Chapter 4

Harry jolted upright, his breath catching violently in his throat.

His heart thundered against his ribs like it was trying to break free. For a split second, he hadn't the faintest clue where he was. The walls loomed too close, the shadows too thick, and the air felt wrong—stale, heavy, like something awful had only just passed through.

The remnants of the dream clung to him, refusing to leave even in the dark. He could still see her—Hedwig—wings flared in panic, white feathers flashing as a burst of green light surged toward her. The cage rattled. Her cry—piercing, terrified, final—still rang in his ears. Then Sirius—his godfather's face just beyond the veil, eyes wide, mouth moving, trying to speak, but there was no sound, only—

Silence.

Then nothing.

"No," Harry choked out. His fingers fumbled blindly at the sheets, clenching them into twisted knots in his fists. His chest was tight, lungs raw, like he'd been shouting—or drowning.

He blinked, and the room wavered around him, swimming in shadow. Sweat drenched his shirt, his hair sticking damply to his forehead. The air against his skin felt cold now, but he was burning inside, as though the dream had set something alight and left the ashes behind.

It was just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream.

But he knew better.

It had felt too vivid. Too true. Like a memory trying to claw its way back from somewhere far deeper than sleep.

Footsteps pounded on the stairs outside—fast, urgent.

The door banged open.

"Harry!"

Ginny and Ron burst into the room, breathless. Ginny in her dressing gown, wand in hand; Ron behind her, pale-faced, eyes flicking quickly about as if expecting an enemy.

For a fleeting, mad second, Harry thought they were still part of the dream. Like they'd followed him out of it.

He recoiled, hitting the headboard with a thud. His limbs trembled violently, teeth on edge, eyes scanning every shadow as if Hedwig might still be there, her wings torn, her cry frozen in the air.

"Where are they?" he gasped. "Where's Hedwig? Sirius? They—they were just here—I saw them—they were right here—"

Ron faltered mid-step, exchanging a silent, alarmed glance with Ginny.

Ginny stepped forward cautiously, as though approaching a wounded creature. "Harry," she said quietly, her voice soft but steady, "you were dreaming. It's all right. You're safe."

"No," Harry rasped, shaking his head sharply. His mind was spinning. "Hedwig—she was in her cage—I saw her—and Sirius—he looked at me—like he knew something was coming—"

His eyes flicked desperately to the corner of the room, to the spot he knew the cage was.

But the cage was empty.

Ginny followed his gaze. Her face shifted, something pulling tight around her mouth.

Ron moved closer but didn't sit. His face had gone strangely blank, like he was trying to keep it from showing too much. "Mate…"

Harry turned to him, voice trembling. "They're not gone. They can't be. Sirius—he's coming back. He always does. He said he would."

He stared at the door, willing it to open.

But it didn't.

The silence was excruciating.

Ginny broke it, her voice low. "I'm so sorry, Harry."

Harry's stomach twisted, a cold knot forming somewhere deep inside him.

"I—I don't understand," he whispered. "When…? How…?"

Ron lowered himself slowly onto the edge of the bed. He looked sick.

"It was nearly a year ago," he said quietly. "We were flying from Privet Drive. Death Eaters were waiting. One of them fired a curse. Hedwig… she didn't make it."

The words hit like a blow to the chest.

And suddenly, the memory did flicker—brief, fragmented—him clinging to the sidecar, the cold wind tearing at his clothes, spells exploding in the dark. The weight in the cage. The sickening stillness.

Her silence.

He couldn't breathe.

"I told you that?" he asked hoarsely, looking at Ron.

Ron gave a slow nod. "You did. You were gutted. We all were."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, searching for it—the moment—but it was like smoke in his hands. He reached, and it slipped through.

"And Sirius?" he asked, though something inside him already knew. He'd always known.

Ron's voice cracked. "The Department of Mysteries. Bellatrix. You were there. You fought to reach him. But—he fell. Through the veil."

Harry's breath caught in his throat.

Another flicker.

Sirius laughing as he duelled, his eyes fierce. A jet of light—his godfather stumbling. The veil was swaying.

Then gone.

Gone.

"No," Harry whispered. "No—I was there. I saw it—didn't I? I must have—"

He looked to them as if they might confirm it. As if they could piece the fragments together for him.

Ginny reached for his arm, her touch feather-light. He flinched at first but didn't pull away.

"You were there, Harry," she said gently. "You tried."

The memories felt crooked. Distorted. As though he were remembering someone else's pain. Not his own.

"I should feel it," he murmured, trembling all over. "I should remember. I know it happened, but I can't feel it—why can't I feel it?"

