FicWad

Harry jolted upright, his breath catching violently in his throat.

His heart pounded so hard it hurt. For a split second, he hadn’t the faintest clue where he was. The walls seemed closer than they were, the room darker than it should have been. The air was stale and heavy, as though something awful had just left.

The dream lingered on, refusing to fade even in the dark. He could still see her, Hedwig, wings flared in panic, white feathers flashing as a burst of green light surged toward her. The cage rattled. Her cry—piercing, terrified, and final—continued to ring in his ears. Then Sirius, his godfather’s face just beyond the veil, eyes wide, mouth moving, trying to speak, but there was no sound, only—

Silence.

Then nothing.

“No,” Harry choked out. His fingers fumbled blindly at the sheets, clenching them into twisted knots in his fists. His chest was tight, lungs raw, as if he’d been shouting or gasping for breath.

He blinked, and the room wavered around him, swimming in shadow. Sweat drenched his shirt, and his hair stuck damply to his forehead. The air against his body felt cold at this moment, but he was hot all over, his skin prickling as if the dream had left him feverish.

It was only a dream, he told himself. Just a dream.

But he knew better.

He’d hoped the worst of it had faded after the battle, that the ache inside him had quieted for good. But now, lying there shaking and slick with sweat, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something within him had acted up again.

It had felt too vivid. Too true. As if a memory were forcing itself back from somewhere deep in his mind.

Footsteps pounded on the stairs outside, fast and urgent.

The door banged open.

“Harry!”

Ginny and Ron burst into the room, breathless. She was in her dressing gown, wand in hand; he was behind her, pale-faced, eyes flicking quickly about as if expecting an enemy.

For a fleeting, mad second, he thought they were even part of the dream. Like they’d followed him out of it.

He recoiled, hitting the headboard with a thud. His limbs trembled violently, his jaw clenched tight, his gaze scanning every shadow as if Hedwig might still be there, her wings torn, her cry until now echoing faintly.

“Where are they?” he gasped. “Where’s my owl? Sirius? They—they were just here. I saw them; they were here.”

Ron faltered mid-step, exchanging a silent, alarmed glance with Ginny.

She stepped forward cautiously, as though approaching a wounded creature. “Harry,” she whispered, her voice soft but steady, “you were dreaming. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

“No,” he rasped, shaking his head sharply. His mind was spinning. “Hedwig, she was with me. I saw her, and Sirius—he looked at me like he sensed that something was coming.”

His eyes flicked desperately to the corner of the room, to the spot where he knew the cage was.

But it was empty.

Ginny followed his gaze. Her expression shifted, an emotion pulling tight around her mouth.

Ron moved closer but remained standing. His face had turned strangely blank, as if he were trying to keep it from showing too much. “Harry…”

He faced him, voice trembling. “They’re not gone. They can’t be. Sirius—he’s coming back. He always does. He said he would.”

He stared at the door, willing it to open.

But it didn’t.

The silence stretched, unbearable.

Ginny broke it, her tone low. “I’m so sorry.”

Harry’s stomach twisted, an icy knot forming somewhere deep inside him.

“I—I don’t understand,” he whispered. “When…? How…?”

Ron lowered himself slowly onto the edge of the bed. He looked sick.

“It was nearly a year ago,” he said quietly. “We were flying from Privet Drive. Death Eaters were waiting. One of them fired a curse. Hedwig… she didn’t make it.”

The words hit him hard.

And suddenly, the memory did flicker; brief and fragmented, him clinging to the sidecar, the chilly wind tearing at his clothes, spells exploding in the dark. The weight in the cage. The sickening stillness.

Her silence.

He couldn’t breathe.

The statement did not just hurt; it hollowed. He wanted to cry, to rage, to feel anything, but it was as though the part of him that should have known how had vanished. He felt hollow, as if something essential in him was gone.

“I told you that?” he asked hoarsely, looking at Ron.

His best friend gave a slow nod. “You did. You were gutted. We all were.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, searching for it. The moment he tried to grasp it, it slipped away.

“And Sirius?“ he questioned, though a part of him already knew. He’d always known.

Ron’s voice cracked. “The Department of Mysteries. Bellatrix. You were there. You fought to reach him. But—he fell. Through the archway.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

Another flicker.

His godfather laughed as he duelled, his eyes fierce. A jet of light; him stumbling. The Veil was swaying.

Then gone.

Gone.

“No,” he whispered. “No, I was there. I saw it—didn’t I? I must have—”

He looked to them for confirmation. As if they could piece the fragments together for him.

Ginny reached for his arm, her touch gentle. He flinched at first but did not pull away.

“You were there, Harry,” she breathed. “You tried.”

