FicWad

Ron’s voice rang out, sudden and sharp, reverberating off the walls.

“What d’you mean?” He burst out, eyes wide, the words spilling from him before he could think. The kitchen felt cavernous all of a sudden—far too big, too cold.

Hermione didn’t flinch. Her shoulders remained taut, her spine rigid as if she’d braced herself for exactly this. Her hands rested atop the book, fingers curled slightly, white at the knuckles. Only her voice betrayed her—a subtle tremor.

“I mean, this isn’t going to be easy, Ron,” she said, quietly but firmly. “This isn’t like healing a broken arm or brewing some restorative draught. We’re talking about repairing something that was never meant to be touched. A soul.”

Slughorn stepped forward then, slowly, as though pulled from a long reverie. The jovial, rotund figure they all remembered from school had vanished. He seemed diminished somehow—drawn inwards, as though the truth of what they were facing had leached the colour from him.

“Mending a soul is no small thing, Mr Weasley,” he said, his voice hushed and hollow. There was no bluster now. No hint of the indulgent, self-satisfied professor who had once vied for Slug Club favourites. Just an old man—tired and perhaps a little afraid. “This is ancient magic. Older than any law. Older, even, than most memory. Sacred magic.”

He paused, his gaze drifting across their faces—Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—lingering for a moment on each, as if searching for cracks. For weakness.

“And nature,” he continued, “doesn’t let anything come freely. When something is torn, the act of putting it back… that always comes at a cost.”

He let the words hang there. Undeniable. Irrefutable.

“There is always a price,” he finished, barely above a whisper.

Ron swallowed, hard. A cold, coiled knot had begun to form low in his stomach. He couldn’t say exactly why, but something in Slughorn’s voice had made it feel real. Until now, it had all been talk—books, theories, and terrible-sounding passages read in the dim light of a cramped kitchen. But this… this was the line in the sand.

And they were inching towards it.

Hermione lowered her gaze to the book again. The ancient cover was so cracked and faded it looked more like stone than leather. She traced one of the runes absent-mindedly, and for a moment, Ron thought she might be stalling.

“I knew we’d come to this,” she said softly, almost as if to herself. “I hoped we wouldn’t—but I knew.”

She drew in a breath and straightened her shoulders again, her voice hardening.

“Creating a Horcrux tears the soul in ways we barely comprehend. It defies nature—twists it. Reversing that kind of damage…” She hesitated. “It could cost everything. It could kill us. Or worse.”

Ginny stepped closer. Her face was pale, but her eyes shone with that same fierce fire that had always lived behind them, even when she was just a girl with a diary full of secrets.

“But if there’s a chance to save Harry,” she said, her voice steady, “then we have to try.”

Slughorn lifted a hand, not in dismissal, but in caution. His tone gentled, though the warning beneath it remained sharp.

“I don’t doubt your courage, Miss Weasley,” he said gravely. “It’s never been in question. But this magic… It leaves marks. On the body. On the mind. On the soul. Some things—once opened—can’t be shut again. Once you begin… you may never be who you were before.”

A thick, unyielding silence followed. It pressed in from all sides, broken only by the creak of the kitchen floorboards and the faint tick of the clock on the mantel.

Ron stared at the book. The runes shimmered faintly under the light, and it suddenly occurred to him that he couldn’t even read them. This wasn’t his world—not really. He was the last son of a large family, a steady hand in a fight, a decent flier, and a quick wand when it counted. But this? This was something ancient. Something that whispered in a language too old to be trusted.

He shifted in his seat. “So what do we do?” he asked hoarsely. “Where do we even start?”

There was a pause. Hermione looked up at him slowly. Her eyes were tired but still determined. She ran her hand across the page, fingertips trembling as they passed over the dark, slanted script.

“It’s not a single spell,” she said. “It’s not even a ritual in the way we understand it. It’s a process. A kind of… reclamation. You have to understand what was lost. And why it was lost. The soul can’t be forced back together like puzzle pieces. It has to… want it.”

Ron frowned. “Want it?”

Hermione nodded. “The soul has to be willing to heal. And we—whoever does it—we have to offer something in return.”

Ron’s throat was dry. “Offer what?”

She hesitated. Swallowed. Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper.

“Time. Memory. Pain. Maybe even… maybe even part of ourselves.”

Ginny’s jaw clenched. She folded her arms across her chest, her chin lifting in quiet defiance.

“I don’t care what it costs,” she said, her voice clear as crystal. “We’re getting him back. Whatever it takes.”

Ron looked at her then. At the stubborn lift of her chin. At the flame in her eyes that matched the one in her hair. He felt something twist in his chest—pride, love, fear. All tangled together. She was so certain. So willing.

So was Hermione.

And yet all he could feel in that moment was the bitter taste of helplessness. Because he wasn’t sure he wasready. Not for this. They’d faced danger before. They’d fought monsters, stood at the edge of death, and stared evil right in the face.

But this… this wasn’t a battle you won with wands.

This was older. Stranger. It was the kind of fight you didn’t walk away from the same. If you walked away at all.

He exhaled slowly and looked at the book again.

This was the line.

And crossing it meant there’d be no going back.

The Burrow had been quiet—unnaturally so—until Mrs Weasley’s voice sliced through the stillness like a whipcrack.

“Harry!”

The sound of his name tore through him, sharp and panicked. It wasn’t the usual maternal call to supper or the affectionate fussing he was used to. This was something else entirely—urgent, frightened. It stopped him cold.

He turned.

Mrs Weasley stood a few feet from the sagging sofa, frozen in place like a witch facing down a rampaging Hippogriff. Her arms were outstretched, not in welcome, but as if to hold back something dangerous—something she loved and feared in equal measure. Her face was ashen and drawn, her expression carved from a mixture of dread and helpless affection. Hands trembling. Eyes wide.

Harry’s heartbeat stuttered, then began to thunder inside his chest, echoing in his ears. The warmth of the Burrow—the mismatched chairs, the worn rugs, the scent of bread and wildflowers—seemed to bleed away, replaced by a tightness in the air, an invisible pressure building in the walls. Everything felt too close. The ceiling was lower. The air was thicker. His skin prickled.

What’s going on?

He didn’t say it aloud, but the question blazed through his mind.

“Harry, please…” Mrs Weasley’s voice cracked—barely more than a whisper now, trembling with emotion. “You need to listen to me.”

He stared at her. He could see the way her eyes pleaded with him, the same eyes that had watched him with quiet kindness since he was twelve. But they looked different now. There was fear in them—not fear of him, but for him. And it made something cold slither down his spine.

There was something wrong.

Something deeply, terribly wrong.

He could feel it pulling at the corners of his mind—something fraying, unravelling. A thread tugged loose from the centre of him.

He tried to speak, but the words stuck.

Ron’s voice rang out behind him, sharp and strained. “Mum, what’s going on?”

But Harry barely heard him.

“We don’t have time,” Harry muttered. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but there it was—his voice, low and distant, as though someone else had spoken. He turned to Ron, urgency flooding his limbs like an electric current.

“We need to go,” he said. “Now. We should’ve gone already.”

