FicWad

The rain had not let up all night. It clattered against the windowpanes in a steady beat and kept Harry half-awake and uneasy. Now, in the early morning gloom, it hadn’t stopped. The sky outside was pale and overcast, thick with clouds above the Burrow.

Harry blinked into the grey, grim light. A sharp, splintering pain lanced behind his eyes the moment he stirred. He squeezed them shut again quickly, as if that might hold the agony at bay. The ache shot through his head so sharply it made his stomach twist. Each breath caught in his throat. It was dry and jagged.

He lay there for a long while, motionless except for the trembling in his hands. Cold sweat had soaked the sheets that tangled around his legs. His body seemed leaden, but not in the usual way tiredness felt. This was different. It was like every part of him was strained and close to giving out.

Move, he told himself. Come on.

It took more effort than it should have just to reach for his glasses on the bedside table. His fingers fumbled uselessly, knocking them once, twice, before getting a grip. He slid them onto his face with shaking hands. The room tilted violently. His stomach lurched.

He sat up slowly and painfully, and the air turned to lead in his lungs.

Every muscle protested as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. It felt like hauling something far too heavy using nothing but willpower. When his feet finally hit the floorboards, he had to brace against the mattress to stop himself from falling.

The floor tilted beneath him, uneven, and he grabbed the bedpost to steady himself. A cold sweat clung to his skin, dampening his pyjamas and sticking his hair to his forehead. His head swam. For a moment, he thought he might black out.

He didn’t know why he was getting up. There was nowhere he had to be. He just couldn’t lie there and wait for the next wave to hit. Moving felt safer than staying still.

The stairs were worse than he’d expected. Each step sent a shock of pain through his legs and back. He gripped the banister so hard that his knuckles whitened, willing his lower limbs not to give out beneath him. Somewhere halfway down, a voice pierced through.

“Harry!”

He looked up slowly and saw a flash of red. Ginny.

She was already hurrying up to meet him, worry etched deep in her features. Her eyes softened when they met his, but they could not hide what was underneath: fear, definitely. Maybe guilt. And something else he couldn’t read.

“You should still be in bed,” she breathed, her hand finding his arm. Her grip was warm, grounding. “You look dreadful.”

Harry opened his mouth to make a joke—’Do I ever look good?’—but the words caught somewhere in his throat. He gave her a crooked sort of smile instead, faint and apologetic. He was grateful she didn’t press him for more. Ginny always seemed to know when not to ask.

Together, they made it down the last of the steps. She kept close beside him. He could feel the warmth of her shoulder and hear the light catch in her breathing.

The kitchen was quiet.

The scent of toast and tea lingered faintly in the air, but the usual clatter and chatter of breakfast were absent. A few half-eaten plates sat forgotten. Ron looked up from his seat at the table, fork hovering halfway to his mouth. Hermione was already watching him, her expression taut with concern. Mrs Weasley, by the stove, spun at the sound of footsteps. Her face tightened the moment she saw him.

Harry’s legs nearly gave way beneath him. Ginny’s hand slipped more firmly around his arm, guiding him toward the nearest chair. He dropped into it with a grunt, the effort of simply sitting upright almost overwhelming.

Ron was staring. Hermione had pushed her seat back slightly, as though ready to leap to her feet.

“Harry, are you all right?” She leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry pressed two fingers to his temple. They came away cold, his skin clammy. The pain behind his eyes had sharpened again, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. “Just a headache,” he muttered, the lie bitter on his tongue.

Because it wasn’t simply a discomfort. He realised that now. Knew it in the way his magic felt distant and how his body was betraying him—slowly, quietly, but surely.

He was falling apart inside, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

Mrs Weasley bustled over with a plate, the motion too brisk, the cheer in her voice just slightly too forced. “Feeling peckish, dear?” she asked, setting the dish before him. Toast, sausages, scrambled eggs—all his favourites.

Harry nodded out of habit, though his stomach twisted at the sight of food. The smell alone made him feel nauseous. But he couldn’t refuse. Not after everything Mrs Weasley had done for him. Not after the sleepless nights she’d spent tending to him like her own.

He picked up a piece of toast, held it for a few moments, then took a small bite.

The silence that followed was tense. Everyone was waiting for him to say something. He could feel their eyes on him. Ron’s were wide and worried under his furrowed brow. Hermione’s were glassy and unblinking. Ginny was just behind his chair, still hovering like she didn’t trust him to stay upright.

He hated that look on her. He hadn’t wanted her to spend her summer watching him as if he might fall. It was too much. The way they all watched him made his chest feel tight. He needed it to stop.

“I—how are you two?” he asked suddenly, forcing the words out. “You all right?”

Hermione startled a little, then seized the lifeline as someone who’d been drowning.

“Yes! I’m staying here for the rest of the summer,” she said brightly. “Mum and Dad finally agreed, though it took some convincing.”

Harry’s mouth twitched at the corners. That sounded more like her. “How are they?” he asked, quieter now. He hadn’t meant to dig, but the question had come out before he could stop it.

Hermione’s face softened. “They’re wonderful,” she said, her voice thick. “I brought them back after the war. It’s as though nothing ever happened.” “I missed them so much.”

