FicWad

The late afternoon light leaked through the thin curtains and fell in dull strips across the floorboards. Harry lay under the covers and did not move. He struggled to breathe, and his movements were sluggish. His body ached in a way he could not shake, and something deeper than that sat within him like a weight he could not lift. His breath came shallowly. Even pulling air into his lungs felt like it cost him more than it should.

The stairs creaked.

He didn’t move.

Footsteps followed—light at first, cautious. He knew who it was without looking. Ginny. Ron. Hermione.

He could feel them before he saw them. The house had gone quiet in the way it did when people were worried. He heard low voices, the pause at the landing. By the time the door opened, he already knew it would be them.

It swung gently on its hinges with a faint groan, as though reluctant to disturb the silence that had settled over everything. And then, there it was.

“Harry?”

Hermione’s voice, barely louder than a whisper. Careful. Afraid.

He blinked, eyes slow to adjust to the soft glare of light across the room. The sunlight blurred around the edges, too bright and too distant all at once. He let his gaze move towards the door. He didn’t even have the strength to lift his head.

“Hermione,” he rasped.

The name came rough and broken from his throat, more breath than sound. It scraped painfully against something raw.

She crossed the room in an instant and knelt beside the bed. Her eyes were wide, taking in every detail of his face—line and shadow. There were doubts in her gaze, unspoken but urgent, questions he did not have the strength to answer. Or perhaps didn’t want to.

“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly.

Harry’s lips parted, but the response stuck.

“Fine,” he said flatly.

His voice did not even seem to believe him. He did not sound and feel okay. And from the look in Hermione’s eyes, she knew it. They all did.

Ron gave a small snort, the kind he usually made when someone stated an obvious or daft thing. It was dry, almost involuntary. But oddly comforting. It resembled a sliver of something familiar in a world that felt like it was slipping sideways.

And for a brief, fragile moment, Harry let it in: that feeling of them being there. His friends. His family, really.

“We thought…” Hermione said softly, her tone gentling further. “We just wanted to see you. Figured you might want company.”

He tried to smile. He truly did.

But it didn’t last. It came and went in the space of a breath. He swallowed hard. Everything in him ached.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

And he meant it. Even if his voice barely carried it or the words felt distant.

A sound at the door made him flinch.

“Professor Slughorn is here, dear,” said Mrs Weasley, her speech gentle, careful not to startle him. “He’d like a word with you. But if you’re not ready, we can send him away.”

Harry shifted, trying to push himself upright. But the moment he moved, pain lanced sharp and brutal through his side, stealing the breath from his lungs. He let out a gasp before he could stop it, jaw tightening against the noise.

Ron and Hermione leapt forward at once.

“Easy, mate,” he muttered, propping him up against the pillows, his palm hovering as though afraid to do it wrong. She supported his other shoulder, biting her lip.

“Here,” Ginny said quietly, stepping ahead with something in her fingers. Her hand was cool and steady against his temple as she slipped his glasses gently onto his face.

The world came into focus with sudden sharpness. She was close and pale and flushed, with hair tangled over her shoulders. Her eyes met his, and an emotion passed between them.

Harry gave a faint nod, swallowing around the ache in his throat.

He glanced down at his hands—thin, white, trembling slightly. There was an element of detachment in the sight of them. It seemed he was no longer connected.

The door creaked again, and Slughorn stepped through. He looked older somehow, smaller. His usual buoyant presence was gone, the cheerful gleam in his eyes replaced by something weary, almost haunted.

“Harry,” he said, his tone pitched low, uncertain. “My boy… thank you for seeing me.”

He tried to sit straighter, wincing again. “Professor. It’s all right. Thanks for coming.”

Hermione sat forward suddenly, her gaze darting to Ron and back once more. “We already told him,” she announced, voice tight. “About the soul. About the Horcrux.”

The word hung in the air.

Ginny froze. “Soul?” she echoed. “What do you mean?”

She scanned across their faces, stopping at Harry. Her speech sharpened. “What are you keeping from me?”

Harry’s heart gave a sick lurch.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. The words sat there unsaid, choking him.

“I—I never wanted—” he stammered, but Ron cut him off with a glare.

“Since when did you know?” he asked. He did not sound angry. He just sounded shaken. “Why didn’t you say anything, Harry? You’ve been scaring everyone half to death.”

He looked between them all—Hermione’s tight jaw, Ron’s furrowed brow, and Ginny’s glistening eyes—and something inside him cracked.

He couldn’t lie to them. Not anymore.

But telling the truth felt like trying to climb out of a pit with nothing to hold on to.

“I thought it was over,” he said, the words finally breaking free. “After the battle. I believed… I was rid of it.”

His voice shook. He swallowed.

“But it’s like… like something remained. And now it is pulling me apart, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

Hermione edged closer, cautious and quiet, her eyes searching his. When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

“What did it feel like?”

Harry didn’t answer at once. He stared down at his hands resting limply in his lap; the bedsheets rumpled around his legs. One hand drifted to his arm, rubbing absently over the skin as if trying to soothe a burn long since vanished but still very much remembered.

“Like fire,” he said finally, the words brittle. “Not just pain. Not like getting hit with a Stunner or cursed in a duel. It was… deeper. Like something inside me was being ripped apart. And when it was gone—”

He paused, jaw tight. His hand clenched into a fist without thinking.

“—it left a hole.”

Hermione sucked in a breath. She’d turned pale.

