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, fingers clutching the edge of his old quilt like it might somehow hold him together. His head ached—again. A dull, steady throb behind his eyes that never seemed to go away. Outside the Burrow, the garden should've been full of colour, alive with summer. But everything looked faded, 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. That's all it was. But deep down, he didn't believe it. Something was wrong—something he couldn't name. It wasn't just tiredness. It wasn't just pain. It felt like something was hollowing him out from the inside.
He didn't want to tell 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 stand that. He'd rather suffer in silence than see that look on their faces.
He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, trying to breathe through the ache in his chest. It wasn't physical, not exactly. It was a heaviness. A dread. Like something dark was moving closer, and he couldn't stop it.
He could hear footsteps downstairs—Ron's, probably. Pacing again. Harry imagined him biting his quill, trying to figure something out. Maybe he was writing plans, maybe scribbling nonsense to stay distracted. He was probably worrying. Ron was good at pretending he wasn't, but Harry could always tell. And that only made him feel worse. Ron shouldn't have to worry about him—not after everything else.
He heard voices.
"Hey, Ron," Ginny said softly. "How's Harry today?"
Pause. Then Ron's voice, 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 alone."
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. They cared. Of course they did. But that only made it harder. He didn't want to be someone they had to fix. He didn't want to be their burden. Not again.
A flicker of guilt twisted in his gut. Maybe he should tell them. Maybe he should try. But the words always died in his throat before they could reach the air.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky outside turning from gold to grey to black, Harry lay down again, curling into himself. The ache behind his eyes dulled, but it was replaced by something worse—emptiness. A deep, silent kind of sorrow that had no name.
He stared at the ceiling. Every breath felt heavy. Every thought tangled 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 moment of warmth, just beyond his reach. Harry pressed his hand to his chest, trying to calm the storm inside.
He didn't want to feel this way. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be normal.
But all he could do was wait—wait for the morning, for the faintest spark of strength, for anything that might pull him back from the edge.
Harry jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribs.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was—just that something was wrong. Very wrong.
The dream clung to him like ice on skin: Hedwig, caged, her wings spread in terror. A flash of green light. Her cry—sharp, final—echoing in his ears even now. Then Sirius… standing just beyond the archway, eyes wide, mouth moving, trying to speak—but there was no sound. Only silence. Then he vanished.
"No," Harry choked out, hands clutching the sheets like a lifeline. His chest felt tight, throat raw. The darkness of the room pressed in from every corner, heavy with shadows. Every breath tasted like ash.
His body was drenched in sweat, his head throbbing faintly beneath damp hair. Cold air prickled along his arms, but he didn't move.
It was just a dream…
But it wasn't. It had been too vivid. Too real.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs. The door flew open.
"Harry!"
Ron and Ginny rushed in, breathless and wide-eyed. Their sudden presence felt jarring, unreal. Harry shrank back against the headboard, the tremble in his limbs only worsening.
"Where are they?" He gasped, looking around the room like he expected to see feathers or hear Sirius's bark of laughter. "Where's Hedwig? Sirius? They—they were just here—I saw them—"
Ron froze. Ginny blinked, panic flickering in her eyes. She stepped forward, cautiously, like approaching something fragile.
"You had a nightmare," she said softly. "It's alright, Harry. You're okay."
"No—" Harry shook his head, trying to clear the fog from his mind. "Hedwig… she—she was with me. She was in the cage. And then Sirius—he was there, by the veil—he looked at me like he knew something terrible was about to happen—"
His eyes darted toward the corner of the room.
The cage was empty.
Ginny followed his gaze. Her lips pressed together.
Ron looked at her, then back at Harry. "Mate…" He hesitated. "They're gone."
Harry stared at him. "What? No. No, they're not. Sirius is just—he's about to come through the door. He always comes back."
He waited.
Nothing happened.
The silence stretched.
Ginny's voice broke it. Barely above a whisper. "I'm so sorry, Harry."
Harry's stomach twisted. "I don't understand," he said. "How—when—?"
Ron sat down, his face pale and uncertain. "It was almost 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 knocked the breath from Harry's lungs.
The image rose unbidden—him flying through the sky, cold wind in his face. Hedwig's body slumped in her cage. The sharp, sickening silence afterward.
"I told you that?" Harry whispered.
Ron nodded. "You remembered it clearly. You were wrecked."
