Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction / Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Horcrux’s Fate ❯ Chapter 4 ( Chapter 4 )

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The light in his room was soft and grey—just enough to see by, but too dim to feel real. Harry sat hunched on his bed, his fingers gripping the edge of his old patchwork quilt like it might somehow hold him together. His head throbbed—again. A dull, steady ache behind his eyes that never really went away.

Outside the Burrow, the garden should’ve been bursting with colour, full of summer life. But everything looked washed out, like the world had gone quiet just for him.

He told himself it was the flu. Just that. A few days of rest and he’d bounce back—he would. He clung to that thought like it might make it true. But somewhere deep down, he didn’t believe it. Something was wrong—something he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just tiredness. It wasn’t just pain. It felt like something hollow was eating away at him from the inside.

He hadn’t told Ron or Hermione. If he said it out loud, it would make it real. And worse—what if they looked at him like he was broken? What if they pitied him? Harry wasn’t sure he could bear that. He’d rather suffer quietly than see that look on their faces.

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, breathing carefully through the ache in his chest. It wasn’t exactly pain, not the sort Madam Pomfrey could fix. It was a heaviness. A slow dread. Like something dark was creeping closer, and he couldn’t hold it back.

Footsteps downstairs caught his attention—probably Ron, pacing again. Harry pictured him chewing the end of his quill, scowling at a bit of parchment. Maybe he was scribbling out plans, maybe just nonsense to keep his hands busy. He was worrying; of course he was. Ron always tried to act like he wasn’t, but Harry could tell. He always could. And that only made Harry feel worse. Ron shouldn’t have to worry about him. Not after everything else.

He heard voices.

“Hey, Ron,” Ginny’s voice, soft, careful. “How’s Harry today?”

A pause. Then Ron’s reply, low and tense. “Still won’t talk to us. It’s not just a cold—he’s… off.”

Harry winced. He didn’t mean to shut them out. He just didn’t know how to let them in.

“Maybe he just needs time,” Ginny said gently. “He’s been through a lot.”

Another pause. A longer one.

“What if it’s more than that?” Ron asked. “What if it’s serious? We can’t just leave him on his own.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Of course they cared. That was the problem. It would’ve been easier if they didn’t. He didn’t want to be someone they had to fix. He didn’t want to be a burden. Not again.

Guilt twisted deep in his stomach. Maybe he should tell them. Maybe he should try. But whenever he opened his mouth, the words just wouldn’t come. They’d get stuck somewhere, heavy and sharp, caught before they could reach the air.

As the sun slipped lower, the sky outside fading from gold to grey to black, Harry lay down again, curling in on himself. The ache behind his eyes dulled to something quieter, but it left something worse in its place—emptiness. A deep, silent sort of sorrow that didn’t have a name.

He stared up at the ceiling. Each breath felt thick. Each thought snagged in fear and shame.

What if I don’t come out of this?

What if I’m already slipping away, and no one can stop it—not even me?

Somewhere downstairs, someone laughed. A flicker of warmth, just out of reach.

Harry pressed his hand to his chest, willing the storm inside him to settle.

He didn’t want to feel like this. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be normal.

But for now, all he could do was wait—wait for morning, for the smallest spark of strength, for something—anything—that might pull him back.

Harry jolted awake, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was—only that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

The dream clung to him like frost on skin: Hedwig, caged, her wings spread in terror. A flash of green light. Her cry—sharp, final—still echoed in his ears. Then Sirius… standing just beyond the veil, his eyes wide, mouth moving, trying to speak—but there was no sound. Only silence. And then he vanished.

“No,” Harry choked out, his hands clutching the sheets like a lifeline. His chest felt tight, his throat raw. The darkness in the room pressed in on him, thick and heavy. Each breath tasted like ash.

He was soaked in sweat, his head throbbing beneath damp hair. The cool air prickled his skin, but he didn’t move.

Just a dream.

But it wasn’t. It had been too vivid. Too real.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. The door banged open.

“Harry!”

Ron and Ginny burst into the room, breathless, their faces pale and drawn. For a moment, their sudden presence didn’t seem real—like they’d been plucked out of the dream itself. Harry shrank back against the headboard, his limbs trembling uncontrollably.