The memories seemed crooked. Distorted. As if the pain belonged to someone else, not him.

“I should’ve felt it,” he murmured, trembling all over. “I should remember. But I feel nothing, even though I know it happened. Why can’t I?”

His hands curled into fists in the sheets, knuckles white. His whole body ached, not from fever, not from wounds, but from something deeper, hollow and gnawing.

Guilt.

A familiar companion.

Not just for what he couldn’t recall, but for what he hadn’t been able to change.

A memory tore through him, sharp-edged and blinding.

He was standing in the ministry’s atrium, wand clutched uselessly in his hand, his body trembling so violently he could barely stay upright. Dumbledore’s voice rang out above the chaos; furious, echoing, and absolute. Fudge stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide, mouth slack, staring at the truth he’d refused to see for far too long.

Harry couldn’t even speak or stand straight. His back pressed against the icy wall beside the fallen statue, and his fingers twitched with adrenaline and leftover dread.

And then nothing.

The image slipped from his mind, torn away as quickly as it had come. All that remained was the faint electric hiss of static.

Outside, rain pattered softly against the windowpane, tapping a steady rhythm that sounded close to a ticking clock. Each droplet felt like a second slipping past him, counting down to something unseen and inevitable.

He didn’t mean to cry.

The tears came uninvited, sharp and hot and soundless. They ran down his face before he even realised what was happening. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing them to stop, but it was useless. His body had decided for him. He had held it in too much, and now it was breaking loose. Every sob dragged something old to the surface: years of fear, guilt, and the sick knowledge that a part of him had once belonged to Voldemort. Maybe this was the price of surviving what no one else had. He had lived with a cursed piece of Voldemort’s soul for quite some time, long enough for it to leave scars nobody could see.

Ron and Ginny were still there, and he loathed it.

He hated being seen like this, the boy from the cupboard at Privet Drive pretending not to care.

He scrubbed at his cheeks with the heel of his palm, as if he could wipe it all away—the tears, the memories, and the shame.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered thickly, not looking at either of them. His voice cracked on the words, and the heat rising in his face had nothing to do with fever now.

The silence in the room was suffocating, stretching too long.

Then his best friend broke it, sharp and unfiltered. “Bloody hell, mate. You scared the life out of us. That scream—Merlin, you sounded like you were dying.”

“Ron!” Ginny hissed, smacking his arm, her voice a furious whisper.

Harry exhaled shakily, lips twitching at the corners, not quite a smile, more of a grim acknowledgement. “Maybe I was.”

The words landed with a dull thud. No one replied.

He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. But it was true, wasn’t it? That scream—he’d felt it rip out of him. Sometimes he wondered if a piece of him had never really come back from that night in the Forbidden Forest. If the Killing Curse had taken more than Voldemort’s last fragment when it struck. What if he really was still dying, just slower this time?

Ginny’s expression softened. She stepped closer, her voice low and deliberate. “You are not,” she said. “You’re grieving. Your mind’s been through hell, Harry. It’s only trying to protect you the only way it knows how.”

He laughed, short and bitter. The sound startled even him. “By making me forget everything that matters?”

“No, not that,” she whispered, her hand finding his again. “Delay. Give you space. Time. So you can return to it when you’re strong enough.”

Her palm was warm; her grip sure. For a moment, he let her presence draw him back into himself, out of the swirling mess of guilt and grief.

His eyes drifted once more to the far side of the room.

The cage still sat there.

Empty.

The ache returned, sharper now. Not sorrow, not fully; it was something colder and deeper.

They’re gone. And I forgot.

He swallowed hard. Forgetting felt worse than losing them. It was like erasing them twice.

What kind of person forgets the loss of the ones they loved most?

He didn’t speak the thought aloud. From the quiet sadness in Ginny’s eyes, from the way she gave his hand the faintest squeeze, she already knew.

He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, steadying himself. The tremor in his chest hadn’t gone, but he could hold it back for now.

“I said I’d tell you when I was sure,” he began slowly, the words thick in his throat. His gaze met Ginny’s first, her hair catching the glow from the pane, and then shifted to Ron, who stood watching him, still and silent.

“Well… the night before we left Hogwarts, I—”

A loud hoot cut him off.

All three of them flinched as Pigwidgeon shot through the open window like a bolt of lightning. Soaked to the feathers, he flapped with frantic energy, making it nearly impossible to look at him directly.

The tiny owl swooped madly round the room before crash-landing on Ron’s shoulder and offering a triumphant trill, wings dripping rain onto the carpet.

Harry blinked, startled by the interruption, but something flickered in his chest. Not joy. But a flicker of warmth. Maybe even hope.

Ron was already untying two sodden scrolls from Pig’s legs, muttering under his breath.

