FicWad

Molly and Arthur stood at the edge of Shell Cottage’s porch, trying to catch their breath after the weight of the day’s events crashed down on them. The quiet waves of the beach were a stark contrast to the chaos they had just left behind, and they hoped that this brief moment of peace would allow them to regroup. Yet, the serenity was swiftly broken when they heard the heartbreaking sound of Harry’s screams echoing through the walls of the cottage.

“Harry!” Molly exclaimed, her motherly instincts kicking in as she bolted inside. Arthur followed closely behind, his heart pounding in sync with Molly’s frantic steps. Percy and Hagrid trudged in after them.

Bill stood at the doorway to Harry’s room, his expression grave. “It’s bad,” he said, his voice tinged with urgency. “I don’t know what else to do.”

Inside, the sight of Harry lying on the bed tore at Molly’s heart. He was contorted with pain, sweat beading down his forehead, his small frame trembling uncontrollably. The room was dark, the curtains drawn tightly, but it felt as if a weight of despair hung in the air—a suffocating miasma of helplessness.

“Harry, dear,” Molly whispered, rushing to his bedside. She brushed his hair back, her fingers trembling against his clammy skin. “We’re here. We’re going to help you.”

Harry barely acknowledged her presence, his haunted eyes flickering to hers for just a moment before shutting tight once more. He moaned, the sound guttural and raw, and Molly couldn’t stifle the gasp that escaped her lips. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, testament to the agony raging within his body.

“Please, just breathe,” Arthur urged, standing resolutely at the foot of the bed, trying to project calmness even as anguish twisted in his gut. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny crowded around, their faces pale and drawn, watching helplessly as Harry’s condition spiralled further.

Hermione leaned over him, her voice a soft, soothing lull. “Harry, you’re not alone. We’re all here with you. Just hold on, okay?”

The healing potions only seemed to intensify Harry’s suffering. Each effort met with a defiance that left them feeling increasingly powerless, their hearts heavy with despair as they found themselves trapped in a nightmare from which they could not awaken.

Molly wrapped Harry in a blanket before taking a seat beside him.

“H-how could this have happened?” Molly’s voice quivered as she spoke, slicing through the dense air of confusion that enveloped them. Her gaze flicked across the room, settling momentarily on her husband, Arthur, who sat slumping in a chair, wringing his hands in frustration. Percy stood nearby, looking as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle missing too many pieces, and Hagrid hovered like a storm cloud, his eyes reflecting the turbulence of the events that had unfolded.

“An attack on the Burrow…” Molly shook her head, the disbelief twisting at her stomach.

“Back at St. Mungo’s, you told us you were attacked in your office,” Arthur began, his tone laced with urgency when he looked at Percy. His insistence on recalling what had transpired felt like a desperate grasp at the fleeting threads of clarity. “Then that imposter made his way to the Burrow.” He leaned forward, desperation creeping into his voice as he continued. “But how did he know Harry was there? How did he bypass our protective charms?”

Molly’s heart raced at the disconcerting possibilities. “Did you share Harry’s whereabouts with anyone?” she pressed, her brow creasing with concern.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed as he searched his memories. “I don’t recall mentioning it,” he murmured, and motioned towards Percy. “Did I? I mean, you asked whether Harry was at the hospital, and I said no, he’s at the Burrow.”

Percy shook his head, his confusion growing. “I never asked that. I only saw you once that day in the Atrium,” he said, almost defensively.

The furrow deepened on Arthur’s brow. “But I distinctly remembered telling you where Harry was.”

“I don’t know when that second conversation occurred,” Percy rebutted, frustration creeping into his voice.

“We spoke again the next day in the Atrium,” Arthur reminded his son.

“But I wasn’t in the ministry at that time! I was out conducting fireplace inspections!” Percy insisted, his tone rising.

A gasp escaped Molly’s lips as the pieces began to fit together in a way that sent cold shivers down her spine. She turned to Arthur, her eyes wide with horror. “I don’t think it was our son asking about Harry’s whereabouts. It must have been Yaxley posing as Percy!” She exclaimed, the realisation slicing through the tension.