“Where are they?” he gasped, eyes darting wildly around the room. “Where’s Hedwig? Sirius? They—they were just here—I saw them—”

Ron faltered. Ginny’s eyes widened, panic flickering across her face. She stepped forward, slowly, like she was afraid to move too quickly.

“You had a nightmare,” she said softly. “You’re safe, Harry. It’s all right.”

“No—” Harry shook his head, desperate to clear the fog crowding his thoughts. “Hedwig… she was with me. She was in her cage. And Sirius—he was there, by the veil—he looked at me like—like he knew something terrible was coming—”

His gaze snapped to the corner of the room.

The cage was empty.

Ginny followed his line of sight, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Ron exchanged a glance with her, then turned back to Harry. “Mate…” He hesitated, searching for the words. “They’re gone.”

Harry stared at him. “What? No. No, they’re not. Sirius is—he’s about to walk through that door. He always comes back.”

He waited.

But nothing happened.

The silence stretched, thick and unbearable.

Ginny’s voice broke it, soft and certain. “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

Harry’s stomach turned over. “I don’t understand,” he croaked. “How—when—?”

Ron sank down onto the bed, his face pale, uncertain. “It was nearly a year ago,” he said slowly. “We were escaping Privet Drive. Death Eaters ambushed us. One of their curses—Hedwig didn’t make it.”

The words punched the air from Harry’s lungs.

The memory flickered—him flying through the night sky, the cold wind biting his face. Hedwig’s body slumped in her cage. The awful, echoing silence that followed.

“I told you that?” Harry whispered.

Ron nodded. “You remembered. You were gutted.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Why can’t I see it? He reached for the memory, but it felt like smoke—there, but impossible to hold.

“And Sirius?” he asked, though part of him already knew. He’d always known.

Ron’s voice thickened. “The Department of Mysteries. Bellatrix. You were there. You fought for him. He… fell.”

Another flicker. Sirius laughing, his wand drawn, trading spells with Bellatrix.

A scream—his own? Sirius staggered, falling backwards.

The veil.

Gone.

“No,” Harry said, his voice cracking. “I was there—I saw it. Didn’t I? I must have—”

Ginny reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. He flinched but didn’t pull away.

“You were there, Harry,” she said gently. “You tried to save him.”

But the memories didn’t sit right. They felt like fragments of someone else’s story. Slippery. Crooked. Wrong.

“I should remember more,” Harry whispered, trembling. “I should feel it. It’s like… like I’m watching it happen to someone else.”

His hands balled into fists, his whole body aching—from exhaustion, from the crushing weight in his chest, and from a guilt he couldn’t name.

A sharp, jagged memory crashed through—standing in the Ministry’s Atrium, Dumbledore’s voice crackling with fury, Fudge gawping at him, dumbstruck, while Harry trembled violently against the wall.

Then it all slipped away again, lost in static.

The air in the room felt thick, suffocating. Rain tapped steadily against the window, quick and rhythmic, like ticking clocks counting down to something he couldn’t outrun.

The tears came before he could stop them. Hot, silent, burning.

He hated that Ron and Ginny saw. Hated feeling like this—small, helpless. Like a child again. Lost.

When he finally looked up, they were watching him, eyes wide, caught between worry and confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his palm. His cheeks burnt. He couldn’t bring himself to meet their eyes.

Ron’s voice cracked the quiet, sharp with panic. “Bloody hell, Harry. You scared the life out of us. That scream—you sounded like you were dying.”

“Ron!” Ginny hissed, scandalised.

Harry let out a breath, shaky and thin. “Maybe I was.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. They hung between them, heavy and raw.

Ginny stepped closer. “You’re not dying,” she said softly. “You’re grieving. Your mind’s been through hell. It’s just… trying to protect you.”

Harry laughed, bitter and hollow. “By making me forget everything that matters?”

Ginny’s hand found his again—steady, warm. “No. By giving you time to remember when you’re ready.”

For a moment, Harry let her touch anchor him.

His gaze drifted to the corner of the room.

The cage was still empty.

His eyes flicked towards the door.

Nothing. No one.

A hollow ache opened in his chest—a cold, yawning space where they should have been.

Gone. And I forgot. What sort of person forgets losing the ones they loved most?

He didn’t say it aloud. He didn’t have to. From the way Ginny gently squeezed his hand, he had the sinking feeling she already knew.

