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. His limbs felt heavy and slow, and even breathing took effort. His body ached in a way he could not shake, and something deeper than that sat in 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 door 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 that way it did when people were worried. Footsteps on the stairs, low voices, the pause at the landing. By the time the door opened, he already knew it would be them.

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

“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 was blurred around the edges, too bright and too distant all at once. He let his eyes 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. Even speaking 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—every line, every shadow. There were questions in her gaze, unspoken but urgent, questions he didn’t have the strength to answer. Or perhaps didn’t want to.

“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly.

Harry’s lips parted, but the answer stuck.

“Fine,” he said flatly.

His voice didn’t even sound like it believed him. He didn’t sound fine. He didn’t feel fine. And by the look in Hermione’s eyes, she knew it. They all did.

Ron made a small snort, the kind he usually made when someone said something obvious or daft. It was dry, almost involuntary. But oddly comforting. Like 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 voice gentling even further. “We just wanted to see you. Thought you might want company.”

Harry 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. Even if the words felt distant.

A sound at the door made him flinch.

“Professor Slughorn is here, dear,” said Mrs Weasley, her voice 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,” Ron muttered, propping him up against the pillows, his hand hovering as though afraid to do it wrong. Hermione supported his other shoulder, biting her lip.

“Here,” Ginny said quietly, stepping forward with something in her hand. She slipped his glasses gently onto his face, her fingers cool and steady against his temple.

The world came into focus with a sudden sharpness. Her face was close and pale and flushed, with hair tangled around her shoulders. Her eyes met his, and something passed between them.

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

He looked down at his hands; thin, pale, trembling slightly. There was something distant in the sight of them. Like he wasn’t quite connected anymore.

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 voice pitched low, uncertain. “My boy… thank you for seeing me.”

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

Hermione sat forward suddenly, her eyes darting to Ron and back again. “We already told him,” she said, voice tight. “About the soul. About the Horcrux.”

The word hung in the air.

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

Her gaze swept across their faces, stopping on Harry. Her voice 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 didn’t mean—” he began, but it was Ron who stepped in, frowning deeply.

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

Harry 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 onto.

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

His voice shook. He swallowed.

“But it’s like… like something was left behind. And now it’s 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 gone pale.

“You’ve been feeling like this for three weeks?” she asked, barely managing to get the words out.

Harry gave a slow nod, once. “It started like a bruise—just dull. An ache, nothing more. I thought I was just 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.

“Now 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, he couldn’t say it to anyone.

Behind him, Mrs Weasley gave a soft, troubled sound. She was seated in the corner, a hand pressed to 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 eyes locked on Harry’s face with an expression he couldn’t name, somewhere between fury and heartbreak.

Slughorn took a slow step forward, his expression stripped of its 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 body that’s in pain.”

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

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

“The soul does not heal the way the body does,” Slughorn continued, each word sounding like it had been dragged out of him. “When a soul is harmed, and a part of it is taken, it does not return on its own. The damage stays. The pain does not simply fade. It lingers and repeats.”

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

A sharp, cold 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, slow and solemn. “It manifests,” he said. “Confusion. Physical weakness. Nightmares. Memory slips. These aren’t after-effects of trauma alone. They’re symptoms. It’s 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 the soul is mended,” Slughorn said gently, “those symptoms will only grow worse.”

Harry stared at him, his breathing growing shallow.

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

“Ron mentioned… things that have been happening.”

Harry turned his head sharply. “What things?” he asked. The edge in his voice was sudden, sharper than intended.

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

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

Harry’s stomach dropped. A heat rose up in him, fast and bitter.

“You went through my things?” he asked, very quietly.

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

“You read my notes?” Harry said, his voice growing cold. “You rifled through my stuff without asking?”

“I was trying to help—” Ron began, but Harry had already sat forward, eyes narrowed.

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

Ron winced, but his jaw clenched. “I don’t regret it.”

Harry blinked. The words landed like a slap.

“You don’t—?”

“We were desperate!” Ron snapped. “We didn’t know what was happening to 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 didn’t finish the sentence.

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

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

“I don’t need your help,” he said bitterly. “What I need is time, which I don’t have.”

He turned to Slughorn again, voice 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—every book I could get my hands on, every parchment in the bloody Restricted Section. Dumbledore never left a single word about fixing this. Nothing.”

Silence fell again. This time, deeper than before.

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

He was not afraid of dying.

He was afraid of losing himself.

Of turning into someone they would not recognise. Someone he would not recognise.

And worst of all, he was afraid 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 tight. “You’re just 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.