Arthur muttered a curse, disbelief etched into his features, and a wave of horror washed over him. “As long as Yaxley is free, the Burrow remains a dangerous place. We’re all at risk.” He felt a tidal wave of sorrow crash over his heart, and lowering his head in shame, he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

Molly reached out to comfort him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, dear. At least we still have the cottage. We can overcome this; we always have,” she reassured him, her voice steady despite the storm brewing in her heart.

Arthur couldn’t bear to meet her gaze, his voice barely a whisper. “I should have been more cautious with whom I confided. The thought that my actions endangered our family is unbearable.” Tears glimmered in his eyes, threatening to spill over as the weight of failure and fear crushed his spirit, making it hard to breathe.

Molly could not stand to see her husband in such despair. She leaned closer, her voice softening, filled with unwavering understanding. “You couldn’t have known it wasn’t Percy,” she insisted. “Yes, we were attacked, but we’re all safe now. That’s what truly matters.”

Hagrid, who had remained a silent observer, finally spoke, his voice gruff but earnest. “Ain’t no family as strong as yours, Molly. You’ll get through this together.”

The oppressive night wore on, the sounds of crashing waves offering little comfort, and Molly sat at Harry’s side, refusing to leave him alone in his suffering. She held his hand, squeezing it tightly, as Arthur murmured encouraging words that only Harry could scarcely hear.

As dawn crept in, light filtered through the windows, casting a dim glow across the room. The atmosphere was heavy with the weight of worry, and Ron, Hermione, and Ginny remained huddled together, exhaustion etched into their faces. They had spent sleepless nights analysing Harry’s condition, each passing hour filled with fear and uncertainty.

A loud knock on the door of Shell Cottage caused everyone inside to jump in surprise, save for Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, who quickly rose to their feet. They had been anticipating the arrival of Professor Slughorn, the potions master, and their glimmer of hope during this distressing time. Being the Secret-Keeper for the safe house, Bill had given Slughorn permission to enter without any hesitation.

“Professor Slughorn!” Hermione exclaimed joyfully as she swung the door wide open.

Ron moved to help Slughorn carry the heavy cauldron he held in one hand, placing it gently on the dining table, where an assortment of potion ingredients sat alongside the Anima textbook. The door clicked shut behind him, and the gravity of their worry resurfaced as they updated Slughorn on Harry’s worsening condition.

As Slughorn entered Harry’s room, his composed demeanour faltered. He masked his distress with a forced smile, but Molly, watching from the doorway, could see the flicker of guilt in his eyes. He had once been a mentor to Harry, and now he felt the weight of his own responsibility.

“I’ve brought a potion that may alleviate Harry’s condition,” Slughorn elaborated, retrieving a small vial filled with a mysterious purple liquid from the depths of his robes. “This is a powerful healing elixir I’ve concocted specifically for Harry. If even this fails to produce a positive effect, my fears are that his condition may be beyond help.”

Molly accepted the vials with trembling hands, grateful yet apprehensive. Meanwhile, Slughorn excused himself to the sitting room, preparing to brew the crucial potion. “Now,” he explained, his voice steady but tinged with urgency, “the potion will take approximately an hour to complete. However, the number of stirs and the technique required will vary by ingredient. One mistake could ruin everything.”

Ron swallowed nervously. “I’ve messed up quite a few potions in Snape’s class,” he admitted quietly to Hermione. “I’m relieved I won’t be making this one for Harry; he’d probably die of old age waiting for me.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, recalling all too well Ron’s previous brewing disasters. “Professor, would you like me to assist with the potion?” she offered, optimism, fighting the shadow of concern in her voice.

Slughorn smiled, but gently shook his head. “While I typically would welcome your generosity, Ms. Granger, this particular potion is exceptionally intricate. It’s best if I handle it myself.”

Hermione’s expression faltered slightly, but she respected his expertise and retreated to the sidelines. With calm determination, Slughorn opened the Anima book, flipped to the necessary page, and began the brewing process. The cottage was enveloped in the sound of quiet concentration as the professor organised the ingredients and set the cauldron to simmer.

