FicWad

The afternoon light filtered through the curtains of Harry’s bedroom. In that moment, the room felt both like a sanctuary and a prison. Harry lay in bed, shadows underlining his eyes, the remnants of a battle that had stripped him of more than just his physical strength.

Ginny had been the first to rally the others, guiding Hermione, Ron, and a few others up the narrow staircase. As they stepped into the room, the atmosphere thickened with a silent recognition of Harry’s pain. They knelt beside his bed, their expressions oscillating between worry and helplessness.

“H—Harry?” Hermione’s voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with concern.

Harry blinked slowly, the edges of his vision blurring as he squinted against the sunlight. “Hermione,” he croaked, feeling as if even that simple word required more effort than he could muster.

“How are you feeling?” Hermione leaned in, her eyes searching his for answers he struggled to articulate.

“Fine,” he managed, though the frailty of his voice suggested otherwise. “Just very tired.”

Ron snorted softly, lightening the mood even as Hermione flashed a small smile. It was strange, the way their camaraderie felt like a fragile lifeline, and Harry let himself bask in it for just a moment.

“I wanted to come check on you,” Hermione confessed, her voice taking on a softer tone. “I thought you might appreciate some company. I’ve missed you, Harry.”

An involuntary smile crossed Harry’s lips, though it faded with the realisation of his condition. “Thanks,” he murmured, a hint of gratitude and guilt intertwining.

Mrs. Weasley stood at the entrance, swallowing her worry with a composed demeanour before announcing, “Professor Slughorn has arrived to speak with you, dear. If you’re not feeling up to it, he can always come back later.” She glanced at the professor, whose face resembled that of an anxious parent, riddled with concern.

Harry slowly sat up, grimacing as a wave of pain coursed through his body, causing him to wince in discomfort. Ron and Hermione rushed to his side, helping him settle against the soft pillows for support. His complexion was noticeably ashen, and fatigue was evident in his bloodshot eyes, with dark circles forming beneath them. Ginny delicately placed his glasses on his face, eliciting a grateful nod from him in return. Despite the persistent ache, he ran a shaky hand through his tousled hair, realising he must look quite dishevelled and worn out.

Struggling to maintain a facade of strength, Harry tried to mask his pain with a forced smile, his efforts to appear composed falling short as the discomfort continued to plague him. He glanced up and noticed Professor Slughorn’s worried expression; the teacher’s eyes were filled with genuine concern for his well-being.

“Professor,” Harry addressed Slughorn in a hoarse, strained voice, attempting to convey that he was grateful for the concern but wished for a moment of privacy to speak with him more candidly.

Despite his unspoken request for solitude, Harry found himself surrounded by friends and onlookers who refused to budge, their gazes fixated on him with an air of anticipation, as if waiting for him to collapse under the weight of his pain at any given moment.

“Harry,” Hermione interrupted, noticing Harry’s discomfort and interrupting him mid-thought. “We already knew about the soul,” she added, seeking confirmation from Ron, who nodded in agreement and shared her worried expression.

Ginny’s head suddenly shot up. “Soul? What are you talking about?” she asked, her eyes darting between Hermione and Harry with a mix of confusion and surprise. “Harry, what is it that you’re keeping from me? What exactly is Hermione referring to?”

Caught off guard, he stuttered, “I… I don’t…”

Ron chimed in, “Since when did you know? Why didn’t you say anything? We’re all really worried about you.”

And there it was. The truth lay heavy on Harry’s tongue, twisting in his gut like a curse he couldn’t fathom. He glanced at Ginny, his heart constricting under the weight of her concern.

“I felt it when Voldemort’s Horcrux inside me was destroyed,” he said finally, the confession tasting bitter as he spoke the words into the room, almost expecting them to fly back at him like daggers.

“What did you feel?” Hermione asked, her voice a blend of tenderness and caution.

“It’s hard to put into words,” he began, rubbing his arm as if it could somehow soothe the fire he felt inside. “My skin feels like it’s on fire whenever it occurs. It was as if a piece of my being was forcibly removed.”