“You’ve been feeling like this for three weeks?” She asked, barely getting the words out.

Harry gave a slow nod once. “It started like a bruise—just dull. An ache, nothing more. I thought I was only tired. But now…”

His throat closed up for a second. He looked away from her, blinking fiercely at the shaft of sunlight cutting across the floorboards.

“It’s worse.”

He hated admitting it. Hated the fear curling beneath the words. But lying felt heavier than the truth. And these were the people who had stood beside him in the worst moments of his life. If he couldn’t say it to them or to anybody.

Behind him, Mrs Weasley gave a soft, troubled sound. She sat in the corner, a hand covering her mouth.

“And the potions didn’t help,” she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.

Ginny still hadn’t moved. She stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest, lips pressed into a hard line, her gaze locked on Harry’s face with an expression he couldn’t name, somewhere between fury and heartbreak.

Slughorn took a slow step forward, his features stripped of their usual bluster. There was none of the florid charm he so often wore. The look in his eyes was grave.

“Harry,” he said, voice low but unwavering, “no potion will help you because it isn’t your physical form that’s in pain.”

The old man hesitated, then added, “It’s your soul.”

He looked up sharply. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. The room felt too still.

“The inner self does not heal the way flesh does,” Slughorn continued, each word sounding like it was dragged out of him. “When something harms a person and takes a piece, the soul cannot return it on its own. The damage stays. The pain does not simply fade. It lingers and repeats.”

“This is not lingering curse energy,” he added. “It is not a poison. It is not a fever. What remains of the wound is what you are feeling.”

A sharp, icy shiver worked its way down Harry’s spine. His hands trembled slightly against the covers. It felt wrong, like his mind and body were out of step. The room sounded distant.

“Wound,” he repeated softly. “You mean the pain’s not in my head? It’s… real?”

Slughorn nodded slowly and solemnly. “It manifests,” he said. “Confusion. Physical weakness. Nightmares. Memory slips. These aren’t after-effects of trauma alone. They’re symptoms. It is your soul forcing the body to feel the damage.”

Harry didn’t notice he’d clenched both fists. His arms were shaking. His heart pounded unevenly in his chest.

“And unless it is mended,” Slughorn said gently, “the signs will only get worse.”

He stared at him, his breathing growing shallow.

Behind him, Hermione broke the silence, her tone gentle but urgent.

“Ron mentioned… situations that have been happening.”

Harry spun his head. “What is it?” he asked. The edge in his voice was sudden, sharper than intended.

His best friend shifted uncomfortably. He scratched the back of his neck, not meeting Harry’s eyes.

“You have been off, mate,” he said, sounding almost sorry. “You’ll say someone’s name as if they’re still here in the room, even if you were there when it happened. Then, a minute later, you act like it never occurred. And you’ve been writing all this stuff about souls and magic and damage. It scared us. It continues to do so.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. Heat rose in him, fast and bitter.

“You went through my things?” he asked in disbelief.

Ron’s face reddened. “It wasn’t like that.”

“You read my notes? You rifled through my belongings without asking?”

“I was trying to help—” his best friend began, but he had already sat forward, eyes narrowed.

“I trusted you,” he said. His speech trembled. It was more than anger. “More than anyone. And you went behind my back?”

Ron winced, but his jaw clenched. “I do not regret it.”

Harry blinked. The words landed like a slap.

“You don’t—?”

“We were desperate!” He snapped. “We had no idea what was going on with you. You wouldn’t talk to us. You were barely even there. I didn’t know if I’d walk in one morning and find—”

His voice caught, and he did not finish the sentence.

Hermione stepped in quickly, her hands outstretched in a calming gesture. “We thought if we understood what was happening, we could provide aid,” she told him. “We just… wanted to assist.”

Harry shifted his gaze to her. She looked close to tears.

“I don’t need your help,” he spat bitterly. “What I must have is time, which I haven’t got.”

He turned to Slughorn again, tone rising. “Weeks. Days. You said, Maybe less.”

His voice cracked, sharp and raw. “So what is it, then? I just wait until it all breaks apart?”

Hermione moved closer, firm despite the panic in her eyes. “You don’t know that for certain. There could still be a way.”

“There isn’t!” he shouted.

The room seemed to echo the words back at him, harsh and final.

“You think I haven’t looked?” Harry went on, breath ragged. “I’ve gone through everything—all books I could get my hands on, each parchment in the bloody Restricted Section. Dumbledore never said a single word about fixing this. Nothing.”

Silence fell again. This time, deeper than before.

And in the stillness, he stared at them all—his friends and his family—and felt the ache in every part of himself.

He was not afraid of dying.

He feared losing himself.

Of turning into a person they would not recognise. Someone he wouldn’t know.

And worst of all, he was terrified of being gone one day without ever knowing what happened to him.

The silence that followed was total. It filled the room so completely that even breathing felt difficult.

Then Ron’s voice cut through.

“So what then?” He snapped, his ears flushed pink and his jaw clenched. “You’re simply going to lie there and wait for it? Let it happen? Just give up?”

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was closed tight. His fists curled in the blankets.

His speech grew louder, brittle with frustration. “I will not stand by and watch you waste the life that so many people bled for. Your mum and dad—they died so you could live, mate. And this is what you’re doing with it?”

The words hit him like a punch to the chest. He physically flinched, his eyes closing as though he could shut out the sound. But he couldn’t. It was inside him now, rooting itself deep.

