FicWad

Harry woke up to the warm morning sunlight streaming through his bedroom window, filling the room with a golden glow. The rays felt like a gentle embrace, awakening a peace within him that had been elusive for weeks. He rubbed his eyes, bemused by how good he felt that morning—a stark contrast to the illness that had burdened him for three long weeks. He had grown accustomed to mornings fraught with fatigue, but today was refreshingly different.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded to the kitchen, where the delicious aroma of breakfast led him. Mrs. Weasley was bustling about, and to his surprise, he actually managed to eat a full plate of eggs, toast, and bacon. It was a small victory, but one that filled him with a shy sense of triumph—despite feeling uncomfortably full afterward.

“It’s good to see your appetite back,” Mrs. Weasley remarked as she wiped her hands on her apron, her eyes warm with motherly concern.

“Thanks, I guess?” Harry replied, the compliment striking him as odd and unfamiliar.

The room felt heavy with the unexpected focus on health and nourishment. As he sank into the comforting presence of his friends, a wave of confusion washed over him. What did it mean that he was feeling better? A part of him relished the thought of being well again, yet another part hesitated, fearing how quickly things could change.

“Let’s get to it,” Harry said, motioning for his friends to join him in his room. They had a plan to formulate—a strategy to inform Hagrid and Mr. Weasley about the rare ingredients they needed for their latest potion.

“Wouldn’t it be better to visit Hagrid in person and ask about the Thestral hair instead of sending him an owl?” Harry suggested, his mind drifting to Ron’s eagerness to reach out early in the day.

“He’d love that! I mean, who wouldn’t want a visit from us?” Hermione chipped in. The excitement in her voice was infectious, but Harry felt a twinge of worry about how Hagrid would react when they revealed their plan of action.

“I wonder how he’s getting on these days.”

Ron laughed lightly. “Bet he’s out there in the forest again, keeping an eye on Grawp. Can you imagine that giant learning new social skills? I’d pay to hear him try,” he snorted.

“I think Grawp’s come a long way,” Hermione argued, crossing her arms. “He helped Hagrid during the war. You should have seen him with the kids at Hogwarts. He’s getting better.”

“They were tossing food,” Ron rolled his eyes, clearly sceptical. “What’s the benchmark for success? Tossing food isn’t exactly a social skill.”

A twinkle lit Ginny’s eyes as she ruffled Harry’s hair playfully. “Do you remember that time he caught one of them and munched on it? Quite a sight.”

“That does sound ridiculous,” Ron admitted with a grin. “But imagine Grawp trying to teach Care of Magical Creatures! He’d barely fit at the front of the classroom!”

Harry chuckled, visualising the absurdity. “Grawp with a stick of chalk could definitely take the cake for weirdest class ever.”

Hermione shook her head in amusement. “We really have quite the imagination, don’t we? But let’s be realistic here—Grawp as a teacher is simply not feasible.”

Ron raised an eyebrow at Hermione. “Oh, come on, Hermione. Where’s your sense of adventure? Anything is possible in the wizarding world. Who’s to say Grawp couldn’t surprise us all?”

Harry smirked at Ron’s words. “I suppose you’re right, Ron. We have seen some pretty unexpected things before. But Grawp as a teacher? That would definitely be fun.”

“Something tells me it won’t be that easy,” Hermione interjected, her brow knitted with concern. “Will Hagrid even want to return to teaching after everything?”

“We can ask him when we visit,” Ron suggested, the conversation buzzing with energy.

“Should we go see him today?” Hermione asked, the determination in her voice evident. “We need those ingredients, and Hagrid could really help us. But it might be a challenge.”

“What if Hagrid doesn’t want to leave Grawp? Last time he was too stressed to enjoy himself,” Ron countered, caution evident in his tone.

Harry furrowed his brow. “But we can help with Grawp, can’t we?”

“I mean, we do have experience,” Hermione offered thoughtfully.

“Let’s not worry about it until we talk to Hagrid,” Hermione replied, as if they had finally come to a decision. “So, are we agreeing that we’ll visit Hagrid today?”

“I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t go ahead with this plan,” Ron quickly replied, showing his enthusiasm for the idea.

Ginny turned to Harry hesitantly, with concern evident in her eyes. “Harry, please don’t take this the wrong way, but are you feeling well enough to travel?” She asked gently. “I’m just a bit worried about your health.”

