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Ron approached Ginny quietly, his brow furrowed with concern. “We really need to have a private conversation,” he whispered, urging her to follow him to a discreet corner of her room. The sunlight filtering through the window illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air, but neither of them noticed; their attention was consumed by the urgency of the moment.

“What’s going on, Ron?” Ginny asked, her heart quickening with anxiety as she leaned in closer, a protective instinct bubbling to the surface.

Taking a deep breath, Ron stumbled with his words. “I’ve found something suspicious in Harry’s room,” he finally admitted, the guilt evident in his eyes. “I know I shouldn’t have been snooping, but I couldn’t help myself.”

Ginny crossed her arms, eyebrows knitting together. “Why were you intruding on Harry’s privacy like that?”

“I didn’t intend to,” Ron pleaded, his voice low. “But what I found was too important to ignore.” He hoped to shift the conversation away from his own misstep and towards the troubling discovery.

“What did you see?” Ginny pressed; her curiosity piqued despite her irritation.

Ron shifted uncomfortably. “I came across books… about souls.”

Ginny’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Souls?” she echoed, feeling a swirl of emotions—concern mingled with an unsettling intrigue. “Why would studying souls be an issue?”

“Because he had pages and pages of notes!” Ron argued quietly, almost conspiratorially.

“Maybe it’s part of his summer reading list?” Ginny suggested, attempting to find a reasonable explanation amid the rising tension.

“Come off it,” Ron scoffed, shaking his head. “Harry can’t stand reading assignments. His room is cluttered with books focused entirely on souls. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? Why now? Why this?”

Ginny shrugged, an uncertainty creeping in. “I mean… I’m not sure what to make of it, Ron.”

“Do you think he’s struggling with post-traumatic stress from the war?” Ron questioned, his voice barely a whisper, as if afraid of the answer. His mind raced with thoughts of their war with You-Know-Who, haunted memories leading him to a dark conclusion.

“Given everything he went through,” Ginny began, her tone sympathetic, “it’s a plausible explanation. But we can only truly understand his situation if he chooses to confide in us.”

“Do you think I should talk to Harry about this?” Ron asked uneasily, memories of past arguments flashing through his mind. After finally reconciling their friendship, he feared damaging it again.

“No way,” Ginny replied, staring at him as if he’d suggested something ludicrous. “Do you really believe he’ll calm down if you bombard him with questions about something you shouldn’t even know about? He needs time.”

Ron sighed heavily, frustration evident in his posture. “It’s Harry’s personal matter, I know, but—”

“Let him bring it up himself! Trust me, he’s just as stubborn as you are. Pressure won’t help,” Ginny advised, trying to instill some sense into her brother.

“Maybe I should ask Hermione then,” Ron contemplated aloud, a hint of apprehension threading through his voice. He’d been eager to share the latest happenings at the Burrow with Hermione, yet the continued chaos had deprived him of that chance. “I just… I want to know how to help Harry.”

“That might be a good idea,” Ginny admitted, hope mingling with worry. “Hermione is the most level-headed among us. She’ll probably find a way to handle this without upsetting Harry—she always knows how to navigate tricky situations.”

With resolute breath, Ron nodded. “Okay. We’ll talk to Hermione first,” he said. “But we have to keep an eye on Harry, just in case.”

Ginny agreed silently, feeling a heavy weight settle in her stomach. They left the corner, uncertainty swirling around them like the dust in the sunlight.

In the dim light of his small bedroom, Harry sat on his bed, the shadows of worry etched deep into his brow. The usually vibrant greens of the Burrow outside felt muted, almost as if nature had drawn back its colours in response to his own fading spirit. His head throbbed incessantly, the pain lurking in the background, reminding him of his inexplicable illness. He gripped the edges of his quilt, the fabric worn and familiar, hoping it might somehow shield him from the dread that took root in his chest.

For days, he had tried to convince himself it was merely a simple flu—just a passing ailment. If he kept telling himself that, maybe it would come true. Harry had never been one to shy away from challenges, but this was different. This was a foe he couldn’t fight with bravery or wit. It hid beneath the surface, gnawing away at him in silence, and he was terrified that if he breathed a word of his reality to Ron or Hermione, they would look at him with pity in their eyes. That thought alone frightened him more than the illness itself.

