FicWad

The gloomy rain outside mirrored the darkness Harry felt within. The following morning had dawned grey and cold, a stark contrast to the celebratory atmosphere of the previous evening. He awoke with a throbbing headache, his hands trembling as he fumbled with his glasses. A wave of nausea washed over him, making even the simple act of getting out of bed a monumental effort.

Moving with the utmost caution, Harry navigated his way down the creaking stairs, his body protesting with each step. He spotted Ginny halfway down, her face etched with worry, and relief washed over him as she rushed to his side, steadying him.

The rest of the group, save for Mr. Weasley, who had already left for work, expressed their concern as they watched him struggle to maintain his balance. Despite his weakened state, Harry managed a weak smile as he joined Ron and Hermione at the breakfast table, Ginny never leaving his side.

Hermione’s wide, concerned eyes followed his every movement. “Are you feeling alright, Harry?” she asked, her voice laced with genuine worry.

Harry rubbed his temple, his expression grim. “Just a headache,” he mumbled, forcing a smile.

“You must be famished, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said anxiously, pushing a plate piled high with sausages and toast towards him. He accepted it gratefully, even though the thought of food was repulsive. The pounding in his head threatened to overwhelm him, and he feared he might be sick. But he couldn’t bear to disappoint Mrs. Weasley by refusing her kind gesture.

He glanced around the table at the worried faces of his friends. Their concern was palpable, a weight pressing down on him. He needed to distract them, to lighten the mood. “How are you guys?” he asked, hoping to spark a conversation with Ron and Hermione. He had overheard their laughter the previous night, a sound that had been strangely absent for too long.

“We’re doing well,” Hermione said, her voice bright. “I’m staying at the Burrow for the rest of the summer. My parents finally agreed after a bit of convincing.”

Harry’s heart warmed at her happiness. “How are your parents?” he asked, the memory of her altering their memories to protect them from Voldemort flashing through his mind.

“They’re wonderful,” Hermione said, her face beaming. “After the war, I removed the charm and brought them home. I missed them so much!” She smiled at Harry, and he returned it, a genuine feeling of happiness blooming in his chest despite the pain.

“Are you really going back to Hogwarts to finish your term, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked, her eyes softening as she looked at Hermione.

“Yes, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione replied. “I want to take my N.E.W.T.s and graduate properly.”

A warm smile spread across Mrs. Weasley’s face, but it quickly morphed into a sharp glare directed at Ron. “You should be more responsible, Ron!” she scolded, her voice full of frustration.

Ron, taken aback, bristled. “Why? We defeated Voldemort. Isn’t that proof enough of our skills, Harry?” He asked, looking to Harry for validation.

Harry, feeling awkward and uncomfortable, fidgeted in his seat. His head throbbed with every movement, obscuring the world around him in a blurry haze. “Yeah, sure, Ron,” he mumbled, unable to meet Ron’s expectant gaze.

Mrs. Weasley sighed, clearly exasperated with Ron’s defiance. “Oh, please, spare me the excuses, Ron.”

Ron, ignoring his mother’s disapproval, persisted. “Harry and I are going to be aurors. We’ll track down the remaining Death Eaters.” He glanced at Harry, but the cheerful expression Harry had been trying to maintain vanished, replaced by a dark cloud of gloom.

The shift in Harry’s demeanour didn’t go unnoticed. Mrs. Weasley, ever watchful, noticed the change. “Harry, are you feeling up to eating?” she asked, concern etched on her face.

Harry’s vision blurred, his stomach churning with discomfort. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Weasley, but could I lay down for a while?” He croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Weasley’s face softened with understanding. “Of course, dear.”

The overwhelming pain, the gnawing dread that had settled in his stomach, and the unsettling darkness that had crept into his mind all pointed to something far more sinister than a simple headache. Harry knew, with a bone-chilling certainty, that this was just the beginning.

Harry struggled to maintain his balance as he stood unsteadily, his feet swaying precariously beneath him. His vision blurred, and a wave of dizziness washed over him, making his stomach churn. He stumbled forward, his world tilting dangerously. Ron, ever alert, was quick to react, catching Harry just in time, his strong arms steadying the trembling figure.