“I think I can,” he replied, steeling himself against the bubbling uncertainties, desperate not to let them surface. “Besides, I miss Hagrid. And I think it would do me good to get out of the house for a bit.”

Yet, he noticed Ginny’s hesitation and the way she chewed her lip apprehensively. Hermione moved as if to speak, but her expression shifted, weighed down by another unvoiced concern.

“Maybe it’s best I sit this one out,” she finally said, her voice soft but tense. “You’ve been unwell, Harry. Can’t you give it more time?”

“I’m fine!” he insisted, frustration creeping into his voice. “I feel good today. Please, I want to see Hagrid.”

The dismissal hung in the air, heavy yet suffocatingly familiar. A voice inside him demanded he validate his resilience, as though feeling better meant he was back to his full self. Deep down, he longed to break free from the chains of earlier despair.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Ron said, his voice steady but burdened with empathy. “Hermione does have a point about the dangers involved in this situation. If something were to happen to you, I wouldn’t feel comfortable having to physically support you.”

Harry’s expression soured as his frustration bubbled just beneath the surface. “There’s no way I’m going to pass out again,” he declared, forcing determination into his voice. “I’m perfectly fine, as I mentioned earlier. Besides, I need to do this.”

Ron let out a snort of disbelief. He didn’t say anything more, but the look on his face communicated everything—he didn’t truly believe Harry.

“Harry,” Ginny chimed in gently, her eyes searching his. “That burning feeling seemed to come and go at random. It’s happened before at odd times, so I figured it out. You can’t hide something like that. But I understand you didn’t want anyone to know.”

Harry pushed down the unease stirring in him. “But I haven’t seen—”

“Hagrid will understand, Harry,” Hermione interjected softly, her brown eyes boring into his with an almost maternal tenderness. “He always does.”

“Yeah, he’ll probably come bursting in here when he finds out you’re sick,” Ron added, trying to lighten the mood, even if the words were heavy with foreboding.

Harry’s anger flared as he glared at his friends. They didn’t see it, but he hated feeling like this—so open, so vulnerable. The thoughts of falling ill without warning added to his frustration. He folded his arms, a defensive gesture he had perfected over the years. “Fine!” he snapped, his tone sharp and filled with irritation. “I’ll stay in bed if it will ease your mind.”

“I won’t be coming along,” Ginny said, her voice firm and unwavering.

Harry glanced at her, surprised despite knowing what was coming.

“I knew that’s what you’d say,” Hermione admitted, a hint of sympathy in her expression.

“Please don’t engage in any questionable behaviour while we’re away,” Ron warned seriously, fixing a terrifying expression on Harry and Ginny that made it clear he had concerns. “We’re relying on you to maintain a purely platonic relationship.”

“And what exactly do you mean by that?” Ginny asked, her voice a mixture of anger and disbelief. “You won’t even be here, so how could you know if something happened?”

Before Ron could reply, Hermione cut in. “Now we need to talk about your father.”

Ron’s face twisted in anger, a storm brewing behind his eyes. “And what about him?” he demanded. He was still upset with Ginny and wanted answers.

“We’ll wait for you to come back before speaking with him,” Ginny replied, her tone softer now but still resolute. Hermione nodded in agreement.

“Make sure to be cautious about the details you disclose to your father,” Harry suddenly interjected, avoiding their gazes. “If he discovers your intention to drink that potion, his reaction could potentially be more severe than mine.”

The weight of Harry’s warning hung heavy in the air, growing thicker with their shared anxiety.

“We’ll tell him some details,” Hermione asserted, growing more resolute. “But not all.”

“Oh, you mean to leave out the part where you ingest the potion and risk your life?” Harry shot back, his face contorted in disapproval. “I can’t believe you would even consider keeping something like that from him.”

“Yes, that’s right,” she replied softly, trying to tread lightly around the growing tension. “I just don’t want to worry him unnecessarily.”

“Great,” Harry responded, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I can hardly wait to witness the expression on his face when he inevitably discovers the truth. He’s going to be devastated.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Ron asked sternly.

Harry shrugged nonchalantly, even as his heart thudded with frustrated longing. “In my opinion, it’s always best to be upfront and truthful with him.”

“Don’t worry about Harry,” Ginny advised, directing her attention to Ron and Hermione. “He’s upset because he can’t see Hagrid.”

