Ron's startled cry rang out, sharp against the cold stone walls.
"What d'you mean?" he blurted, eyes wide, his voice echoing off the kitchen tiles as if they were somewhere far more cavernous.
Hermione didn't flinch. She kept her composure, though her voice quivered, just slightly.
"I mean this isn't going to be easy, Ron. We're not mending a cut or setting a broken bone. We're talking about repairing a soul."
Slughorn stepped forward. His usual blustering warmth had vanished. He looked older somehow, his face drawn and pale.
"Mending a soul is no small thing, Mr Weasley," he said quietly, his voice stripped of all its usual indulgence. "This is ancient magic. Sacred magic. And nature… nature doesn't allow anything to come freely. When something is torn apart, putting it back together always comes at a cost."
His gaze travelled between them—Ron, Hermione, Ginny—lingering on each of them in turn, as if weighing whether they truly understood what he meant.
"There is always a price," he added.
A cold knot formed in Ron's stomach. The air seemed heavier now, pressing down on his chest, making it harder to breathe. Slughorn's words clung to him like damp wool—uncomfortable, suffocating.
Hermione exhaled slowly, her eyes fixed on the ancient book before her. Its cracked leather cover looked as though it might crumble at a touch.
"I knew we'd come to this," she said quietly. Her voice carried that same fierce certainty Ron had come to trust, even when it unnerved him.
"Creating a Horcrux damages the soul in ways we barely understand," she went on. "Reversing that… it could destroy us, too."
Ginny moved closer, her face pale but set with quiet resolve.
"But if there's a chance to save Harry—" she began.
Slughorn raised a hand gently, stopping her.
"I've no doubt of your courage, Miss Weasley," he said gravely. "But you must understand—this magic leaves scars. On your body. On your mind. On your soul. Once you begin, you cannot turn back."
The silence that followed settled thickly over them, heavy and unmoving. Ron stared at the book. The strange runes seemed to shimmer under the flickering kitchen light, their meaning far beyond him. This wasn't his world. Not really. His world was warm dinners, muddy Quidditch pitches, and problems you could face with your fists or a well-placed spell.
This was something older. Darker.
"So what do we do?" he asked at last, his voice rough. "Where do we even start?"
No one answered straight away.
Hermione's eyes flicked across the spidery text, her hand trembling slightly as she traced the lines with her finger.
"It's not just about casting a spell," she murmured. "We have to understand what was lost… and why. And we have to give something back."
Ron frowned. "Give back? Give what?"
Hermione hesitated, her throat bobbing as she swallowed.
"Time. Memory. Pain. Maybe… maybe even part of ourselves."
Ginny folded her arms tightly across her chest, her chin lifting in defiance.
"I don't care what it costs," she said firmly. "We're getting him back."
Ron looked between them. He admired them, he feared for them, and somewhere deep down he loved them—both in different ways. But right now, all he could feel was a hollow, twisting helplessness.
They'd been on missions before. They'd faced death before.
But this—this was something else.
This was a line. And once they crossed it, they wouldn't come back the same.
The Burrow had been quiet until Mrs Weasley's voice tore through it like a crack of thunder.
"Harry!"
Her cry was sharp, panicked.
Harry froze at once. Mrs Weasley stood a few feet away from the sagging sofa, arms stretched out as though she were facing a cornered animal. Her face was pale, her hands trembling, her expression pulled tight between fear and desperate affection.
Something was wrong. Deeply, dreadfully wrong.
His heart thudded painfully in his chest. The air in the room thickened, pressing in from all sides. This was the Burrow—safe, familiar, home—but now it felt smaller somehow, suffocating, as though the walls themselves were inching closer.
"Harry, please," Mrs Weasley whispered, her voice barely carrying. "You need to listen to me."
He stared at her, searching her face for something that made sense. Her eyes—always so full of warmth whenever they'd looked at him—were wide now, filled with a kind of pleading he'd never seen from her before. There was a tremble in her voice that unsettled him more than anything else.
Something was wrong with him. He could feel it—tugging at the edges of his mind—but he didn't know what.
His feet might as well have been fixed to the floor, his legs leaden. His gaze flicked to the sofa—worn, frayed, comfortingly familiar—but even that now looked like it belonged to someone else's life.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The grandfather clock's steady rhythm filled the room like a drumbeat. Each tick seemed to thump louder in his skull. Time was slipping away—he could feel it, a terrible certainty in his bones.
"Mum, what's going on?" Ron's voice cut sharply through the silence, thick with alarm.
But Harry hardly heard him.
"We don't have time," he muttered, his voice distant, as though it belonged to someone else. He turned to Ron, urgency rising in his throat. "We need to go. Now. We should've gone already."