“Easy there, mate,” Ron said, concern lacing his voice as he helped support Harry’s weight.

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled, feeling weak and dizzy. “I’m not feeling great today.”

“I can tell,” Ron replied, his brow furrowed with worry.

Hermione and Ginny, noticing Harry’s sudden deterioration, exchanged worried glances. “I think you should lie down on the couch for now,” Hermione suggested, her voice soft. “You’re not in any condition to climb the stairs.”

Ginny quickly arranged soft cushions on the couch before darting upstairs to fetch a warm blanket. Ron helped Harry recline, his eyes squeezed shut to fight the dizziness, while Ginny returned with the blanket, gently draping it over him. She settled beside him, a silent guardian, while Ron and Hermione took seats across from them, their faces etched with worry.

Mrs. Weasley, ever vigilant, appeared beside Harry, her hand instinctively reaching out to check his temperature. A frown creased her brow as she confirmed his fever.

With a soft groan, Harry slowly opened his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” Ginny asked, her fingers lightly brushing against his feverish forehead.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Harry whispered, his hand flying to his mouth before he doubled over, a violent wave of nausea erupting. He vomited onto the floor, a harsh, guttural sound escaping his lips.

Mrs. Weasley quickly cast a cleaning charm, the mess vanishing in a puff of magical energy. She noted that Harry hadn’t eaten much for breakfast, a fact that added to her growing unease.

The room grew colder, the atmosphere thickening with a sense of dread. Harry’s breathing became laboured, his breaths shallow and rapid. He broke out in a cold sweat, his skin clammy and pale.

“Ginny, fetch some lukewarm water and towels,” Mrs. Weasley instructed, her voice laced with urgency. She gently patted Harry’s back, trying to soothe him as he continued to dry heave.

Ginny scurried to fulfil her mother’s request, her heart pounding in her chest. She returned with a basin of water and a stack of towels, her eyes darting nervously to Harry, whose body was slick with sweat as he retched violently.

Suddenly, Mrs. Weasley gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, a sharp intake of breath that silenced the room.

“What happened, Mum? Are you okay?” Ron asked, his voice laced with concern.

Without a word, all eyes snapped to Harry. He was coughing. Coughing up blood.

A wave of horror washed over them as they watched, helpless, as Harry’s body wracked with pain. Tears welled up in his eyes as he groaned, his face contorted in agony. Finally, the coughing subsided, leaving him utterly drained, his body limp against the cushions.

Mrs. Weasley swiftly grabbed a towel and cleaned the blood that stained Harry’s lips and trailed down his neck. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips. “Oh, Merlin... I just can’t bear to see him like this anymore,” she whispered, the weight of the situation crushing her.

Determined, she rushed to the kitchen, returning moments later with a bottle of healing potion. Kneeling beside Harry, she spoke in a soft, reassuring tone, “Harry? I’ve brought you a healing potion to make you feel better.”

Harry, barely able to keep his eyes open, felt the cool rim of the vial against his lips. “Open your mouth, dear,” Mrs. Weasley urged gently.

She poured the potion, and instantly, Harry felt its soothing effects. His breathing slowed, his throbbing headache receded, and the fever began to break.

With a flick of her wand, Mrs. Weasley performed a diagnostic charm, relief flooding her features as she confirmed that Harry’s vitals were returning to normal.

“His symptoms will undoubtedly return,” Ginny sighed, her gaze fixed on Harry’s weary face.

“Inform me immediately if anything changes,” Mrs. Weasley instructed the three young adults, her voice firm. She then left the room, leaving them with the lingering fear and a heavy silence.

The air hung heavy with unspoken worry. Harry’s friends, Ron and Hermione, watched him with a mixture of fear and helplessness. Each episode of his mysterious illness was more severe than the last, a creeping darkness that threatened to consume him. All they could do was stand by, monitor, and hope.