Harry smiled at her. Hearing her say it made something settle in him. For a moment he felt steadier. He remembered how she had wiped their memories to protect them, the terrible silence when she’d talked about it, the heartbreak buried just beneath her logic. She had risked everything for them, for all of them.

“You did the right thing,” he murmured.

Hermione’s eyes shone, and she nodded once, biting her lip.

Mrs Weasley turned from the stove, a soft look in her gaze as she addressed Hermione. “Will you be going back to Hogwarts, dear? To finish your studies?”

She sat up a little straighter, her voice firm with conviction. “Yes, I am. I want to graduate properly. Sit my N.E.W.T., earn them the right way.”

Harry, slouched in his chair and blinking slowly against the pressure mounting behind his eyes, saw the flicker of pride that passed across Mrs Weasley’s face. But it didn’t last long. The warmth cooled as she turned sharply to Ron.

“And what about you?” she asked, hands planted on her hips. “You really ought to follow Hermione’s example. You can’t avoid responsibility forever, Ronald.”

He groaned and tipped his head back in obvious exasperation. “Mum, we helped defeat Voldemort. Doesn’t that count for something?”

He turned to Harry with an imploring look. “Right? Defend me here, mate.”

Harry blinked, surprised. The pounding in his skull had grown worse, a dull, relentless throb that made it hard to think, let alone speak. Even holding Ron’s gaze required too much effort. His eyes burnt. His thoughts felt slow and crowded.

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbled, voice flat. They didn’t sound like him. He barely recognised them.

Ron frowned slightly but did not press. Mrs Weasley, on the other hand, appeared as though she might explode on the spot.

“That’s not the point, Ronald,” she snapped, her tone sharp enough to slice through in Harry’s head.

He folded his arms tightly, jaw clenched. “Harry and I were going to be Aurors,” he said, defiant now. “We’re planning to help clean up what remains. Find the rest of the Death Eaters.”

But the moment the words left his mouth, Harry flinched.

Death Eaters.

The name alone set something off in him. His stomach turned, and his skin prickled with a sudden chill. Images raced through his head: the Forbidden Forest at night, screaming, Nagini striking.

He dropped his gaze to the table.

Mrs Weasley caught the change instantly. “Harry, love,” she whispered, moving toward him, “are you feeling well enough to eat anything?”

Harry swallowed. His throat felt raw. “Sorry… I think I need to lie down,” he murmured, barely more than a whisper.

But as he tried to rise, the room tilted violently.

His vision blurred. The floor seemed to shift beneath his feet, and then his knees buckled. A panicked gasp tore from his lips as the ground rushed up—

—but someone caught him.

Strong arms wrapped around him steadily.

“Whoa—easy, mate,” Ron said, voice low and steady, bracing Harry against his chest.

Harry clung to him for balance, humiliated by the weakness in his limbs. His cheeks burnt with shame. “Sorry… I just… I don’t know what’s happening.”

He didn’t let go. “It’s alright. You do not have to explain.”

Hermione had already risen from her chair, voice clipped and practical. “The sofa. Do not send him back upstairs. He won’t make it.”

“I’ve got it,” Ginny said at once. She darted into the parlour, clearing a space and fluffing the cushions, her movements quick and purposeful but betraying her worry.

Ron half-carried Harry to the couch, helping him down slowly. Harry collapsed against the pillows. The room tilted again. He closed his eyes, but the motion wouldn’t stop.

Ginny came back moments later with a blanket and draped it over him. Her fingers brushed his hand, and for a moment, she did not move away. She whispered something he didn’t catch, maybe his name. That helped more than any potion. Her touch was warm and familiar. It only made the icy feeling in his chest worse.

He could not bring himself to look at her. She shouldn’t have to keep watching him fall apart when he’d promised her peace.

Across the room, Ron and Hermione had sat down again, silent now. Hermione’s fingers knotted tightly in her lap. She’d spent the war fixing what others broke. This time she couldn’t, and Ron’s foot tapped restlessly against the floor. They watched him too closely, too carefully.

Mrs Weasley knelt at his side, pressing a cool hand to his forehead. Her brow furrowed instantly.

“He’s burning up,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

But Harry barely registered her words. The pressure in his skull was rising, a hot, unbearable spike that drove straight through him. It felt like his insides were seizing, a tightness building under his ribs that he couldn’t stop.

He opened his eyes with a groan. The light hit his gaze sharply. His whole body trembled now, and his limbs seemed drenched in lead.

A hand brushed his fringe back. Ginny.

“Harry?” Her voice was low, almost a whisper. It shook. “What’s wrong?”

He wanted to answer her. Tell her it was nothing and that he’d be fine. But all that came was a desperate surge of nausea, vicious and sudden.

“I—I think I’m gonna—”

He didn’t get the rest out.

He doubled over, clutching his stomach as a violent wave of sickness tore through him. His body convulsed with it, raw and unrelenting. The room filled with the awful, guttural sound.

He felt hands on him, steadying and bracing, but it was all a blur. His ears rang. His breath came too fast, sharp and uneven, and he couldn’t stop shaking.

