Harry Potter: The Rise Chapter 43: Home, Bittersweet Home, a harry potter fanfic

Chapter 43:

I do not own Harry Potter.

Author's Notes:

1) Tweaked my writing style a little. The shift is subtle, but notable. Let me know if y'all like it!

2) Bit of a gloomy end to the chapter, but that is intentional. It's not going to be rosy & fluffy all the time.

3) There was an attempt to portray YA angst, and especially how muddled one's thoughts get... or at least how I understand it to be. Anyone who wants to give their two cents is most welcome.

Enjoy!

Harry woke to the sound of voices and trunks thumping against the floor.

"Morning, mate!" a voice cut through the haze of sleep. His body ached as he shifted. With a turn, he squinted at his friend.

Ron was crouched over his shabby trunk, forcing the lid closed with a determined push.

"You'd better hurry if you want to make the leaving feast," warned the redhead, snapping the trunk's latches shut and standing up.

Harry sat up slowly, wincing as a sharp twinge shot through his arm. He rubbed the spot instinctively, his mind flashing back to yesterday.

"You alright?" Ron asked, noticing Harry's movement.

"Yeah, yeah, it's nothing"

His dormmate didn't press, instead grinning as he gestured toward Harry's still-packed belongings.

"Better get a move on. By the way, where were you all of yesterday? We didn't see you after dinner, and the next time we did, you were out cold in your uniform. You didn't even change."

Harry rubbed his face, trying to come up with an answer. "I was just tired," he managed finally. "Didn't realize how much, I guess."

Ronald laughed, putting on his socks. "Yeah, you must've been. You didn't even snore. Thought you were dead for a second."

Harry forced a laugh, but his mind was elsewhere. He could feel the faint dampness on his sleeve, and when he glanced down, he noticed a faint red stain spreading beneath the fabric. He kept his face neutral and shifted his position, hiding the stain from Ron's view.

"I'll pack and meet you downstairs."

Ronald nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Save you a seat."

The moment he left, Harry flicked his wand sharply. Supplies flew to him from his trunk—a towel, clothes, toiletries, and, with a careful glance to ensure no one was watching, the fanny pack he'd brought back from the expedition.

His arm ached as he moved, and he risked a glance at the wound. The gash had reopened, a thin trickle of blood soaking into his sleeve. Harry gritted his teeth, hiding the discomfort behind a forced smile as he adjusted the towel to cover the pack.

"See you downstairs," he called after Ron, hurrying toward the showers.

The black-haired boy leaned over the sink, spitting out a mouthful of toothpaste before scooping water into his hand to gargle. He splashed the rest onto his face, the cold jolt briefly reviving him.

Shaking off the lingering exhaustion, he stepped into a shower stall and shut the door behind him.

"Orbus Silentii!"

With a flick of his wand, he cast a small silencing ward. The moment the enchantment fall in place, the Gryffindor collapsed to the floor and let out a groan as pain flared in his arm.

He pulled back his sleeve, observing a dark stain spreading across the bandage. Blood seeped through, more profuse now.

Carefully, he unwound the bandage. The gash was deep, the edges raw and inflamed. A faint, unnatural discoloration surrounded it—a blackish hue that hadn't been there the day before.

From the bottomless bag, he pulled out a small vial of Essence of Dittany. He uncorked it with a shaky hand and tilted it over the wound, letting a few drops fall. The liquid hissed faintly on contact, soothing the pain but doing nothing to close the gash.

Harry frowned. That wasn't right. Dittany should have begun the healing process immediately.

Sirius's warning came back to him, his voice grim. "Inferi don't just cut—they curse. Even if the wound looks clean, there's always a chance it'll act up later."

They'd thought he'd been lucky yesterday.

Clearly, they'd been wrong.

Gritting his teeth, Harry pulled a small towel from the pack and wiped away the fresh blood. Once the wound was clean, he dug deeper into the bag, retrieving a small tin of salve. It was a pungent, thick paste, meant to stave off minor curses. Harry scooped a bit onto his fingers and dabbed it onto the gash.

The reaction was immediate. A searing pain flared along his arm, as though his arm was on a live grill. He cried out, his voice muffled by the ward, and clenched his jaw until the worst of it passed.

He wasn't done yet by any means.

