FicWad

The air in Harry’s room at the Burrow was thick with the scent of the evening, a mingling of earthy magic and lingering dinner aromas that made Ron’s stomach twist with unease. The soft glow of the lantern cast flickering patterns against the walls, as Harry lay on his bed, his fingers interlaced with Ginny’s. He appeared lost in thought, blissfully unaware of the heavy discussion brewing just a few feet away.

Ron, seated in the worn chair beside the desk, had never felt more anxious. The words Hermione had spoken echoed in his mind:“It’s important that we don’t let Harry know about our efforts to save his soul for now.”He tapped his foot nervously against the wooden legs of the chair, a rhythm of unsteady resolve.

“Okay,” Hermione said, her brow furrowed as she paced back and forth like a minister preparing to deliver an urgent address. “So, the first ingredient—thestral hair.”

“Right,” Harry replied, his voice brightening with curiosity. “But how do we even get it?”

“Well,” Hermione began, glancing over at Ron and Ginny. “At the moment, we don’t have a clear strategy. We must collect hair from wild Thestrals, which are not easily found in the magical world.”

“I have an idea of someone who can help us,” Harry proclaimed enthusiastically.

Ron’s heart drummed in his chest at the desperation in Harry’s voice, the trust radiating from him. They couldn’t let him know. Not yet. “Hagrid?” he forced himself to suggest, masking the anxiety bubbling beneath his facade.

“Exactly!” Harry said, enthusiasm replacing confusion. “Hagrid knows magical creatures better than anyone!”

A small part of Ron felt proud for his friend’s quick thinking—Harry was strong and clever. But another part felt heavy with guilt. He glanced at Ginny, who was watching Harry with adoration, completely oblivious to the tension creeping between them.

Hermione reached for the book, tapping it lightly with her finger, her expression deepening in thought. “But remember, Harry,” she started carefully, “gathering the ingredients is going to take time, and we can’t risk you knowing what the potion is truly for.”

“Why not?” Harry’s brows knitted in confusion, his innocence almost palpable. Ron could see Hermione’s resolve waver for a moment.

“Because—” Hermione began, but Ron interjected, “Let’s just focus on the ingredients for now, yeah?” His voice was sharper than he intended, but the seriousness of their undertaking hung heavy in the air.

“Fine,” Harry relented, visibly confused. “So, what’s next after Thestral hair?”

Hermione flipped through the book, her fingers dancing over the pages. “A piece of the doorway where life departs.”

Silence draped over the room, thick with uncertainty. Ron scowled, feeling the added weight of the riddle pressing down on him. “Why can’t they just say, ‘a pinch of salt’ or something straightforward?” He rubbed his temples, already feeling the tension building in his mind. “Could this be hinting at a graveyard gate, perhaps?”

“Or maybe a portkey,” Ginny suggested, the lines on her forehead deepening as she clearly struggled to make sense of their next steps.

Their chatter drifted aimlessly, each suggestion drawing them into deeper confusion rather than clarity. Ron felt exasperated; it was as if they were walking a labyrinth with no exit in sight. Just when he felt the creeping sense of frustration taking over, Ginny uttered something intriguing.

“We could talk to the ghosts,” she proposed. “Nearly Headless Nick could be quite helpful.”

Hermione frowned. “His soul wouldn’t be confined here if he knew of any portals. Besides… they might not have much to offer.”

Ron rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the itch of worry settle in. “What if there was another way? To communicate with those who have passed?”

“There’s one method,” Hermione said tentatively. “But it… it’s lost deep within the forest.” She glanced hesitantly at Harry, who was now staring wide-eyed, a shadow crossing his face.

Finally, Ron put two and two together. “You’re talking about the Resurrection Stone?” he asked, aghast at the thought.

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed, her resolve quickening. “The stone has the power to summon the dead, but...” Her voice trailed off, filled with apprehension.