Ron’s voice grew louder, brittle with frustration. “I’m not going to stand by and watch you waste the life that so many people bled for. Your mum and dad—they died so you could live, Harry. 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’s hands were clenched at his sides. His eyes burnt with something 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 something unintelligible and followed, the door creaking shut behind her with a finality that echoed.

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

Harry stayed very still, staring at the folds of the blanket gathered around his knees. It felt like he was sinking into the bed itself, as though the mattress 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 part 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 move. 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 hated the way his body shook sometimes without warning, how the world tilted around him. He hated how 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 voice 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 know 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 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 you either.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He wanted to say something. 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 cleared his throat.

“Harry, my dear boy,” he said, and his voice was unlike anything Harry had heard from him before: quiet, sombre, and sincere. “Life isn’t fair. It’s cruel. Often. Unforgivably so. But it’s 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’ve done it with grace, more grace than I think even you realise. But don’t forget this: you’re still here. And that means something. 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, Harry. But what matters is that you’re still here. Staying here is the hard part. That is what changes things.”

He gave 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. She hadn’t 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 straight away.

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, something 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 didn’t 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 weak. Ginny never looked weak. But her mouth was tight in a way he hadn’t seen before, and her eyes were shiny with tears she hadn’t let fall yet. Her hands were clutched 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 will. 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 thought that’s what you needed. So I waited.”

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

Guilt flared sharp 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 hurt her. 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 waste away 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 clammy, like he’d been hexed with a Fever Charm. “I didn’t even understand what was happening. Not at first. And now…”

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

“Now I wish I didn’t.”

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

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

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

“You’re scared, Harry. I can see 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 didn’t want 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 something 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—it’s 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.”

Ginny 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 breaking at the edges.

Harry looked at her, chest burning.

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

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

Ginny didn’t move. She didn’t recoil. She didn’t shout.

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

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

Harry stared at her.

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

The room seemed to still. 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. “I don’t want you to have to 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 said, 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 said, her voice rising. “You’re not saving me; you’re punishing me!”

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

“You’re making decisions for both of us,” she went on, her voice shaking now. “You think it’s noble. You think you’re being selfless. But really…” She swallowed. “You’re just afraid.”

Harry felt the world tilt under him.

Afraid.

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

He stared at her, unable to find the words. Unable to 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 cried like I’d lost part of myself. I mourned you.”

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

“And now you’re here. You’re alive. But you’re already slipping away again, and this time you’re 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. Don’t you dare.”

Harry looked down at his hands. Pale. Scarred. Fingers trembling ever so slightly. They looked like they belonged to someone else, someone old and worn through. Not the hands of someone who’d survived a war. The hands of someone who’d barely escaped it.

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

Didn’t flinch.

And then, slowly, 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 away over and over again.

“I don’t care if it’s dangerous,” she said fiercely. “I don’t care if it hurts. I’m not leaving. I’m not walking away. So stop shutting me out.”

Her grip tightened.

“Stop 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; half-sob, half-laugh, 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this, not since the war, maybe not ever. Open. Exposed. Human.

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

It felt like 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 was flushed, more from fury than the temperature, and his ears, always the first to betray him, were bright red. He did not care if the whole house 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 in the room clung to his skin and sat heavy on his shoulders.

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

But every time Harry talked about dying, like it was already decided, Ron felt like shouting. How could Harry sit there and talk about it like it was nothing? After everything they’d done to keep him alive?

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

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

He didn’t need to look.

He knew that step. He knew that 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 need to scold; her silence did it for her.

“Ronald,” she said gently, 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 said nothing.

“I know I shouldn’t have said what I did,” he went on, louder now, frustration pouring out before he could hold it back. “But he’s impossible. He’s talking like it’s already over. Like dying’s just something he’s 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 not say something?”

He couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t 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. She just reached out and laid a warm, steady hand on his arm.

“I know, 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 things 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 else, 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. The same grief that lived in him lived in her too.

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

“You keep trying,” she said simply. “You don’t give up. You hold him steady when he can’t stand on his own. You remind him who he is, even when he forgets.”

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

Before anything more could be said, the sound of descending footsteps broke the stillness. Hermione and Professor Slughorn stepped into view, their faces pinched and pale, drawn tight with worry. Something had changed. Ron 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 far too much,” 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 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, grounding.

It helped. Merlin, 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 voice 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 something behind? A book? Notes? Anything?”

Slughorn 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’s possible,” he said slowly. “Albus had access to books most wizards would never even dream of. But he was… selective. Guarded. Even those of us who knew him well never knew everything.”

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 something sharper, steadier.