The Gryffindor pulled out a small pouch containing dittany leaves and a handful of bellasira berries. Using his wand, he crushed the berries with a weak bludgeoner. Thick, dark juice dripped from their skins, some of it falling to the floor and spreading into a sticky puddle.

Momentarily, he ignored the mess, focusing on the leaves, letting the juice soak into a dittany leaf until it glistened, before pressing it firmly against the wound.

The effect was subtle, but immediate. A cooling sensation spread through his arm, dulling the worst of the pain. Harry rubbed the leaf over the gash slowly, methodically, until the leaf dried out and tore, bits of it sticking to his skin.

He transfigured the door into a mirror with a flick of his wand. The reflective surface showed his wound, still red and raw but no longer bleeding or, for the moment, blackened. It wasn't perfect, but it was progress. He grabbed a roll of bandages from the pack and wrapped his arm tightly, wincing as the fabric pressed against the tender skin.

Finally, he pulled out a cyan-colored potion—a counteragent to ensure the curse left no side-effects. He uncorked it and downed the liquid in one go. It was bitter, leaving a metallic aftertaste, but a warmth spread through his chest as it took effect.

Harry sighed, letting his head rest against the cool tile wall. The pain had dulled to a manageable ache. For now, it would have to do.

Voldemort.

It had been a year since he'd last seen him. He'd been a memory then... but now… now he had a body. Not a full one, not yet.

The thing Harry had seen in the shack, cradled in Pettigrew's hands, was grotesque and malformed, barely human. But it was a step closer.

The Dark Lord was coming back.

Harry gritted his teeth, his grip tightening around the fork. And Pettigrew. The thought of the rat—of his beady eyes and that trembling voice, groveling at Voldemort's feet—made his stomach turn. The traitor had gotten away, again. But worse than that, he had reunited with his master.

A question gnawed at him, the same one that had been circling in his mind since last night.

What was Voldemort doing in the forest?

"You're miles away."

Harry blinked, looking up sharply. Hermione was watching him from across the table, her eyes keen.

It took him a second longer than it should have to respond. "Huh?"

Hermione gave him a knowing look but didn't call him out on it. Instead, she took a sip from her goblet, then said, "I've decided. I'm dropping Muggle Studies next year. My schedule will be normal again."

Harry did a double take. "Really?"

She nodded, setting her goblet down. "Yes. I've learned enough, and Professor McGonagall said it was unnecessary for me to continue, given, well… you know." She waved a hand vaguely, "It's time to focus on the subjects that really matter."

Harry smiled, genuinely pleased for her. "That's great, Hermione. I know it was wearing you down."

Her expression didn't change. If anything, she gave him an even odder look, tilting her head slightly.

"You're hiding something," she said.

"What?" the boy replied, his face schooled into neutrality.

"You've been acting strange all year," the brown-haired girl continued, "Disappearing, dodging questions, and Ron might not notice, but I do. Something's going on, Harry, and I know you're not telling me everything."

A beat of silence.

Tell her.

The thought crashed through him with a force... But instead the Gryffindor forced a chuckle, shaking his head. "You're imagining things."

His friend pursed her lips, clearly unconvinced. Her fingers tapped against the table, like she was debating whether or not to push him further.

But then she let out a soft sigh and picked up her fork again, turning back to her food. "Fine," she said, though her tone made it clear she didn't believe him.

Harry exhaled, relieved she let it drop. The last thing he needed was her getting caught up in something she couldn't walk away from.

Ron bought his explanations at face value, or didn't think too hard about them. But Hermione was different. She was going to figure something out sooner or later.

And Harry wasn't sure what he was going to do when that happened.

The meal passed in relative silence. Hermione, though clearly still thinking about their earlier conversation, didn't press him any further. Ron was too busy discussing the upcoming World Cup with Seamus and Dean to notice Harry's uncharacteristic quiet.

Harry, for his part, focused on eating. His stomach had felt hollow all morning, and now that food was in front of him, he realized just how hungry he actually was. He tore through his plate quickly, barely tasting the roast potatoes or scrambled eggs as he piled on more.

But in his haste, he shifted his arm wrong—his injured one—and a sharp, searing pain flared up from his forearm. He let out a quiet hiss before immediately biting down on his lip, willing himself to stay still.

Too fast, too careless.

Discreetly, he moved his arm to his side, careful not to draw attention. A quick glance told him that Hermione hadn't noticed. Good.

By the time breakfast was finished, Hermione turned to him expectantly. "Come with me?"

