The air in Harry's room at the Burrow was doing a very good impression of a held breath. It hung heavy, like the walls were eavesdropping. It smelt like warm floorboards, tonight's leftover stew, and that faint crackle of magic that clung to places where too much had happened.
Outside, the wind rustled the trees, hissing like it knew something and wasn't about to tell. Inside, Harry lay on his back on the creaky bed, his fingers loosely laced with Ginny's. Her thumb brushed his knuckles in slow, aimless circles. Absentminded. Comforting.
If he focused just on that—just on her touch—he could almost believe things were fine. Not normal. That ship had sunk ages ago. But fine-ish. The kind of "fine" where if he didn't move too much or think too hard, he wouldn't fall apart.
He didn't feel safe. Not really. But this was close enough. It was a borrowed kind of safety—stolen in the quiet.
The others were nearby—only a few feet away—but their voices sounded distant. Blurred. Like they were talking behind frosted glass.
Ron sat in the rickety armchair, foot tapping a violent rhythm on the floorboards like he was trying to drill his way into another dimension. He looked like he might bolt—or explode. Or both, which would be messy.
Harry tilted his head slightly, pretending to rest, but of course he was listening.
He always listened now.
"…can't let Harry find out about our attempts—at least not yet," Hermione whispered.
Harry's stomach did an elegant little somersault.
Attempts?
What kind of attempts? Were they trying to fix him? Undo the horcrux thing? Bury him in protective runes and hope for the best?
His fingers tightened around Ginny's, just slightly. She glanced at him, eyebrows twitching, but he turned away. He didn't want her to see the panic quietly throwing a rave behind his eyes.
Hermione had started pacing—again. Harry was surprised the rug hadn't filed a restraining order. She always wore a hole in the floor when something big was coming.
"Alright," she said in that brisk, announcement-of-doom tone. "First ingredient: Thestral hair."
Harry blinked. That was… unexpected.
He sat up a little. "Thestrals? How are we meant to get that?"
Hermione hesitated, which was never comforting. She brushed the edge of a very dusty book like it might offer her a better answer if she caressed it enough.
"Well, it has to be from a wild Thestral," she said. "Not one raised in captivity. And obviously, not everyone can even see them."
Harry squinted.
"I know someone who can help," he said a moment later, hope sparking in his chest like a lit match.
Ron looked up. "Hagrid?" he guessed, like it was obvious.
"Exactly," Harry said. "He raised half the forest. If anyone knows how to charm a Thestral into giving us a lock of hair, it's him."
Ron nodded slowly. For a second, he looked… relieved. Almost proud. Then the expression cracked, and guilt slipped in beneath it like fog under a door.
Harry didn't miss it. He noticed everything now. Ever since Ron had confessed he'd seen the soul books—books Harry wasn't even supposed to know existed—things had been different. He trusted them. He did. But trust didn't stop dread from making a nest in his stomach.
Ginny gave him a look—soft and sure and too good for him. Like he was the hero in a story and not just a teenager with one too many pieces of soul rattling around inside.
He wanted to earn that look. Desperately.
But Hermione's voice brought him crashing back.
"Even if we get the hair," she said, "that's only the beginning. The ritual is… extremely advanced."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "And?"
She paused.
Hermione never paused unless something was awful.
Ron swooped in too fast. "Let's just take it one step at a time, yeah?" His voice cracked like glass under pressure. He cleared his throat with exaggerated casualness, which somehow made it worse.
Harry gave them both a long look. He didn't press—not yet—but he made a mental note. They were hiding something. Again.
"Fine," he muttered. "What's next?"
Hermione flipped through the book. Her fingers moved like she was searching for a lifeline. "A piece of the doorway where life departs," she read.
Harry stared. "I'm sorry—what?"
Ron groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Brilliant. Just once, once, I want a magical recipe that says 'add a pinch of salt and stir twice', not 'harvest death's doormat.'"
Harry snorted. "Is that next to 'gather a single tear from a phoenix after a breakup'?"
Ginny leaned forward, brow furrowed. "Could it be a portkey? Or maybe a portal?"
Hermione shook her head. "No. It's metaphorical. Symbolic. Or… literal. Possibly both. That's the problem."
