FicWad

Harry lay stretched on the narrow bed. Ginny was beside him, her legs tucked close, their fingers loosely entwined. Her thumb moved in slow, steady circles over his knuckles—thoughtless, soothing.

From the desk, Ron sat hunched, one leg bouncing restlessly, his foot tapping a near-violent rhythm against the floorboards as though he could beat his way into some kind of clarity. His fingers picked at a loose thread in his jumper. His expression was stormy, brows furrowed, jaw tight.

Harry kept his head on the pillow, his eyes half-closed in feigned rest, but his mind was sharp, alert. Always listening now. He had grown good at the silence between sentences. At hearing the things people didn’t say.

“…can’t let Harry find out about our attempts,” came Hermione’s voice in a low, urgent murmur. “At least not yet.”

Harry’s stomach gave a slow, unpleasant twist.

Attempts.

The word echoed in his mind. Attempts at what? At fixing him? At reversing whatever leftover curse or corruption had burrowed its way into his bones?

He gripped Ginny’s hand slightly tighter. She turned her head, her eyes flicking to his face with a gentle questioning lift of her brow.

He didn’t meet her gaze. He didn’t want her to see the flicker of panic starting to smoulder behind his eyes.

Hermione had begun pacing again. He could hear the soft tread of her shoes on the worn rug, back and forth, back and forth, a rhythm as familiar now as the ticking of the Burrow’s odd assortment of clocks.

She always did this when something was coming. When there was something she had to say and was trying to figure out how to say it in the least terrible way possible.

“Right,” she said at last, her voice brittle with forced resolve. “First ingredient: Thestral hair.”

Harry opened his eyes properly and pushed himself up on one elbow. “Thestrals?” he asked, eyebrows knitting. “How are we supposed to get that?”

Hermione didn’t answer at once. She glanced at the book she’d been holding, its cracked spine and yellowed pages betraying its age. Her fingers brushed the edge like she might coax something gentler from it if she were delicate enough.

“It has to come from a wild Thestral,” she said finally. “One not bred in captivity. And—well—obviously not everyone can see them.”

Harry’s mind jumped immediately to the grounds of Hogwarts, to the clearing near the forest where he’d first seen those skeletal, silent creatures.

“I know someone who can help,” he said after a beat, his voice steadier than he felt. “Hagrid.”

Ron looked up. “You reckon?”

“If anyone can talk a Thestral out of a lock of hair,” Harry said, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, “it’s Hagrid.”

Ron gave a nod. He looked, for a moment, like a weight had been lifted—like maybe this wouldn’t be impossible after all. But then the relief faded, replaced by something Harry recognised too well: guilt.

It crept across Ron’s features, subtle but unmistakable.

Harry didn’t mention it.

But he noticed. He noticed everything now.

Ginny’s fingers tightened around his. When he looked at her, she was watching him with that steady, blazing look he didn’t feel worthy of—the one that made him feel like she saw past the war-scarred, half-shattered boy in front of her and still, somehow, believed in him.

It undid him, that look.

He wanted to be that boy for her. Whole. Solid. Someone who could hold the future in his hands without it shaking.

But Hermione’s voice broke into the moment.

“Even if we manage the hair,” she said, her words slow, precise, and careful, “that’s only the first step.”

Harry turned towards her. “And?”

She hesitated.

And Hermione never hesitated unless it was something awful.

Ron jumped in, too fast. “Let’s just take it one step at a time, yeah?” he said, trying for lightness but cracking somewhere in the middle. “No use borrowing trouble.”

Harry stared at them both, the pressure in his chest mounting. They were doing it again—talking around the truth. Handling him like a fragile artefact in a locked case. He could feel the shape of the lie they hadn’t spoken, hovering just behind their eyes.

Still, he didn’t push.

But the suspicion settled, cold and persistent, in his bones.

“All right,” he muttered, shifting back against the headboard. “What’s next?”

Hermione was hunched over the book again, the thick volume splayed open across her knees, its pages dry and delicate with age. Her fingers moved quickly, rifling through the parchment like they might reveal a salvation hidden between the margins. Her lips moved silently as she read, brows drawing tighter and tighter.

Then she spoke aloud, her voice faint and tight.

“A shivere of the dore wher-thurgh lyf wendeth away.”

Harry blinked. “Sorry—what?”

She didn’t look up. Ron did.

“Oh, brilliant,” Ron muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Just once, I’d like a magical recipe that says, ‘Add a pinch of salt and stir twice,’ not ‘nick something off death’s bloody doorstep.’”

Harry gave a dry, humourless laugh. “What’s next? Harvest a phoenix’s tear under a full moon, right after a breakup?”

Ginny, who had been sitting cross-legged, leaned in now, brow furrowed. “Could it mean a Portkey? Or some kind of portal?”

Hermione finally looked up, shaking her head slightly. “No. It’s metaphorical—or literal. Possibly both. That’s the problem. Ancient spellwork tends to blur the line.”

“Right,” Ron muttered. “So now we’re translating riddles written by Death himself. Splendid.”

Ginny didn’t laugh. Her gaze was fixed on the text now, her tone quiet. “What about ghosts, then? Would they know what the phrase means?”

Harry turned to look at her.

Hermione’s answer came softly, gently. “Ghosts wouldn’t still be here if they knew how to leave. They’re imprints. Echoes. They’re stuck. If they’d seen the door, they’d have gone through it.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Ron leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “There’s got to be a way. A way to speak to the dead.”