“This is for me… and this one—mate, it’s yours.”

He reached out automatically. The parchment felt cold and damp in his fingers. His name, written in Slughorn’s precise, looping script, stared back at him.

He unfolded the note quickly, but the words swam at first, blurred by too many thoughts and too much noise in his head. He blinked hard, forcing himself to focus.

The writing sharpened.

And his chest twisted painfully as he read.

He didn’t realise his best friend had already opened his own letter until he heard him exhale.

Hermione’s handwriting was small and urgent. Harry caught snatches of it from Ron’s side of the room, each word hitting with more force than the last:

Ron,

Are you sure about this? Harry’s been through so much.

Researching souls is not right. It’s dangerous. Remember what he has survived. Seven Horcruxes, and he was one himself. He was barely whole after the war. Now he’s looking into symptoms and illnesses? What is he trying to prove? He’d never make a Horcrux; we know that, but I can’t help being scared. Please… keep an eye on him. I’m really, really worried.

—Hermione

Ron didn’t say a word. He folded the parchment carefully, smoothing it once with his palm, and tucked it into his pocket. The quiet crinkle of paper was the only sound in the room for a long while.

Just then, Mrs Weasley’s voice rang out from the kitchen below, bright, brisk, and warm, as though nothing in the world could be wrong.

“Ron! Ginny! Breakfast is ready!”

Harry’s pulse stumbled. For one suspended moment, he remained frozen, the letter still clutched in his hand, ink bleeding slightly from where his thumb pressed against it.

The familiar bustle of the Burrow moved beneath him: chairs scraping, cupboard doors creaking, and footsteps padding across the floorboards.

Then Mrs Weasley’s voice floated up again, softer now, clearly meant for him.

“Harry, dear, I’ll bring your breakfast up shortly.”

He couldn’t bear it. Not to sit here alone with the echo of Hermione’s letter still ricocheting inside his skull. Not with his thoughts, which had already begun turning in circles, dragging him down.

He stood up so abruptly that the parchment slipped from his lap and drifted to the floor. His limbs ached, and something deeper he wasn’t ready to name.

“No need, Mrs Weasley,” he called, forcing his voice to steady. “I’ll come down.”

There was a pause, brief but telling—she hadn’t expected that.

“Are you sure, love? You look rather peaky.”

Harry gave a short, automatic smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m positive.”

It was a lie. But it was enough to keep her from asking more, and that was all he needed right now.

He turned to Ron, who was still standing by the window, arms folded, brows furrowed.

“Let’s go,” he breathed.

The words were simple.

Later, he mouthed to them. I’ll tell you later.

His best friend gave a small nod, understanding already written in the set of his shoulders. No pressure. No questions. Just quiet, steady loyalty, the kind Harry relied on without ever quite knowing how to say so.

They made their way downstairs in silence, Ginny trailing behind them. She didn’t speak either, though her eyes flicked to him once or twice, worry etched clearly in every line of her face.

The kitchen was as it always was: sun-washed through the crooked windows, plates clattering under Mrs Weasley’s expert hands, and the smell of tea, toast, and treacle tart filled the room.

He sat, picking at his food, pushing scrambled eggs around the edge of his plate without tasting a thing. Every time he lifted his fork, it seemed too heavy. He did not speak. Neither did Ron nor Ginny. The quiet between them felt more like a truce than a silence.

Mrs Weasley’s gaze flicked between the three of them as she worked—shrewd, motherly eyes that missed little. She didn’t press. Instead, she slipped into briskness, organising breakfast, nudging her son and daughter into chores with well-practised efficiency. Clearing up, folding laundry, and re-stacking the pantry shelves were all excuses to keep them busy and, Harry suspected, to keep them apart.

The room stayed full of motion that only pretended to be normal.

He watched Ron clench his jaw and saw the tension settle in his shoulders like it had nowhere else to go. He kept glancing at the stairs, as if hoping for an opportunity to slip away.

He wants to talk, he thought, stabbing at his toast. So do I.

The day slipped by in fragments: half-started sentences, long pauses, and missed moments. Every moment Harry built up the courage to speak, someone would enter the room, or the timing would shift, or the words would die on his tongue.

By the time the sun dipped behind the hills and the house grew quiet again, the tension between them had become almost unbearable.

That night, he barely made it to his room before it started.

The pain came fast and suddenly. One moment he was easing off his trainers, and the next he was on the floor, clutching the edge of the bed as his body spasmed, muscles locking in place with a heat so fierce it was burning throughout him.

He doubled over, biting his lip until he tasted blood, just to keep from making a sound. He’d thought the worst was over after the war, but this pain felt like something new that the victory hadn’t healed. It was deeper than muscle or bone. Somewhere beneath the surface, a part inside him had given way, and no potion could reach it.