“Slughorn, where the hell are you?” Ron whispered, his voice tight with nerves. He headed for the kitchen, the familiar clinking of water glasses a feeble attempt to soothe his agitated mind.

Suddenly, a burst of emerald flames erupted in the fireplace, jolting them from their anxious vigil. Horace Slughorn, looking weary but determined, stumbled out, scattering sparks around him.

“Slughorn!” Ron exclaimed, relief and frustration battling within him. He slammed his water glass down with more force than necessary.

Hermione, ever alert, rushed in at the sound; her curiosity piqued.

“Good morning!” Slughorn greeted them with forced cheerfulness. Cradled under his arm was a book, its worn leather familiar to Hermione—the very book they had been desperately searching for.

“Sorry for the delay in getting this to you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But I have it now.” With a sigh of relief, he carefully placed the book on the table before them.

Ron and Hermione, both eager to delve into its potentially life-saving contents, reached for the book. But before their fingertips brushed the covers, Ginny burst into the room, her face etched with worry.

“It’s Harry!” she cried, her voice laced with panic.

They followed her into the living room, where Harry was doubled over, clutching his chest, his breaths ragged and shallow.

“This doesn’t look good,” Ginny said, her eyes wide with knowledge that sent shivers down their spines. “I’ve seen this before.” She swiftly dropped to her knees beside him, Ron and Hermione hovering close.

“Harry, is it that burning sensation again?” Ginny asked, her voice trembling.

“Quickly, call your mum,” Hermione urged Ron, her voice sharp with urgency. “We need help, now.”

A minute later, Mrs. Weasley rushed in, her face a mask of concern, Ron trailing behind her. Kneeling beside Ginny, she looked at Harry, her eyes searching his face. “What’s wrong, love?”

Before anyone could answer, Harry doubled over again, burying his face in the cushions, his breaths coming in shuddering gasps.

Mrs. Weasley gently took his clenched fists in hers, her voice soft and reassuring. “Harry, listen to my voice; stay focused, okay?”

Harry tried to nod in agreement, but only let out screams instead. It was a sound that tore through the room, a desperate plea that clawed at the hearts of those present. He held onto Mrs. Weasley’s hands tightly, a desperate need for contact in the face of his torment, but her soothing words, normally a balm to any hurt, offered little comfort.

Slughorn and the others stood by, helpless spectators to Harry’s suffering. Their faces were etched with worry, their hands clenched, unable to offer anything but silent support. Hermione and Ginny were on the verge of tears, their own pain mirroring Harry’s. Ron, his usual boisterous nature extinguished, kept his head down, unable to bear the sight of his best friend suffering in such a terrible way.

Harry wept into his pillow, the relentless pain searing through him like a thousand tiny fires. It felt like his skin was being slowly peeled away while sharp daggers pierced his limbs. The agony was beyond anything he had ever imagined—a torment that made his very being scream. His cries were a desperate attempt to lessen the pain, a silent plea for someone, anyone, to make it stop.

Mrs. Weasley, her heart aching for the boy she considered her own, made a desperate attempt to soothe him. But Harry’s cries of distress and agony drowned out her comforting words. A surge of panic flooded her as she watched him writhe in pain, his body a vessel of torment.

“Ron, I need your help to keep Harry from hurting himself,” she pleaded urgently, her voice filled with fear as she struggled to restrain Harry’s violent movements.

Ron obeyed without question. He held down Harry’s legs on one side of the couch, but his attempts only seemed to intensify Harry’s suffering. Despite Ron’s efforts, Harry continued to fight against the invisible force that seemed to be tormenting him, his body a battlefield of pain.

Harry’s cries of pain echoed off the walls, his body contorting with anguish as tears streamed down his face. “It hurts!” he screamed, his voice laced with agony. “Please... make it stop... Please, help me...”

Listening to Harry’s desperate cry for help was devastating. The sight of his friends looking distressed and helpless added to the heaviness of the situation, a grim tableau of shared despair. Ginny and Hermione called out to him, offering words of consolation, but it seemed like nothing could provide relief from his suffering.