Harry’s breath caught.

The thought struck fast and sharp.

His parents. Sirius. Lupin. Names etched into the corners of his mind, like scars he’d stopped noticing until someone brushed them by mistake. He still heard their voices in dreams sometimes—saw them out of the corner of his eye. He never told anyone.

There’s got to be a way.

Wasn’t that what he’d wanted, once?

To bring them back—not properly, not wholly—but just… to hear them again. To ask the questions he hadn’t known to ask when they were alive.

He felt Ginny’s hand slip into his. Her grip was warm, firm.

He didn’t speak. But the idea rooted itself deep and cold in his chest.

There’s a doorway where life departs.

And somehow—he didn’t know how—he knew they were going to find it.

Hermione met his eyes then. There was something new in her face—more than caution. Something closer to grief. And behind it, beneath all her logic and reason, something fierce and unspoken.

Quiet hope. Desperate hope.

“There is one way,” she said softly. “One… theory, really. But it’s ancient. Dangerous. Practically forgotten.”

Harry’s stomach turned over.

Ron inhaled sharply. “You mean… the Resurrection Stone?”

Hermione gave a slow, single nod.

The atmosphere in the room shifted at once. The air seemed thinner, colder, as though something had crept in unnoticed and now lingered in the corners.

Harry felt the tightness rise in his chest. He was already back there—in the Forest. The weight of the stone in his hand. His mother’s voice whispering his name. His father’s eyes, calm and steady. Sirius’s grin, like no time had passed at all. Lupin, standing apart, watching with something quiet and infinite in his expression.

And then… gone. All of them. Torn away.

He swallowed, hard. “It’s gone,” he said. “I dropped it. Deliberately.”

“I know,” Hermione said gently. “But if we could retrace—if we knew the exact spot—maybe—”

“No.” It came out sharper than he meant. “No chasing it. Not again.”

The silence fell fast and deep.

None of them challenged him. Not even Hermione. And that, somehow, made it worse.

They were tired. All of them. Tired of digging up the past. Tired of rituals and relics and ancient objects. Tired of pretending the war was over when it still echoed through every conversation.

“Maybe,” Ron said, faltering, “maybe there’s another way?”

He sounded like he didn’t believe it.

Harry didn’t reply.

He just leaned back into the pillows, Ginny’s hand still warm in his, and stared up at the ceiling.

His thoughts tumbled into one another, chasing fragments of memory and broken theories. The Resurrection Stone. Death’s doorway. Echoes of things he’d barely survived the first time.

And somewhere, at the edge of it all, he felt that familiar fear again. The slow, creeping suspicion that the people he loved were preparing for something without him. That they were planning around him. As though he were too fragile. As though he couldn’t be trusted with what came next.

And maybe they were right.

He didn’t even realise he’d been staring so long—thinking so hard—until something snapped into place in his memory. Sharp. Sudden. Electric.

That night.

The whispers.

The Veil.

He saw it again, clearer than a dream—the great stone arch deep in the Department of Mysteries. The cold, breathless silence of it. The way Sirius had fallen through, not like a man struck down, but like someone pulled. The way the fabric of the world had rippled around it, as if something ancient had stirred beneath.

Everyone had said Sirius had died. But Harry had felt it. Whatever had taken him—it hadn’t been death in any ordinary sense.

It had been a threshold.

His pulse spiked.

A line from the Anima book echoed in his head.

A shivere of the dore wher-thurgh lyf wendeth away.

It struck him like lightning.

Harry sat bolt upright.

“Yes!”

Hermione froze mid-step, one hand still raised from where she’d been gesturing wildly. Ron stared at him. Ginny blinked.

Hermione was the first to speak, her voice cautious. “Harry?”

He sat forward, pulse pounding, words tumbling out too fast. “The Veil. In the Department of Mysteries. That’s what it is. That’s the door. The ingredient—the piece of the doorway—it’s real. Not a metaphor, not some poetic riddle. It’s the Veil.”

For a moment, no one responded. Hermione’s brow crumpled, confusion flickering across her face—then suddenly, her eyes lit with dawning understanding.

“Oh… oh, Harry.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, then lowered it slowly. “Of course. The Veil. I can’t believe I missed it.”

He shook his head, breathless. “It just came to me. Like—like something clicked. Sirius—when he fell through—everyone kept saying he died. But it never felt like a normal death. Not to me.”

Ron grimaced. “You mean that creepy whispering thing? That arch with the fluttery curtain? That’s what we’re talking about?”

Harry nodded, his mouth dry. “Yeah. That.”

Ginny leaned forward. “Do you remember anything else? From that day?”

Harry exhaled shakily, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. The memories were like half-heard whispers—jagged and blurred. “Fragments, mostly. Like a Pensieve memory that’s cracked. But this… this bit’s clear. It feels right. I know that’s what it means.”

Something uncoiled inside him—fizzing under his skin, sharp and restless. Energy. The first real spark of it in hours. Maybe days.

“So that’s it. That’s the second ingredient. A piece of the Veil. But—how do we even get that? Do we literally break it off? Isn’t that probably cursed? Or illegal? Or both? And how do we even get back into the Department of Mysteries?”