“Are you saying you’ve been feeling this for three weeks already?” Hermione whispered, frustration and concern battling in her gaze.

“It started off mild, but it’s getting worse,” he admitted, fear edging into his voice. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“And the potions I gave you didn’t help either,” Mrs. Weasley murmured under her breath, casting a glance at Ginny, who stood with her arms crossed, a blend of determination and worry etched onto her features.

“I’m afraid no potion can alleviate the pain you are experiencing, Harry,” Professor Slughorn said, his voice soft yet firm. “It is not just your physical body, but your very soul that is being afflicted. The gradual deterioration of your soul will manifest as the symptoms you are currently experiencing.”

Harry’s heart raced. His hands clenched into fists, the knuckles turning white as indignation and fear twisted together inside him. “Symptoms?” He echoed, his voice barely above a whisper, tinged with disbelief.

“They are physical manifestations of your deteriorating soul,” Slughorn explained solemnly. “The only cure is to find and repair whatever has damaged your soul,” he finished, looking at Harry with pity in his eyes.

“Ron mentioned several things happening to you recently, Harry,” Hermione had said tentatively.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, bewildered.

Ron shifted uneasily, wringing his hands in his lap. “You’ve been acting strangely, mate. Sometimes you’re so confused that it’s like you’ve been obliviated. All those books on souls... it’s starting to freak us out.”

Harry’s eyebrows knitted together as anger bubbled inside him. “You went through my stuff?” he asked incredulously, wrestling with the storm of hurt that Ron’s admission had kindled.

“Yeah, I did. I thought I could find some answers.” Ron’s voice faltered, shifting away from confidence to a sheepish grin under the weight of rebuke. “But not completely on purpose. I saw your notes, and since you won’t tell us anything…

“We just wanted to help,” Hermione chimed in, her voice gentle, laced with desperation for Harry to understand.

“By violating my privacy?” The betrayal struck like a cold wave rushing over him. “I trusted you two more than anyone else.”

“I don’t regret it,” Ron said firmly, his expression hardening into determination. “Now we all understand the situation.”

“And then what happens?” Harry snapped back, the frustration boiling over. “You expect us to find a cure? There’s no cure!”

“You can’t know that for certain, Harry,” Hermione’s tone softened. “There has to be something we can uncover if we keep looking. We can’t give up hope.”

Harry’s frustration threatened to spill over again as he shot back. “I’m almost out of time, Hermione! What do you expect me to do? Hope for a sign?” Even if they looked for a cure, he was unsure if one existed. “And just so you know, there were no other reference books on my specific problem.”

“You might be mistaken, Harry. Don’t assume it’s hopeless, because there’s always a chance for a breakthrough. You never know what new information might come to light.”

“But it is!” Harry exclaimed. Hermione looked at him with disapproval while Ron stared daggers.

“So you’re just giving up?” Ron spat angrily. “Is this what you mean? That you’ll simply let death take you? Are you really willing to die without a fight?”

Harry glared silently at Ron.

“I won’t let your hopeless attitude ruin what we and your parents fought so long for—to live!” Ron yelled, quivering with outrage. Before anyone could reply, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, snatching the tension along with him. Mrs. Weasley trailed behind, leaving Harry and the others in an oppressive silence.

Harry lay still beneath the weight of the heavy blankets, each heartbeat drumming louder in his ears as if echoing the chaos swirling in his mind. The room felt more suffocating than it ever had before, a prison built by his own despair, and he couldn’t find the strength to face Hermione, Professor Slughorn, or, most painfully, Ginny. The air was thick with unspoken thoughts, regrets, and the stubborn echo of Ron’s angry words.

“You’re throwing it away, mate! After all they did for you!”

It felt right in that moment for Harry to be frozen in his guilt, for how could he face the ones he loved when all he wanted was to sink into oblivion? The flicker of hope felt like a cruel joke now. They had fought with him through darkness, yet here he found himself entertaining the tempting idea of surrender. He was tired of being brave. Tired of fighting against a fate that seemed to delight in his suffering.

