Harry knew something was wrong the moment he felt the sharp, searing pain twist in his stomach. He sat up straight at the Gryffindor table, his breakfast half-eaten in front of him. The pain wasn’t new, not really—he’d had fleeting moments of discomfort in the past, but this felt different. More persistent. Stronger.
It came in waves, sudden and cruel, like a fist tightening around his gut. Harry breathed through it, trying to ignore the nausea that followed, but it didn’t let up. His vision blurred, and he found himself clutching the edge of the table, his fingers tightening on the wood until it almost hurt.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice cut through the fog of his thoughts. She was sitting beside him, her brow furrowed in concern. "You look pale. Are you feeling alright?"
He shook his head, a half-hearted attempt to hide the truth. "Just a bit of a stomach ache," he muttered, even though the word felt like a lie in his mouth. This wasn’t just a stomach ache.
But Hermione didn’t look convinced. Her eyes, sharp with worry, lingered on him. "That's not just a stomach ache, Harry. You’re white as a ghost."
"I’m fine," Harry said, trying to sound dismissive, but his voice was strained, and his stomach churned again, a harsh reminder that he was anything but fine.
The bell rang, signaling the start of classes, but Harry’s stomach didn’t let up. He forced himself to get up, though the pain made his movements jerky and unsteady. He could feel Hermione's eyes on him, her concern lingering like a weight on his shoulders, but he didn't have the energy to argue.
-----
Later that afternoon, Harry was on the Quidditch pitch, gripping his broom tightly as he soared through the air. The wind in his face did little to clear the fog in his head. Instead, the sharp pain in his stomach was a constant companion, reminding him that he was running on empty—physically and emotionally.
Every time he tried to focus on the game, it felt like his body betrayed him. The nausea made his head spin, and his legs felt like they were made of lead. He kept telling himself it was just stress, just the pressure of everything building up, but even as he spoke those words in his mind, part of him knew better.
He had been running on adrenaline for months now, each day a little worse than the last. The war was coming, and Harry had to be ready for it. He couldn't afford to be weak. Not now.
But as the pain hit again, fiercer this time, Harry lost his grip on the broom and fell hard to the ground. The world tilted around him, his body wracked with violent nausea as he lay there, his stomach churning with dread and exhaustion.
"Harry!" Ron's voice was frantic as he knelt beside him, his face pale with concern. "What the hell happened?"
"I—I don’t know," Harry gasped, his breath shallow. "It just... it just hurts."
Ron’s gaze flicked to Hermione, who had been watching nearby, looking horrified. Harry closed his eyes, trying to block out the growing noise in his head. It was too much—his body, his mind, all of it. He couldn’t keep pretending that everything was okay when it wasn’t.
"I think you need to see Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said quietly, kneeling beside him. "This isn’t normal, Harry."
"No," Harry protested weakly, his chest tightening. "I can’t. I don’t have time for that."
But Ron’s voice cut through his resistance. "You don’t have time not to, mate. You’re not doing anyone any good like this."
Harry swallowed hard, the weight of his friends’ concern pressing down on him. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Finally, he nodded, defeated.
"Alright," he whispered. "Alright, I’ll go."
-----
Madam Pomfrey’s office was quiet except for the soft rustling of bottles and the occasional clink of her stirring a potion. Harry sat on the edge of a cot, feeling a wave of dizziness crash over him as the pain in his stomach spiked again. He had tried to downplay it at first, tried to convince the matron that it was just a passing thing. But her sharp eyes saw through him in an instant.
"Harry, this has been going on for too long," she said gently but firmly. "You’ve been pushing yourself past the point of exhaustion."
Harry grimaced, the reality of it sinking in. He had been so focused on the war, on the looming threat, on keeping everyone else safe, that he hadn’t even noticed how much he had been neglecting his own health.
"I didn’t have time," he admitted, his voice rough. "I thought if I just kept going, it would be fine. If I kept pushing... I could handle it."
Pomfrey gave him a look—half pity, half reproach—and handed him a vial of potion. "It’s not uncommon for people under great stress to ignore their physical well-being. But you’re no good to anyone if you’re falling apart."
Her words stung more than he expected, but he didn’t protest. He couldn’t.
For the first time in months, Harry allowed himself to feel the weight of everything. The endless pressure of being "the Chosen One," the burden of knowing that his life could end at any moment in a war that was getting closer and closer.
"I’ve been—" Harry paused, swallowing hard, his chest tight. "I’ve been scared, Madam Pomfrey. Scared that if I take a moment for myself, I’ll lose everything. I can’t—"
Her hand on his shoulder was warm, grounding. "You don’t have to carry the weight alone, Harry. You never have."
The truth of that hit him harder than any battle he’d ever fought. And as the potion started to ease the pain in his stomach, Harry felt the tiniest shift inside him—the first crack in the walls he’d built up for so long.