Hermione had already resumed her pacing, her eyes darting as she mapped it all in her head. “It’s on Level Nine. You take the lifts down, past the Wizengamot. Then there’s the black door—no handle, no windows. The circular room with all the doors that spin unless you pick the right one. The Death Chamber is behind one of them. No one talks about it. It’s ancient. Forbidden.”

“Lovely,” Ron muttered, folding his arms. “Shall we pack a picnic and write our wills while we’re at it?”

Ginny sat upright. “Dad could help. Or Percy. Dad was on duty for the Order of the Phoenix before he was attacked by a snake—he knows the Ministry better than anyone. And he knows about the Veil.”

Ron pulled a face. “Percy? Seriously? The man uses three sentences to say, ‘Pass the salt.’”

Ginny shot him a glare. “He gave up his room for Harry. He’s trying, Ron. That has to count for something.”

Ron shrugged. “Trying doesn’t mean he’s not still a complete Ministry bore. He’s probably got a regulation against being useful.”

“Focus,” Hermione said sharply, rounding on them both. “Ginny’s right—we’ll need someone inside. Someone to help us get to the Chamber without raising suspicion. And yes,” she added, turning back to Harry, her tone grim, “I think the ingredient is literal. We’ll need a piece of the Veil itself.”

Ron looked horrified. “Right. Let me just get this straight. You want me to drink a potion made of—what was it?—Thestral hair and fragments of Death’s bedroom curtains, and next I suppose we’ll need tears from a phoenix going through an emotional breakdown?”

Harry couldn’t help it. The laugh escaped before he could stop it—dry and cracked.

“You’ll live,” he said, grinning faintly. “We’re not eating it raw.”

They turned back to the book. The next riddle was printed in curling, archaic script:

“A tere y-drawe from a maske y-set to shrouden ageyn Deth.”

Ron leaned in, squinting. “What in Merlin’s saggy Y-fronts does that mean?”

Hermione had already gone into full explanation mode. “A ‘tere’ is a tear. ‘Y-drawe’ means drawn or pulled. ‘Maske’ is a mask, guise, or false face. ‘Y-set’ means set or placed. ‘To shrouden’ is to conceal, cover, or protect. And ‘ageyn Deth’… means it’s against death.”

“So…” Ron dragged out the words, eyebrows drawn, “a tear from something that hides you from dying?”

The answer landed in Harry’s chest before his mouth had time to catch up. He felt it click into place like a key in a lock.

He looked up slowly. “The Invisibility Cloak.”

They all fell silent.

It was one of those rare moments where nobody wanted to say it first—because saying it aloud made it real.

Ron broke it. “Blimey. Yeah. Yeah, it does sound like that.”

Hermione nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around the edge of the book. “It makes sense. The Cloak is one of the Hallows—the only one that’s said to hide you completely from Death.”

Ginny glanced at Hermione. “Where is it?”

“In my bag,” Hermione said, as if she were ticking off a list of ingredients for a potion. “Still packed.”

Harry released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Relief swept through him, strange and sharp.

That cloak… It had followed him through everything. Escapes, battles, dark nights in forests, late walks at Hogwarts. It was his father’s. It was safety. A piece of something older than he was—older than all of this.

“You brought it?” he asked, the words a little too quick.

Hermione’s expression softened. “Of course I did. I always do.”

Harry nodded. “Good. We’ll need it.”

Ron clapped his hands together, all mock enthusiasm. “Brilliant. So we just—”

He broke off midsentence. His hands hovered in the air, his mouth half-open, but the words didn’t come.

Harry turned—and saw why.

Hermione had gone completely still. Her face had drained of colour, her lips drawn into a pale, rigid line. She was staring down at the book as though it had suddenly turned into something dark and dangerous.

“Hermione?” he asked, quietly. The fragile thread of hope he’d been clinging to flickered.

Slowly, she raised her head. Her eyes were clouded with something unreadable. Not fear exactly—but something close. “We have to tear it.”

The words landed like a slap.

Harry blinked. “Sorry—what?”

She tapped the page with her finger. “That’s what it says. Clear as anything. It has to be damaged—by the one who possesses it. Willed damage. Intentional.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

“No way,” Ron said flatly, breaking the silence. “You mean the cloak? The unbeatable, unhexable, can’t-even-wrinkle-it cloak?”

Hermione’s voice was grim. “That one.”

Harry’s stomach gave an odd twist. His throat felt tight.

The Cloak.

His father’s cloak. The one thing that had truly belonged to James Potter. The only thing of his that still had weight, warmth, and meaning.

“You’re sure?” he asked, knowing the answer before she even replied.

Hermione’s tone softened. She wasn’t cold. But she didn’t flinch either. “Yes. I checked it three times. It’s written in binding runes—there’s no other way. It has to be damaged to release the power it holds.”

Harry said nothing. His hands had curled into fists on his knees. His shoulders were tight.

He didn’t want to admit it, but part of him hated her for saying it. Not Hermione exactly, but the logic. The unrelenting certainty. The way the world never seemed to care what he wanted to keep.

Ginny’s fingers brushed lightly against his forearm—just the barest touch. “Harry… Are you alright?”

No.

No, he was not.

But he nodded anyway, because anything else would break the room in two.

“I just—” He shook his head sharply, frustrated. “It’s meant to be indestructible.”

Hermione’s eyes didn’t leave his. “It is. But you’re the Cloak’s master. That makes you the exception.”

His laugh was hollow. “Oh, brilliant. So the one thing I’ve got left of my dad—the one thing I’ve always had—we tear it up like scrap parchment.”