“Harry,” Hermione began, her voice soft yet firm, cutting through the fog of his thoughts. He could hear her shuffling closer, the warm light of compassion radiating from her. “We want to help you. But nothing will work if you keep pushing us away. We understand how difficult this is for you and that you’re terrified, but you’re stronger than you realise.”

Her words were like soft waves trying to erode the fortress he had built within. They reminded him of the times they had battled together—of all the times he’d had to stand tall against fear and uncertainty. But now, caught in a storm of panic and despair, those memories felt like whispers lost in a tempest.

But as Hermione continued, the truth settled like a stone in his gut, simmering with discomfort. “You must cling on and fight as hard as you can, because we will not give up on you, and you shouldn’t give up on yourself.”

He wanted to respond, to tell her that he was sorry for how they had to witness his faltering spirit, but the words were trapped. He could only let his shame bubble quietly beneath the surface.

“Harry,” Slughorn’s voice, though awkwardly timed, addressed him with a surprising gentleness. “I must say, m’boy, life may not always be easy or fair, and you won’t be able to solve all the problems of the world at once,” he began, shuffling his feet as if unsure how to continue. “But don’t underestimate your importance. History has shown us that courage and hope can spread, even through mere whispers. There are plenty of obstacles in your way; don’t become one yourself.”

With that, he folded his arms and excused himself with a tight nod, leaving Harry with the weight of great expectations and the knowledge that they all still believed in him. All except for himself.

As silence enveloped the room once more, Hermione followed Slughorn out after giving Harry a concerned glance and a nod to Ginny, who returned the gesture.

Ginny and Harry fell into a heavy silence as Hermione gently shut the door behind her, leaving them alone in the room. Their minds raced, searching for the right words to provide comfort and support to each other in the midst of the overwhelming emotions they were experiencing. The weight of recent events hung heavily on them, increasing the tension in the room.

As Harry glanced at Ginny, he felt his heart clench at the sight of her disappointed expression. With hands clasped tightly together, she gazed directly at him, her eyes filled with a mix of emotions that seemed to blaze from within. Her vulnerability was palpable, causing Harry’s own emotions to stir within him.

“Ginny, I...” He fell silent, his gaze fixed on her retreating figure, feeling a sense of helplessness as tears welled up in her eyes. The heavy feeling in his chest indicated to Harry that she was taken aback by what Ron and Hermione had discussed. It dawned on him that the sudden revelation must have caused her a great deal of distress. He berated himself for not being the one to break the news to her.

“I did what I thought was best for you or us, Harry.” Ginny replied, her voice strained. “I’ve given you time and space to think things through and figure out what you need. And you did. You knew.” Her eyes glistened with tears as she glanced at Harry. “Are you even going to tell me what’s going on with you?” She interrogated, irritation in her voice as she battled to contain her emotions. “Or will I just keep guessing? I’m quite disappointed right now. You kept me in the dark!” She folded her arms and waited for his response.

Harry sat still. He knew he had to come clean, no matter how difficult it was going to be. “It’s already hard for me, Ginny,” he remarked regretfully. “I don’t want to make things tougher for you. I have no choice—”

“Yes, you do!” she replied fiercely. “And you know it!”

“What do you expect me to do?” he asked, his aggravation mounting as he attempted to make Ginny understand his situation. “I’m in a difficult position.”

“You could’ve told me sooner instead of me finding out from someone else,” she said, staring at Harry as tears threatened to fall down her cheeks. “I’m your girlfriend, for goodness sake! You can’t keep hiding this from me. I thought you trusted me more than that!”

“I’m sorry; I know I’ve apologised before, but I’ll say it again: I don’t want to hurt you, Ginny.”

She raised a doubtful eyebrow. “And you think I care about that?” she questioned accusingly. “I just don’t understand how you could keep something like this from me,” she added with a tone of disappointment.

“I care about you,” Harry stated with respect. “I don’t want your life to fall apart because of me. I want to protect you,” he continued earnestly.