Harry glared at her, frustration boiling over. “I already said I’m fine.”

“You’ll see Hagrid again soon, Harry,” Hermione reassured him, but uncertainty still flickered in his chest, refusing to fade.

After a prolonged moment of uncomfortable silence, Hermione finally stood up from her seat, smoothing down her clothes. “Let’s get going, Ron,” she said, her tone signifying the end of their discussion.

As they left, the door creaked shut behind them, leaving Harry and Ginny alone. He released a deep sigh and shifted his gaze toward her. The worry etched on her face flickered with uncertainty, mirroring his own inner turmoil.

“Are you really okay?” she asked at last, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry hesitated; the truth caught in his throat. “I... don’t know,” he admitted quietly, the vulnerability creeping back in. The weight of expectation felt like chains wrapped around his heart—he was supposed to be brave, always the hero, but this time he felt anything but.

“Harry, you don’t have to pretend with me,” Ginny said softly. “If something’s wrong, just tell me.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words tangled in a web of confusion and fear. He wasn’t ready to let her see that side of him. Instead, he forced a smile, weak and unconvincing. “I’ll be fine, really.”

Ginny’s expression softened, but her eyes were still laced with concern. “Just promise me you’ll let me know if things get any worse.”

Harry nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in his throat.

As the flames flickered and faded behind them, Ron and Hermione stepped into Horace Slughorn’s spacious quarters, the smell of potions still lingering in the air. The room bore the signature charm of Slughorn’s personal touch—decorative vials lining the shelves, portraits of past students hanging on the walls, and the customary two large sofas.

”Where do you believe he is?” Ron asked, glancing around, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness.

“Maybe he’s in the potion storeroom,” Hermione suggested, her eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and concern. “He’s probably brewing potions in his lab. Remember when Mrs. Weasley asked him for more healing potion for Harry? He’s probably working on those.”

They left the comfortable surroundings of Slughorn’s quarters and ventured back out into the castle’s hushed corridors. The memories of bustling life, laughter, and the clinking of forks and knives in the Great Hall felt like flickering apparitions as they navigated through the quiet hallways. Hand-in-hand with their past, they passed through the deserted Great Hall, its long tables now abandoned, the glittering candles hanging in eerie silence.

“Can you believe all of this?” Ron said, glancing around as if expecting the spirits of celebrations past to materialise. “It’s quite weird to see the castle devoid of its usual bustling atmosphere. But I’m glad they were able to repair the majority of the damage from the war. I just wish it didn’t feel so strange.”

Hermione scoffed gently, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes despite the sombre surroundings. “Of course, they fixed it. It would be impossible to study while the classrooms remained littered with rubble.”

When they left the grand walls of the castle, their eyes caught sight of Hagrid’s humble hut nestled in the distance.

Upon reaching the weather-worn wooden door, they gently rapped their knuckles against it, the familiar sound mingling with the excited bark of Fang echoing from within.

Hagrid’s huge figure blocked the entrance, but Hermione felt an immediate sense of comfort as he swept them into a bear hug. His massive arms encircled them with a gentleness that belied his strength.

“Come inside, come in!” Hagrid beckoned, his thick, shaggy hair glinting in the soft light.

Hermione flashed a warm smile as she greeted Hagrid with a cheerful “Hello, Hagrid!”

“Fang! No, not me!” Ron exclaimed, trying to fend off the enthusiastic dog that seemed to sense his return, eager for a game of affection. He couldn’t help but chuckle as he playfully pushed the dog away, attempting to dodge the slobber that threatened to drench him completely.

When they finally settled into Hagrid’s oversized armchairs, Hermione noticed the little details that painted Hagrid’s world—a tattered book on magical creatures, a half-empty pot of sticky treacle fudge, and a vibrant green plant curling brightly on the windowsill. It reminded her how much Hagrid nurtured the beauty around him, always finding love in the most unexpected places.

Hagrid set down steaming mugs of tea on the rickety table, the rich aroma enveloping them. But as the big man’s smile turned momentarily serious, Hermione felt a clenching in her stomach. She exchanged a glance with Ron, who looked equally pensive.

“Wha’ are you two doin’ ’ere?” Hagrid asked, eagerness mingling with curiosity. Hermione could see the flicker of hope in his eyes—a hope that Harry would be with them.