Ron scratched the back of his neck, grimacing. “You know, for a magical artefact that’s meant to cheat death, it’s got a bloody terrible warranty.”

“Legendary artefacts often do,” Hermione muttered, almost to herself. “But I think a small piece is enough, not the whole cloak.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable.

Harry looked at the three of them. Ron, avoiding his eyes; Hermione, thumbing the corner of the page like it might somehow change if she kept fidgeting; Ginny, steady and quiet, still there beside him.

And suddenly, he understood.

This wasn’t about an heirloom. Or sentiment. Or even James Potter.

This was about the soul. His soul.

And if it took breaking something precious to mend something deeper—something fractured, something sacred—then maybe… maybe it was worth it.

He swallowed hard.

“Fine,” he said, the word scraped raw from somewhere deep. “Let’s do it.”

Hermione let out a long breath, like she’d been holding her spine stiff for hours. She turned back to the book, flipping through the pages with renewed urgency.

“Right. The ritual needs four core elements. Aside from the cloak and the Thestral hair… A single drop of blood drawn from one who suffereth.”

“That’s me,” Harry cut in, lifting his hand. “Shocking, I know.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Could be me. I’ve definitely got the right mix of brooding and poorly timed humour. Might’ve missed my ancient magical curse destiny.”

Harry gave him a dry look. “Do you have a soul that screams like it’s being hexed whenever you try to sleep?”

Ron considered. “Fair point.”

Ginny snorted.

Hermione pressed on. “So. Thestral hair. A piece of the Veil. A tear from the cloak. And blood. Those are the four.”

Ron groaned loudly, flinging his arms up. “Oh, brilliant. So we’ll just stroll down to the Ministry, hop into the Department of Mysteries, and nick a bit off the haunted arch that whispers death. Maybe while we’re there we can pinch a cursed quill and a Dementor or two.”

“Be serious,” Hermione snapped, though not unkindly.

Ron held up his hands. “Oh, I am.”

“We’ll need to plan it carefully,” she went on. “Split up. Gather what we need, quietly. If we work efficiently, we could manage it in—well, a few months.”

“Months?” Ron squawked. “Are you mad?”

But Harry was already leaning forward, his voice low.

“We don’t have months. But I’m not stopping. Not if there’s a chance. I’ll fight for every day I’ve got left.”

No one argued.

Ginny’s voice broke the silence, soft but resolute. “Then we’d best get on with it.”

Harry turned to her, and something in his chest—something heavy and knotted—eased.

“Right,” he murmured. “Let’s go destroy some priceless magical artefacts, then.”

Hermione shut the book gently, the sound small and decisive.

“We’ll need to speak to your dad, Ron. He might know more about the Veil. And we should write to Hagrid. He knows Thestrals, and he’d help without question.”

Ron glanced at the clock and sighed. “Little late now. Dad’ll be out like a log. And Pig’d take my hand off if I tried to send anything at this hour.”

“First thing in the morning,” Ginny said, calm as ever. “We’ll sort it. For now, we need sleep.”

Harry nodded. Sleep seemed a far-off thing, but he was grateful for her steadiness. She always knew when to ground them, even when the ground was crumbling beneath their feet.

Ron was peering over Hermione’s shoulder again. “Does it say how long the potion takes to brew?”

Hermione flipped back through the ritual page. “About an hour, give or take.”

She frowned suddenly, her eyes narrowing at the text, as if something had just jumped out at her.

Harry leaned in. “What is it?”

Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, tinged with wonder. “The ingredients… they line up with the Deathly Hallows. Almost perfectly.”

Harry stared at her, heart skipping a beat. “What?”

Ron leaned in, disbelieving. “You’re joking.”

Hermione shook her head, the strands of her hair catching in the candlelight as her voice took on that sharp, electric edge—the one she always got when she was right on the cusp of figuring something out. Her eyes moved rapidly across the brittle parchment, not really seeing the words now but chasing the connections behind them.

“The Thestral hair. The Cloak. The fragment from the Veil archway…” She drew in a breath, her voice reverent but tense. “It’s not perfect. But it’s close. Far too close for coincidence.”

Harry felt his chest tighten. His heart gave a single, hard thump against his ribs.

“You think this potion’s… connected to the Hallows?” he asked, the words feeling strange even as he said them.

“I don’t know,” Hermione answered quickly, but there was something in her tone that made it clear she suspected more than she was willing to admit. “But I think—we’re walking into something much bigger than any of us realised.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to the book Hermione was holding. The pages were yellowed and fragile, etched in cramped, curling script that shimmered faintly in the candlelight.

His thoughts were buzzing, too fast to catch, like sparks flying from a snapped wand core. He glanced from Hermione to Ron, who was frowning, lips pursed, then to Ginny, who had gone still—watching him, always watching. And back to Hermione again.

Something twisted deep in his gut.

This wasn’t just about mending a piece of soul that Voldemort had left broken in him.

It never had been.

Hermione’s voice softened, almost reverent now. “The Thestral hair—one of the rarest wand cores in existence. Incredibly powerful. And it’s—Harry, it’s the only thing that even comes close to the core of the Elder Wand.”

A chill slipped down Harry’s spine.

“And the Veil…” Her voice dropped further. “It’s not the Resurrection Stone—not exactly. But it is linked to the other side. A threshold. A tear between this world and what waits beyond.”

