Ron's startled cry echoed off the stone walls.
"What do you mean?" he burst out, eyes wide.
Hermione didn't flinch. She stayed calm, even though her voice trembled just slightly.
"I mean this won't be easy, Ron. We're not just healing a cut or fixing a broken bone. We're trying to piece together someone's soul."
Slughorn stepped forward, his usual cheer gone. His face was pale, serious, and suddenly older.
"Mending a soul is no small thing, Mr. Weasley," he said quietly. "This is ancient, sacred magic. And nature… well, nature demands balance. When something is torn apart, putting it back together always comes at a cost."
His eyes moved slowly between the three of them—Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—each of them now frozen in place, taking in the full weight of what he was saying.
"There is always a price," he added.
Ron's stomach turned. The air felt heavier somehow, like it was pressing down on him. Slughorn's words settled deep in his chest, cold and unwelcome.
Hermione let out a breath, eyes still locked on the ancient book in front of her. Its cracked leather cover looked like it might fall apart if she touched it too hard.
"I knew this moment would come," she said softly. Her voice had that familiar firmness Ron had come to trust, even when it scared him.
"Creating a Horcrux damages the soul in ways we barely understand. Reversing that damage… well, it could destroy us, too."
Ginny moved closer, her face pale but determined.
"But if there's a chance to save Harry—" she started.
Slughorn raised a hand gently, cutting her off.
"And I don't doubt your courage, Miss Weasley. But you must think carefully. The magic required for this… it will leave a mark. On your mind. On your body. On your soul. Once you begin, there is no going back."
The silence that followed was thick and uneasy. Ron stared at the book, the strange runes on its pages making no sense to him. It didn't belong in his world—not the world of warm meals, Quidditch matches, and simple truths. This was something darker. Older.
"So what do we do?" he asked finally, his voice low. "Where do we even start?"
No one answered right away.
Hermione's eyes flicked quickly across the pages, her fingers trembling as she traced a line of spidery text.
"It's not just about performing a spell," she murmured. "We have to understand what was lost… and why. And we have to give something back."
Ron frowned.
"Give back? Like what?"
Hermione hesitated.
"Time. Memory. Pain. Maybe even part of ourselves."
Ginny crossed her arms, jaw set.
"I don't care what it takes. We're getting him back."
Ron looked between the two girls. He admired them, feared for them, and loved them in his own way. But in that moment, all he could feel was helplessness. Real, gut-wrenching helplessness.
They weren't just going on another mission. This was different.
This was a line. And once they crossed it, they'd never be the same.
The Burrow had been quiet until Mrs. Weasley's voice tore through it like a crack of thunder.
"Harry!"
Her call was sharp, panicked.
Harry stopped cold. Mrs. Weasley stood a few feet from the sofa, arms outstretched, as if trying to calm a cornered animal. Her face was pale, her hands trembling slightly, her expression straining between fear and love.
Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
Harry's heart started to pound. The air felt too thick, like it was pressing in from all sides. This was the Burrow—safe, familiar—but now it felt small and suffocating, like the walls were slowly closing in.
"Harry, please," Mrs. Weasley said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You need to listen to me."
He stared at her, trying to make sense of what was happening. Her eyes—so full of warmth every time he'd looked into them—were now wide with something close to desperation. Her voice carried a trembling edge he rarely heard from her. It scared him more than he wanted to admit.
Something was wrong with him. He could feel it—but he didn't know what.
His legs locked in place as if some unseen weight pressed down on his shoulders. His gaze drifted to the sofa—scratched and old but comforting—and even that now seemed like a foreign object in a world suddenly unfamiliar.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound of the grandfather clock filled the room like a drumbeat. Each tick seemed to hammer into his skull. Time was slipping away—he could feel it in his bones.
"Mum, what's going on?" Ron's voice broke through the silence, sharp with concern.
Harry barely heard him.
"We don't have time," he said, his voice distant, like it wasn't even coming from his own mouth. He turned to Ron, willing him to understand. "We need to go. Now. We should've left already."
He looked around the room, eyes darting from the photos on the wall to the cluttered shelves. Everything was familiar—everything was safe. And yet, none of it felt real. It felt like a memory of something he used to trust.
Mrs. Weasley rushed forward and pressed her hand to his forehead. Her fingers were warm, but her touch only made the heat in his body spike.
"Harry, you're burning up!" She gasped. "You need to lie down—get some rest—"
"I'm fine!" he snapped, though even as he said it, his knees wobbled under him. "I don't have time to rest."
He pulled away from her. The urgency inside him was rising, tightening his chest. Why weren't they moving? Why didn't they see it?
Hermione stepped forward. "Harry," she said gently, "what are you talking about?"