Meanwhile, Ron paced the kitchen, plotting strategies as he nibbed the end of a quill. He glanced upwards towards Harry’s room, a swirling storm of worry brewing in his chest. It was evident that Harry was unwell, but the reason for his ailment was shrouded in mystery, one that Ron felt reluctant to breach yet compelled to solve. He tapped the parchment under his fingers, his thoughts flickering to the soul books—the messages contained within them tracking something deeper than mere disagreement. He had read Harry’s words, trying to decode their hidden meanings, but all he could decipher was pain and uncertainty.

“Hey, Ron,” Ginny’s soft voice pulled him from his thoughts. She approached, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “How’s Harry today?”

“He’s still shutting us out,” Ron grumbled, frowning. “I don’t think it’s just a cold. He’s acting weird.”

“Maybe he just needs some time?” she suggested gently. “He’s been through a lot.”

Ron kicked at the floor, unwilling to concede. “But what if it’s something serious? We can’t leave him alone. He needs us.”

Ginny nodded; a knowing look crossed her face. Ron’s instinct told him that Harry’s illness was connected not only to their fallout but something larger—something about the soul books. It had affected his best friend more than just emotionally; Harry had been acting as if he were slipping away into a world of his own, one steeped in shadows.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Harry curled up in his bed. He heard their voices echoing through the house. Emotion battled against shame, the prospect of reaching out trembling on his lips. But as the weight of solitude pressed down, he found himself retreating further, convinced he could fight this storm alone.

He cradled his head in his hands, the throbbing waning slightly, replaced by the gnawing loneliness that clung relentlessly to him. And as the night deepened outside, he could only hope that when dawn arrived, it would stir something within—an awakening, a glimmer of strength he desperately sought.

The next morning, Harry woke up suddenly with a start, his cries echoing loudly in the room, a clear indication of the turmoil his mind was in. He found himself still reeling from a bizarre dream where his beloved owl, Hedwig, was locked in a cage next to him, only to be hit by a vivid green light. The dream then shifted, revealing Sirius Black lurking near a familiar archway that Harry couldn’t quite place.

His heart raced as he clutched the sheets, the remnants of sleep clinging to him like a suffocating fog. The darkness of the room surrounded him, magnifying the shadows of his fears. With shaky hands, he ran them through his messy hair, trying to shake off the last remnants of the nightmare. The dream felt too real, too vivid, to simply dismiss.

Feeling a sense of impending danger, Ginny and Ron hurried into the room, their breath ragged from running up the stairs. They were met with the sight of Harry huddled in a corner of his bed, visibly trembling with a look of pure terror etched on his face.

“Where are Hedwig and Sirius?” Harry panickedly demanded as soon as he saw them.

Ginny and Ron shared a quick, worried glance before Ginny approached the still-shaking Harry with concern etched on her face.

Confused, Ron echoed Harry’s question, “Where are Hedwig and Sirius?”

“Harry, did you have a bad dream?” Ginny asked, her voice gentle and soothing, as though trying to draw him back from the brink.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Harry replied, his body trembling as he recalled the horrifying images from his dream. “I saw Sirius drifting away and Hedwig being hit by the Killing Curse, and then it struck me that I haven’t seen either of them around lately.” He glanced over at the now-empty cage that had once been Hedwig’s home.

Ron and Ginny exchanged uncertain glances, unsure of how to comfort Harry in his distress. They both dreaded the thought of facing the reality that his nightmares might actually be true.

“They’re...” Ron gathered his courage, feeling a lump in his throat as he prepared to deliver the news that would no doubt shatter Harry’s fragile state. His voice was steady but filled with sorrow. “They’re gone.”

Harry’s disbelief was immediate. “What do you mean, ‘they’re gone?’” His stomach twisted in knots, panic creeping into his voice. “Sirius is just about to walk through that very door,” he insisted, casting a hopeful glance toward the entrance. However, deep down, he knew it was mere wishful thinking.

Ron looked at Ginny, a puzzled expression crossing his face. Had Harry forgotten everything? Ginny could only offer a small shrug in response. It became apparent that Harry’s memory loss was far more serious than they had anticipated.