Something cold coiled in his chest, slow and tight.

The whispers. The voices.

He’d never told anyone how sometimes, in the quiet hours between dreams and waking, he still heard them. Faint and echoing.

Sirius.

His throat clenched. “I’ve heard them. The voices. They’re real.”

The words came out cracked, the last syllable splintering beneath the weight of old grief.

Hermione met his eyes and nodded, slow and steady. “I know.”

She didn’t ask how. She didn’t press. But somehow she understood what he hadn’t said aloud.

“And the cloak,” she went on. “The one thing that ties them all together. Your cloak, Harry.”

He didn’t speak.

He could feel it even now, folded somewhere deep in Hermione’s enchanted bag. As ordinary as an old scarf and as powerful as anything he’d ever known. It had been his protection, his hiding place. His father’s legacy.

Three objects.

Three Hallows.

And now, this potion—this ritual, whatever it was—woven with their essence.

Harry could feel it rising in him again, that strange pulse that wasn’t quite fear or hope but something in between.

This wasn’t just a cure. It wasn’t even just magic.

It was a doorway.

“Hang on—” Ron’s voice cut across the quiet, heavy with suspicion. He frowned, arms folded. “How does any of this help with the potion, though? We’re talking about legendary magical artefacts. What are we meant to do—shove them in a cauldron and hope for the best?”

Hermione didn’t hesitate. Her eyes were burning now, bright with something that could only be described as awe.

“Because wielding all three—the Thestral hair, the Veil’s fragment, and the Cloak—makes someone the Master of Death.”

The room went still.

Harry stopped breathing.

The phrase seemed to hang in the air, thick and tangible.

Master of Death.

It struck down the spine. Like Xenophilius Lovegood had leaned over his shoulder and murmured it into his bones all over again. The Hallows. The ancient legend. Three parts of a whole. Conqueror of the grave.

But Harry didn’t feel powerful.

Ron blinked, clearly trying to catch up. “Wait, the potion only takes an hour to brew? You’re joking. Something like this—it should take days. Weeks, even.”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s not about the time,” she said, her voice low. “It’s about the cost. The rarity. No one would ever be able to gather these things, not in a lifetime. That’s what makes it so dangerous.”

Harry closed his eyes for a second, steadying himself.

Since the moment he’d discovered what Voldemort had left inside him—what had lived inside him—he had felt like a ghost in his own skin. Incomplete. Damaged. Like something had always been missing. And he hadn’t even realised how much it was crushing him until now—until the idea of wholeness had been laid out like a map in front of him.

He looked at them. At Hermione, glowing with fearful brilliance. At Ron, who still looked dubious but hadn’t walked away. At Ginny—his anchor, his light.

“This is it,” he said quietly, his voice catching on the edges. “We’re close. Aren’t we? If this works…”

His breath hitched.

“I’ll finally be free. Of all of it.”

He let the thought unfold in his mind—the soul, whole and unfractured. The nightmares, silenced. The ache that lived in his chest like a second heartbeat was gone. No more lingering shadow of Voldemort clinging to his spirit like a stain.

He let out a breath that trembled in the space between words.

“I can’t wait to drink it,” he said, a grin beginning to pull at his mouth without his permission. It felt strange—like something he’d forgotten how to do. “I want to know what it feels like. To just… be normal again.”

He wasn’t even sure what normal was. But he wanted it. Desperately.

The grin widened, and for a heartbeat, the room shifted.

The world felt possible again. Open. Alive.

And then—

The feeling changed.

Ginny’s hand trembled in his. Her fingers were like ice, her knuckles white against his skin. Ron had gone a peculiar shade of grey, sweat gathering along his brow. And Hermione—Hermione hadn’t moved at all. She stood frozen, eyes locked on the book like it had betrayed her. Like something in it had turned to ash in her hands.

Harry’s smile faltered. A cold, creeping sensation prickled along the back of his neck.

“What?” he asked, the word catching slightly in his throat. “What’s wrong?”

Silence.

Ginny’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Her eyes shimmered, too bright. Ron wouldn’t meet his gaze at all—he was staring down at the carpet as though it might open up and swallow him. And Hermione…

Hermione didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. She looked like she’d just seen something she wished she hadn’t.

The quiet grew heavy, pressing against his skin. Something was wrong. Deeply, unmistakably wrong. He could feel it, cold and spreading, curling around his chest.

“What is it?” He asked again, louder this time. There was a tremor in his voice he didn’t care to hide. “What’s happened?”

Still no answer.

His heart thudded, sharp and uneven. Panic was rising fast now—tight and bright behind his ribs.

Why aren’t they happy?

Why do they look afraid?

He could taste it—fear and dread and something like betrayal. His stomach twisted violently.

“Say something,” he snapped. “What? What is it?”

Hermione stirred at last. She stepped forward slowly, her hands raised slightly, palms open—like she was trying to calm a Hippogriff. Or a wounded animal.

And maybe that’s what he was now.

“Please, Harry,” she said gently, voice soft and careful. “Just… let me explain before you get angry.”

His jaw clenched. That was never a good sign. That tone—he knew it too well. That was the voice people used before saying something they knew would hurt.

“What did you do?” he said, too quickly. It came out like an accusation, but he couldn’t stop it. Dread was clawing its way up his throat, hot and choking.

“We didn’t do anything,” Hermione said at once, shaking her head. “We’ve just—we’ve only been trying to protect you.”