He turned on her, frustration boiling just beneath his skin. "We need to leave. We have to find the Horcruxes."
There was a pause—just a second—but it felt like a lifetime.
Hermione exchanged a quick glance with Ron. Her mouth opened slowly, like the words were heavy.
"Harry… we already did that."
Silence.
For a moment, all Harry could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.
His throat went dry. "What do you mean 'already did that'?"
"We've destroyed them," Hermione said quietly, her voice filled with something he couldn't place—was it grief? Pity? "It's over, Harry. Don't you remember?"
His breath caught. His stomach turned.
No.
No, that wasn't right.
His mind spun, flipping through memories like pages torn from a book. He tried to find something solid to hold on to—something that made sense—but it was like grabbing smoke.
"What are you talking about?" he whispered. "When? When did we do that?"
Ron stepped forward, his voice unsteady. "After the wedding. Bill and Fleur's. We left. We were gone for months—you, me, and Hermione. We found the Horcruxes. We fought through the Ministry. Gringotts. Everything."
Harry's eyes widened, confusion twisting through him like a storm. He staggered backward. "No… I don't remember. I don't remember any of that."
He clutched his head, trying to will the memories back—but all he found were fragments. Flashes of pain. Shouts. Shadows. A snake. A scream. Then blackness.
It didn't make sense.
"We can't stop," he said, barely above a whisper. "Voldemort is still out there. We haven't finished it. I knowwe haven't."
Mrs. Weasley's hand found his shoulder, grounding him—but it felt like a tether, holding him in place when every part of him screamed to run.
"Harry," she said gently, "you're sick. You need rest. Please trust me."
"No!" He jerked away, breathing fast, eyes wild. "You don't understand. I can't rest! He's still out there! I know he is—I feel him—"
"Harry," Hermione said, her voice thick with worry, "you're not well. You're remembering things wrong. You need to rest and let it come back slowly. Please."
Harry stumbled back a step. Everything around him spun.
They were wrong. They had to be.
He wasn't crazy.
He wasn't.
"We're wasting time," he said, his voice cracking. "We should've gone hours ago. Why won't any of you listento me?"
Mrs. Weasley moved in again, slowly, as if afraid he might bolt. "You've been through more than anyone should," she said, voice trembling. "You're safe now, Harry. Just let yourself be safe."
But he couldn't. Not when something inside him screamed that he wasn't.
He saw Voldemort's face in his mind—smiling, triumphant. He heard screams echoing. Pain. Fire. Darkness. He saw Dumbledore falling again.
It wasn't over.
"I can't rest," Harry whispered. His voice broke as his knees buckled. "It's not over. It's not… over."
Ron, Hermione, and Ginny looked at each other—silent, scared. Harry saw it in their eyes: the way they flicked from him to each other like they didn't know what to do. Their faces were pale, drawn, and full of fear. For him.
Why were they looking at him like that?
His head was pounding. His skin felt too hot, too tight. He couldn't breathe right. The room was spinning, and something inside him was cracking—splintering apart. He could feel it.
"Ron!" Mrs. Weasley's voice cut through the chaos. "Come help me with Harry!"
She was beside him now, trying to hold him still, but Harry didn't want to be held. He didn't want to be touched. He wanted out—out of this house, out of this body, out of this nightmare.
"Get off me!" he shouted, trying to push away from her grasp. His arms flailed, uncoordinated, but driven by panic. "Don't—don't make me—"
"Ginny, please," Mrs. Weasley cried over his shoulder, her voice trembling with urgency. "Get the calming draught—and the sleeping potion."
No.
No no no no no—
His heart slammed against his ribs like it wanted to escape.
"You can't do this!" Harry yelled, voice raw and broken. "I don't want to sleep—don't make me—please—!"
He didn't know what he was saying anymore. It was all bleeding together: the fear, the confusion, the heaviness behind his eyes, the stabbing guilt in his chest. Something was chasing him inside his own mind, and he didn't know how to stop it.
Then Ginny appeared in the doorway.
Her face—God, her face.
Tears streamed silently down her cheeks. She looked like she was about to break in two. In her shaking hands, she held two small glass vials—one amber, one silver-blue—glinting softly in the light.
"No," Harry choked out, backing away even though he had nowhere to go. "Ginny, please don't… please, don't give me those…"
"Harry…" she whispered, her voice so soft he barely heard it. Her lip trembled. "I don't want to. I swear I don't. But you're not okay."
"I'm fine!" he shouted, though he didn't believe it even as he said it. "I'm fine! Just stop looking at me like that!"
The room was tilting now. His legs wouldn't hold him. He reached for something to steady himself, but everything felt far away and unreal, like he was underwater.