His hands curled into fists in the sheets, knuckles white. His whole body ached—not from fever, not from wounds—but from something deeper. Something hollow and gnawing.

Guilt.

A familiar companion.

Not just for what he couldn't remember—but for what he hadn't been able to change.

A memory tore through him—sharp-edged and blinding.

He was standing in the ministry's atrium, wand clutched uselessly in his hand, his body trembling so violently he could barely stay upright. Dumbledore's voice rang out above the chaos—furious, echoing, absolute. Fudge stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide, mouth slack, staring at the truth he'd refused to see for far too long.

Harry couldn't speak, couldn't even stand straight. His back had been pressed to the cold wall beside the fallen statue, fingers twitching with adrenaline and leftover dread.

And then—nothing.

The image slipped from his mind, torn away as quickly as it had come. All that remained was the faint, electric hiss of static.

The silence in the room returned—dense, suffocating.

Outside, rain pattered softly against the windowpane, tapping a steady rhythm that sounded like a ticking clock. Each droplet felt like a second slipping past him, counting down to something unseen, something inevitable.

He didn't mean to cry.

The tears came uninvited, sharp and hot and soundless. They carved slow, burning trails down his face before he even realised what was happening. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing them to stop—but it was useless. His body had decided for him. As if some dam inside had given way, and everything he'd been holding back had begun to spill out.

Ron and Ginny were still there. He hated that they were still there.

He hated being seen like this—weak, trembling, and undone. Like a boy again. Like the frightened, motherless child he'd once been, trapped in a cupboard and pretending he didn't care.

He scrubbed at his cheeks with the heel of his palm, as if he could wipe it all away—the tears, the memories, and the shame.

"I'm sorry," he muttered thickly, not looking at either of them. His voice cracked on the words, and the heat rising in his cheeks had nothing to do with fever now.

The silence held for a beat too long.

Then Ron broke it, sharp and unfiltered. "Bloody hell, Harry. You scared the life out of us. That scream—Merlin, you sounded like you were dying."

"Ron!" Ginny hissed, smacking his arm, her voice a furious whisper.

Harry exhaled shakily, lips twitching at the corners—not quite a smile, more like a grim acknowledgement. "Maybe I was."

He hadn't meant to say it aloud. But it was true, wasn't it? That scream—he'd felt it rip out of him. Like something inside had come loose.

The words landed with a dull thud. No one replied.

Ginny's expression softened. She stepped closer, her voice low and deliberate. "You're not dying," she said. "You're grieving. Your mind's been through hell, Harry. It's just trying to protect you the only way it knows how."

Harry laughed—short and bitter. The sound startled even him. "By making me forget everything that matters?"

"Not forget," she said gently, her hand finding his again. "Delay. Give you space. Time. So you can come back to it when you're strong enough."

Her hand was warm, her grip sure. For a moment, he let it ground him—let her presence draw him back into himself, out of the swirling mess of guilt and grief.

His eyes drifted again to the far side of the room.

The cage still sat there.

Empty.

The ache returned, sharper now. Not grief, not fully—it was something colder. Something deeper.

Gone. And I forgot.

What kind of person forgets losing the ones they loved most?

He didn't speak the thought aloud. From the quiet sorrow in Ginny's eyes, from the way she gave his hand the faintest squeeze, she already knew.

He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, steadying himself. The tremor in his chest hadn't gone, but he could hold it back—for now.

"I said I'd tell you when I was sure," he began slowly, the words thick in his throat. His eyes met Ginny's first—her hair catching the glow from the window—and then shifted to Ron, who stood watching him, still and silent.

"Well… the night before we left Hogwarts, I—"

A loud hoot cut him off.

All three of them flinched as Pigwidgeon shot through the open window like a bolt of lightning. He was soaked to the feathers and flapping with the sort of frantic energy that made it nearly impossible to look at him directly.

The tiny owl swooped madly round the room before crash-landing on Ron's shoulder and offering a triumphant trill, wings dripping rain onto the carpet.

Harry blinked, startled by the interruption—but something flickered in his chest. Not joy. Not quite. But a kind of startled warmth. Something like hope.

Ron was already untying two sodden scrolls from Pig's legs, muttering under his breath.

"One for me… And this one—Harry, it's yours."

Harry reached out automatically. The parchment felt cold and damp in his fingers. His name, written in Slughorn's precise, looping script, stared back at him.

He unfolded the letter quickly, but the words swam at first, blurred by too many thoughts and too much noise in his head. He blinked hard, forcing himself to focus.

The writing sharpened.

And his chest twisted painfully as he read.