Ron clenched his hands at his sides. His stare burnt with an emotion Harry wasn’t sure was entirely anger. “You’re throwing it all away,” he spat. Then, with a furious turn, he strode from the room, the door swinging wide in his wake.

Mrs Weasley murmured some unintelligible words and followed out the entryway, which creaked shut behind her with a finality that echoed.

The quiet that descended after was worse than anything that had come before. The silence pressed in from every corner, crushing thought and sound alike.

Harry stayed motionless, staring at the folds of the blanket gathered around his knees. It felt like he was sinking into the mattress itself, as though it had turned to stone and was swallowing him whole.

He knew Hermione was still there. Ginny too. Slughorn lingered near the foot of the bed, silent and uncertain. But Harry couldn’t bring himself to meet their eyes.

Throwing it all away…

The words churned like acid in his gut.

He didn’t want to admit that aspect of him—some secret, traitorous part, agreed.

He was wasting it, wasn’t he?

All that sacrifice. All that loss. Lupin. Tonks. Fred. His parents. Dobby. Colin. Moody. The list spun out in his mind, a roll call of ghosts. And what had he done with their gift of life? Lay in bed, too weak to stand, too afraid to ask if the worst had already begun?

The blankets suddenly felt too heavy, and he could not seem to move under them.

He wanted to get up. To budge. To fight. But he was so tired. Not just in his limbs, but deep in his bones, in his soul, in the place where his magic lived and breathed.

And it terrified him.

He hated himself for it.

He loathed the way his body shook sometimes without warning, how the world tilted around him. He despised that even now, surrounded by the people who loved him most, he felt impossibly far away.

Hermione was still there; he could feel her, her presence like a warm weight beside him. When she spoke, her tone was calm and careful. But behind it was something raw.

“Harry…”

He didn’t look up.

“I know it’s too much,” she said. “And I’m sure you’re scared.”

There was a slight tremble in her voice now, but she kept going.

“But you don’t have to face it on your own. You never should have.”

She moved closer still, sitting on the edge of the bed, her hand hovering but not quite touching his.

“But we can’t help you if you keep shutting us out.”

Harry shut his eyes. His chest ached; not from magic, not from the soul wound Slughorn had described, but from the weight of it all. Guilt, fear, grief. Shame coiled tight in his gut like something venomous.

“You’ve got to fight,” Hermione said, more firmly now. “Even if it feels hopeless. Because we haven’t given up on you. And you can’t give up on yourself either.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He wanted to say a word. Anything. To tell her he was sorry. That he was trying. That he didn’t know how to keep going.

But the words sat like stones in his mouth. All he could do was nod, just barely. The smallest movement.

Then, from near the doorway, Slughorn coughed.

“Harry, my dear boy,” he said, and his voice was unlike any he had heard from him before: quiet, sombre, and sincere. “Life isn’t fair. It’s cruel. Often. Unforgivably so. But it is not over yet. Not for you.”

He stepped forward, his eyes not twinkling with mischievousness this time but heavy with memory. “You’ve borne more than any young man ever should. And you have done it with grace, more than I think even you realise. But don’t forget this: you are still here. And that signifies a point. You mean something.”

Harry swallowed hard, blinking against the sting behind his eyes.

Slughorn looked at him for a long moment. “People will always talk about you like a story, my boy. But what matters is that you’re with us. Staying here is the tough part. That changes everything.”

He offered a small, respectful bow, then turned and left without another word.

Hermione lingered. She opened her mouth, perhaps to offer comfort or say something clever and reassuring, but nothing came. Instead, she gave him a look full of a thousand things she couldn’t quite put into words and quietly slipped out behind Slughorn.

The door clicked softly closed.

Only Ginny remained.

She hadn’t moved or said a word.

She sat down beside him, not asking permission, just being there in a way that asked nothing and promised everything.

Harry didn’t look at her straightaway.

Then, his fingers twitched. He looked down, and there it was again.

The tremble.

A soft, pulsing flutter beneath the skin, as if something inside him, ancient and wild, was stirring, restless.

Not now, he thought desperately. Please, not now.

He clenched his fists, willing the shaking to stop.

But it didn’t.

Ginny’s gaze did not waver.

It was steady, blisteringly so, and when Harry finally dared to meet it, the sight of her nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

She looked wrecked. Not fragile. Ginny never appeared weak. But her mouth was tight in a way he had not seen before, and her eyes were shiny with tears she hadn’t let fall yet. Her hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her knuckles stood out like bone, stark against skin that had gone white.

Her usual fight was still there, but it sat underneath exhaustion and worry now.

Harry’s throat closed around the lump rising fast and sharp.

“Ginny, I…” he began, but the words snagged halfway up and broke. His voice faltered like a snapped wand.

She blinked hard, just once. She was clearly trying to force the tears back through sheer willpower. He knew that look. He’d seen it before, in the heat of battle, when she’d fought grief like it was a war all its own.

He hated himself for putting it there now.

“I did what I thought was best for us, Harry,” she said at last, her voice quiet but edged with something fierce. It trembled slightly, but it cut clean through him. “I gave you space. I assumed that’s what you needed. So I hung around.”

Her eyes didn’t leave his. “I waited for you to tell me.”

Guilt flared sharply in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. He’d convinced himself over and over that silence had been a kindness. That distance would spare her. But now, looking at her, he could see exactly what it had done to her. He had caused her pain. That was his doing.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “I thought… keeping it from you would protect you.”

