark and vivid against the pallor of his hand.
She held a phial beneath it, whispering a stasis charm the moment the third drop touched the glass. Following another incantation, with her wand trembling slightly, the cut sealed itself, and the tissue knit together in a blink as if it had never been breached.
Harry was already fading again, his eyelids drifting shut, breath shallow and ragged. Hermione brushed a strand of damp hair from his forehead and whispered, "Thank you," but she doubted he could hear her.
They didn't linger.
She rose swiftly, phial in hand, and the three of them—she, Ron, and Ginny—hurried back to the kitchen, the pressure in the air now suffocating. It felt as though the walls were closing in, the very timbers of Shell Cottage groaning beneath the weight of what was to come.
Slughorn was waiting by the simmering container.
He looked up as they entered, his face set, eyes sombre. Hermione stepped forward and placed the phial in his outstretched hand without a word.
He uncorked it slowly, carefully. Not a drop spilt. Holding the vial high over the cauldron, he tilted it with surgical precision.
Three drops fell.
For a moment, nothing changed.
Then, with a suddenness that made several people flinch, the potion stirred to life. Its murky grey surface glowed, the dull hue brightening into a brilliant silver, its texture thickening, swirling in slow, mesmerising spirals. It pulsed faintly with light as if breathing.
No one spoke and dared to breathe.
Finally, Slughorn exhaled a shaky breath, stepping back from the cauldron with visible relief. He wiped his forehead with a trembling hand.
"It's ready," he said, voice low and worn.
Ginny moved without a word, darting to the cupboard and returning with three goblets clutched tightly in her arms. Her hands were shaking so badly that one of them slipped and clinked sharply against the table as she set them down.
The sound was far too loud in the silence.
Mrs Weasley frowned, her eyes narrowing as she watched her daughter with concern.
"Ginny, love… Why so many?" She asked, voice lined with confusion and a thread of unease. "You only need one for Harry."
She didn't answer at once. She kept her head bowed, fingers pressed white around the stem of the goblet, as though grounding herself.
Ron shifted in his seat beside her, his jaw tight, avoiding his mother's gaze. He glanced once at Hermione, who nodded slightly, then fixed his eyes firmly on the table. He clenched his hands in his lap, which were damp with sweat.
Ginny finally lifted her head.
"They're for us," she mumbled. "For me, Ron… and Herm—"
Mrs Weasley straightened at once, her lips thinning.
"What do you mean 'for you'?" She asked, stepping closer, her voice sharper now. "What in Merlin's name are you talking about?"
She opened her mouth, but Hermione spoke first in a rushed and tense way.
"The Anima book says that for the ritual to succeed, those attempting to restore a fractured soul must be bound to it. Thoroughly. Emotionally. And they have to drink the potion beforehand. All of them."
She twisted the sleeve of her jumper in one hand, not even noticing.
Mr Weasley frowned deeply, the lines on his forehead etched in shadow. "That sounds…" he began, then paused, his voice dropping. "That seems dangerous."
Hermione nodded once. "It is."
There was silence. Heavy. Still. Laden with the weight of choices being made too fast.
Slughorn stepped forward. He looked old now, tired and solemn, his jowls slack with the gravity of the task ahead.
"She's right," he said simply. "Only those who share a profound connection with Harry… who've stood by him, loved him, risked for him… can take part. It's ancient, wild magic. Nothing else will do."
Mr Weasley folded his arms tightly across his chest, as if trying to protect something fragile. He looked between the three of them—Ginny, Ron, and Hermione—as if seeing them anew.
"Does it guarantee it'll work?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
Slughorn shook his head slowly.
"No. The potion only binds them to the spell. What comes next—the ritual—it is… uncertain. Powerful, but unpredictable. And very dangerous."
Questions broke out.
"How will we know if it's working?" Bill questioned, standing at the edge of the table, white-knuckled and pale.
Slughorn's gaze flicked towards him grimly.
"We won't. Not immediately. According to the text, all those involved, including Harry, would lose consciousness during the ritual. If the bond holds, they'll wake. If it doesn't…"
He trailed off.
There was no need to finish. The silence said it for him.
Around the room, gazes met and held; Mrs Weasley's brimming with tears she refused to shed, Mr Weasley's filled with the quiet dread of a father who knows he cannot stop what's coming. Hagrid, silent in the corner, had covered his mouth with one enormous hand.