Then hands gripped his arms—Ron's hands, strong but shaking—and Mrs. Weasley's comforting warmth pressed against his back as she held him steady.
"No—please, don't—" Harry cried out, voice cracking as he struggled against them. "Don't make me sleep—I don't want to rest—I don't want to—"
But then Slughorn's face loomed into view, oddly gentle behind his spectacles, as he helped Ginny lift the vials to Harry's lips.
"Just a sip, my boy," Slughorn murmured, almost apologetic. "It's for the best."
Harry turned his head away, teeth clenched. But he was tired. So tired. His fight was melting, draining out of him like warmth in winter.
Ginny's hands brushed his cheek as she held the vial close, her fingers trembling.
"I'm sorry," she whispered again. "Please forgive me."
The bitterness of the potion touched his tongue, and he shuddered.
He fought it. One last time.
But his body was done fighting.
His limbs went slack as the warmth of the draught pulled him downward. The room spun faster, then slowed… then faded. Faces blurred. Voices echoed into silence. And the light around the edges of the window dimmed into soft gold.
The last thing he saw was Ron—his face pale with fear—and Mrs. Weasley gently brushing the hair from his forehead.
And then—darkness.
When Harry finally stirred from his unnatural sleep, his skin still clammy and flushed, Ron leaned in to feel his forehead, while Molly pressed the back of her hand gently to Harry's cheek.
The fever was still burning.
Molly drew in a sharp breath, her lips tightening. "He's no better," she murmured, her voice low and tense.
Ron's face fell.
Molly's eyes flicked to Slughorn, whose brow lined with concern.
"I'm running out of ingredients," Molly said finally, her voice tinged with worry. "There's barely enough left for one more batch. I need to restock if I'm to keep brewing the fever-reducing draught."
"Molly, let me take care of the potions," Slughorn offered. "I've got enough supplies in my own storeroom to last a fortnight, and if we need more, Madam Pomfrey will surely help."
Molly hesitated, then gave a small nod, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. "Thank you, Horace. That means more than I can say."
Slughorn gave a quiet nod in return. "He shouldn't stay down here," he added, looking over at Harry's fragile form. "He'll rest better in his own room."
Without another word, Slughorn stepped forward and, despite his age and round build, carefully lifted Harry into his arms. He didn't use magic. Instead, he cradled the boy like a parent might hold a sleeping child, cautious and gentle. Harry's head lolled against his chest, limp and far too light.
Ron, Hermione, and Ginny stood silently aside, watching with tense expressions as Slughorn carried Harry upstairs, each step echoing heavily in their ears.
They followed quietly, hearts pounding.
Up in Harry's room, the afternoon light slipped through the curtains in thin, golden strands, softening the harsh lines of worry on everyone's faces. Slughorn laid Harry down with the care of someone placing glass on stone. He adjusted the blanket around the boy and stepped back, sighing.
Molly took her place at the bedside again. She reached out, gently brushing a damp strand of hair from Harry's burning forehead. Her hand lingered there, as if wishing she could draw the fever out through her touch.
The air was heavy with fear.
Ginny stood at the foot of the bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her eyes flicked from Harry's pale face to her mother's worried one.
"Mum…" Her voice cracked. "Is he going to be alright?"
Molly swallowed hard and turned to her daughter. Her voice trembled when she answered, "I don't know, love." She blinked back tears. "His body's fighting, but… whatever he went through, it's still holding onto him. And when he wakes up… he might have to face it all again."
Ginny's breath caught. She pressed a hand to her mouth as a quiet sob escaped her. She shook her head, blinking rapidly. "It's not just his body that's hurting," she whispered. "He's forgetting things. Slowly, like pieces of him are slipping away."
Ron's eyes widened, and Hermione clutched his arm without realising it.
"He didn't remember something yesterday," Ginny said, her voice rising just a little. "Something important. He looked at me like—like he didn't know if he could trust what he saw."
Ron stepped closer to the bed, his hands curling into fists as he stared down at Harry. "You think he might forget us?" he asked quietly.
Ginny didn't answer. She didn't need to.
The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. No one dared speak, as if words might make it real.
Ron sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"I'm scared," he admitted. "If he keeps slipping like this… there'll come a time when he won't even know who we are." He looked up, his eyes red. "And I don't think I can take that. He's my best mate. He's… he's Harry."
Hermione nodded, her throat too tight to speak. Ginny moved closer, slipping her hand into Harry's.
His fingers didn't move.
Arthur's heart pounded as he hurried through the crowded corridors of the Ministry of Magic. The usual chatter, the clatter of enchanted typewriters, the distant hum of magical energy—all of it faded into the background beneath the thudding of his pulse. Molly's message still echoed in his head, sharp and cold: Harry's getting worse. The image of the boy—pale, weak, barely hanging on—burnt behind his eyes.