His eyes swept frantically across the room—from the crooked photos on the wall to the mismatched clutter on the shelves. It was all familiar. It should have felt safe. But none of it seemed real anymore. It was like looking at a memory that had been smudged at the edges.
Mrs Weasley rushed to him and pressed a hand to his forehead. Her touch was warm, but it only made the heat inside him burn hotter.
"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 buckled slightly. "I don't have time to rest."
He pulled away from her. The pressure inside him was unbearable now. Why weren't they moving? Why couldn't they see it?
Hermione stepped forward, careful, her voice soft but steady.
"Harry—what are you talking about?"
He spun towards her, frustration crackling just beneath his skin.
"We have to leave. We've got to find the Horcruxes."
There was a pause—brief, but it seemed to stretch and stretch, pulling the air taut.
Hermione glanced quickly at Ron, her face stricken. When she spoke, her words landed like stones.
"Harry… we've already done that."
Silence.
Harry could hear nothing but the rush of blood in his ears.
His throat was dry. "What d'you mean—'already done that'?"
"We destroyed them," Hermione said gently, though her voice was laced with something else—pity, perhaps. Grief. "It's over, Harry. Don't you remember?"
No.
No, that wasn't right.
His mind reeled, flipping through memories like pages torn from a book. He grasped for something solid—something he could hold on to—but everything slipped away like smoke.
"What are you talking about?" His voice was barely more than a whisper. "When? When did we do that?"
Ron stepped forward, his face pale, his words shaky.
"After Bill and Fleur's wedding. We left—we were gone for months. Just us three. We found the Horcruxes. We went through the Ministry, broke into Gringotts… all of it."
Harry's breathing faltered. Confusion twisted through him, cold and choking. He stumbled backwards.
"No… I don't remember. I don't remember any of that."
His hands clutched at his head, fingers digging into his scalp as he desperately tried to drag the memories back. But all he found were jagged fragments—flashes of pain, a serpent, a scream, blackness.
It didn't make sense.
"We can't stop," he whispered fiercely. "Voldemort's still out there. I know he is. We haven't finished it."
Mrs Weasley's hand found his shoulder, grounding him—but to Harry, it felt like a tether, holding him in place when every part of him screamed to run.
"Harry," she said softly, as though speaking to something fragile, "you're not well. You need rest. Please—trust me."
"No!" He jerked away, breath coming fast, eyes wild. "You don't understand—I can't rest! He's still out there—I know he is—I can feel him—"
"Harry," Hermione said quickly, her voice thick with worry, "you're not thinking straight. Your memories—they're jumbled. You need rest. It'll come back slowly. Please."
Harry stumbled back a step, the room lurching around him.
They were wrong. They had to be.
He wasn't mad.
He wasn't.
"We're wasting time!" His voice cracked. "We should've gone hours ago—why won't you listen to me?"
Mrs Weasley edged closer, slowly, carefully, as if afraid he might bolt.
"You've been through more than anyone should," she said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to sound calm. "You're safe now, Harry. Just—just let yourself be safe."
But he couldn't. Something deep inside him was still screaming that he wasn't.
Voldemort's face flashed in his mind—smiling, victorious. He heard the screams, the crack of splintering wood, the roar of fire. He saw Dumbledore falling—again, and again, and again.
It wasn't over.
"I can't rest," Harry whispered. His knees buckled beneath him. "It's not over. It's not—it's not over."
Ron, Hermione, and Ginny exchanged desperate glances. Harry caught it—the quick, helpless flick of their eyes between one another. They didn't know what to do. They were scared.
They were scared of him.
Why were they looking at him like that?
His head pounded. His skin prickled, far too hot and tight. His chest heaved, and the room spun horribly. Something inside him was cracking—splintering apart—and he could feel it.
"Ron!" Mrs Weasley called sharply. "Come help me—quickly!"
She was at his side again, her arms steadying him, but Harry didn't want to be steadied. He didn't want to be touched. He wanted out—out of this room, out of this body, out of this terrible, suffocating dream.
"Get off me!" he shouted, thrashing against her grip. His arms flailed, desperate and clumsy. "Don't—don't make me—"
"Ginny, please!" Mrs Weasley cried over her shoulder, her voice rising with panic. "Fetch the Calming Draught—and the Sleeping Potion—now!"
No.
No no no no no.
His heart battered against his ribs, furious and frantic.
"You can't do this!" Harry cried, his voice raw and cracking. "I don't want to sleep—don't make me—please—!"
His words were breaking apart now, tangled with panic and breathlessness, as the terror clawed at his ribs. He didn't know what he was saying anymore—it was all bleeding together. Fear. Guilt. Confusion. Something dark was chasing him inside his own mind, and he didn't know how to outrun it.