Someone gasped and moved. His chest was on fire. His throat burnt. There was nothing left in his stomach, and still the spasms wracked through him.

“Ginny—towels and water, quickly.” Mrs Weasley’s voice cut through the panic, calm but tight with urgency.

He sensed her hand again, steady on his back, but even her touch couldn’t ground him. The room swam. His heart pounded.

His breathing turned shallow and uneven. His chest felt like it was closing in. Every breath scraped.

His temples were wet with sweat, yet he was chilled to the bone. The blanket did not help. Nothing did.

“Harry, look at me,” Ginny said softly, returning with a damp cloth. She wiped his forehead, fingers trembling. “It’s going to be okay.”

He avoided her gaze. He didn’t want her to see him like this.

But he couldn’t stop it, or hide, or even speak.

A strangled noise escaped him—part cough and sob—and he slumped sideways into the cushions.

He wanted to believe her.

Merlin, he needed to trust her. Her hands were warm and certain where everything else felt frayed and slipping.

But then it got worse.

It started with a strange tightness in his chest. Not pain exactly, just an awful pressure building beneath his ribs. Like something was pressing inward and outward at once. Hot and sharp and… wrong.

He coughed once. A dry, hacking sound that scraped his throat raw.

Then again, harder this time. His whole body jolted with the force of it. A bitter, metallic taste flooded his mouth.

No.

He looked down.

Thick, dark drops of blood had splattered onto his shirt. They stood out against the fabric. They didn’t look possible.

A sharp gasp split the air.

“Oh, Merlin—Harry!”

Mrs Weasley’s voice, shrill with horror. The room fell deathly still.

But Harry couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

Another cough tore through him, more violent than before, and this time it was more severe; so much worse. He choked as fresh blood spilt from his mouth, warm and sickening, trickling down his chin in slow, terrifying rivulets.

He doubled over, wheezing, as his lungs spasmed with each breath. His ribs seared with every movement, pain flashing through him. His fists clenched around the edge of the cushions, knuckles white with strain.

Tears stung his eyes, not from fear but from agony. It felt like something important inside him was tearing.

Make it stop. Please, just make it stop.

Ginny’s hand had slipped from his. He couldn’t tell if she’d let go or if he’d pulled away in his panic. All he could feel now was the torment thudding within him.

He didn’t know how long it went on: seconds, minutes, or a lifetime. When it finally eased, he sagged back against the sofa. His chest heaved, and his vision swam. His head lolled against the cushion, light and distant and strange, like he was floating just outside himself.

He was dimly aware of someone kneeling beside him. A gentle hand wiped the blood from his mouth, trembling slightly.

Mrs Weasley.

She said nothing at first. Her eyes were wide and glassy. Her fingers moved automatically, but her face was tight with shock.

Then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, she cried, “Oh, Merlin… I can’t bear to see him like this…”

The last word cracked, her throat catching on it.

Harry tried to speak, to apologise, to do something, but all that came out was a ragged, broken breath.

Mrs Weasley stood abruptly and disappeared from the room. When she returned moments later, she clutched a potion bottle so tightly her knuckles had turned bone white.

“Harry, love,” she said, kneeling again, trying for calm, but her voice was tight and brittle. “Please drink this for me. It’ll help. I promise.”

She steadied his head with one hand, the other guiding the vial to his lips. The liquid was bitter, thick, cloying, and cold, but he swallowed obediently.

At once, a cooling sensation spread through his body. The raw burn in his lungs dulled. The pounding in his skull receded.

His breathing slowed.

The room gradually steadied. His vision stopped jumping. The panic in his chest eased a little.

Mrs Weasley pulled out her wand and cast a diagnostic charm, her lips moving silently. A soft light swept over Harry’s upper body, flickering faintly before fading. She exhaled sharply, and some of the fear in her shoulders subsided.

“Vitals stabilising,” she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. “Thank goodness.”

Harry let his head fall back again. He was shaking. Drained. He felt as if he had wrung out his physical self.

But even as the immediate danger faded, something darker remained. He seemed empty in a way that frightened him. The calm after the pain was worse because he knew it would return.

Ginny slid onto the sofa beside him again, silent but unrelenting. She found his hand and took it in both of hers this time.

Mrs Weasley turned to Ron and Hermione. Neither of them had moved from where they sat. Both of them looked pale and stunned.

“If anything changes,” she said, sharp now, “you come and find me. Immediately. Do you understand me?”

They both nodded wordlessly. She clutched her elbow as if she were holding herself together. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw tight.

Mrs Weasley gave Harry one last glance, eyes glistening with tears she refused to shed, then turned and hurried out of the room.

Her footsteps dragged on the floorboards. She was angry. Not at him, never at him, but at whatever had done this to him. He could see it in the firm set of her mouth. She had already lost a son. She would not lose another child in her kitchen.

Silence fell over them again. It felt heavy.

Harry could feel the weight of their gazes pressing in on him; all three of them watching, waiting, hoping he wouldn’t fall apart again.

He didn’t know if he could promise them that.

