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Ron’s exclamation of “WHAT!” echoed through the room as Hermione calmly detailed the grave outcome of their efforts to rescue Harry’s soul.

“Mending a soul isn’t as simple as drinking a healing potion, Mr. Weasley,” Professor Slughorn stated, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the room. His eyes, usually twinkling with a certain warmth, were now serious, tinged with a hint of foreboding. “Nature’s laws are unforgiving when dealing with something as formidable as this.” He swept a gaze over Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, each of whom mirrored Ron’s initial shock. “There is always a price.”

Nervously, Ron swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, the full weight of Slughorn’s words settling upon him. He understood now, with chilling clarity, the enormity of the challenge they faced.

“I had a feeling that this moment would arrive,” Hermione observed, her voice calm but laced with a steeliness that Ron hadn’t heard before. Her gaze remained fixed on the ancient, leather-bound book that lay open on the table, its pages filled with cryptic symbols and warnings. “The act of creating a Horcrux carries its own set of repercussions, and Professor Slughorn had a valid point—undoing the damage won’t be a simple task. We will need to be prepared for whatever comes our way.”

Slughorn, his expression etched with worry, added, “I strongly recommend that you carefully consider all the implications before making a decision. Your very existence will be endangered once you embark on this mission. The irreversible nature of the process will lead to a permanent transformation within you.”

Ron glanced disdainfully at the book, its cryptic language a stark contrast to the simple, straightforward world he craved. “What exactly is expected of us, then?” he asked, curiosity warring with a growing unease. The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered, as if even the ancient magic within the book hesitated to reveal its demands.

Hermione reclined in her chair, her brow furrowed in deep contemplation. The book’s contents had consumed her, her mind racing to decipher the cryptic instructions, the potential dangers, and the unknown price they would have to pay. Ron watched her, a flicker of worry mingling with admiration in his gaze. He knew, deep down, that this was more than just a quest to save their friend. It was a precipice they were poised on, a path leading into the unknown, one that threatened to change them forever. And he, for the first time, felt a sense of helplessness in the face of such powerful magic. The price, whatever it might be, was about to be revealed.

However, before she could delve deeper into the text, Mrs. Weasley’s urgent call for Harry disrupted the silence of the living room.

Rushing in, they found Mrs. Weasley cautiously standing a few steps away from the sofa, her hands outstretched as if trying to soothe a frightened animal.

Harry could feel the weight of the room pressing down on him, the air thick with tension and confusion. The familiar, cosy surroundings of the Burrow felt suffocating now, but Mrs. Weasley seemed to have other ideas. Her presence was warm, nurturing, yet tinged with a panic he had rarely seen in her before.

“Harry, please pay attention,” she implored, her eyes as wide as saucers. Harry could hear the desperation in her voice, the way it trembled as she spoke, and it only fuelled his own surge of urgency.

Flustered and confused, he stood frozen just a few feet away from the worn sofa. Today, though, it felt like a different realm—a battleground rife with unseen threats. The rhythmic ticking of the clock echoed in his ears, amplifying the feeling of time slipping away.

“Mum, what’s happening?” Ron’s voice cut through the thick air, sounding bewildered as he looked back and forth between Harry and his mother, who was now anxiously wringing her hands.

Barely registering his friend’s concern, Harry locked eyes with Ron, feeling the exhaustion pulling at his limbs. “Ron, we have to leave this place immediately,” he urged, glancing towards the various cosy knick-knacks lining the shelves, each one a fragment of the safety he craved. “Time is running out.”

Just as Harry felt the familiar rush of adrenaline course through him, Mrs. Weasley rushed to his side, her hands fluttering about him like anxious butterflies. “Your fever is dangerously high, Harry!” she exclaimed, her concern only heightening his frustration. “You really should rest.”

“I’m okay, Mrs. Weasley, really,” he insisted, pulling away from her grasp. The warmth of her hand felt so comforting, yet now it was like shackles, binding him. He was aware of Ron and Hermione exchanging knowing glances, but he was far too occupied with the pounding urgency within him. Glancing at Ron and Hermione, who appeared confused, he asked in a hushed voice, “Why haven’t we left yet?”