And then Ginny appeared in the doorway.
Her face—Merlin, her face.
Tears streaked silently down her cheeks. She looked like she was going to break apart. In her trembling hands, she held two small glass vials—one amber, one silver-blue—glinting softly in the afternoon light.
"No," Harry choked, stumbling backwards though there was nowhere to go. "Ginny—please don't—don't give me those—"
"Harry…" she whispered, so softly he could barely hear her. Her lip trembled. "I don't want to. I swear I don't. But you're not all right."
"I'm fine!" he shouted, though even as the words left him, they felt hollow. "I'm fine! Just stop—stop looking at me like that!"
The room tilted and swayed. His legs wouldn't hold him. He groped for something—anything—to steady himself, but it was all slipping away, distant, as though he were underwater.
Then hands caught his arms—Ron's hands, steady but shaking—and Mrs Weasley's familiar warmth braced him from behind.
"No—please, don't—" Harry pleaded, struggling against them, his voice shattering. "Don't make me sleep—I don't want to—I don't want to—"
And then Slughorn appeared, his face unexpectedly kind, peering gently at Harry over his spectacles as he stepped forward to help Ginny with the vials.
"Just a sip, my boy," Slughorn murmured, his voice oddly soft. "It's for the best."
Harry wrenched his head away, teeth clenched, panic surging one last time. But he was so tired. His body was already slipping, giving in.
Ginny's fingertips brushed his cheek as she held the vial to his lips, her hands trembling uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."
The bitter taste of the potion filled his mouth, and he shuddered.
He fought it. One last time.
But his body had no more fight left.
His muscles went limp, the heat of the draught pulling him down, deeper and deeper. The room spun faster, then slowed… then faded.
Faces blurred. Voices echoed, distant and soft.
The last thing he saw was Ron—his face pale, stricken—and Mrs Weasley's trembling hand 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 morning 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 hammered as he hurried through the crowded corridors of the Ministry of Magic. The usual chatter, the clatter of enchanted typewriters, the faint hum of magical lifts—all of it blurred beneath the pounding of his pulse. Molly's message still rang sharp in his mind: Harry's getting worse. The image of the boy—pale, frail, barely clinging on—burnt behind his eyes.
Up ahead, Percy stood outside the entrance to the Department of Magical Transportation, a stack of files balanced precisely in his arms. He looked up just in time to see his father striding past at an uncharacteristic pace. Percy's brow knitted in confusion.
"Dad?" he called, stepping briskly after him. "What's going on? Where are you rushing off to?"
Arthur stopped abruptly, breathing hard. For a moment, he hesitated, caught between the urgency of the moment and the instinct to protect Harry's privacy. His eyes darted around—already, several witches and wizards had turned at Percy's call, their interest piqued.
Arthur moved closer, lowering his voice to a terse whisper.
"It's Harry," he said tightly. "He's very ill. Your mother's just sent word. It's… serious, Percy. He's not improving."
Percy stared at him, stunned. "What?" he whispered, his voice a little too loud. "Harry? Ill?"
Arthur nodded grimly. "Yes. Badly."
"But—surely—" Percy faltered, the weight of it settling in his chest. His mind was already racing, desperate to rationalise. "What's wrong with him? Is it curse damage? Something lingering from the war? Or—could it be magical exhaustion? Those sorts of conditions can have delayed effects, I've read the reports—"
"Not here," Arthur interrupted, glancing around meaningfully. Already, murmurs had begun to ripple through the corridor. Faces turned towards them. Harry Potter's name was not one to pass unnoticed.
Percy followed his gaze, colour rising in his cheeks as he realised how many were now blatantly eavesdropping. He adjusted his glasses sharply and lowered his voice.
"I just don't understand. Harry's strong. He always pulls through—he's faced more than most fully trained wizards. How can he—" He stopped, swallowing thickly. "How can he just fall ill?"
Arthur placed a steady hand on his son's shoulder. "I don't have time to explain everything now," he said gently but firmly. "But I promise—I'll tell you more when I know more. Just—don't speak of this here. Please."
"But Dad—" Percy began, still visibly bristling with unanswered questions.
"I know," Arthur said quickly, his voice softening. "I know you want to help. I know you want to understand. I do too. But right now, I need to be with him—and your mother needs me."
Percy hesitated, his face tight with concern, his sense of duty warring with his helplessness.
"Very well," he said stiffly, though his voice cracked on the last syllable. "Please… owl me as soon as you can. And tell Mum—tell her I'm thinking of her. And Harry too."
Arthur squeezed his shoulder in silent thanks.
"I will."
And then he was gone, weaving swiftly through the Ministry's corridors, his thoughts pounding louder than his footsteps: please, let him be alright.