Harry closed his eyes. Why can't I see it? He tried to reach for the memory, but all he felt was static.
"And Sirius?" he asked, though part of him already knew. He always knew.
Ron's voice thickened. "At the Department of Mysteries. Bellatrix. You were there. You fought for him. He… fell."
A flash. Sirius laughing, wand drawn, trading spells with Bellatrix.
A scream—his own? Then Sirius stumbling, falling backward.
That awful archway.
Gone.
"No," Harry said, voice cracking. "I was there—I saw it. Didn't I? I—I must've—"
Ginny touched his arm. He flinched at her touch but didn't pull away.
"You were there, Harry," she said. "You tried to save him."
But his memories felt like shattered glass. The edges were sharp and slippery, impossible to hold.
"I should remember more," Harry whispered, shaking. "I should feel it. Not like this. It's like someone else's story. Like it didn't happen to me."
His hands balled into fists. His whole body ached—from exhaustion, from the weight pressing on his chest, from the guilt he couldn't quite name.
A sharp, jagged memory broke through—standing in the Ministry's atrium, Dumbledore's voice ringing with fury, Fudge looking dumbstruck, and Harry standing against the wall, shaking violently.
Then it all fell away again, into static.
The air felt too thick to breathe. Raindrops tapped against the window like ticking clocks, as if time were running out.
Tears spilt before he could stop them. Hot and silent.
He hated that Ron and Ginny saw. Hated that he felt like a child again—helpless, lost.
When he finally looked up, they were watching him, eyes wide with concern and confusion.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his palm. His cheeks were burning. He couldn't meet their eyes.
Ron's voice came, sharp with worry. "Bloody hell, Harry. You scared the life out of us. That scream—you sounded like you were dying."
"Ron!" Ginny hissed.
Harry let out a shaky breath. "Maybe I was."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. They hung in the air like a curse.
Ginny stepped closer. "You're not dying," she said quietly. "You're grieving. Your mind's been through so much. It's trying to protect you."
Harry laughed bitterly. "By making me forget everything that matters?"
He felt Ginny's hand again, warm on his. "No," she said. "By giving you time to remember when you're ready."
For a moment, Harry let her touch ground him.
Then he looked at the cage in the corner.
Empty.
And the space near the door.
Still.
A hole opened in his chest. A cold, aching absence where they should be.
Gone. And I forgot. What kind of person forgets losing the people they loved most?
He didn't say it aloud. But from the way Ginny squeezed his hand, he had a feeling she knew.
Harry cleared his throat and drew in a slow, steady breath, trying to calm the nerves twisting in his chest. Then he looked up.
"I said I'd tell you once I was sure," he began, voice low and tight. His eyes met Ginny's first—her red hair a soft flame in the dim light—then shifted to Ron. "Well, the night before we left school, I—"
A sudden hoot cut him off.
They all flinched slightly as Pigwidgeon flapped through the window, soaked from the rain but excited as ever. The little owl's arrival jolted Harry out of his thoughts, and something like hope stirred in his chest—brief, sharp.
Ron was already at the window, untying the scrolls from Pig's leg. Two letters. One in Hermione's neat, familiar handwriting.
One for Harry.
His stomach tightened as he took the parchment, hands already clammy. He unfolded it, eyes scanning quickly. The words swam for a second, the letters blurring with all the questions crowding his mind. Then he read.
And everything twisted a little tighter.
Hermione's letter to Ron didn't help, either. Harry caught glimpses of it as Ron read—her tight script, her worry practically bleeding through the ink.
Ron,
Are you sure about this? Harry's been through so much. Researching souls—it's worrying. After all, he dealt with the trauma of seven Horcruxes, not to mention being one himself. Remember how broken he was after the war? Now he's looking into symptoms and illness—what is he doing? He'd never make a Horcrux, I know, but I can't help being scared. Please keep an eye on him. I'm really, really worried.
—Hermione
Ron didn't say anything as he folded the letter and slid it into his pocket. The parchment crinkled softly, but Harry could almost feel the tension rising off him like steam. He didn't ask about Harry's letter. Not yet.
Just then, Mrs. Weasley's voice broke the silence, loud and bright from the kitchen. "Ron! Ginny! Breakfast is ready!"
Harry's pulse stuttered. For a second, he just sat there, holding the letter, feeling completely out of sync with the warm, familiar noise of the Burrow. Then her voice came again—softer this time, but aimed directly at him. "Harry, dear, I'll bring your breakfast up shortly."