Ginny glared at Harry, her eyes clouded with fury and disbelief. She trembled, straining to keep her voice calm. “Would you rather I remain ignorant and content than disclose all the risks you face? Is that what you really want?” She demanded.

Harry shook his head, his expression hurting as he responded softly. “No, Ginny. I just want you to be safe. It’s for the best,” he said softly, his shoulders sagging with fatigue. “You’re aware of the curse placed upon my life. Though it’s painful to realise, we have no future together. I cannot avoid my fate, nor can I save you from its consequences.”

“No,” she insisted, defiance flashing in her eyes.

“No, what?” Harry questioned her, astonished by her stubbornness.

“I refuse to accept that,” she said firmly. “Don’t give up on us! I cried for you, thinking you were dead, but you lived. I will not lose you again, for any reason. I will take whatever risk to ensure your safety. Stop pushing me away; let’s find a cure together.”

Harry exhaled deeply, as if admitting defeat. “I suppose there’s no way around this.”

“No,” Ginny replied firmly. “Don’t try to protect me. I’m here to help, whether you want me to or not. I’m not going anywhere.

The intense afternoon sunlight intensified Ron’s already sour mood as he hurriedly left Harry’s room and entered the stuffy living room. The sweltering heat only served to worsen his anger. Even though he had no desire to lash out at Harry, Ron struggled to keep his temper in check when faced with Harry’s negative attitude. He simply couldn’t comprehend why Harry couldn’t find something positive in any situation.

Sinking onto the well-worn couch, Ron let out a heavy sigh and buried his face in his hands. The familiar warmth of the living room now felt stifling, an oppressive reminder of all that had transpired. Grief clashed with anger, swirling like a storm in his chest.

Just then, he heard the soft creak of the stairs, and resignedly turned his head. His mother stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands on her hips—a clear sign that she was about to scold him. Ron made no effort to acknowledge her presence, a surge of exhaustion washing over him.

“Ronald,” she began, her tone softer than he expected.

“Mum, please!” he interrupted, his voice cracking with tension. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, feeling as if he were sinking deeper into quicksand. “I know I shouldn’t have said that to Harry, but he was being so stubborn. He was talking about dying and wouldn’t listen to us.” The words tumbled out like a flood, desperation colouring his voice. “How could I remain silent after losing Fred? I just couldn’t…”

The sentence trailed off as Ron’s composure cracked. He took a ragged breath, staring at the worn carpet, the weight of grief and frustration pulling him down.

Molly let out a deep sigh upon seeing the unmistakable sadness etched on her son’s face. She lowered herself to the ground in front of him, positioning herself at eye level, her expression softening. With gentle warmth, she placed a comforting hand on his arm, grounding him momentarily.

“When people are at their lowest point,” she explained, her voice filled with understanding, “they can lose control of their emotions and say things they don’t mean. I know your words came from a place of pain, but lashing out will not help you express yourself.”

Ron’s eyes flickered up to meet hers, the reality of her words settling in. The temperature in the room seemed to shift, as if the air had suddenly cleared. Just as he processed her advice, Hermione and Professor Slughorn rushed down the stairs, their faces painted with concern.

“Harry is under so much strain,” Molly continued, her voice steady and calm, though the worry in her eyes was unmistakable. Ron’s heart clenched at the thought of his best friend spiralling deeper into darkness. “It’s understandable that his emotions would overpower him. But you’ve got to be his anchor, Ron. Don’t feed those feelings that may push him over the edge. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Reluctantly, Ron nodded, feeling the weight of her words sink in. Every intense emotion he had swirling within him—grief, anger, helplessness—could easily become a weapon if he didn’t find a way to manage it. She squeezed his shoulder before walking toward the staircase, leaving Ron to grapple with the implications of her advice.