Anxiety twisted in Harry’s stomach as he observed the expressions on his friends’ faces, understanding that the stone was beyond their reach. Determining its exact location seemed impossible, and searching for it again would be a laborious and inefficient task. Despite his desire to assist his companions, he realised that their efforts would be in vain, just as Hermione had predicted.

“Let’s just forget about the stone,” Ron proposed quietly, his voice barely cutting through the stagnant air. His eyes darted between the group, seeking an escape from their palpable dread. “Is there another method we can use to communicate with the dead?” The silence stretched, a tight, suffocating silence, as each of them retreated into their thoughts.

Harry’s mind drifted to that haunting night, the flickering shadows, and the whispers that had crossed the ethereal divide between life and death. The ghost of his parents stood before him then, vivid as ever, and Sirius… Sirius had slipped away, bound to the fabric of that enigmatic Veil. The sharp ache in his heart throbbed, a cruel reminder of loss. Suddenly, it struck him—a surge of memory intertwined with longing—“A piece of the doorway where life departs.” The realization hit him like a jolt; the Veil had been more than just sorrow—it could be the key.

“Yes!” he yelled, surprising even himself. His eyes sparkled with newfound hope, catching the attention of his friends. They turned towards him, curiosity piqued in their expressions, faces shifting from worry to intrigue.

Hermione halted her pacing, her brow furrowing as she focused on Harry. “What do you mean by that?”

“The Veil,” he stated simply, the words heavy with implication.

At first, there was a moment of confusion, an invisible puzzle lingering in the air as they processed his statement. Then, comprehension washed over Hermione’s features. “Oh, Harry, why didn’t I think of that sooner?” she exclaimed, her excitement mirroring the spark blooming in Harry’s chest.

“I only just remembered the dream,” he explained, his mind racing. “Sirius was floating away through some kind of archway. You told me he fell through the Veil—I never connected the two until just now!”

Ginny glanced at Harry with a wistful expression tinged with sadness. “Couldn’t you still remember everything from that day?” she asked softly.

Harry shrugged, the shadows of memory looming unpredictably behind his eyelids. “My memories pop up, but they’re all jumbled. Anyway—” he gestured with renewed energy, “let’s say we’ve found the second ingredient. How do we reach the Death Chamber? The significance of ‘a piece of the doorway’… do we actually have to chip away at it?”

Hermione pondered for a moment, her brow furrowing in concentration. “The Death Chamber is in the Department of Mysteries. To access it, we need to take the lifts to Level Nine from the Ministry Atrium. There’s a black entrance door, but that level is sealed tight—no windows, no other doors. The chamber itself has handleless doors, but if you ask them to exit, they’ll open.”

“Very cryptic.” Ron crossed his arms, scepticism etched on his face. “And how do we convince someone at the Ministry to help us grab that... artefact? They’ll want to know why.”

Ginny perked up at the thought. “Maybe Dad or Percy could help! Dad worked for the Order in the Department of Mysteries, and he knows about the Veil. He might have some insight into retrieving it safely.”

Ron scoffed at the suggestion. “Percy? Really? He’s always been self-centred. I don’t trust him—even after all this time.”

“But he’s changed,” Ginny argued, a fierce loyalty sparking in her eyes. “He sacrificed his room for Harry. He’s trying to make amends. You should at least consider it.”

“I’ll consider it only if he knows how to find the Veil!” Ron retorted, still unsure about Percy’s loyalty to the cause.

“Harry, I think Ron has a point,” Hermione interjected, keen to diffuse the brewing argument. “They’d definitely need to chop off part of the archway because it specifies a ‘piece.’”

Ron looked horrified. “You really think I could swallow that potion with a chunk of rock and Thestral hair in it? I might hurl before we even get to the third ingredient.”

After quickly scanning the text, their eyes fell upon the next-to-last component, spelled out in cryptic elegance: “A tear from a guise to obscure from demise.”

Everyone but Hermione exclaimed in confusion, “A what?” Ron scratched his head, his frown deepening as he dissected the odd phrase. “‘A guise to obscure from demise?’ What does that mean?”