He Apparated just outside the Burrow, his boots crunching sharply against the gravel path. A cold wind tugged at his coat as he hurried up the familiar steps. Even before his hand touched the doorknob, he could feel the wrongness of the place—the unnatural silence, thick and stifling, as if the house itself were holding its breath.
Inside, the kitchen was dim, the soft glow from a single lamp casting long, wavering shadows across the worn worktops. Molly stood near the table, her hands twisting a tea towel so tightly it might tear. She didn't speak at first. She simply stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around Arthur.
Her embrace was fierce, her breath shallow. The warmth she usually carried felt dulled, smothered beneath exhaustion and dread.
Arthur held her close, anchoring them both. "How is he?" he whispered into her hair.
Molly pulled back, just enough to look at him. Her eyes were red and hollow.
"Horace came earlier," she said, her voice barely holding steady. "He stayed a while… looked him over. He's gone back to Hogwarts now."
Arthur glanced towards the fireplace, where the faintest curl of green still lingered, the last trace of Slughorn's departure.
The house felt colder without him.
"Where is he?" Arthur asked, his chest tightening as though a cord were being drawn tighter and tighter. "Where's Harry?"
Molly hesitated, her jaw set as she fought to keep her composure. "Upstairs," she said quietly. "We moved him to his room. He's sleeping now… We gave him a Calming Draught with a Sleeping Potion. He—he was confused again. Delusional. Agitated."
Arthur's heart sank. "Like at the station?"
Molly nodded, her voice trembling. "Yes. He was convinced You-Know-Who is still alive." She swallowed hard. "He kept insisting the Horcruxes hadn't all been destroyed. That he had to finish it."
A cold dread seeped through Arthur, heavy and immovable. It was like watching someone drowning, knowing you were too far to pull them back.
"Ron and Hermione—?"
"They're with him," she said. "They've barely left his side. They're—" her voice cracked briefly, "—they're being so strong."
Arthur rubbed his hand down his face, trying to settle the storm of thoughts tumbling through his head. "And Slughorn? Did he bring the book?"
Molly sank into one of the kitchen chairs, suddenly exhausted. "Yes. He found something. It's upstairs with Harry. None of us have had the chance to look through it properly yet. Horace has gone back to Hogwarts to brew more potions—he says we'll need stronger stabilisers soon. And I'm running low on ingredients…"
Her gaze dropped to the worn table, unfocused. "I don't know how much more I can manage, Arthur. I'm doing everything I can, but it's not enough. He's slipping through our fingers."
Arthur sat beside her, the crackling fire offering no warmth. "Has he eaten anything?"
Molly gave a slight, bitter shake of her head. "No. He either sleeps too much or not at all. And when he is awake, he refuses to eat. He fell asleep halfway through lunch today. I think I'll need to start preparing nutrient potions."
Arthur reached out, covering her hand with his own. "We'll get through this. Together."
For a long moment, they sat in silence, the quiet pressing in around them like thick wool.
Molly exhaled shakily, desperate to pull her thoughts elsewhere. "How were things at the Ministry?"
Arthur gave a humourless laugh. "The Ministry is, as ever, blissfully unaware. The Aurors are celebrating their latest round of arrests—more Death Eaters caught, more trials pending. The public's feeling hopeful. They think we've won." His jaw tightened. "They think it's over."
His voice turned sharp, edged with bitterness. "They're sending owls asking for Harry's autograph. Invitations to events. As though he should parade around, smiling for the papers, as if all that's left for him is to be their perfect hero."
Molly's frown deepened, worry creeping back onto her face. "They don't know."
"No." Arthur's voice dropped. "They don't understand. They don't see what's happening to him now. They don't realise what it's cost him."
Molly's grip on his hand tightened. "Let's keep it that way—for now. No one else knows how bad it is?"
Arthur hesitated. "I told Percy."
Molly's eyes flicked to his. "You told Percy?"
"He saw me leaving the Ministry in a hurry," Arthur explained. "He asked what was wrong, and I—well, I told him Harry was ill."
Molly's lips thinned. "Will he keep it to himself?"
Arthur nodded. "He will. He knew straight away that this wasn't something to discuss outside the family. He was worried, Molly—truly worried."
Her expression softened slightly, but unease still lingered in her eyes. "If Harry doesn't show his face in public soon, people will start asking questions. Someone at the Prophet might try to dig around."
"I know," Arthur said quietly. "But we'll deal with that when the time comes."
Molly stared into the fireplace, her shoulders sagging beneath the weight they both carried. "Sometimes it feels like we're holding the world together with nothing but thread and hope."
Arthur squeezed her hand gently. "Then let's not let go. Not yet."