“Harry,” Ginny’s voice was barely above a whisper as she addressed him, her eyes filled with deep sorrow, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”

Confusion and fear mingled in Harry’s eyes as he struggled to piece together the fragments of his memory. “How... when did this happen?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“It was nearly a year ago, Harry, before you came of age.” Ron spoke with a calm demeanour, but his words carried the weight of sadness. “Hedwig was killed during our escape from the Death Eaters. You remember recounting the tragic events to us, don’t you?”

Harry’s gaze drifted off, lost in a world of silence and shadows. He felt as though he were standing at the edge of a dark abyss, ready to tumble into it. The mere mention of Hedwig’s name dragged the weight of grief upon him. Yet, there was no recollection—only emptiness.

Ron continued, “And Death Eaters assaulted us at the Department of Mysteries. Bellatrix cast a spell on your godfather and engaged him in combat. He died because he fell through the veil. It was about three years ago, mate.”

When Ron finished, he turned to face Harry again, whose eyes were fixed on his knees. The muffled sounds of soft sniffles began to reveal themselves, and Ron’s heart sank at the sight of his friend being engulfed by the heavy waves of despair.

“Was I not there when he fell? I mean, I saw the entire thing, didn’t I?” Harry’s voice was thick with grief and frustration as he grappled with the absence of memory. He couldn’t reconcile the terrible pain with his blank mind—the betrayal of his own thoughts gnawed at him.

Ron reached out, placing a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder, hoping to offer solace in the silence.

The room was heavy with an oppressive stillness that seemed to suffocate Harry, the only sounds cutting through the silence being the gentle tapping of raindrops against the windowpane and Harry’s muffled sobs. But as time passed, the storm inside him began to settle, and he felt a weight lift, releasing him from the clutches of torment. When he finally looked up, he noticed Ginny and Ron were staring at him, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity. A rush of embarrassment flooded his cheeks, making them burn with heat. Hastily, he wiped away his tears, trying to regain his composure.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, his voice barely audible above the background noise. He stared at the floor as if the pattern of the wooden floorboards held the answers he sought.

“Good grief, Harry! You nearly gave us a heart attack out there. What was all that about? Are you even thinking straight?” Ron’s voice pierced the damp air, a blend of irritation and concern evident in his tone.

Ginny shot her brother a reproachful look. “Can’t you see that Harry’s upset?” Her voice was soft yet firm, a protective note wrapping around her words. She stepped closer to Harry, concern lacing her features.

Startled by the confrontation, Harry turned his gaze to the window, the sheets of rain obscuring his view of the outside world. He’d come to The Burrow hoping for solace, yet the fear of the unknown loomed larger than ever. The burden of secrets that clung to him felt heavier than a weighty invisibility cloak. The time had come for honesty; every heartbeat was a drum that urged him forward.

He cleared his throat and took a deep breath, focussing on the faint scent of rain-soaked earth wafting through the pane. When he finally lifted his chin, determination shone through the worry in his green eyes. “Do you remember when I said I would share when I was certain about something?” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze first found Ginny’s—her vivid red hair framing her face like a fiery aura—but he included Ron in his determination as well. “Well, the night before we left school, I—”

But before he could continue, a soft hoot interrupted the tense atmosphere, causing Ron to spin around. The unmistakable silhouette of Pigwidgeon flitted through the rain-lashed window, bringing with him an anticipation that cut through the heaviness like fresh air.

“I’ll get it!” Ron rushed to the window, fingers deftly untying the scrolls attached to Pigwidgeon’s leg. One scroll bore Hermione’s neat handwriting, and the other, Harry recognised, was for him.

Harry held his letter in hand, anticipation building as he unfolded the parchment. Frowning slightly, Harry scanned the message with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. The words written on the scroll added a new layer of complexity to the already tense situation, leaving Harry wondering about the implications of this unexpected correspondence.

Meanwhile, Hermione’s handwriting greeted Ron as he took in the contents of his scroll, the urgency of her words evident.

Ron,

Are you certain about this? Harry has many reasons to research souls. He dealt with seven Horcruxes, not to mention being one himself. Remember, he told us right after the war? But illnesses and symptoms? I’ve no idea why he looked into that. You don’t think he plans to make a Horcrux? That isn’t Harry at all. He wouldn’t. It would terrify me if he did. Keep me posted. I’m worried about what he might do next.