He didn't realise Ron had already opened his own letter until he heard him exhale—short, quiet.

Hermione's handwriting was small, crammed, and urgent. Harry caught snatches of it from Ron's side of the room, each word hitting with more force than the last:

Ron,

Are you sure about this? Harry's been through so much.

Researching souls—it's not right. It's dangerous. Remember what he's survived—seven Horcruxes, and he was one himself. He was barely whole after the war. Now he's looking into symptoms and illness—what is he trying to prove? He'd never make a Horcrux; we know that, but I can't help being scared. Please… keep an eye on him. I'm really, really worried.

—Hermione

Ron didn't say a word. He folded the parchment carefully, smoothing it once with his palm, and tucked it into his pocket. The quiet crinkle of paper was the only sound in the room for a long while.

Just then, Mrs Weasley's voice rang out from the kitchen below—bright, brisk, and warm, as though nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.

"Ron! Ginny! Breakfast's ready!"

Harry's pulse stumbled. For one suspended moment, he remained frozen, the letter still clutched in his hand, ink bleeding slightly from where his thumb pressed against it.

The familiar bustle of the Burrow moved beneath him—chairs scraping, cupboard doors creaking, footsteps padding across the floorboards.

Then Mrs Weasley's voice floated up again, softer now, clearly meant for him.

"Harry, dear, I'll bring your breakfast up shortly."

He couldn't bear it. Not to sit here alone with the echo of Hermione's letter still ricocheting inside his skull. Not with his thoughts, which had already begun turning in circles, dragging him down.

He stood up so abruptly that the parchment slipped from his lap and drifted to the floor. His limbs ached, and something deeper—something he wasn't ready to name.

"No need, Mrs Weasley," he called, forcing his voice to steady. "I'll come down."

There was a pause, brief but telling—she hadn't expected that.

"Are you sure, love? You still look rather peaky."

Harry gave a short, automatic smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm sure."

It was a lie. But it was enough to keep her from asking more, and that was all he needed right now.

He turned to Ron, who was still standing by the window, arms folded, brows furrowed.

"Let's go," Harry said quietly.

The words were simple, but Ron heard the rest. Later, they said. I'll tell you later.

Ron gave a small nod, understanding already written in the set of his shoulders. No pressure. No questions. Just quiet, steady loyalty—the kind Harry had come to rely on without ever quite knowing how to say so.

They made their way downstairs in silence, Ginny trailing behind them. She didn't speak either, though her eyes flicked to Harry once or twice, worry etched clearly into every line of her face.

The kitchen was as it always was: sun-washed through the crooked windows, plates clattering under Mrs Weasley's expert hands, the air thick with the smell of eggs, toast, and something sweet—probably treacle tart cooling on the counter.

He sat, picking at his food, pushing scrambled eggs round the edge of his plate without tasting a thing. Every time he tried to lift his fork, the weight in his chest dragged it back down. He didn't speak. Neither did Ron nor Ginny. The quiet between them felt more like a truce than a silence.

Mrs Weasley's eyes flicked between the three of them as she worked—shrewd, motherly eyes that missed little. She didn't press. Instead, she slipped into briskness, organising breakfast like a battlefield, nudging Ron and Ginny into chores with well-practised efficiency. Clearing up, folding laundry, restacking the pantry shelves—all excuses to keep them busy and, Harry suspected, to keep them apart.

The warmth drained from the room, replaced by motion, by the illusion of normalcy.

Harry watched Ron clench his jaw and saw the tension settle in his shoulders like it had nowhere else to go. He kept glancing at the stairs, as if hoping for a moment to slip away. To talk. To ask.

He wants to talk, Harry thought, stabbing at his toast. So do I.

But the day slipped by in fragments. Half-started sentences. Pauses too long. Moments missed. Every time Harry built up the courage to speak, someone would enter the room, or the timing would shift, or the words would die on his tongue.

By the time the sun dipped behind the hills and the house grew quiet again, the unspoken things between them had stretched so taut that they ached.

That night, Harry barely made it to his room before it started.

The pain came fast—like it had been waiting for him. One moment he was easing off his trainers, and the next he was on the floor, clutching the edge of the bed as his body spasmed, muscles locking in place with a heat so fierce it felt like he was being burnt from the inside out.

He doubled over, biting his lip until he tasted blood, just to keep from making a sound.

His hands trembled as he reached for his wand, forcing it through fingers that barely obeyed. With effort, he cast a Silencing Charm around the room. The moment it settled, he let go—and screamed.

It ripped out of him, a hoarse, broken sound full of everything he hadn't been able to say. It echoed off the walls and disappeared into the silence he'd created.