“Leave? Where are you talking about, Harry?” Hermione asked, her brow furrowed in that thoughtful way, which usually meant she was lost in her own world of logic. But there was no time for logic now.

“Right here!” Harry replied impatiently, casting a quick glance towards the door, which felt like a lifeline to the rest of the world. “We were supposed to leave hours ago.”

“But why?” Ron’s voice had a note of disbelief, and for a moment, Harry thought about shaking him, making him understand the gravity of their situation.

It felt as if he were swimming against a current, struggling to break through the waves of confusion and fear. He turned to Ron, his heart racing. “We need to leave and start the search for the Horcruxes,” he whispered, his words like the softest of threads desperately trying to bind their tattered spirits. “Are we going or not?” he snapped, the impatience in his voice standing out starkly against the backdrop of unease radiating from Ron and Hermione. They exchanged glances, an unspoken understanding settling between them—he was slipping away, and they were painfully aware of it.

“Harry, we’ve already destroyed the Horcruxes,” Hermione said softly after a moment of hesitation. Her words hung in the air as heavy as the sun-drenched silence outside.

His disbelief was palpable as he turned towards her, frustration knitting his brow. “What do you mean, ‘already destroyed’?” he pressed. The seriousness in their faces, the concern burrowing into their expressions, only deepened his confusion. “When did this happen?”

“There’s so much to explain,” Ron replied, his voice strained. The shadows of worry played across his face.

Harry’s mind teetered on the edge of a chasm. “When did we even leave the Burrow?” he asked, a disconcerting mixture of incredulity and anxiety washing over him. Memories felt fractured, scenes merging into one another like an old film malfunctioning.

Ron and Hermione shared another worried glance. “After Bill and Fleur’s wedding,” Ron offered, a note of urgency creeping into his tone. “We were gone for months, Harry. We planned, we infiltrated the Ministry... Gringotts... we’ve been through so much.” His voice faltered slightly, their shared experiences now a heavy burden resting on his shoulders.

Harry felt as though he were drifting deeper into a fog, each word adding to the kaleidoscope of confusion and dread swirling in his mind. “No,” he murmured, feeling the throbbing pain of a headache building in intensity. “Voldemort must be defeated. He’s still out there, I—I can’t rest.”

“Harry,” Mrs. Weasley’s voice cut through the haze, firm yet gentle as she placed a hand on his arm. “You’re not well. You need to rest.” Her eyes were filled with an unfathomable concern, a mother’s instinct kicking in to protect him from himself.

“But the mission—” he protested, visions of dark shadows and echoing laughter dancing before him, like fragments of a nightmare refusing to end. “We have to find the Horcruxes. We have to—”

As Mrs. Weasley steered him backward toward the worn sofa, the grounded reality of the Burrow felt like a chain dragging him down. “Harry, please,” she urged. “Just a little rest. Dumbledore wouldn’t want you to overexert yourself.”

But Harry struggled against the hands that gently yet firmly ushered him away from the urgency of his delusions. “I can’t... I can’t rest! You don’t understand. This isn’t over!”

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny exchanged troubled looks, their worry evident in their eyes as they observed their friend’s mental state deteriorating rapidly.

“Ron!” Mrs. Weasley called out, gesturing for his help as Harry fought against her hold. “Assist me with Harry,” she instructed him. “And Ginny, would you be so kind as to fetch some calming draught and sleeping potion?”

Harry’s frantic energy spilt into anger and despair. “No! You can’t do this!” The panic laced through his protests as he felt their grip tighten. “Please! Don’t make me sleep...”

Ginny appeared at the doorway, tears streaking her cheeks. Clutched in her hands were two vials, their glimmering contents reflecting the weight of desperation. “Harry...” she whispered, a plea echoing in her eyes.

“Not the potions, please!” He cried, a sob breaking free as the world around him began to blur once more, pushing him into an abyss he didn’t understand. “Don’t—”

They surrounded him, Ron and Mrs. Weasley holding him steady while Ginny and Professor Slughorn manoeuvred the vials to his lips. There was a moment of resistance, a final attempt to fight the darkness encroaching upon him—then—

The world twisted into a smattering of colours, emotions fraying as he succumbed to the pull of sleep. The last vision he had was of their worried faces, silhouettes framed against the glow of the setting sun pouring through the window.