Harry hesitated but nodded. "Alright." She didn't wait, already moving ahead. He followed a few paces behind, watching her as she walked with purpose, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She was thinking. Hard.

They reached the lake, stopping at a quiet, empty patch near the water's edge. The breeze carried the scent of damp grass, and the surface of the lake rippled gently under the morning light. Neither of them had spoken a word on the way here.

Then, suddenly, Hermione turned to face him, eyes sharp and unwavering.

"Well?"

The raven-haired boy's fingers twitched at his side. "Well, what?" he asked, uneasy.

She sighed, her patience thinning. Then, before he could react, she grabbed his arm.

Pain exploded through him. A startled, involuntary cry left his lips before he yanked back, cradling the limb against his chest.

She had noticed after all.

"When will you stop lying, Harry?"

Hermione's voice wasn't angry. It wasn't sharp or accusatory, the way it so often was when she caught him sneaking around the rules. It was quiet. Pained. And somehow, that was worse.

Harry swallowed hard, guilt coiling tight in his chest.

She searched his face, eyes brimming with something raw and unspoken. "Why don't you trust me anymore?"

The words hit him like a curse.

I do.

He wanted to explain, he really did.

But in the end, his rationality won.

Harry exhaled slowly, forcing himself to meet her gaze. "I'm sorry," he said finally, his voice quieter than before. "For keeping secrets. And for lying."

Hermione's expression flickered—was that hope?

He took a deep breath. "I won't lie to you again. If there's something I can't tell you, I'll say so. No more excuses."

She studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay," she said. "Thank you."

But she wasn't finished. "How did you get hurt?"

Harry hesitated, shaking his head. "I can't."

Hermione's face fell, but he reached for her hand before she could pull away. "I mean it, Hermione. I want to tell you. And I will, one day. Just… not yet."

She was silent for a moment.

Eventually, she sighed. "Ok, Harry," she relented. "But you will have to tell me. Eventually."

"I know," he promised.

A small silence stretched between them, the tension in the air finally beginning to ease. Then, without a word, Hermione took his uninjured hand and led him to a large rock by the lake.

The two of them sat, leaning against the solid, cool surface, the quiet sound of the water lapping at the shore.

The serenity of it all—the gentle rustling of the trees, the golden sunlight filtering through the leaves—felt almost surreal against the backdrop of yesterday's chaos. The Inferi, the rancor, Voldemort—all of it seemed... distant, as if it happened so long ago.

He let out a slow breath, his shoulders finally loosening.

Hermione was to his right, her head resting lightly against his shoulder, both of her hands still clasped around his left. He felt the warmth of her fingers against his skin, grounding him, steadying him in a way he hadn't realized he needed.

And then, without thinking too hard about it, his right arm circled around her waist, resting securely at her back. It was an instinct more than a decision—an acknowledgment of the quiet closeness between them, of the trust that, despite everything, still remained.

Something flared up inside him.

It wasn't just relief. It wasn't just gratitude.

It was something charged, something that ran deeper than words.

A sense of responsibility?

Harry followed Hermione and Ron through the narrow corridor, stepping off the train and onto Platform 9¾, where the usual scene was unfolding before him.

The Grangers were there, standing neatly at the edge of the crowd. "Hermione!" her mother called, and Hermione's face lit up as she rushed forward. Her parents each pulled her into a quick embrace.

Arthur and Molly stood just ahead, Mrs Weasley's eyes already sweeping over the crowd. Harry barely had time to step aside before Molly barreled forward, pulling both her children into tight, smothering hugs. Arthur clapped a hand on Ron's shoulder, beaming, while Ginny grinned through her mother's fierce embrace, while the twins hung back before eventually being swept up by their mother too. The Weasleys greeted each other with laughter, warmth, a kind of familiarity Harry never failed to notice.

And then—Mrs. Weasley turned to him.

"Harry, dear!" she said, reaching for him without hesitation. Before he could react, she wrapped him up in a firm hug, squeezing him tightly.

She pulled back and cupped his cheek, looking at him with the same concern she had for her own children. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice lighter than it felt. "Thanks, Mrs. Weasley."

She gave him a searching look before nodding. And just like that, she turned back to her family.

And just like that, he was alone again. Like every year.

Around him, the platform swelled with movement—families greeting each other, parents fussing over their children, voices rising in overlapping waves of love, presence, belonging.