Thanks, Hagrid,” Ron said, taking a sip of his tea. “We came to see how you’re doing.” Hermione’s words, however, started to unravel.

“Actually, we were thinking about you,” Hermione began, trying to sound casual, “but we thought it would be better if we talked about Harry, too.”

The moment the name Harry slipped from her lips, Hagrid’s expression shifted. “Where is he?” His voice was thick with anxiousness. “He’s comin’, isn’t he?”

Hermione hesitated, her heart racing as the truth loomed large. “Uh, no, Hagrid. He’s currently resting.”

“Restin’?” His brow furrowed, dark eyes scanning them for answers. A gnawing sense of dread filled the room.

Ron cleared his throat, the humour dissipating. “He’s really sick,” he said, his words hanging heavily in the air.

Hagrid’s face blanched. “Sick?”

A rush of urgency coursed through Hermione. “Hagrid, we need your help,” she said, her voice now strained. “It’s urgent.”

“I’ve known Harry fer years, an’ I knew most o’ the injuries he sustained, but the way you put it, it mus’ be serious... What happened ter him?” Hagrid leaned closer, his concern deepening.

Hermione took a deep breath, her insides swirling with apprehension. “I’m afraid it’s bad, Hagrid.” Her voice softened. “His soul is damaged.”

Hagrid’s eyebrows shot up. “Damaged soul? What d’yeh mean?”

“Do you remember when Voldemort killed Harry’s parents when he was a baby?” she asked, searching his gaze for understanding.

Hagrid nodded gravely.

“Listen, Hagrid,” Hermione began, her voice steady despite the chaos swirling in her heart. “Well, that fateful evening when You-Know-Who’s curse rebounded, a piece of his soul was inadvertently transferred to Harry, turning him into an unintended Horcrux without his knowledge or consent.”

The word hung heavily in the air, and Hagrid’s brow furrowed deeper, the lines of confusion spreading across his forehead. He remained silent, grappling with the horrifying implications of what she had just revealed.

“When you thought Harry had died in the Forbidden Forest during the battle,” Hermione pressed on, her voice unwavering, “it was actually Voldemort destroying the piece of his soul that resided within Harry... That’s why Harry survived. But—”

Hagrid let out a low groan, his deep-set eyes darkening with the realisation of the unfathomable burden Harry now bore.

Encouraged by Hagrid’s reaction, Hermione continued with urgency. “A Horcrux is a powerful magical object that houses a piece of a dark wizard’s soul, allowing them to achieve immortality. When a Horcrux latches onto a living being, such as what happened to Harry, it not only corrupts the host’s soul but also causes irreparable damage. Even if the Horcrux is destroyed, the scars it leaves on the host’s soul remain.”

“Yeah, and now Harry is suffering… he’s dying, Hagrid,” Ron added sadly, his voice breaking.

Hagrid was left speechless, his heart sinking like a stone within him. He swallowed hard before finally managing to stammer a reply. “No. This mus’ be the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life, and believe me, I’ve heard my fair share of terrible things. This must be causin’ him unimaginable pain.”

“Sometimes he’s okay,” Ron admitted. “But lately, he’s been in a terrible state. He’s losing his memories and throwing up blood. You can’t even imagine watching him suffer. He’s deteriorating so quickly.”

“Yes,” Hermione cut in, refusing to dwell on the depths of their despair. “We were looking for a way to heal his soul.”

“Did yeh find anythin’?” Hagrid asked, hope flickering in his eyes.

“We did.” Hermione’s tone brightened slightly. “Professor Slughorn helped us locate a book containing instructions for brewing a tricky potion. But, we need to find the ingredients, and we need your help, Hagrid.”

Hagrid’s eyes widened with determination. “What d’yeh need from me?”

“We need tail hair from a Thestral. But it has to be a wild Thestral, Hagrid,” Hermione explained, her voice steady even as she felt the weight of the task ahead.

“Wild?” Hagrid’s brows knitted together in confusion. “It’s quite unusual ter see ’em ’round here.”

“Yes, do you know where we could find one?” Hermione prompted, an ember of hope igniting in her chest.

Hagrid fell silent, his brow furrowed in thought. Moments passed before he broke the silence, the spark of understanding lighting up his eyes. “I think I know jus’ the place. They’re very rare, and yeh have ter be an experienced wizard before yeh try ter handle ’em.”