The pain tore through him again, worse than before—ragged and wild, like claws raking beneath his skin. He curled in on himself, forehead pressed to the floorboards, sweat soaking his clothes, sticking his fringe to his forehead.

What's happening to me?

The letter from Slughorn sat untouched on his desk, though he'd read it a dozen times already. He could see it even now—curled at the corners, the ink slightly smudged. Talking of souls. Of damage. Of irreversible things.

Of taint.

And of healing. Difficult, uncertain, incomplete healing.

None of it made sense. Or maybe it made too much.

He'd tried to write back. Tried to ask questions, demand answers. But his hand had shaken so badly the quill scratched across the parchment, the letters jagged and unreadable. Three crumpled drafts lay scattered across the floor, silent evidence of failure.

It must be his damaged soul, Harry thought, his breath catching, his chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts.

Something Slughorn's too afraid to say outright again. And if Ron finds out—if Ginny—

His breath hitched.

The pain was fading now, slower than before. Still present, but dulled. Lingering. But it left something behind. Something hollow.

The next day dawned, though Harry wasn't entirely sure of it. The sunlight felt unreal, intrusive, slicing sharply through the curtains. He lay twisted in the bedsheets, his limbs too heavy to shift, his skin damp and clammy. The air in the room pressed down thick and unmoving.

He didn't know if he was properly awake or trapped in the echo of a dream. His thoughts came slow and scattered. His body felt distant. There was a weight in his chest again, dull and sullen, as though something unseen had sunk its claws into him and refused to let go.

Then came the footsteps—quick, sharp, almost panicked—thudding up the stairs.

A voice followed, loud and strained.

"Harry! Are you awake?"

Ron.

The sound cut straight through the fog, startling Harry more than it should have. He tried to move, but it felt like dragging himself through wet cement.

The door opened with a hesitant creak, and Ron stepped into the room.

Harry blinked against the bright light. His eyes burnt, and his vision swam—just enough to make the world feel slightly tilted.

Ron stared at him, pale and breathless.

"You're still in bed?" he asked, the words tumbling out like they couldn't be held in. "Mate—you've got to get up. Slughorn's coming. Today."

Harry frowned, confused. "Slughorn?" he echoed, voice thick, sluggish. It felt like trying to speak through water. "What…? No one told me…"

Ron's brow furrowed. "Mum told us this morning—first thing. She said he's on his way. He wants to see you."

Harry sat up too quickly, and the room spun, a sickening lurch in his stomach sending him reeling. He gripped the edge of the bed to stay upright.

His hand went instinctively to his chest.

The letter.

"That must've been what he meant," Harry murmured, almost to himself.

Ron stepped forward, worry beginning to crease his features. "What? Harry—are you alright? You don't look—"

A sharp, vicious jolt tore through Harry's chest before Ron could finish the thought.

He doubled over, a cry breaking loose from his throat without warning.

"AAAH—!"

His breath came in ragged gasps. It felt like something had exploded behind his ribs, like fire was tearing through him from the inside.

Ron lurched forward, eyes wide. "Harry?! What—what's happening?!"

Harry couldn't speak. Couldn't find the words, even if he'd known what to say. His mouth opened, but only more pain came out—hot, desperate.

He fell sideways, curling in on himself. Every muscle tensed and spasmed, sweat pouring from his skin. His fingers dug into the sheets, fists knotted tight.

"It hurts!" He choked. "Ron—please—make it stop—"

Ron backed towards the door, eyes darting in panic.

"I—bloody hell—I'll get Mum! Hold on—hold on, I'll be right back—!"

He was gone in a flash, his footsteps thundering down the stairs. The door slammed behind him, echoing.

Harry barely noticed.

His mind spun, every thought fragmenting, slipping through his grasp. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe.

Is this what Slughorn meant?

He'd read the letter again and again, but none of it had prepared him for this.

No—it can't be the Horcrux. It's gone. It's gone—it's been gone for years—it can't—

The pain flared again, white-hot, dragging a fresh scream from his throat. He arched backwards, eyes squeezed shut, the world reduced to fire and panic.

His hands shook so badly he couldn't hold on to anything. His vision blurred completely now, darkness crowding at the edges.

He couldn't stop shaking.

He wanted to scream, but even that was slipping away. His throat was torn raw from the effort, each breath shallow and uneven.

And then—footsteps again. Louder this time. More of them.

The door burst open.

"Harry!" Mrs Weasley's voice rang out—sharp with fear.

She rushed to his side, kneeling on the floor beside him, her apron still dusted with flour, her eyes wide and wild.