Once they released him, Ron and Mrs. Weasley checked Harry’s temperature, dismayed to find that his fever persisted despite the previous dose.

“My potion supplies are running low, Horace,” Mrs. Weasley remarked with concern. “I must purchase more ingredients to brew additional doses,” she added, a furrow forming on her forehead.

“I can brew the potions myself, Molly,” Slughorn offered. “I have a plethora of ingredients in my potion storeroom. I can even ask Madam Pomfrey for additional supplies, if necessary.”

Mrs. Weasley nodded graciously. “Thank you, Horace. I appreciate your help.”

“It would be wise to bring him to his room,” Slughorn suggested. Despite his age, he displayed remarkable strength as he effortlessly lifted Harry’s limp body with his arms. Opting to carry the slight, undernourished teenager upstairs on his own rather than levitating him.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny stood apprehensively by, their eyes fixed on Slughorn, as he carried Harry to his room, where he tenderly laid the feverish boy down on the bed.

In the dim light filtering through the curtains of Harry’s room, anxiety hung thick in the air like a storm cloud. Molly stood vigil at Harry’s bedside, her heart racing as she brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead. The fever raged within him, and they all feared the next one was looming closer.

“Will he be okay, Mum?” Ginny’s voice trembled, her familiar resolve melting into fear as she stared at Harry, who lay so still and vulnerable.

Molly’s brow furrowed deeper as she glanced back at Ginny. “I cannot say for certain, Ginny,” she murmured. Each word dripped with unshed tears, words thick with the weight of uncertainty. “Harry has endured a dreadful ordeal. When he wakes... it’s possible he may have to endure it all over again.”

The room seemed to expand and contract with Ginny’s quiet sobs, every breath a whisper of desperation. “He’s slowly losing his memories,” she said, a shadow creeping across her face. “I’m scared he might not remember us either.”

The silence that followed was almost palpable, heavy with a shared dread. Ron and Hermione’s eyes darted toward Harry, their own fears mirrored in Ginny’s words. Ron’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the bed, anxiety pooling in his stomach like a simmering pot about to boil over.

“I have the same fear,” he admitted, his voice low as if afraid to wake Harry, though he was in no position to respond. Despite his deep admiration for Harry’s strength, Ron felt the sobering grip of reality tighten around him. “If his soul continues to deteriorate at this pace, there may come a day when he no longer recognises any of us.” His words drained from his lips like spilt ink, leaving dark splotches of worry on the once-bright fabric of their friendship.

Arthur Weasley hurried down the bustling corridors of the Ministry of Magic, his heart racing with each hurried step. The usual buzz of conversation and magical energy that enveloped the place seemed to fade into the background as anxiety lodged itself firmly in his chest. The news from Molly had left him reeling, and he couldn’t shake the image of Harry, pale and frail, from his mind.

His son Percy, standing at the entrance of the Department of Magical Transportation, watched as his father rushed by, confusion knitting his brow. Arthur’s abrupt exit had raised numerous questions. Meetings were important; they represented the hard work and expectations of the ministry. Why was Arthur willing to sacrifice so much? The sight of other wizards whispering and casting curious glances in his father’s direction didn’t help comfort Percy. “Dad! What’s going on? Why the rush?”

Arthur paused momentarily. The momentary sense of being caught in a web of eyes made his heart race even more, but he quickly glanced at Percy, concern etched on his face. “I received a message from your mother about Harry. He’s gravely ill, and his condition is deteriorating,” he hurriedly explained, forcing the words past his lips like a sigh he couldn’t release.

Percy’s jaw dropped. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was ill? It was unfathomable. Harry was a hero, who had faced dark wizards with courage and strength, not someone nurtured by sickness. “What do you mean Harry’s sick?” he asked incredulously, bewilderment flooding his senses.

“Shhh!” Arthur cautioned, raising a finger to punctuate his urgency. In a world where every whisper could travel like wildfire, discretion was paramount. Behind him, a group of eager witches and wizards had perked up at the mention of Harry’s name, their eyes alight with anticipation. They thrived on the ideas of fame and history, even inviting the shadow of Harry’s plight into their lives like a thrilling rumour.