Hermione, wearing the calm expression that had become a hallmark of her leadership among them, took a deep breath. “The term ‘guise’ refers to an appearance or form,” she began, her voice steady. “To ‘obscure’ means to hide, and ‘demise’ refers to death. So, it seems like we need to find—or create—something that can evade even death itself.”

As her words sunk in, an oppressive silence settled in the room, the weight of the question looming ominously. Harry felt his heart race, an instinctual dread creeping over him. What kind of form eluded death? He glanced at Ron, who appeared equally perplexed.

“Wait,” Ron interjected, brow furrowed. “Isn’t death just... inevitable? If your time has come, there’s no stopping it, right?”

Hermione shook her head gently. “I don’t think it means literal death. I think it means Death as a concept, as a personified force. So, in that case, how do we hide from Death?”

A spark in Harry’s mind ignited. “Being invisible!” he said instinctively, his excitement bubbling up. “And for that, you need the—”

“Invisibility Cloak!” Ron and Ginny finished in unison, voices rising slightly with enthusiasm.

“Where’s the Invisibility Cloak?” Ginny asked anxiously, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting it to materialise before her.

“It’s in my beaded bag,” Hermione replied, her tone breezy.

“Did you bring the bag with you?” Harry asked, a sense of relief washing over him. He could feel the cloak’s presence somehow, as if it shielded them all.

“Yes,” came Hermione’s affirmation. “It’s still in Ginny’s room, packed away.”

“Great! So we just need to—” Ron began, but Hermione’s sudden change in demeanour made him trail off. The intensity in her eyes was laced with a reluctant gravity.

“What should we do with the cloak?” Ron prompted, but it was Hermione’s answer that stunned them all.

“We have to tear it,” she whispered, her words barely breaking the stagnant air.

“What?!” Harry exclaimed, his mind scrambling to comprehend her suggestion. Ron stiffened alongside Ginny, shock weaving through them.

“That’s what the book says, Harry,” Hermione insisted, her gaze unwavering.

“But…” Harry struggled to articulate his disbelief and turmoil. The Invisibility Cloak was one of the most revered magical artefacts in existence; it belonged to him for a reason—a legacy from his father, irreplaceable.

Ron, still grappling with the implications, stammered, “You really think we can do that? Tear such a legendary item?”

“Xenophilius confirmed that no magic can harm it; only its possessor can,” Hermione reminded, her eyes locking onto Harry’s. “You’re the possessor, Harry.”

Those words hung in the air, wrapping around him like a weighted blanket. The cloak was more than just a piece of fabric; it was a symbol of protection, of the legacy, of memories shared with loved ones lost. The thought of tearing it made his chest ache, but the chilling reality of their quest loomed over him far more palpably.

After what felt like an eternity of internal conflict, Hermione leaned closer, her voice softening. “It might be our best option, Harry.”

He felt a swell of emotions crash against him—fear, anger, sadness—but he met Hermione’s gaze, and the resolve in her eyes slowly seeped into him. After a moment of contemplation, feeling the weight of their mission, he nodded, albeit reluctantly, knowing this was not just a trivial decision.

“Let’s do it,” he whispered, the burden of choice heavy on his heart.

As Hermione checked her book in silence, a sense of relief washed over her, allowing her to move forward and read the final part with renewed determination.

A drop of the afflicted’s blood

“It’s my blood,” Harry explained simply. There was no need to deduce anything; it was.

Hermione looked up, her eyes locked onto Harry’s, a swirl of understanding passing between them. She nodded thoughtfully.

“How long do you think it will take us to find the thestral hair and a piece of the archway?” The eagerness in Ron’s tone was intense, and for a moment, hope bloomed in Harry’s chest.

Taking a moment to calculate, Hermione responded thoughtfully, “Based on our current resources and the availability of the required ingredients, I estimate that it should not take us more than a few months to gather everything we need.”