Ron and Hermione settled into their chairs, their eyes glued to Slughorn’s meticulous actions. Bill occasionally passed by, keeping a watchful eye on the potion’s progress, while Ginny, growing increasingly anxious about Harry, kept checking on Slughorn’s work, ready to rush back to him at a moment’s notice.

As the scent of the brewing potion filled the cottage, it grew richer and more fragrant, almost intoxicating. Professor Slughorn seamlessly integrated each ingredient, his method precise as the minutes ticked by. The anticipation hung heavy; they were all aware that every detail mattered. The ticking clock mirrored their racing hearts.

Nearing the potion’s final stages, Slughorn successfully incorporated three essential ingredients, each measured to perfection. Only one step remained—the addition of a few drops of Harry’s blood to complete the elixir.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny made their way to Harry’s room, where the group of anxious adults were keeping watch by his bedside.

“It’s nearly done,” Ginny informed them, her voice hopeful yet laced with anxiety. “We just need Harry’s blood.”

Hermione hesitated; her brow furrowed in thought. She reached into her bag for a small knife, her heart pounding in her chest as she approached Harry’s bedside. “Harry,” she said softly as she grasped his hand. He stirred slightly, opening his eyes to find them all gathered around him, expressions laced with concern.

“I need to draw some blood for the potion,” she said gently. “It’ll sting a little.”

Harry’s gaze flickered with uncertainty, but he nodded, turning his eyes away as Hermione made a small incision on his finger, crimson beading at the surface. Quickly, she caught the drop in a vial and healed his wound with a flick of her wand before scurrying back to the kitchen, Ginny and Ron hot on her heels.

Upon their return, they found Slughorn at the cauldron; his eyes focused intensely. He finished the intricate stirring process just as Hermione handed him the vial. Carefully, he added a few drops of Harry’s blood into the potion. As the blood mingled with the bubbling contents, a transformation occurred; the liquid shifted from a dull grey to a shimmering silver, thickening and emitting an ethereal glow.

An atmosphere of tense anticipation enveloped the room. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny held their breath, watching intently, the collective hope rising like a wave in the air. “It’s done,” Slughorn finally declared, stepping back to admire his creation.

Ginny rushed to the table, her hands shaking as she carefully placed three ornate goblets down. She had practiced this moment countless times in her mind, but now that it was real, dread gnawed at her insides.

Molly gave her daughter a puzzled look, her brow furrowing. “Why three goblets, Ginny?” she asked, her voice laced with confusion. “You only need one for Harry.”

Ron shifted nervously in his seat, exchanging anxious glances with Hermione and Ginny. Their hearts raced together in sync, like the steady drumbeat of a war drum; each beat was a reminder of the peril they faced.

Ginny hesitated, her pulse quickening. “It’s for us, Mum,” she finally managed to utter, her voice trembling under the weight of the truth.

Molly’s expression morphed from confusion to concern. “What do you mean?” she pressed, leaning in as if to inspect Ginny’s face for answers.

“It’s for us to drink, Mrs. Weasley. The book states that anyone trying to heal Harry’s soul must also partake in the potion,” Hermione explained, her voice barely above a whisper, her face pale and drawn.

Arthur furrowed his brow, his eyes narrowing at the words. “That seems rather unusual. Are you certain those are the correct instructions?”

“It’s indeed correct,” came a calm voice from the back of the room. Professor Slughorn stepped forward, his round face uncharacteristically serious. “Only those with a deep connection to Harry should try to mend his soul.”

“Does consuming the potion guarantee the successful healing of a soul?” Arthur pressed, scepticism lining his voice.

“No,” Slughorn replied, shaking his head with deliberation. “They must also perform the spell outlined in the book to initiate the process.”

The questions bombarded them like a hailstorm. “How do we know if it will work once we begin?” Bill asked, his expression drawn tight with worry.

“We don’t,” Slughorn admitted, his voice barely above a murmur. “The book suggests involving more individuals close to Harry, but the reason for this is unclear. However, we will know if the ritual is effective.”

“What happens after we cast the spell?” Hermione’s interrogation felt urgent, her fervour evident.

“The soul of the one performing the healing will enter the afflicted body, causing both to lose consciousness until the process is complete. The ritual must not be interrupted, or it will fail,” he elaborated, the gravity of his words hanging between them like a storm cloud.