Ron, feeling the weight of the situation, turned to the others. “How much longer do you think he can bear this?” he asked, his voice tinged with desperation, the intensity of Harry’s screams echoing in his ears.

“I’ve heard him in agony for hours,” Ginny shared, her voice trembling. “Once, I even went to check on him, and he told me it was just as terrible as before.”

“Why didn’t you inform me sooner?” Mrs. Weasley asked, her disappointment evident in her gaze, though her tone was laced with concern rather than blame.

“I’m sorry, Mum. Harry begged me not to leave him alone,” Ginny explained with a saddened tone. “He was frightened and wanted me by his side, so I promised to stay with him always.”

“Is there absolutely nothing we can do? Maybe a healing potion or something?” Ron pleaded, desperation evident in his voice. As he struggled to restrain Harry’s thrashing body on the sofa, he felt his own strength depleting. The sound of Harry’s agonising screams left Ron feeling utterly powerless. He looked towards Slughorn with desperate eyes, hoping for some kind of solution to the terrifying situation unravelling before them.

“Professor, please, do something!” Ron cried out in a voice filled with urgency.

“I’m afraid Harry already had a healing potion just an hour ago; it’s too risky to administer another one so soon,” Mrs. Weasley explained to Slughorn, her hands growing numb from Harry’s desperate grasp. “Is there anything else we can try? Anything at all?”

“Perhaps a calming draught could provide some relief,” Slughorn nervously suggested, his voice barely a whisper. “It won’t take away the pain, but it could help calm him down a bit.”

Hope flickered in the room, a fragile flame in the face of overwhelming darkness. Mrs. Weasley, spurred by this glimmer of possibility, rushed to her potion cabinet, her movements frantic but determined. She returned with a vial of swirling blue liquid, a Calming Draught, a potion rarely used, typically reserved for emergencies.

She spoke softly above Harry’s cries, urging him to drink the potion, but Harry, consumed by his sorrow, didn’t seem to hear her. With Slughorn’s help, Hermione managed to hold Harry steady as they attempted to administer the potion. It was a struggle as Harry gagged and fought against the liquid, but eventually, some of it found its way down his throat.

Although Harry’s grip on Hermione weakened, his breathing remained laboured. Mrs. Weasley comforted him by gently stroking his shoulder, only for him to pull away abruptly. She signalled for Ron to release Harry’s feet now that he was more peaceful. Harry felt drained both physically and emotionally after the ordeal, letting out only feeble whimpers. His limbs felt heavy, as if made of lead. Mrs. Weasley called out his name, but he was too exhausted to respond or even open his eyes.

Similar to Harry, the others seemed to have lost their strength, almost as if they had been drained by soul-sucking Dementors. The room was silent except for Harry’s shallow breaths. The ordeal was over, for now, but the lingering fear and exhaustion left a heavy cloud hanging over them all.

Mrs. Weasley, her usually vibrant face etched with exhaustion, carefully adjusted the blanket over Harry, her movements gentle, almost hesitant. The ordeal had drained her, leaving her feeling as weary as the rest of the room.

A sudden chill rippled through Ron, prompting him to break the heavy silence. “I can’t even begin to fathom how many times Harry has been through something like this,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, tinged with fear and a deep, gnawing concern. “If he’s usually able to bear so much pain, the suffering he just endured must have been… excruciating.”

Harry let out a soft moan, his eyes fluttering open for a brief moment before pain forced them shut again. He gasped, his body wracked with a discomfort that seemed to linger even as the worst of the agony subsided.

Mrs. Weasley’s heart clenched as the results of another round of diagnostic examinations came in. Harry’s fever had returned, its unpredictable fluctuations defying every attempt to quell it. A wave of renewed anxiety washed over the room. She wrung out a damp towel and gently placed it on his forehead, her touch a silent promise of comfort. Settling into the armchair Ron had just vacated, she closed her eyes, periodically glancing at Harry, her gaze filled with a motherly protectiveness that bordered on desperation.