Ron ran a hand through his hair. “Where’s Slughorn?” he muttered, glaring out at the rain-streaked garden. “What’s taking him so long?”

Harry closed his eyes, the ghost of iron still lingering on his tongue.

Across from him, Hermione sat on the edge of the coffee table. Her hands twitched in her lap. Her gaze was too wide.

She looked like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how or if she should.

The fireplace burst into green flame. The light was so bright it threw moving shadows on the walls. A moment later, Professor Slughorn staggered out of the Floo with a wheeze, coughing against the wave of soot that followed him. He stumbled, off-balance, brushing cinders from his robes with one pudgy hand, his other clutching a battered old leather-bound book so tightly his knuckles were pale.

Ron slammed a half-full glass of water down on the sideboard, nearly knocking over a stack of books.

“Slughorn!”

“Good morning!” He panted, attempting a jovial smile and failing spectacularly. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his moustache was askew. “Terribly sorry for the delay, but I’ve got it!”

He held up the book as if it were something he’d fought to get. The spine was cracked; the cover faded almost beyond recognition, but the surrounding air pulsed faintly with age-old magic.

He laid it carefully on the table as though it might crumble under too much pressure.

Hermione leaned forward immediately, her hand hovering just inches from the worn leather. Ron stood stiffly beside her, his eyes flicking between the book and Harry, jaw tight.

But they didn’t have time to touch it.

“It’s Harry!”

Ginny’s voice—piercing and high and frightened—filled the room.

Everyone turned at once.

Harry had slumped sideways on the sofa, his entire frame curled inwards, fists clenched firmly over his chest. He was breathing in short, shallow rasps, frantic and uneven, and agony contorted his face.

Ginny sucked in a sharp breath.

“No,” she breathed, stepping forward, her voice barely more than a whisper. “No. This isn’t right. He’s had this before.”

She dropped to her knees beside him so fast she hit the rug with a dull thud. “Harry?” Her hands shook as she reached for him, then hovered just above his shoulder, not quite touching. “Is it burning again? Same as before?”

But Harry couldn’t answer. Could barely see.

And then it struck.

The heat started up inside him again. It wasn’t actual fire, but it felt like it. It was the same agony he had suffered the night before, deep under his ribs and hard to stand, only now it was worse.

He screamed.

The sound burst from him, raw and terrible. It tore through his throat. His back arched sharply, his eyes wide and unfocused, then he doubled forward and slammed his fists into the cushions beneath him.

Not again, please.

“RON, GET YOUR MUM!” Hermione’s voice was sharp with panic. “NOW!”

Harry barely heard her. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears and smothered all other sound in the room. The world was sliding in and out of focus, the edges flickering, shivering, as if his vision was about to collapse in on itself.

Pain was all he could feel right then. His whole body was burning inside, and every breath felt like a fight. His magic roared under his skin, wild and feral, threatening to burst out of him in great, uncontrolled waves.

He couldn’t hold on to it.

His chest tightened again, sharp and shallow.

He was slipping. The same loss of control washed over him again.

Then—hands.

Steady, familiar touch gripped his. A voice followed, calm but urgent.

“I’m here, Harry,” Mrs Weasley whispered, crouching beside the sofa, her breath warm against his cheek. “Stay with me, love. Hold on.”

He crushed her grip in his, fingers locking like vices. His whole body shook with the effort. Sweat streamed down his temples, soaking into his collar, and a low, keening sound escaped him as he sobbed into the cushions.

Please, someone help me. I can’t do this again.

Another wave hit him, even worse, and he was sure something inside him had torn. His scream ripped through the air again, sharper and higher, chilling the room into stillness.

“Harry!” Ginny’s speech cracked completely. “You’re not alone! I’m right here—please—please listen to me!”

But he was already slipping. He couldn’t find her voice anymore. Everything around him blurred, turning to light and shadow and pain and fire. His tears fell freely now, scorching down his cheeks.

“Ron, help me hold him!” Mrs Weasley barked suddenly.

He was there in an instant, dropping to the floor beside the sofa. “I’ve got his legs; bloody hell, he’s thrashing!”

Harry jerked violently, kicking out, his limbs flailing. He didn’t mean to. He felt as though he was outside of his body, experiencing only pain, magic, and fear, confined by skin that wouldn’t respond.

It hurts. Please make it stop—

“Can’t we give him something?” Ron shouted. “A potion—anything?!”

Mrs Weasley’s fingers trembled as she tried to restrain Harry’s arms. “He had a healing draught an hour ago; it’s dangerous to let him drink another so soon—”

“But he’s screaming!” He was close to tears now. “Mum—he is dying!”

Ginny jerked back, her eyes full. Hermione covered her mouth with both hands, shocked and helpless.

She had read about Dark damage in old records, but none of the books had prepared her for the sound of Harry shrieking in front of her. She looked furious with herself for not having an answer.

Across the room, Slughorn stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide, the book forgotten. He was terrified, completely out of his depth.

And then—

“I’ve seen this before,” Ginny said suddenly, her tone hoarse, cracking apart. “He’s had fits like this. Hours sometimes…” She looked up, her face pale and drawn. “I didn’t tell anyone. He made me promise.”