No. That was the last thing he wanted—to be alone with his thoughts, with this letter.
He stood abruptly, forcing his limbs to move to the door. "No need, Mrs. Weasley. I'll come down."
She sounded surprised. "Are you sure, love? You still look pale."
Harry forced a smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure."
It felt like lying, but it made her disappear down the stairs. And that was enough.
He turned to Ron. "Let's go." The words were simple, but he knew Ron would hear more in them. Later, his eyes said. I'll tell you later.
They walked down in silence, Ginny following behind. The kitchen was filled with the usual clatter of dishes and the comforting aroma of eggs and toast. But Harry felt separate from it all, like he was watching someone else's memory.
He sat quietly, barely tasting his food. He kept his eyes on the table.
Mrs. Weasley's eyes scanned their faces after breakfast, reading the tension like a book. Within minutes, she had Ron and Ginny running errands—cleaning, sorting, anything to keep them busy.
The air in the room shifted. Laughter faded. It was all practical now, busy hands and silent thoughts.
He could feel Ron's growing frustration as he was swept up in chore after chore. The way his jaw tightened, the way he kept glancing toward the stairs.
He wants to talk, Harry thought. So do I.
But there was no time. No space.
The day dragged on, full of tension and swallowed words. Every time Harry tried to open his mouth, someone entered the room. Every time he felt brave enough to start explaining, the moment slipped away like smoke.
By evening, the silence between them was heavy. Unspoken things clung to them like dust.
That night, Harry barely made it to his room before the pain returned.
It hit like fire.
He collapsed onto the floor, hands gripping the edge of the bed as his body convulsed. Every nerve screamed. His breath caught in his throat, and he bit his lip hard enough to bleed.
Not now, he thought. Not here. Not where they can hear me.
With shaking hands, he cast a Silencing Charm around the room. The moment it settled, he screamed. He didn't hold back.
The pain was worse tonight—sharper, like it had claws. He curled in on himself, gasping, sweat soaking his clothes. His heart thudded wildly, every beat a desperate plea: what's happening to me?
The letter from Slughorn sat on his desk, unopened since the morning. He'd read it already. Over and over.
Talk of damaged souls. Of taint. Of paths to cleansing—long, obscure, painful paths.
None of it made sense. None of it helped.
He'd tried writing back—he really had—but his hand wouldn't stop shaking. Every word came out unreadable. He'd crumpled three letters before giving up. The floor was littered with them now, little white failures.
There's something wrong with me, Harry thought, eyes wet, chest heaving. Something Hermione suspects. Something Slughorn's only hinting at. And if they find out—
He closed his eyes. The pain still pulsed through him, but it was quieter now. Distant.
He was so tired of hiding.
So tired of hurting.
But tomorrow he'd find a way to speak.
The next day, Harry wasn't sure if he was dreaming or trapped somewhere in between. His body felt far away—like he was floating just above it. The bed was warm, too warm. Sweat clung to his skin. There was a pressure in his chest, heavy and dull, like something was waiting.
Something's wrong.
Footsteps echoed just beyond his door, sharp and hurried.
"Harry! Are you awake?"
The voice came like a shock. Ron. Loud. Anxious. Too real to be part of a dream.
Harry forced his eyes open. The sunlight pouring in stabbed at them, and he flinched. He wasn't sure what time it was. Late, probably. He blinked, trying to clear the haze from his brain. Everything felt… muffled.
The door creaked open. Ron stood there, face pale and panicked.
"You're still in bed?" His voice cracked. "Mate, you've got to get up—Slughorn's coming. Today."
Slughorn?
Harry pushed himself upright, blinking hard. The room tilted slightly.
"I didn't know," he mumbled, the words clumsy and slow. "What—what do you mean?"
Ron stared at him. "You didn't know? Mum said he's coming to see you. She told us this morning!"
"That must be the letter," Harry pressed his fingers to his chest, wincing.
"What letter?" Ron stepped in, concern creeping into his voice now. "Are you alright?"
Something sharp twisted in Harry's chest. His breath caught. The dull pressure from before—it was spreading. Spreading widely.
"I—" His words choked off.
And then it hit.
Like lightning inside his body.
The pain slammed into him, fierce and blinding, and he doubled over with a strangled cry.