Arthur understood their intrigue but could not afford to indulge in it. “I don’t have time to explain right now, son. I’ll fill you in on all the details when I get back,” he reiterated softly, eyes pleading for Percy’s understanding.

“But—”

“This is not the right moment,” he insisted, placing a reassuring hand on Percy’s shoulder. He could feel the tension vibrating through their connection—a moment that was both heartbreaking and necessary. “I have to go. I’m sorry. I’ll update you as soon as I can.” With that, Arthur steeled himself and hurried away, leaving Percy behind—a tense knot of worry and bewilderment.

Molly stood in the shadowy kitchen of the Burrow, the warm glow of the lamp casting flickering light across her worried face. She welcomed Arthur back with a hug that felt heavier than usual, a sense of dread wrapping around them tighter than the evening chill. Arthur could sense the overwhelming sorrow in her embrace, her brow furrowed with the weariness of sleepless nights plagued by relentless worry. The burden of concern for Harry hung thick in the air, an invisible shroud that shadowed the heart of their home.

“Horace came by to see Harry,” Molly informed him, her voice steady yet permeated with anxiety. “He’s on his way back to Hogwarts now.”

Arthur watched as Horace lifted his gaze from the crackling fireplace. He offered a slight nod to Arthur before vanishing into the emerald flames, leaving a lingering silence behind him, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the wood.

“Where is Harry?” Arthur asked, the tightness in his chest growing more pronounced. He realised he had been holding his breath, fearful of the answer.

Molly’s expression shifted, her throat tightening as she gathered her thoughts. “We’ve moved Harry to his bedroom upstairs. We administered a calming draught and a sleeping potion as he was experiencing delusions and showing signs of aggression.” Her voice trembled slightly, and Arthur felt his stomach drop. “His memory is slipping away once again—like it did at the train station. He believes You-Know-Who is still alive, determined to seek out and destroy the Horcruxes.”

Just those words felt like a punch to the gut. “Ron and Hermione are with him,” she added softly, as if attempting to reassure them both.

It didn’t work. Arthur’s mind raced, each thought more alarming than the last. “What about Slughorn?” he asked in a desperate attempt to cling to some ounce of hope. “Has he managed to locate the book we need?”

“Yes,” Molly replied, her shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world bore down on her. “Slughorn found a book. It’s currently in Harry’s room upstairs. I don’t know its contents yet. I doubt they’ve even gone through it; Horace needed to brew more potions… I’m starting to run low on supplies, and I don’t know what else to do.”

The kitchen felt suddenly colder, the warmth of the fire fighting against a growing chill of despair. “How’s Harry holding up? Has he been eating well?” Arthur asked, despite knowing the answer.

“No,” she said, her voice cracking. “He hasn’t been eating well at all. He fell asleep during lunch. If this pattern continues, I might have to create some nutritional potions for him.” Molly’s heavy heart reflected in her eyes as she sank into a nearby chair.

Arthur stood still, absorbing the bleak reality before him. Then, sensing a change in mood, Molly shifted the conversation. “How are things at the Ministry, dear?”

Arthur sighed, his heart still heavy as he allowed himself a moment to think. “On the surface, everything appears fine. The Aurors have apprehended several Death Eaters; for once in seventeen years, the wizarding community is hopeful. They’ve been clamouring to express their gratitude towards Harry, excitedly bombarding him with autographs and questions. They believe he should be celebrating as the saviour, not hiding.” He could almost feel the disgust welling up within him. “But they don’t understand the true situation. If only they knew what he was going through.

Molly leaned forward, her brow furrowing with intense worry. “I truly hope they stop bothering that poor child.”

Arthur nodded, knowing all too well the pressure the world placed upon Harry.

“No one else is aware of Harry’s condition apart from us, correct?” She seemed to hang on his answer, anxiety etched deep into her features.

“On the way here, I ran into Percy,” Arthur admitted, a hint of guilt creeping into his voice. “He asked why I was in such a hurry to get home, so I told him Harry was sick.”

“He won’t tell anyone, will he?” Molly’s eyes were wide with concern, the flickering flames reflecting her unease.

Arthur shook his head. “Percy’s fine. He understands this is private. I assure you, he will keep the confidence.”