“It wasn’t always this bad,” she added quickly, voice shaking. “Before tonight, it had never lasted this long, and he hadn’t bled. If it had, I would have told you straight away.”

Mrs Weasley’s head snapped round. “Ginny—what?!”

“Harry was terrified, Mum,” she sobbed, wiping her sleeve across her face. “He said no one else could see because he didn’t want to be a burden. He wanted to keep it a secret.”

Her hands tightened around Harry’s wrists, holding him fast through his spasms. “Oh, Harry…”

Harry could barely hear them.

His breath came in stuttering gasps now, as if his lungs had forgotten how to draw air. Sweat clung to him like a second skin; his T-shirt soaked through. His head throbbed. He felt a ripping sensation in his spine.

The room spun. His vision dimmed at the edges.

Despite that, the fire burnt.

A force deep inside him was tearing apart. Not just once, but again and again.

“Professor!” Ron’s voice cracked, rising above the ragged gasps and stifled sobs. “Please do something!”

Slughorn blinked as if someone had just shaken him awake. His face had gone ashen beneath the soot, his usual joviality stripped bare. “A—A Calming Draught,” he stammered, blinking rapidly as if trying to convince himself. “It could potentially take the edge off.”

Mrs Weasley didn’t wait for further instruction. She spun around and darted to the cabinet near the fireplace, her slippers skidding across the rug. Glass bottles clinked as she fumbled through them, nearly knocking the lot to the floor. Her fingers found the right one, a slim crystal phial with cloudy violet liquid, and she snatched it up with trembling hands.

“Harry, sweetheart—just a sip,” she murmured, already back at his side. “Please. Come on, love.”

But Harry couldn’t make out her words. Or if he could, the language made little sense anymore.

The screaming hadn’t stopped. He could still hear it in his own throat and ringing in his head. It felt like every part of him was on edge at once. His nerves jumped and fired and would not stop.

Another spasm seized him, more violent than the last. His body jolted so hard he nearly knocked Hermione backward.

She dropped to her knees anyway, her eyes streaming now, her voice barely a whisper as she pleaded, “Harry, please. You have to drink this. You’re not alone—we’re all here, okay? We all love you. You’ve got to hold on.”

He couldn’t see her clearly. The world had turned to shadow and flame, his vision smeared by tears, pain, and the sheer weight of it all.

They held him still—carefully, but firmly—and someone, he wasn’t sure who, tipped the phial to his lips. Most of the potion spilt down his chin, soaking the front of his shirt, but a few drops got through. He gagged, choked on it, but reflex forced him to swallow.

It was bitter and freezing cold. It hurt going down.

The relief did not come quickly.

At first, nothing changed. The burning pain remained intense, and he believed it hadn’t worked. They’d left it too late. He was about to die here, in front of all of them, screaming.

But then slowly, the edge dulled.

It didn’t vanish or stop.

But something shifted. The discomfort backed off a little. Though still there, the sharpness in his chest and stomach had lessened. His screams broke into sobs; ugly, hoarse things that tore from his throat in jagged waves.

But he could breathe again.

He drew a single, broken breath. Then another.

His head lolled slightly to one side, too heavy to lift. He barely lifted his eyelids. Everything appeared blurred to him.

Ginny hadn’t moved.

She was still there beside him, her hand tight on his arm, steady and reassuring. She stayed put. Her eyes never left his. She looked wrecked. Her face was pale, and her lashes were wet, but she was holding on.

And Harry… Harry clung to that.

Because he couldn’t hold on to anything else.

He didn’t know when the shaking stopped. Only that it had. That the spasms had gone, replaced by a kind of stillness that was almost worse: a strange, hollow weight that settled into his limbs and dragged them down like lead.

He felt Ron loosening his grip slowly, as if he was afraid he might shatter if he let go too quickly.

Harry wanted to keep his illness a secret from St Mungo’s and the Ministry. He could already picture the headlines and hear Kingsley asking quiet questions in a careful voice. He did not want to become a case file.

Mrs Weasley murmured something under her breath, a silent signal, and Ron backed off, kneeling there, still panting and watching.

Harry whimpered just a little. It was the only sound he could make.

He didn’t even have the strength to be embarrassed by it.

Someone was calling his name. Soft, insistent.

Harry.

He thought it was Mrs Weasley again. But it could have been anyone. The voice was muffled, as if it was coming from the far end of a corridor.

He wanted to answer.

But he seemed distant, almost unattainable. Moving, drawing breath, and existing hurt.

His body felt drained and weak, like something important inside him had gone missing.

The room had fallen quiet now. Utterly calm. The only sound was the broken, rhythmic rasp of his breathing. No one dared speak. But he could feel them there; Hermione, Ron, Ginny, all of them nearby. Close enough to touch, yet somehow impossibly far.

He had stopped screaming. But he still wasn’t in a safe situation.

It hadn’t really gone. Whatever had done this to him had only pulled away. It remained within him, barely hidden.

A rustle beside him.