Ginny’s jaw tightened. Her hands unclasped suddenly, folding across her chest like armour.

“Are you going to tell me now?” She asked, her tone sharper, brittle with the weight of things unsaid. “Or am I just supposed to keep guessing while you deteriorate right in front of me?”

Harry winced. Her words hit their mark—more sharply than any spell could have.

“I’m not trying to waste away,” he muttered, dragging a clammy hand down his face. He was sweating, he realised vaguely. Had been for a while. His fringe was damp, and his skin felt sticky, like he’d been hexed with a Fever Charm. “I didn’t even understand what was happening. Not at first. And…”

He looked down at his hands, curled into pale fists.

“I wish I never had to deal with this.”

Ginny exhaled slowly through her nose. Her voice, when it came, was quieter again—but not gentler.

“But you do know now,” she said, her gaze narrowing slightly. “Ron and Hermione had mentioned it. About the soul books. About the symptoms. They didn’t want to, but they were terrified. I think they hoped you’d tell me yourself.”

He closed his eyes briefly. The betrayal stung less than the truth behind it.

“You’re scared, Harry. I noticed it,” she went on. “And I hate that you thought you had to carry it on your own.”

His fingers trembled again.

Not just nerves. Not anymore.

Magic shimmered beneath the surface of his skin, wrong and volatile, like a curse struggling to be free.

“I never wanted you to see me like this,” he said. The words were barely audible.

“Like what?” Ginny asked, her voice low and dangerous.

And he didn’t get the chance to answer.

Pain exploded through his arm, hot and wild, like fire racing along his nerves. It jolted up his shoulder and into his chest, so violent it stole the breath from his lungs. His hand shot out instinctively to grip the bedframe, knuckles white, as his body bowed against the surge.

Ginny was on her feet in an instant, reaching for him. “Harry?”

“I’m—fine—” he forced out, the word more hiss than speech.

“Don’t lie to me.”

The pain faded slowly, crawling back like a retreating tide, but it left behind that awful, deadened cold. That creeping numbness in his fingers. His magic was pulsing now, hard and irregular, like it was demanding a sacrifice of him. Or worse, rejecting him entirely.

The lamp on the bedside table flickered, its light dimming, then flaring. The covers on the bed rippled as though caught in a windless draught.

“I can’t control it anymore,” he said, voice tight, raw. “The magic—there’s something wrong. Twisted. My soul…” He swallowed, his mouth dry. “It’s breaking, Ginny. Bit by bit. And I don’t know how to stop it.”

She stared at him. Horror slowly dawned in her expression; not wide-eyed panic, but the deeper, hollow kind that settled behind the ribs like grief.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked, her voice trembling at the edges.

Harry looked at her, chest burning.

“Because I love you!” he burst out, louder than he had meant, the words flung like a curse he could not stop. “Because I couldn’t drag you into this thing that’s tearing me apart! I wanted to spare you the worst of it. From me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. Both of them felt what he had just said. His own statements rang in his ears, sharp and final.

Ginny did not move, recoil, or shout.

Instead, her eyes glistened, her expression hard with resolve.

“I don’t need sparing,” she stated fiercely. “Harry, I didn’t love you because it was easy. I loved you because you never gave up. Because you kept going even when everything was against you. Do not take that choice away from me.”

He stared at her.

And then, in a voice that trembled but did not falter, Ginny said, “Would you rather I stayed ignorant and safe than stood beside you and fought?”

The room stilled. Harry’s heartbeat thundered in his ears like distant footsteps running out of time.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he growled, the words escaping before he could soften them. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the tension threading through his arms. “Or stand there and watch this happen to me.”

The silence that followed felt heavy, like a held breath.

And then her tears fell quietly, silently at first, slipping down her cheeks unchecked.

“And I don’t want to be left behind again,” she admitted, her voice cracking under the strain but still burning with that same fierce resolve. “I won’t be.”

Harry’s chest clenched.

“You’re not the only one who gets to make sacrifices, Harry.”

He swallowed hard. The words twisted inside him, hot and jagged.

“I’m trying to save your life,” he said tightly, like it was the only thing that mattered, the only truth he had left to cling to.

But Ginny’s expression sharpened, pain flashing across it.

“No,” she replied, her tone rising. “You are not saving me; you are punishing me!”

The words hit him square in the chest. He actually flinched, as though physically struck.

“Stop making decisions for both of us,” she continued, her voice trembling. “You think it’s noble or selfless. But really…” She swallowed. “You’re just afraid.”

Harry felt the world tilt under him.

Afraid.

It shouldn’t have seemed like such a revelation. But hearing her say it aloud cracked something open in him he hadn’t dared name. Not even to himself.

He stared at her, unable to find the words. He couldn’t look away from the raw truth she’d laid bare between them.

She wiped at her cheeks with the sleeve of her jumper, her eyes still blazing.

“I cried for you,” she said softly, her voice quivering with old wounds. “When I thought you were dead, I wept as if I’d lost part of myself. I mourned you.”

A gasp caught in her throat, and she forced it down.

“And now you’re here—alive. But you’re already slipping away again, and this time you are doing it to yourself.”

Her hands dropped to her sides, fingers twitching like they didn’t know what to do. She took a breath, firming her voice.

“Don’t you dare give up on me, Harry. Absolutely not.”

He looked down at his palms. Pale. Scarred. They trembled ever so slightly. They seemed as though they belonged to a stranger, who was old and worn through. Not the hands of a person who’d survived a war, but someone who had barely escaped it.