“Then we have to check his office,” he said at last, his voice low but urgent. “If there’s even the faintest chance something’s there—something 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, whatever 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, like 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 haze of the afternoon, 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 Professor Dumbledore’s office… do you think Professor McGonagall would let us see it? It was his personal collection, wasn’t it?” She hesitated, eyes wide, the flicker of hope threading through her words. “Please… would you be willing to go on our behalf? It could be vital. Something that might help Harry, something he left for a moment like this.”

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 long time, he said nothing.

Ron shifted beside Hermione.

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 still 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 any more 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’ll do what I can. If there’s anything to be found, anything 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 couldn’t.

Slughorn met their gazes, and in his expression was something quiet and understanding, something very 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 something 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 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 old 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 doesn’t find anything?” 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 just pretending we haven’t?”

Hermione turned to look at him, and her heart clenched. There was no bravado in 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 don’t 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.”

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

“Neither can I,” she whispered.

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

The clock ticked, marking time that felt 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 too much, 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 were 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 no one, 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 cold knot lodged somewhere beneath his ribs.

Hermione sat near the stairwell, fidgeting with the hem of her jumper until the wool had stretched out of shape. Her face was pinched, lips pressed into a line, and eyes flickering constantly to the landing above. And Ginny stood leaning against the far wall, arms folded tightly, eyes 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 little more than a haze, a dim buffer between pain and consciousness.

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

Downstairs, the silence cracked at last with Arthur’s quiet voice. “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 slowly 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’s time we took him to St Mungo’s. I know it’s not what he wanted, but they might be able to… 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 Ron held firm.

“We can’t do that,” he said, more gently now. “You weren’t here when Slughorn explained it all. There’s no spell. No potion. And if we take him to the hospital, they’ll just try everything anyway—every diagnostic spell, every 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 just leave him up there, like that? Let him suffer? Hope something magically turns up?”

“No,” Hermione said quickly, stepping forward. Her hands were 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 can’t rush him into something Harry didn’t want. He asked us not to. He trusted us.”

Molly’s voice cracked as she spoke, barely above a whisper. “And what if Slughorn doesn’t come back 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 find something.”

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

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

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

She didn’t answer. Instead, she was already moving, turning sharply towards the stairs.

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

“To his room,” she said, barely slowing her pace. “There might be something in those books. Something 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 moved 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 far away.

“I wish we knew what we were fighting,” 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 of it nearly disappearing beneath the sprawl of books and parchment. Harry’s borrowed library was scattered across every available surface, 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. None of them knew how much time they actually had.

The only sound in the room was the soft, 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 book shut with a frustrated thud. The noise made both girls jump.

“This is useless,” he muttered, tossing the volume 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 might actually help someone is always the stuff no one writes down?”

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

“But we’re not trying to harm anyone!” He shot back, his voice rising. “We’re not evil. We’re not trying to make Horcruxes; we’re trying 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 said quietly, her voice low and tired. “Horcruxes are the darkest kind of magic. It makes sense the counter-magic would be just as rare. Probably even forbidden in most places.”

“But it shouldn’t be,” Ron muttered. “People are suffering. Harry is 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.”

Ron stood abruptly and began to pace, 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 word—easy. So why haven’t we heard anything?”

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

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

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

“Don’t,” 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’re failing him.”

Hermione’s voice, when it came, was steady but quiet. “We’re 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 said softly. “I just wish there was more we could do.”

Hermione’s gaze drifted to the books once more, then to the empty bit of carpet near the table. Her brow furrowed, and slowly, a thought began to form.

“…Maybe there is.”

Ron sat up straighter. “What d’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 the charm, 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 book 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 even exists, though,” Ginny pointed out gently.

“I know,” Hermione replied. “But it’s better than doing nothing.”

“Then let’s do it,” Ron said, 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 spells or potions. It’s about intent. Morality. Sacrifice. The damage Voldemort did to his own soul wasn’t just physical or magical. It was a kind of violence. Undoing that might require something equally… immense.”

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

Hermione’s head snapped up. “No,” she said sharply. “Not dark. But powerful. And with power, there’s always risk. Always a cost.”

The room went still again.

“I’ll pay it,” Ginny said suddenly.

Hermione and Ron both turned towards her.

Ginny didn’t flinch. Her voice was calm, almost eerily so. “Whatever it takes. I’ll do it. If it means saving him, I’ll pay the price.”

“Ginny—” Ron 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. Ginny chuckled too, reaching for a biscuit that had gone untouched on the plate for hours.

“We’re more than capable of handling this,” Hermione said, her eyes sparkling with quiet determination. “Even without a strong man.”

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

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

“We won’t,” Ginny said. “We are not going to.” Her tone left no room to argue.

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

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