His hands trembled as he reached for his wand, forcing it through fingers that barely obeyed. With effort, he cast a Silencing Charm around the room. The moment it settled, he let go and screamed.

It ripped out of him, a hoarse, broken sound full of everything he hadn’t been able to say. It echoed off the walls and disappeared into the silence he had created.

The pain tore through him again, worse than before; ragged and wild. He curled up tightly, forehead to the floor, clothes drenched in sweat, his fringe plastered to his face.

What’s happening to me?

The letter from Slughorn sat untouched on his desk, though he had read it a dozen times already. He could see it even now, bent at the corners, the ink slightly smudged. Talking of souls. Of damage. Of irreversible things.

Of taint.

And of healing. Difficult, uncertain, incomplete mending.

None of it made sense. Or maybe it did too much.

He’d tried to write back, ask questions, and demand answers. But his hand had shaken so badly the quill scratched across the parchment, the letters jagged and unreadable. Three crumpled drafts lay scattered on the floor, silent evidence of failure.

His damaged soul must be the cause, Harry thought, panting slightly, his chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts.

The idea sat heavily on his mind. It was not fear exactly; it was recognition. As if his body had always known something wasn’t right.

It was what Slughorn’s too afraid to say outright again. And if Ron finds out—if Ginny—

His breath hitched.

He couldn’t let them see this. They’d already lost too much because of him. He could stand the pain, but not the look on their faces when they realised what it meant. He had spent his whole life trying to keep other people safe, even from his own suffering. Old habits didn’t die easily. It was easier to hide, to have them think he was healing when he wasn’t.

The ache was fading now, slower than before. Still present, but dulled. Lingering. But it left something hollow behind.

The next day dawned, though Harry wasn’t entirely sure of it. The sunlight felt unreal and too bright as it came through the curtains. He lay twisted in the bedsheets, his limbs too heavy to shift, his skin damp and clammy. The air in the room pressed down thick and unmoving.

He didn’t know if he was properly awake or trapped in the echo of a dream. His thoughts emerged slowly and scattered. His body felt distant. There was a weight in his chest again, dull and burdensome, a pain that refused to ease.

The footsteps then appeared; quick, almost panicked, thudding up the stairs.

A voice followed, loud and strained.

“Mate! Are you awake?”

Ron.

The sound cut straight through the fog, startling him more than it should have. He tried to move, but it felt like dragging himself through wet cement.

The door opened with a hesitant creak, and his best friend stepped into the room.

Harry blinked against the bright light. His eyes burnt, and his vision swam, just enough to make the world feel slightly tilted.

Ron stared at him, pale and breathless. “You’re still in bed?” He asked, the words tumbling out as though he couldn’t hold them in. “Mate, you’ve got to get up. Slughorn’s coming. Today.”

He frowned, confused. “Slughorn?” he echoed, voice thick and sluggish. It felt like trying to speak through water. “What…? No one told me…”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “Mum informed us this morning—first thing. She said he’s on his way. He wants to see you.”

Harry sat up too quickly, and the room spun, a sickening lurch in his stomach sending him reeling. He gripped the edge of the bed to stay upright.

His hand went instinctively to his chest.

He blinked. “That must have been what Slughorn meant,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Ron stepped forward, worry beginning to crease his features. “What? Harry, are you alright? You don’t look—”

A sharp, vicious jolt tore through Harry’s body before his best friend could finish the thought.

He doubled over, a cry breaking loose from his throat without warning.

“AAAH—!”

His breath came in ragged gasps. It felt like something had torn inside his chest, pain spreading through his veins.

Ron lurched forward, eyes wide. “Harry?! What—what’s happening?!”

He couldn’t speak and find the words, even if he’d known what to say. His mouth opened, but only more agony surfaced, hot and desperate.

He fell sideways, curling in on himself. Every muscle tensed and spasmed, sweat pouring from his skin. His fingers dug into the sheets, fists knotted tight.

“It hurts!” He choked. “Ron—please—make it stop—”

His best friend backed towards the door, eyes darting in panic.

“I—bloody hell! I’ll get Mum! Hold on—be right back!”

He was gone in a flash, his footsteps thundering down the stairs. The entryway slammed behind him, echoing.

Harry barely noticed.

His mind spun, thoughts slipping away. He couldn’t think or breathe.

The pain flared again, white-hot, dragging a fresh scream from his mouth. He arched backwards, eyes squeezed shut, the world reduced to fire and panic.

His hands shook so badly he could hardly see straight, darkness crowding at the edges.

He could not stop shaking.

He wanted to yell, but even that was slipping away. The effort tore his throat raw, and each breath was shallow and uneven.