Harry cleared his throat and drew a slow, steady breath, forcing the trembling in his chest to settle. Then he looked up.

“I said I’d tell you when I was sure,” he began, his voice low and tight. His eyes caught Ginny’s first—her hair a soft, fiery halo in the dim light—then flicked to Ron. “Well… the night before we left school, I—”

A sharp hoot cut him off.

They all flinched slightly as Pigwidgeon barrelled in through the window, drenched but buzzing with energy. The tiny owl’s arrival jolted Harry, and something sparked in his chest—something faint, almost like hope.

Ron was already crossing the room, untying the scrolls from Pig’s leg. Two letters. One in Hermione’s neat, familiar handwriting.

One for Harry.

Harry’s stomach twisted as he took the parchment, his hands already clammy. He unfolded it quickly, eyes scanning the words, though they blurred at first under the weight of everything pressing in on him. Then he focused. He read.

And his chest tightened.

Hermione’s letter to Ron didn’t ease anything either. Harry caught snatches of it as Ron read—Hermione’s tight script, her worry bleeding straight off the page.

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 said nothing as he folded the letter and tucked it carefully into his pocket. The soft crinkle of the parchment filled the silence, but Harry could almost feel the weight settling onto Ron’s shoulders.

Ron didn’t ask about Harry’s letter. Not yet.

Just then, Mrs Weasley’s voice rang out, bright and cheerful from the kitchen.

“Ron! Ginny! Breakfast’s ready!”

Harry’s pulse stumbled. For a heartbeat, he sat frozen, clutching the letter, completely out of step with the warm, familiar hum of the Burrow.

Then her voice floated up again—softer this time, but meant for him.

“Harry, dear, I’ll bring your breakfast up shortly.”

No. The last thing he wanted was to be left alone—alone with this letter, alone with his thoughts.

He stood abruptly, his limbs stiff but moving.

“No need, Mrs Weasley. I’ll come down.”

There was a pause, like she hadn’t expected that.

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

Harry forced a smile. It didn’t touch his eyes.

“I’m sure.”

It felt like a lie, but it made her leave. That was enough.

He turned to Ron.

“Let’s go.” The words were simple, but Ron would hear more.

Later, his eyes said. I’ll tell you later.

They made their way downstairs in silence, Ginny trailing behind.

The kitchen was as it always was—plates clattering, the scent of eggs and toast in the air, the soft thud of Mrs Weasley’s slippers as she moved between stove and sink. It should have been comforting.

But Harry felt separate from it, like he was sitting in someone else’s memory, watching from far away.

He sat quietly, pushing food around his plate, barely tasting a thing. He kept his eyes on the table, his thoughts heavy and circling.

Mrs Weasley’s eyes flicked between them, sharp and knowing. Within minutes, she’d got Ron and Ginny up and moving—cleaning, sorting, anything to keep them busy and keep them apart.

The mood shifted. The warmth drained out. It became brisk and practical. Chores. Movement. Silence.

Harry could feel Ron’s frustration building—the tight set of his jaw, the way he kept glancing towards the stairs as if waiting for his chance to escape.

He wants to talk, Harry thought. So do I.

But the day slipped away, piece by piece, filled with snatched moments and swallowed words.

Every time Harry steeled himself to speak, someone entered the room.

Every time he found the courage to start, the moment dissolved like smoke.

By evening, the quiet between them was weighty. Thick with things unsaid.

That night, Harry barely reached his room before it hit.

The pain crashed over him like fire.

He dropped to the floor, clutching the edge of the bed, his body convulsing. It tore through his limbs, burning, searing, leaving him breathless. He bit his lip hard, the copper taste of blood sharp on his tongue.

Not now, he thought desperately. Not here. Not where they can hear me.

His hands shook as he cast a Silencing Charm around the room. The moment it settled, he screamed—raw, loud, unfiltered.

The pain was worse tonight—fiercer, like claws dragging through him. He curled in on himself, gasping, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.

His heartbeat thundered, each thud frantic, pleading.

What’s happening to me?

The letter from Slughorn sat untouched on his desk, though he’d read it over and over.

Talk of damaged souls. Of taint. Of obscure, painful paths to healing.

None of it made sense. None of it helped.