Up ahead, Percy stood outside the entrance to the Department of Magical Transportation, a stack of files in his arms. He looked up just in time to see his father rush past. His brows furrowed in confusion.
"Dad?" he called, stepping forward. "What's going on? Where are you going in such a hurry?"
Arthur stopped abruptly, breathing hard. For a moment, he said nothing, caught between the urgency of the moment and the need to protect Harry's privacy. He glanced around. Several witches and wizards had turned at Percy's shout, their curiosity already stirring. Arthur leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"It's Harry," he said tightly. "He's very ill. Your mother just sent word. It's… bad, Percy. He's not getting better."
Percy stared at him, stunned. "What?" he whispered. "Harry? Ill?"
Arthur gave a quick nod, his expression grim. "Yes. And it's serious. I need to get home. Now."
Percy struggled to process it. Harry Potter, the boy who'd faced down You-Know-Who, the young man who had survived every danger thrown at him—ill? It didn't make sense. "But how? What happened? Is it a curse? A relapse from the war? Has someone done something to him?"
"Not here," Arthur said quickly, glancing at the nearby onlookers who were now shamelessly eavesdropping. "Keep your voice down."
Percy followed his gaze, catching the interest gleaming in their eyes. Whispers were already starting, rippling through the crowd like fire catching dry grass. The name Harry Potter carried weight—and danger.
Arthur placed a firm hand on Percy's shoulder. "I don't have time to explain it all now," he said quietly. "But I promise, I'll tell you everything once I know more. Just—don't say anything yet. Please."
"But Dad—" Percy began, his face creased with worry.
"I know," Arthur interrupted gently. "I know you want answers. I do too. But right now, I have to get to him. Molly's with him, and she shouldn't be alone. I'll owl you the moment I can."
Percy gave a reluctant nod, though his eyes remained full of questions. "Alright. Just—please, let me know as soon as you hear anything. And tell Mum I'm thinking of her. Of Harry too."
Arthur gave him a tight nod. "I will."
And then he was off again, weaving through the Ministry's halls with one thought pressing hard in his chest: please, let him be alright.
Arthur Apparated just outside the Burrow, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path. A bitter wind swept through the tall grass as he hurried up the familiar steps. Even before he reached for the doorknob, he could feel something was wrong—the silence, thick and unnatural, settled over the house.
Inside, the kitchen was dim. The glow from a single lamp cast long, flickering shadows against the worn walls. Molly stood near the table, her hands wrapped tightly around a tea towel, twisting it unconsciously. She didn't speak right away. She simply stepped forward and pulled Arthur into a long, silent embrace.
Her arms were tight, her breath shallow. The warmth she usually carried had been dulled, buried beneath layers of exhaustion and dread.
Arthur held her close. "How is he?" he whispered.
Molly pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and hollow. "Horace came by earlier," she said. "He stayed for a while… checked on Harry. He's already gone back to Hogwarts."
Arthur glanced toward the fireplace, where the last wisps of green flame still curled upward. Just moments earlier, Slughorn had been standing there. Now the room felt even emptier.
"Where is he?" Arthur asked, a knot tightening in his chest. "Where's Harry?"
Molly hesitated, her jaw tightening as she fought to stay composed. "Upstairs," she said quietly. "We had to move him to his room. He's sleeping now… We gave him a calming draught along with a sleeping potion. He—he was getting confused again. Delusional. Agitated."
Arthur's heart sank. "Like at the station?"
"Yes. He was convinced You-Know-Who is still alive," Molly said, her voice trembling. "He kept saying the Horcruxes weren't all destroyed. That he had to finish it."
Arthur felt cold spread through him. It was like watching someone drown, knowing you couldn't reach them. "Ron and Hermione—?"
"They're with him," she nodded. "They've been incredible. They hardly leave his side."
Arthur rubbed a hand down his face, trying to gather his thoughts. "What about Slughorn? Did he bring the book?"
Molly sat down heavily in one of the kitchen chairs. "Yes, he found something. He left it in Harry's room. We haven't had time to look through it yet. Horace had to go brew more potions—he says we'll need stronger stabilisers soon. And I'm nearly out of ingredients…"
She trailed off, staring into the worn wood grain of the table. "I don't know how much more of this I can manage, Arthur. I'm doing everything I can, but it's not enough. He's slipping away from us."
Arthur sat beside her, the warmth from the fireplace no longer reaching him. "Has he eaten anything?"
Molly gave a small, bitter shake of her head. "No. He sleeps too much… or not at all. And when he's awake, he won't eat. He fell asleep right in the middle of lunch earlier. I might have to start making him nutrient potions."