Harry could feel Ron’s scepticism looming in the corner. “Months?” Ron’s incredulity echoed as he grappled with the timeline. Harry exchanged a glance with Ron, a mix of reassurance and acknowledgement passing between them.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Harry said quietly, a faint resolve edging into his voice. “I’m aware of my limited time, and I have come to terms with it. But I’ll do whatever it takes to stay alive for as long as I can.” The sincerity of his words settled heavily in the room.

As a contemplative silence enveloped them, Harry could almost hear unspoken concerns swirling in their minds. They knew that they needed to make quick and decisive decisions in order to solve the looming mystery.

Hermione’s urgency broke through once more. “We need to consult your father about the Veil, Ron,” she whispered. “And we must send a letter to Hagrid as soon as possible.”

Ron grimaced as he glanced at the clock. “It’s past his bedtime now. Dad will be asleep, and Pig won’t want to deliver a letter in the dead of night.” A sigh escaped him, not necessarily out of disbelief, but perhaps exhaustion—a weariness that he, too, could feel creeping into their hearts.

Ginny chimed in, her voice a soothing tide against their raced thoughts. “We can tackle it first thing in the morning. It’s best not to disturb anyone during these late hours.”

“Does it mention how long it takes to brew the potion?” Ron asked, his gaze darting to Hermione’s open book, grasping at anything tangible.

“Just an hour,” Hermione replied, flipping through the pages. But then she seemed to seize on something in a way that silenced the room. A sharp gasp escaped her, drawing the attention of her friends.

“What is it?” they asked, nearly in unison, their hearts all but pounding with curiosity.

With widened eyes, Hermione hesitated before finally venturing, “I’ve just made a connection, but it seems too coincidental.” The fervour in her voice made Harry sit up straighter.

“Out with it, Hermione! What have you realised?” Ron pressed, the urgency palpable in his tone.

“The three ingredients,” she breathed, “bear an uncanny resemblance to the Deathly Hallows!”

Harry felt his heart race as she laid it out. Thestral tail hair—fabled for its extraordinary power—could change everything. “Thestral tail hair is considered one of the most potent wand cores, like the Elder Wand,” Hermione pointed out breathlessly. “And the Veil’s archway, much like the fabled Resurrection Stone, grants individuals the ability to perceive the realm of the afterlife with profound clarity.”

“The archway’s Veil…” Harry interjected, memories surfacing like a distant echo. “It holds voices—whispers from the other side.” The tragic remembrance of Sirius washed over him anew, alongside a flicker of determination.

“Yes!” Hermione continued, buoyed by Harry’s thoughts. “And your Invisibility Cloak completes the equation—the tie that binds each item to the legend.”

Ron’s bewilderment deepened. “What relevance does that have to our current situation?”

“Possessing these three objects makes you the Master of Death,” Hermione explained, her voice confident, a fire ignited in her gaze.

Harry felt a chill run down his spine, at once thrilling and terrifying.

“Wait—brewing the potion only takes an hour,” Ron remarked, his thoughts racing. “Why is the process so brief?”

“The rarity and complexity of the ingredients account for that,” Hermione clarified. “Additionally, the potency of the potion is enhanced by the combination of these unique ingredients.”

Harry felt the excitement coursing through his veins like a potent potion; it mingled with the anxiety that had plagued him for weeks, ever since the whispers of a damaged soul had haunted his thoughts.

“This is great!” he exclaimed, breathless. The knowledge he’d stumbled upon felt like a lifeline thrown into turbulent waters. He could almost feel the grip of despair loosening around his heart as he envisioned the potion that promised freedom, a remedy for the wounds he’d gathered over years of fighting dark forces. “I’m looking forward to drinking that potion and being free of this damaged soul!” His smile was bright, a beacon in contrast to the encroaching darkness he fought against.

But when he shared his excitement with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, their eyes widened with horror, as if they were witnesses to a tragic event unfolding before them. The warmth of hope that had enveloped Harry instantly chilled. Ginny’s hand felt like ice in his grip, and Ron had begun to sweat as if he were facing a boggart. Hermione stood rigid, her usually composed demeanour shattered.