Hermione leaned forward, her eyes bright with urgency, every syllable of her next question laced with unspoken fear. "What happens after we cast the spell? What do we do then? Do we have to… monitor something?"
Slughorn exhaled slowly, the breath long and heavy. He looked suddenly older, as though the weight of knowledge had bent his back further than age ever had.
"Nothing," he said, his voice low and hollow. "Once the incantation begins, those not part of the ritual must not intervene. No matter what happens, and how it looks. No one can interfere, or else it will collapse if someone disturbs it."
A stillness fell over the kitchen, deep and unnatural.
Outside, the sea pounded harder against the cliffs, waves shattering themselves in a fury, as though the very ocean sensed the gravity of what had been set in motion.
It was Percy who finally spoke, his voice brittle, cracking under the strain.
"And if it doesn't work?" he asked. "What happens to them?"
No one answered.
Even Slughorn faltered, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. He reached up and dabbed at his forehead with a trembling hand, the linen of his handkerchief already damp.
The silence that followed was worse than any answer could have been.
Then, suddenly, there was a sharp and wild movement. Mrs Weasley surged forward, a cry half-formed on her lips as she snatched the ancient text from the table. Pages fluttered like startled birds beneath her frantic fingers as she rifled through the book, the sound of parchment scraping against the page loud in the breathless air.
Her other hand clutched at her chest, as though she might physically hold herself together, keeping her ribs from cracking apart under the weight of dread.
Ron, Hermione, and Ginny stepped instinctively back. They had seen this before; Mrs Weasley in the grip of righteous fury. It was a rare force, but when it rose, it was unrelenting. And now it had awoken, not in anger alone, but in terror.
"You knew," she breathed, her voice low and seething.
Then louder: "You knew!" Her cry cracked like lightning, fierce and raw.
"Molly—dear, calm down," Mr Weasley said quickly, stepping forward, but his tone held no authority, only a tremble of fear.
"Don't you dare tell me to calm down, Arthur!" She snarled, eyes blazing. She thrust the book into his hands, her own fingers shaking. "Read it! Look at it! It says right here! If the ritual fails and they can't heal him, it will also damage their souls."
Gasps broke across the room. Bill's face drained of colour; Percy gripped the back of a chair so hard his knuckles turned white. Even Mr Weasley, holding the book in both hands as if it might explode, looked utterly undone, as if someone had knocked the breath from him.
Ginny stood rooted to the floor, her fingers cold at her sides, her heart thudding intensely; she felt faint. The truth of it, though long known to her, now rang louder, sharper. Her throat tightened until she could barely inhale.
Ron stepped forward, voice hoarse with guilt. "We didn't want you to know," he said quietly. "We kept it from you."
Mrs Weasley wheeled on him, chest heaving. "Why?" she cried. "Why would you hide this from me or your father?"
"Because we knew what you would do," Ginny whispered. Her tone was almost inaudible, but it cut straight through the silence. "You'd have stopped us. And Harry—he'd be gone by now. He's still here because we didn't wait."
"We had to keep it secret," Hermione added, her voice thick and cracking. "There wasn't time to explain. We decided. We stand by it."
Mrs Weasley's face shifted rapidly to shock, disbelief, grief, and fury. She looked between the three of them; the betrayal etched deep across her features. The tears had not yet come, but her whole body trembled as if holding them back was a physical act.
Then she rounded on Slughorn.
"Horace," she said sharply, her voice low and shaking with rage. "Did you know? Were you part of this?"
He looked like a man sinking into water. His shoulders slumped, and he bowed his head, shame clinging to him.
"I suspected what the book demanded," he admitted. "And when I saw who the three of them were, I knew. But I—" He faltered. "I should have told you, but I didn't. I thought… it might not come to that."
Mrs Weasley opened her mouth, but something rare and formidable stopped her from unleashing whatever fury she was about to.
Mr Weasley raised his voice.
"Preposterous!" he thundered, slamming the book down on the table. It echoed through the kitchen. The walls themselves seemed to recoil.
He looked taller in that moment, broader somehow. His normally mild expression alight with rage.
"Madness!" he said, his tone rising again. "Reckless beyond belief! How could any of you—even you, Horace—condone this?"
Ron flinched. Ginny wrapped her arms around herself. Hermione stared at the ground, blinking furiously.
Their father's anger was a rare thing, and even more terrible for it.