And then, footsteps again. Louder this time. More of them.

The door burst open. Ginny stood in the hallway, frozen, one hand over her mouth.

“Harry!” Mrs Weasley’s voice rang out, sharp with fear.

She rushed to his side, kneeling on the floor beside him, her apron still dusted with flour, her eyes wide and wild.

Ron hovered behind her, looking utterly stricken.

Her hands were on him in an instant, cool and firm, trying to steady him. “It’s alright, sweetheart—shhh, you’re okay. Just breathe slowly now, in and out—”

But Harry jerked away with a shudder. Her contact, though kind, felt like too much.

“Don’t—don’t touch me!” he gasped, the words spilling out in reflex, not intent.

Mrs Weasley flinched, only slightly, and pulled back, hurt flashing across her face. But she did not leave or move from there. Her hands hovered near, trembling, ready if he needed her.

Ron stood behind her, fists clenched, looking like he might be sick. His mouth worked, but no sound came out at first.

Then: “Mum, what’s wrong with him?”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Harry didn’t hear the answer.

Another scream tore loose, longer this time and deeper. As if something inside him was breaking apart. His back arched, and the room dissolved again into heat and pressure and noise. He couldn’t separate his thoughts from the pain anymore. They blurred together, one long wave of panic and helplessness.

Please, he thought, wild and broken. Make it stop—someone, anyone—

There was a voice—faint at first, thin and far away, as if it were drifting through water.

Then again, clearer this time. Closer.

“Harry! Focus on me, dear. Tell me what’s wrong!”

Mrs Weasley’s tone, sharp with fear, sliced through the fog in his consciousness.

He wanted to respond and lift his head, to open his eyes properly, and to breathe. But it all felt impossibly distant.

The pain obscured everything else. From his ribs, a searing ache spread, clutching at his every muscle and thought. He struggled to resist, to stay awake, and to gain strength, but it was impossible.

Then her hand, warm against his forehead. Steady. Gentle.

Still, he flinched. Even kindness caused suffering.

“Where does it hurt, Harry?” Her voice was softer now, coaxing. “Tell me, sweetheart. Where is it?”

He dragged in a breath. His lungs felt shredded. “Everywhere,” he rasped.

The words tore from him, every syllable scraping his throat raw. Saying it made it worse, like acknowledging it gave it power. Another surge of burning twisted through him, his limbs jerking of their own accord. He let out a sound he barely recognised: a broken gasp, half-choked.

The wind pressed against the old windowpanes, making them rattle and whistle through the cracks in the Burrow’s walls. But that too faded beneath the screaming inside his own body, bone-deep and relentless.

He hardly noticed movement nearby until Mrs Weasley’s voice lifted once more.

“Ginny, quickly! Storage cupboard, second shelf, there’s a blue bottle, ‘Healing Potion’—you know the one—go!”

Footsteps pounded away, thundering down the stairs.

He wanted to call out to her—”Don’t leave. Stay. Please”—but his throat was closing again, the words trapped inside. He turned his face into the pillow instead, ashamed of the tears pricking his eyes. His body burned with the heat radiating from every part of him.

Mrs Weasley didn’t stop speaking. Her voice dropped back to a whisper.

“Breathe, Harry. Just breathe, love. We’ve all got you. You hang on.”

Merlin, he was trying. But each breath was a struggle. His whole being wanted to give in, to collapse under the weight of it.

Moments later, though it felt like hours, Ginny reappeared, breathless, the tiny bottle clutched in her shaking hand.

Mrs Weasley took it without a word, her fingers trembling barely enough for him to notice. She uncorked it quickly; the sharp tang of peppermint and metal filled the room.

“Harry,” she murmured, tilting his head gently, “this will help. A small sip, my dear.”

He nodded, or thought he did. Maybe it was just a twitch.

Ron moved closer. He’d been standing like a statue in the corner, caught between fear and helplessness. Now he hovered at the edge of the bed, jaw tight, his eyes wide and glassy. His hands shifted as though he wasn’t sure what to do with them—reach out? Hold him down? Run?

He always had this look when he was in trouble. It was something Harry hated strangely, causing that expression. That fear.

Between them, Mrs Weasley and Ron eased him up against the pillows. Even that slight movement made him cry out again. His ribs ached, his arms trembling. He clenched his fists in the blanket to stop himself from thrashing.

The potion touched his lips. He swallowed with effort. It was bitter, cloying, and cold.

For a heartbeat, he felt it work. The tightness in his chest eased. His head cleared slightly. He managed a real breath.

But it didn’t last.

The pain returned, not as sharp, not the blinding explosion from earlier, but low and crushing. Heavy. As if something pressed hard against his body and wouldn’t ease.