Ron hovered behind her, looking utterly stricken. Ginny stood in the hallway, frozen, one hand over her mouth.

Mrs Weasley's hands were on him in an instant, cool and firm, trying to steady him. "It's alright, sweetheart—shhh, you're alright—just breathe—slowly now, in and out—"

But Harry jerked away with a shudder. Her touch, though kind, felt like too much.

"Don't—don't touch me!" He gasped, the words spilling out in reflex, not intent.

Mrs Weasley flinched—just slightly—and pulled back, hurt flashing across her face. But she didn't leave. She didn't move away. Her hands hovered near, trembling, ready if he needed her.

Ron stood behind her, fists clenched, looking like he might be sick. His mouth worked, but no sound came out at first.

Then: "Mum—what's wrong with him?"

His voice cracked on the last word.

Harry didn't hear the answer.

Another scream tore loose, longer this time—deeper. Like something was trying to claw its way out of him. His back arched, and the room dissolved again into heat and pressure and noise. He couldn't separate his thoughts from the pain anymore. They blurred together, one long wave of panic and helplessness.

Please, he thought, wild and broken. Please—someone make it stop—someone—anyone—

There was a voice—faint at first, thin and far away, as if it were drifting through water.

Then again, clearer this time. Closer.

"Harry! Focus on me—Harry, tell me what's wrong!"

Mrs Weasley's voice, sharp with fear, sliced through the fog in his head.

He wanted to respond. He really did. He wanted to lift his head, to open his eyes properly, and to breathe. But it all felt impossibly distant.

The pain drowned out everything else. It wasn't just pain—it was everywhere. A fire that started beneath his ribs and spread like poison through his veins, seizing every muscle, every thought.

Then—her hand, warm against his forehead. Steady. Gentle.

Still, he flinched. Even kindness hurt.

"Where does it hurt, Harry?" Her voice was softer now, coaxing. "Tell me, sweetheart. Where is it?"

He dragged in a breath. His lungs felt shredded. "Everywhere," he rasped.

The word tore from him, every syllable scraping his throat raw. Saying it made it worse—like acknowledging it gave it power. Another surge of burning twisted through him, his limbs jerking of their own accord. He let out a sound he barely recognised—a broken gasp, half-choked.

What's happening to me? Something was wrong—so deeply, fundamentally wrong.

Not just pain. Not like before. Not from the battle, or the cursed scar, or even the nightmares.

This is different. This is like I'm coming apart.

The wind howled outside, rattling the old windowpanes, whistling thinly through the cracks in the Burrow's walls. It sounded eerily like someone crying in the distance. But that, too, faded beneath the screaming inside his own body—bone-deep and relentless.

He barely noticed movement nearby until Mrs Weasley's voice lifted again, this time with urgency.

"Ginny—quickly! Storage cupboard, second shelf—there's a blue bottle, 'Healing Potion'—you know the one—go!"

Footsteps pounded away, thundering down the stairs.

He wanted to call after her—'Don't go. Stay. Please don't leave me'—but his throat was closing again, the words trapped inside. He turned his face into the pillow instead, ashamed of the tears pricking the corners of his eyes. His body was burning. Not just heat—fire. Inside him. Around him.

Mrs Weasley didn't stop speaking. Her voice dropped back to a whisper.

"Breathe, Harry. Just breathe, love. I've got you. We've got you. You just hang on."

He tried. Merlin, he tried. But even breathing felt like a mountain. His whole body wanted to give in, to collapse under the weight of it.

Moments later—though it felt like hours—Ginny reappeared, breathless, the small bottle clutched in her shaking hand.

Mrs Weasley took it without a word, her fingers trembling just enough for Harry to notice. She uncorked it quickly; the sharp tang of peppermint and metal filled the room.

"Harry," she murmured, tilting his head gently, "this will help. Just a little sip, sweetheart."

He nodded—or thought he did. Maybe it was just a twitch.

Ron moved closer. He'd been standing like a statue in the corner, caught between fear and helplessness. Now he hovered at the edge of the bed, jaw tight, his eyes wide and glassy. His hands moved as though he wasn't quite sure what to do with them—reach out? Hold Harry down? Run?

He always looked like this when Harry was in trouble. It was something Harry hated, in a strange way—being the cause of that look. That fear.

Between them, Mrs Weasley and Ron eased him up against the pillows. Even that small movement made Harry cry out again. His ribs screamed. His arms quivered violently. He clenched his fists in the blanket to stop himself from thrashing.

The potion touched his lips. He swallowed with effort. It was bitter, cloying, and cold.