Hermione walked over to Ron and took a seat next to him, reaching out to hold his hands in hers. Ron gently squeezed her hands, reassuring her that he was holding up fine. During challenging moments like this, all Ron desired was to have Hermione close by his side. Harry had consistently been a central figure in their shared experiences, and losing him to a situation they believed they could have handled differently was hard for Ron to grasp.

“Professor,” Hermione said, her voice tinged with desperation as she gazed up at Slughorn. “You mentioned earlier that Professor Dumbledore might know how to heal a soul. Could he have kept a book containing that information?”

Slughorn’s wearied gaze met Hermione’s, his eyes clouding over with a mix of sadness and contemplation. The chair creaked beneath him as he settled into it, his hands clasped together in a thoughtful gesture. After a moment of silence, he raised his eyes, his voice measured. “I am inclined to believe so, but it is also possible that he came across the information elsewhere besides the Hogwarts library or was informed by someone else. One can never be entirely certain. In his youth, he had a fondness for travelling and possessed remarkable skills in storytelling.”

Ron’s determination sparked, fuelled by a glimmer of hope. “We could at least check Dumbledore’s office first to see if we find anything,” he suggested, his voice resolute. “If not, we can figure out the next step. I mean, we can’t just sit around and do nothing.”

Slughorn and Hermione exchanged a glance, their expressions a mix of understanding and caution. Slughorn’s words, though laced with doubt, offered a thread of possibility. “That’s one possibility, Mr. Weasley, but we must also consider the potential risks involved.”

Hermione’s eyes locked onto Slughorn’s, her voice tinged with a desperate plea. “Professor, if the book is still in Professor Dumbledore’s office, do you think Professor McGonagall would allow us to borrow it? It belongs to Professor Dumbledore himself.” She hesitated, her gaze never wavering. “I know it’s asking a lot, but could you try to find the book we need from Professor Dumbledore’s office? It may contain information that could help us.”

Slughorn’s face remained impassive, his eyes fixed on some point beyond Hermione’s shoulder. The silence stretched, thick with tension, before he finally responded, his voice measured. “I believe I could, Miss Granger. Minerva probably wouldn’t mind. However, it may take some time to find the desired book among Albus’s many shelves.”

A faint smile crept onto Hermione’s lips, a spark of hope igniting within her eyes. “Thank you, Professor,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “At least now we know where to start looking for a cure.”

Slughorn’s expression softened, his eyes betraying a glimmer of warmth. “I must leave now,” he said, rising from the chair. “It was nice to see you both so concerned about your friend. I can only hope to deliver good news when I find a promising book to bring back during my next visit.”

With a final nod, Slughorn turned and marched towards the kitchen fireplace, the green flames of the Floo Network awaiting him. Ron and Hermione followed, watching as he vanished into the swirling embers. The fireplace fell silent, leaving the two friends alone once more.

The news of Harry’s deteriorating health had cast a dark shadow over the Weasley household, leaving its inhabitants grappling with the weight of sorrow.

Molly, her expression etched with concern, sat at the kitchen table, recounting the distressing events of the day to Arthur, who had just returned home from work. The letter she had written to him, now crumpled in his hand, seemed to weigh heavily on his mind. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny stood nearby, their worried faces reflecting the depth of Harry’s suffering.

In the room above, Harry lay silent, his body wracked with pain that he struggled to endure. The sleeping potion Molly had administered earlier had only managed to induce a fitful sleep, punctuated by jolts of agony that left him gasping for breath. His nights had become a blur of tears and stifled sobs, as he struggled to come to terms with his affliction.

Arthur’s eyes met Molly’s, his gaze filled with a deep concern. “Is Harry resting now?” he asked, his voice low and gentle.

Molly nodded, her eyes welling up with tears. “Yes, I gave him a sleeping potion, but I fear it’s only a temporary reprieve.”

In the midst of this sombre gathering, Arthur pondered the best course of action for Harry’s health, his mind racing with the possibilities. “Should we consider taking Harry to St. Mungo’s Hospital?” he asked Molly, his voice laced with concern.

However, Ron interjected firmly, shaking his head at the suggestion. “No, Harry wouldn’t want to go there,” he remarked, meeting his parents’ eyes with a resolute gaze.

