Harry didn’t mean to break. Not really.
He’d made it through worse days, hadn’t he? He’d faced Voldemort, stared death in the eye more times than he could count, and somehow always came out on the other side. But some days, it wasn’t the big battles that got to him—it was the small things. The weight of silence in a corridor. The pointed stare from a professor. The mocking sneer of Malfoy. The pitying glances he’d stopped trying to ignore.
Today had been made of too many of those moments. And Harry, already tired from nightmares and pressure and the never-ending ache of grief, had simply run out of energy to pretend.
He didn’t even remember walking up to the common room. Just that he’d ended up there, dragging his bag behind him like it was filled with bricks. Ron and Hermione were in their usual seats by the fire. Ginny was lounging upside-down in an armchair, her hair trailing toward the rug. Fred and George, visiting for the weekend, had staked out a corner near the fireplace and were whispering over what looked suspiciously like a new prank prototype.
Harry dropped his bag and sat down heavily on the couch, not even bothering to greet them. His shoulders curled inward, and his head dropped into his hands.
"Harry?" Ron's voice was cautious but warm. He leaned forward, watching his best friend closely. "You alright, mate?"
Hermione had already put down her book and moved to sit on his other side, her hand brushing lightly against his arm. “You look… you don’t look okay.”
“I’m fine,” Harry said. It was automatic now, rehearsed so well it almost sounded believable.
But the catch in his voice gave him away.
Ginny sat up slowly, frowning. “That’s the worst lie I’ve heard all week, and I got a letter from Percy.”
Fred perked up. “Was it about cauldron thickness again? Thrilling stuff, that.”
George nudged his twin. “I’d say this seems more serious than Percy’s riveting bureaucratic drama.”
Their jokes were light, but Harry didn’t react. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even flinch.
That’s when Fred sobered. “Hey,” he said gently, not the usual teasing tone. “Harry, talk to us.”
Harry didn’t lift his head. The world felt muffled, like he was underwater. Pressure building in his chest, behind his eyes. He didn’t want to cry in front of everyone, didn’t want to be that person. But his throat felt thick, his limbs heavy.
He didn’t even notice Neville approaching until he sat on the floor in front of the couch.
“Sometimes it helps to just sit with people,” Neville offered softly. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Seamus flopped into the armchair next to Ginny, chewing a licorice wand thoughtfully. “Rough day? Was it Snape? Or just the whole ‘chosen one, war's coming, the world’s a nightmare’ thing?”
Dean shot him a look. “Really?”
“What? I wasn’t wrong.”
Dean walked over to Harry and sat cross-legged beside Neville. “We get it, mate. You’ve been carrying all this on your own for a long time.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Ron added, shifting a little closer. “You don’t have to be the strong one every second.”
Hermione reached into her bag, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it into Harry’s hand without a word.
It was such a small thing. But that did it.
Harry let out a shaky breath, and before he could stop himself, the tears were falling. He didn’t sob, didn’t collapse into a mess—but the tears came anyway, hot and silent and humiliating. He curled in on himself more, trying to hide his face.
A blanket landed across his shoulders—courtesy of Ginny, who now sat next to him and leaned into his side without a word. Her presence was solid and warm, grounding.
Fred and George stood, awkward for only a moment before Fred cleared his throat. “Well. This calls for drastic measures.”
“Agreed,” George said. “Emergency cocoa. Neville, you know the spell?”
Neville nodded immediately. “On it.”
Fred pulled a ridiculous pair of fuzzy socks from his bag. “These are dragon-warmed. Heat-charms built right in. Mandatory for emotional breakdowns, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not wearing—” Harry started.
But George was already kneeling, pulling off Harry’s school shoes with exaggerated flair. “Socks are law, Potter. Comfort is law.”
Despite himself, Harry gave the smallest huff of a laugh—and that was all the twins needed.
“There it is!” Fred grinned triumphantly. “The tiniest flicker of joy. You’re healing already.”
Ginny rolled her eyes but smiled as she tucked the blanket tighter around Harry’s shoulders. “Ignore them. But, you know... also don’t. They’re good at this.”
Neville returned with mugs of steaming cocoa—one for Harry and one for Hermione, who looked like she might start crying too if Harry didn’t stop.
Dean leaned forward. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently. “Or just sit here with us for a bit?”
Harry sniffed and finally looked up, eyes red-rimmed but grateful. “Just… sitting’s good.”
And so they did.
Ron slung an arm across the back of the couch. Hermione shifted to press her shoulder into Harry’s. Ginny leaned her head against his arm. Dean and Neville sat on the floor, close enough to feel like protection. Fred and George stationed themselves like comedic bodyguards on either side of the hearth.
Seamus conjured tiny, floating marshmallows that danced across the surface of their cocoa, saying, “Bet you didn’t know I had this many feelings, huh?”
Harry laughed—an actual laugh—and everyone relaxed.
The tower was quiet for a while, save for the crackle of the fire and the soft clinks of mugs being passed around. No one rushed him. No one demanded explanations. They simply were—a quiet, warm shield around him.
Eventually, Harry leaned back, the blanket slipping slightly as he looked around at the people gathered around him.
“This is... more than I expected,” he said, voice rough.
Hermione smiled through teary eyes. “That’s what family does.”
Ginny reached out and flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “You’re not alone, Harry. You’ve never been alone. We’ve got you.”
“Yeah,” Ron added. “Even when you’re being a stubborn git about it.”
Fred raised his cocoa. “To the Gryffindor middle child!”
George echoed him. “May your emotional walls crumble at just the right moments!”
Harry shook his head, half-laughing, half-crying again. “You’re all ridiculous.”
“True,” Dean agreed. “But we’re your ridiculous.”
And for the first time in a long time, Harry believed it.