Mrs Weasley. She was back. Kneeling again, tucking a blanket around his shoulders with the utmost care, her hands trembled. She didn’t speak, but she kept smoothing the blanket down again and again. It was something she could do, even if words had failed.

Harry blinked. Just for a second, his gaze focused.

He saw Ginny’s face.

And he hated it.

He loathed the way worry had already left new lines around her eyes and the tear shaking on her lashes. He despised what he was doing to all of them, what they had to see because he had promised them peace after the war. Now all he’d given them was fear.

A fresh shudder wracked him sharply, and his jaw locked tight as he swallowed a sob. He clenched his fists beneath the blanket, furious with himself, with his body, with this thing inside him that wouldn’t let him go.

He detested it: the pain, the helplessness, the humiliation, and the weakness.

He hated how it dragged him backwards and all the way back to being small and frightened in a cupboard under the stairs with no one to help. He disliked how it took away everything he’d become until only a boy who needed someone to hold him in the dark remained.

He clenched his teeth harder, eyes shut tight.

Not again, please.

It was not the first time. He knew the pattern now. The fever, then the tightness under his ribs, then the rush of pain that felt as if his magic was trying to tear free. He had kept it quiet at Hogwarts, in empty corridors, in toilets where no one could hear.

But even as he thought it, he had known—

It would happen again.

And next time, he might not survive it.

“I can’t imagine how many times he’s gone through something like this.”

Ron’s voice broke the stillness; it was low and uncertain, with a tremor running through it. He wasn’t looking at anyone in particular; his eyes were fixed on Harry’s motionless form, as though he were still trying to convince himself it was over.

“If he usually bears it…” Ron swallowed thickly. “Then what just happened must’ve been—”

He did not finish.

Harry heard everything in that pause. The fear, guilt, and helplessness. It clung to Ron’s voice; quiet but inescapable.

I wish you hadn’t seen me like this, Harry thought bitterly. I didn’t want any of you to.

His breath hitched slightly; still raw and not quite steady. The room went silent again. No one moved or knew what to say.

Beside him, there was a soft rustle, the creak of the chair, the shift of weight—and then Mrs Weasley’s gentle sigh, the kind that said she was holding back tears. A few minutes later, the cool press of a damp flannel touched his forehead.

Harry flinched.

Not from pain, exactly. But the sudden chill jolted him, drawing a sharp gasp through clenched teeth.

Fever, he realised. He could feel it now; heat under his skin, behind his eyes, stuck to him. He was roasting one moment and shivering the next, trapped in that miserable middle bit where even his body couldn’t decide what it was doing.

Mrs Weasley stayed quiet, dabbing gently at his brow, her movements precise but shaking. Then she eased back into the chair beside him, her hand lingering on his shoulder for just a second longer than necessary.

Harry didn’t need to look to know the expression she wore.

He could feel it—that fierce love that only a mother could hold. The kind that would fight off Death itself with nothing but bare hands and sheer determination.

He wanted to thank her and say, I’m sorry you have to see me like this. But the words remained buried—locked somewhere beneath the heat and the ache and the fog in his mind.

The silence stretched. No one moved or spoke. Harry could hear only his breathing. It made it hard to think. Harder still to breathe.

Why won’t the fever break?

His thoughts wandered, blurred at the edges. When will the pain stop hurting?

Each breath scraped through him. His skin twitched with every pulse of heat, as though it might peel away at any moment. His muscles ached, not with the sharp agony of before, but with the dull, grinding fatigue of a body pushed past its limits.

The worst had passed.

He knew that.

But the memory of it still wouldn’t leave him. The pain had seeped into his bones, impossible to shake. It remained there inside him, and he could feel it.

He had not even been entirely conscious a few minutes earlier. The agony had taken everything and blocked out the world until he couldn’t tell if he was awake. He hadn’t known where he was. Or who he was. Or if he was still alive at all.

He’d bitten his tongue raw to stop himself screaming. Dug his nails into the sofa until they broke. Anything—anything—to stay anchored and be here.

Because somewhere in the middle of all that pain, one thought had kept breaking through:

This is it. This is the moment I don’t come back from.

And what frightened him most wasn’t the suffering or dying.

It was leaving them behind.

Ron. Hermione. Ginny.

What happens to them if I let go? What would it do to them if I disappeared?

He couldn’t do that to them, so he held on.

Even when he felt like he was being destroyed from within, or every breath was dragging molten glass through his lungs. He had clawed his way back, because surrendering wasn’t just giving up on himself but on them too.

Now, still half-submerged in that haze of exhaustion, his eyes fluttered open. The world was blurry. Dim. Faces hovered above him, familiar, beloved, and twisted with worry.

Ginny. Ron. Hermione.

Their mouths moved, but he couldn’t catch the words. The sound wavered, distant and underwater. But he could feel them. Their presence. Their warmth.

Still here, he thought. They didn’t leave.

Something inside him loosened.

Not enough to smile or to speak.

But it helped.

His limbs were leaden. His head pounded with every heartbeat. But there was a quiet in him now, as though some part of the storm had passed.

Sleep crept in again. It wasn’t dangerous this time, but it was slow, not like before.

His eyes slipped shut.