For a heartbeat, he felt it work. The tightness in his chest eased. His head cleared slightly. He managed a real breath.

But it didn't last.

The pain returned—not as sharp, not the blinding explosion from earlier—but low and crushing. Heavy. Like something enormous had curled itself around his chest and refused to let go.

His strength was draining again. The edges of the room blurred.

Why isn't it working? He thought in a rush of panic. Why am I still hurting? Why—

He let out a shuddering breath and slumped back, the potion slipping cold through his insides, doing too little.

Stay awake. You have to stay awake.

"Stay with me, Harry." Mrs Weasley's voice cracked, barely holding together. "Please—stay with me, sweetheart."

He clung to the sound.

Then—light. Silver. Flashing through the room.

Ron had drawn his wand. His Patronus—a Jack Russell—shot from the tip like a comet and disappeared down the stairs.

"Hermione—come now!" Ron's voice broke. "It's Harry—he's not getting better! Please—he needs you!"

Harry barely registered the words. He felt Ginny's hand on his arm—cold against the fever burning through his skin.

"He's burning up," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Mum—it's worse. It's so much worse…"

He wanted to reassure her. To tell her not to cry. To promise he'd be fine. That it would pass. That he was stronger than this.

But he didn't believe it anymore.

His thoughts slipped through his fingers. Nothing stayed. His mind was fraying.

The last thing he felt was Ginny's hand—still warm, still holding on—and the cold, creeping dread unfurling in his chest.

Then darkness came for him.

Without warning, a fierce, flickering green blaze erupted in the Burrow's hearth, crackling to life. It hissed and spat as if protesting the intrusion, casting strange shadows across the mismatched tiles and scuffed kitchen floor.

Molly startled with a sharp gasp, her hand flying instinctively to her chest. Ron, standing rigid near the table, turned sharply towards the fireplace, his wand already halfway drawn before he recognised the light.

From within the swirling emerald flames, a broad-shouldered figure began to emerge. As always, he seemed to materialise fully formed—sweeping soot from his sleeves with a practised air before the polished toes of his black dragon-hide boots had even touched the hearthstone.

Professor Slughorn stepped out with a genial hum, his plum-coloured waistcoat shimmering faintly in the firelight, the golden buttons glinting like miniature suns as he adjusted them with a flourish. His great walrus moustache twitched with pleasure.

"Good afternoon!" he boomed, his voice deep and affable, echoing warmly through the kitchen. "Do forgive the rather dramatic entrance. I seem to have taken liberties with the timing—I meant to be punctual, of course, but alas, the older I get, the slipperier the hours become. I used to pride myself on it, you know—punctuality!"

Molly blinked hard, collecting herself. She took a breath and stepped forward, smoothing her apron with slightly shaking hands.

"Oh—Horace, no. It's not your fault at all," she said, forcing a smile that wavered at the edges. Her voice was too thin, too tight. "You did say what time you'd be here. I'm afraid it rather… slipped my mind."

Even as she said them, her thoughts were elsewhere—half in the upstairs room, half in memory. There'd been too much noise in the house today. Too much fear. Too many ifs.

Slughorn's shrewd eyes flicked to her, narrowing slightly in concern, though his smile didn't falter. He was more perceptive than he often let on.

"Think nothing of it, dear Molly," he said lightly, brushing some ash from his cuff. "I do hope I'm not intruding on anything urgent."

But before she could respond, the fire flared again—brighter this time, wilder. The flames surged up the chimney like a wave breaking, scattering sparks that hissed against the grate.

A second figure spun from the Floo, landing hard on the worn hearth rug, robes askew, hair flying.

Hermione stumbled, caught herself on the edge of the table, and straightened quickly. Her cheeks were flushed, her chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths. There was soot in her curls and panic burning behind her eyes.

"Hermione!" Ron's voice cracked as he surged forward, already catching her by the arms before she'd found her footing. The tension in his body, which had knotted so tightly over the past hour, seemed to unwind in that single movement—as though just seeing her had let something trapped finally slip free.

She clung to him for a heartbeat—just long enough to steady herself—and then pulled back, her eyes locked on his.

"Ron," she said, breathless, her voice brittle and frayed. "Is it true? I—I heard something's happened to Harry—I had to come. I had to."

The words spilt out in a rush, but even so, they seemed to cost her something. Her hands trembled at her sides.

Molly stepped forward, brushing soot from Hermione's sleeve with the distracted tenderness of a mother used to fussing even in a crisis.

"Oh, Hermione, dear…"

Hermione turned toward her at once, eyes glassy and wild, as though the only thing keeping her upright was the need to know.