At that, the atmosphere grew still, an eerie silence settling over them that felt almost ominous. The crashing waves from the sea outside filled the void, a dark reminder of the danger they all faced.

“What happens if the ritual doesn’t succeed?” Percy asked cautiously.

A heavy silence followed, thick and suffocating. Each person present seemed frozen in time, studying the faces around them for strength or resolve. Slughorn, who had maintained his poise thus far, wiped the sweat from his brow, his own hesitation betraying a flicker of fear.

Then, Molly snatched the old book from the table. Panic spread through the room like wildfire; startled gasps filled the air as she flipped through its pages, her eyes racing from left to right. Her other hand clutched her chest, a gesture both instinctual and maternal, an unbidden reflection of her worry.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny felt belittled by her towering presence as she stood over them, her anger simmering dangerously.

Known for her explosive and fiery temper, Mrs. Weasley was quick to anger and slow to calm down, often leaving chaos in her path. It was clear that this particular day was no exception, as she seemed ready to unleash her frustration.

“Did you happen to know about this?” Molly demanded, her voice cutting through the tension. She directed her anxious gaze toward Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, a look that could quell a fire with its intensity.

“What’s going on, dear?” Arthur’s voice broke in with urgency. His eyes darted from his wife to the children, sensing the storm brewing.

“It mentions that if they don’t heal Harry, they will face the same consequences,” Molly continued, her voice quivering, laden with maternal dread.

Gasps erupted around the table. Bill and Percy felt as if the air had been sucked from their lungs. Arthur stood frozen, shock painting his features.

“We kept it from you,” Ron admitted, his heart pounding mercilessly against his ribs.

Molly let out a frustrated sigh, the volume of her voice rising with her anger. “And why is that?” she demanded, the fierceness in her tone increasing.

“Because we knew how you would react,” Ginny echoed, regret pooling in her stomach. “We couldn’t save Harry’s soul if you all were against it.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and painful. Mrs. Weasley’s face shifted through a whirlwind of emotions—fear, hurt, anger—as she wrestled with the information. This was supposed to be a family united in their determination to save one of their own, but instead, they were revealing stark truths that threatened to tear them apart.

Molly stood firmly, her hands planted on her hips, eyes searching Horace’s face for any semblance of regret. “Horace, did you know about this as well? You were aware but chose not to inform us!”

“Healing a soul comes with great risks. I’m sorry,” Slughorn replied, a sorrowful tone surrounding his words, as if he were used to parrying off guilt with mere sadness.

“Preposterous!” Arthur exclaimed, his voice rising several decibels, a gelid fury churning within him. The Weasley children instinctively huddled closer, the rare sight of their father enraged sending shivers down their spines. “It’s the most reckless, ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”

“There must be another way to heal Harry’s soul!” Molly declared, her voice ringing out with defiance, as though issuing a challenge that would echo through the very core of their predicament.

Slughorn shook his head slowly, dishearteningly. “No, Molly.”

“Don’t say that! How could you be so sure?” Arthur spat, frustration etching his features into a grimace.

“I’m not,” Slughorn countered with a calmness that seemed to chill the air. “But I trust Dumbledore’s judgement. He probably foresaw this and tried to find a solution; this is the only way.”

“I highly doubt that!” Molly bristled, her voice laced with disbelief, every word a dart aimed at Slughorn.

“By all means,” he said, his words calm but infused with a subtle intensity that sent a shiver through them, “feel free to search for another solution; I will assist if you find one. But remember, we have limited time to save Harry.”

Mr. Weasley exploded, his frustration bubbling over. “This is outrageous!” His face flushed with anger, he continued, “I have done everything to keep my children safe. But now—” The anger clawed at him, and he faltered, closing his eyes in a moment of futile hope for composure before meeting Slughorn’s unwavering gaze again.

“Arthur,” Slughorn said gently, attempting to cut through the storm of emotions swelling in the room. “No matter what happens—”

“Don’t,” Arthur interrupted sharply, the power of his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Just don’t.”

The silence that fell felt like a heavy cloak of dread draping over them, each family member lost in increasingly dark thoughts.