And the space where his should have been.

It wasn't like last year, when he'd accepted his loneliness as a fact of his existence. He had always known what he was—kinless, a boy shuffled from doorstep to cupboard to boarding school. The Dursleys were no more than strangers, bound to him by obligation and resentment.

But this year was supposed to be different.

And yet, they weren't here.

He knew why. He knew Sirius, Andi, and the others were still in Albania. He knew they would be back tonight —that by the time the sun set again, he would be in Grimmauld Place with them.

But it SUCKED.

They couldn't have waited just a little longer? One more day?

He was angry.

And he felt guilty about being angry, because he knew they were trying.

Sirius and the Tonks had been the first people in his life to actually want him. And Remus had cared, really cared, not out of duty but because he chose to.

But if they really, truly saw him as family—if he really mattered—then why wasn't anyone here?

His stomach twisted. He needed to get away.

Did he matter that much to them? Or was he just secondary?

A responsibility, not a priority.

Like the Dursleys, like Dumbledore... like everyone.

The idea lodged itself deep inside of him, and no amount of logic could shake it off.

"Harry, son," Mr. Granger spoke up beside him, his voice polite, formal, the way most adults spoke to him. "You're staying in London for the summer, I hear?"

Harry nodded stiffly. "Yeah."

"Ah. That'll be nice," Mr. Granger said, nodding. A beat of silence. "We do hope you'll come by sometime. Hermione talks about you all the time."

Harry forced a small, automatic smile. "Yeah. That'd be nice."

A pause. Mr. Granger seemed to sense Harry wasn't much in the mood for talking and turned back to his wife and daughter.

Then Mrs. Weasley tried.

"Oh, Harry, dear, I do wish you'd come back with us," she said as they all made their way through the station. "You know you're always welcome at the Burrow."

Harry forced another smile. "Thanks, Mrs. Weasley, I've got things to do in London, but I'll try."

She sighed but nodded.

Then Arthur.

"How's Andromeda?" he asked, adjusting his glasses as they sat down for brunch. "Writing to you every now and then?"

Harry shrugged. "She's alright. Be seeing her tonight."

They all tried.

At the table, they kept trying. Small comments. Jokes. Attempts at conversation.

And Harry?

He gave them nothing.

A nod here. A vague hum there. A few clipped words at best.

He could feel it—the way they were noticing. The glances exchanged between Hermione and Mrs. Weasley. The way Mr. Granger's small talk became gentler, like he was handling something fragile, and it made him shitty as hell.

And maybe that was the worst part—he knew they meant well, and he still couldn't bring himself to care. Couldn't even fake it properly.

So now, instead of just feeling empty, he felt like a bastard too.

He wasn't due to meet the Greengrasses for another half hour, but he didn't care.

"I should get going," he muttered, pushing back from the table.

Hermione frowned. "Already?"

Harry didn't bother making a show of checking his watch—that would have been too obvious. Instead, he just stood abruptly, shoving his chair back with more force than necessary.

"Yeah," he said, standing. "I have somewhere to be."

It was a lie. Already breaking my promise.

And he knew not everyone at the table bought it.

Regardless, his trunk rattled behind him as he wheeled it through the station, navigating through the bustling crowd with purpose. It was all for show, really—the urgency, the brisk stride, the way he glanced around like he was running late. As if he had someone waiting for him.

As if someone had been waiting for him at all.

The second he was clear of the platform, he turned into a quiet back alley, checking to make sure no one had followed him.

Then, in a firm, controlled voice, he called, "Kreacher."

A sharp crack echoed in the alleyway as the Black family's house-elf appeared, bowing low. His long, bat-like ears twitched as his beady eyes peered up at Harry. "Master calls, and Kreacher answers," the elf rasped.

"Take me home."

Kreacher didn't hesitate. With another crack, the alley disappeared, and the world twisted violently.

For half a second, as they vanished, he barely registered someone calling his name.

"Oi, Harry! Where're you off to in such a hurry?"

Fred. Or George. Or both.

But by the time his mind caught up, it was too late.

The landing at Grimmauld Place was rougher than expected, but Harry barely noticed. The house was quiet, dark, and for once, it suited him just fine.

He turned to Kreacher. "Get me in half an hour."

The elf gave a deep bow. "As Master commands." And with another crack, he was gone.