Hermione

As Ron carefully placed the letter into his pocket, the crinkle of parchment echoed in his ears along with the thumping rhythm of his anxious heart. He meant to ask Harry about the contents of his own letter—a secret matter that felt too heavy to bear alone. However, that moment was shattered by the familiar call of Mrs. Weasley from the kitchen, her voice cheerful yet demanding.

“Ron! Ginny! Breakfast is ready!” The warmth in her tone wrapped around the family like a thick blanket, but it pierced the air with urgency. Ron could sense the trepidation in the room. Everyone was used to formidable morning rituals, yet today felt laden with some unspeakable weight. Just a few moments later, Mrs. Weasley’s voice carried through the door, softer but more maternal. “Harry, my dear, I’ll bring your breakfast up shortly.”

Before he could hesitate, Harry sprang to his feet. With determination etched into his features, he swung the door open. “No need, Mrs. Weasley. I’ll join everyone for breakfast downstairs.”

“Are you certain, dear?” she asked, genuine concern mingling in her vibrant voice. “You still look a bit pale.”

“I’m sure,” Harry assured her, mustering a smile that barely reached his eyes. It felt almost like lifting an unwieldy weight off his chest. Mrs. Weasley relented, vanishing down the stairs, leaving behind the lingering scent of her cooking.

As Harry turned to Ron, there was an unspoken invitation in his gaze. “I think it’s time we head down for breakfast.” He attempted to convey everything without words: the letter, the urgency, the whispers of unease that threatened to unravel them. “I’ll fill you in on the details later, I promise.”

With Ron and Ginny on either side, the three of them made their way downstairs, the chatter and clanging of dishes slowly pulling them away from their muted concern. Breakfast began with the usual commotion, but it was soon disrupted by Mrs. Weasley’s keen eye for chores. One moment of laughter was quickly replaced by a series of tasks assigned to Ron and Ginny, who found themselves tethered to the countless duties of their home. With each chore, the gregarious spirit of breakfast faded, replaced by murmurs of relentlessness.

The weight of Hermione’s recent letter loomed over Ron’s shoulders like a storm cloud, clouding everything with worry. Yet, Mrs. Weasley’s incessant assignments turned Ron’s earnest concern into grim determination, and frustration pulsed beneath his scowls. He had to complete the chores quickly to visit Harry, but found himself ensnared in domesticity.

Harry’s earlier resolve to confide in Ron evaporated in the haze of weariness, his unspoken promise lost to the evening shadows. He had wanted to snatch a moment alone with Ron to divulge the tension of the day, but every corner of the house felt filled with the matronly vigilance of Mrs. Weasley.

As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the boys descended into gruelling fatigue. The flickering firelight cast shadows that seemed to mimic their exhaustion, and they ended up retreating in their own rooms to rest.

Despite Ginny’s room being adjacent to Harry’s, she was also too tired to check on him before going to sleep.

The excruciating pain Harry had been experiencing returned, causing him to endure hours of agonising screams in his room. To avoid disturbing the others, he had to use Silencing Charms to muffle his cries of pain while they slept. Despite knowing that his secret would eventually be uncovered, Harry couldn’t risk being overheard. He was fully aware of the grave consequences that would follow if he were discovered.

On his desk lay a letter from Professor Slughorn—cryptic and tantalising. It hinted at matters that danced perilously close to the edge of understanding. They had discussed tainted souls and the difficult path to purification. Each word from Slughorn was careful, guarded; it left Harry frustrated, yearning for clarity that never came. He’d written back and forth, but his hands trembled too violently to accommodate his thoughts. Time and time again, he discarded his scribbles, littering the floor with his failures.

The following day, the air was thick with tension. Ron observed his mother standing outside, hands firmly planted on her hips, brow furrowed in frustration. Ginny paced nearby, her temper barely contained. Ron couldn’t shake the shadow of foreboding that hung over him like a storm cloud. He had decided today was the day he would challenge the madness of the cleaning frenzy that his mother had inexplicably concocted.