The silence that descended was heavy, a suffocating blanket that mirrored the oppressive atmosphere. The fever, a relentless, unwelcome guest, had taken up residence in Harry’s body, stubbornly refusing to relinquish its hold. It ebbed and flowed, an unpredictable tide that threatened to drown them all in its wake.

A scorching heat pulsed through Harry’s veins, making each breath a struggle. Though the sharpest pangs of agony had dulled, a persistent discomfort remained, a constant reminder of the ordeal he had faced.

Just a short while ago, he had been consumed by overwhelming sensations—a dizzying cascade of pain and fear that had left him feeling utterly helpless. He had fought back tears, clinging to a fragile strength, haunted by the terrifying possibility that he might not survive the next wave of agony. The thought of leaving his friends and of abandoning the lifeline they provided, filled him with a desperate dread. He needed them; he needed to hold on, even as the effort to maintain his focus became impossibly taxing.

Through his sweat-soaked eyes, he saw blurry figures hovering over him, their worried faces reflecting the gravity of his condition. But his eyelids grew heavy, the last vestiges of his strength fading away as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

Slughorn stood by the window with his arms folded. His gaze was fixed on the distant horizon, but his mind was consumed by the past. “What have you done, Tom?” he murmured to himself, the words laced with a profound sense of guilt. “Harry doesn’t deserve any of this. He’s just a young boy who should be engaging in typical teenage activities, not enduring a life consumed and imprisoned by evil.”

Hermione watched him with quiet concern. She understood the weight of his words, the burden of past decisions. “Professor,” she spoke softly, “while Harry is taking a rest, shall we examine the book together?”

Slughorn, startled out of his reverie, straightened, and a flicker of his usual charm returned to his eyes. “Absolutely,” he responded, a hint of urgency in his voice. Hermione, Ron, and Ginny followed him obediently back to the kitchen table.

“I made a direct journey from the Burrow to the headmaster’s office yesterday,” Slughorn began, settling into his chair.

“Were you able to have a conversation with Professor Dumbledore during your visit?” Hermione enquired gently.

“I did indeed,” Slughorn answered, a contemplative expression softening his features. “When I arrived, I found him gazing down at me from his portrait. He seemed surprised yet understanding of my presence.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “Dumbledore knew why you came to see him?” he questioned. “How could that be possible?”

“From the moment my eyes landed on the book,” Slughorn explained, a subtle smile playing on his lips, “he only gave me a knowing look and a smile. With Dumbledore’s exceptional intellect, he likely anticipated the urgency of my visit. It wouldn’t be beyond his capabilities.”

Ginny couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer. “So, what did Professor Dumbledore say to you?”

Slughorn hesitated, a moment of vulnerability crossing his face. “Well, nothing, really. But given that I just arrived at this time, it took me quite a while to remove the protective enchantment Albus had placed on the book.”

Ron’s brow furrowed in confusion. “If Dumbledore was aware that you would eventually look for the book, why did he feel the need to place an enchantment on it?” he pondered aloud. “Wouldn’t it have been simpler to just give it to you directly?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Ron?” Hermione retorted, a touch of impatience in her voice. “Dumbledore wanted to ensure that the book remained secure and out of reach of anyone who might try to take it for malicious purposes.”

Ron’s frustration flared. “I know that!” he snapped, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room.

Their attention then turned to Slughorn, eagerly waiting for him to shed some light on the matter.

Their attention returned to Slughorn, who seemed to have retreated into a world of his own memories. “I never anticipated that I would need the book, Mr. Weasley,” he admitted, his confession heavy with regret. “When Dumbledore informed me of Tom Riddle’s successful creation of Horcruxes, I was disheartened and disillusioned. I had lost all motivation to delve deeper into the subject, despite Dumbledore’s subsequent efforts to involve me. Unbeknownst to me, he found the book, and instead of disclosing its existence, he chose to safeguard it with a protective enchantment.”

“But why did it take so long to get rid of the enchantment, Professor?” Ginny asked, her voice laced with concern.