“From what?” Harry demanded. “If you didn’t do anything, what’s the problem, then?”

She hesitated.

And that, more than anything, scared him. Hermione didn’t hesitate.

Her eyes flicked to Ron, who looked suddenly very tired, and then to Ginny, who had turned her face away, blinking fast.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low. Strained. Like the words didn’t want to come.

“The potion,” she said. “It’s not meant to be drunk by the… by the afflicted.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“It’s not for the person whose soul is damaged,” Hermione went on, barely above a whisper now. “It’s for… someone else. Someone who—who’s connected to them. Who cares.”

Harry stared at her.

And then the world tipped sideways.

“What—what are you talking about?”

Hermione still wouldn’t look at him. Her gaze drifted to the book, the spine cracked open. “The ritual requires a bond. The damage has to be drawn out. Shared. The other person takes it in.”

“No,” Harry said instantly. The word left his mouth like a spell, instinctive and absolute. “No. You’re not doing that. None of you are.”

“We already agreed,” Ginny said quietly. Her voice trembled, but her grip on his hand tightened. “All of us.”

Harry shot to his feet. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not letting you—any of you—take that risk. I won’t let you.”

“You don’t get to make that decision anymore,” Hermione said. Her voice was firmer now, thick with emotion, but steady. “You’ve carried this alone for too long. We’re not letting you keep doing that.”

“I have to carry it,” Harry snapped. “It’s mine. I was the one he marked. The one he used. This—this curse, this scar on my soul—it’s because of me.”

“And we know that,” she said, stepping closer. “But it doesn’t mean you have to suffer through it alone.”

His breath hitched. He felt like the walls were closing in. Like everything he thought he understood had just shifted beneath his feet.

This wasn’t how it was meant to go. He was supposed to bear it. That’s what he did. That’s who he was. The one who took the pain so others didn’t have to. That was the cost. His cost.

“That’s not fair,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

“We know,” Hermione said softly.

“You can’t ask me to let you—”

“We’re not asking,” Ginny interrupted. Her voice was quiet but certain, the kind of certainty that could break through even his most stubborn walls. “We’re telling you. We’re doing this.”

Harry’s throat burnt. He wanted to yell, to slam something, to pace the room until the fury drained away. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

They weren’t leaving him this time.

And a part of him—small, secret, and terrified—wanted to believe they shouldn’t.

He closed his eyes.

“…You’re all mental,” he muttered, voice raw.

Ron gave a weak grin, but it was there. “Yeah, well. You’d be lost without us.”

Harry let out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. More a shudder. His thoughts were spinning too fast to follow. He could barely hold on to them—they were colliding like Bludgers in a storm.

Hermione’s words echoed through his skull like a curse.

Not meant to be drunk by the afflicted.

It made no sense. It was all wrong. He stumbled back a step, like distance might make it less real.

“No—no,” he gasped, panic rising sharply in his throat. “That can’t be right. I’m the one whose soul is damaged. I’m the one who’s supposed to take it. That’s what this is for!”

He turned to Ginny and to Ron—desperate for someone to shake their head, to say it had all been a mistake.

But they didn’t.

They looked at him with that same quiet fear. That same awful resolve.

Ginny’s voice quivered as she spoke, barely louder than a breath. “The book says… the potion has to be taken by the ones who are going to save your soul. Not you.”

Her words didn’t hit him like a blow. They didn’t strike—they sank, slow and cold, seeping under his skin until he couldn’t breathe.

“What does that mean?” Harry’s voice came out harsher than he intended, cracked and ragged at the edges. “‘Save my soul’? Who says that? Who decides?”

He was aware, distantly, of the room growing smaller and tighter, the walls pressing in around him like the stone corridors at Hogwarts used to when he wandered them lost in the dark. His temples throbbed, pressure mounting like a curse bearing down on him.

Ron swallowed thickly, his voice strained. “It’s us, Harry. It’s always been us. We’re the ones meant to do it. So… we’re the ones who have to drink it.”

Harry stared at him. The words didn’t register at first. They didn’t fit. It was like someone had rewritten the rules without telling him. His heart was thudding so fast, so loudly, he could barely hear past it.

“No,” he said flatly. “No, that’s mad.”

He backed away, shaking his head hard, as if he could physically shake the idea out of existence. “You’ve misread it. You’ve missed something. There’s got to be another way.”

He turned to Hermione, wild-eyed, hope bleeding through his voice like a plea. “There’s always another way. You—you’ve always got something else.”

But Hermione stepped closer, and it was the steadiness in her voice that undid him. The quiet conviction. No hesitation. No softening.

“There isn’t,” she said simply.

The panic broke fully then, no longer creeping—it surged, roaring up, dragging everything with it.

Ron’s voice cut through, sharp and sudden. “Did you really think you had to do this alone?” There was a roughness to it now, an ache beneath the words. “You always think that. Every bloody time. But not this. Not again. We’re not letting you shut us out this time.”

Harry flinched as if the words had struck him physically. He felt raw, skinned open, like the truth had found its way inside and scraped something exposed.

“That’s what I wanted!” He shouted back, and the sound cracked, sharp and splintered. “I have to do this alone! Don’t you get it? I won’t—” his throat caught, the next words shattering mid-air, “—I won’t let you risk yourselves for me!”

His fists were clenched at his sides, nails digging in until they hurt. He didn’t care. He wanted it to hurt. Something to match the ache building behind his ribs.