"Ahhh—!"
Ron froze, eyes wide. "Harry?! What—what's happening?!"
Harry couldn't answer. His chest heaved as agony tore through his nerves. It was like fire, burning from the inside out. His body felt like it was being carved open—raw, exposed.
Not again. Not like this.
His body jerked against the mattress, fists clenching the sheets.
"It hurts!" he gasped, voice cracking with terror. "Ron—make it stop!"
Ron stumbled backward, pale and shaking. "I—I'm getting Mum! Hold on!"
Harry barely heard the door bang open. Footsteps pounded down the stairs. His vision swam, the room spinning around him in dizzying spirals.
His thoughts unravelled, scattered like torn pages.
Is this what Slughorn was talking about?No—no, it's just pain, there's nothing—there's no aftermath of being a horcrux—why does it hurt so much?
Something was wrong. Worse than usual. His whole body felt like it was being dragged apart, stretched too thin. His hands shook violently, and sweat soaked through the sheets beneath him.
He wanted to scream again but couldn't. His throat felt raw. The pain was swallowing everything.
Please, he thought desperately. Please let it stop. Let it stop. Let someone help me—
Then footsteps thundered back. Multiple this time.
"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley's voice rang out, sharp with fear.
The door burst open.
Through blurred eyes, he saw her rush in, Ron and Ginny right behind her. She was pale, hands trembling, apron still dusted with flour. She knelt beside the bed in an instant, reaching out without hesitation.
"Shhh, it's alright, love—just breathe. Breathe with me, come on now—"
Her hands were warm and steady on his shoulders, but Harry flinched away from her touch.
"Don't touch me!" He gasped—he didn't mean it, not really, but the pain made everything feel wrong. Even kindness hurt.
Mrs. Weasley drew back just slightly, her eyes wet, face crumpling at the edges.
Ron stood behind her, white as a sheet, hands clenched at his sides. He looked frozen, helpless.
"Mum—what's wrong with him?" He asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Harry's body arched again, a scream tearing from his throat. He was dimly aware of his own voice, high and desperate. It didn't sound like him.
Please, he thought again. Please, someone stop this—someone do something—
The pain crested like a wave and crashed down again. He couldn't tell where one pain ended and another began. All he knew was that it hurt—everywhere.
He heard a voice—distant, muffled, like it was underwater. Then again, louder. Closer.
"Harry! Focus on me. Tell me what's wrong!" Mrs. Weasley's voice cracked through the haze.
He wanted to answer her. He wanted to lift his head, to breathe, to think—but all of it felt impossible. The pain drowned everything out.
He dimly felt her hand on his forehead, gentle and warm—but he flinched anyway. Even soft touches felt like fire.
"Where does it hurt, Harry?" she asked again, her voice softer now. Kinder. Like she was trying not to scare him.
Harry couldn't even open his eyes. "Everywhere," he rasped. The word tore out of him like broken glass. Saying it made it worse. His muscles twitched involuntarily, another wave of burning shooting through him.
What's happening to me? He thought, panicking. This isn't normal. This isn't just pain—it's like I'm falling apart.
Outside, wind howled against the house. It sounded almost like someone crying. But even that was quieter than the screaming in his bones.
He barely noticed Ginny until he heard the urgency in Mrs. Weasley's voice.
"Ginny, quickly—in the storage cabinet, there's a small bottle labelled 'Healing Potion'. Get it now."
He heard feet pounding down the stairs. Part of him wanted to call out—to stop her. Don't leave. Don't go. But his throat closed up, and the words wouldn't come.
He turned his face into the pillow, trying to hide the tears stinging his eyes. His skin was too hot, like he was burning from the inside out.
"Breathe, Harry," Mrs. Weasley whispered, brushing back his soaked hair again. "Just hang on."
He couldn't. He didn't know how.
A minute later, Ginny came back.
Mrs. Weasley took the bottle from her, nodding once in gratitude. She uncorked it quickly, the smell of mint and something sharp filling the room.
"Harry, love, this will help," she murmured, trying to steady her voice.
He managed a nod. Or maybe he just twitched. Everything blurred together now.
Ron moved closer, hovering like he didn't know what to do. He always looked like that when Harry got hurt—worried, helpless, and angry. They worked together to lift Harry gently. Every movement was torture.