"There must be another way!" Mrs Weasley cried, wild now. "There has to be something else. A different method—anything!"
She turned to the professor, desperation bleeding from every word.
"Please, Horace. I beg you. Do not tell me this is the only option."
He met her gaze, and his answer was quiet. Not cruel, not cold, just unflinchingly honest.
"There isn't," he said.
Mr Weasley took a step forward, fists clenched, face pale with fury.
"I'd rather you did not say that!" he barked. "Don't you dare speak with such finality! You're not Dumbledore!"
"No," Slughorn replied, his voice still calm, perhaps the calmest it had been all evening. "But he knew. He studied the soul more than any other living wizard. And this book… this spell… he left them for a reason. If there had been any other way, he would have found it."
Mrs Weasley was shaking her head now, again and again, as though she could simply deny it all by force of will.
"No," she whispered. "No, I don't believe it. I won't."
Slughorn's gaze dimmed, clouded with something that looked remarkably like regret. Although composed, his eyes betrayed him. There were shadows of things unspoken flickering in their depths. His voice, however, remained infuriatingly calm.
"You're free to look for another way, Molly," he said gently. "And I'll help you… truly, I will, if there's anything to be found. But we're running out of time. Harry's soul and what remains of it are deteriorating more rapidly than we feared. The damage… it's speeding up."
There was a sharp crack as Mr Weasley brought his hand down hard on the edge of the table; the sound ricocheted through the cottage. Everyone jumped. Even Slughorn flinched.
His face was red with fury, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. But there was an emotion worse than rage in his expression, something more brittle, more desperate.
"This is outrageous!" he thundered, voice shaking with barely contained anger. "We've spent our lives—our lives—protecting our children. Shielding them from war, from death, from this! We built our home to love, on safety, and now you're telling me the only way to save Harry is to endanger the very people he tried so hard to protect?"
His voice cracked. The fury that had fuelled him only moments ago drained away. Suddenly, he lost all his fight, and he looked hollow, as if something crucial had been carved out of his chest.
He drew a shuddering breath, then turned his burning and raw eyes on the professor.
"Arthur," said Slughorn softly, his hands lifted slightly as though he might reach out across the gulf between them. "I swear to you, if there were another way… if there were anything—"
"Don't," Mr Weasley interrupted, voice low and hoarse. He moved away, shoulders rigid. "Just…"
The silence that followed fell like a velvet curtain over the room. It was thick, suffocating, inescapable. The only sound was the faint hiss of the potion still bubbling in the cauldron, the quiet pulse of something alive waiting to be used.
No one stirred.
Then, into the stillness, Ginny spoke.
"Mum, Dad."
Her voice was soft, but there was a firmness to it that pulled every gaze to her. She stepped forward into the centre of the room, her chin raised, jaw set, and hands balled into trembling fists at her sides.
"All of us know the risks," she said steadily. "We aren't doing this without thinking. We've decided to help him because it's the right thing to do."
She swallowed hard. Her voice wavered slightly, but she didn't back down.
"Harry made his choice. Again and again. He did it out of love for everyone, not obligation. He could have walked away, but he saved and fought for us every time."
Her gaze flicked to Ron, then Hermione. They stepped forward beside her, standing shoulder to shoulder.
"He's given everything," he said, his voice hoarse, eyes shining with unshed tears. "And not once did he ask for anything back. Not once."
She nodded fiercely, her chest rising and falling as though she were suppressing a sob. "This isn't about bravery or loyalty anymore. It's about what's right. He doesn't deserve to be left in the dark, broken, for something he never chose."
Ginny looked straight at her mother, eyes wide and brimming.
"Please," she whispered. "Trust us."
Mrs Weasley stared at her daughter as though seeing her through a window into another life. There were so much grief, fury, and maternal dread on her face. And beneath it all, a feeling that had always been there, unspoken: love, fierce and immovable.
She swayed slightly where she stood and then, as if something inside her had finally yielded, took a step backwards.
Mr Weasley moved instantly, steadying her. His arms went around her without hesitation, folding her to him in a silent, protective embrace. For a moment, Mrs Weasley fought it—rigid, resisting. But then a sob tore loose from her throat, and she clung to him as though she might fall apart completely.
"I'm just—" she gasped, voice cracking. "I am terrified of what's gonna happen. It is perilous."
Mr Weasley held her tighter, his own eyes glassy with emotion.