His strength was draining again. The edges of the room blurred.

Why isn’t it working? He thought in a rush of panic. Why am I still hurting? Why?

He let out a shuddering breath and slumped back; the potion slipping cold through his insides, doing too little.

“Stay with me, Harry.” Mrs Weasley’s words cracked, barely holding together. “I want you to remain conscious, sweetheart.”

He clung to the sound.

Then—light. Silver. Flashing through the room.

Ron had drawn his wand. His Patronus, a Jack Russell, shot from the tip like a comet and disappeared down the stairs.

“Hermione, come now!” Ron’s voice broke. “Harry’s not getting better! Please, he needs you!”

He barely registered the words. He felt Ginny’s hand on his arm, cold against the fever raging through his skin.

“He’s burning up,” she whispered, her speech trembling. “Mum, it’s bad. It is so much worse…”

He wanted to reassure her. To tell her not to cry. To promise he’d be fine. That it would pass. That he was stronger than this.

But he didn’t believe it anymore.

His thoughts slipped through his fingers. Nothing stayed. His mind was fraying.

The last thing he felt was Ginny’s warm hand, still holding on, and the cold, creeping dread unfurling in his chest.

Then darkness came for him.

Without warning, a bright green fire erupted in the Burrow’s hearth, crackling to life. It hissed and spat as if protesting the intrusion, casting strange shadows across the mismatched tiles and scuffed kitchen floor.

Molly startled with a sharp gasp, her hand flying instinctively to her chest. Ron, standing rigid near the table, turned sharply towards the fireplace, his wand already halfway drawn before he recognised the light.

From within the swirling emerald flames, a broad-shouldered figure emerged. As always, he seemed to materialise fully formed, sweeping soot from his sleeves with a practised air before the polished toes of his black dragon-hide boots had even touched the hearthstone.

Professor Slughorn stepped out with a genial hum, his plum-coloured waistcoat shimmering faintly in the firelight, the golden buttons glinting as he adjusted them with a flourish. His great walrus moustache twitched with pleasure.

“Good afternoon!” he boomed, his voice deep and affable, echoing warmly through the kitchen. “Do forgive the rather dramatic entrance. I seem to have taken liberties with the timing—I meant to be punctual, of course, but alas, the older I get, the slipperier the hours become. I used to pride myself on it, you know—punctuality!”

Molly blinked hard, collecting herself. She took a breath and stepped forward, smoothing her apron with slightly shaking hands.

“Oh—Horace, no. It’s not your fault at all,” she said, forcing a smile that wavered at the edges. Her voice was too thin, too tight. “You did say what time you’d be here. I’m afraid it rather… slipped my mind.”

Even as she spoke them, her thoughts were elsewhere, half in the upstairs room and the other in memory. There’d been too much noise in the house today. An overabundance of fear. Too many ifs.

Slughorn’s shrewd eyes flicked to her, narrowing slightly in concern, though his smile didn’t falter. He was more perceptive than he often let on.

“Think nothing of it, dear Molly,” he said lightly, brushing some ash from his cuff. “I hope I’m not intruding on anything urgent.”

But before she could respond, the fire flared again; brighter this time, wilder. The flames surged up the chimney like a wave breaking, scattering sparks that hissed against the grate.

A second figure spun from the Floo, landing hard on the worn hearth rug, robes askew, hair flying.

Hermione stumbled, caught herself on the edge of the table, and straightened quickly. Her cheeks flushed, and her chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. There was soot in her curls and panic burning behind her eyes.

“Hermione!” Ron’s voice cracked as he surged forward, already catching her by the arms before she’d found her footing. The tension in his body, which had knotted so tightly over the past hour, seemed to unwind in that single movement, as though just seeing her had let something trapped finally slip free.

She clung to him for a heartbeat, only long enough to steady herself, and then pulled back, her eyes locked on his.

“Ron,” she said, breathless, her voice brittle and frayed. “Is it true? I—I heard something’s happened to Harry. I came right away.”

The words spilt out in a rush, but they seemed to cost her something. Her hands trembled at her sides.

Molly stepped forward, brushing soot from Hermione’s sleeve with the distracted tenderness of a mother used to fussing even in a crisis.

“Oh, Hermione, dear…”

She turned toward her at once, eyes glassy and wild, as though the only thing keeping her upright was the need to find out.

“I didn’t owl first—I know I should have; I’m sorry—” Her voice broke as she glanced again at Ron, then back to Molly. “I just—when I heard—I couldn’t wait.”

At last, the name forced itself from her mouth.

“Harry.”

It was barely a whisper. As if even saying it too loudly might tip the world further off balance.