His eyes swept the room—the crooked family photographs on the wall, the ancient clock ticking away on the mantle, and the worn armchair where Mr Weasley liked to sit after work. All of it was familiar. All of it was safe.

And yet, none of it felt real.

It was like standing in a dream that had been worn thin around the edges.

“Harry—” Mrs Weasley moved quickly, crossing the room and placing a hand against his forehead. Her palm was warm and gentle, and the moment she touched him, a rush of heat pulsed beneath his skin.

She drew in a sharp breath. “You’re burning up. Harry, you’re not well—please, sit down—”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, his voice harsh and too loud. Even as he said it, his knees buckled. The room tilted slightly, the grandfather clock warping in his vision.

Her hand faltered, and he pulled away from her touch, heart pounding.

The heat in his chest was unbearable now. It wasn’t fever—it wasn’t normal. It was something else. Something wrong. Like fire curling inside his bones.

Hermione stepped in then, cautious, her voice calm but brimming with concern.

“Harry, what are you talking about?”

He turned to her, suddenly overwhelmed by frustration. Why didn’t they understand? Why weren’t they moving?

“We have to leave,” he said through gritted teeth. “We’ve got to find the Horcruxes. Before it’s too late.”

He expected resistance—but not the look Hermione gave him. Her expression shifted, faltered. She glanced quickly at Ron, and Harry saw it then: the sorrow behind her eyes. The kind of sorrow you don’t argue with. The kind that already knows something you don’t.

“Harry…” she said quietly, “we’ve already done that.”

The room fell silent. The ticking of the clock thundered in his ears like a countdown.

He stared at her.

“What d’you mean—‘already done that’?”

Hermione stepped forward, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her voice was soft but steady, as though trying to break something gently.

“We destroyed them,” she said. “The Horcruxes. All of them. It’s over, Harry. Don’t you remember?”

No.

That couldn’t be right.

That couldn’t possibly be right.

His mouth went dry. His thoughts scrambled. He reached back in his mind, digging for memory, for proof—for anything.

“I—when?” he breathed. “When did we do that?”

Ron spoke up, his voice hesitant, like each word might break something fragile.

“After Bill and Fleur’s wedding. We left together—me, you, and Hermione. We were gone for nearly a year. We tracked them down. We destroyed them. We went to the Ministry, broke into Gringotts, and fought through hell to get to the last one—don’t you remember?”

Harry blinked.

He saw flashes—mud and snow, firelight, the inside of a tent, Ron’s voice screaming his name—but they were shards, glimpses. They didn’t link. They didn’t fit.

“I don’t…” His voice trailed off. His chest tightened.

His hands were in his hair before he even realised it, fingers digging into his scalp, as though he could claw the answers out from his own head. He pressed hard until pain bloomed across his temples—anything to help him remember. But the memories—if they were memories at all—were nothing more than broken glass.

Shards.

A flash of green light. A serpent’s eyes. A scream—high, terrible. Darkness pressing in.

Then nothing.

It didn’t make sense.

“We can’t stop,” he hissed, the words torn from somewhere deep, from the part of him that still burnt like an open wound. “Voldemort’s still out there. I know he is. We haven’t finished it.”

He looked at them—Mrs Weasley, Hermione, and Ron—and the frustration tightened like a vise in his chest. Why didn’t they believe him? Why were they all just standing there?

Mrs Weasley’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. Her touch was light, meant to soothe, but Harry flinched. It felt like a chain, a restraint, something meant to keep him here, when every instinct he had was screaming, Go.

“Harry,” she said gently, speaking as if to a child on the edge of something dangerous, “you’re not well. You need rest. Please—trust me.”

“No!” he shouted, jerking away from her touch. His breath was fast now, shallow, the room spinning around the edges. “You don’t understand—I can’t rest! He’s still out there—I can feel him—I know—”

Hermione stepped forward, her face stricken. “Harry,” she said quickly, her voice thick with emotion, “you’re not thinking clearly. Your memories—they’re scrambled. It’s going to take time. But it’ll come back. You needto rest.”

He stumbled backwards, as though her words had struck him physically. His legs wobbled beneath him. The world felt lopsided and fragile, like one wrong step might shatter it completely.

They were wrong.

They had to be.

He wasn’t losing his mind. He wasn’t.

“We’re wasting time!” His voice cracked, desperate. “We should’ve left hours ago! Why won’t any of you listento me?”

No one moved.

Mrs Weasley took a cautious step closer, her voice barely holding steady. “You’ve been through more than anyone should,” she said softly. “You’re safe now, Harry. Just—let yourself be safe.”

But that was the thing, wasn’t it?

He didn’t feel safe. Not even here. Especially not here. Not when every cell in his body was screaming that something was wrong—something was unfinished. Voldemort’s face flashed in his mind—inhuman, grinning. He could smell smoke. Hear the crackle of flames. The thunder of bodies hitting the ground.

Dumbledore falling.

Over and over and over again.

“I can’t…” Harry whispered, and the tremble in his voice betrayed him. His knees gave way beneath him, and he collapsed to the floor, catching himself just in time. “It’s not over… It’s not—it’s not over…”

He felt more than saw them moving around him. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—he caught their expressions, flickers of fear and helplessness darting between them.

They were afraid.

Of him.

Why were they afraid?

The pounding in his skull worsened. His skin was too hot and stretched too tight. He could barely hear over the roar in his ears.

“Ron!” Mrs Weasley’s voice snapped through the room. “Help me—now!”

Hands gripped his arms—Mrs Weasley’s, strong and maternal. Harry thrashed.

“Get off me!” He shouted, flailing more out of fear than strength. His arms knocked into something—someone—and he pulled back again, heart hammering. “Don’t—don’t make me—don’t—”

“Ginny!” Molly’s voice cracked. “Get the Calming Draught—and the Sleeping Potion—quickly!”

“No!” The word was a scream, hoarse and ragged. “You can’t do this! I don’t want to sleep—don’t make me—please!”

He could hear himself now, fragmented and panicked, as though his voice had detached from him completely. The words were unravelling, disintegrating into sobs he couldn’t stop. Something inside him was breaking. Not gently. Not quietly.

And then—

“Harry.”

Her voice.

Ginny.

He turned, and the sight of her undid him.

She stood in the doorway, her face ghostly pale, eyes red-rimmed and glistening. In her hands, the vials trembled—one a soft amber, the other a silver-blue that shimmered like moonlight. Her fingers looked too delicate to hold anything at all.

“No,” Harry gasped. “Ginny—please don’t—don’t give me those—”

“I don’t want to,” she whispered, and her voice cracked. A tear slipped down her cheek. “I don’t, Harry. But you’re not all right. And I—I don’t know how else to help you.”

“I’m fine!” He barked, though even he heard the desperation in it now. “I’m fine! Just stop—stop looking at me like that—like I’m—”

Broken.

That’s what they all saw.

Not the Boy Who Lived.

The boy who was falling apart.

The room tilted again. The walls pulsed like they were alive. He reached for something—anything—but the floor was rising and falling like a sea.

Then Ron was there—solid, quiet, holding him upright as gently as he could. Mrs Weasley braced him from behind, her arms shaking.