Molly’s puzzlement was evident as she asked Ron, “But wouldn’t he receive better care at St. Mungo’s?”

Ron’s response, though gentle, was unwavering. “Remember what Slughorn said—there’s no potion or magic to cure Harry’s ailment. They may try to make him more comfortable, but the pain will always return.”

The gravity of Harry’s condition weighed heavily on Molly, making her realise the limitations of her own abilities in providing medical assistance. She knew that seeking professional help was the best option for Harry’s well-being, but Ron’s words had sown a seed of doubt in her mind.

In a mix of surprise and concern, Molly cast a quick glance at Ron and Hermione, her eyes flickering between them as they sat at the opposite end of the table. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Are you both truly suggesting that we stand idly by while Harry suffers right before our eyes?”

Sharing a hesitant look, Ron and Hermione communicated silently before Hermione finally nodded, her gaze avoiding Molly’s piercing stare.

“I can’t fathom how you can be so nonchalant about Harry’s deteriorating health,” Molly exclaimed, her voice tinged with desperation. “Ignoring this is not an option. We must take action, whether we find it agreeable or not.”

Ron’s response, though well-intentioned, only seemed to heighten the tension. “That’s why we’re waiting for Slughorn to return, so we can start looking for a cure,” he said, his eyes fixed on the clock on the wall. Hermione’s gaze met his, and for a moment, they shared a silent understanding.

In a sudden burst of inspiration, Hermione stood up, her eyes shining with determination. “I’ll use Harry’s books about souls,” she declared, striding across the room and climbing the stairs.

Ron followed her, his voice laced with concern. “You’re not planning to just barge into his room and take them now, are you?” Hermione’s response was resolute. “Yes, I am,” she replied, pausing by Harry’s door and reaching for the handle.

As she entered Harry’s room, the darkness enveloped her, and the only sound was the faint rustling of the wind outside. The moonbeams filtering through the window cast an ethereal glow on the scattered book covers. Hermione’s eyes skimmed over the titles before settling on three specific volumes.

Just as she was about to make her exit, a barely audible murmur escaped Harry’s lips. Pausing in her tracks, Hermione crept towards the door upon hearing her name whispered by Harry in his sleep. The sound of quiet sobs coming from Harry pierced her heart, deepening her concern for his well-being.

“Please hang on, Harry. We’ll get through this,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Harry, though seemingly lost in dreams, responded with a murmured, “M’kay...” This unexpected reply caught Hermione off guard, triggering a flood of tears that she had been struggling to contain ever since her arrival at the Burrow.

In that moment, Hermione knew that she had to act—to find a way to help Harry, no matter the cost. The weight of her friend’s suffering had become too much to bear, and she was determined to find a solution, no matter how elusive it seemed.

The cosy living room, usually a haven of warmth and laughter, was now shrouded in palpable tension. Hermione, Ron, and Ginny were huddled around a pile of library books, the borrowed treasures Harry had hoped would hold the key to his recovery. Their faces were illuminated by the soft glow of lamplight, reflecting the weariness etched on their features.

They had spent hours poring over the ancient texts, meticulously searching for any mention of ‘Horcruxes’ or ‘soul repair’, the very words that held the promise of Harry’s cure. Yet, their efforts yielded nothing but disappointment. The books offered only a rudimentary understanding of basic magical ailments and symptoms they had already discussed at length.

“Only basic symptoms can be cured with a potion or a spell,” Ron groaned, his voice laced with exasperation. “But Harry’s case is different! Why would they withhold this crucial information? It’s absurd!”

Ginny rolled her eyes at his outburst, while Hermione shook her head in agreement.

“It’s extremely dark and dangerous magic, Ronald,” Hermione explained, her voice calm but firm. “As I’ve always emphasised, the topic of separating one’s soul like Horcruxes is not something that should be readily available in library books. The potential risks are far too great to expose such knowledge to the general public.”