The silence that followed was immediate and heavy; the rest of the house went quiet.

Slughorn’s cheerful smile faltered. His posture stiffened slightly, his hand drifting to the edge of his waistcoat, fidgeting there. One finger rubbed nervously over a gold button, back and forth.

“Harry?” he repeated, more slowly now. His voice had lost its earlier warmth. “Is he—what’s happened? Is he all right?”

Molly hesitated. Her mouth opened, then closed again. The truth, when it came, was difficult to say.

She turned towards the table, resting one hand lightly against its edge, as though she needed to steady herself.

“He fainted,” she said at last. “Nearly an hour ago. From the pain.”

Hermione drew in a sharp breath.

Molly went on, her tone thinner now, cracking in places.

“We tried everything. The potions didn’t work. None of them. Not the standard ones, not the emergency draughts. He was in such agony, and I—”

Her voice gave out entirely. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather herself, but when she opened them once more, they were full of tears.

“I do not know what else to do.”

Hermione looked stricken. She turned to Ron, who showed no better; he’d gone pale again, his jaw tight, his fists clenched.

“He’s not just ill,” he muttered, staring hard at the floor. His voice was low, almost flat, but carried something dangerous beneath it. “It’s more than that.”

The words lingered in the air, impossible to ignore, heavier than they had any right to be.

Everyone went quiet at once. They all stared at him, and no one wanted to say what they were thinking.

Ron didn’t look up. He clenched his fists so tightly at his sides that his knuckles turned white. “He woke up screaming,” he said, swallowing hard. “Kept calling out for Hedwig. For Sirius. Like Harry doesn’t remember they’re gone.”

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. Her hand flew to her mouth, unbidden, as if trying to hold something in: shock, disbelief, grief. Her heart pounded too fast.

He knew they were dead.

“Harry’s confused,” Ron continued, his words now tumbling over one another in a kind of urgent defiance. “He’s not making sense. He’s sweating through the sheets, shaking like mad—he is not himself, Hermione.”

He looked at her then. Eyes wide, raw, desperate. His tone dropped to a whisper.

“You mentioned Horcruxes. In your letter. You said—” His voice caught on the word.

Hermione’s heart stuttered. She had written it, hadn’t she? Recently. Something about the lingering effects of soul magic. A thought she had not dared chase too far. But now…

The room shifted as if the pressure in the air had changed.

Slughorn, who had been standing slightly apart, turned slowly. His joviality cracked clean down the middle.

“Wait a moment,” he said sharply, the boom gone from his voice. “Did you say Horcrux?”

Ron blinked, startled. “Yeah. Why?”

He didn’t answer straightaway. The colour had drained from his face. His hands dropped limply to his sides. He looked stunned and wounded.

“Harry…” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. “He came to me. Asked about the side effects of being a Horcrux.”

Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat. She stumbled back a half-step, one hand groping blindly behind her until it found the counter. Her fingers curled around its edge.

“Did he tell you why he was asking?” She managed, voice trembling.

Slughorn shook his head slowly, his expression almost dazed. “No. He didn’t explain. Just asked. And I told him the truth. That it—well. That it damages the soul. Shatters it. Makes it… incomplete.”

Hermione felt the floor tilt beneath her. Her knees threatened to give way, but she stayed upright.

“He was a Horcrux,” she said, and the words landed, soft at first, then spreading in ripples that disturbed everything.

Silence fell.

No one moved. Even the ticking clock on the wall seemed to still.

“When Voldemort tried to kill him,” Hermione pressed on, her voice strained but steady, “when he cast the curse on baby Harry, he didn’t just fail. It rebounded. But it also splits his soul. A fragment of it latched onto Harry. It lived inside himfor all those years.”

Slughorn recoiled. His hand found the back of a chair.

“Merlin’s beard,” he whispered. “He carried a piece of that monster… in his body?”

Ron stood stiffly, his jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. He nodded once, curtly.

Hermione kept going because she had to.

“When Voldemort used the Killing Curse in the Forest,” she said, “during the battle… it destroyed the fragment. That bit of soul. That’s what let Harry come back.”

Molly gasped, the sound sharp and broken. Her hands flew to her mouth before she sank heavily into the nearest chair, as if the knowledge had physically struck her.

“No one told me,” she whispered, voice trembling. “Not after the war. Not even when I asked. I—I thought the worst had passed.”

Slughorn stood frozen, his face hollowed out. The jolly glint in his eye was gone; his expression suddenly grave. Older. Fear spread across his features.

“A Horcrux is born of murder,” he said finally. His tone had dropped to a low, raspy thing. “Of a deliberate, unnatural act. And if Harry carried one that long…”

His voice trailed off.