Arthur reached over and covered her hand with his. "We'll get through this. Together."
For a moment, they just sat there, the quiet settling around them like ash.
Molly exhaled shakily and tried to steer the conversation elsewhere. "How were things at the Ministry?"
Arthur gave a tired laugh. "The ministry is… blissfully ignorant, as usual. The Aurors are celebrating their latest arrests—more Death Eaters behind bars. The public is feeling hopeful, even cheerful. They think we've won. That the worst is over."
He looked away, bitterness creeping into his voice. "They're sending owls asking for Harry's autograph. Inviting him to events. As if he's supposed to smile and wave and play the hero now that it's all over."
Molly frowned, worry returning to her features. "They don't know."
"No," Arthur said quietly. "They don't understand what he's going through. What he's already endured. They want a symbol—not the truth."
"Let's keep it that way for now," Molly said. "No one else knows how bad things really are?"
Arthur hesitated. "I told Percy," he admitted. "He saw me rushing out of the Ministry. He asked what was wrong, and I… I told him Harry was sick."
Molly's eyes widened. "Will he keep it quiet?"
Arthur nodded. "He will. He understood right away that this wasn't something to share. He's worried too."
Still, Molly's expression remained troubled. "If Harry doesn't show his face in public soon, people will start to ask questions. Someone might try to investigate."
"I know," Arthur said softly. "But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
Molly nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. The weight of it all—the secrecy, the helplessness, the fear—hung between them.
She stared into the flickering flames for a long moment before speaking again. "Sometimes I feel like we're holding the world together with thread and hope."
Arthur gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Then let's not let go. Not yet."
Ron shifted uncomfortably on the wooden floor of Harry's bedroom. The familiar smell of old parchment and worn Quidditch pads clung to the air. He felt strangely useless, like a spare wand at a duelling match, while his friends seemed to tear through mystery after mystery. All he could manage was staying awake.
Beside him, Ginny sat with her legs tucked beneath her, leaning slightly against Harry's bed. The Anima book rested in her lap, her fingers curled tightly around its cracked spine. Every few seconds, she glanced at Harry's sleeping face, as if silently making sure he was still breathing.
Hermione paced in front of the bed like a storm about to break, her arms folded tight across her chest. Her mind was clearly working at double speed, but the growing frustration in her frown made it clear they weren't getting anywhere fast.
"That's not helpful, Ron," she snapped suddenly, yanking him out of his daze.
Ron blinked. "What's not helpful?"
"Whatever it is you're doing—which is nothing," she shot back, the irritation in her voice sharpening the already tense air. The ticking clock on the wall seemed to grow louder, stretching time into an unbearable crawl.
Ron sighed, drumming his fingers against the floor. "I was thinking, actually," he said, though he wasn't entirely sure what about. "Can't we take a short break? Harry's asleep—we're not exactly racing against a werewolf attack or something."
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "A werewolf is one possibility from the text, Ron. There are dozens of dangerous creatures mentioned. Taking a nap won't get us any closer to a solution. And this is a good time to discuss this while Harry's still asleep. He shouldn't know what we're talking about because he won't like the plan."
"Okay, okay."
Ginny looked up from the book, brow furrowed. "'A strand of an untamed creature that is a visage of death,'" she read aloud, her voice slow and uncertain. The weight of the words seemed to suck the air out of the room.
Ron scratched the back of his neck. "That could be loads of things. Dementors, werewolves… even a Boggart if it's feeling dramatic."
Hermione halted mid-pace, her eyes narrowing as she turned to him. "And what exactly is your plan? Ask a boggart politely for a strand of hair while it turns into your dead grandmother?"
"Depends," Ron muttered. "Was she handing out hairs in the afterlife?"
Ginny snorted despite herself but quickly sobered. "Do we even need to tame a werewolf?" she asked, looking from Hermione to Ron. "I mean, how would that even work? They don't exactly come with leashes and treat bags."
Hermione chewed her lip, thoughtful now. "I've never read about one being tamed. Even Professor Lupin—when transformed—was barely in control. They lose all sense of humanity. It's tragic, really."
Ginny nodded solemnly. "I read that too. Some book in the library—Lupine Lawlessness: Why Lycanthropes Don't Deserve to Live."
Hermione made a disgusted noise in her throat. "Ugh, that book. It's absolute garbage. Professor Emerett Picardy is a pompous fearmonger. He once claimed werewolves are biologically incapable of love."
Ron frowned. "That's a bit harsh, isn't it? I mean, Professor Lupin was great. Quiet, yeah—but decent."
Hermione gave him a small, appreciative smile. "Exactly. Picardy's conclusions are dangerous and unfounded."
Ron stretched his legs out in front of him and groaned. "Fine. No werewolves. How about a dragon then? Big, scary, and definitely untamed."