Ron, despite finding Hermione’s logic sound, clung to a sliver of hope. If only more soul-healing books existed, perhaps Harry’s recovery could be expedited. His desperation was a palpable force in the room, even if the idea seemed unrealistic.

“Why is Slughorn still lingering at Hogwarts?” Ron queried, frustration evident in his tone as he slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “The books we need are not located on a different continent; they are in Dumbledore’s office! And yet, we have not received any updates or messages from Slughorn.”

Ginny, sensing his mounting panic, attempted to soothe him. “Give him time, Ron. He only left a few hours ago. I’m confident he’ll return soon,” she reassured, her voice gentle.

“That is precisely my concern!” Ron exclaimed, his voice rising. “Hours have passed since Slughorn left; it is approaching midnight. For all we know, Harry could’ve died by now.”

Ginny glared at him, a scowl marring her usually bright features. “Please don’t say things like that,” she exclaimed, her voice sharp.

Ron’s response was immediate and defensive, his arms crossing over his chest. “But it’s the truth,” he retorted, his tone filled with impatience. “We’re just here, wasting time reading all these useless books while Harry is out there suffering.”

Hermione, though outwardly calm, couldn’t hide the anxiety that was beginning to creep into her voice. “We can only hope that Professor Slughorn contacts us soon,” she stated, tapping her fingers nervously on the table. “I’ve been to Professor Dumbledore’s office before. There are so many books there that the one we need may not even be there. If I could, I would gladly go to Hogwarts and assist Professor Slughorn in his search.”

Ron’s eyes lit up. “Why not try a summoning charm, like you did for the Horcrux books?”

Hermione, deep in thought, furrowed her brow. “I don’t know if it’s that simple,” she pondered aloud. “I’m not certain how successful that would be in this particular situation.”

“But you were able to summon the Horcrux books before,” Ron pointed out, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

“That’s true,” Hermione conceded, “but this may be more complicated.”

A moment of silence fell over them before Hermione spoke hesitantly. “While I agree that summoning the soul book is a fine idea, Ron, something about it makes me think it won’t be as easy as it was with the Horcrux books. But,” she said carefully, “if we ever find a means to mend a soul, do you think it’ll be simple?”

Ron and Ginny looked at her, bewildered. When no one reacted, Hermione explained, “You do understand the immense danger involved in creating a Horcrux, right?” The two nodded in agreement as she went on to explain, “The process not only requires committing murder, a heinous act in itself, but it also leaves the creator with a fractured and damaged soul. Considering this, wouldn’t you agree that healing a fractured soul would be just as challenging, if not more so?”

Ron’s expression of alarm was unmistakable as his eyes widened in fear. “I truly hope not. The thought of taking a life and being imprisoned in Azkaban for the rest of my days is terrifying,” he confessed, a tremor in his voice.

Hermione crossed her arms, a reassuring smile softening her features. “I’m not asking you to kill anyone. I’m only stating that there may be tasks ahead that are dangerous, but we’ll find a way to accomplish them without causing harm to anyone.”

“I’ll do whatever is required,” Ginny stated frankly, her voice unwavering.

Ron stared at her, speechless, as he processed the unexpected response.

“I agree,” Hermione replied, casting a warm smile in Ginny’s direction.

“What about you, Ron?” Ginny asked, a playful smirk on her lips. “Will you back out?”

Hermione grinned as Ginny taunted Ron, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Ron scowled at them, a stubborn glint in his eyes. “I’ll step up to the challenge as well!” He said. “And you’ll need a strong man by your side,” he asserted, a newfound sense of determination in his voice.

Hermione and Ginny burst into laughter, the sound washing over the room like a warm wave, momentarily erasing the tension that had settled there.

“I believe we’re more than capable of handling this on our own,” Hermione remarked, exchanging a knowing wink with Ginny.

Unbeknownst to them, Harry, lying in his bed, had been awoken from his sleep by their laughter below. A bittersweet smile tugged at his lips, a flicker of hope igniting within him. He hoped, with all his heart, that he could join them soon.