“Mum, Dad,” Ginny finally broke the stillness, her voice steady despite the turmoil raging around her. “I know it’s hard to think about risking our lives, but they are ours to risk. We wouldn’t be here if Harry hadn’t also risked his life for us.”

Her words fell like rain upon parched earth, but Molly and Arthur remained silent, their faces turned away in sorrow, refusing to acknowledge the harsh truth.

“I agree,” Ron chimed in, desperation creeping to the surface. “Harry has always put his life on the line for us without expecting anything in return. The damage to his soul wasn’t his fault. He didn’t choose it.”

“Please, trust us,” Ginny pleaded softly, her eyes a mirror of the love and loyalty brewing within her heart.

Molly’s resolve seemed to crumble under the weight of her children’s insistence. She stood there, on the precipice of emotions, teetering between fear and acceptance. As the tears welled in her eyes, Mr. Weasley stepped closer and enveloped her in a warm embrace.

Within moments, she was sobbing into his shoulder, the force of her worry breaking down like a dam, letting loose a flood of emotions. “I’m just so worried. P-P-Percy was attacked; the B-B-Burrow is no longer safe; and now this…”

“Yes,” Arthur replied softly, his voice resonant with sorrow and reassurance. “But we have to trust them. I know they are more than capable.”

Then a shift happened—a stirring in the shadows. All eyes turned toward the doorway where Harry stood, tethered to his own trembling exhaustion. His posture slumped, a portrait of vulnerability and weariness, every bruise and scar absorbed by the shadows clinging to him. Yet, his eyes, glimmering with an indomitable spirit, reflected a promise: I am still here; I will not back down.

“What are you doing out of bed, Harry?” Mrs. Weasley’s tone carried a tinge of accusation, her surprise evident as she took in the sight of him. “You’re not strong enough to be up and about. You should be resting.”

A wave of emotion surged within Harry, deep and relentless, as he fought to maintain his composure, his voice breaking through the noise of the room like a lone beacon through darkness. “I’m sorry,” he managed, each syllable forged from exhaustion and guilt, his voice hoarse from emotion.

Hagrid, looming like a gentle giant behind him, offered the crutch of his sturdy support, anchoring Harry as he found his balance. Each laboured breath resonated with undeniable weariness, yet Harry pressed on, the weight of his own heart spilling out, fraying the edges of his determined façade. “I never intended for any of this to happen,” he stated quietly, as if apologising for all the pain that seemed to ripple insistently through their lives. “I never wanted to put any of you in danger because of me.”

He leaned further into Hagrid’s support, struggling to step towards them, his voice little more than a whisper, “I’m so sorry.”

A fresh wave of tears filled Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, the tenderness she felt for Harry intertwining with the raging maelstrom of worry and fear. The young man before her might be battered and in pain, but within that façade was a heart stronger than any she had ever known.

Harry’s heart raced with emotion as he shut his eyes, feeling overwhelmed by the situation. Suddenly, he was enveloped in hugs, surrounded by comforting arms urging him to stay strong. It was chaotic but soothing—the kind of human connection that held enough power to stave off despair. Amidst the muffled cries and sniffles, Harry slowly opened his drooping eyelids to see the caring faces of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Despite the sadness in their eyes, their unconditional love and warmth radiated toward him. In that moment, Harry felt a sense of belonging and comfort he had never experienced before. Their silent understanding of his pain spoke volumes, reassuring him that he was valued and loved, even in the darkest of hours.

The hugs were released almost reluctantly, as though they all sensed this moment of union was fleeting, but Ginny stepped closer, her eyes reflecting the same sorrow etched on all their faces—but there was something more, something that spoke of fierce loyalty and unconditional love. She embraced him tightly, providing a sense of solace he hadn’t realised he needed so desperately. As she wrapped her arms around him, it felt as if he were stepping into a cavern of warmth, where nothing outside could reach him. It was in her arms that Harry found a safe haven, a place where his troubles seemed to dissipate, replaced by a feeling of security and love that made the world feel a little more bearable.

“It’s okay, Harry,” she said, her voice a soothing balm against the bitter chill. “We’ll get through this.” The softness in her tone enveloped him, grounding him in the present. She leaned back just enough to look into his eyes, her gaze searching for something, perhaps assurance that she wouldn’t have to bear this burden alone.