Molly sighed, but the shadow of worry still lingered in her eyes. “But as much as we want to keep this hidden, what if people begin to notice that Harry is gone for too long without any change in his health? It might create concerns and prompt an investigation.”

The weight of that realisation settled between them, and Arthur felt his heart ache all over again.

“Let’s take it day by day,” he concluded finally, trying to soothe the gnawing dread in both their hearts.

Molly nodded, but even she couldn’t shake the feeling that the world outside continued to spin while they were encased in their fragile bubble of worry. And deep inside, Arthur knew that no amount of hope or determination could easily dispel the shadows that loomed over them, as heavy and real as the darkness threatening to claim Harry once more.

Ron shuffled uncomfortably on the floor of Harry’s room, the familiar scent of worn books and the faint musk of Quidditch gear wafting through the air. He felt out of place in this moment, knowing his friends were traversing the mountain of mystery laid out before them while he struggled to remain conscious.

Beside him, Ginny nestled close to Harry, protective and supportive, oblivious to the iciness of the tension filling the room. She held the Anima book tight, its spine creaking slightly under her delicate grip. Ron admired her resolve, a glowing ember of determination amidst the chilly night air. Meanwhile, Hermione paced back and forth, her frantic energy filling the space with a palpable urgency. The weight of the book’s knowledge pressed upon them all as they ventured deeper into its enigmatic pages.

“That’s not helpful, Ron,” Hermione snapped, pulling him from his reverie. The clock on the wall ticked monotonously; time seemed to stretch as they attempted to unearth the riddle of the soul-healing potion.

“Sorry, I was just thinking,” Ron replied, drumming his fingers on the wooden floor. “Can’t we just take a break? I mean, Harry’s asleep; we don’t have to worry about him waking up and running into a werewolf or something, right?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “A werewolf is just one of many potential creatures represented in the text, Ron. We need to come up with concrete ideas.”

Ginny, sitting lovingly close to Harry, nodded and recited loudly from the book, “A strand of an untamed creature that is a visage of death.” Her voice, though firm, fizzled into uncertainty as the implications of the line weighed on her.

“So many creatures could fit that description,” Ron murmured, half-listening. “Dementors, werewolves… even boggarts can take on the form of dreadful things.”

With a frown, Hermione stopped her pacing and directed her exasperation towards Ginny and Ron. “You think we can just charm a boggart into submission? They’re nightmares spun from our fears!”

“You think I want to face a werewolf?” Ron said, shivering slightly at the thought. His mind inadvertently wandered to Professor Trelawney’s prophecy about Harry and the Grim—a memory that sent an icy finger of anxiety down his spine.

“Do we even need to tame a werewolf?” Ginny’s voice cut through the air, laced with seriousness. “Imagine what that would entail.”

“I’ve never heard of a werewolf being tamed before,” Hermione pondered, her brow furrowing in concern. “I really hope we don’t encounter one. Werewolves completely lose their human sense of morality, making them extremely difficult to control. It’s a dangerous situation that I hope we can avoid,” she added, her face sombre with worry.

“You’re right,” Ginny chimed in, nodding in agreement. “I read a book that mentioned how werewolves permanently lose their moral compass. It’s hard to even imagine living with that kind of burden.”

“Are you referring to ‘Lupine Lawlessness: Why Lycanthropes Don’t Deserve to Live’?” Hermione enquired, her eyebrows knit together in concentration.

“Yes, that’s the one,” Ginny confirmed, recalling the title.

“It’s a load of rubbish; don’t pay it any mind. The way Professor Emerett Picardy described werewolves is just intolerable. His ideas are riddled with inaccuracies,” Hermione grumbled as she continued to walk back and forth.

“Yeah, I mean, what if we just decide to go after a dragon instead?” Ron’s voice took on a lighter note, trying to mask the growing dread. “They’re quite nasty, too.”

“That’s not the point, Ron!” Hermione interjected. “Focussing on scary creatures won’t solve our riddle!”

Ron tried not to pout as Hermione shifted her focus back to Ginny. “Let’s think. What other creatures represent death?” She asked.

“Dragons, thestrals…” Ron began, warm memories of flying on a broomstick alongside his mates flooding back, but he trailed off as thoughts of the Grim invaded once again.