The potion touched his lips. He swallowed slowly, the liquid cool and bitter. For a brief second, something loosened. Like a thread in his chest had untangled.
But it didn't last.
Why isn't it working? He thought, panic rising again. Why am I still—
The pain came rushing back, not as sharp as before but heavy. Like a storm pressing on his chest. He sank into the blankets, trying to breathe, but even that felt like it took too much strength.
He was slipping. No. No, not now. Stay awake.
"Harry, stay with me, sweetheart. Please, stay with me," Mrs. Weasley said, her voice breaking. He tried to focus on it. To anchor himself. But the darkness was faster.
Ron's hands fumbled with his wand. A streak of silver light burst out—his Patronus—a Jack Russell. "Hermione, come now! Harry's not getting better!" His voice was raw with fear. "Please, he needs you."
Harry felt Ginny's hand on his arm—cool, trembling. "He's burning up," she whispered, and he could hear the fear in her voice. "Mum, it's worse—his fever's worse."
He wanted to tell her not to cry. That he'd be okay. That it 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, like sand through his fingers. The last thing he felt was the warmth of Ginny's hand and the cold dread curling in his stomach.
Suddenly, vibrant green flames burst to life in the fireplace, hissing and crackling like a living thing. The unexpected flare startled both Molly and Ron, who spun toward the fireplace with wide eyes. A figure began to materialise through the swirling emerald light, brushing soot from his arms before his polished black boots even touched the floor.
Professor Slughorn emerged, his smile warm and affable. He wore an elegant waistcoat of deep plum, the fabric shimmering faintly in the light, its gold buttons gleaming like tiny suns. His walrus-like moustache twitched with pleasant amusement as he looked about.
"Good afternoon!" he called out in a booming, cheerful voice that rolled through the kitchen like honeyed thunder. "I must apologise for the rather dramatic entrance. It appears I've taken liberties with timing again. I swear, punctuality used to be a strength of mine—though perhaps age is catching up with me at last!"
Molly blinked away her surprise, a soft blush warming her cheeks. She hurried forward with a polite smile, reaching out to shake his hand.
"Oh, no, Horace," she said quickly. "You did mention a time. I'm afraid it slipped my mind entirely. Things have been… rather overwhelming today."
Her voice faltered slightly, a hint of weariness leaking through the hospitality. Slughorn, ever perceptive beneath his jovial exterior, caught it at once, though he made no comment. He offered a gracious nod instead.
"Not at all, my dear Molly. I do hope I'm not intruding."
Before Molly could respond, the flames roared again—higher this time, licking at the chimney with urgent force. The green light surged outward like a flash of magic reborn, and a figure came stumbling through.
Hermione.
She landed with a jolt, her robes askew, hair tousled, cheeks flushed from the heat of the Floo. Her breath came in sharp gasps, her eyes wide with a fear that hadn't yet settled.
"Hermione!" Ron's voice cracked as he lunged toward her, wrapping his arms around her without a second thought. Relief poured off him in waves, a physical release of the storm building within.
She melted into him for a second, trembling, then pulled back just enough to look up at his face.
"Ron," she said, her voice catching. "Is it true? I heard about him—I had to come."
Molly's concern deepened as she stepped forward, brushing soot from Hermione's sleeve like a mother would.
"Oh, Hermione, dear."
Slughorn's eyes lit up in recognition, his hearty laugh chasing away the last echoes of the fireplace's fury.
"Ms. Granger! What a pleasant surprise indeed! You've grown even more brilliant since last I saw you; I have no doubt."
Hermione offered a polite nod, but her smile was tight, the corners of her mouth quivering. There was no joy in her expression—only fear, confusion, and urgency. She moved closer to Molly and Slughorn, her brow furrowed.
"I'm sorry I didn't send word. I just… I couldn't wait. I heard what happened to Harry…"
Her voice broke on his name. A heavy silence fell, thick and oppressive.
At the mention of Harry, Slughorn's own smile faltered, fading into a worried line. He adjusted his waistcoat with a nervous hand.
"Harry?" he repeated, as if the name had summoned something heavy into the room. "Is he alright?"
Molly's lips trembled. She let out a long, aching breath as though speaking the truth might split her in two.
"No, Horace. He passed out an hour ago from the pain. The potions we tried didn't help. He… he was in agony, and I didn't know what else to do."
The despair in her voice sent a jolt through Hermione's chest. She turned to Ron, who was now pacing the edge of the room like a caged animal.