“You’d be able to, wouldn’t you?” Ron asked, unable to contain the question.

“Yeah, I reckon I could,” Hagrid said proudly, but then a shadow crossed his features. “Only it’ll be a bit o’ a challenge, I must admit. When d’yeh need it?”

“As soon as possible,” Hermione urged, desperation creeping into her voice.

Hagrid nodded, his expression firm. “I would want ter come n’ see Harry for meself when I have the tail hair. I wouldn’t feel right not to.”

A smile broke through Hermione’s worry. “He’d like that, Hagrid. He’s been upset because he couldn’t come and talk to you.”

“Tell him I’m comin’ soon, will yeh? I reckon he’d want ter know that,” Hagrid said, a hint of hope tempering his sadness.

Ron and Hermione both expressed their agreement with nods of their heads. They decided to linger and engage in conversation with Hagrid for a couple of additional hours before eventually going home. During their chat, they learnt that Hagrid was delighted to be teaching Care of Magical Creatures once more in the upcoming term. Nonetheless, his enthusiasm waned when Hermione revealed her decision not to enrol in his class during her last year at Hogwarts.

Hagrid mentioned that his half-brother Grawp had a fondness for residing in a cave near Hogsmeade rather than the forest, insisting that he found more joy there. Hearing this, Ron and Hermione felt relieved, knowing that they wouldn’t be responsible for looking after Grawp while Hagrid was off tracking down wild Thestrals. Without probing for more details, they smoothly transitioned to a different topic of conversation before Hagrid could alter his plans. They were determined to avoid the possibility of having to attend to Grawp’s needs in the near future.

Ron and Hermione bid farewell to Hagrid and then made their way to Professor Slughorn’s office. They rapped on the door gently, curious to see if the professor had come back yet. To their amazement, the door swung open, and there stood Slughorn himself.

“Well, if it isn’t Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley!” he exclaimed with a warm smile. “What a delightful surprise! Please, do come inside.”

They entered the room, greeted by a warm ambiance created by the inviting leather seats and the soft glow of the brilliant lighting on either side. Despite the appealing seating arrangements, they chose not to sit down.

“What brings you both to Hogwarts?” Slughorn asked.

Hermione and Ron shared a brief, knowing look with each other before she spoke up. “We went to Hagrid for an ingredient from the Anima book.”

“Ah, I see you’ve deciphered the ingredients. Excellent!” he remarked, impressed by her intelligence. “I take it; Hagrid will procure it?”

“Yes,” she answered curtly.

“Very good,” Slughorn remarked appreciatively. Making his way to a nearby table, he carefully held a cluster of potion vials close to his chest. “I was just on my way to the Burrow to drop off these potions for Mr. Potter. How is he holding up?”

“He’s doing well since we left, considering everything he’s been through,” answered Hermione.

Slughorn nodded in response. “I hope this continues. Since you’re here, would you mind taking the potions when you get back?”

“No problem,” Ron replied casually.

“Wonderful,” Slughorn expressed with enthusiasm as he gestured for them to accompany him into the fireplace to Floo back. He then added, “Please convey my apologies to your mother for the delay in my return. I hope she didn’t need any position during my absence.”

Ron nodded. Following that, he and Hermione stepped confidently into the roaring flames of the fire, vanishing swiftly from view.

Ginny assisted her mother in the kitchen at the Burrow, busily preparing lunch, while Mr. Weasley sat at the table engrossed in the latest issue of the Daily Prophet. Suddenly, Ron and Hermione appeared in the kitchen fireplace with a loud whoosh of green flames, startling everyone.

“Oh good, you’re back,” Mrs. Weasley said without asking where they had been. Ginny must have already informed her about their whereabouts.

Ron carefully placed a stack of potion vials on the table. “Slughorn asked me to deliver these. Where’s Harry?” he asked.

“He’s upstairs napping before lunch,” answered Ginny in a relaxed tone.

“I can put the vials away for you, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione offered.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said.

Ron made his way up the stairs, each step heavy with his growing unease. He had faith in Harry’s ability to sleep through anything, but he also knew all too well the unpredictability of Harry’s illness. If there had been any signs of distress, it was his duty as a friend to check in. The recent weeks had been hard on Harry—harder than most knew—and Ron couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

As he reached the first floor, the retching sound from the bathroom confirmed his worst fears. He knocked on the door multiple times, anxiety knotting his stomach. “Harry? You okay in there?” Silence hung heavily in the air, broken only by that horrifying sound. With his heart racing, Ron decided to take matters into his own hands. The door was unlocked, and he pushed it open, stepping into a scene that sent panic coursing through him.