“There’s no future for us, Ginny,” he said, each word thick in his mouth. “Whatever is inside me… it is eating me alive. Slowly. Quietly.”

He swallowed hard.

“I lose time. I wake up in places I don’t remember walking to. Sometimes I see people who aren’t really there—hear voices that don’t exist. It’s like… like I’m vanishing. Not all at once. Bit by bit. Piece by piece.”

She didn’t speak or flinch.

And then, deliberately, she stepped forward.

Harry watched as she knelt beside the bed and reached for his hand. Her fingers closed around his. He felt the warmth of her skin against his.

“Then let me help you find those pieces,” she whispered.

He looked up and saw the determination behind her tears. The strength in her that hadn’t once faltered, even when he had pushed her aside repeatedly.

“I don’t care if it’s dangerous,” she said fiercely. “Harry, I won’t mind if it hurts. I’m not leaving or going anywhere without you. So stop shutting me out.”

Her grip tightened.

“Quit pushing me away,” she added. “Or I swear I’ll hex you so hard, you will forget your own name.”

A strangled laugh tore from Harry’s chest, sharp with pain and something dangerously close to relief. It was absurd, almost, how much he’d missed her fire. Her stubbornness. The way she did not flinch even in the face of his darkness.

He didn’t deserve her. Merlin, he knew that better than anyone.

And yet, here she was.

Holding his hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

He let out a shaky breath. His eyes burnt. He had no memory of ever feeling like this, maybe not since the war. Open. Exposed. Human.

“I’m scared, Ginny,” he said. The words came out raw. Saying them seemed like dropping whatever was left of his pride.

It felt like a confession. Like surrender.

She leaned forward without hesitation, resting her forehead gently against his. Their noses touched. Her breath was warm, steadying.

“So am I,” she murmured. “But we’re stronger together.”

A pause.

“You don’t have to fight this on your own. You never did.”

Ron’s face flushed, more from fury than the temperature, and his ears, always the first to betray him, were bright red. He did not care if they all heard the door slam behind him.

He marched into the sitting room, which was as sweltering as the rest of the house, and threw himself down onto the sagging old sofa. It groaned beneath him, the worn cushions giving way. The heat clung to his skin and sat heavy on his shoulders.

He did not want to be angry. Not at Harry’s.

But Ron felt like yelling anytime Harry spoke of death as if it were a done deal. How could he act so casual while talking about it? After everything they’d tried to keep him alive?

He scrubbed both hands over his face and dragged them down to his jaw, letting out a low, guttural groan.

A creak on the stairs pulled him from his spiralling thoughts.

He did not need to look.

He knew that step and pause.

His mother.

Sure enough, Molly was standing near the bottom of the staircase, her arms folded; not crossed, not exactly. Just watching him with that maddening quietness that always made things worse. She didn’t have to scold; her silence did it for her.

“Ronald,” she whispered, not moving from where she stood.

“Mum, don’t,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, his eyes fixed on the scuffed floorboards. “Please. I know.”

She stayed silent.

“I realise I shouldn’t have said what I did,” he went on, louder now, frustration pouring out before he could hold it back. “But Harry’s impossible. He’s talking as if it’s done. Like dying’s just a choice he has decided on. And I’m meant to do what? Nod and keep him company while he slips away?”

He blinked rapidly, willing his eyes to stay dry, though a tightness had already formed in his throat.

“After everything,” he whispered, his voice cracking, “after Fred… how could I remain quiet?”

He couldn’t look at her or bear to see how it landed.

She crossed the room and sat beside him on the sofa. She did it quietly, without hurrying, and she did not say a word at first, but she just reached out and laid a warm, steady hand on his arm.

“I understand, love,” she said softly. “I know how hard this is.”

Ron’s breath hitched in his throat. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, too afraid that if he met her eyes, he might fall apart entirely.

“When people are hurting,” she continued, “they lash out. They say things they don’t mean or words they’ve been holding back too long.” She gave his arm a small squeeze. “You’re in pain, Ron. But so is Harry. And right now, more than anything, he needs someone to remind him he isn’t alone.”

He blinked again, finally turning his head. Her eyes met his; bright with tears, yes, but filled with something else too. Understanding. She also carried the same grief as he did.

“I just don’t know how to get through to him,” Ron admitted, barely above a whisper.

“You keep trying,” she advised. “You mustn’t give up and hold him steady when he can’t stand on his own, but remind him who he is, even when he forgets.”

He nodded slowly, her words settling deep into his bones.

Descending footsteps broke the stillness before anyone could say anything more. Hermione and Professor Slughorn stepped into view, their faces pinched and pale, drawn tight with worry. Something had changed. He could feel it in the air.

Molly stood quickly, smoothing her apron more out of habit than necessity, grasping at some small piece of order in a house that had seen far too much disorder.

“He’s carrying a lot,” she murmured, mostly to herself now, though her gaze flicked between them all. “You all are.”

Then, more firmly, her eyes found Ron’s once more.

“But if Harry is losing hope, then it is up to you. It is up to all of you. You must remind him that he is not on his own. Can you do that for me?”

Ron swallowed hard, nodding slowly.

“I’ll try,” he said.

Hermione crossed to him without a word, lowering herself beside him and reaching for his hand. He let her take it, their fingers intertwining in a silent promise neither of them could quite voice yet. Her grip was steady and grounding.

It helped more than he could say.

They couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not now. Not with so much still at stake.

Hermione’s tone was low and urgent as she turned to Slughorn. “Professor… you said something before—about Dumbledore knowing how to repair a soul. Do you think it’s true? Could he have left an item behind? A book? Notes? Anything?”

He lowered himself into a worn armchair with a sigh. The chair creaked under his weight, but he ignored it, his brows furrowed in thought.

“It is possible,” he said slowly. “Albus had access to books most wizards would never dream of. But he was… selective. Guarded. Not even his closest acquaintances knew everything about him.”

He paused, his eyes distant.

“He could have learnt it from an ancient text. Or from someone long gone.”

Ron sat forward, elbows on his knees, the light catching in the copper of his hair. A flicker of something fierce stirred in his chest; not anger now, but sharper and steadier.

“Then we have to check his office,” he said at last, his voice low but urgent. “If there’s even the faintest chance anything’s there—an artefact or whatever Dumbledore left behind—we can’t just sit here doing nothing. We’ve got to try.”

Hermione’s eyes locked with his, and at once she understood. They couldn’t afford hesitation. Not while Harry’s soul—what remained of it—was slipping through their grasp.

Slughorn released a long, tired breath. His gaze swept over them, heavy-lidded and mournful. “That is certainly one avenue,” he murmured. His tone was laced with weariness, as if he had already tried that path in his mind and found nothing.

The room fell into stillness, thick and unmoving. Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily in the afternoon haze, their song distant and indifferent. Within, time seemed to sag, heavy and slow.

Hermione swallowed hard, her voice shaking slightly but steadying with each word. “Professor… if there’s a chance that the book we need is still in Dumbledore’s office… do you think McGonagall would let us see it? It was his personal collection, wasn’t it?” She hesitated, eyes wide, with a flicker of hope threading through her words. “Please… would you be willing to go on our behalf? It could be vital. Anything that could be of use in Harry’s situation.”

There was a beat of silence, one long enough to make Ron wonder if the old professor had heard her at all.

But Slughorn’s eyes had drifted past her, unseeing, lost somewhere far older than the present moment. His brow furrowed deeply, and for a considerable time, he said nothing.

Finally, Slughorn stirred, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “Yes… yes, I believe I could, Miss Granger. Minerva still trusts your judgement, and she—well, she has a soft spot for all three of you.” His mouth turned downward in thought. “But Albus’s private library… it wasn’t like any other. He kept it under layers of enchantment, riddled with puzzles only he could solve. You could spend days in that office and leave empty-handed.”

Hermione nodded far too quickly, as if she feared any delay might make him change his mind. “We understand. We really do. But if there’s even the smallest chance—please, Professor.”

A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. It was faint and uncertain, but it was hope, however fragile.

Slughorn seemed to see it too. The sternness in his features softened a little, as though he’d just remembered they weren’t children anymore and hadn’t been for some time.

“You’re good friends,” he said quietly. “Brave ones. Albus always admired that in you.”

He stood slowly, pushing himself up from the chair with a wince, his joints cracking. For a moment he lingered, resting one hand on the back of the armchair to steady himself.

“I will do what I can. If there’s anything to be found at all, I’ll bring it to you.”

“Thank you,” Hermione breathed. Her voice trembled slightly, emotion caught behind every syllable. She stood too, her hands clasped tightly before her, like if she let go, the whole fragile moment might shatter.

Ron rose as well, giving a short, firm nod. He couldn’t manage the words, not properly, but his eyes said what his mouth could not.

Slughorn met their gazes, and in his expression was something quiet, understanding, and old. Without another word, he turned and made his way through the kitchen, where the Floo flames glowed steadily in the grate, casting long green shadows on the worn tiles.

He paused for only a second before stepping into the fire and glanced back, just once. There was an aura in his eyes then, unspoken, unreadable. A look of worry, perhaps. Or farewell.

Then, with a swirl of emerald flame, he was gone.

After he left, the room went quiet. The only sound was of the old grandfather clock in the corner. Each second felt slow and too loud. Ron dropped back onto the sofa as if someone had taken the strength out of him.

Hermione remained standing, her gaze fixed on the hearth. Her mind had already flown ahead, darting down corridors, rifling through aged parchment, imagining secret compartments hidden behind portraits or spell-sealed bookshelves. But none of those thoughts stopped the growing ache in her chest.

“What if he finds nothing?” Ron said suddenly, his voice low and brittle. “What if there’s no book, no answer? What if we’ve already lost him, and we’re only pretending we haven’t?”

Hermione turned to look at him, and her heart clenched. There was no bravado on his face now. No fire. Just fear, stripped bare and helpless.

“Then we keep searching,” she said firmly, though her throat felt tight. “We don’t give up, not while there’s breath in him. Somewhere—somewhere out there—there has to be something. And until we’ve looked under every stone and spell and secret, we do not stop.”

Ron didn’t answer at first. He only nodded, his eyes still fixed on the empty fireplace. “I just…” He swallowed hard. “I can’t lose him, Hermione. Not after everything. Not after Fred.”

She sat beside him again, close enough that their shoulders touched. She reached for his hand and gripped it.

“Neither can I,” she whispered.

The Burrow had gone silent. Everyone felt the weight. Even the ghoul in the attic seemed to have become still, as if it, too, sensed that something was deeply wrong.

The clock ticked, marking time that appeared slower than usual; each second was loud in the quiet.