“Why do we suddenly have to clean the whole house?” Ron exclaimed, feeling his emotions flare. His cheeks were flushed with embarrassment and indignation. Sure, they could tidy up a bit, but an overhaul felt excessive, especially on a day when he suspected he would rather do anything else—like talk to Harry about the promise he swore.

Molly whipped around, her gaze sharp enough to cut through his protest. “Do not speak to me like that, young man. I already told you, your professor is coming today.” The cadence of her words left no room for interpretation.

Ron’s confusion morphed into disbelief when he saw Ginny’s astonished expression mirrored his own. “What?” he blurted, pressing a hand to his hot cheeks. “You didn’t mention anything about a professor visiting. Who is it?”

“It’s Horace Slughorn,” she replied with a tone that suggested that was all the information they would ever need.

“Why is he coming here?” Ginny piped up, her eyebrows knitted together as curiosity broke through her earlier irritation.

Molly sighed, her maternal instincts kicking in once again as she shifted from confrontational to reassuring. “I’m not entirely sure, but he specifically asked to speak with Harry. And I’m confident that it’s nothing serious.”

Ron arched an eyebrow, unable to shake off the feeling that the situation was far more ominous than his mother’s casual tone suggested. “How can you be so sure?” he questioned.

“Horace assured me that his visit is purely for academic purposes,” she stated, but the determination in her voice lacked the conviction that would typically quell the nagging worries Ron couldn’t suppress.

Worry crept into the corners of their minds, casting shadows across their young faces. Ron glanced at Ginny, and they exchanged nervous looks—the kind of look that said they both sensed something was amiss, even if they couldn’t articulate it just yet.

Ron hurried back inside the house and rushed upstairs to Harry’s room, his heart pounding with anticipation. The clock on the wall ticked ominously, and he felt a thick knot of anxiety forming in his stomach. What if something was wrong? He hesitated for a moment before knocking on the door, hoping for a response, but the only sound was the echo of his own knuckles against the wood.

He glanced again at the clock, a stark reminder that it was already eleven o’clock. It was late—way too late for Harry to still be asleep. The worried thought propelled him to knock again, urgency creeping into his voice. “Harry! Are you awake?” Ron called out, half-listening for the familiar shuffle of his friend waking up. When his ear pressed against the door met only silence, Ron couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that seeped into his bones. Taking a deep breath, he cautiously pushed the door open, the creaking hinge matching the tension in his chest.

Inside, the dim light painted the room in muted shades, and there lay Harry, asleep in bed. The sight of his friend’s chest rising and falling slowly brought Ron a moment of relief, but it quickly faded as the worry festered. “Harry?” Ron whispered, kneeling beside the bed, urgency lacing his tone.

Harry stirred, blinking as if he had surfaced from a deep, dreamless sleep. For a moment, he seemed disoriented, as the bright rays of the morning sun streamed into the room. “What’s going on?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“You need to wake up, Harry. Professor Slughorn is coming to visit today.” Ron explained, trying to suppress his mounting panic.

Confusion knitted Harry’s brow as he struggled to sit up, the fog of sleep still clinging to him. “Didn’t you know that?” Ron pressed, a hint of frustration slipping through his concern.

Harry fumbled through his thoughts, memory struggling to catch up. “No… I thought I’d missed something. What visit?” His voice was a whisper, the pieces of the day colliding in his mind.

Ron sighed in exasperation. “I thought you knew! He—” Ron stopped mid-sentence, captivated by a sudden change in Harry’s expression.

Harry’s demeanour shifted, his face pinching as if caught in a sudden, fierce storm. “I… I must have missed the letters,” he murmured more to himself, the realisation fogging his voice.

“Letters? What letters?” Ron leaned in closer, curiosity battling with concern. But before he could dig deeper, Harry let out a scream that sliced through the air like ice, paralysing Ron where he kneeled.

“Harry! What’s happening?” Panic wrapped around Ron like a vice as he sprang to his feet. Harry was thrashing in bed, the peaceful image just moments ago completely obliterated by his cries of agony.

“It hurts!” Harry gasped, a sound of desperation twisting in with his pleas. Ron’s heart raced faster than it ever had.

“Hang on!” he shouted, backing away as he turned on his heel, racing down the stairs. “Mum! Mum!” He shouted, panic lending speed to his feet.