Suddenly, a light flickered in Hermione’s eyes. “Thestrals!”

“Right! Luna mentioned only those who’ve faced death can see them!” Ron remarked, feeling a surge of relief. Perhaps they were getting somewhere.

“Exactly!” Hermione’s excitement began to bubble over. “They are intelligent creatures, and they could lead us straight to what we need.”

Ginny’s face brightened, her spark of hope becoming contagious. “That’s it! That must be why they’re in the book!”

“Wait, aren’t thestrals usually used for pulling carts?” Ron interjected, straining to catch up with their enthusiasm.

“Do you ever pay attention?” Hermione countered, exasperated. “Hagrid taught us all about them!”

“Don’t yell at me, Hermione!” Ron whined, feeling that familiar flame of irritation ignite within him. “I was just—”

“Getting ready for a nap?” she interrupted sharply, brushing him off with a flick of her wrist. “You need to focus!”

“I still have the book on magical creatures,” Ginny said, breaking Ron and Hermione’s argument. Her voice was filled with a mix of excitement and urgency. She leapt into action, scurrying to her room to retrieve the book, leaving Ron and Hermione entrenched in a battle of wills.

“Do we really have to rely on more reading?” Ron lamented, his face pressed against the floor, dramatically feigning despair.

“You’re not helping at all, Ron,” Hermione replied with a sharpness that cut through the air. “All you do is sleep!”

“I was just resting my eyes, Hermione,” Ron shot back, his voice louder than necessary. Thin tendrils of hair fell across his forehead as he turned, trying to stake his claim in the ongoing conversation without causing further disruption. Harry, passed out in the corner, stirred slightly, but remained blissfully unaware of their exchange.

It was Ginny who returned with the hefty book, her face alight with curiosity. With a singular focus, she flipped through the pages until she found the section on Thestrals. Holding her breath, she finally handed the book to Hermione. “Look at this.”

Hermione peered at the page, excitement blending with an undercurrent of trepidation. “I discovered something,” she whispered. “It is rumoured that thestral tail hair is believed to be a potent wand core.”

“Rumoured? Is there any truth to it?” Ron’s scepticism surfaced, as it often did during their debates.

“There may be a legitimate cause,” Hermione affirmed, her brows knitting together. “Maybe we can ask Professor Slughorn for more insights when he comes back.”

“Might the Elder Wand contain that core? It’s the most powerful, isn’t it?” Ron suggested, his eyes lighting up with interest.

“Possibly,” Hermione murmured, her thoughts dancing between the pages and her memories.

Ginny eyed the two, her heart racing at the implications. “So, we need Thestral hair, right? Should we rely on this information to move forward?”

“Yes,” Hermione declared firmly, her resolve solidified by the weight of their circumstances. “The properties described in the book align with Thestral tail hair, and I can’t think of any other creatures associated with death. Can you?”

Ginny shook her head in agreement, while Ron mulled over the next steps.

“Assuming we choose Thestral,” Ron proposed. “How do we obtain the hair since we can’t see it?”

A silence fell over them, a heavy contemplation that felt almost sacred. Outside, the winds whispered secrets to the trees, while Harry’s steady breathing served as a reminder of the stakes involved.

“I believe we may be able to spot them now,” Hermione finally whispered, her gaze distant. “We’ve witnessed enough death in the war.”

Sombre expressions crossed Ron and Ginny’s faces; they all shared in the collective grief the war had etched into their lives.

“Are the Thestrals at Hogwarts trained?” Ron asked, curiosity igniting once more.

“Hagrid suspects the Hogwarts herd is the only trained large group of Thestrals in all of Great Britain,” Hermione shared, her mind drifting back to their fifth-year Care of Magical Creatures lesson.

“So we’ll need to find a wild one?” Ron frowned. The mention of wild creatures stirred a mixture of hope and anxiety within him.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Hermione confirmed. “But Thestrals are known to be extremely elusive creatures.”

“Where will we find one?” Ron’s concern deepened, anxiety creasing his forehead. “Do we have to leave the country?”

After a brief silence, Hermione sighed, her heart heavy with the enormity of their task. “They’re mostly native to Ireland and Great Britain, with a few in France and the Iberian Peninsula, but they’re incredibly rare to come across.”