"I didn't owl first—I know I should have; I'm sorry—" Her voice broke as she glanced again at Ron, then back to Molly. "I just—when I heard—I couldn't wait."

At last, the name forced itself from her mouth.

"Harry."

It was barely a whisper. As if even saying it too loudly might tip the world further off balance.

The silence that followed was immediate and heavy, like someone had drawn a curtain between them and the rest of the house.

At the sound of the name, Slughorn's cheerful smile faltered. His posture stiffened slightly, his hand drifting to the edge of his waistcoat, fidgeting there. One finger rubbed nervously over a gold button, back and forth.

"Harry?" he repeated, more slowly now. His voice had lost its earlier warmth. "Is he—what's happened? Is he all right?"

Molly hesitated. Her mouth opened, then closed again. The truth—when it came—was not easy to voice.

She turned towards the table, resting one hand lightly against its edge, as though she needed to steady herself.

"He fainted," she said at last. "Nearly an hour ago. From the pain."

Hermione drew in a sharp breath.

Molly went on, her voice thinner now, cracking in places.

"We tried everything. The potions didn't work. None of them. Not the standard ones, not the emergency draughts. He was—he was in such agony, and I—"

Her voice gave out entirely. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather herself, but when she opened them again, they were full of tears.

"I didn't know what else to do."

Hermione looked stricken. She turned to Ron, who looked no better—he'd gone pale again, his jaw tight, his fists clenched.

"He's not just ill," Ron muttered, staring hard at the floor. His voice was low, almost flat, but carried something dangerous beneath it. "It's more than that."

The words lingered in the air—impossible to ignore, heavier than they had any right to be.

The room seemed to pause. All eyes turned to him, their expressions nearly identical—wide with unspoken dread, though none dared to speak it aloud.

Ron didn't look up. His fists were clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles had gone white. "He woke up screaming," he said, swallowing hard. "Kept calling out for Hedwig. For Sirius. Like he thought—like he doesn't remember they're gone."

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. Her hand flew to her mouth, unbidden, as if trying to hold something in—shock, disbelief, grief. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, too fast, too hard.

He knew they were gone. He had buried them all.

"He's confused," Ron continued, his words now tumbling over one another in a kind of urgent defiance. "He's not making sense. He's sweating through the sheets, shaking like mad—he's not himself, Hermione."

He looked at her then. Eyes wide, raw, desperate. His voice dropped into a whisper.

"You mentioned Horcruxes. In your letter. You said—" His voice caught on the word.

Hermione's heart stuttered. She had written it, hadn't she? Not long ago. Something about lingering effects of soul magic. A thought she hadn't dared chase too far at the time. But now…

The room shifted, like the pressure in the air had changed.

Slughorn, who had been standing slightly apart, turned slowly. His joviality cracked clean down the middle.

"Wait a moment," he said sharply, the boom gone from his voice. "Did you say Horcrux?"

Ron blinked, startled. "Yeah. Why?"

Slughorn didn't answer straight away. The colour had drained from his face. His hands dropped limply to his sides. He looked stunned. Wounded.

"Harry…" he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. "He came to me. Asked about the side effects of being a Horcrux."

Hermione's breath hitched in her throat. She stumbled back a half-step, one hand groping blindly behind her until it found the counter. Her fingers curled around its edge.

"Did he tell you why he was asking?" she managed, voice trembling.

Slughorn shook his head slowly, his expression almost dazed. "No. He didn't explain. Just asked. And I told him the truth. That it—well. That it damages the soul. Shatters it. Makes it… incomplete."

Hermione felt the floor tilt beneath her. Her knees threatened to give way, but she stayed upright, somehow.

"He was a Horcrux," she said, and the words landed—soft at first, then spreading in ripples that disturbed everything.

Silence fell.

No one moved. Even the ticking clock on the wall seemed to still.

"When Voldemort tried to kill him," Hermione pressed on, her voice strained but steady, "when he cast the curse on baby Harry—he didn't just fail. The curse rebounded. But it also split his soul. A fragment of it latched onto Harry. It lived inside him for all those years."

Slughorn reeled back, visibly staggered. His hand found the back of a chair.

"Merlin's beard," he whispered. "He carried a piece of that monster… in him?"

Ron stood stiffly, his jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. He nodded once, curtly.

Hermione kept going, because she had to.

"When Voldemort used the Killing Curse in the Forest," she said, "during the battle… it destroyed the fragment. That piece of soul. That's what let Harry come back."

Molly gasped, the sound sharp and broken. Her hands flew to her mouth before she sank heavily into the nearest chair, as if the knowledge had physically struck her.