"I know," he murmured, pressing his chin gently against her hair. "It's what I feel too, Molly."
She shook in his arms, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Percy was almost killed, and the Burrow… is gone. There's nothing left, Arthur. And now… now I might lose them too."
He kissed the top of her head, his voice thick but unwavering.
"They've grown, dear. More than we ever imagined they could. And it's not our job to stop them anymore, but to believe in them."
The words clung in the air.
No one spoke. There was hardly anything left to say that wouldn't fracture the moment.
Ginny watched her parents, her throat tight, her vision blurring. She reached blindly for Ron and Hermione's hands on either side, and they took hers without question.
There came a soft, almost imperceptible sound.
A creak. A shift.
All eyes turned towards the doorway.
Harry stood there. He looked thin and pale and carved down to the bone.
He leant heavily against the frame, his knuckles white as chalk where they gripped the wood, his arms trembling from the sheer effort of keeping himself upright. His clothes hung off him, and his skin was ashen, pulled too tightly over a body that appeared to be held together by will alone.
He didn't speak or raise his head.
Yet, he did not fall.
And somehow, that seemed more impossible than anything else.
The silence was instantaneous and terrible. A heartbeat stretched into eternity as they stared, frozen and disbelieving, at the boy they had all fought to save. Or what was left of him.
Because it wasn't the injuries that struck them, or the cuts, bruises, or the angry red scarring beneath the collar of his shirt. It was the hollowness. Exhaustion had etched itself onto his very being. The shadow in his eyes spoke of things no magic could undo.
It was Ron who stepped forward first, mouth half-open in alarm, but before he could say anything—
"Harry!" Mrs Weasley's gasp shattered the stillness. Her voice was sharp, laced with dread and something deeper: terror.
"What on earth are you doing out of bed?" She cried, moving towards him, hands fluttering uselessly at her sides. "You're not strong enough. You should rest, dear. Please sit down. Come away from the door."
Rest.
The word landed like a blow.
Harry closed his eyes.
How could he find peace when so many never would again?
How could he lie on his mattress while names echoed through his skull: the fallen, the dead, those people he couldn't save?
The list unspooled endlessly. It followed him through sleep. Through waking. Through the quietest hours of night and the loudest noise of silence.
He opened his mouth, but the words refused to come. His throat felt scorched, as though every apology, grief, and scream he'd swallowed had burnt it dry.
"I'm sorry," he managed at last, and the statement sounded too small, too empty, for what it carried.
Sorry I'm alive.
Sorry I failed them.
Sorry you have to look at me and see what's left.
He swayed slightly, the world tipping beneath his feet. A large, warm hand caught him before he could collapse. It was Hagrid who remained steady and unyielding.
Harry winced at the contact, ashamed. Even kindness felt like punishment now.
He didn't deserve this.
Not after everything.
"I never meant—" he began, but the words splintered halfway out of his mouth.
His eyes squeezed shut. The pressure behind them rose to crush him.
"I wanted no one to get hurt… because of me."
He wasn't sure they had heard or if it mattered.
Each breath felt like a rebellion against his own guilt. His body begged him to lie down, to give in. But something stubborn and unfinished inside him kept him upright and speaking.
"I'm… so sorry," he whispered.
Mrs Weasley gave a soft, aching noise, and then—
Arms.
All around him. Warm. Fierce. Trembling.
They gathered him in without hesitation; Hermione's arms around his waist, Ron's hand at his back, and Hagrid's great arm anchoring him like an oak.
He hadn't known how much he'd needed this.
Not until now.
He allowed them to hold him even though he was small, shaking, and hollow. He wasn't worthy, and he knew it to be true. But for one impossible moment, he let go of the guilt long enough to feel their warmth seeping through to where he was breathing, just barely, alive.
They didn't speak.
And slowly, the embrace loosened. Gently. With reluctance.
The room came back into focus through the blur of pain and salt and breath.
And then—Ginny.
She stood before him. Still. Certain. Her eyes, wide and glistening, held the strength that made his knees weak.
She said nothing.
She stepped forward, arms sliding around him with no hesitation, drawing him in like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Harry went to her.
Without thinking or resisting.
He buried his face in her shoulder, into the lavender and smoke scent of her hair, and something that made him ache with memory.
He let himself breathe her in and believe, just for a moment, that this might be real. That he was still here. That she was.