Hermione spun on him. "This isn't a list of terrifying creatures you'd like to avoid in a dark alley, Ron! We're solving a riddle."
"Well, you could at least pretend I'm being helpful," he grumbled.
"You could try being helpful," she shot back.
Ginny cleared her throat loudly, breaking the rising tension. "What about Thestrals?" she offered. "They're kind of… death-y."
Hermione stopped short. Her eyes lit up like a Lumos spell. "Thestrals!"
Ron blinked. "Wait, really? Don't they just pull those creepy carriages?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Hagrid's class, Ron. We rode them, remember?"
"Oh yeah," Ron muttered. "Good times."
"Do you ever pay attention?" Hermione asked, hands on hips. "They're intelligent. They understand paths and intent. They're not just beasts. They could lead us to what we need."
Ginny's face lit up. "It has to be it!"
Ron frowned. "But where do we even get one?"
Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but Ginny interrupted, voice urgent. "I still have that book on magical creatures! Hold on—I'll get it!"
She jumped up and hurried from the room, leaving Ron and Hermione staring after her.
Ron let himself collapse fully onto the floor, arms sprawled. "More reading? Brilliant. Can't wait."
"You're more dramatic than Harry's dreams," Hermione muttered, arms crossed.
"I was contributing," Ron argued, not moving. "My brain just works better horizontally."
"Your brain barely works vertically," Hermione snapped, but there was a ghost of a smile on her face now.
Ron grinned at her from the floor. "Admit it, you'd miss me if I got eaten by a werewolf."
"I'd miss the noise, maybe," she replied dryly.
They both laughed, the tension finally loosening just a little as Ginny's hurried footsteps echoed back toward the room with a thick, worn book clutched to her chest, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "I found it," she announced, practically breathless as she dropped to the floor beside Hermione and flipped through the pages with practised urgency. Her fingers halted halfway through, and she held her breath for a moment before passing the open book to Hermione. "Look. Right here."
Hermione leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the passage. There was a brief silence, the kind that hung in the air before revelations. Then she whispered, "Thestral tail hair. It's believed to be a powerful wand core."
Ron, who had been slouched nearby looking mildly bored, perked up—only to frown almost immediately. "Believed? That sounds like wizard gossip. Is there any actual proof?"
"There's reason to think so," Hermione replied, her brow furrowed as she read more. "It might not be confirmed, but the properties listed here align closely with what we know about the Elder Wand."
Ron raised an eyebrow. "Wait, are you saying that wand might actually have a Thestral hair core? The Elder Wand?"
Hermione didn't answer right away. Her gaze was distant, thoughtful. "It's possible. No one's ever been completely sure what's inside it. Some say it's dragon heartstring, but… it makes sense. A wand tied to death, using a creature only visible to those who've seen death."
Ginny's heart gave an uneasy flutter. "So if we want to make a wand that can counter the Elder Wand… or something close… we'd need Thestral hair?"
"I think so," Hermione said softly. "And I can't think of any other magical creature more symbolically or magically connected to death."
Ginny nodded, a bit pale now. "Right. So. Thestrals."
Ron shifted uncomfortably. "Assuming we go along with this plan… how exactly are we supposed to get the hair? You can't just walk up and ask them to donate some."
"Well, first we'd need to see them," Ginny said. "And that's kind of a problem, isn't it? You can't see Thestrals unless…"
A heavy pause filled the room. The war. The losses. The price they'd all paid. The silence said more than any words could.
Hermione looked down at the page, her voice a whisper. "We can probably see them now."
Ginny looked at her and gave a small, solemn nod. Ron said nothing, but his clenched jaw spoke volumes.
Finally, he cleared his throat. "Are the Hogwarts Thestrals… trained? Tame?"
Hermione blinked out of her thoughts. "Yes—well, somewhat. Hagrid told us back in fifth year that the Hogwarts herd is the only known trained group in Britain. But still, they're shy and sensitive. They don't come when called."
"So if we need a hair, we'd have to track a wild one," Ron muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Brilliant. Because that sounds so easy."
"They're elusive," Hermione said with a sigh. "And they only live in a few places—mostly parts of Britain, Ireland, a bit of France and Spain. But even there, they're rarely seen."
Another beat of silence. Then Ginny spoke, her voice firmer now. "We should talk to Hagrid. If anyone can help us find a Thestral—or even convince one to trust us—it's him."
Hermione's eyes lit up with sudden resolve. "You're right. He's our best shot. We need to contact him as soon as possible—either send an owl or find him in person."
Ron let out a groan. "Great. I can already hear him shouting. 'What do yeh mean yeh want to go botherin' Thestrals?! Are yeh outta yer minds?!'"