“No—please—don’t—” Harry pleaded, writhing weakly against them. “Don’t make me sleep—I don’t want to—I don’t—”

“Just a sip, my boy,” came another voice, soft and low.

Slughorn.

He stepped forward, eyes unusually kind, his usual pomp stripped away. He looked at Harry like someone watching a phoenix in its last burning moments.

“It’s for the best.”

Harry tried to twist away, but his strength was leaving him. The fight had drained out, pouring into the floor with his sweat and panic. He was so tired. Every part of him ached. His bones felt like they were filled with molten lead.

Ginny knelt before him. Her hand trembled as she pressed the vial gently to his lips.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears now falling freely. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He opened his mouth to speak—but no words came. Just a breath. A whimper.

The potion slid over his tongue. Bitter. Sharp. Cold.

He tried to resist.

For one last second, he tried.

And then—his limbs went slack.

The heat drained from him. The room dulled. Faces blurred. The voices turned to echoes.

The last thing he saw was Ron’s face—ashen, helpless—and Mrs Weasley’s hand brushing his hair back from his clammy forehead.

And then—

Darkness.

When Harry finally began to stir, it was not with clarity or calm, but with a faint twitch beneath the blanket and a soft, pained murmur that barely reached the others’ ears. His skin remained clammy to the touch, beads of perspiration dotting his forehead despite the coolness of the room. His cheeks, flushed and fevered, stood out starkly against the pallor of the rest of his face.

Ron leaned forward, his jaw tight, and pressed his palm tentatively to Harry’s forehead. He winced at the heat pulsing beneath his skin. Molly followed, her hand light against Harry’s cheek as she examined him with a mother’s instinct.

“He’s still burning,” she murmured at last, drawing in a sharp, worried breath. Her lips thinned. “No better.”

Ron’s face fell. He drew his hand back slowly, as though it pained him to leave Harry’s side.

Across the room, Slughorn stood with his arms crossed over his ample middle, his brow creased more deeply than usual. His usual air of sleepy indifference was gone now—replaced with genuine concern.

“I’m running low on ingredients,” Molly added quietly. Her eyes didn’t leave Harry. “There’s just enough for one more batch of the fever-reducing draught. After that…” Her voice trailed off, but the meaning hung there, thick and heavy.

“I’ll handle the potions,” said Slughorn at once, stepping forward with unusual briskness. “My personal stores are well-stocked—should last at least a fortnight, and if we find ourselves in need beyond that, I’ll send word to Poppy Pomfrey. She always did have a soft spot for Potter.”

Molly hesitated, torn between gratitude and the instinct to manage it all herself. But she gave a small, weary nod. “Thank you, Horace. Truly. I’m not sure how much more I can—”

“Think nothing of it,” Slughorn said, waving a hand gently. “He oughtn’t remain down here, though. Not with all this noise and bustle. He needs quiet. Familiar surroundings. I daresay his room upstairs would do him more good than another hour on this lumpy old sofa.”

And with that, Slughorn stepped forward. He did not reach for his wand. Instead, to everyone’s surprise, he crouched down—albeit with some effort—and gently gathered Harry into his arms.

There was a collective intake of breath.

Slughorn held him carefully, cradling him as though he were carrying something both fragile and sacred. Harry’s head lolled against his shoulder, limp and alarmingly light. The room fell silent, the only sound the quiet rustle of fabric as the professor adjusted his grip and began the slow walk toward the stairs.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny stepped back to let him pass, their expressions taut, eyes following every movement.

They followed in silence.

Upstairs, Harry’s room was bathed in the soft, drowsy light of mid-morning. Slivers of gold filtered through the drawn curtains, glinting off the dusty surfaces and casting long shadows across the floor.

Slughorn eased Harry down onto the bed with extraordinary care. He straightened the blanket, adjusted the pillow, and stepped back with a weary sigh.

Molly was already moving, seating herself at the bedside and brushing the damp hair from Harry’s forehead with fingers that trembled just slightly. Her hand lingered there, resting lightly against the heat of his skin, as if she might draw the fever from him through touch alone.

At the foot of the bed, Ginny stood with her arms wrapped tightly round herself, as though bracing for some invisible blow. Her eyes flicked between Harry’s flushed face and her mother’s strained one.

“Mum…” Her voice cracked. “Is he… Is he going to be alright?”

Molly’s mouth opened, then closed again. She turned to look at her daughter, and when she spoke, her voice trembled. “I don’t know, love. His body’s fighting… but whatever he’s been through, it’s not done with him yet.” She swallowed hard. “And when he wakes… he might have to face all of it again.”

Ginny pressed her hand to her mouth, a quiet sob escaping before she could stop it. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “It’s not just his body,” she whispered. “He’s forgetting things. It’s like… like little pieces of him are slipping away.”

There was a sharp breath beside her—Ron.

He took a step closer, fists clenched at his sides. Hermione moved with him, her hand finding his arm, though she didn’t seem to realise she’d done it.

“He didn’t remember something yesterday,” Ginny continued, her voice rising. “Something important. He looked at me, and—he hesitated. Like he wasn’t sure what to think.”

Ron stared at Harry, unmoving on the bed. His voice was quiet, hollow. “You think he might forget us?”

Ginny didn’t answer.

The silence that followed was crushing.

Hermione looked as though she couldn’t breathe. Her hand tightened on Ron’s arm, but her eyes never left Harry. He looked so small beneath the blanket. So unlike himself.

Ron sank slowly onto the edge of the bed, his back hunched, elbows on his knees. He pressed his palms to his face. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then, in a voice so low it was barely a whisper, he said, “I’m scared.”

He looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed.

“If he keeps slipping like this… if he forgets us—me—” Ron shook his head. “I don’t think I can take it. He’s my best mate. He’s Harry. He’s the one who—” He stopped. Swallowed. “He’s the one who saved all of us.”

Hermione nodded mutely, her throat too tight to form words. She moved closer and sat on the floor beside Ron, resting her head against his knee.

Ginny stepped forward, silent now, and took Harry’s hand in both of hers. It was warm but unresponsive. She brushed her thumb along his knuckles, willing him to squeeze back, even just a little.

Nothing.

No flicker of recognition.

No pressure in return.

Arthur moved at a pace quite unlike his usual, gentle stride, cutting a determined path through the winding corridors of the Ministry of Magic. The clatter of enchanted typewriters, the intermittent ding of Ministry lifts, and the distant murmur of conversation all dissolved into the background. His heart thudded somewhere in his throat, and Molly’s voice echoed in his mind with cold clarity: Harry’s getting worse.

The image rose unbidden—Harry, pale and fevered, eyes glassy with confusion, his body thinner than it ought to be, fighting some unseen battle with all the strength he had left. Arthur’s chest tightened.

He turned a corner sharply and nearly collided with Percy, who stood primly outside the Department of Magical Transportation, a neat stack of files tucked under one arm. His glasses slid slightly down his nose as he looked up, startled.

“Dad?” Percy called after him, stepping forward, confusion creasing his brow. “Is something wrong? Where are you going?”