Her arms tightened around him. She held him as if she could keep him from breaking.
And perhaps she could.
"It's all right, Harry," she whispered, her voice faltering. "We'll get through this. Together."
How?
How could she want him even now?
After all the blood on his hands?
After everything he'd cost them?
He shook, breathless and wracked by silent sobs. Too tired for tears. Too empty to fall apart properly.
But she didn't let go.
Though she was small, she held him up.
And slowly, trembling, Harry lifted his head.
Her gaze met his.
There was no anger there. No blame.
Just love.
Simple. Steady.
Unshaken.
A single tear slipped down his cheek, and Ginny reached up, brushing it away with fingers that trembled as much as his did.
Her touch was unbearably gentle.
And in her eyes, behind the grief and exhaustion, he saw it—
Hope.
Faint. Fragile. But alive.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Harry went for it.
Not because he thought he deserved it.
But because maybe he wasn't ready to let go.
He leant into her as they made their slow, stumbling way back down the corridor, each step a silent battle against the weight dragging at his limbs.
Ginny didn't say a word, just looped one steadying arm around his waist, her other hand gripping his forearm. Every few paces he faltered, and each time she simply adjusted her hold, guiding him on with no complaint or comment.
Behind them, he could hear soft voices murmuring. Hagrid, Ron, Hermione, Mr and Mrs Weasley; they were lingering a respectful distance away, giving him space without needing to be told. It was a mercy Harry hadn't known how to ask for.
When they reached the room, he let himself drop onto the bed with a low groan. The mattress gave a soft creak beneath his weight, a sound oddly comforting in its ordinariness. His head met the cool wood of the headboard as he leaned back.
He was shaking.
Not visibly, perhaps, but on the inside, where it counted.
He twisted the quilt with his hands when he settled down.
Ginny sat beside him. She didn't speak. She just positioned herself close enough that her warmth bled into him, though it couldn't reach the cold lodged deep in his chest. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.
She looked pale. Tired. Her small and worn smile tugged faintly at the corners of her mouth.
It hurt to look at her.
Because he had done this. Not deliberately and not cruel, but all the same, it was his pain she wore in her eyes. His scars were in her heart.
The silence between them thickened, pressing in on both sides. He had a lot he wasn't able to say, but there were too many things she already knew.
He wanted to tell her he was sorry.
That he was scared.
That he didn't know who he was anymore.
But the words stayed caught in his throat, twisted by fear and shame until they became a single, choking silence.
His hands clenched in the quilt. His thoughts spun faster.
And then finally, something cracked.
"I'm… forgetting things," he said, his tone barely more than a whisper.
"There are moments… I don't know where I am. I look around, and everything feels wrong. I feel as if I am living someone else's life and that I shouldn't be here. Like I am not… me."
He released a shaky breath, staring at the floorboards.
"And… sometimes I forget who my friends are."
He felt her stiffen beside him, just a little. Yet, she remained silent. She refrained from interrupting. She let him speak, even as the fear in her eyes gave him one more thing to feel guilty for.
His fingers were trembling now, properly shaking.
"I can barely remember myself," he said, and the admission seemed like falling.
Ginny's breath caught. It was sharp and quiet. Harry didn't look at her. He couldn't.
He stared down at his hands instead, watching them tremble.
Panic coiled in his chest, cold and thick. His panting came quickly and shallow.
And then Ginny moved.
She shifted closer, folding herself against him in a way that was gentle but unyielding, like she'd done it a thousand times before. Her arms slid around him, unwavering, sure. She drew him in without asking, resting her chin lightly against the crown of his head.
"Shhh…" she murmured, low and soft, her tone meant only for him. She stroked his back in slow, steady circles, her movements calm even though he could hear the faintest tremble she tried to hide.
"You're going to be all right. I promise."
But he wasn't able to believe her. He wanted to.
But the fear was louder than her voice.
He pressed his face into her shoulder, wishing he could disappear there into her warmth, into her steadiness. But he couldn't escape what he'd brought with him.
"Just now," he said, the words torn from him in a hoarse whisper, "when your mum looked at me… I didn't recognise her. I stared right at her and…" His throat closed. "It was like looking at a stranger."
Hot and unbidden tears came then. He rubbed at them furiously with the back of his hand, angry at himself for letting go. It only made the shame worse.