Molly sat hunched at the table, her shoulders drawn in, a sodden handkerchief twisted between her fingers. Her eyes were red and sore, the skin beneath them puffy and raw. She had long since stopped pretending to be strong; the mask had slipped hours ago, leaving behind only a mother who had seen and lost too much, and feared what more might be taken.

Across from her, Arthur stood unmoving, still in his Ministry robes, though his tie hung loose and the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. In one trembling hand, he held a crumpled bit of parchment written by Molly; it was the message that had arrived by owl not long before sunset. The ink had smudged where his thumb pressed too hard, but the words burnt clearly enough in his mind.

Harry was deteriorating. And nobody—not Slughorn nor even Hermione—had yet found a way to stop it.

Ron stood stiffly near the fireplace, arms folded across his chest, staring into the dying embers like they might answer back. His jaw was tight, his brows drawn, and the muscle in his cheek twitching every so often. The fire’s warmth did nothing to thaw the icy knot lodged somewhere beneath his ribs.

Hermione sat beside the stairwell, fidgeting with the hem of her jumper until the wool had stretched out of shape. Her face was pinched, her lips were pressed into a line, and her eyes constantly flickered to the landing above. And Ginny stood leaning against the far wall, arms folded tightly, gaze fixed on the staircase; unmoving, unblinking, as if willing the creak of Harry’s door to echo down, just to hear proof that he was still there.

Upstairs, beneath layers of blankets that did little to help, Harry lay curled on his side, face damp with sweat. His skin was pale, almost grey in the low light. The quilt clung to his shivering form as spasms wracked his body, each one sharper than the last. The Sleeping Draught Molly had coaxed into him had worn off in patches, offering barely more than a haze, a dim buffer between pain and consciousness.

Even in sleep, he whimpered. Soft, almost inaudible sounds that broke Molly’s heart anew each time she heard them.

Downstairs, the silence cracked at last with Arthur’s quiet tone. “Is he asleep?”

Molly nodded slowly, though her voice trembled when she answered. “Sort of. He drifts in and out. But it’s not restful. He flinches in his sleep. Groans. I—I don’t think he’s really escaping it, even when he dreams.”

Arthur sank deliberately into the chair beside her, folding the letter and setting it aside with more care than it deserved. His hand rested atop hers. “Maybe it is time we took him to St Mungo’s. I know this isn’t what he wanted, but they might… manage it. Ease the pain, at least.”

“No,” said Ron suddenly. He took a step forward, arms dropping to his sides.

Arthur looked up, brows raised, but he held firm.

“We can’t do that,” he continued, more gently now. “You weren’t here when Slughorn explained it all. There’s no enchantment. No potion. And if we take him to the hospital, they’ll just try everything anyway—every diagnostic spell, or old tonic they’ve got. But in the end, it’ll still be the same. He’ll hurt, and we’ll have made it worse.”

Molly stared at him, aghast. “So what, then?” She asked, voice high and thin. “We simply leave him up there like that? Let him suffer? Hope a cure magically turns up?”

“No,” Hermione said quickly, stepping forward. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “No, we’re not giving up. But Slughorn is still looking, and until we know for certain, until he comes back, we cannot rush him into something Harry didn’t want. He asked not to. He trusted us.”

Molly’s voice cracked as she spoke, barely above a whisper. “And what if Horace doesn’t return with anything useful? What if there is no cure?” She turned towards Arthur, her eyes wide and glistening. “I can’t watch another child slip away. I won’t. Not again.”

The silence that followed was complete.

Ron stared down at the floor, hands clenched into fists. His voice, when it came, was quiet but edged with steel. “Then we find one. Even if it kills us. We will look for something.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed suddenly, as though a realisation had just clicked. Her eyes snapped up, a new urgency blooming behind them.

“Harry’s books,” she breathed. “The ones from the library you mentioned Harry brought home with him.”

Ron blinked. “Er—yeah. He placed them on his desk, remember? Why?”

She did not answer. Instead, she was already moving, turning sharply towards the stairs.

“Where are you going?” He called after her.

“To his room,” she said, barely slowing her pace. “There might be a passage in those books. A fact he never noticed or didn’t understand. A footnote, an obscure reference, anything.”

Ron moved as if to follow, then hesitated. “Don’t wake him, Hermione. Please.”

“I won’t,” she promised, already halfway up. “But I have to do something. We all do.”

Ginny stepped away from the wall at last and crossed to the window. She looked out, past the fields and hills bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. The horizon felt impossibly distant.

“I wish we knew what we were dealing with or what we were supposed to do,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Ron turned towards her, eyes heavy. “We do,” he said. “We’re fighting to keep him.”

The Burrow was quiet except for the soft crackle from the sitting room hearth. Outside, the wind moved through the orchard and brushed the windows. Inside, the air felt close and tense.

Hermione, Ron, and Ginny sat huddled around the low wooden table, the surface nearly disappearing beneath the sprawl of books and parchment. Harry’s borrowed library lay scattered across every available space, pages marked with makeshift bookmarks, corners dog-eared, margins filled with scribbled notes in his tight, upright hand.

The lamplight cast a dim golden glow over their tired faces, highlighting the hollow shadows beneath their eyes. It was nearly midnight, but none of them had mentioned sleep. Harry was upstairs in pain. No one knew how much time they actually had.

The only sound in the room was the gentle, repetitive rustle of pages turning, interrupted now and again by a stifled yawn or the soft scrape of quill on parchment. They had combed through nearly a dozen books already, and still the answer eluded them, if it existed at all.