The house felt like a labyrinth as he barreled through the hallway, slamming into the kitchen, where his mother stood over the stove. Her back turned to him; she was lost in the rich scent of whatever she was cooking. It wasn’t until Ron crashed into the room that she spun around; her apron smudged with flour.

“What on earth—” she began, but the urgency in Ron’s eyes silenced her.

“Harry! He’s in pain! He needs you!” The words tumbled out, jumbled and frantic, as Ron grabbed his mother’s arm. He could feel her gentle strength, yet time was slipping away.

His mother’s expression shifted, steeling herself against his panic. “Show me!” she commanded, her voice sharp and focused. They dashed upstairs together, Ron leading the way, his heart hammering as they burst into Harry’s room.

The scene that greeted them was chaos. Harry was still thrashing in bed, sweat glistening on his forehead, his eyes wide with terror. “It hurts! Make it stop!” he cried, his voice a mixture of boyish fear and something deeper, darker.

“Harry!” Mrs. Weasley rushed to his side, her hands finding Harry’s trembling shoulders, attempting to offer comfort. “Harry! Focus on me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

But Harry could hardly hear her through the haze of pain.

Mrs. Weasley, with a gentle touch, brushed the hair away from Harry’s sweat-drenched forehead. “Where does it hurt, Harry?” she asked softly.

“Everywhere,” he croaked, shutting his eyes tightly, each syllable wrapped in a shuddering pain that coursed through him like wildfire. Outside, the wind howled, its mournful cries a mere whisper compared to the agony he felt.

Ginny stood just outside the cramped room, her heart heavy as she watched Harry writhe in discomfort.

“Ginny, quickly—in the storage cabinet there’s a small bottle labelled ‘Healing Potion’,” instructed Mrs. Weasley, her voice urgent yet calm. Without a moment’s hesitation, Ginny dashed down the creaky stairs, her heart pounding like a wild drum. She flung open the cupboard doors, scanning for the potion as if time were slipping through her fingers.

After an agonising few moments, she found the small bottle, its label smudged but familiar. Seizing it tightly, she raced back up the stairs, fear and determination propelling her forward.

Mrs. Weasley had shifted on the bed, gently trying to soothe Harry’s distress. He lay with half his face buried in the pillow, his cries escalating with every pulse of pain. As Ginny entered the room, Mrs. Weasley’s gaze met hers with a flicker of gratitude, and she removed the stopper from the potion with a practiced hand.

“Harry, this is a healing potion that you must take. It’ll help to relieve your pain,” she encouraged, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart.

Harry’s cheeks were streaked with tears, glistening like the dew on grass in the dawn. He managed a faint nod, the simple act seeming monumental against the backdrop of his suffering.

Ron, hovering protectively at the foot of the bed, stepped forward, understanding the unspoken interaction between his mother and sister. Together they gently propped Harry up, each moment filled with an unsaid promise of hope amidst despair. As the potion slid down Harry’s throat, he felt a cool wave wash over him, initially reassuring, yet he braced himself instinctively as the pain still lingered like a spectre.

The familiar warmth of Mrs. Weasley’s blankets enveloped him just as the darkness began to creep in—the corners of consciousness fading away. “Harry, stay with me,” she pleaded, her voice a lifeline as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Desperation rose in Ron’s chest as he pulled out his wand, sending a swift message to Hermione. “Harry’s not getting better. You need to come, now,” he implored, each word punctuated by an urgency that belied his youthful bravado. The thought of facing Professor Slughorn, with his incessant riddles and half-hearted solutions, felt like a weight pressing against Ron’s heart.

A shadow swooped into the room as Ginny sat back down, her fingers twitching slightly against Harry’s burning skin. She gasped as she felt his fever return, hotter than before, and her heart sank further. Despite the countless potions they had tried, any relief was fleeting, slipping through their hands like sand. Muggle remedies followed—the cold baths, the cool clothes—but Harry’s battle seemed far from over.

Green flames suddenly burst out in the fireplace, causing both Molly and Ron to jump in surprise.