"I'm scared, Ginny," he said, and just then, something in him gave way. "I fear losing everything. Of forgetting who I am. Of not remembering you."
Panic was rising again. The room blurred, and the walls felt too close. The air was too thin. He couldn't catch his breath.
But she was still there.
She brought her hand to his face, cupping his cheek. Her touch was light but firm. She tilted his head until he was looking at her.
Her brown eyes met his. It was burning with tears, but she smiled.
Not full. Not so easy and carefree one she used to wear in the common room. But a genuine smile, small and cracked and strong.
"There's nothing you could ever forget," she whispered. "Not really. Not the things that matter. I'm here, Harry. I am right here."
He wanted to believe her and take her words and bury them far inside himself, to let them drown out the noise.
But fear was rooted too deep within him. It had sunk its claws into him.
"I'm sorry," he rasped, voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."
The apology had barely left his lips. It wasn't just for this, or for tonight. It was for everything. For the losses, lies, and for the way he kept crumbling apart in front of them.
Ginny shook her head fiercely.
"Don't you dare apologise," she said, her tone cracking under the weight of it. Before he could respond, she pulled him into her arms again, tight and sure, as though she were trying to hold all his broken pieces together. "You do not have to hide from me. Not me, Harry."
He didn't answer. His thoughts swirled in his skull, ungraspable and thick with grief. And so he clung to her, the way a drowning man might cling to driftwood, because she was the only thing that hadn't slipped away from him. Not yet.
The world had turned itself inside out, fractured and bruised and eerily quiet in the aftermath of war. But Ginny was still here.
When the sharpest edge of it finally passed, Harry lifted his head, just enough to meet her eyes.
His voice, when it came, was hoarse and small, more breath than sound.
"Do Ron and Hermione know?"
He already knew the answer. He could feel it in the way she shifted beside him, in the silent pause that stretched between them. Still, he had to ask. He had to hear it spoken.
Ginny's face softened, but the pain in her gaze was unmistakable. Her lips pressed together briefly before she gave the barest nod.
"Everyone knows," she said, voice low. "Mum, Dad… Hermione, Ron. They all know."
Of course they knew. They had seen the cracks widening.
Harry closed his eyes and allowed the weight of it to wash over him, pressing him down. He felt as though he were sinking into the mattress, into the guilt that never let him up for air.
"I wish there were something I could do," he whispered. "Anything."
His voice was rough.
Ginny reached for his hands. Her fingers curled around his knuckles, thumbs brushing back and forth in slow, soothing arcs.
"We know it's not your fault," she whispered. "None of this is. You're fighting through more than anyone can see. We're not expecting miracles, Harry. What matters is that we keep going. Together. With kindness. And patience."
The words should have soothed him. And maybe, somewhere in the far reaches of himself, they did. But mostly, they ignited the guilt all over again. It pressed behind his ribs, tight and hot, reminding him just how much he didn't deserve this understanding.
He blinked against the sting of fresh tears. Ginny, though pale and tired herself, remained steady. Her eyes held firm. They did not condemn.
She deserved more than this. More than him.
More than someone who wasn't bound by grief and sheer stubbornness.
"I can't stop thinking about it," he blurted, his voice catching. "What happened… at the Burrow."
Her gaze flickered, but she didn't look away or flinch.
"I was useless," Harry said, the words spilling out in a flood. "I failed to defend them, and I couldn't protect you. Lying there while it all went to hell… You must've looked at me and seen a coward."
He felt the memory coil inside him, cold and unrelenting. The vision of Yaxley's sharp and twisted with glee face burnt behind his eyelids. He could still hear the shouts and feel the sick, helpless weight of magic gone wrong.
"I knew something was off," he said, pressing a hand hard to his forehead, as though he might squeeze the memory out. "He was right in front of me. I sensed the danger, understood it, and was too slow. I was too ill and too broken to stop any of it."
"What Yaxley did… what almost happened… I should've stopped it. I should have been better. You must loathe me for it. You should hate me."
But Ginny didn't shrink away or loosen her grip. She remained quiet at first, but she just reached for him, again and again, like she knew he was fading and wouldn't let him go under.
She wrapped her arms around him with gentle strength, as though nothing he could say would make her relax her hold. Her cheek rested lightly against his temple.
And then she spoke.
"Harry," she said, her tone barely above a whisper. "I don't hate you. I couldn't. Not ever."
He held still, afraid to believe it.