Hermione’s throat tightened. For all her research, all her studying, she had never truly considered what it meant to live with a wound no spell could mend. And now, he was paying for it.

She stepped closer, though she felt almost weightless with dread.

“Professor,” she asked, barely above a whisper, “what happens to someone with a damaged soul?”

Slughorn hesitated, and in that hesitation was all the fear he hadn’t yet voiced.

“They fade,” he intoned. “Not all at once. Not like death. It’s slower. Subtle. It comes apart slowly, thread by thread. The person…” He looked at her. “They slip away. Piece by piece.”

Ron made a strangled sound, half protest and denial. Molly’s hand went to her mouth. No one seemed able to breathe properly for several seconds.

Hermione’s lips parted, but no noise came. Her throat had gone dry. There were tears in her eyes now, blurring her vision, but she did not bother to brush them away.

“How long?” Her voice was barely a whisper. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer, but the silence was worse.

Slughorn didn’t respond straightaway. His gaze dropped to the floor, brow furrowing beneath the weight of something old and far beyond potions or academic theory. When he spoke, it was with the slow, grave solemnity of a man who had seen too much and understood even more.

“It’s difficult to say,” he murmured. “Weeks, perhaps. Days. Maybe… less.”

Molly stared at him. “You mean this is not a curse? It is not anything he’s caught?” Slughorn shook his head. “No. This is not a sickness in the usual sense. His body is trying to keep going without a whole soul behind it.”

The words hit hard, leaving the room silent.

Ron took a half-step back, as though the force of it had struck him square in the chest. His face drained of all colour. For a moment, he looked unsteady on his feet, like he might be sick.

“He’s—he’s dying?” He said hoarsely, the question catching in his throat, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.

“No.” The word shot from Hermione’s mouth with unexpected force, her whole body tensing around it. “No. That can’t be it. There’s something we’re missing; there must be. There has to be a way to mend a soul. Professor Dumbledore—he believed in redemption, in second chances. He knew about Harry, and he should have known more than he admitted. He would not have let it end like this…”

Her voice cracked, but she kept going, as if momentum alone could carry her past the unbearable.

“He trusted him with everything. He wouldn’t have allowed him to walk away from the war carrying this… this poison inside him. Not without hope.”

Her eyes bored into Slughorn’s, searching his lined face for a glimmer of understanding, of instruction, anything to cling to.

Slughorn did not flinch. But neither did he meet her gaze. He stood still, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the table as though the grain in the wood might offer answers he couldn’t.

At last, he released a slow, exhausted breath.

“Albus once mentioned the idea of soul-repair,” he said slowly. “Only in passing. Years ago. He spoke of it like a theory… an impossibility made slightly less impossible by love. But he never discussed how. And if he didn’t know…”

The implication lingered unspoken.

Silence filled the room.

She stood gripping the edge of the table for a long moment. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs, her mind racing through fragments of old books and spells she half remembered.

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, the kitchen door banged open with a wild clatter. For a brief, awful heartbeat, Hermione thought the sound was a crash upstairs, that they were too late.

Ginny burst in, her chest heaving, hair tangled and eyes wide with breathless disbelief.

“Harry’s awake!” She gasped, almost laughing with relief, though her voice trembled.

For one stunned moment, nobody moved. The silence broke all at once.

Molly made a strangled sound and clutched at her heart, her vision filling with tears. Slughorn’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came. Ron blinked, as if trying to be certain he’d heard properly.

But Hermione was already gone.

She bolted from the kitchen as if a spell had struck her, her feet barely seeming to touch the floor. Behind her, Ron surged forward with a cry, nearly knocking over a stool in his haste. Ginny spun on the spot and tore after them, her slippers skidding on the floorboards.

They raced up the narrow staircase, the house spinning around them in a blur of dark wood and picture frames. Every step thudded like a heartbeat. Hermione’s chest ached, but she didn’t slow. She couldn’t.

He’s awake.

Two words that had changed everything.

The hallway stretched ahead, too familiar to be comforting. The door to Harry’s room loomed at the corner, closed and silent, and still too far away.

She reached it first.

Her hand hovered over the doorknob, trembling now. Her fingers curled around the cold brass, but she didn’t push straightaway.

From within, she could hear him.

Breathing: unsteady, shallow, but real.

Alive.

The sound of it nearly undid her.

She pushed the door wide.

Light spilled through the doorway and caught the edge of his bed. For a heartbeat, she just stood there, taking in the rise and fall of his chest. Relief hit her so hard it almost hurt. But even as she watched him breathe, she knew it wasn’t over.

Harry’s eyes were half open, unfocused. He looked exhausted and in pain, as if someone had dragged him back from somewhere far away, and for the first time Hermione understood that his return did not guarantee his safety.