Harry was hunched over the toilet, his colour a ghostly shade of pale, struggling to catch his breath. Ron’s heart sank. “Harry!” he called out urgently.

Despite his ghastly state, Harry managed to wipe his mouth and muster a faint, wobbly smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine, Ron,” he croaked, voice barely audible.

Ron’s eyes darted to the toilet bowl, where traces of blood swirled ominously before disappearing with the flush. The sight made Ron’s frustration boil over. “Bloody hell, Harry, you’re obviously not okay!” he exclaimed, his voice wavering between anger and concern.

“Please don’t say anything to Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said, rising unsteadily to his feet, the effort clearly taking a toll on him. “It’s nothing serious. I only threw up, but I’m perfectly fine now, honestly.”

“Throwing up blood is not ‘perfectly fine!’ You need medical attention!” Ron insisted, his tone rising with anxiety. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling helpless.

“I know, but it won’t help,” Harry’s admission came reluctantly, his eyes downcast. Ron realised then that it was fear talking, old habits kicking in, slivers of the past where medical help had come too late or had made things worse.

“Yes, it will help, at least temporarily!” Ron argued, resolve hardening within him. “I don’t understand why you’re being so stubborn.” He sighed heavily, frustration bubbling in his chest. “Do you not realise that you are in need of help?”

Harry looked at Ron, a kind of vulnerability flickering behind his usual mask of strength. “I promise I’ll take a potion the next time I feel ill,” he replied, but his words only served to heighten Ron’s unease.

“I swear, the next time you show even a hint of pain, I’ll make you take a potion, whether you like it or not!” Ron declared as they settled down for lunch, determination outweighing the worry in his chest.

“Ron, I promised I’d take a potion if I was in pain,” Harry whispered with a frustrated sigh. “You don’t have to keep threatening to force one on me.”

“How was your nap?” Hermione asked, breaking the silence that hung between them like an unwelcome guest. Harry’s eyes flickered to Ron’s, but he deliberately avoided the heated gaze.

“It was good,” Harry replied, the barest hint of a smile hiding the unease he felt about lying yet again.

Hermione’s face lit up with a smile, but it quickly faltered upon observing the palpable strain in the air between Harry and Ron.

Following the meal prepared by Mrs. Weasley, the group congregated around the dining table, taking in the enticing aroma of the various dishes laid out before them. The spread included savoury shepherd’s pies, succulent roasted chicken paired with a medley of fresh vegetables, and a steaming pot of hearty pea soup.

Ron, for a moment putting aside his annoyance towards Harry, seemed eager to indulge in the delicious spread laid out in front of him.

Harry, with a sense of uneasiness lingering within him, hesitantly served himself a small portion of shepherd’s pie, making a conscious effort to avoid meeting Ron’s gaze.

After the meal was over and everyone had emptied their plates, Hermione excitedly recounted to Harry the details of the discussion she and Ron had with Hagrid earlier that day. “He said he’d come visit you soon!”

Harry tried to put on a brave face, forcing a smile even though his heart was heavy. He absentmindedly twirled his fork around his plate, his eyes fixed on the untouched meal before him. Despite the growling in his stomach, he had no desire to eat. He went through the motions of pretending to take bites, lifting his fork every now and then in a feeble attempt to appear as though he was eating.

“Did you two visit Hogwarts earlier?” Mr. Weasley asked. His curious eyes shifted back and forth between Ron and Hermione, eager for their response.

“Yes, Mr. Weasley,” Hermione replied, attempting a smile, though it felt forced. “I’m sorry for not telling you about our plans. It was necessary for us to leave immediately due to urgent circumstances.”

“Why’s that?” Mrs. Weasley chimed in from the stove, turning to face them. The spatula paused midair, a look of worry replacing her initial cheerful demeanour.

Hermione looked over at Harry, his usual confident twinkle dimmed. He avoided her gaze, clearly uncomfortable about the topic. She took a deep breath, resolving to push through her own apprehension. “We’ve discovered a method in Professor Slughorn’s book to heal Harry’s soul,” she said, her voice rising with excitement.