“What’s happening?” Harry asked, brow furrowed, confusion clawing at his insides. The epiphany he had experienced transformed into dread as their fearful expressions continued to perplex him. “What’s wrong?” Desperation tinged his voice, seeking understanding in their silence.

The room held a heavy tension, thick as fog. Ron and Ginny exchanged worried glances, their eyes darting away from Harry’s pleading gaze. Hermione, fidgeting nervously, combed through a tangle of thoughts while the seconds stretched painfully long.

Increasingly frustrated by their silence and fearful expressions, Harry’s patience began to wear thin. “What?” He asked again. He felt a surge of anxiety building in his stomach, a sense of unease growing within him as he desperately sought answers from his friends.

“Please, Harry, try to understand,” Hermione finally spoke, her voice trembling as she leaned closer, as if the distance could bridge the chasm of anxiety. “Don’t react in anger before listening to me.”

“What did you do?” Harry’s utterance was sharper than he intended, a blade of apprehension slicing through the thick silence. The sight of Hermione’s expression—palid and fearful—did little to ease the mounting tempest in his chest.

“We didn’t do anything, Harry,” she whispered, almost as if saying it too loudly might trigger something even more dreadful.

“Then what’s the issue?” His voice cracked with impatience, the muscles in his jaw tightening. Something was off, and dread coiled within him like a serpent, ready to strike.

Hermione hesitated, the lump forming in her throat making her swallow hard. She glanced at Ron and Ginny for support, but their worried expressions only fuelled her nerves. “The potion is meant to be drunk by… us,” she finally managed, her eyes flickering away.

Harry recoiled, his mind racing, trying to grasp the enormity of her words. “What!” he burst out, incredulous. “But why? This doesn’t make sense! I’m the one with the soul in danger! Shouldn’t I be the one to drink it?” Panic squeezed his heart as he sought assurance from Ron and Ginny, but only uncertainty met him.

“The book mentions that the potion should be ingested by those who will save your soul, not necessarily you,” Ginny said softly, the tremor in her voice betraying her unease.

Harry’s head spun, the pulses of pressure inside throbbing against his skull. “Wait a minute, what do you mean by ‘those who will save?’” He questioned, his voice thick with dread as the answer—the one he sensed looming in the shadows—slowly crystallised.

Ron finally spoke, his voice wrapped in gravity. “We’re the ones trying to save your soul, mate,” he confessed, as if finally relieving a heavy burden. “We’re the ones drinking the potion.”

“No!” Harry shouted, shaking his head in disbelief. “You can’t be serious! This is madness!” His heart raced as he grappled with what they had just revealed, the very thought cracking his resolve. “You must have misunderstood the instructions.”

Hermione stepped forward, attempting to cut through his chaos with calmness. “It’s the only way, Harry.” Her certainty unsettled the chaos within him.

“The only way to save my soul?” he echoed, his voice betraying the rising fear.

Ron leaned in, frustration threading through his words. “Why did you think you had to face this alone?” he asked, a hint of exasperation colouring his tone. “We’re here to help you, no matter the cost.”

Harry’s insides churned violently, anger bubbling up to the surface. “That’s exactly what I wanted!” he yelled, the intensity of his emotions spilling over. “I don’t want any of you to risk your lives because of me! I have to confront this challenge on my own!”

But Ron remained unfaltering, his voice laced with determination. “It’s not just your decision, Harry. We’re willing to risk everything—even our own souls—to save you.”

Shock washed over Harry, disbelief shadowing his features. “What!” he gasped, chills racing down his spine. “You would put your own souls in jeopardy for me?”

Caught off guard by his own words, Ron’s bravado flickered in the light of his own realisation. “Harry, please understand,” he implored, desperation creeping into his tone. “We would go to any lengths to protect you.”

Hermione, her expression pleading, leaned closer. “Harry, please, just hear us out. Let us explain our reasons.”