A tear escaped from Harry’s eye and trickled down his cheek, hot against the cool evening air. He managed a grateful smile, one that felt alien at the moment yet comforting in its familiarity. Her compassion soothed his pain and frustration, burrowing into his heart where he had once fortified walls against affection. Exhaustion weighed on him; he needed rest, but he clung to her, burying his face in her comforting arms, inhaling the scent of her hair—a subtle, floral fragrance that seemed to anchor him back to reality.

Seventeen years ago, he had lost this refuge when he was just a child, a mere infant unaware of the sacrifices being made on his behalf. So many years had been spent wandlessly navigating a path steeped in grief and isolation, but in this tight embrace, he found it again—this understanding of love balanced with sorrow. He could feel the rhythm of her heartbeat, a steady cadence that whispered promises of a life beyond the hurt.

With her support, Harry felt himself begin to stand a little taller; his grief momentarily quieted. Still clinging to Ginny, he shuffled painfully back to his room, every step a reminder of the weight of loss but also of the light that love could bring to even the darkest places. The rest of the Weasleys, along with Hagrid and Hermione, remained behind, sensing the need for privacy, for an unspoken moment of connection that was uniquely theirs.

Harry sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard, seeking comfort from its familiarity. The soft quilt beneath him felt like a comfort in the storm of emotions swirling around. He stole a glance at Ginny, who sat beside him, her presence both grounding and heartbreaking. Her complexion was pallid, yet she made a brave attempt at a smile, her lips pressed together as if holding back the very essence of her struggles. Despite the warmth of their bond, an overwhelming sorrow loomed in the air, weighing them down.

Both were trapped in a silence thick with unspoken words, each wrestling with the unrest that echoed in their minds. Harry’s heart ached as he observed the shadows beneath Ginny’s eyes—deep reminders of the sleepless nights they had endured together as he battled the terrors of his fading memories.

“I find myself forgetting things more often now.” Harry finally broke the silence, his voice quivering with a truth he wished wasn’t his reality. The confession felt like a boulder falling from his lips, heavy and burdensome. “There are moments when I feel lost, not recognising where I am or who my friends are.” His breath hitched, and he paused, fighting back a tide of anguish gathering in his chest. “Sometimes I even struggle to remember who I am.”

The weight of his words settled in the air, and he could see the impact of his confession in Ginny’s eyes. They were wide, reflecting an understanding that held both empathy and fear. He lowered his gaze, focussing on the tremors in his hands. They betrayed him, shaking as if echoing the instability in his mind.

Suddenly, Ginny shifted closer, her warmth enveloping him in a tight embrace. “Shhh…” she whispered, her voice a gentle release against the storm inside. She rubbed his back in soothing circles, a lifeline thrown when he felt himself sinking. “Everything will be okay.”

But how could it be? The truth was suffocating. “Just now, I experienced a complete memory lapse,” Harry pressed on, unable to keep the fear at bay. “I can’t explain the pain that courses through my body and the sickness that overwhelms me.” He wiped at the corners of his eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. “When Mrs. Weasley stood before me, I couldn’t even recognise her—”

He clenched his jaw, the emotional toll crashing over him like waves against jagged cliffs. “I’m terrified,” he confessed, his voice breaking under the weight of truth. “I can’t bear the thought of forgetting—” His voice faltered, cracking like thin ice beneath his feet. “I’m sorry, Ginny.”

A wave of panic washed over him, wrapping around him like chains. The room felt stifling under the weight of his confession, his voice barely a whisper against the encroaching shadows of despair.

Ginny’s gaze met his, and fear prickled down his spine as he saw the concern etched in her features. She offered a small, hesitant smile to comfort him, yet it trembled as if the very act of smiling was a fragile structure ready to collapse.

“There’s no need to apologise, Harry,” she assured him, her voice steady despite the sorrow in her eyes. “I understand what you’re going through. I noticed some gaps in your memory back at the Burrow. But Slughorn’s potion can offer some relief. Harry, you will get better soon.”

“I mean it,” he pressed. “You can’t know how awful it was when I didn’t recognise you or remember us.”