“Oh, wonderful news!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, but Hermione noticed the corners of her mouth falter slightly, as if the tone of the announcement had been overshadowed by an undercurrent of fear.

“What exactly does the book instruct you to do?” Mr. Weasley enquired, his brow furrowing with interest.

Hermione hesitated, her fingers nervously tracing the pattern of the tablecloth. “The list contains various ingredients that are required for a task,” she explained carefully, noting Ron’s pale complexion and Ginny’s worried expression. “That’s why we made a trip to see Hagrid earlier today.”

“What stuff are those?” Mrs. Weasley asked, dishing out a generous helping of the pie onto each plate.

“We need a Thestral’s tail hair—”

“That ingredient seems quite unusual,” Mr. Weasley interrupted. His brows shot up in surprise. “Is it listed in the book? And Hagrid knows where to find it?”

“He does,” Hermione confirmed, her palms growing clammy.

“What else do you need to get?” Mr. Weasley pressed, taking a sip of water, his tone now steely with concern.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny exchanged anxious glances. Hermione felt the weight of their silent communication pressing upon her. “Uhm, the next one comes from you, Mr. Weasley,” she finally said softly.

Mr. Weasley’s head snapped up, his expression revealing a mix of astonishment and confusion. “Me?” he asked, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “What do you need help with?”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak but faltered, noticing the growing worry etched on her friends’ faces. “Are you familiar with the Veil in the Department of Mysteries, Mr. Weasley?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, desperation threading through her words.

“The Veil?” Mr. Weasley echoed, his face suddenly grim, and Mrs. Weasley, now pausing from her serving, watched the exchange intently.

She nodded, anxiety pooling at the base of her stomach, choking her words. Silence lingered for a heartbeat.

“Yes,” Mr. Weasley replied quietly, caution saturating his tone. “I’m aware of it. What do you need there?”

“The archway is built in stone,” Hermione explained, her heart racing. “And we were wondering if you could get a piece of that stone?”

“Is this information also referenced in the book you mentioned?” Mr. Weasley asked, curiosity mingling with incredulity.

With a small nod, Hermione confirmed, “Yes, it is.”

“Obtaining a piece would require arrangements,” Mr. Weasley replied, his brow furrowing deeper. “As you are well aware, it’s difficult to gain access to the Department of Mysteries without being invited. I can’t sneak in without the minister’s permission. The Unspeakables would never allow it. Especially not for someone like me.”

“Do you think the Minister would grant you permission, Dad?” Ginny blurted out, her voice tinged with hope.

Mr. Weasley shifted his gaze towards Harry, who was intently studying his plate. “Kingsley Shacklebolt was a proud member of the Order of the Phoenix before becoming Minister for Magic,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m confident he’d be eager to assist Harry in any way he can. Is there anything else you need before I contact the Minister?”

“No, that should be all,” Hermione replied, feeling a sense of relief wash over her, though it was tempered by the lingering anxiety in the pit of her stomach. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Weasley.”

As they resumed eating, the air lightened momentarily, but Mr. Weasley’s gaze remained fixed on Hermione.

“What do you intend to do with the stone once you have it? How does it help Harry?” Concern pooled in his eyes, urging her to provide more than just a technical response.

Sweat gathered on Hermione’s forehead, instigating a rush of panic as she sensed the weight of everyone’s gaze boring into her. “We make a potion from it,” she said, her voice trembling.

Mr. Weasley didn’t mask his concern. “I hope the potion tastes good before you drink it, Harry. Tail hair and stone don’t sound particularly appealing to me.”

Forced laughter echoed around the table, tension ebbing slightly. Hermione felt her own smile falter, the bittersweet taste of fear and hope mingling as Harry mustered the faintest of smiles. Yet, as the remnants of their meal lingered in the air, the looming task before them hung heavier than ever, a delicate balance of knowledge and uncertainty threading through their lives—each ingredient a crucial step toward a healing that felt both terrifying and necessary.

Harry slumped into the well-worn armchair, the fabric cool against his skin. The weight of the conversation still hung in the air. It had started so positively—a spark of hope driven by Hermione’s unyielding belief in the book—yet it now felt like a trap laced with responsibility that he wasn’t ready to shoulder.