His breath slowed.

And at this moment, when Harry let himself fall, he didn’t fight it.

Slughorn stood by the window, arms folded tightly across his broad chest, the edges of his robes brushing the sill as the breeze stirred the curtains. Morning light came through the glass, but he barely seemed to notice. His gaze was on the horizon, but it was plain he wasn’t really looking at it.

His mind was elsewhere.

He was thinking about a time long past. There had been laughter in candlelit dungeons, clinking goblets, and a brilliant boy with dark, questioning eyes and ambition that had already gone too far.

What have you done, Tom? The thought rose unbidden, escaping his lips in a faint murmur, scarcely more than breath.

The feeling of guilt remained, and it hadn’t lifted in years.

“Harry… he doesn’t deserve this. None of it.” His voice was thick, cracking around the edges. “He should be thinking about Quidditch matches, wondering if he’s done enough revision for his N.E.W.T.—not fighting nightmares born of my mistakes.”

Behind him, Hermione lingered in the doorway, watching. The concern on her brow had deepened with each minute of silence, but she said nothing at first. She could hear the strain in his voice. The weight was in every word he spoke.

At length, she took a cautious step forward, her tone gentle but steady. “Professor,” she called, “Harry’s resting now. He’s sleeping. I think it’s time we looked at the book… properly. There might be something inside that could help him.”

Slughorn gave a slight start, as if he had forgotten she was there at all, and slowly turned from the window. His eyes, when they met hers, were red-rimmed and distant, as though he’d just blinked away a dream he hadn’t meant to wake from. Then, with a quick, awkward straightening of his shoulders, he tried to muster the remnants of his old charm.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat and gave a small forced nod. “We mustn’t… We shouldn’t waste time.”

Hermione offered him a brief, understanding look and turned towards the table. Ron and Ginny followed wordlessly, casting one last glance at the sitting room where Harry lay before they moved to join her. The kitchen at the Burrow felt unusually quiet.

The surface, once crowded with plates of toast, pumpkin juice, and Weasley chatter earlier, now held something very different.

Slughorn sank into the chair with a soft grunt, placing the book before him, careful not to drop it or jolt it.

“I went immediately to the headmaster’s office yesterday,” he said slowly, hands folding before him. “Straight from here. No stops, no side visits.”

“Did you speak to Professor Dumbledore?” Hermione asked, lowering herself into the seat opposite. Her voice was hushed, reverent. Even after all this time, saying his name still felt like invoking something powerful.

“I did,” Slughorn said with a nod. His gaze went distant again, clouded. “He was there. In his portrait. Looking down at me with those piercing… clever eyes. He looked surprised. But not entirely.” He gave a soft, rueful laugh. “As though he’d been expecting me all along.”

He swallowed. “Albus didn’t tell me what to do. He just glanced at me. I think he meant for me to face this if anything like this ever happened.”

Ron leant forward, frowning. “Hang on—what do you mean? How could he know why you’d gone there?”

Slughorn smiled faintly. “You forget who he was, Mr Weasley. Albus always saw further than the rest of us. When I reached for the book on his shelf, he gave me that look—one of those blasted, knowing looks. As if I were merely fulfilling something he’d foreseen years ago.”

Ginny’s voice, sharper than Ron’s, cut through the quiet. “And? Did he say anything?”

Slughorn shook his head, fingers brushing lightly over the cover of the volume, carefully, almost reverently. “Not a word. But he didn’t have to. I could feel it—the message was there, even in silence. It took me hours to break the enchantment he’d laid upon it.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “But if he was aware you were coming for it, why make it so hard to open? Why not just leave it out?”

Hermione crossed her arms and gave a small huff. “Isn’t it obvious, Ronald? He didn’t want anyone else getting their hands on it. He was protecting it. Even from beyond the grave.”

He flushed. “Yeah, I knew that,” he muttered, though he clearly hadn’t.

A silence fell once more, thicker now, weighed down by the presence of the book on the table. Slughorn stared at it as if it might speak.

“I never wanted to look at it again,” he murmured at last. “When Dumbledore first told me what Tom had done, and what he’d become, I was horrified. I locked it all away. Tried to forget. Pretended my silence hadn’t helped pave the path for him.”

Ginny looked at him sharply, but her tone, when it came, was quiet. “Why did it take you so long to undo the spell?”

Slughorn gave a weary, almost broken sigh. “Because when Albus died, the enchantment changed. His passing sealed it, strengthened it. It wasn’t just locked anymore. The death entombed the situation. For good reason.” His voice dipped into a low rasp. “It took everything I had to break it. And even then, I nearly failed.”

He glanced down at the book once more.

It was unlike any tome they had ever seen. The cover was smooth and pale, almost white, with faint traces of silver catching the light. A single word was written across its front in gold letters finer than thread.

Anima.

The engravings glimmered faintly. It looked old, but its magic was active. The air near it felt charged.

Slughorn kept his hand on the cover instead of opening it again straight away. “If the Ministry even knew this existed, they would lock it in the Department of Mysteries, and it would vanish from our sight,” he said quietly. “This contains some classified, forbidden work. Albus did not trust them with it.”