Her gaze turned away for just a moment, the depth of her pain rushing to the surface. “I know… I’ve noticed how you look at me sometimes, as if I’m a stranger. I can’t pretend it doesn’t scare me.”

The disappointment that flashed across Harry’s face was unmistakable. “Do Ron and Hermione know?” His voice was barely a whisper, tightening in his throat with the growing tension of dread.

Her furrowed brow reflected a mixture of confusion and sympathy. “Know what?”

“About me forgetting things,” he replied urgently. The implications of their words weighed heavily, the tension becoming unbearable.

Ginny paused, allowing the silence to stretch, her own fears swirling thick in the air. “Everyone knows,” she finally whispered, her voice like a soft sigh in a still night. “Even Mum and Dad.”

Harry leaned back against the headboard, feeling a swelling of frustration and helplessness wash over him. The weight of their concern felt like an anchor, dragging him deeper into uncertainty. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“Harry, there’s no need for apologies,” she urged, her hands gently squeezing his in reassurance. “We all understand the challenges you’re facing, even though they were unexpected. What’s important now is that we support each other through this, with kindness and understanding.”

It was Ginny’s strength that struck him—despite the tears shimmering in her eyes, he could see a resilience that inspired him to hope.

Harry felt overwhelmed with guilt and regret as he replayed the horrifying attack on the Burrow in his mind. He swallowed hard, guilt rising in his throat like a bitter potion. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he confessed, his voice thick with tension. He turned his gaze to Ginny, who perched beside him. “I was unable to protect your parents. You must have hated me for not defending them.”

His eyes clouded with regret as the scene replayed in his mind—curses flying, chaos erupting, and the icy grip of helplessness that had clawed at his heart as Yaxley struck with cruel precision. He felt as though he were being suffocated by shame and sorrow. “When I think of what happened—what Yaxley did...” Harry’s voice trailed off, his breath hitching as nausea washed over him. “I should have done something to keep them safe.”

“Harry,” Ginny began softly. “I don’t hold any hatred towards you. I could never do that. My parents are safe and unharmed; that’s what matters.”

But Harry shook his head, the weight of his regret so heavy it felt like a stone lodged in his chest. “I feel like I could’ve done more. I feel completely useless and weak. I don’t want any more deaths to weigh on me. I can’t live with that. This sickness—” His eyes, usually vibrant with determination, were clouded with pain.

Her heart breaking for him, Ginny reached out to caress his back. “Shhh,” she soothed, her touch tender and gentle. “Let’s not dwell on the past. Let’s focus on the present and what we have together. You’re strong enough to fight this, and I’m here to support you. Will you promise to fight for us?”

Harry managed a faint smile, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly. “I’ll try, Ginny.”

“That’s more like it,” she responded with a relieved nod, kissing his forehead and holding him closer, wrapping her warmth around him in a moment of solace. But Harry’s gaze turned serious, the shadows deepening on his face.

“But I need you to do something for me,” he continued, his voice shaky. A flicker of emotion danced across his features, making his eyes shine brighter than usual, though they glistened with tears. “If things don’t go as we hope...”

“What is it, Harry?” she asked, an anxious tremor in her voice.

“I know everyone is doing their best to help me,” he started, “but if I don’t make it...”

“Please don’t say that,” she interjected, panic creeping into her tone. “I can’t bear to hear it.”

“I have to, Ginny,” he pressed on, his determination igniting even as fear tensed his muscles. “I’m not sure how much time I have left. We can never predict when it will happen.”

Ginny’s face crumpled, tears shimmering in her eyes. “But we have the cure!” she exclaimed, her voice breaking with emotion. “It’s going to work; I just know it will.”

In that delicate moment, Harry leaned in, cupping her face in his palm. He kissed her tenderly, pouring every ounce of love he possessed into that brief embrace. Nothing else mattered as he held her gaze, the world around them fading into insignificance.

“I love you,” he said simply, and those three words encapsulated every fear, every wish, and the unspoken depths of his soul.

“I love you more, Harry,” she replied, a smile erasing the worried lines that had formed on her forehead over the previous weeks. At least for now, she looked happy.