He’d tried to write back. Really, he had. But his hand wouldn’t stop shaking. His writing had come out jagged and illegible. He’d crumpled three letters, the little white failures now scattered across the floor.

There’s something wrong with me, Harry thought, his chest heaving, his eyes burning.

Something Hermione’s guessed. Something Slughorn’s only hinting at. And if they find out—

His breathing hitched. The pain pulsed on—duller now, but lingering.

He was so tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of hurting.

But tomorrow—tomorrow, he’d find a way to say it.

The next day, Harry wasn’t sure whether he was dreaming or caught somewhere in between. His body felt distant—like he was floating just above it. The bed was too warm, his skin sticky with sweat. A weight pressed against his chest—dull, heavy, waiting.

Something’s wrong.

Footsteps hurried past his door—quick, sharp.

“Harry! Are you awake?”

The voice cut through the fog like a crack of lightning. Ron. Loud. Anxious. Too real to be part of a dream.

Harry forced his eyes open. The sunlight slicing through the window made him wince. His head throbbed, and his vision blurred around the edges. It had to be late—though he couldn’t seem to grasp the time.

The door creaked open.

Ron stood in the doorway, his face pale and stricken.

“You’re still in bed?” His voice broke. “Mate—you’ve got to get up—Slughorn’s coming. Today.”

Slughorn?

Harry blinked hard, dragging himself upright. The room spun, his stomach lurching.

“I didn’t know,” he mumbled, his voice thick and sluggish. “What—what d’you mean?”

Ron stared at him. “You didn’t know? Mum told us first thing—he’s coming to see you. He’ll be here any minute.”

Harry’s hand drifted to his chest.

The letter.

“That must’ve been what he meant…”

Ron took a few steps closer, frowning now. “What? Harry—are you alright? You look—”

A sharp twist tore through Harry’s ribs. His breath hitched. The dull weight in his chest suddenly bloomed, spreading like fire.

“I—” The words broke.

And then it hit.

Like lightning tearing through him from the inside.

The pain slammed into him, brutal and blinding. He doubled over with a strangled cry.

“Aaahh—!”

Ron’s face drained of colour.

“Harry?! What—what’s happening?!”

Harry couldn’t answer. He could barely breathe. The agony ripped through him, searing hot, clawing at his insides.

Not again. Please—not now.

His body jolted violently, his fists bunching the sheets in a desperate grip.

“It hurts!” He gasped, terror lacing his voice. “Ron—make it stop—please—”

Ron stumbled backwards, his whole body shaking.

“I—I’m getting Mum—hold on, just—hold on—”

The door banged open as Ron bolted down the stairs, his footsteps pounding, vanishing too fast.

Harry’s vision tipped sideways. The room spun in sickening circles. His thoughts spiralled, scattered and slipped through his fingers like torn parchment.

Is this what Slughorn meant? No—no—it’s just pain—it’s not—there’s nothing left from the Horcrux—it can’t be—it can’t—why does it still hurt?

Something was wrong. Worse than before.

His whole body burnt, as though it was being torn apart—stretched until it might snap.

His hands shook so hard they blurred. Sweat soaked the sheets beneath him.

He wanted to scream again, but his throat had gone raw.

The pain swallowed him, relentless.

Please, he thought desperately. Please make it stop. Please—someone—help me—

Footsteps thundered back—more than one.

“Harry!” Mrs Weasley’s voice—sharp, frightened.

The door flew open.

Through blurred eyes, he saw her cross the room in a heartbeat, apron still dusted with flour, Ron and Ginny close behind.

She was on her knees beside him in an instant, her hands on his shoulders—firm, steady.

“Shhh, it’s alright, love—just breathe with me now—come on, in and out—nice and slow—”

But Harry jerked away, his body rigid under her touch.

“Don’t—don’t touch me!” He gasped. He didn’t mean it—not really—but everything hurt, even kindness, even this.

Mrs Weasley drew back, but only a little. Her eyes shone, wide with helpless worry, her face beginning to crumble at the edges.

Ron stood behind her, white as a sheet, fists clenched uselessly at his sides. He looked frozen. Helpless.

“Mum—what’s wrong with him?” He asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Harry’s body arched again, another scream tearing from his throat—raw, desperate, a sound that didn’t even feel like it belonged to him.