Arthur halted mid-stride. His breath came in quick bursts, and for a moment he simply stared at his son, caught between the urgency driving him forward and a protective instinct that reared up fiercely—Harry’s privacy, the sanctity of the family’s pain. But it was already too late; several heads had turned, curious eyes glancing over spectacles and around cubicle walls.

He stepped closer to Percy and lowered his voice to a taut whisper. “It’s Harry,” he said, each syllable clipped with worry. “He’s… very ill. Your mother just sent word. It’s serious. He’s not improving.”

Percy froze. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if the words refused to land properly. “What?” he said at last, a bit too loudly. “Harry? Ill?”

Arthur gave a short, grim nod. “Yes. Badly.”

“But—but how?” Percy looked rattled, his usual composure fraying at the edges. “He was recovering, wasn’t he? At the Burrow, with everyone? What’s happened? Is it—curse residue? Or maybe prolonged magical strain—Post-Battle Depletion is a documented condition; it can manifest weeks later—”

“Not here,” Arthur said sharply, casting a wary glance at the ever-growing number of bystanders whose ears were most definitely tuned in. He lowered his voice further. “You know as well as I do, Percy—Harry Potter’s name tends to travel on the wind.”

Percy flushed crimson and glanced about, finally realising how many curious eyes had fixed on them. He adjusted his glasses stiffly and dropped his voice to a near-murmur.

“I just don’t understand,” he said. “He’s always been so resilient. Merlin, he’s survived things I can’t even imagine. How can he—how can he just fall ill?”

Arthur reached out and laid a firm hand on his son’s shoulder. His grip was steady, but there was an undercurrent of strain there—tight and urgent. “I can’t explain now,” he said gently. “Not here. But I promise, when I know more, I’ll write to you myself. Just—don’t speak of it in public. Not to anyone.”

“But Dad—” Percy began, his voice caught somewhere between frustration and fear.

“I know,” Arthur said, his tone softening as he squeezed Percy’s shoulder. “I know you want to help. And I know how much he means to all of us. But your mother needs me now—and Harry does too.”

Percy hesitated, his mouth drawn into a tight line, his composure cracking further. “Please… owl me, won’t you? As soon as there’s anything. And—tell Mum I’m thinking of her. And of Harry.”

Arthur nodded. “I will.”

And with that, he turned and strode off, weaving through the corridors with a swiftness that left startled witches and wizards flattening themselves against the walls to let him pass. His thoughts were a relentless drumbeat: Please let him be all right. Please, just let him hold on.

Moments later, with a sharp crack, Arthur Apparated just outside the Burrow.

The wind met him at once, brisk and cold, tugging at his coat and sending leaves skittering across the garden path. The sun was low behind thick clouds, casting a dull, grey light over the crooked house. Everything was still.

He stepped inside.

The kitchen was dim, lit only by a single enchanted lamp that hovered above the table, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. The teapot sat untouched on the counter, cold. The wireless was silent. The walls, normally so full of charm and comfort, seemed to press inwards.

Molly was standing near the table, her back to him, twisting a tea towel so tightly in her hands that the fabric had begun to fray. Her shoulders trembled just once before she turned.

She didn’t speak.

Instead, she crossed the room in a few quick steps and wrapped her arms tightly around Arthur. The tea towel dropped to the floor. Her embrace was fierce, desperate, almost painful, and he returned it without hesitation, holding her.

For several long moments, they said nothing.

When she pulled back, her face was pale and lined with exhaustion. Her eyes—red-rimmed and wet—searched his, and he saw it there: the fear, the helplessness, the unbearable burden of watching someone you love fall further and further from reach.

“How is he?” Arthur asked softly.

“Horace came earlier. Just after lunch. He stayed for a while… looked Harry over.” She pulled back slightly, just enough to glance at the dying green flicker in the hearth—the last trace of Slughorn’s Floo powder fading into the ashes. “He’s gone back to Hogwarts.”

Arthur followed her gaze, his brow furrowed. The house felt colder now, emptier somehow, as though Slughorn’s leaving had taken what little assurance remained with him.

“And where’s Harry?” he asked, his throat tightening. The words came out too quickly, too sharp. “Is he still downstairs?”

Molly shook her head, her face pinched and pale. “No. We moved him upstairs. Back into his room. He’s… sleeping now. Or something close to it.”

Arthur’s stomach dropped. He knew that look in her eyes—it wasn’t sleep she meant. Not rest. Something worse. Something darker.

“We gave him a Calming Draught,” she went on, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve, “mixed with a light Sleeping Potion. He was agitated again—frightened, confused. Delirious. He kept saying… he said You-Know-Who was still alive.”

Arthur stared at her, stunned. “He—he what?”

“He was so sure of it,” Molly whispered, her eyes glistening. “Kept insisting the Horcruxes weren’t all destroyed. That he hadn’t finished it—that he still had to.”

Arthur exhaled slowly, a sick weight settling in his chest. It was like watching someone trying to claw their way out of a nightmare only to fall deeper into it.

“Just like at the station,” he murmured, almost to himself. “When he was waiting for his uncle to pick him up…”

Molly nodded, her jaw trembling. “It’s worse now. He doesn’t always know where he is. Sometimes he doesn’t even recognise who’s with him—not right away. He was looking at me like I was a stranger earlier. And the fever’s come back.”

Arthur didn’t speak. He sank into one of the kitchen chairs with a heavy sigh, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

“They’re with him now,” Molly added quietly. “Ron, Hermione… Ginny. They won’t leave his side. Not even for a moment.” Her voice hitched, though she tried to hide it. “They’re being so brave.”

Arthur reached across the table and took her hand, grounding her, even as his own mind spun.

“Did Slughorn—did he bring the book?” he asked finally.

Molly’s eyes dropped to the knotted wood grain. “Yes. He brought it with him. It’s upstairs. None of us have had a proper look yet. He’s gone back to Hogwarts to brew more stabilising potions—stronger ones.”

Arthur’s eyes swept the kitchen absently, seeing everything and nothing. The cluttered counter, the cold tea in the pot, and the open cupboard where a box of calming herbs sat half-empty. “We’ll need them,” he said under his breath.

“I’m running low on everything,” Molly said, her voice a near whisper. “Feverfew, valerian, moonwort… and I haven’t slept properly in days.” Her shoulders sagged, and for the first time in all their years together, Arthur saw how thin she looked beneath her robes, how fragile. “Arthur, I’m doing everything I can—but it’s not enough. We’re losing him.”

“No,” Arthur said, too firmly. “We’re not. We can’t.”

She looked up at him, her eyes hollow. “He didn’t eat today. When he is awake, he won’t touch anything. He says he’s not hungry. Or… he says he’s already eaten when he hasn’t.”

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment. “We may need to use nutrient potions soon,” he said quietly. “If he’s not keeping food down—”

“I know,” she said. “I’ve already begun preparing some.”

They sat like that for a while, their hands joined across the table, the silence in the house so complete it felt unnatural. Like the Burrow itself was waiting for something—dreading it.

After a while, Molly drew a shaky breath, as if forcing herself to re-enter the world.