Ginny laughed, the tension breaking just a little. "He might scold us first, but he'll come around. He always does."
"Oh sure," Ron said with a grin. "Right after he threatens to sit on us for being reckless. Again."
Hermione allowed herself a small smile. "Regardless of how dramatic he gets, we'll need to tell him the truth. Maybe not everything, but enough."
Ron looked unconvinced. "You think he'll keep it quiet?"
"He's kept bigger secrets," Ginny reminded him. "Like that dragon in first year and Aragog."
"And Grawp," Hermione added dryly. "Let's not forget Grawp."
Ron made a face. "How could anyone forget Grawp?"
Harry stirred, a dull ache blooming behind his eyes as he blinked groggily at the ceiling. Everything felt fuzzy, like he was still drifting somewhere between dreams and reality. He blinked again, trying to focus.
"What?" He croaked, voice rough with sleep. He pushed himself up on one elbow, his body heavy and sluggish, like he was wading through treacle. "What's going on?"
There was a sudden flurry of movement beside him.
"Harry!" Hermione gasped, clearly startled. She looked like a child caught sneaking sweets—flushed cheeks, guilty eyes.
Ginny was already at his side, her touch gentle as she reached for his glasses and slid them onto his face. Her fingers brushed his skin—warm, grounding. The world came into sharper focus, though it didn't make much more sense.
Harry squinted at them, his heart giving a strange little lurch. Ron stood awkwardly by the bed, hands shoved in his pockets, and Hermione looked like she was about to burst into tears. Ginny, as usual, held it together best—but even she couldn't quite hide the worry in her eyes.
"Why are you all looking at me like that?" he asked, confusion prickling beneath his skin. "Hermione, what were you just saying?"
"I… nothing," she said quickly, too quickly. Her voice trembled, and she looked away, pretending to straighten the edge of the blanket. Her glance flicked toward Ron and Ginny—silent, pleading.
Harry felt it immediately: the way their silence pressed in on him like a weight. They were hiding something. Again. And he hated that.
"You're not very good liars, you know," he muttered, trying to sound annoyed instead of scared.
Ron jumped in, clearly trying to defuse the tension. "How are you feeling, mate?"
"Like I got trampled by a herd of hippogriffs," Harry said weakly, rubbing at his eyes. "I'm tired. Starving, actually. Did I miss breakfast?"
"You tried to eat earlier," Ron said, shifting uncomfortably, "but you didn't really finish. And you missed lunch entirely. Don't you remember anything?"
Harry's stomach twisted. His brain scrambled for something, anything from earlier that day—but it was a blur. Just vague flashes. A rush of emotion. Voices. Nothing solid.
"No," he admitted. "Why? What did I say?"
There was a beat of silence. Hermione looked like she wanted to disappear. Ron ran a hand through his hair. Ginny stepped closer, a protective shadow at his side.
"You were talking about Horcruxes," Ron said finally. "About leaving the Burrow. About going after… him."
The words dropped like stones into Harry's chest.
"What?" he whispered, barely able to get the word out. "I said that?"
He hadn't meant to. Had he? He didn't remember planning anything—didn't remember anything at all—but something about the idea felt familiar. Like an itch just under the skin. Maybe he had said it.
"I didn't mean to—" he began, but Ginny cut him off gently.
"Don't worry about it now," she said, her voice calm and steady. "You need to eat. Let's get you downstairs first, yeah?"
He nodded, though the idea of moving made his head spin. He swung his legs over the side of the bed—and immediately regretted it. His knees buckled under his weight, and the room tilted alarmingly.
"I've got you," Ginny said, slipping her arm around him before he could fall. She was stronger than she looked.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Hermione asked nervously, hovering nearby.
"I can do it," Harry said, though he wasn't entirely convinced. "I just… need help."
So, step by careful step, they made their way down the stairs, Harry clinging to the bannister with one hand and Ginny with the other. He focused on the wood beneath his fingers—the familiar grooves and scratches worn in by years of use. Somehow, it helped.
The moment they stepped into the kitchen, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley turned in alarm.
"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley hurried over, worry etched into every line of her face. "Is everything alright?"
"He's hungry, Mum," Ginny said before Harry could open his mouth. "Can we get him something to eat?"
Mrs. Weasley's expression softened instantly. "Of course, dear. Sit him down. I'll get something started."
Mr. Weasley appeared beside Harry, guiding him gently to the nearest chair. The familiar scent of herbs and warm stew filled the room—comforting, grounding.
"How are you holding up, Harry?" Mr. Weasley asked, settling beside him.
Harry sank into the chair with a sigh, every muscle aching. "Still a bit wobbly," he admitted. "But I'm alright. Thank you."