He took the stairs two at a time, moving on instinct, his mind already shutting down everything but the need to get away. His featherlight-charmed trunk barely made it past the doorway before he shoved it aside and strode straight for the washroom. The door clicked shut, the lock turned, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, the faucet burst to life.

Then, he slid down the wall.

And broke.

His breath hitched first—sharp, uneven, like something was catching in his throat. Then came the shaking, deep and relentless, spreading from his hands to his chest, his ribs, his spine. He pressed his palms over his eyes, but it did nothing to stop the way his body curled in on itself.

He didn't even know what he was crying for.

Voldemort. The memory of that grotesque, half-formed thing in the shack, the stark reality that he was clawing his way back to power. Pettigrew. That sniveling coward who had slipped through his fingers again. The forest, the Inferi, the rancor, the endless fight that never seemed to end.

But it wasn't just that.

It was the station.

It was watching the Weasleys reunite, Hermione's parents pulling her into their arms. It was the absence of his own.

It was today.

The emptiness he had felt at breakfast, the way he couldn't meet their kindness, the way he had seen them notice and still couldn't force himself to change it.

It was all of it. Blurring together into something too big, too heavy, too much.

He didn't know how long he sat there. But when a knock came, sharp and quiet against the wood, he knew it had been long enough.

"Master," came Kreacher's muffled voice. "It is time."

Right.

He forced himself to his feet, taking a deep breath, blinking hard until the burning in his eyes faded. With a flick of his wand, he cast a quick freshening charm, wiping away any signs of his breakdown.

"Kreacher," he called through the door, keeping it firmly shut. "I'll be out in a minute."

"Master's clothes are ready," Kreacher replied.

The boy exhaled. "I'm showering."

And he did, letting the warm water wash over him, he stood still, head bowed, as if it could somehow strip him of the last few hours.

By the time he stepped out, dressed and composed, he had buried it all again.

"Take me near the British Library," he instructed, and a moment later, he was gone.

The streets outside St Pancras were as busy as ever, but Harry barely noticed. He spotted the Greengrasses almost immediately—Daphne was standing beside Benedict, with Elizabeth and Astoria next to them.

He quickened his pace, forcing a casual smile as he approached. "Sorry I'm late," he apologised, walking up to Daphne "I was having lunch with my friends."

Benedict waved it off with a polite nod. "Not to worry." His voice was smooth, businesslike, yet not unkind. "I offered to take you in once I heard Andromeda would be away."

Harry nodded. "I appreciate it. And so do they."

"Come," Benedict said, gesturing toward the entrance. "Our Portkey is waiting."

Without another word, they stepped into the St Pancras Renaissance Hotel, heading toward their next destination.

Harry should have felt bad. It was their first day back with their kids after months apart, and now they had someone else in the house—a guest who wasn't even theirs to look after.

But by this point, he felt too numb to care.

Instead, he was just tired.

The portkey had barely settled them in the front hall before he turned to Benedict and said, "I should probably head back to Grimmauld Place. I don't want to intrude. I can wait there for the Tonks."

His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. He wasn't even sure why he was bothering to argue—he already knew what the answer would be.

Benedict raised a brow, as if the suggestion were ridiculous. "Nonsense," he said, smoothly handing his cloak off to a waiting house-elf. "You're staying the night."

"Harry," Daphne called from his side. "You look like you're about to collapse. You're feverish, aren't you?"

Harry frowned, about to protest, but before he could react, she stepped forward and pressed the back of her hand against his forehead.

Her touch was cool against his skin, and for a second, he almost leaned into it.

"Yeah, you're warm," she said, withdrawing her hand with a small frown.

He sighed. "I should probably lay down and sleep it off, then."

For once, no one argued.

Benedict nodded and gestured to one of the house-elves. "Take Mr. Potter to the east guest wing. Make sure he has everything he needs."

The guest room was large but not ostentatious, draped in dark greens and muted golds, with an enormous four-poster bed against the far wall. Everything about it was designed for comfort, but Harry barely took it in.

He was not sleepy. Just exhausted.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, his arms resting at his sides. His thoughts drifted—sometimes onto one thing, sometimes another. Sometimes onto nothing at all. But he was enjoying the solitude, ironically enough.

His head ached lightly, a dull throb behind his temples, and his injured arm was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm beneath the bandages. But otherwise, he was fine... for now.

Time passed in slow, heavy silence.

Then, a knock at the door.