As the flames dissipated, a figure emerged, taking the scene in with a rich, warm smile. Professor Horace Slughorn, dressed impeccably in his signature waistcoat covered in shiny gold buttons, stepped forward, brushing soot from his attire. “Good afternoon! I must apologise for my unexpected entrance. I believe we didn’t set a specific time for my visit, did we? Age seems to be catching up with me.” His jovial manner lessened Molly’s surprise.

“Oh no,” she stammered, her cheeks flaring rosy as she approached him, extending her hand. “You did mention a time. I’m so sorry; it completely slipped my mind due to some unforeseen circumstances.”

“Not at all! I hope I am not intruding.” His attempt to lighten the mood was cut short as flames surged again, this time more intense, and Hermione Granger stumbled through, dishevelled and wide-eyed.

Ron rushed forward, instinctively wrapping her in a firm embrace. “Hermione!” Relief flooded his voice.

Molly approached, concern creasing her forehead. “Hermione? What brings you here?” she asked, sensing the tension in the air.

Professor Slughorn’s face brightened when he saw Hermione. “Ms. Granger! What a pleasant surprise! It’s been quite some time.”

“Hello, Professor Slughorn! Mrs. Weasley.” Hermione managed a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m sorry for not sending a message beforehand. I just heard about what happened to Harry…” her voice trailed off, giving way to a heaviness that clung to the air.

At the mention of Harry, Slughorn’s earlier cheer faded. “Harry? Is he alright?” His tone morphed from joy to concern in a heartbeat.

Mrs. Weasley let out a sorrowful breath. “No, Horace. Harry was in so much pain just an hour ago that he passed out. The healing potions weren’t effective, and I’m lost for what to do.”

“It feels like more than a simple sickness,” Ron admitted, frustration glimmering in his eyes. Everyone turned toward him, their focus sharpening. “He’s been acting strange,” he continued, glancing at Hermione for support. “He woke up screaming from a nightmare, asking for Hedwig and Sirius, as if he didn’t remember their deaths. He thinks he’s still waiting for the Dursleys to pick him up, like he forgot he lives with us now. He’s confused. He seems to be suffering from fever and pain everywhere.”

Ron clenched his fists, his persistence rising. “And I found one of his books. It outlines all the symptoms he’s experiencing—confusion, pain, fever—everything. But there was more, Hermione. You mentioned something in your last letter about Horcruxes.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Weasley.” Slughorn interrupted, his features paling. “Did you say ‘Horcrux’?”

“Yeah,” Ron replied, bewildered.

Slughorn bowed his head, the weight of his own memories anchoring him in the moment. “Harry approached me once, curious about them. He wanted to know what happens to a soul when it becomes a Horcrux. I told him that the soul becomes damaged or tainted, and…”

Hermione gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as she processed the implications of what they were discussing.

Slughorn’s usually jovial face was now a canvas of dread, etched with the shadows of revelation. Hermione stood before him, her brow furrowed, her voice strained, like a frail thread that might snap at any moment.

“Did Harry tell you why he was asking about Horcruxes?” she pressed, her heart thundering in her chest.

Slughorn swallowed hard, a deep unease settling over him. “No, Harry did not provide me with a specific reason for his enquiries,” he responded, his voice barely above a whisper. The chill in the air felt like an omen as he replayed their earlier conversation in his mind, the seemingly innocent questions now tinged with desperation. “Why do you ask?”

With a breath that quivered like a leaf in the wind, Hermione pressed on. “Because Harry was a Horcrux too. When Voldemort attempted to kill him as a baby, the curse failed, but a fragment of Voldemort’s soul linked itself to Harry.” With each word, the room filled with an oppressive weight, shadows lengthening as if feasting on their terror. “So when Voldemort cast the Killing Curse at Harry again during the Battle of Hogwarts, he unknowingly destroyed his soul fragment inside of Harry.”

“Merlin’s beard!” Slughorn exclaimed, his eyes widening in horror. He had brushed aside the implications before; now, they blossomed into monstrous clarity in his mind. “No wonder he was asking about remedies for a damaged soul!”

Molly Weasley’s worry seeped into the air, heavy like smoke. “What’s this Horcrux that Harry has been dealing with for so long? No one told me about it!”