Please, he thought wildly. Please—someone stop this—someone—

The pain crested again, a wave breaking over him, relentless and suffocating. He couldn’t tell where one pain ended and the next began. It was all-consuming. It was everywhere.

There was a voice—faint, distant, like it was coming from underwater.

Then again—louder, clearer.

“Harry! Focus on me—Harry, tell me what’s wrong!” Mrs Weasley’s voice cut through the fog, sharp with fear.

He wanted to answer. He wanted to lift his head, to breathe, to think, but all of it felt impossible. The pain drowned out everything else.

He felt her hand on his forehead—gentle, steady—but he flinched anyway. Even soft touches burnt.

“Where does it hurt, Harry?” she asked again, her voice softer now. Trying not to frighten him. “Tell me, sweetheart. Where is it?”

He forced a breath. “Everywhere,” he rasped. The word scraped its way out of him like broken glass. Speaking made it worse. His whole body twitched violently, another surge of burning shooting through his limbs.

What’s happening to me? Panic clawed at him. This isn’t normal. This isn’t just pain—it’s like I’m falling apart.

The wind howled against the house, whistling through the cracks like someone crying far away. But even that was quieter than the screaming inside his bones.

Somewhere nearby, Ginny was moving—but Harry barely noticed until Mrs Weasley’s voice sharpened.

“Ginny—quickly—there’s a small bottle in the storage cupboard, labelled ‘Healing Potion’—go, now!”

Footsteps thundered down the stairs.

A part of him wanted to call out—Don’t leave. Don’t go.

But his throat closed up, the words trapped inside him.

He buried his face into the pillow, shame prickling at the tears stinging his eyes. His skin was burning—he was burning—inside out.

“Breathe, Harry,” Mrs Weasley whispered, brushing the damp hair from his forehead again. “Just hang on, love. Just a little longer.”

He couldn’t. He didn’t know how.

Moments later, Ginny came rushing back.

Mrs Weasley took the bottle quickly, uncorking it with shaking hands. The sharp, minty scent filled the room.

“Harry, sweetheart, this’ll help you,” she murmured, her voice wobbling despite her best efforts.

He managed the smallest of nods. Or perhaps he just twitched—he couldn’t tell anymore.

Ron edged closer, hovering anxiously, his face pale, his hands trembling as though he didn’t know whether to reach out or run. He always looked like this when Harry was hurt—worried, furious, and desperate to dosomething.

Between them, they eased Harry upright. Even the smallest movement made him gasp, his whole body alight with pain.

The potion touched his lips. He swallowed with difficulty—the liquid bitter and sharp on his tongue. For a fleeting moment, the tightness in his chest loosened—just slightly, just enough to draw one real breath.

But it didn’t last.

Why isn’t it working? Panic surged again. Why am I still—

The pain flooded back—not the stabbing agony from before, but heavy and smothering. Like a storm pressing him down, sinking him into the mattress.

He sank deeper into the blankets, his breathing shallow and ragged. Even that seemed to take too much strength.

Stay awake.

No. No, not now. Stay awake, Harry.

“Stay with me, Harry. Please, stay with me, sweetheart.” Mrs Weasley’s voice cracked, thick with panic. He clung to it, trying to anchor himself to the sound, but the darkness was quicker.

Ron’s hands fumbled at his belt for his wand. A streak of silver burst from its tip—his Jack Russell Patronus shot out the door and vanished.

“Hermione—come now! It’s Harry—he’s not getting better!” Ron’s voice was hoarse, thick with fear. “Please—he needs you.”

Harry felt Ginny’s cool hand trembling on his arm.

“He’s burning up,” she whispered, her voice unsteady, close to breaking. “Mum—it’s worse. His fever’s worse.”

Harry wanted to tell her not to cry. That he’d be alright. That this would pass.

But he didn’t believe it anymore.

I’m not getting better. I’m getting worse. What if this is it? What if—

His thoughts slipped away like grains of sand through his fingers.

The last thing he felt was Ginny’s hand, warm against his burning skin—and the cold dread curling tight in his chest.

Suddenly, vibrant green flames burst to life in the fireplace, crackling and hissing like a living thing. The unexpected flare made both Molly and Ron jump, spinning towards the hearth with wide, startled eyes. Through the swirling emerald light, a figure began to materialise, brushing soot briskly from his sleeves before his polished black boots had even touched the floor.