Slughorn let out a despondent sigh. “Unfortunately, the untimely death of Albus rendered the enchantment unbreakable,” he explained, his voice thick with sadness. “However, dwelling on past misfortunes serves no purpose. Let us focus on the fact that the book is finally within our reach.”

A hush fell over the gathered group; their gazes converged on the centre of the table. There, resting upon the cheerful floral tablecloth, lay a book unlike any they had ever seen.

It was a massive tome, its cover a textured, pearlescent white that glimmered in the soft morning light. The title, Anima, elegantly embossed in gold, caught their eyes, surrounded by delicate silver engravings that adorned both the front and back.

Hermione, ever the bookworm, marvelled at its beauty, her finger tracing the intricate design with careful precision. “I’ve never seen anything quite as stunning,” she whispered in awe.

Ron furrowed his brow, confused. “What does Anima mean?” he asked.

“Anima is a Latin term that translates to soul,” Slughorn said, his voice a low rumble, his eyes fixed on the book. “It’s a fitting title for such a captivating book,” he remarked, a hint of wonder in his voice.

Examining the swirling, almost otherworldly engravings, Ron couldn’t help but feel a prickle of unease. “Those patterns look strange,” he muttered. “If that’s what souls are supposed to look like, I’m not sure I’d want one.”

Hermione, rolling her eyes at Ron’s characteristic scepticism, clarified, “The designs are symbolic representations of souls, not literal depictions. It’s meant to provoke thought and reflection, not be taken so literally.”

Ginny, perched on a stool, couldn’t help but notice how out of place the book seemed amidst the cheerful decor of the Burrow. Its presence, combined with the intense focus of the others, created a peculiar, almost unsettling atmosphere.

“Professor, why is the title in Latin?” Hermione enquired; her curiosity piqued. “Is the entire book in Latin too?”

“No, the texts are translated into Old English,” Slughorn explained, carefully opening the fragile volume. The yellowed pages cracked with age as he turned them. “I’m not sure of the book’s exact origin or why it was named in Latin. But based on what I’ve read so far, it predates the documented work on Horcruxes.” He placed the book back down, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow.

“The soul’s existence itself allows magic to split it for immortality,” Slughorn continued, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “If I recall correctly from Dumbledore, that was why the book on Horcruxes was written.”

Ron, his curiosity overriding his unease, snatched the book and began flipping through its pages, searching for answers. “Who wrote this? There’s no listed author.”

“The name doesn’t matter,” Ginny interjected, her voice laced with a new intensity. She snatched the book from Ron and placed it back on the table. “This could be the cure we need.”

Ron, his frustration rising, grabbed the edge of the table, his knuckles white. “Well, this better provide the answer we require. It is Harry’s only hope.”

“Right,” Hermione said, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes, yet her voice remained steady.

Slughorn, his brow furrowed in concentration, flipped through the book until he found the passage he was seeking. He turned the book towards them, the ancient script a stark contrast to the vibrant kitchen.

A soul touched by evil slowly incinerates its own existence until it ultimately ends. It would cost a higher price to recondition the soul if attempted. And if it should fail, in accordance with who may have tried, the cost will, therefore, be marked the same as the other.

“What? What does that mean, ‘marked the same as the other’?” Ron’s voice was a shaky whisper, his eyes wide with bewilderment and a dawning sense of fear.

Ginny was struck speechless, her face paling. Shock and horror flooded her features as she stared at the passage. The weight of the implications crashed down on her, leaving her utterly breathless. As she glanced at Hermione, whose usual composure was fractured by a slight tremble, the ground beneath her seemed to sway. Just the night before, they had been discussing a daring mission, a hopeful plan to help Harry.

Contrary to their expectations, the path forward was shrouded in a chilling uncertainty. “In simpler terms,” Hermione said softly, her voice barely a murmur, “if we don’t succeed in repairing Harry’s soul, we’ll face the same dire consequences as him.”

The once bright kitchen was now cloaked in an ominous silence, the cheerful atmosphere replaced by the chilling reality of the ancient words etched in Anima. The fate of Harry, and perhaps their own, hung precariously in the balance.