But the truth was that this help felt like a burden. How could he accept their support when he felt so fundamentally broken? How could he allow them to pour their energy into mending a soul that he believed was beyond repair?

As they spoke, he had watched Hermione navigate her worries with the finesse of a seasoned auror. Her intelligence shone through her careful choice of words, and he felt grateful for how she managed to hold herself together.

Just as the haze of exhaustion began to pull him deeper into the cushions, Hermione settled herself next to him, a familiar warmth that contrasted sharply with his confusion. She had a knack for appearing at the right moment, didn’t she?

Harry raised an eyebrow, the teasing tone filling the moment between them like sunlight breaking through clouds. “You really know how to charm people with your words, Hermione. Your ability to articulate thoughts is truly commendable.”

“Oh, shut up, Harry!” she shot back, her cheeks blooming pink, the embarrassment softening the edges of her seriousness. “You don’t know how nervous I was. I was worried about making a mistake. And thanks for not helping, by the way.” There was an underlying sarcasm, and, beneath it all, a hint of gratitude.

“Most certainly welcome,” he replied, allowing a smirk to creep onto his face.

She playfully nudged his arm in response, a glint in her eyes. “You really should lend a hand sometime. I have a feeling you wouldn’t last more than a few seconds without assistance,” she teased.

“That’s exactly why I leave the hard work to you,” he replied, dramatically rubbing his arm, feigning an injury. “We both know I wouldn’t last long at all. I’m much better suited for the less strenuous tasks.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

They drifted into comfortable silence, but the heaviness inevitably crept back in. Harry glanced at Hermione, a shadow of unease shadowing his features. “Hermione?” he ventured, the weight of the question resting heavily on his heart. “Does the book say mending a soul requires three people present? Or is it possible to do it alone?”

Her brow furrowed as she seemed to consider his query deeply. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure,” she said cautiously, her fingers toying with a loose thread on the couch. “We haven’t finished reading the instructions yet. Ron, Ginny, and I have only decided to help regardless of who attempts it.” Her gaze dropped to her lap momentarily before meeting his eyes once more. “Are you angry with us for making that choice?”

“No,” he murmured, truthfully. Yet, despite his gratitude, ill feelings coursed through him. “I appreciate everything you’ve done more than you realise, but I’m overwhelmed by your willingness to risk your lives to help me heal.”

As he spoke, the dam broke within him. “Ever since my parents died, I’ve felt like I was living on borrowed time. After the war, I thought I’d finally be free, only to be dragged through another kind of suffering. I’m unsure what fate has in store for me, Hermione, but I’m exhausted from fighting against a destiny that was never meant to be mine. I just want it to end.”

The silence fell around them like a blanket, heavy and suffocating. Hermione seemed to absorb his words, her gaze steady yet compassionate. “Harry, I know you feel trapped, restless, like life is mocking you while you struggle. I see that frustration every day. But you were given this difficult road because you have the inner resolve to get through it. Even in the darkest moments, believe that there’s a purpose. Hold on to hope, Harry. We’ll never give up on you.”

Her voice broke slightly, and Harry felt a swell of emotion catch in his throat. He watched as she hesitated a moment before continuing, “And—”

“And what?” he pressed, genuinely intrigued as a smile broke through his melancholy.

“I still want to see you and Ginny marry and have children,” she said, the colour creeping back into her cheeks. “Don’t you want to have a family?”

The question hung in the air, and Harry’s heartbeat quickened. “Why bring this up now?” he asked, a mix of confusion and dread flaring within him.

“Because you don’t want to miss that chance,” Hermione urged gently, her expressive eyes searching his. “You deserve happiness.”

The deep-rooted conflict within Harry wrestled with her words. “I know,” he finally whispered, a hint of sincerity laced with weariness. “Thanks, Hermione.”

He wanted to believe her.

With a small nod, Hermione stood up, her hand brushing against his as she prepared to leave. “I’ll leave you to rest. I believe I interrupted you earlier.”

He almost reached out, a flicker of desperation igniting. “No, stay,” he said quickly, but she shot him a reassuring smile and squeezed his hand before making her way upstairs.

As the footsteps faded, Harry sank deeper into the armchair, feeling more of himself settle into the familiar fabric. Torn between despair and hope, surrounded by the silence, his heart beat steadily—a reminder he was still alive. He wasn’t sure how to mend himself, but his friends believed in him fiercely, and maybe that must count for something.