Ginny broke the weighty silence with a thoughtful suggestion. “Perhaps Hagrid can assist us. He’s the most knowledgeable on Thestrals and magical creatures at Hogwarts, making him our best bet for obtaining Thestral hair.”

Determination flickered in Hermione’s eyes as she nodded. “You’re right. We should contact him immediately, either by owl or in person.”

Ron’s face darkened at the thought. “I can already picture his reaction when he learns why we need it. He’s going to be absolutely livid,” he grimaced.

“We have no other choice at this point.” Hermione’s tone held a blend of urgency and defiance. “Harry’s safety is at stake, and we can’t afford to delay any longer. We must act. The sooner, the better.”

“I’m confident Hagrid will understand once we explain,” Ginny offered in a bright tone, trying to ease their shared tension.

“Sure, he’ll be understanding right after he gives us a good scolding,” Ron retorted sarcastically, earning a playful glare from Ginny.

“Regardless of Hagrid’s initial reaction,” Hermione insisted, “it won’t be easy to reveal our plans to anyone.”

Harry stirred awake, hearing only the tail end of Hermione’s comments. “What?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep as he pushed himself up, attempting to shake off the remnants of slumber lingering in his mind. The dim light of late afternoon filtered through the window, casting a soft glow over the room, which had a quiet urgency to it.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny jumped in surprise when they heard his voice.

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, flushing with embarrassment at being caught off guard.

Ginny gently placed Harry’s glasses on his face, helping him focus his bleary vision.

“What are you talking about, Hermione?” Harry asked, confusion knitting his brow as he scanned their faces, each etched with a mix of relief and concern. “Did something happen that I missed?”

“N-nothing, Harry,” Hermione replied, her voice tight as she avoided his gaze. She threw an apprehensive glance at Ron and Ginny, who shared a similar expression of worry. They knew all too well how Harry would react if he learnt they’d been putting themselves in danger for his sake—something he had repeatedly urged them not to do.

“How are you feeling, mate?” Ron asked, desperate to steer Harry away from the topic that hovered uneasily in the air.

“I’m a bit weak,” Harry mumbled, still groggy and trying to piece together the haze of his surroundings. “But I think I’m okay. Did I miss breakfast? I can’t remember anything.”

Ron looked uneasy, shifting on his feet. “You tried to eat earlier, but you missed lunch. Do you really not remember anything from earlier today?”

Harry felt his heart sink as he tried to recall the events that led him to this moment. The worry in Ron’s eyes deepened, and he ran a hand through his messy hair in frustration. “Why? Did something happen?”

The concerned gazes of his friends weighed on him, and the atmosphere grew heavier.

“You were talking about hunting for Horcruxes and planning to leave the Burrow to confront You-Know-Who. Do you remember any of it?”

The words echoed in Harry’s mind, but no memories surfaced. “I said what?” He could feel his heartbeat quicken as confusion gripped him tighter.

“Don’t stress about it now, Harry,” Ginny reassured him, sensing the distress in his voice. Her tone was gentle, her eyes warm. “You must be hungry after everything. Let’s head down to the kitchen and find you something to eat.”

Agreeing with her, Harry mustered what little strength he had and attempted to stand. His legs felt unsteady, wobbling beneath him like jelly.

Ginny held onto his arm tightly, her support unwavering. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” she said softly, her presence comforting.

“Are you sure you want to try walking, Harry?” Hermione asked cautiously, her anxiety slowly unwrapping itself.

“Yes,” he said feebly, “but I’ll need help. I don’t think I can walk steadily on my own.”

They began their descent down the stairs, and each step required painstaking caution. Harry focused on the familiar wooden bannister, the smooth grain of the wood reminding him of countless times he’d navigated this space.

When Mr. and Mrs. Weasley spotted them coming down, they rushed forward, concern etched all over their faces.

“Is everything alright?” Mrs. Weasley asked, worry creeping into her voice.

“Mum, is dinner ready?” Ginny asked, glancing at Harry with a need to ease his discomfort. “Harry’s famished.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Weasley replied, her face softening as she glanced at Harry. “Just a moment, I’ll prepare something for you.”

Mr. Weasley guided Harry gently to a chair at the end of the table, settling him down carefully. “How are you feeling, Harry?”