She drew back just enough to meet his eyes again, her fingers brushing the side of his face, soft and trembling.
"They're alive," she stated, steady and certain despite the quaver in her voice. "My parents are not dead. They are safe. And you… you're here. That's what matters."
Harry looked at her, searching for even a trace of resentment and blame. But there were none. Only fierce affection. Only the quiet devastation of someone who had nearly lost too much, and chosen, somehow, to love anyway.
A sharp breath caught in his chest, and for a moment he thought he might break again.
But Harry shook his head hard, as if he were trying to physically dislodge the thoughts clawing at his insides.
The shame came on thick as bile at the back of his throat. "I'm weak," he said, the confession wrenched from somewhere deep, as though it had been festering in silence for too long. "I feel useless. Like I am just… sitting here, waiting for the next thing to go wrong. And I know I'll fail again. I realise it."
His mouth was dry; his tongue thick. He swallowed, but it did nothing to ease the constriction in his chest. Fear clawed its way up his throat, tight and unrelenting, until it pressed against his ribs and coiled behind his eyes.
"I just…" he whispered, his voice shaking now. "Ginny, I can't go on living if more people die because of me. I can't."
He expected her to flinch or something to shift in her face, to see the fear, the anger, and the disappointment he couldn't stop imagining. But she didn't move away. Even though he felt it in every bone, she did not look at him as if he were broken.
Instead, she reached out slowly and gently and began rubbing small, rhythmic circles into his back. Her touch was light and measured, but there was strength in it too, something unshakeable.
"Shhh," she murmured, pressing her forehead lightly against his. "Don't think about what's gone or drown yourself in it. We've got now, Harry. We've got now. And you're not alone. I am right here. I'm not going anywhere."
His breath hitched in his throat, and he could feel the tears pricking again, fierce and unwanted. He hated how easily he fell apart these days. Loathed that she had to see it.
"Will you promise to fight for us?" she asked quietly then, drawing back just enough to search his face. Her eyes were steady, but her voice trembled slightly, as if she already knew how close to the edge he truly was.
Harry hesitated.
"I'll try," he said at last, in a low and hoarse but honest tone.
Ginny gave a small, wobbly smile that broke a soft spot inside him. Then she leaned forward and pressed a slow and deliberate tender kiss to his forehead, like it meant something more than comfort or hope.
She gathered him close again, wrapping her arms around him as though she could shield him from all the things he couldn't outrun.
Harry drew back just enough to see her face. His hands were shaking as he cupped her cheeks, his touch both gentle and urgent, like he was trying to memorise her and trace every line of her before the world shifted again.
"But I need you to promise me something too," he said, and the words caught in his throat before he could force them out.
Ginny's expression changed at once. Her eyes widened, the smile vanishing, replaced by something harder and more frightened.
"What is it, Harry?"
He took a sharp and shallow breath as if every rib protested its passage.
"If things don't go the way we hope—"
"No." Her answer was instant and fierce. Her hands clutched at his arms, as though trying to physically stop the words from forming. "Please, I'd prefer you didn't say that. Do not even consider it."
"I have to," he said, firmer now, pushing past the lump in his throat. "You have to hear me. Because we don't know what's coming. We never did. And if this—if this gets worse—"
Ginny's eyes filled with tears, fast and silent. It fell down her face without her seeming to feel it. Like she'd expected this moment but hoped it wouldn't come.
"Promise me you'll keep going," he said, his words barely above a whisper. "That you will live and fight. Not for me—for you. For all of them."
Her lower lip trembled. She looked away for a second, blinking furiously. Then she turned back, her voice thin and breathless.
"But we've got the cure," she whispered. "The potion's ready. You're going to get better. You have to."
Harry didn't answer or argue or tell her the truth, that he felt the tightening in his bones. He simply reached forward and brushed a tear from her cheek slowly and reverently with the pad of his thumb.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn't goodbye.
Not quite.
But it held a desperation he could not disguise. A question. A promise. A plea. It was everything he couldn't say and didn't know how to.
When he pulled away, he let his forehead rest against hers again, their breaths mingling in the stillness of the room, shallow and broken.
"I love you," he murmured, the words shaky but sure. They fell between them like a last spell that was simple, powerful, irrevocable.
Ginny released a soft, tearful laugh. Her hands came up to cradle his face.
"I love you more," she whispered. "Always."