"No one told me," she whispered, voice trembling. "Not after the war. Not even when I asked. I—I thought the worst had passed."

Slughorn stood frozen, his face hollowed out. The jolly glint in his eye was gone, stripped bare to something rawer. Older. Fear crept through his features like a shadow.

"A Horcrux is born of murder," he said finally. His voice had dropped to a low, rasping thing. "Of a deliberate, unnatural act. The soul… isn't meant to survive being torn apart. And if Harry carried one that long…"

His voice trailed off.

Hermione stepped closer, though she felt almost weightless with dread.

"Professor," she asked, barely above a whisper, "what happens to someone with a damaged soul?"

Slughorn hesitated, and in that hesitation was all the fear he hadn't yet voiced.

"They begin to fade," he said slowly. "Not all at once. Not like death. It's slower. Subtle. Like a thread being pulled loose from a tapestry. The soul unravels. The person…" He looked at her. "They begin to slip away. Piece by piece."

Hermione's lips parted, but no sound came. Her throat had gone dry. There were tears in her eyes now, blurring her vision, but she didn't bother to brush them away.

"How long?" Her voice was barely a whisper—thin and frayed. She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer, but the silence was worse.

Slughorn didn't respond straightaway. His eyes dropped to the floor, brow furrowing beneath the weight of something old—something far beyond potions or academic theory. When he did speak, it was with the slow, grave solemnity of a man who had seen too much and understood even more.

"It's difficult to say," he murmured. "Weeks, perhaps. Days. Maybe… less."

The words landed like a curse.

Ron took a half-step back, as though the force of it had struck him square in the chest. His face drained of all colour. For a moment, he looked unsteady on his feet, like he might be sick.

"He's—he's dying?" He said hoarsely, the question catching in his throat, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it.

"No." The word shot from Hermione's mouth with unexpected force, her whole body tensing around it. "No. That can't be it. There's something we're missing—there must be. There has to be a way to mend a soul. Professor Dumbledore—he believed in redemption, in second chances. He knew about Harry. He must have known more than he let on. He wouldn't have let it end like this…"

Her voice cracked, but she kept going, as if momentum alone could carry her past the unbearable.

"He trusted Harry with everything. He wouldn't have let him walk away from the war carrying this… this poison inside him. Not without hope."

Her eyes bored into Slughorn's, searching his lined face for a glimmer of understanding, of instruction—anything to cling to.

Slughorn did not flinch. But neither did he meet her gaze. He stood very still, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the table as though the grain in the wood might offer answers he couldn't.

At last, after what felt like a lifetime, he let out a long, weary breath.

"Albus once mentioned the idea of soul-repair," he said slowly. "Only in passing. Years ago. He spoke of it like a theory… an impossibility made slightly less impossible by love. But he never said how. And if he didn't know…"

The implication lingered unspoken.

Silence fell. Heavy. Crushing.

The kind of silence that made every breath feel like it echoed.

Hermione swayed slightly, her knuckles white where she gripped the back of a chair. Her heart thudded like thunder against her ribs, her mind racing with half-formed thoughts—old books, ancient magic, the whisper of something almost remembered.

She opened her mouth to speak—but before she could, the kitchen door banged open with a wild clatter.

Ginny burst in, her chest heaving, hair tangled and eyes wide with breathless disbelief.

"He's awake!" She gasped, almost laughing with relief, though her voice trembled. "Harry—he's awake!"

For one stunned moment, no one moved. The silence snapped like a thread stretched too thin.

Molly made a strangled sound and clutched at her chest, eyes filling with tears. Slughorn's mouth opened slightly, but no words came. Ron blinked, as if trying to be certain he'd heard properly.

But Hermione was already gone.

She bolted from the kitchen like a spell had struck her, her feet barely seeming to touch the floor. Behind her, Ron surged forward with a cry, nearly knocking over a stool in his haste. Ginny spun on the spot and tore after them, her slippers skidding on the floorboards.

They raced up the narrow staircase, the house spinning around them in a blur of dark wood and picture frames. Every step thudded like a heartbeat. Hermione's chest ached, but she didn't slow. She couldn't.

He's awake.

Two words that had changed everything.

The hallway stretched before her, endless and cruel in its familiarity. The door to Harry's room loomed at the far end, closed and silent, and still too far away.

She reached it first.

Her hand hovered over the doorknob—trembling now. Her fingers curled around the cold brass, but she didn't push straightaway.

From within, she could hear him.

Breathing—unsteady, shallow, but real.

Alive.

The sound of it nearly undid her.

She pushed the door open.