“How was the Ministry?”

Arthur gave a small, humourless snort. “The Ministry is… bustling. Celebrating. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has just completed another round of Death Eater arrests. You’d think it was Christmas.” His mouth curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Kingsley’s doing his best, but half the place is running on denial and press releases.”

Molly didn’t speak, but her frown deepened.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “They’ve started sending letters. To Harry.”

She blinked. “Letters?”

“Invitations. Public appearances. Speeches. They want him to stand at a podium and tell everyone that the war is well and truly over. Sign autographs. Shake hands. Be the smiling, triumphant saviour they’ve all painted in their minds.” He looked away. “They think he’s… healed.”

Molly gave a small, strangled sound, not quite a laugh. “If only they knew.”

“They don’t know,” Arthur said bitterly. “They don’t know that he wakes up screaming. That sometimes he doesn’t remember who’s holding his hand. They have no idea what it’s cost him. And they don’t want to know, Molly. They want their hero whole.”

Her lips thinned, her fingers tightening around his. “Then let’s keep it that way—for now. No one outside the family needs to know how bad it is.”

Arthur hesitated, reluctant. “I… told Percy.”

She looked at him, surprised. “You told Percy?”

“He saw me rushing out of the Ministry. Asked what was wrong. I told him Harry was unwell.”

Her eyes searched his. “Will he hold his tongue?”

“He will,” Arthur said with quiet certainty. “He understood. I think—seeing me like that—he knew this wasn’t something to gossip about. He asked after you. After Harry. Said to owl him the moment there was news.”

Molly nodded slowly, though a sliver of unease remained behind her eyes. “People will start asking questions soon. The Prophet always sniffs around when someone like Harry goes quiet. And if they find out he’s not been seen for weeks—”

“I know,” Arthur said, his voice low. “We’ll handle it. When the time comes.”

Ron shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking faintly beneath him as he sat cross-legged in the corner of Harry’s small bedroom.

The steady rise and fall of Harry’s chest was the only thing grounding them, but even that didn’t feel secure. His skin was too pale, his brow slick with fever. He twitched in his sleep sometimes, murmuring things none of them quite understood. And every so often, Ron caught himself holding his breath, waiting—hoping—to see him stir.

Across from him, Ginny sat on the edge of Harry’s bed, her legs folded beneath her. She clutched the battered Anima book in her lap, her thumb rubbing unconsciously at a tear in the leather cover. Her gaze kept flicking between the faded text and Harry’s face, as if checking he was still there.

Hermione paced in tight, anxious lines before the bed, arms folded, her eyes darting from the book’s open pages to the scrawl of notes she’d made in the margin. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, the crease between her brows growing deeper by the minute.

Ron, for his part, felt like dead weight. He’d tried reading the text, but the words swam together, laced with obscure magical theory and Latin he hadn’t seen before. Hermione moved through it like a storm, Ginny with quiet intensity. Ron had managed, thus far, to keep from dozing off. He was counting that as a contribution.

Then, Hermione’s voice cut through the silence.

“That’s not helping, Ron.”

He blinked, startled out of his thoughts. “What’s not helping?”

“Whatever it is you’re doing—which, at the moment, appears to be absolutely nothing,” she snapped, her eyes flashing. “We’re not here to sit around and wait for things to get worse.”

Ron sat up straighter, stung. “I was thinking, actually,” he said, though if pressed, he couldn’t have explained what about. “Can’t we have a minute to breathe? He’s asleep—we’re not exactly racing a dragon to the finish line.”

“We might as well be,” Hermione hissed. “Every minute counts. Slughorn said the symptoms are accelerating. We don’t know how much time we have.”

Ginny, still hunched over the book, broke the tension with a quiet voice, reading aloud: “’A threde y-rene from the shagge of a wilde beest, that bereth the semblaunce of Dethes shadwe.’” The words seemed to settle around them, cold and heavy.

Ron scratched at the back of his neck. “Could be anything, couldn’t it? Dementors, werewolves… Boggarts, if you’re feeling dramatic.”

Hermione whirled round, clearly exasperated. “Oh, brilliant, and what’s your plan then? Ask a Boggart nicely for a lock of hair while it turns into your greatest fear?”

“Depends,” Ron muttered. “Might be more polite if it’s turned into my Aunt Muriel. She always had a few strays flying about.”

Ginny gave a sudden, startled laugh, though she tried to stifle it. Her fingers tightened around the book again, the smile fading almost instantly.

“Seriously though,” she said, more sombre now, “do we even need to tame a werewolf? That’s what it says, doesn’t it? Untamed. How would that even work? You can’t exactly walk one on a lead.”

Hermione stopped pacing. “I’ve never read about anyone who’s successfully managed it,” she said quietly. “Even Professor Lupin… when he transformed, he had no control over it. That’s the whole tragedy. It strips them of who they are.”

Ginny nodded slowly, frowning. “I read that too. In the Hogwarts library, there was this book, Lupine Lawlessness: Why Lycanthropes Don’t Deserve to Live.”

Hermione made a choking sound of disgust. “That thing? Ugh, Picardy’s a complete bigot. It’s full of anti-creature propaganda. He actually claimed werewolves are incapable of empathy. That they can’t form meaningful relationships. Absolute drivel.”

Ron shifted uncomfortably. “That’s not fair. Lupin was… he was good. One of the best defence teachers we ever had. Quiet, yeah. But brave.”

Hermione’s expression softened. “Exactly. And that’s why books like that are dangerous—people read them and think they’re truth.”

A silence fell again, not as sharp as before, but still taut. Ron stretched his legs out with a groan, cracking his knuckles.

“All right, so no werewolves,” he said. “What about a dragon? Properly untamed, breathes fire, ticks all the boxes.”

Hermione gave him a withering look. “This isn’t Magical Creatures Top Trumps, Ron. We’re trying to solve a riddle. Not brainstorm ways to get ourselves killed.”

“Well, you could at least act like I’m trying to help,” he grumbled.

“You could try helping a bit more usefully,” she shot back.

Ginny cleared her throat. “What about Thestrals?” she said suddenly, her voice low but firm. Her eyes flicked between Hermione and Ron, both of whom turned to her, surprised. “They’re connected to death, aren’t they?”

Hermione stilled, her lips parting slightly. A peculiar glint sparked in her eyes.

“Thestrals,” she breathed, the word tasting of revelation. Her pulse quickened. She could almost feel the pieces shifting—falling, aligning, clicking into place.

Ron blinked at her. “You mean those creepy skeletal horse things? The ones that pulled the carriages?”

Hermione let out an exasperated huff through her nose. “Honestly, Ron. We studied them. Fifth year. Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid?”

“Oh. Yeah,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Right. Brilliant times, that. Nothing like a field trip with airborne death-horses to round out your O.W.L. prep.”

Hermione shot him a withering look. “Do you ever pay attention to anything useful?”

Ron shrugged, sprawling back against the sofa cushions with all the grace of a sack of galleons. “I pay attention. Just selectively.”