Ron shifted awkwardly on the wooden floor of Harry's bedroom, the familiar scent of old parchment, worn Quidditch pads and a faint trace of treacle tart lingering stubbornly in the air. He felt utterly useless—like a spare wand at a duelling match—while his friends pressed determinedly on, puzzling through layers of mystery. All he could seem to manage was staying awake.
Beside him, Ginny sat with her legs folded beneath her, leaning lightly against the edge of Harry's bed. The battered Anima book rested in her lap, her fingers curled tightly around its cracked spine. Every few moments, she glanced anxiously at Harry's pale, sleeping face, as though silently checking he was still breathing.
Hermione paced in front of the bed, her arms crossed, her brow deeply furrowed. She was clearly working at double speed, but the frustration tightening her mouth made it clear they weren't getting anywhere fast.
"That's not helping, Ron," she snapped suddenly, dragging him out of his drifting thoughts.
Ron startled. "What's not helping?"
"Whatever you're doing—which is absolutely nothing," she fired back, her voice crisp, irritation crackling through the already taut air. Even the ticking of the clock on the wall seemed louder now, each second stretching unbearably long.
Ron sighed, drumming his fingers against the floorboards. "I was thinking, actually," he said, though truthfully he wasn't entirely sure what about. "Can't we have a bit of a break? Harry's asleep—we're not exactly racing against a werewolf pack, are we?"
Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously. "A werewolf attack is a real possibility, Ron. It's one of the creatures listed in the text. And we should use this time while Harry's still asleep to discuss things—he won't like the plan, and he doesn't need to hear it yet."
"Alright, alright," Ron muttered, holding up his hands.
Ginny, still frowning at the Anima book, read aloud in a quiet voice, "'A strand of an untamed creature that is a visage of death.'" The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and unsettling.
Ron scratched the back of his neck. "Could be loads of things. Dementors, werewolves… even a Boggart if it's feeling a bit theatrical."
Hermione halted mid-pace and turned on him sharply. "And what's your brilliant idea then? Politely ask a Boggart for a strand of hair while it's busy turning into your dead grandmother?"
"Depends," Ron muttered, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Was she handing out hairs in the afterlife?"
Ginny gave a short, surprised laugh before catching herself, the weight of the conversation pressing back down. "But seriously, do we even need to tame a werewolf?" she asked, looking from Hermione to Ron. "How would that even work? You can't exactly walk one on a lead."
Hermione bit her lip, thoughtful now. "I've never read about anyone taming one. Even Professor Lupin, when transformed, wasn't in control. He lost all sense of himself—it's awful, really."
Ginny nodded, her brow creased. "I read that too—some book in the library. Lupine Lawlessness: Why Lycanthropes Don't Deserve to Live."
Hermione made a disgusted noise, her nose wrinkling. "Oh, that book. Absolute rubbish. Picardy's a narrow-minded bigot—he actually claimed werewolves can't feel love. Complete nonsense."
Ron frowned. "That's not fair. Lupin was brilliant. Quiet, yeah, but decent. One of the best."
Hermione softened slightly. "Exactly. Picardy's conclusions are dangerous and wrong."
Ron stretched his legs out in front of him with a groan. "Right, no werewolves. What about a dragon then? Properly untamed, definitely deadly."
Hermione turned to him sharply. "This isn't a game of 'What's the Most Terrifying Creature You Can Think Of', Ron. We're solving a riddle."
"Well, you could at least act like I'm being helpful," he muttered.
"You could try actually being helpful," she shot back.
Ginny cleared her throat loudly, her voice cutting through the brewing argument. "What about Thestrals?" she said, her gaze flicking from Hermione to Ron. "They're connected to death, aren't they?"
Hermione froze. For a moment, her eyes shone with the sharp glimmer of sudden understanding. "Thestrals," she breathed.
Ron blinked, slow to catch on. "You mean the creepy carriage things?"
Hermione huffed. "We rode them, Ron. Fifth year. Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid?"
"Oh yeah," Ron said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Brilliant times, that."
"Do you ever pay attention?" Hermione asked, hands planted firmly on her hips. "Thestrals are intelligent. They understand paths, intentions… they're not just beasts. They can lead us to what we need."
Ginny's face lit up. "That's it—it has to be!"
Ron frowned. "Right, but where are we supposed to get one?"
Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but Ginny cut across her, her voice urgent. "Wait—I still have that book on magical creatures! Hang on—I'll fetch it!"
She shot to her feet and dashed from the room, leaving Ron and Hermione staring after her.
Ron let himself flop backwards onto the floor, arms splayed out either side of him. "More reading? Brilliant. Can't wait."
"You're more dramatic than Harry's nightmares," Hermione muttered, folding her arms.
