FicWad

The rain hadn’t let up all night. It clattered against the windowpanes in a steady beat and kept Harry half-awake, tense 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 pain shot through his head so sharply it made his stomach twist. Every breath caught in his throat. It was dry and jagged.

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

Move, he told himself. Come on, move.

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 managing to get 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 bannister hard enough that his knuckles whitened, willing his legs 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 couldn’t hide what was under it: fear, definitely. Maybe guilt. And something else he couldn’t read.

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

He 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, turned sharply 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 nearly overwhelming.

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

“Harry, are you all right?” Hermione 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 just a headache. He knew that now. Knew it in the way his magic felt distant. Knew it in the way 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 like 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 said suddenly, forcing the words out. “You all right?”

Hermione startled a little, then seized the lifeline like 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 like nothing ever happened.” She blinked rapidly. “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’d wiped their memories to protect them. Remembered 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 eyes as she addressed Hermione. “Will you be going back to Hogwarts, dear? To finish your studies?”

Hermione sat up a little straighter, her voice firm with conviction. “Yes, I am. I want to graduate properly. Sit my N.E.W.T.s, 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.”

Ron 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? Back me up here, mate.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. 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 didn’t press. Mrs Weasley, on the other hand, looked like 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.

Ron folded his arms tightly, jaw clenched. “Harry and I were going to be Aurors,” he said, defiant now. “We’re going to help clean up what’s left. 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 said gently, 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 round him, firm and steady.

“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.”

Ron didn’t let go. “It’s alright. You don’t have to explain.”

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

“I’ve got it,” Ginny said at once. She darted into the sitting room, 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 cushions. 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 didn’t move away. She whispered something he couldn’t catch, maybe his name. That helped more than any potion. Her touch was warm and familiar. It only made the cold feeling in his chest worse.

He couldn’t look at her. She didn’t deserve 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 were 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 pressure rising under his ribs that he couldn’t stop.

He opened his eyes with a groan. The light hit his eyes sharply. His whole body trembled now, and his limbs felt 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. Tell her 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 sound, guttural and awful, filled the room.

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. Someone 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 felt her hand again, steady on his back, but even her touch couldn’t ground him. The room swam. His heart pounded in his throat.

His breathing turned shallow and uneven. His chest felt tight. Every breath scraped.

Sweat dripped down his temples, but he felt cold, so cold. The blanket didn’t help. Nothing did.

“Harry, look at me,” Ginny said softly, returning with a damp cloth. She wiped his forehead, fingers trembling.

He couldn’t meet her eyes. He didn’t want her to see him like this.

But he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t hide. Couldn’t even speak.

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

He wanted to believe her.

Merlin, he needed to believe her. Her fingers 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 worse; 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 round the edge of the cushions, knuckles white with strain.

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

He didn’t know how long it went on: seconds, minutes, or a lifetime. When it finally began to ease, he sagged back against the sofa. His chest heaved. 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 said, “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 potion was bitter, thick, cloying, and cold, but he swallowed obediently.

At once, a cooling sensation spread through his chest. The raw burn in his lungs dulled. The pounding in his skull began to recede.

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 chest, flickering faintly before fading. She exhaled sharply, and some of the panic in her shoulders eased.

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

Harry let his head fall back again. He was shaking. Drained. His body felt like it had been wrung out.

But even as the immediate danger faded, something darker remained. He felt 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. Hermione clutched her elbow like she was holding herself together. Ron 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 Harry, never at Harry, but at whatever had done this to him. He could see it in the tight set of her jaw. She had already lost one son. She would not lose another child in her kitchen.

The room went quiet again. It felt heavy.

Harry could feel the weight of their gazes pressing in on him; Ron, Hermione, Ginny, all 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 eyes were too wide.

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

Didn’t know if she should.

The fireplace burst into green flame. The light was so bright it threw moving shadows across the walls. A moment later, Professor Slughorn stumbled 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!” Slughorn 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. I’ve got it!”

He held up the book like it was something he’d fought to get. The spine was cracked, the cover faded almost beyond recognition, but the air around it 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 clenched.

But they didn’t get a chance to touch it.

“It’s Harry!”

Ginny’s voice, sharp 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 tight over his chest. His breath came in short, shallow rasps, frantic and uneven, and his face was contorted in agony.