But Ron didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver.

“It’s not just your decision anymore,” he said, quieter now but no less firm. “We’re in this. All of us. And if we have to risk our lives—our souls—then we will.”

The words hung in the air, terrible and unflinching.

Harry reeled.

He blinked rapidly, throat tightening. “You’d risk your souls?” he whispered, like the idea itself was too vast to grasp. “For me?”

It didn’t make sense.

Why would they do that?

Why should they?

Ron faltered now, his defiance softening. “Harry, just—just let us explain, yeah?”

Hermione took a step nearer, reaching for him—not touching, not quite. “Please,” she said, her voice thick with unspoken things. “Let us talk to you. Let us help.”

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t hear them. His thoughts were spiralling too fast, tripping over themselves.

He lunged forward suddenly, tearing the book from Hermione’s grasp. The old pages crinkled beneath his fingers as he flipped through them blindly, breath shallow, pulse hammering. There—halfway down the brittle parchment, in narrow inked script—

A soul by evil smitten doth wither and burneth away its being until at last it is no more. To mend such a soul requireth a dearer toll, should any dare the trial. And if that toil falleth short, then, by whomsoever made the venture, the price shall yet be counted alike as the former.

His stomach dropped clean out of him.

Counted alike as the former.

If the potion failed—

If it didn’t work—

It wouldn’t just kill him.

It would take them too.

His hands clenched around the page, trembling. The ink blurred in his vision.

“No,” he breathed, voice hoarse. “No…”

But the words were there. Fixed. Final. Ancient.

They’d die for me.

Worse—

They’d lose their souls for me.

The thought stabbed through him. Hot, brutal. He couldn’t hold it. Couldn’t stand it.

He dropped the book. It landed with a dull, final thud on the floor.

Then he turned—and ran.

He didn’t know where he was going. He just moved, fuelled by something wild and sick and suffocating. His legs carried him without thought, down the corridor, through the doorway—

He barely made it to the bathroom in time.

His knees hit the cold tile. He bent over the toilet, retching, his body convulsing as the nausea wracked through him. He gasped, mouth dry, arms shaking as he gripped the porcelain, the world spinning around him.

His skin was clammy. His heart wouldn’t slow.

They can’t do this.

They can’t. I won’t let them.

But even as the thought took shape, another slid in behind it. Darker. Quieter.

What if they’re right?

What if this really was the only way?

What if… there wasn’t another path?

“Harry?”

Ginny’s voice. Soft. Afraid.

He felt her kneel beside him, her hand on his back, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. She rubbed slow, gentle circles. He couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t speak.

Footsteps. Ron and Hermione hovered at the door, the silence between them louder than anything.

Harry stayed there, bent and broken, the weight in his chest like stone.

It wasn’t just that they were willing to die.

They were willing to lose themselves.

And that—that was worse.

He didn’t lift his head when he finally spoke. His voice was raw, cracked at the seams.

“Are you saying… this potion might not just help me—”

A pause. He swallowed hard.

“—but it could cost you everything?”

His throat burnt as the words clawed their way out, raw and splintered. His eyes stung. He didn’t want to cry—Merlin, he hated crying—but the tears slipped free anyway, hot and sharp and angry. He scrubbed at his face with the sleeve of his jumper, but it was no good. They just kept falling.

He turned to Hermione, not even bothering to hide the desperation in his expression. He needed her to say he’d misunderstood. That he’d skipped over a paragraph or missed a footnote. That the words on the page didn’t mean what he thought they did.

But her face told him he was right.

She stepped closer, cautious and gentle, as though he were something cracked down the middle. Something she wasn’t sure would hold.

“Harry,” she said softly, and her voice wobbled despite her best efforts. “We think it’s a risk worth taking. The book says… It’s not just about the potion itself. It’s about connection. About love. The ones who care about you—the ones who love you—have to be part of it. It’s the only way to reach your soul.”

Love.

The word struck his chest like a spell. Heavy. Blunt. He didn’t know what to do with it—never had. He could face curses, duel Death Eaters, walk willingly into the Forest to die—but this? Love? That was different. That was complicated. That was dangerous.

“She’s right,” Ron said, stepping in beside Hermione, his arms crossed tight over his chest, like the only way to keep himself steady was to brace physically against what he was saying. “It’s not just about magic anymore. It’s about you letting us in. You’ve spent your whole life carrying things on your own—shouldering everything like it’s yours to deal with. But we’re done letting you do that. You’re not just our mate, Harry. You’re family.”

Family.

That word hurt more than Harry wanted to admit. It came with too much—too many faces. Mum. Dad. Sirius. Remus. Fred. Dumbledore. Everyone he’d loved and lost.

He barked a laugh, sharp and humourless. It echoed harshly off the bathroom tiles.

“Family?” he repeated, the word curdling on his tongue. “You think risking your lives makes us family? That putting yourselves in danger proves something?”

He didn’t mean for it to sound so bitter. Didn’t mean for the anger to come out sounding like an accusation. But it did. Everything did.

His hands curled into fists, knuckles white. His whole body felt like a live wire, thrumming with panic and guilt and something he couldn’t name.

“It doesn’t make you—” He broke off, the heat of his own voice fading into something colder. Smaller. His chest rose and fell, shallow and quick.

He dragged a trembling hand through his hair, gripping the back of his head until it hurt. He’d done this a thousand times—when the weight of things got too much. But this time it didn’t help.