Harry exhaled, sinking into the chair’s embrace. “Still quite weak,” he admitted, casting his eyes around the kitchen, which was filled with the warm scents of herbs and roasted vegetables. “But I’m doing well, thank you.”

Mr. Weasley had just settled beside him after sweeping the Daily Prophet out of the way. Harry could barely remember the last time he had felt this comfortable, this safe. “I haven’t had the chance to ask, but how’s the ministry faring so far?” he enquired, looking for a glimpse of normalcy amid the whirlwind of his life.

Mr. Weasley’s expression softened, and he offered up a sad smile. “To be frank, the post-war celebrations seem to be never-ending,” he answered, clearing his throat as Mrs. Weasley filled their bowls with stew and vegetable salad. “People are eager to see you, Harry. They want you to make an appearance, but Kingsley Shacklebolt is doing his best to keep your whereabouts unknown for your safety. But your absence is only making people more curious and insistent on having you in the spotlight. I’m concerned things may escalate if you continue to stay hidden.”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes were wide with concern. “Don’t worry, dear; we’d never reveal your activities or location,” she assured him, flicking her wand to bring more stew bowls to the table.

Harry felt the familiar pang of shame tug at his heart. “I’m sorry,” he murmured quietly, bowing his head.

All eyes turned toward him, filled with understanding and concern, a reminder of his importance to them, and yet it twisted in his gut with a painful tightness.

“Why are you apologising, Harry?” Mr. Weasley asked gently, as if coaxing a shy creature from its hiding place.

“Because I’m causing you all this trouble just so I can have a normal life,” he muttered, feeling as if his words hung in the air, heavy and dismal, like a storm cloud threatening rain.

Mr. Weasley shook his head, a firm resolve in his gaze. “You’re not a burden, Harry. There’s no need for you to apologise. Seeking safety and normalcy is a natural desire for anyone, especially considering the unwanted fame thrust upon you. You have every right to a normal life.”

“Oh, Harry, dear,” Mrs. Weasley chimed in, squeezing his shoulders affectionately, her warmth enveloping him like a protective blanket. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

The delightful scent worked its magic, drawing everyone’s attention back to their plates. Harry’s stomach growled in agreement, and laughter erupted around the table, lightening the heavy atmosphere. Ron, always ready to poke fun, leaned back in his chair, eyes twinkling. “You seem like you’re hungry enough to devour a hippogriff!” he teased, and Harry chuckled along, letting the laughter wash away his earlier weight.

Halfway through their meal, as Harry folded a piece of bread into his mouth, he lifted his gaze across the table. “What were you discussing earlier when I dozed off?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

Suddenly, Ron began to choke on his stew, eyes widening comically. An awkward silence fell over the table, and Harry sensed the tension radiating from Ron and Hermione, who darted nervous glances at each other as Ginny shifted in her seat, biting her lip.

Hermione was quick to leap in, attempting to dispel the discomfort. “We were talking about job applications,” she said simply, with a tone that was a little too practiced. “We’re considering options after graduating from Hogwarts.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “So, does that mean you won’t be returning to Hogwarts for your final year?” His eyes landed on Ginny, who stared down at her plate, her usual spark dimmed. “But you’re going back to school, right?”

Ginny merely nodded, no enthusiasm in her expression, as Hermione stepped in again, her voice edged with something unspoken. “I’ll be completing my final year at Hogwarts,” she asserted firmly, the air growing thick with unuttered secrets.

“But you mentioned…” Harry started, confusion deepening in his voice, but Hermione cut him off with a sense of urgency.

“I meant that Ron is currently looking into job opportunities while Ginny and I will follow suit after graduating,” she clarified, the tension hanging in the air like mist.

“So, what’s the Anima book about?” Harry pressed, trying to steer the conversation towards safer waters as he grabbed a bite of his salad.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged curious looks at the mention, their expressions morphing into something Harry struggled to decipher. Ron dropped his fork with a clang, and Hermione froze, her spoon hovering in mid-air with stew clinging to it, the table’s ambiance shifting rapidly.

Ginny’s eyes flickered nervously between Ron and Hermione, something unspoken pulsing in the air, and Harry’s heart raced. “What?” he asked.