Mr. Weasley folded up his paper, placing it aside. Harry hesitated, then glanced over.
"How's the ministry?" he asked, trying to sound casual. "Things… calming down at all?"
Mr. Weasley's smile was tired, almost wistful. "To some degree. The war's over, but the aftermath never is, is it?" He paused as Mrs. Weasley returned with a steaming bowl of stew. "There's celebration, of course. Relief. But people… they want answers. They want you."
Harry blinked. "Me?"
"They're desperate to know where you are. Kingsley's doing everything he can to keep your location quiet, but the longer you're hidden, the more they speculate. Some even think you've gone missing."
Harry felt his stomach twist again—not from hunger this time, but from guilt.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, staring at the steam rising from his bowl. The scent was incredible, but he couldn't quite bring himself to eat.
"Sorry?" Mr. Weasley repeated gently.
"For making this harder for you," Harry said. "For dragging all of you into this. I just… I just want to be left alone for once."
Mrs. Weasley leaned down and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Harry, dear," she said softly. "You're not a burden. You're family."
"You've given everything," Mr. Weasley added, his voice firm but kind. "Wanting peace doesn't make you selfish. It makes you human."
Harry's throat tightened. He didn't know what to say. He looked down at the food in front of him.
Mrs. Weasley gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Now eat, before it goes cold."
And for once, Harry didn't argue.
His stomach gave a loud, unmistakable growl, cutting through the fading silence like a roar from a very hungry beast. A ripple of laughter burst around the table, chasing away the heavy mood that had settled moments before.
Ron leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Blimey, mate, you sound like you haven't eaten in weeks. Hungry enough to swallow a giant squid whole?"
Harry let out a laugh, grateful for the distraction. The knot in his chest loosened just a little. "Honestly, I think I might."
He tore into a piece of warm bread, chewing slowly, trying not to think too hard. The laughter felt good—normal—but the shadow of something unsaid still lingered behind everyone's eyes.
He glanced up from his plate, curiosity tugging at the edge of his thoughts. "So," he said casually, though his voice carried more interest than he intended, "what were you all talking about while I was… out?"
The table stilled.
Ron's eyes went wide. He inhaled sharply—and immediately choked on a mouthful of stew. Coughing and spluttering, he reached for his goblet, splashing a bit in his haste. The stew dribbled down his chin, and for a moment the only sound was his hacking.
Harry blinked, watching with confusion as an awkward silence clamped down around them.
Ginny looked down, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
Hermione jumped in, her voice a little too quick, too smooth. "We were just talking about job applications," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with forced casualness. "You know, things we might do after Hogwarts."
Harry frowned. That didn't quite make sense. He glanced from Ron—still red-faced and coughing—to Ginny, whose shoulders had tensed like she was bracing for something. "So… you're not going back for your final year then?" he asked quietly.
Ginny didn't answer. Her gaze stayed fixed on her plate, her fork idly pushing peas in circles. The spark that usually danced in her eyes seemed dimmer now, like someone had turned down her flame.
A sliver of cold unease wormed into Harry's chest.
"But Ginny, you're going back… right?"
She still didn't look at him. His question floated unanswered in the silence.
Hermione cleared her throat and jumped in again, more firmly this time. "I am. I'll be returning to finish my final year."
Harry looked at her, confused. "But… you said you were looking at jobs too…"
Hermione cut him off before he could finish. "I meant Ron is looking at jobs. Ginny and I will think about that after graduation."
Harry's mind spun. Something wasn't adding up. He could feel it—like a puzzle with missing pieces. Everyone was acting too carefully, choosing their words like they might explode if handled wrong.
He scooped a little of his stew, trying to appear casual as he shifted gears. "So," he asked, as lightly as he could manage, "what's the Anima book about?"
That question dropped like a stone into a still pond.
Across the table, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged a look—brief, but weighted. Harry couldn't read it, and that made his stomach twist tighter than before.
Ron dropped his fork with a loud clang, stew splattering onto the table.
Hermione froze. Her spoon hovered in midair, forgotten, stew dripping from the edge. The atmosphere, which had been slowly returning to normal, suddenly turned heavy and brittle again.
Ginny's eyes flicked between Ron and Hermione. Her shoulders stiffened. Something unspoken passed between them, something Harry wasn't part of—and that stung more than he wanted to admit.
He felt it—the shift. The way they all looked at each other like there was a script he wasn't supposed to see.
"What?" he asked softly. The word barely made it out. "What is it?"
His voice cracked with confusion, a quiet desperation curling around the question.
He hated this. The whispers. The looks. The sense that everyone knew something he didn't. That everyone was tiptoeing around him like he might break.
And maybe he would. But still… he wanted to know.