Harry had always been tired. That was just a fact of his life, the kind of exhaustion that settled in his bones after too many battles, too many funerals, too many years of waiting for the next disaster. But this was different. This wasn't the kind of tired that a full night's sleep could fix, nor the kind that went away with a few days off from work. It clung to him, heavier than his robes, sinking into his muscles like a hex he couldn’t break.
Ginny noticed first.
“Harry, you’re pale.” Her fingers brushed his forehead, cool and firm, like she was trying to ground him. “And you’ve lost weight. Don’t think I haven’t seen you pushing your food around your plate.”
“I’m fine,” he’d said. He was always fine. That was what he told himself. What else could he be?
It wasn’t until the chest pain started—sharp and sudden, like he’d been hit with a Bludger from the inside—that he finally listened. Hermione dragged him to St. Mungo’s, Ron pacing furiously outside the exam room while Harry sat stiff-backed on the bed, pretending not to be scared.
The Healer’s face was grave when she returned with the test results.
“Mr. Potter, I’m afraid we’ve found something concerning. You have a rare form of magical malignancy. A type of cancer.”
The words turned to static in his ears.
Cancer. The word didn't even sound real. It sounded foreign, wrong, like it was meant for someone else. He'd spent his whole life fighting curses, dodging Dark Lords, surviving against the impossible—and now his own body was betraying him?
The next few weeks blurred into a haze of appointments, potions, Muggle chemotherapy (the best option, they’d said, given the unpredictable nature of magical treatments on his already battered body). The nausea hit first. At first, it was just queasiness, a mild discomfort, but soon it became relentless, a constant churn in his stomach that left him curled over the toilet, retching until there was nothing left.
Ginny held his hair back, rubbing circles into his back as he heaved. “You’re okay,” she whispered, voice steady even when her hands shook. “I’ve got you.”
Ron and Hermione tried to help in their own ways. Ron brought food, even though Harry could barely keep down dry toast. Hermione researched every possible treatment, bombarding the Healers with questions they couldn’t always answer.
Some days were better than others. Some days, he could sit on the couch and pretend things were normal, watch Quidditch with Ron, let Ginny curl up beside him and talk about her latest Harpies match. Other days, the fatigue was so crushing he couldn’t even get out of bed, his limbs like lead, his mind fogged with exhaustion and pain.
The worst was the hair loss. He hadn’t thought he’d care—not after everything else—but seeing tufts of black hair on his pillow, watching Ginny’s face as she ran her fingers through and came away with strands—it made it real in a way nothing else had.
“It’s just hair,” he said gruffly, forcing a smile as she pulled out the clippers.
“You’re still Harry,” Ginny murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head once she’d finished.
And he was. He was still Harry, even when his body didn’t feel like his own, even when his reflection in the mirror looked like a stranger.
It was months before he finally turned a corner. The treatments, the potions, the sheer force of will—it started working. Slowly, painfully, but working. The Healers gave him cautious optimism, words like “remission” hanging in the air like fragile glass. He wasn’t out of the woods, but he was getting there.
And through it all, they stayed. Ginny, with her fierce, unwavering love. Ron, with his loyalty and humor, his refusal to let Harry wallow. Hermione, with her relentless determination, her endless belief in a future beyond the sickness.
Harry had survived Voldemort. He’d survived war. And now, as he lay in bed with Ginny’s hand in his, listening to Ron’s snores from the next room, feeling the steady rise and fall of his own breath—he knew he would survive this, too.