With a quiet solemnity, Slughorn explained, “A Horcrux is an object in which an evil wizard or witch stores a portion of his or her soul to achieve immortality. It can only be made by committing murder, the ultimate evil deed. I tried to avoid this topic, but I was the one who informed Tom Riddle about Horcruxes.” Regret etched his features. “I feared the worst, and it came to pass. My foolish statements allowed Riddle to use this knowledge.” He looked at Mrs. Weasley with empathy forged in sorrow. “Albus insisted I give Harry that specific memory.”

Molly sank into a nearby chair, her hand trembling over her heart, her eyes brimming with dread.

In the brittle silence, Hermione could bear it no longer. “Professor, what did you mean by a ‘damaged soul’? What happens to the host?” Her voice trembled as the piece of the puzzle clicked chillingly into place.

“It’s unusual,” Slughorn replied, anguish tightening his throat. “So, I assume the host would waste away and die.”

Ron, usually full of bravado, gulped audibly, the sound echoing in the charged atmosphere.

Hermione felt her pulse quicken, dread twisting in her gut. “How long can the host survive?” she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Slughorn’s face fell further, like the last light of day sinking beneath a stormy horizon. “It could be a few months, weeks, or less,” he said, anguish embroidered into his tone.

His chilling words hung over them like a dark, suffocating shroud, each heartbeat echoing the terrible truth they had come to understand: Harry was slowly losing the fight.

Ron immediately grasped the reason behind Harry’s reluctance to confide in them about his struggles. Aware of the limited time Harry had left and wanting to shield his friends from unnecessary worry, Harry kept his inner turmoil hidden. Ron grappled with the thought of Harry bearing his burdens alone, feeling a mix of concern and frustration at the same time.

The depth of Harry’s solitude weighed heavily on Ron, who couldn’t fathom why Harry doubted their loyalty after all they had been through together. Recalling the near loss of Harry to Voldemort in the past, Ron couldn’t bear to imagine going through that ordeal again. He was determined to stand by Harry’s side, come what may, and prevent history from repeating itself.

Hermione was visibly distraught, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Though she had faced many challenges in the past, the mere thought of losing Harry was unbearable to her. She saw Harry as a sibling, and the idea of him not being by her side left a gaping wound in her heart. Reflecting on her past interactions with him, Hermione blamed herself for not noticing the extent of Harry’s suffering post-war. Despite her best efforts, Harry had always been secretive about his struggles, and Hermione respected his need for privacy. However, she also knew that there were times when he needed more than just his own strength to overcome obstacles. Though she was always ready to support him, she felt hurt when he shut her out. Still, her bond with Harry ran deep, and she was willing to do anything for him, seeing him as an integral part of her family.

“Surely there must be a solution to this, Professor?” Hermione’s voice cracked, tears cascading down her cheeks as she struggled to hold back her desperation. “Please, you must find a way to help him!”

“Ah, Ms. Granger,” Slughorn sighed, his face etched with concern. “I wish I could gladly tell you there is, but that would just deceive us both. Creating a Horcrux is so evil that all information about them has been banned from the public.” His gaze grew distant, the flicker of candlelight reflecting off his round spectacles. “To my knowledge, there is no reference to healing a fragmented soul. Before you told me, no one would dare to try.”

Hermione felt a flicker of hope extinguish. She leaned back in her chair, allowing her shoulders to slump. “But what if—”

“Interesting,” he continued, cutting her off gently but firmly. “When I briefly discussed this with Albus, he mentioned soul splitting. As the greatest wizard of all time, he may have learnt how to heal souls. But finding that Tom Riddle had succeeded in creating Horcruxes disturbed me so much that Albus never mentioned it again.”

The room fell into a sombre silence. The rustling of the wind outside and distant calls of birds felt like an echo of a world that had moved on, untroubled by the heavy burden resting on Hermione’s heart. She wrapped her arms around herself, desperately trying to steady the whirlwind of thoughts clamouring in her mind.

“Surely,” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else, “there has to be something. Dumbledore believed in soul-mending,” she eventually said, her voice cautious yet imbued with a flicker of hope. “He must have read that somewhere—”

Before she could delve deeper, Ginny Weasley stepped into the kitchen, her face flushed with urgency and relief.

“Harry’s finally awake,” Ginny announced, the tremor of joy evident in her voice.