Professor Slughorn stepped out, his familiar, affable smile already in place. He wore a splendid plum waistcoat that shimmered faintly in the firelight, the gold buttons glinting like tiny suns. His great walrus-like moustache twitched with good-natured amusement as he looked about.

“Good afternoon!” he boomed, his cheerful voice rolling warmly through the kitchen. “Terribly sorry for the rather grand entrance! I do seem to have taken certain liberties with the time. Punctuality used to be something I prided myself on—though perhaps my sense of it is slipping these days!”

Molly blinked, collecting herself. A faint flush rose in her cheeks as she hurried forward, her polite smile faltering only slightly.

“Oh, Horace, no—it’s not your fault at all. You did say what time you’d be here; I’m afraid it quite slipped my mind.” Her voice wavered, some of the day’s strain bleeding into her otherwise careful tone. “It’s just… things have been rather overwhelming today.”

Slughorn, always sharper than he let on, caught it immediately, though he made no comment. Instead, he inclined his head graciously.

“Think nothing of it, my dear Molly. I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Before Molly could answer, the Floo roared again—this time fiercer, the green flames leaping high, licking at the chimney breast with startling force. Another figure tumbled out of the hearth, stumbling over the grate.

Hermione.

She landed awkwardly, robes askew, hair wild from the journey, cheeks flushed with heat. Her breathing was fast and shallow, panic still chasing her.

“Hermione!” Ron’s voice cracked as he sprang towards her, catching her in his arms without a second’s hesitation. The tension he’d been carrying seemed to pour out of him in that instant, like something heavy finally loosening its grip.

She clung to him, trembling, just for a moment. Then she pulled back, her eyes frantically searching his.

“Ron,” she said, breathless, her voice thin and breaking. “Is it true? I heard about Harry—I had to come.”

Molly stepped forward at once, gently brushing soot from Hermione’s sleeve with a mother’s instinct.

“Oh, Hermione, dear…”

Slughorn’s face brightened in recognition, his familiar laugh booming through the kitchen.

“Miss Granger! What a pleasure, what a pleasure indeed! And as brilliant as ever, I’ve no doubt—oh, yes, I remember you well.”

Hermione managed a polite nod, but her smile was tight and trembling, her eyes shining with unspoken fear. She edged closer, her focus fixed on Molly now, urgency crackling around her.

“I didn’t send word—I’m sorry,” she said quickly, guilt flashing across her face. “I just—I couldn’t wait. I heard something had happened to Harry—”

His name caught in her throat, splintering the last of her composure.

The room fell silent, thick with something tense and heavy.

At the mention of Harry, Slughorn’s genial smile faltered. His brow creased as he fidgeted with the edge of his waistcoat, his fingers moving nervously over the gold buttons.

“Harry?” he repeated, his voice quieter now, as though the name itself had summoned a shadow into the room. “Is he—how is he?”

Molly’s lips quivered. She drew a deep, trembling breath, as though the truth itself might break her.

“He fainted—about an hour ago—from the pain. We tried everything. The potions didn’t work.” Her voice fractured on the last word. “He was—he was in such agony, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

The despair in her words hit Hermione like a blow. She turned quickly to Ron, who was now pacing along the edge of the room, his fists clenching and unclenching, his face tight with helplessness.

“He’s not just ill,” Ron muttered, not looking at anyone. “It’s more than that.”

His words hung in the air.

They all turned to him, the same question in their eyes, the same rising dread.

“He woke up screaming,” Ron went on, his voice tight, fists clenched rigidly at his sides. “He was asking for Hedwig. For Sirius. As if… as if he doesn’t know they’re gone.”

Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth, her heart thudding painfully against her ribs. Thoughts tumbled over each other in a frantic rush—memories, logic, dread, all crashing together.

“He’s confused,” Ron pressed on, his words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “He’s in pain all the time. Sweating buckets, shaking—he’s not himself—”

His eyes locked onto hers, raw and pleading.

“You mentioned Horcruxes. In your last letter. You said—”

The word hung in the air.

Slughorn’s genial expression cracked like glass.

“Wait a moment,” he said sharply, stepping forward, the sudden edge in his voice slicing through the room. “Did you say ‘Horcrux’?”

Ron blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Why?”

