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