He wanted to tell them to stop. To back off. That it was enough—that it should be enough—that he didn’t want them to risk themselves.

But it never had been enough.

He was so bloody tired.

Tired of being the reason people got hurt.

Tired of watching people throw themselves into danger for him.

Tired of surviving when others hadn’t.

“Please, Harry,” Ginny said, and the way she said his name—like it hurt her—made something twist deep in his gut. “This isn’t about being right. Or brave. We just—” her voice cracked, and she paused, swallowing hard, “we just don’t want to watch you suffer anymore. You don’t have to go through this alone. Let us help. We’re stronger when we’re together.”

Her words hit something in him. Something thin. Something already splintered and fraying.

He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. More of a hollow exhale. “Stronger together,” he echoed bitterly. “And if it doesn’t work? What then? What if I drag you all down with me—for nothing?”

The question slipped out like it had been waiting all along.

He hated how much fear laced his voice. Hated how bloody small it sounded. All he could think about was the worst-case scenario. About losing them. Or worse—them losing themselves—because of him.

Hermione didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. Her eyes were bright now—not with tears, but with fire. That same fire she always had when she’d made up her mind. When she was going to do something whether anyone liked it or not.

“And what if it does work?” she said. “What if this is how we finally save you? You have to trust us, Harry. We’re not charging into this blindly. We’ve read everything. We know the risks. And we’re choosing them. Because we love you. And that’s not a weakness. That’s the whole point.”

Her words didn’t echo. They settled.

The sunlight was fading now, slanting low through the window and painting the tiles in thin bars of gold. Shadows stretched along the floor, long and quiet. Time was slipping away, like it always did.

Harry’s heart was still hammering, too loud in his chest. He looked at the three of them—Ginny, her eyes rimmed red but full of steel; Ron, stubborn and pale but unyielding; and Hermione, trembling but fierce.

Could he really let them in?

Could he—after everything—allow this?

After Sirius… after Dumbledore… after Fred… after all of it?

He clenched his jaw, throat raw.

His voice came out as barely a whisper.

“What if you lose yourselves?”

There it was.

The truth.

The fear that stalked every moment of peace. The one that whispered behind every silence.

What if I ruin you, too?

Even he hadn’t realised how deeply it had rooted inside him. But now that it was out, it hung in the air, awful and honest.

“What if I pull you into the dark with me,” he rasped, “and there’s no coming back?”

Ron moved in, his steps sure and solid, the kind of steadiness Harry didn’t know he’d needed until it was there.

“Then we go together,” he said, simply. “We’ve faced You-Know-Who. We’ve been through war. We’ve watched people die. But we’ve always made it because we stuck together. We’ve always come through.”

He paused, his voice lower now but still firm.

“We’re with you. All the way. No matter where it leads.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut it all out—the hope, the fear, and the love.

“Harry,” Ginny said softly. Her hand reached for his, fingers trembling, cool against his feverish skin—but steady. Steady in a way that unnerved him, because she wasn’t meant to be steady. She was meant to be safe. Far away from this.

“There’s always a price,” she murmured. “Whether you fight alone… or whether we fight with you. But at least this way—this way, you don’t have to carry it all by yourself. We’ve always been connected, haven’t we? You, me, all of us. Maybe this potion… maybe it helps you feel that again. Maybe it brings you back.”

Connected.

He looked up and saw them watching him.

Hermione’s eyes were rimmed with red, lashes damp, but her stare was fierce and unflinching. Ron stood just behind her, jaw set, arms crossed stubbornly like he meant to fight off the whole world if Harry gave the word. And Ginny—Ginny hadn’t moved, her grip on his hand quiet and firm. There was nothing showy in it. No drama. Just presence. Just… her.

They were scared. He could see that—Merlin, he felt it. But it hadn’t stopped them. They’d already chosen.

They weren’t stepping back.

Not this time.

Hermione lowered herself beside him. Her voice was low but iron-strong. “You’ve got to let it go, Harry. This guilt. This weight you keep dragging around like it’s yours to bear. We’ve talked about this. We’ve thought it through. We’ve made our decision. We’re with you. Whether you like it or not.”

Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

He was angry and frightened and desperate—and beneath all of it, in the part he didn’t want to touch, he was grateful.

And it was that, more than anything, that undid him.

Ron plopped down beside them with less grace and considerably more muttering. “Besides,” he said, forcing a grin, “what’s a life-threatening magical ritual without a little danger, eh?”

Hermione stomped on his foot.

Hard.

“Oi—bloody hell—fine, bad timing,” Ron hissed, clutching his side and making an exaggerated show of glaring at her. But there was a spark in his eyes now. A flicker of mischief. Of something almost like hope. “Still. You’ve got to admit, mate… you’re at least a bit glad we’re here. Right? You were never going to do this on your own. You’ve never done anything on your own. Not really. We’ve always been your backup. Always will be.”

Harry blinked at him.

Then at Hermione.

Then Ginny.

And somehow—despite the icy dread still curled tight in his gut—something inside him loosened. Just a fraction.

He hated this.

He hated needing them.

But he hated the thought of losing them more.

He exhaled shakily, staring at the floor as if it might offer answers.

“I’m not brave enough to let you do this,” he whispered.

Hermione’s hand found his shoulder. “You don’t have to be brave,” she said. “You just have to trust us.”