Hermione pressed her hands to her hips, voice sharpening. “Thestrals aren’t just creatures—they’re intelligent. They can see the world differently and feel the intent behind movement. They’re not like hippogriffs or Abraxans. They don’t just carry passengers—they understand paths. Purpose. Where someone needs to go.”

Ginny leaned forward, her whole face suddenly alight. “Exactly! That’s what I thought! They don’t just follow—they lead. That’s how they found the Ministry, remember? They took us exactly where we needed to be.”

Ron frowned. “Alright, fine—but even if they’re clever, where are we supposed to find one now? Just pop into the back garden and hope one’s grazing next to the gnomes?”

Hermione opened her mouth, clearly ready to fire back with a list of possible locations and regulations—but Ginny was already on her feet, her eyes bright with urgency.

“Wait—I’ve still got that book on magical creatures. Hang on—I’ll get it!”

She spun on her heel and bolted from the room, her footsteps vanishing with a thud and a slam somewhere.

Hermione turned and looked at Ron, still slumped sideways. “Honestly,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“What?” he said defensively, his arms flopping to either side. “I was contributing. My brain just works better when I’m horizontal.”

“It barely works when you’re upright,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

Ron grinned lazily. “Go on—admit it. You’d miss me if I got eaten by a werewolf.”

“I’d miss the noise, perhaps,” she replied archly. “But not the smell.”

For the first time in what felt like days, they both laughed, the kind that bubbled out despite themselves. It echoed strangely in Harry’s room, as though the walls had forgotten how to hold joy.

Ron looked up at the ceiling, the grin still tugging at his face. “Feels good. Laughing.”

Hermione nodded slowly, the tightness in her chest easing just a little. “It does.”

Before the moment could settle fully, Ginny’s footsteps came thudding back, fast and frantic. She burst into the room, breathless and flushed, clutching a thick, well-worn tome to her chest.

“I found it!” She gasped, falling to her knees beside Hermione with a dull thud. “Magical Beasts in the Northern Hemisphere. I bookmarked the section on Thestrals—here—look!”

She flicked rapidly through the pages, the parchment rustling beneath her fingers, until they stopped—abruptly, almost reverently. Her eyes widened.

“Here,” she breathed, pushing the book towards Hermione with a slightly trembling hand. “Read this.”

Hermione leaned in at once, her eyes scanning the cramped script. The room fell silent again, but this time the hush felt expectant.

“Thestral tail hair,” Hermione murmured, her brow furrowing. “It’s… it’s believed to be an exceptionally rare wand core. Possibly one of the most potent. Known to have unique affinities with death-aligned magic and obscure branches of pathfinding and fatework.”

Ron sat up, his slouched frame suddenly alert. “Believed?” he repeated, suspicious. “That’s the sort of thing you hear muttered over a dodgy pint at the Leaky Cauldron. Is there any actual proof? Or is this another crackpot theory like that one bloke who tried to prove trolls invented Apparition?”

Hermione didn’t rise to the bait. “There’s reason to think it’s credible,” she said slowly, flipping the page. “It’s not confirmed, no—but the properties described here…” She trailed off, her mind racing ahead of her words. “They match what’s known about the Elder Wand.”

Ron blinked. “Wait—what?”

“The Elder Wand,” Hermione said again, more firmly. “No one’s ever known for certain what its core is. Some say dragon heartstring. Some say basilisk fang. But if it were Thestral hair… it would explain a lot.”

Ron looked vaguely horrified. “You’re telling me the most dangerous wand in history might’ve had bits of invisible death horse inside it?”

Hermione wasn’t listening. Her gaze had gone distant again, unfocused in that maddening way she got when a theory had taken root. “A wand made with a core from a creature only visible to those who’ve seen death… wielded by a wizard meant to master death itself… it fits.”

Ginny, who had gone very still, swallowed hard. “So if we were trying to make a wand that could rival it—or even understand it—we’d need Thestral tail hair?”

“I think so,” Hermione said softly. “There’s nothing else quite like it. Not symbolically. Not magically.”

The three of them sat in heavy silence, the air in the room feeling thicker now—laden with the gravity of what they were beginning to uncover.

Ginny exhaled slowly. “Right,” she said at last, her voice steady despite the weight behind it. “Thestrals it is.”

Ron shifted where he sat. His eyes darted towards the floor, then back up again, his voice low and uncertain. “Assuming we actually go along with this… how exactly are we supposed to get the hair? It’s not like you can stroll up to a Thestral and ask it nicely to shed a bit.”

There was a beat of silence before Ginny replied, her voice softer now, more cautious. “First, we’d need to see them,” she said gently. “Which is… well, it’s not exactly easy, is it? You can’t see Thestrals unless—”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

The silence stretched, heavy and raw, far more eloquent than words.

Hermione lowered her gaze to the book still open in her lap. Her voice, when it came, was quiet, almost hollow. “We can probably see them now.”

Ginny gave a small nod, solemn and slow, her fingers fiddling with the fraying cuff of her jumper. Ron didn’t say anything—but the way his jaw had clenched, the way his fists had tightened silently at his sides—it spoke volumes.

After a moment, Ron cleared his throat roughly, trying—and failing—to sound casual. “The ones at Hogwarts… they’re trained, yeah? Not wild?”

Hermione blinked, pulled from whatever dark place her thoughts had drifted to. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “Well—as much as Thestrals can be trained. Hagrid told us in fifth year the herd at Hogwarts is the only trained group in Britain. Even then, they’re not exactly docile. Gentle, yes, but nervous. And cautious. They don’t just come trotting when you call.”

Ron dragged a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath that might have been a swear. “So we’re supposed to go tracking a wild one instead? Right. Sounds easy. Can’t wait.”

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly trying to keep her own doubts at bay. “I know it won’t be. But if the tail hair really is what we need… there may not be another option.”

The room lapsed into silence again, a quieter kind this time—not grief, but grim determination.

“Well,” Ron said eventually, with a weak grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “at least it’s not a dragon.”

Ginny gave him a look. “Don’t jinx it.”

Hermione exhaled, closing the book with a soft thump. She rubbed her temples, her brow deeply furrowed. “They’re elusive. Solitary. They only live in a few parts of Britain—some forests in Ireland and pockets in northern France. Spain, maybe. But they’re rare even there. Most wizards never see one in their entire lives.”

Ron blew out a sigh and tilted his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it might present a better idea if he just looked hard enough.

Then Ginny spoke again, her voice stronger now—steady with purpose. “We should talk to Hagrid.”

Both Ron and Hermione looked up at her.

“If anyone can help us find a Thestral,” she went on, “or persuade one to trust us… it’s him. He knows them better than anyone. He raised half the herd at Hogwarts himself.”

Hermione’s expression sharpened, the lines of worry replaced by something firmer, more resolute. “You’re right. He’s our best chance. We’ll need to contact him straightaway—send an owl or go in person.”

Ron groaned, slumping forward with theatrical despair. “Oh, brilliant. I can hear him already—’What d’yeh mean yeh want ter go botherin’ Thestrals?! Are yeh completely barmy?!’”

Ginny gave a short laugh. “He’ll scold us first. He always does. But he’ll help. He always does that too.”