Daphne stood in the doorway, one brow arched in that effortless way of hers, arms crossed as she leaned slightly against the frame. She wasn't smiling, but her expression was softer than usual—almost expectant.

And somehow, just looking at her made him feel a little better.

"I figured you'd locked yourself in here for the rest of the evening," she said lightly. "But I insist on being a good host, so I've come to invite you downstairs."

Harry hesitated, already formulating a refusal. He didn't feel up for it—not after the day he'd had, not with the dull ache in his head and the uncomfortable warmth pulsing in his arm.

But then he looked at her again. Daphne Greengrass, standing in the doorway.

As soon as Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, a wave of dizziness hit him.

He inhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the mattress as his vision swam. His head felt heavy, the room tilting slightly before righting itself again.

Daphne glanced back. "You good?"

"Yeah," he said quickly, forcing himself to straighten.

Ignore it.

As they walked down the dimly lit hallway toward the sitting room, the sound of their footsteps soft against the carpeted floor, Daphne suddenly spoke.

"So," she said, her voice light but pointed. "Are you actually going to say what's on your mind, or are you just planning to sulk some more?"

Harry faltered mid-step, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

For a brief, reckless moment, he wanted to tell her.

Tell her about the station, about watching families reunite while he stood alone. About the way he had felt all day, like something inside him was unraveling thread by thread. About how he had cried in the washroom earlier, even though he still didn't know what exactly he was crying for.

But then came the familiar fear—that deep-rooted, gut-wrenching instinct to hold everything in.

Vulnerability was dangerous.

And so were his secrets. If he let her in, if she knew even half of what he carried— the Deathly Hallows, the Horcruxes—she could become a target.

It was better this way, he reasoned to himself much like he'd done with Hermione, only this time the it was so much harder to fight the urge to confess.

"I'm fine. Just tired." he managed eventually. Daphne hummed, unconvinced. "Mmm. So, sulking it is, then?"

Harry huffed a laugh despite himself. "Guess so."

Daphne smiled, small but genuine. "Well, I'd rather have more of you laughing and being cheerful than whatever this miserable, brooding version of you is."

Harry shook his head, but there was warmth in his chest now, something lighter than before.

Daphne always had a way of making him feel a little less lost.

The sitting room was warm and inviting, a sharp contrast to how Harry had felt most of the day. The Greengrasses were already gathered around a low, elegantly carved table, a pot of tea steaming at the center alongside a platter of sandwiches and pastries.

It was... comfortable. Even the conversation was surprisingly light.

The topic had quickly turned to Quidditch, something he could at least focus on without much effort.

"You're Seeker, right?" Benedict asked, pouring himself a fresh cup of tea.

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

"And Gryffindor's won the Quidditch Cup the past two years, haven't they?"

Harry shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, yeah. And the House Cup the past three years." he reminded the roomful of Slytherins.

Maybe he was getting his mojo back.

Across from him, Astoria crossed her arms and huffed. "Of course you did," she muttered. "Gryffindor wins everything."

Daphne hummed. "Oh, come on, Tori. You know they deserved the Quidditch Cup, at the very least." Astoria scowled, but didn't argue.

Harry, on the other hand, blinked at the realization.

He had won those things. He had fought for them, played his heart out, defended his team.

And yet… He didn't really care about the trophies anymore.

Once upon a time, the House Cup had meant everything. A tangible victory, something Gryffindor could be proud of. Something he could be proud of.

But now? After everything?

It all felt so... small.

He sipped his tea, the warmth grounding him, but as the conversation went on, something else started to creep in.

A strange heat prickled at his skin, starting at his chest and crawling up his neck. His stomach churned—not with nerves, not with exhaustion, but with something sickly.

Then—a sharp, unmistakable sting in his arm.

His wound.

Shit.

He had forgotten to treat it.

The bandaging under his pullover felt damp. Warm.

Blood.

His breath hitched slightly, and suddenly, the room felt too warm. The edges of his vision blurred just slightly, the buzzing conversation around him fading into background noise.

Setting his cup down with carefully, he pushed back from the table.

"Excuse me," he murmured, standing abruptly.

Daphne's head snapped toward him. "Harry?"

"I'm fine," he said quickly, already moving. "Just need a minute." He didn't wait for a response.

Heart pounding, he made his way back upstairs as fast as he could, slipping into his room and shutting the door behind him. He barely made it into the washroom before his knees hit the cool tile.