At once, the colour drained from Slughorn’s face. His arms hung limp at his sides, as though someone had struck him. He looked utterly shaken.

“Harry… he came to me once,” Slughorn murmured, his voice suddenly hoarse. “He asked me what happens to a soul… when it’s made into a Horcrux. I told him the truth. That the soul is damaged—fractured—and…”

Hermione swayed where she stood, her knees threatening to buckle. She reached blindly for the counter to steady herself.

“Did he tell you why he was asking?” she managed, her voice barely holding together.

“No.” Slughorn shook his head slowly, his gaze distant. “He didn’t give me a reason. Why do you ask?”

Hermione could hardly draw breath. Her throat tightened as though it would close entirely. Her hands trembled at her sides.

“Harry was a Horcrux.”

The words fell like a stone into the silence, and for a moment the very air seemed to still, thick and suffocating.

“When Voldemort tried to kill him as a baby,” Hermione pressed on, the explanation forcing its way past the lump in her throat, “the curse rebounded. But a fragment of his soul… Voldemort’s soul… it attached itself to Harry. It lived inside him. All those years.”

Slughorn paled further, his mouth working soundlessly. “Merlin’s beard…”

Hermione’s head bobbed in a jerky nod, tears blurring her vision. “When Voldemort cast the Killing Curse during the battle at Hogwarts, it destroyed that fragment inside Harry.”

Molly gasped, the sound sharp and broken, and she collapsed into the nearest chair, as though her legs could no longer hold her.

“No one told me,” she whispered, her hands trembling in her lap. “No one ever said a word…”

Slughorn’s face was hollow, his joviality long gone, replaced by a haunted, distant stare.

“A Horcrux is created by murder,” he said, his voice thick, as though the words themselves were bitter to speak. “It’s the darkest magic known. The soul isn’t meant to survive that kind of mutilation. If Harry carried that fragment for years, then—”

Hermione stepped forward, her whole body shaking.

“Professor,” she asked, her voice fraying at the edges, “what happens to someone with a damaged soul?”

Slughorn hesitated, his gaze falling to the floor.

“They begin to… fade,” he said softly, each word seeming to cost him. “The body may live, but the soul… it starts to unravel. Slowly. Like a thread coming loose.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. She could feel herself slipping, as if the ground beneath her had vanished.

“How long?” she whispered. “How long does he have?”

Slughorn shook his head, his brow furrowed in deep sorrow. “It’s hard to say. Weeks, perhaps. Days. Maybe less.”

Ron staggered backwards, as if the blow had struck him physically. His face had gone deathly pale. “He’s dying?”

“No,” Hermione breathed fiercely, as though the sheer force of the word could hold back the truth. “No, there’s something—we’re missing something—there must be a way to mend a soul. Professor Dumbledore—he believed in second chances. He knew about Harry. He must have known something. He must have.”

Her eyes blazed, wide and desperate, searching Slughorn’s face for the answer she needed him to have.

Slughorn stood in heavy silence, his gaze distant, lips pressed into a hard, thoughtful line. At last, he let out a long, weary sigh.

“Dumbledore once mentioned soul-mending,” he said, his voice low. “Only in passing. He never explained how. Perhaps… perhaps even he didn’t know.”

Silence settled over them again—thick and oppressive, the sort that seemed to hollow out the air, making the walls press closer.

Then, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, Ginny burst into the kitchen, hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing with something none of them had dared to hope for.

“He’s awake!” She cried, her voice bright and breathless. “Harry’s awake!”

For a single heartbeat, the room stood frozen—Molly with her hand pressed tight to her chest, Slughorn pale and wordless, Hermione staring as though she hadn’t properly heard.

Then the stillness snapped.

Hermione was the first to move, bolting from the room so fast. Ron was close behind, nearly knocking over a stool as he sprinted after her. Ginny spun round sharply and tore after them.

They raced up the stairs, their footsteps pounding, breathless and frantic, urgency thrumming in their chests. The landing seemed impossibly far away. The hallway stretched ahead like a tunnel, and Harry’s door loomed at the end—so close, and still too far.

Hermione reached it first. Her hand hovered over the doorknob, trembling.

Through the wood, she could hear him—ragged breaths, uneven but alive.

The sound nearly undid her.

She pushed the door open.