"I was contributing," Ron argued, not bothering to move. "My brain just works better when I'm lying down."
"Your brain barely works upright," Hermione shot back, but there was a faint glimmer of amusement in her voice now.
Ron grinned at her from the floor. "Go on, admit it—you'd miss me if I got eaten by a werewolf."
"I'd miss the noise, perhaps," she replied airily.
They both laughed then—properly—for the first time in what felt like days. The knot of tension in the room loosened slightly, if only for a moment, as Ginny's hurried footsteps pounded back towards them. She burst into the room, breathless, clutching a thick, worn book to her chest.
"I found it!" she announced, dropping to the floor beside Hermione with a thud. She flicked feverishly through the pages, her fingers darting over the parchment until she froze midway, her breath caught in her throat. She shoved the book towards Hermione. "Here—look!"
Hermione leaned in at once, eyes scanning the passage. Silence settled over them, thick and expectant.
"Thestral tail hair," she murmured at last. "It's believed to be a powerful wand core."
Ron, who'd been slouched nearby with a faintly bored expression, sat up, interest piqued—but his brow creased almost immediately. "Believed? That sounds like the sort of thing you overhear in the back of a dodgy pub. Is there any actual proof?"
"There's good reason to think so," Hermione said, frowning slightly as she read on. "It's not fully confirmed, but the magical properties listed here… they're very similar to what's known about the Elder Wand."
Ron's eyebrows shot up. "Hang on—are you saying the Elder Wand might've had a Thestral hair core? That wand?"
Hermione didn't answer straightaway. Her gaze drifted to the middle distance. "It's possible. No one's ever truly known what's inside it. Some claimed it was dragon heartstring, but this… it would fit. A wand bound to death itself, using a core from a creature only visible to those who've witnessed death."
Ginny's stomach twisted uneasily. "So if we wanted to make a wand that could counter the Elder Wand—or at least something close—we'd need Thestral hair?"
"I think so," Hermione said quietly. "And I can't think of any other magical creature more deeply connected to death, magically or symbolically."
Ginny swallowed. "Right. Thestrals it is."
Ron shifted, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Assuming we go along with this… how exactly are we supposed to get the hair? It's not like you can stroll up to one and ask politely."
"Well, first we'd need to see them," Ginny said, her voice softening. "Which is… well, it's not exactly easy, is it? You can't see Thestrals unless—"
Her words faltered. The air in the room thickened.
The war.
The people they'd lost.
The price they'd all paid.
The silence said more than any of them could.
Hermione stared down at the book, her voice barely audible. "We can probably see them now."
Ginny gave a small, solemn nod. Ron said nothing, but the way his jaw clenched and his hands curled into fists at his sides made it perfectly clear that he, too, could see them.
After a moment, Ron cleared his throat roughly. "The Hogwarts Thestrals… they're trained, aren't they? Tame?"
Hermione blinked, pulled from her thoughts. "Yes. Well, as much as they can be. Hagrid told us in fifth year that the Hogwarts herd is the only trained group in Britain. Even then, they're skittish—gentle, but not exactly the sort to trot over when called."
Ron groaned, running a hand through his hair. "So we'd need to track a wild one? Brilliant. That sounds just so easy."
Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line. "I know it's not. But if we're right about this… it might be the only way."
The room fell quiet again, the enormity of what lay ahead settling over them.
"Well," Ron muttered, forcing a grin, "at least it's not a dragon."
Ginny gave him a dry look. "Don't jinx it."
Hermione closed the book softly, determination sharpening her expression. "They're elusive," she sighed, rubbing her temple. "They only live in a handful of places—mostly parts of Britain and Ireland, a little in France and Spain. But even there, they're rarely seen."
Another pause. Then Ginny spoke, her voice firmer now, steady with purpose. "We should talk to Hagrid. If anyone can help us find a Thestral—or even persuade one to trust us—it's him."
Hermione's expression sharpened, her frustration melting into determination. "You're right. He's our best chance. We'll need to contact him straightaway—either send an owl or track him down in person."
Ron groaned, throwing his head back. "Oh, brilliant. I can hear him already—'What do yeh mean yeh want ter go botherin' Thestrals?! Are yeh completely barmy?!'"
Ginny laughed, the tension easing just a little. "He'll probably scold us first, but he'll come round. He always does."
"Oh, sure," Ron said, grinning now. "Right after he threatens to sit on us for being reckless. Again."
Hermione allowed herself a faint smile. "Regardless of how dramatic he gets, we'll have to tell him the truth. Perhaps not everything—but enough."
Ron didn't look convinced. "You reckon he'll keep it quiet?"
"He's kept bigger secrets," Ginny reminded him. "Like Norbert, and Aragog."