Ted needs to look at this. First thing when they get back.

But for now, he had to manage.

He reached for the fanny pack, fingers clumsy but practiced as he yanked it open and pulled out the small vial of potion he had been relying on for the last day or so.

His grip trembled slightly as he uncorked it with his teeth, spitting the stopper onto the floor. The liquid inside was thick, dark, bitter, and he barely swallowed before the taste could make him gag.

The glass bottle slipped from his fingers, rolling away across the cold tile as he let himself sprawl back against the floor.

For a long moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, his breath slow and steadying as the potion began working through his system.

After a minute, he pushed himself upright, still feeling sluggish but more in control.

His hands moved on instinct as he cleaned the wound, wiping away the fresh blood and carefully reapplying the cursed salve. The sting was sharp but expected, and as he wrapped the fresh bandages around his arm, he exhaled slowly.

Done.

With one final glance in the mirror—ensuring he didn't look like someone who had nearly bled out at the tea table—he rolled his sleeves down and made his way back to the sitting room, picking up the cork on his way out.

The conversation was still going, light and easy, but the second he slid back into his chair, Daphne shot him a curious look. Harry met her gaze evenly, but she didn't say anything.

They chatted amicably for some time before Andromeda arrived.

"Harry," she greeted, stepping into the sitting room, her tone warm but edged with something unreadable. She turned to Benedict and gave a polite nod. "Thank you for looking after him, Ben."

Benedict inclined his head. "It was no trouble."

Harry set his cup down and stood, offering the Greengrasses a small nod. "Thanks for having me," he said, his voice steady, if a little distant.

Daphne's eyes flickered over him again, sharp but unreadable. "Try not to have a debilitating fever next time you visit, Potter," she snarked, smirking slightly.

Harry exhaled through his nose, almost amused. "No promises."

Andromeda placed a gentle hand on his back as she guided him toward the door, but the second they stepped outside, her grip on him tightened. "Sorry for not meeting you at King's Cross" she sighed "You know we wanted to, all of us, but-"

"-You were in Albania," Harry finished for her. "I know."

The second they landed in Grimmauld Place, the Gryffindor knew he wasn't alone.

"Harry!"

Sirius was the first to reach him, striding forward and clapping a hand on his shoulder before pulling him into a quick, bear hug. "How was Platform 9 3/4? Still the same, I imagine? That place is stuck in time, I swear!"

Harry didn't smile.

"Maybe you should have seen it," he answered instead.

Sirius stiffened just slightly, his grip tightening on Harry's shoulder before he let go.

For a long second, no one spoke.

Then, before anyone could say anything else, Harry rolled up his sleeve just enough to reveal the bandages beneath his pullover. "Ted, could you take a look at my arm?" the boy started, keeping his voice even. "I forgot to treat it earlier."

The Healer's frown was immediate. "Harry, an Infernus wound isn't something you just forget to treat."

"I've been dressing it. It's not that bad"

"Even more reason to check it before it is," Ted said firmly.

Remus seized the opportunity, nodding along. "Agreed, let's get that sorted out" he said at once. "And after, we're going to dinner. I found a place you'll like. Thought we could celebrate you being home."

"Fine," the werewolf's former student affirmed. "But can you check my arm upstairs? I want to lie down while you do it."

Ted studied him for a second, then nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

Harry didn't wait for any more conversation, but he didn't move right away. He stood there, feeling their eyes on him, feeling the weight of what he'd just said settle between them. It wasn't a crushing, unbearable weight—it was the kind that he put there on purpose.

Then, without another word, he turned and jogged up the stairs, still taking them two at a time.

Was he being selfish?

He knew going to Albania had been urgent. He knew it had been about the Horcruxes, about the war, about things far bigger than him.

But that didn't erase the hollow feeling in his chest. It didn't change the fact that he had stood there at King's Cross, watching families show up for the people they loved, while he was stood there, knowing full well no one was going to come for him.

And now, as he climbed the stairs, he knew they were watching him go. He knew his words had stung, that he was pushing them away.

And... he was fine with it?

Except—he wasn't.

There was a pang of guilt beneath it all, deep and sharp, because he knew this was wrong.

But right now, he didn't care.

Right now, he wanted them to feel it—just a fraction of what he had felt today.

Right now, he was going to be selfish.

That's all for now, see you all next time!