Ron exhaled sharply and snapped his volume shut with a frustrated thud. The noise made both girls jump.

“This is useless,” he muttered, tossing it onto a nearby pile with a dull thunk. “Every book says the same thing—basic meditations, cleansings, restorative charms—rubbish that might help if you’ve got a headache, not if your soul’s cracking open.”

He slumped back into the sagging armchair with a groan, scrubbing both hands down his face. “Honestly, why is it that the magic that could potentially aid someone is always the stuff no one writes?”

Hermione didn’t blink. She simply looked up from her own book, her tone calm but strained. “Because enchantment like that is dangerous, Ron. Complicated. Prone to misuse. If it’s not properly controlled, it could do more damage than good.”

“We aren’t trying to hurt anybody!” He retorted, his voice rising. “We are not evil. We’re not seeking to make Horcruxes, but we are attempting to reverse one. You’d think someone, somewhere, would’ve left behind more than a few vague ideas in the footnotes of a dusty old text.”

Ginny, who had been reading cross-legged on the floor with her back propped against the settee, didn’t lift her head. “She’s right,” she whispered, her voice low and tired. “Horcruxes are the darkest kind of sorcery. It makes sense the counter-magic would be just as rare. Probably even forbidden in most places.”

“But it shouldn’t be,” Ron muttered. “Harry is one of the people who are suffering. And we’re sitting here wading through nonsense that doesn’t help anyone.”

Hermione sighed, gently closing her book with a soft snap. She rested her hands on the worn leather cover, eyes distant.

“There might be something,” she said quietly, “but it’s not here. Not in these books. Not in this house.”

Ron looked up sharply. “Then where?”

She shook her head, brow furrowed. “I don’t know.”

He stood abruptly and paced, his footfalls muffled against the rug. “Slughorn’s been gone for ages. It was supposed to be a quick look through Dumbledore’s collection, wasn’t it? Find the book, send a message—easy. So why haven’t we heard a word?”

“Ron,” Ginny murmured, glancing towards the kitchen clock, where their faces hovered over Home. “He left only this afternoon.”

“That’s exactly my point,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s almost midnight. What if something’s happened or he couldn’t find anything? What if—”

He restrained himself, but it was too late. The thought had slipped free, hanging between them.

“No,” Ginny snapped, her tone like flint. “Don’t say it.”

The silence that followed was stark.

Ron stopped pacing and dropped onto the edge of the armchair again, elbows on knees, fingers laced tightly together.

“I just hate this,” he said after a long moment. “Harry’s up there, and we’re down here flipping through the same pages, getting nowhere. It feels like we are failing him.”

Hermione’s voice, when it came, was steady but quiet. “We are trying, Ron. That matters.”

He glanced over at her, and something in her expression made him pause: the way her eyes glistened, though she was too proud to let the tears fall.

“I know,” he mumbled. “I just wish there were more we could do.”

Her gaze drifted to the books once more, then to the empty bit of carpet near the table. Her brow furrowed, and slowly a thought formed.

“…Maybe there is.”

Ron sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

Hermione hesitated, her fingers tapping absently on the book’s spine. “The last time I found something on Horcruxes, I used a Summoning Charm. I’d been studying the subject for weeks—reading everything I could find—and when I cast it, the book came to me. It worked because I knew exactly what I needed.”

“You want to try again?” Ron asked, his voice rising slightly with hope.

“It’s a long shot,” Hermione said. “But if there is a volume on repairing magical soul damage—on reversing what a Horcrux does—I might be able to call it to me.”

“You don’t know if it actually exists, though,” Ginny pointed out gently.

“I know,” she replied. “But it is better than doing nothing.”

“Then let’s do it,” Ron declared, already shifting forward on the chair. “If there’s even a chance—”

“I’ll try,” Hermione said, her tone firm now, but still cautious. “But we have to be prepared. Soul magic like this… It’s not just about charms or potions, but it is about intent. Morality. Sacrifice. The damage Voldemort did to his own inner self wasn’t only physical or magical. It was a kind of violence. Undoing that might require something equally… immense.”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “You mean… dark spells?”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “No,” she said sharply. “But powerful. And with power, there’s always risk and sacrifice.”

The room went still again.

“I’ll do it,” Ginny offered suddenly.

Hermione and Ron both turned towards her.

She didn’t flinch. Her voice was calm, almost eerily so. “Whatever it takes. I’m willing. Saving him is worth any cost to me.”

“Gin—” he began, but she cut him off with a glance.

“I mean it.”

Hermione’s mouth curved into the barest of smiles.

“I believe you.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching. “What about you, Ron? Going to back out now?”

He scoffed. “As if. You’ll need someone strong.”

Hermione let out a sudden laugh. The room felt a little less tight after that. “We’re more than capable of handling this,” she declared, her gaze sparkling with quiet determination. “Even without a powerful man.”

He rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t quite hide his smile. “You two are insufferable.”

His grin faded as fast as it had come. “We really might lose him,” he said quietly.

Ginny reached for a biscuit that had gone untouched on the plate for hours. “We won’t,” she replied. “We are not going to.” Her tone left no room for argument.

He looked toward the staircase, where the shadows stretched up into the dark. “He’s still fighting,” he breathed, almost to himself. “We just have to make sure he doesn’t fight alone.”

“Get some sleep if you can,” she whispered. “Tomorrow we try to save his soul for real.”