"And Grawp," Hermione added pointedly. "Let's not forget Grawp."
Ron pulled a face. "How could anyone forget Grawp?"
There was a low groan from the bed. Harry stirred, his eyelids fluttering as he blinked blearily up at the ceiling. His head throbbed dully, the edges of the room blurring like he'd been trying to remember a dream he'd already lost.
"What?" His voice cracked, rough with sleep. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, his limbs heavy, slow—like moving through treacle. "What's going on?"
There was a sudden scuffle of movement beside him.
"Harry!" Hermione gasped, her face flushed with guilt, like she'd been caught nicking a cauldron cake. She looked desperately at Ron and Ginny, as if hoping one of them would speak instead.
Ginny was already at his side, reaching quickly for his glasses and sliding them into place. Her fingers brushed his skin, warm and steady, pulling him back into sharper focus.
Harry squinted at them, a strange little jolt in his chest. Ron stood awkwardly near the bed, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Hermione looked like she might burst into tears. Ginny, as ever, seemed the calmest, but even she couldn't quite hide the tightness in her expression.
"Why are you all looking at me like that?" Harry asked, a flicker of unease prickling in his stomach. "Hermione, what were you saying just now?"
"I—nothing," she said quickly, far too quickly, fussing with the edge of the blanket as though it desperately needed straightening. Her eyes darted to Ron and Ginny, wordless and pleading.
Harry felt it at once: the shift in the air, the way their silence pressed around him like a too-heavy cloak. They were hiding something. Again. And he hated that.
"You're not very good liars, you know," he muttered, aiming for irritation but landing somewhere closer to fear.
Ron jumped in hurriedly, eager to steer them off course. "How are you feeling, mate?"
"Like I've been flattened by a herd of hippogriffs," Harry said, rubbing at his temples. "I'm tired. Starving, actually. Did I miss breakfast?"
"You tried to eat earlier," Ron said, shifting uncomfortably, "but you didn't get far. And you skipped lunch altogether. D'you not remember?"
Harry's stomach twisted. He racked his brain, chasing fragments—half-formed thoughts, scraps of voices—but nothing solid stuck. It was all fog, just out of reach.
"No," he admitted, frowning. "Why? What did I say?"
A pause. Hermione bit her lip, her eyes darting to the floor. Ron ran a hand roughly through his hair. Ginny inched closer, her presence quiet but steady, anchoring him.
"You were talking about Horcruxes," Ron said at last, the words falling like lead. "You said you were leaving the Burrow. Said you were going after him."
The breath caught in Harry's throat.
"What?" he whispered, dread curling through him. "I said that?"
He didn't remember it, but somewhere deep inside, the words didn't feel foreign. They itched, familiar and dangerous, like something he'd already started thinking before his mouth had caught up.
"I didn't mean to—" he began, but Ginny cut across him softly.
"Don't worry about it now," she said firmly. "Let's get you downstairs first. You need food."
He nodded, though the thought of standing made his head spin. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, only for his knees to buckle almost at once. The room pitched sharply.
"I've got you," Ginny said, slipping her arm around his waist before he could topple. She was stronger than she looked.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Hermione fretted, hovering nearby like she might try to hold him up with sheer willpower.
"I can do it," Harry insisted, though he wasn't entirely sure he could. "I just… need help."
Ginny tightened her grip and shot him a quick, reassuring smile. "Good thing I'm here, then."
Ron trailed after them, watching Harry with an uneasy expression. "Next time," he said, only half-joking, "could you have your life-threatening collapses after breakfast? I'm a bit peckish myself."
Step by careful step, they made their way down the stairs, Harry clutching the bannister with one hand and Ginny with the other. He focused on the familiar feel of the wood beneath his fingertips—the grooves and scratches worn smooth by years of use. Somehow, it helped.
The moment they stepped into the kitchen, Mr and Mrs Weasley turned in alarm.
"Harry!" Mrs Weasley rushed over, the worry plain on her face. "Is everything all right?"
"He's hungry, Mum," Ginny said quickly, before Harry could speak. "Can we get him something to eat?"
Mrs Weasley's expression softened at once. "Of course, dear. Sit him down. I'll put something together."
Mr Weasley appeared beside Harry and gently steered him to the nearest chair. The warm, familiar scent of herbs and stew filled the air—comforting, steadying.
"How are you holding up, Harry?" Mr Weasley asked, settling into the chair beside him.
Harry sagged into his seat, every part of him aching. "Still a bit wobbly," he admitted. "But I'm all right. Thanks."
Mr Weasley folded his paper and set it aside. Harry hesitated, then glanced across.
"How's the Ministry?" he asked, trying to sound casual. "Things… calming down at all?"