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 her knees 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 the burning again? Like before?”

But Harry couldn’t answer. Could barely see.

And then it struck.

The burning started up inside him again. It wasn’t real fire, but it felt like it. It was the same agony he had felt 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, not again.

“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 every other sound in the room. The world was sliding in and out of focus, the edges flickering, shivering, like his vision was about to collapse in on itself.

He couldn’t feel anything now except pain. 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 onto it.

His chest tightened again, sharp and shallow.

He was slipping. He could feel himself losing control again, just like before.

Then—hands.

Steady, familiar hands 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 hands 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. 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 voice 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.

Ron 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 didn’t even feel like he was in his body anymore. He felt like nothing but pain and magic and fear, stuck in skin that wouldn’t obey him.

It hurts. Merlin, it hurts. Make it stop. Please make it stop—

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

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

“But he’s screaming!” Ron shouted, close to tears now. “Mum—he’s 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 screaming 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 looked terrified, completely out of his depth.

And then—

“I’ve seen this before,” Ginny said suddenly, her voice 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 never lasted this long, and he never bled. If it had, I would have told you straight away.”

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

“He was terrified, Mum,” Ginny sobbed, wiping her sleeve across her face. “He said no one else could see. He didn’t want to be a burden. He didn’t want anyone to know.”

Mrs Weasley’s eyes filled. 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 though his lungs had forgotten how to draw air. Sweat clung to him like a second skin, his T-shirt soaked through. His head throbbed. His spine felt like it was being pulled apart.

The room spun. His vision dimmed at the edges.

And still, the fire burnt.

It felt as though something deep inside him was tearing apart. Not just once, but again and again. It felt like something inside him had latched on and would not let go.

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

Slughorn blinked like someone who had just been shaken 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 might… it might take the edge off.”

Mrs Weasley didn’t wait for further instruction. She spun round 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 glass 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 hear her. Or if he could, the words didn’t make 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.

Hermione 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 love you, all of us. 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 didn’t come quickly.

At first, nothing changed. The pain still burnt and felt wild, and he was certain it had failed. That they’d left it too late. That he was going to die here, in front of all of them, screaming.

But then, slowly, the edge dulled.

It didn’t vanish. It didn’t stop.

But something shifted. The pain backed off a little. It was still there in his chest and stomach, but not as sharp. His screams broke into sobs; ugly, hoarse things that tore from his throat in jagged waves.

He was still burning.

But he could breathe again.

He drew in a single, broken breath. Then another. And another.

His head lolled slightly to one side, too heavy to lift. He managed, barely, to lift his eyelids. Everything was blurred.

Ginny hadn’t moved.

She was still there beside him, her hand tight on his arm, steady and reassuring. She hadn’t moved away at all. 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, like he was afraid Harry might shatter if he let go too quickly.

He did not want St Mungo’s. He did not want the Ministry. He could already picture the headlines, and he could already hear Kingsley asking quiet questions in a careful voice. He was not ready to be a case file.

Mrs Weasley murmured something under her breath, a quiet signal, and Ron backed off, kneeling there, still panting, still 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 and faint, as if coming from the far end of a corridor.

He wanted to answer. He wanted to.

It felt like he was far away, just out of reach. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt.

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

The room had fallen quiet now. Utterly still. 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 wasn’t screaming anymore.

But he still wasn’t safe.

It hadn’t really gone. Whatever had done this to him had only pulled back. It was still there inside him, just under the surface.

A rustle beside him.

Mrs Weasley. She was back. Kneeling again, tucking a blanket around his shoulders with the utmost care, her hands trembling. 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 eyes focused.

He saw Ginny’s face.

And he hated it.

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

A fresh shudder wracked through him, hot and sharp, 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 hated it: the pain, the helplessness, the humiliation, and the weakness.

He hated how it dragged him backwards. It dragged him all the way back to being small and frightened in a cupboard under the stairs with no one to help. He hated how it stripped everything away, everything he’d become, until all that was left was a boy who needed someone, anyone, to come and hold him in the dark.

He clenched his teeth harder, eyes shut tight.

Not again. Please. Not again.

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

But even as he thought it, he knew—

It would happen again.

And next time, he might not survive it.