“Oh, sure,” Ron said, grinning now despite himself. “Right after he threatens to sit on us. Again.”

Hermione gave a small, weary smile. “He’ll be dramatic, but he’ll understand. We’ll just have to be honest with him. Not everything—but enough.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “And you reckon he’ll keep it quiet?”

Ginny looked at him levelly. “He’s kept bigger secrets than this.”

“Like Norbert,” Hermione offered, “and Aragog.”

“And Grawp,” Ginny added.

Ron grimaced. “Blimey, Grawp. How is he, anyway?”

There was a low, aching groan from the bed.

Harry stirred, eyelids fluttering. He blinked slowly up at the ceiling, which swam in and out of focus, greyish shapes edging into one another. His skull throbbed with a slow, pounding ache—not pain, precisely, but pressure—as though his mind had been pressing against something for hours.

He frowned. The room didn’t feel quite right.

“What—?” His voice cracked, hoarse and dry. He winced at the sound of it, rubbed at his throat, and tried again. “What’s going on?”

There was a sudden scuffle beside him—feet against floorboards, a chair scraping awkwardly.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice rang out, far too shrill and too high-pitched to be casual. She looked like someone who’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t—guilty, red-faced, eyes wide and wild with unshed words. “You’re awake—how are you feeling?”

Harry blinked at her, still thick with confusion. Ginny was already at his side, leaning forward with quiet purpose, reaching for something on the nightstand. His glasses. She slid them gently onto his face, her fingers brushing his temple with the briefest warmth. The world snapped into sharper focus.

And there he was: Ron hovering near the foot of the bed, his hands shoved deep into his pockets like he’d rather be anywhere else. Hermione looking torn between panic and tears. And Ginny, close enough to touch, and yet even she wore a guarded tightness around her eyes that made Harry feel oddly cold.

They were all watching him too carefully.

“Why are you all looking at me like that?” he asked slowly, something sharp unfurling in his chest. “Hermione, what were you just saying?”

Hermione glanced away, her mouth pressing into a thin line. She tugged at the edge of the blanket as if it urgently needed adjusting. “I—nothing. Honestly. Don’t worry about it.”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

There it was again—that weight in the room, the way they looked at him like he might shatter if they said too much. He knew that silence. He’d lived in it long enough to recognise it on sight. He hated it.

“You lot are terrible liars,” he muttered, trying to sound irritated, but it came out weaker than he meant—not anger, but fear, prickling just beneath the skin. “Something happened, didn’t it?”

Ron was the first to move, clearing his throat and stepping forward in the way Ron always did when he was trying to be helpful and failing at it. “How’re you feeling, mate?”

Harry blinked at him, the question barely registering. “Like I’ve been flattened by a Hippogriff,” he muttered, pressing his palms to his eyes. “Everything’s… hazy. I’m starving, actually. Did I miss breakfast?”

“You… tried,” Ron said cautiously. “But you only had a few bites. You looked a bit out of it. Then you missed lunch altogether.”

Harry frowned, trying to summon the memory. Nothing came. Just shadows. Echoes. He could almost hear his own voice, far away, muttering things he didn’t understand—scraps of thoughts he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

“What did I say?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

There was a pause.

A long one.

Hermione looked down, her fingers gripping the edge of the bedcover too tightly. Ron ran a hand through his hair, visibly uncomfortable. Ginny didn’t move—she stayed by his side, close and still, as if she knew he’d need someone to hold onto.

Finally, Ron said it. Quietly. “You were talking about Horcruxes.”

Harry froze.

“You said you were leaving the Burrow,” Ron continued. “Said you had to finish it. That he wasn’t gone. That you were going after him.”

The room tilted.

Harry’s breath caught sharply in his chest, like he’d been winded. He stared at Ron, then Hermione, then down at his own hands, half-expecting them to glow or burn or reveal some mark of what he’d done, what he’d said.

“I said that?” he whispered.

He didn’t remember. But that only made it worse. The words didn’t feel foreign. They sat too easily in his chest, like they’d been waiting to surface. Like they’d been there all along.

He shut his eyes briefly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” Ginny said softly. Her voice was firm but kind, solid as her hand when it found his again. “Don’t apologise. You weren’t well. You still aren’t.”

“But I—” Harry started, but Ginny shook her head.

“You need food. And rest. Then answers. One thing at a time.”

He nodded, though the thought of standing made his head swim. Still, he swung his legs slowly over the edge of the bed. His limbs felt as though they didn’t quite belong to him. When he tried to push himself upright, the floor seemed to shift unnaturally beneath his feet—the entire room spinning on a slow, disorienting axis.

His knees gave out.

“I’ve got you,” Ginny said immediately, slipping her arm around his waist before he could fall. Her grip was strong, stronger than he expected, and steady.

Hermione moved forward in alarm. “Are you sure this is a good idea? He should stay in bed—he’s barely—”

“I can do it,” Harry said quickly, though his voice lacked conviction. “I just need a bit of help.”

Ginny glanced at him with something like approval. “Good thing I’m here, then.”

Ron trailed behind them as they made their slow way toward the door, still visibly unsettled. “Next time,” he muttered, “if you fancy having another one of these dramatic collapses, maybe wait until after breakfast?”

Step by careful step, Harry made his way down the crooked staircase of the Burrow, clutching the bannister with one hand and Ginny with the other.

The bannister was warm beneath his fingertips, worn smooth by years of use. He focused on the ridges and notches, the curve of the rail where Fred and George had once slid down shouting things that made Mrs Weasley shout louder.

The moment they stepped inside the kitchen, both Mr and Mrs Weasley turned sharply—alarm flashing across Mrs Weasley’s face as she caught sight of him.

“Harry!” she gasped, hurrying over. Her hands fluttered for a second as if she wanted to touch him, to check his forehead or cradle his face, but didn’t quite dare. “Is everything all right? You’re meant to be resting.”

“He’s hungry, Mum,” Ginny said quickly, her voice brisk and business-like. “Can we get him something to eat?”

Mrs Weasley’s expression softened in an instant, her worry reshaped into brisk compassion. “Of course, of course. Sit him down, love. You’re white as a sheet.”

Before Harry could argue, Mr Weasley was there too, easing an arm around his shoulders and guiding him to the table with quiet insistence.

“Come on now, Harry,” Mr Weasley said, his voice warm but low—like he was trying not to startle him. “Sit down before Molly starts feeding you standing up.”

The kitchen smelt like sage and roasted onions and something thick and simmering in a pot.

Harry slumped into the nearest chair, grateful but trying not to show it. Every part of him ached—not sharply, but deeply, like bruises beneath his skin.

“How are you holding up?” Mr Weasley asked as he sat beside him, folding the Daily Prophet and setting it aside on the table with a glance Harry couldn’t quite read.

Harry hesitated. The truth sat awkwardly on his tongue.

“Still a bit… wobbly,” he said at last, rubbing at his brow. “But I’m all right. Thanks.”

He didn’t meet Mr Weasley’s eye. He didn’t want to see pity, or worse—concern he hadn’t earned.