Mr Weasley's smile was weary, touched with something like sadness. "To an extent. The war's over, but the aftermath never really is, is it?" He paused as Mrs Weasley returned with a steaming bowl of stew. "There's celebration, of course. Relief. But people… well, they want answers. They want you."
Harry blinked. "Me?"
"They're desperate to know where you are. Kingsley's doing all he can to keep your location quiet, but the longer you stay hidden, the wilder the stories get. Some think you've vanished."
Harry's stomach gave an uneasy twist—not from hunger this time, but from guilt.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, staring into the rising steam. The stew smelled wonderful, but he couldn't quite bring himself to pick up his spoon.
"Sorry?" Mr Weasley echoed, his voice gentle.
"For making this harder on you," Harry said quietly. "For dragging you all into this. I just… I just want to be left alone, for once."
Mrs Weasley leant down and rested her hand on his shoulder. "Harry, love," she said softly. "You're not a burden. You're family."
"You've given everything," Mr Weasley added firmly. "Wanting a bit of peace doesn't make you selfish. It makes you human."
Harry's throat tightened. He didn't trust himself to speak. He looked down at the food again.
Mrs Weasley gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Now eat, before it goes cold."
And, for once, Harry didn't argue.
His stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, the sound echoing around the room like the roar of some particularly hungry beast. A ripple of laughter swept through the kitchen, chasing away the weight that had settled over them moments before.
Ron leant 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 snorted, grateful for the distraction. The knot in his chest eased, just a little. "Honestly, I think I might."
He tore into a hunk of warm bread, chewing slowly, trying not to think too much. The laughter felt good—normal—but something unspoken still lingered behind everyone's eyes.
After a few moments, he glanced up from his plate, curiosity tugging at him. "So," he said, as casually as he could manage—though his voice carried a little more interest than he intended—"what were you all talking about while I was… out?"
The table froze.
Ron's eyes went wide. He sucked in a breath—then immediately choked on a mouthful of stew. Spluttering and coughing, he reached wildly for his goblet, sloshing some of it in his hurry. Stew dribbled down his chin as he hacked and wheezed.
Harry frowned, watching the sudden scramble with confusion as silence clamped down like a trap.
Ginny ducked her head, biting her lip.
Hermione jumped in at once, her voice just a little too fast, a little too smooth. "We were just talking about job applications," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a way that looked suspiciously deliberate. "You know—what we might do after Hogwarts."
Harry's eyes narrowed. He wasn't convinced. Not for a second.
He glanced from Ron—still red-faced and coughing—to Ginny, whose shoulders had tensed as though bracing for impact.
"So… you're not going back for your final year, then?" he asked quietly.
Ginny didn't answer. She kept her eyes fixed on her plate, her fork slowly nudging peas in aimless circles. The spark that usually lit her gaze seemed dulled now, as if someone had quietly turned it down.
A sliver of cold unease crept into Harry's chest.
"But Ginny… you're going back, aren't you?"
Still nothing. She wouldn't meet his eyes. His question hung in the silence like a spell that hadn't quite landed.
Hermione cleared her throat and jumped in, her voice firmer this time. "I am. I'll be going back to finish my final year."
Harry frowned at her, puzzled. "But… you said you were looking at jobs too…"
Hermione cut him off quickly. "I meant Ron is looking at jobs. Ginny and I will think about that after we've finished school."
Harry's head spun. Something didn't fit. He could feel it—like when you knew a puzzle piece was missing but kept checking the box just in case. They were all being too careful. Choosing their words like they might detonate if handled the wrong way.
He scooped a spoonful of stew, trying to sound offhand as he changed tack.
"So," he said lightly, "what's the Anima book about?"
The question hit the table like a dropped stone.
Across from him, Mr and Mrs Weasley exchanged a look—brief, but heavy. Harry couldn't read it, but the knot in his stomach tightened all the same.
Ron dropped his fork with a loud clatter, stew splashing across the table.
Hermione froze, her spoon suspended halfway to her mouth, stew slowly dripping from the edge.
The mood in the room, which had only just begun to lift, came crashing down again, brittle and heavy.
Ginny's eyes flicked between Ron and Hermione, her shoulders drawing tighter.
Something passed between them—a silent exchange that Harry wasn't part of. And that, somehow, stung the most.
He felt it. The shift.
The way they all seemed to look at each other like they were following a script.
A script he hadn't been given.
"What?" he asked softly. The word barely made it out.
His voice cracked, laced with something he didn't mean to show—confusion, maybe even desperation.
He hated this. The half-truths. The sidelong glances. The sense that everyone else was in on something and he was just outside of it.
That they were handling him like glass. Like he might break if they told him the truth.
And maybe he would.
But he still wanted to know.