“I can’t even imagine how many times Harry’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 manages to bear it…” Ron swallowed thickly. “Then what just happened must’ve been—”

He didn’t finish.

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

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

His breath hitched slightly; still raw, still not quite steady. The room went quiet again. No one moved. No one 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 moment 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, heat behind his eyes, sticking to him. He was roasting one moment and shivering the next, stuck 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 moment longer than necessary.

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

He could feel it, that fierce, furious 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. He wanted to 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. Why won’t it stop hurting?

Every 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 was still there inside him. He could still feel it.

Only minutes ago, he hadn’t even been fully aware. The pain 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. To stay 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 pain.

It wasn’t dying.

It was leaving them behind.

Ron. Hermione. Ginny.

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

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

Even when it felt like he was being torn apart from the inside out. Even when every breath felt like dragging molten glass through his lungs. He had clawed his way back, because letting go wasn’t just giving up on himself. It was giving up on them.

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. Not enough to speak.

But enough.

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. This time it didn’t feel dangerous. It was slow and heavy. Not like before.

His eyes slipped shut.

His breath slowed.

And this time, 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 window, but Slughorn barely seemed to notice. His eyes were 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 guilt hadn’t faded. It was still there, and it hadn’t lifted in years.

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

Behind him, Hermione lingered in the doorway, watching. The concern in 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 of it was in every word he spoke.

At length, she took a cautious step forward, her tone gentle but steady. “Professor,” she said, “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 though he’d 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 mustn’t waste time.”

Hermione gave 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 table, which earlier had been crowded with plates of toast, pumpkin juice and Weasley chatter, now held something very different.

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

“I went straight 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 eyes… clever eyes. He looked surprised. But not entirely.” He gave a soft, rueful laugh. “As though he’d been expecting me all along.”

Slughorn swallowed. “He didn’t tell me what to do. He just looked at me in that way of his. I think he always meant for me to face this if anything like this ever happened.”

Ron leant forward, frowning. “Hang on—what d’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 book, careful, almost reverent. “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 knew 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, Ron? He didn’t want anyone else getting their hands on it. He was protecting it. Even from beyond the grave.”

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

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

“I never wanted to look at it again,” he murmured at last. “When Dumbledore first told me what Tom had done, 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 voice, when it came, was quiet. “Why did it take you so long to break the spell?”

Slughorn gave a weary, almost broken sigh. “Because when Albus died, the enchantment changed. His death sealed it, strengthened it. It wasn’t just locked anymore. It was entombed. 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 looked down at the book once more.

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

Anima.

The silver engravings glimmered faintly in the light. The book looked old, its magic still active.

It lay still and closed, but the magic on it felt 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 we would never see it again,” he said quietly. “Some of what is written in here is classed as forbidden work. Albus did not trust the Ministry with it.”

Hermione reached out, her fingers hovering for the briefest second before they made contact with 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 beautiful for something that holds such dark truths.”

Ron squinted at the title, his brows drawing together as he leaned in. The letters gleamed faintly, each curve too delicate to have been etched by hand. “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, well…” Ron 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 round her knees. She watched the book 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 whole 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 cover, handling it as one might an ancient relic from a tomb. The pages crackled as they turned, thin, yellowed, and brittle at the edges. “It’s mostly written in Old English, with some parts drifting into older, more obscure dialects. A few passages are still untranslated, even now. I daresay it’s older 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 soul 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 name,” he said, 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 tell us. 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 something he couldn’t see, and it made him furious. “Then it better tell us something soon. Because if this—” he nodded at the book with something close to disdain, “—if this is all we’ve got, we’re running out of time.”

Hermione didn’t 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 in their faces. The fear. The helplessness. The desperate hope that somewhere, hidden in those old pages, 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 still. At last, he stopped and gently rotated the book so they could see. The text was scrawled in dark ink, faded at the edges but still legible, curling in loops and slashes that looked almost alive against the checkered 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 edge of her stool. Across from her, Hermione had gone still. 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 still been whispering plans by the fire. They had sounded reckless and full of hope. Now they felt 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 just reject him. It might reject us. Destroy us. As though, in attempting it, we’d been marked. Broken. Just like the one we tried to save.”

No one spoke.

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

Ginny looked down at the book, lips pressed into a hard, 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 spoke.

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

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

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

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