"He's not just sick," Ron muttered. "It's more than that."
They all looked to him, eyes narrowing with growing alarm.
"He woke up screaming," Ron continued, his voice tight, his fists clenched. "He was asking for Hedwig. For Sirius. As if… as if he doesn't know they're gone."
Hermione's hand shot to her mouth. Her mind raced—memories, logic, and dread all colliding in a dizzying swirl.
Ron pressed on. "He's confused. He's in pain all the time. Sweating like mad, shaking…"
He turned to Hermione, something desperate in his gaze.
"You mentioned Horcruxes in your last letter. You said—"
Slughorn's jovial façade cracked.
"Wait a moment," he said sharply, stepping forward. "Did you say 'Horcrux'?"
Ron blinked. "Yeah. Why?"
The name alone drained all colour from Slughorn's face. His hands dropped to his sides. He looked as though he'd just received news of a war starting again.
"Harry… came to me once," he said slowly, voice barely above a whisper. "He wanted to know what happens to a soul when it becomes a Horcrux. I told him that the soul becomes damaged or tainted, and…"
Hermione's knees nearly gave way. She grabbed the edge of the counter for support.
"Did he tell you why he was asking?" she asked, her voice shaking like a leaf caught in a storm.
"No," Slughorn said hollowly. "Harry didn't give me a specific reason for his questions. Why do you ask?"
Hermione swallowed hard. She could barely breathe. Her hands trembled at her sides.
"Harry was a Horcrux."
The words landed like a curse. The room seemed to shrink, air pulling tight around them.
"When Voldemort tried to kill him as a baby," Hermione went on, barely able to speak, "the curse rebounded. But a piece of his soul—Voldemort's soul—latched onto Harry. Lived inside him. All those years."
Slughorn swayed on the spot. "Merlin's beard…"
Hermione nodded, fighting sobs. "When Voldemort cast the Killing Curse during the battle at Hogwarts, it destroyed that piece of his soul inside Harry."
Molly gasped, a strangled sound of anguish, and sank into the nearest chair.
"No one told me," she whispered. "No one ever said a word…"
Slughorn was pale, a haunted look in his eyes.
"A Horcrux is… is created by murder. It's the darkest magic there is. The soul isn't meant to survive that kind of trauma. If Harry was carrying that for years, then—"
Hermione stepped forward, barely able to hold herself together. "Professor. What happens to someone with a damaged soul?"
Slughorn hesitated, eyes cast downward. "They begin to fade," he said softly. "The body may live, but the soul… it unravels. Slowly. Like a thread coming loose."
"How long?" Hermione asked, her voice a thread of desperation.
"It's hard to say," Slughorn replied. "Weeks. Days, perhaps. Maybe less."
Ron's stomach turned violently. He staggered back a step, face pale and stricken. "He's dying?"
"No," Hermione breathed, shaking her head, as if the very idea could be denied into non-existence. "There has to be something. A way to heal the soul. Professor Dumbledore—he believed in redemption, in second chances. He must've known something."
Slughorn was silent, gazing into the distance, lips pressed into a grim line. Finally, he sighed.
"Dumbledore once spoke of soul-mending. Briefly. But he never explained how. Perhaps even he didn't know for sure."
Silence fell again—profound, crushing. The kind of silence that made the world feel colder, smaller.
And then—like sunlight breaking through storm clouds—Ginny burst into the kitchen, her hair wild, her cheeks flushed, eyes wide with wonder.
"Harry's awake!" She cried, the words bursting from her like a song of hope. "He's awake!"
For a single heartbeat, the kitchen remained frozen in place—Molly with her hand clutched to her chest, Slughorn silent in the corner, Hermione staring at Ginny as if trying to confirm she'd heard her correctly.
Then the stillness shattered.
Hermione bolted from the room first, her feet barely touching the floor as she sprinted for the stairs. Ron was right behind her, nearly knocking over a stool in his rush. Ginny spun on her heel.
They pounded up the steps two or three at a time, the sound of their footfalls echoing through the house. Every breath felt too shallow, every second too long. The hallway stretched ahead like a tunnel, Harry's door looming at the end.
Hermione reached it first. Her hand hesitated on the knob. She could hear his breathing through the wood—rough and uneven, but unmistakably alive. That alone nearly made her sob.
She pushed the door open.