Harry quickly stood up and seized the book from Hermione’s hands with a sense of urgency.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione’s voice was laced with surprise and a hint of concern as he flipped through the brittle pages. “You don’t have to—”

But Harry didn’t hear her. An unsettling dread gnawed at him like a hungry wolf, relentless in its hunt. The words he saw seemed to echo in his mind, persistent and cold:‘It would cost a higher price to recondition the soul if attempted. And if it should fail, in accordance with who may have tried, the cost will, therefore, be marked the same as the other.’

Panic surged through Harry’s veins, and he could feel himself turning pale. The book slipped from his trembling hands, thudding heavily to the floor as he bolted across the room toward the bathroom. Caught in the grip of horror, he barely made it in time, collapsing in front of the toilet as waves of nausea overwhelmed him.

A chorus of murmurs followed him in his hour of need. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny rushed to his side, concern etched on their faces as they worriedly hovered around the doorway. Ginny stepped inside, her hand gently massaging his back, while Ron and Hermione exchanged glances, fully aware of the burden that lay heavy on Harry’s heart.

“Harry, please,” Ginny urged softly, her touch both firm and reassuring.

Yet all he could hear was the haunting replay of that dreadful quote… Marked the same as the other...They can’t do this. They shouldn’t do this. Their own souls will be in danger!

“Are you telling me that this potion might not just save me, but could cost you everything?” Harry choked, his voice cracking with desperation and tears.

Hermione stepped forward, fingertips trembling at her sides. “Harry, we believe it’s a risk worth taking. The book suggests that those who care for you—who love you in a way—must partake in the potion to reach your soul. We’re connected to you, and that bond is what can ultimately save you.”

“She’s right,” Ron added, his brow furrowed as the absurdity of the situation sank in. “But it’s not just a potion; it’s more complicated. You’ve always faced danger alone, and we can’t sit idly by while you do it again. You’re our friend, and… and we’re family.”

A wave of emotion swelled within Harry—a mix of gratitude and resentment that left him spinning. “Family? Do you really think risking yourselves makes us family? It just makes you—” He faltered, anger battling with an overwhelming sense of love and responsibility. He ran a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture no longer offering comfort.

“Please, Harry! This isn’t something to argue about!” Ginny implored, her voice cracking. “We don’t want to see you in pain anymore. You think you have to be the hero, but it’s okay to let us help you! We are stronger together—”

“Stronger together?” Harry echoed incredulously, his voice rising. “What if it doesn’t work? What if it fails? Then I’ll have put you all in danger for nothing!”

Hermione stepped forward, facing him with fierce determination. “And what if it works? What if this is our chance to save you, to ensure your soul is whole again? You have to trust us, Harry! We’re not doing this without understanding the risks—it’s because we love you that we’re willing to take them!”

Silence fell over the bathroom, the waning light filtering through the small window and casting shadows that danced ominously along the walls. Each of them felt the weight of Hermione’s words. Harry’s heart raced as he pondered the enormity of their commitment. The trust his friends had in one another seemed like a gravitational force, one that tugged at him with a disarming intensity.

Perhaps they were right—perhaps it was time to share the burden, to let go of the stubbornness that had long since dictated his life. But the thought of them suffering because of him twisted his insides into knots.

“What if you… what if you lose yourselves?” he whispered, voice trembling. The uncertainty washed over him like icy water, the thought of losing them far more terrifying than confronting his own demons alone.

Ron took a step closer, his expression unyielding. “That’s why we need to do this together. We’ve faced so much—Voldemort, the Death Eaters—we have to trust each other to pull through. It’s about fighting the fight together, not separately.”

“Harry,” Ginny began softly, “the cost will always be there, whether it’s you or us. But we can’t bear to watch you go through this struggle alone. The potion might help you find that connection—the one we’ve always had.”

“You need to let go of the guilt,” whispered Hermione, kneeling beside him. “We’ve counted the costs, and we’re united in this.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “What’s adventure without a bit of danger, right?” He said as Hermione stamped on his foot. “Besides, aren’t you glad we’re here to help you? You can’t do it alone. To win, you must have backup.”