“Lunch is nearly ready,” Mrs Weasley said, bustling back to the cooker and lifting a heavy ladle. “I’ll dish you up something now, love.”

Harry nodded but didn’t speak. He could feel her eyes on him as she worked, and it was a kind gaze, but it made his throat tighten anyway.

“So…” he said after a moment, trying to sound casual. “How’s the Ministry?”

Mr Weasley glanced at him sidelong. “Busy. Tense. A bit chaotic still. Kingsley’s doing his best, but you know how things are after war. Victory’s loud. The aftermath’s quiet, but it lingers.”

He paused as Mrs Weasley returned with a steaming bowl and set it gently before Harry. He didn’t miss the way her hand lingered briefly on his shoulder, as though trying to reassure both him and herself that he was really there.

“There’s a lot of celebration,” Mr Weasley went on, resting his elbows on the table. “Some relief. But also questions. People want… Well, they want answers.”

Harry’s fingers closed loosely around his spoon. He stared into the rising steam, his appetite evaporating as quickly as it had come.

Mr Weasley’s voice gentled. “They want you.”

Harry blinked. “Me?”

“There’s talk,” Mr Weasley said. “Of where you are, what you’re doing. You’ve been quiet, and Kingsley’s trying to protect your privacy, but the longer you stay hidden, the louder the speculation gets. Some think you’ve left the country. Others…” He shrugged. “You can imagine.”

Harry felt it at once, that familiar ache of guilt, sharp and stubborn.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the stew. He hadn’t touched it.

“Sorry?” Mr Weasley echoed, surprised.

“For making this harder on you,” Harry said. “For dragging all of you into everything. For not—” He hesitated. “I just… I just want it to stop. I want to be left alone.”

There it was, out in the open. And saying it didn’t make him feel lighter—only more exposed.

Mrs Weasley stood beside his chair and laid a warm hand on his arm. Her voice was soft and steady.

“You’re not a burden, Harry. You’re family.”

Mr Weasley nodded firmly. “You’ve done more than anyone ever should’ve been asked to. Wanting peace doesn’t make you selfish, Harry. It makes you human.”

Harry couldn’t speak. His throat had closed up tight. He stared down at the bowl again, the stew swirling gently in its dish. He forced his hand to move, lifted the spoon, and took a bite.

The warmth hit his tongue.

His stomach chose that moment to growl, loudly, and the sound broke through the weight in the room.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Ron leaned back in his chair with a grin. “Blimey, mate, you sound like you haven’t eaten in a week. Hungry enough to swallow the giant squid whole, are you?”

Harry let out a short, unexpected laugh. The tension broke a little.

“Honestly?” he said, wiping a bit of stew from his mouth. “I think I might.”

He tore into a hunk of bread, chewing slowly, letting the food pull him back to himself. The warmth spread through his limbs.

But even as he reached for another bite, he felt it again—that shadow behind their eyes. The silence that came when people were thinking too much and saying too little.

He glanced up, his voice quieter now but edged with curiosity.

“So…” he began, trying to sound offhand, “what were you all talking about while I was… out?”

It was as if someone had petrified the room.

Ginny froze mid-sip. Hermione, seated at the far end, went still as a statue. Ron, who’d just shoved a large spoonful of stew into his mouth, made a strangled noise—then immediately began coughing violently. He choked, spluttered, and flailed for his goblet and sloshed half the water down his front as he tried to speak.

“Ron!” Hermione said, alarmed, reaching over with a napkin.

Harry frowned, confused. “What—?”

“No, it’s—fine,” Ron rasped, still wheezing. “Went down… the wrong way…”

Ginny was biting her lip so hard it looked like she might draw blood.

Hermione was the first to speak—far too quickly.

“We were just talking about job applications,” she said, the words tumbling out with the kind of breezy casualness that immediately sounded rehearsed. Her hand twitched to her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear with the precision of someone performing a gesture they’d practised in the mirror.

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

He wasn’t stupid. He hadn’t spent years sneaking about under invisibility cloaks and dodging Death Eaters to miss something as obvious as that.

Hermione didn’t fidget unless she was lying.

He glanced at Ron, who was still red in the face, recovering from his coughing fit. A sheen of sweat glistened at his temples, and he was suddenly very focused on stabbing pieces of potato as if they’d insulted him personally.

Harry’s gaze slid to Ginny.

She wasn’t looking at him. Wasn’t looking at anyone, in fact. She sat unnaturally still, except for her fork, which was moving slowly, aimlessly, pushing a few peas across her plate like they were pawns in a game she no longer wanted to play.

She hadn’t touched her food.

Something in Harry’s chest tightened—just slightly, but enough to notice. That flicker of disquiet. The creeping realisation that whatever this was… it wasn’t just about him.

“So…” he said carefully, his voice low, “you’re not going back for your final year, then?”

Ginny didn’t answer. Her fingers tensed around her fork, knuckles paling, but she kept her head down.

That spark in her eyes—the one he knew better than his own reflection—was dimmed. Not gone, but dampened. Like someone had quietly drawn the curtains on her fire.

Harry’s stomach gave a slow, uncomfortable twist.

“But Ginny… You are going back, aren’t you?” He asked again, more softly now.

She didn’t look up.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

The silence that followed was louder than any shout. It rang in his ears like an unanswered question.

Hermione cleared her throat again, and this time her voice was firmer and rehearsed. “I am. I’ll be going back to finish my final year.”

Harry turned to her, frowning. “But… you just said you were looking at jobs…”

She cut across him—too sharp, too fast.

“I meant Ron’s looking,” she said, brushing past the detail. “Ginny and I—we’ll think about that after we’ve finished school.”

Harry blinked at her.

It was like walking into a room and realising everything had been rearranged. Familiar, but subtly wrong. Their words didn’t match the look in their eyes.

They were being too careful.

Too polished.

As though each sentence had been edited beforehand, reviewed, and approved.

He took a slow bite of stew, chewed, swallowed, and tried for something that sounded casual.

“So,” he said, tone light but deliberate, “what’s the Anima book about?”

The effect was immediate.

The word landed like a dropped goblet.

Across from him, Mr and Mrs Weasley exchanged a look—fleeting, but unmistakably significant. Not alarmed, exactly, but wary.

Ron dropped his fork. It clattered off his plate and sent a splash of gravy skidding across the table. He cursed under his breath and reached for a napkin, ears going pink.

Hermione’s spoon had frozen halfway to her mouth. A slow drip of stew slid down the edge and fell onto her skirt with a quiet plop.

The air changed. Tangibly. It was like someone had lowered the temperature in the room by several degrees. That invisible heaviness had returned—settling on their shoulders, pressing into the space between them.

Ginny’s eyes darted to Hermione, then Ron. Her shoulders had drawn up, tense and guarded.

They didn’t speak. None of them did.

But Harry could feel it—the way they looked at one another, as though exchanging lines from a silent script. A script he hadn’t been given.

And that, somehow, hurt more than anything else.

He was used to being left out. Used to adults keeping things from him “for his own good.” But this wasn’t Dumbledore. This wasn’t the Ministry.

This was them.

This was his people.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. Just one word.

“What?”