Healing Hands

Harry was used to arguments with Ron.

They had fought over the Triwizard Tournament, over broomsticks and jealousy, over stupid, meaningless things. But this? This was different.

This felt like the beginning of the end.

It started in the Gryffindor common room, late at night, when Harry had been trying to study.

He was hunched over a book on Magical Ailments and Cures, scrawling notes about Skele-Gro dosage calculations, when Ron dropped into the chair across from him, arms crossed.

"Y’know," Ron said, his voice too casual, "you’ve been spending a lot of time in the Hospital Wing lately."

Harry didn’t look up. "Yeah. I told you—I’m training with Madam Pomfrey."

Ron snorted. "Right. Because you’re a Healer now."

Harry’s jaw tightened.

He turned a page, keeping his tone even. "I want to be a Healer."

Ron scoffed. "Since when?"

"Since I decided I wanted more than just running around getting nearly killed every year."

Ron’s face twisted. "Oh, so you think you’re better than the rest of us now?"

Harry snapped his book shut. "That’s not what I said."

"Sure sounds like it," Ron shot back. "You get a Prefect badge, you start actually caring about school, and now what? You’re too good for the rest of us?"

Harry’s fingers curled into fists.

"What’s your problem, Ron?" he demanded. "Why does it bother you so much that I want a future?"

Ron’s ears burned red.

"Because this isn’t you!" Ron exploded. "You don’t study! You don’t sit in the library with your nose in books—you’re supposed to be the fun one!"

Harry stared.

The words hit him hard, because suddenly, he understood.

Ron didn’t want him to change.

Ron wanted him to stay the same. To be the same boy who would follow his lead, who wouldn’t try to be more, who wouldn’t outgrow him.

And Harry realized, in that moment—he was leaving Ron behind.

Not because he wanted to.

Because Ron refused to grow with him.

Harry exhaled sharply, standing up. "I’m not going to apologize for wanting more, Ron."

Ron glared. "Yeah? Well, don’t expect me to sit around and watch you act like you’re better than everyone else."

Harry’s heart twisted. "That’s not what I’m doing."

Ron’s expression was stubborn. "Whatever you say, Healer Potter."

And with that, he turned on his heel and stormed off.

Harry watched him go, his stomach churning, his chest tight.

He had known, deep down, that things with Ron had been getting worse.

But now?

Now, it felt irreparable.

Harry spent the next three days avoiding Ron.

Or maybe—Ron was avoiding him.

Either way, they weren’t speaking.

Which was fine. It was. Totally fine.

Except for the part where everyone had noticed.

“Alright, Potter,” Seamus said one afternoon, dropping into the seat beside him in the common room, way too close. “You gonna tell me why you look like someone ran over your owl?”

Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s nothing.”

Seamus raised an eyebrow. “Nothing, huh? That why you’ve been sittin’ in here, brooding like a tragic novel character?”

Harry huffed. “I don’t brood.”

“Right,” Seamus said dryly. “And I don’t set things on fire accidentally.”

Harry snorted.

Seamus smirked, nudging him. “C’mon, tell me. Who do I need to hex?”

Harry shook his head. “No hexing. It’s just… Ron.”

Seamus sighed dramatically. “Ah. Weasley.” He leaned back, throwing an arm over the couch. “What’s he done this time?”

Harry hesitated.

Then, after a moment, he muttered, “He’s mad at me for… changing.”

Seamus frowned. “Changing how?”

“Prefect badge. Studying. Wanting to be a Healer.” Harry shrugged. “Apparently, that makes me too good for everyone now.”

Seamus stared at him.

Then—he laughed.

Harry frowned. "What?"

"Potter, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard."

Harry blinked. "Thanks."

Seamus grinned, nudging him. "I mean it. You’re finally figuring your life out, and he’s mad about it? That’s his problem, mate. Not yours."

Harry exhaled sharply.

Seamus’s grin softened slightly. "Look. I don’t know much about all this Prefect, career stuff, but I do know this—you’re not gonna be alone, yeah?"

Harry looked at him. "Yeah?"

Seamus nodded. "Yeah. So if Weasley doesn’t like it, screw him."

Harry laughed, a little breathless.

And for the first time in days, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

The next morning, Harry was called to Professor McGonagall’s office.

He expected a lecture.

Instead, when he arrived, she simply looked at him, lips pressed together, eyes sharp.

Then—she slid a small book across her desk.

Harry glanced down. Advanced Healing Charms.

Harry blinked. "Professor?"

McGonagall’s expression softened. “If you are truly serious about this, Mr. Potter,” she said, voice quieter than usual, “then you should have the proper resources.”

Harry felt something catch in his throat.

He swallowed hard. "Thank you, Professor."

McGonagall nodded once.

And in that moment, he knew she believed in him.