Hermione reached out, her fingers hovering for the briefest second before they contacted the cover. The silver inlay shimmered faintly under her touch, and the texture beneath her fingertips was smooth and unnaturally cool.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Too exquisite for something that holds such dark truths.”

Ron squinted at the title, his brows drawing together as he leaned in. The letters lightly gleamed, and nobody could have etched each curve by hand because it was too delicate. “What does ‘Anima’ mean, then?”

“Latin,” Slughorn answered quietly, the word carried on a breath rather than spoken aloud. “It means ‘soul’.”

Ron recoiled a little, folding his arms across his chest. “Well, that’s not ominous at all,” he muttered. “Why not just call it Guide to Soul-Mangling and be done with it?”

Hermione let out a quiet huff, the corner of her mouth twitching, but her eyes didn’t leave the book. “The designs are symbolic, Ron. They’re not meant to be taken literally.”

“Yeah, so…” he stared at the swirling silver glyphs that seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking directly at them. “If that’s what souls actually look like, I reckon I’d rather not see mine.”

Ginny sat close by on a low stool, her legs drawn up and her arms around her knees. She watched the volume without blinking. Her chest felt tight, and her breathing had gone shallow.

Hermione tilted her head, still studying the cover with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “Professor… is the entire book in Latin?”

“No, not quite,” said Slughorn, lowering himself into the chair with more weight than usual. He reached out and gently opened the top, handling it as one might an ancient relic from a tomb. The pages crackled as they turned—thin, yellowed, and brittle at the edges. “Most of it is written in Old English, with some parts drifting into more obscure dialects. A few passages are still untranslated, even now. I dare say it’s more seasoned than anything I’ve ever studied. Older, I suspect, than the Horcrux research we uncovered before.”

He paused, tapping a page with one long, slightly trembling finger.

“Dumbledore believed this was the beginning,” he said, voice thick with the gravity of it. “The first source. The seed from which the entire concept of soul-splitting grew. He thought the idea itself—the belief that the essence of a person could be divided—stemmed from something much older than Tom Riddle ever imagined. That the soul’s very nature made it… vulnerable. Fragile.”

Ron leaned in, flipping forward a few pages before Hermione batted his hand away.

“There’s no author,” he observed, frowning. “No notes. Who even wrote this thing?”

“The name doesn’t matter,” Ginny said suddenly. Her voice was quiet but steady. “What matters is what’s in it. What it can provide. It might be the only chance we’ve got to help Harry.”

Ron’s jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists where they rested on the tabletop, the knuckles blanching white. He looked ready to fight an unknown entity he couldn’t see, and it made him furious. “Then it’s better to tell us something soon. Because if this—” he nodded at the book with an attitude close to disdain, “—if this is all we’ve got, we’re running out of time.”

Hermione did not reply straight away. Her throat felt dry, and the words stuck halfway up it like they didn’t want to be said aloud. They were all thinking it, after all. She saw it on their faces. The fear, the helplessness, and the desperate hope that somewhere, hidden in those old parchments, would be something that could undo the damage already done.

She swallowed. “Right.”

Slughorn turned the pages slowly, carefully, his eyes narrowing in concentration. The room was deathly silent. At last, he stopped and gently rotated the book so they could see. Dark ink scrawled the text, faded at the edges but still legible, with loops and slashes that looked almost alive against the chequered tablecloth.

Ginny leaned forward. When she spoke, her voice was calm but quiet.

“A soul by evil smitten doth wither and burneth away its being until at last it is no more. To mend such a soul requireth a dearer toll, should any dare the trial. And if that toil falleth short, then, by whomsoever made the venture, the price shall yet be counted alike as the former.”

The words lingered in the air, sharp and final.

Ron frowned, brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

No one answered immediately.

Ginny’s breath caught halfway through her throat. Her hands clenched around the side of her stool. Across from her, Hermione had frozen. The calm, determined expression she’d worn like armour all morning had cracked, just slightly, but enough. Her hand reached out slowly, blindly, to steady herself against the edge of the table.

Only last night, they had been whispering plans by the fire. They had sounded reckless and full of hope. Now, it looked impossible.

The kitchen felt colder. The light from the window no longer seemed warm.

Hermione swallowed again, hard. Her voice was hoarse when it came.

“It means…” She paused, gathering herself. “If we try to fix Harry’s soul, and we fail, the magic might not only reject him but also destroy us. As though in attempting it, we’d been marked. Broken. Just like the one we tried to save.”

Nobody spoke.

Ron swallowed hard. “So we either help Harry, and we could die, or we don’t help him, and he dies anyway.” His voice shook. “Brilliant.”

Ginny looked down at the page, lips pressed into a firm, thin line. Even Slughorn sat back in his chair, the weight of the words pressing heavily on his chest, his eyes clouded with the knowledge of what they were truly facing.

The book lay open between them.

No one needed to say out loud how frightening it was.

And in that moment, all of them understood that whatever came afterward would not only decide Harry’s fate.

It could end with all of them paying the price to save him.

Upstairs, Harry turned in his sleep. He did not know that the next fight had already started.