"Okay," Ron muttered. "So we're deciphering death's poetry now. Excellent."
Ginny tried again. "What about ghosts? Would they know?"
Harry glanced at her. There was something tight in her voice—hope, trying not to sound like hope. That dangerous kind of hope.
Hermione answered softly. "They wouldn't be stuck here if they knew how to leave. Ghosts are imprints. Echoes. They can't cross any doorways. They don't know where they are."
Ron leaned forward, his voice lower now. "There has to be a way to talk to the dead."
The room froze.
Harry's breath caught in his throat.
He thought of his parents. Sirius. So many names that still echoed in his bones. People he'd lost. People who might've had the answers.
The silence stretched.
Ginny's hand tightened in his.
He didn't say anything.
But the idea stayed with him—cold and strange and tempting.
A way to speak to the dead?
A doorway where life departs?
Something told him he'd find it.
Hermione gave Harry a look—a mix of caution and quiet desperation. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "There is… one way. But it's ancient. Dangerous. Practically lost to time."
Harry's stomach turned. Something about her tone made him feel like the ground under him had just shifted.
Ron leaned forward, eyes suddenly wide. "You mean… the Resurrection Stone?"
Hermione gave a single, solemn nod.
The air changed. The room seemed to freeze around them. Harry's chest tightened like someone had tied ropes around his ribs.
The Resurrection Stone.
For a moment, he was back there—alone in the Forbidden Forest. The stone was warm in his palm. His mother's voice in his ear. His father's eyes, gentle and proud. Lupin's quiet sadness. Sirius, smiling like nothing had changed. And then they were gone again, like mist scattered by wind.
He swallowed. "It's gone," he said softly. "I dropped it. On purpose."
"I know," Hermione said gently. "But… if there were clues—if we could figure out where it landed—"
"No." The word came out too fast, too sharp. "No chasing it. Not again."
Silence fell like a heavy curtain.
They were all tired. Worn down to the bone. Tired of old secrets and bigger lies. Tired of pretending things were okay when everything still felt broken.
"Maybe…" Ron started, then hesitated. "Maybe there's another way?"
It sounded more like a question than a suggestion. Like, even he didn't believe it.
Harry didn't answer. He couldn't. He just sank back against the cushions beside Ginny and stared up at the ceiling. The shadows overhead shifted with the firelight, stretching like ghosts. His mind raced, thoughts overlapping until nothing made sense anymore.
Too many pieces. Too many unknowns. Too many moments that slipped through his fingers like smoke.
And worst of all?
He could feel it happening—his friends slowly drifting away. Not in a cruel way. Just… preparing. Planning. Like they were getting ready for a battle that didn't include him. And maybe, deep down, he understood why.
Maybe they were right.
He didn't notice how long he'd been staring until something sparked in his memory—sharp and sudden.
That night.
The whispers.
The Veil.
He saw it again—the archway deep in the Department of Mysteries, cold and ancient. Sirius slipping through it, silent as falling ash. Gone in an instant. Everyone said he'd died, but Harry had always wondered… what if it hadn't been death exactly?
What if it had been a threshold?
A line from a book Hermione had read aloud floated to the surface of his mind: "A piece of the doorway where life departs."
It hit him like a jolt of lightning.
He bolted upright.
"Yes!"
The word tore from his mouth before he could stop it, loud and echoing through the room like someone had set off a spell in the library.
Hermione froze mid-step, eyes wide. Ron paused. Ginny blinked, chin propped on her hand. They all stared at him.
Hermione was the first to speak. "Harry?"
He could hardly get the words out fast enough. "The Veil. In the Department of Mysteries. It's real—not just a symbol. That's the doorway. That's what the ingredient means."
For a moment, Hermione looked confused. Then her eyes lit up like a spell igniting. "Of course… Harry, that actually makes sense. Why didn't I think of that?"
"I don't know," he said, breathless. "I just… remembered. Sirius—when he fell through the arch. I always thought he died instantly."
Ron made a face like he'd just swallowed a Bertie Bott's bean labelled "cemetery". "You mean the creepy whispering place? That stone archway where Sirius—?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah."
Ginny leaned forward, her voice soft and uncertain. "Do you remember anything else? From that day?"
Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Bits and pieces. It's all muddled. Like someone dropped the memory into a broken Pensieve. But this part—this feels real. Feels right."
He stood, feeling energy buzz in his veins for the first time in hours. "So that's it—that's our second ingredient. A piece of the doorway. But… do we literally have to break off a chunk of it? Isn't that, like, illegal? Or cursed? Or both? And how do we even get back in there?"
Hermione was already deep in thought, her brow furrowed. "The Death Chamber is in the Department of Mysteries. Level Nine of the Ministry. You take the lift and go through the black door. No windows, no handles. The chamber's circular, echoey… eerie. The doors respond when spoken to. It's unlike anything else I've ever seen."
Ron folded his arms. "Sounds cosy. Should we pack a lunch or just bring our wills?"
Ginny brightened. "Dad could help us. Or Percy. Dad used to work there—he might still know a way in. And he knows about the Veil."
Ron groaned. "Percy? Really? That bloke couldn't find his own wand with a map."
Ginny's eyes narrowed. "He's changed, Ron. He gave up his room so Harry could stay. He's trying. That has to count for something."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Trying doesn't mean succeeding. He still quotes Ministry codes when Mum asks him to pass the salt."
"Let's not argue about Percy," Hermione said firmly. "Ginny has a point—we'll need help. Someone inside. And yes," she turned to Harry, her voice serious, "I think it means exactly that. We need to take a piece of the Veil. Somehow."
Ron looked horrified. "So, let me get this straight. You want me to drink a potion made of shredded death's curtain, Thestral hair, and what—ashes from a phoenix's midlife crisis?"
Harry couldn't stop the laugh that burst out. It came out rough and a little cracked, but real.
"You'll be fine," he said, smirking. "It's not like we're eating it raw."
They turned their attention to the next cryptic clue, the parchment lying between them like a live Niffler.
"A tear from a guise to obscure from demise."
Ron stared at it like it had personally insulted him. "What in Merlin's saggy pants does that mean?"
Hermione sighed. "A 'guise' is a disguise. 'To obscure' means to hide. 'Demise' is death."
Ron blinked. "Right. So… basically 'a tear from something that hides you from dying'?"
Harry's mind caught the shape of the thought before he said it aloud. It felt heavy and important, like it had been waiting for them to catch up.
He swallowed. "That sounds like… the Invisibility Cloak."
The silence that followed was one of those rare, sharp moments where everyone knew the answer, even if no one liked it.
Ron was first to break it. "Wait. Yeah. Yeah! It does."
Hermione nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around the edge of the book. "It could be. The Cloak is one of the Hallows. The only one that actually hides you from Death."
Ginny leaned forward. "Where is it?"
"In my bag," Hermione said breezily, as though it were just a toothbrush.
Harry let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. Relief washed over him—strange, considering the state of the world. That cloak had been with him through everything. It was more than a magical artefact. It was comfort. Familiarity. A thread back to his dad.
"You brought it?" he asked, maybe too quickly.
"Of course I did," Hermione said. "Still packed. Ginny's room."
Harry nodded. Good. They'd need it.
And somewhere in the quiet that followed, something flickered to life inside him. Weak, but real.
Hope.
Ron clapped his hands together. "Brilliant! So we just—" He stopped mid-sentence, his words drying up like a bad potion.
Harry turned—and saw why.
Hermione had gone rigid. Her mouth a thin line. She was staring down at the book like it had just personally betrayed her.
"Hermione?" Harry asked, the tiny hope flickering.
She looked up slowly. "We have to tear it."
Harry stared at her. "I'm sorry—what?"
"That's what the text says," she replied, now with that stubborn, 'don't-make-me-explain-again' tone she used when she knew she was right. "It has to be damaged. By the one who owns it."
The words hit him like a cold wind.
"No way," Ron said flatly. "You mean the Cloak? The unbeatable, unhexable, can't-sneeze-on-it-too-hard Cloak?"
"That's the one," Hermione said grimly.
Harry looked at her. His mouth felt dry.
The Cloak. His father's. The only real thing he still had of James Potter.
"You're sure?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
Hermione's voice softened but didn't waver. "Yes."
Ginny was quiet, watching him carefully. Her fingers brushed his arm, light as a breeze. "Harry… Are you okay?"
No. Absolutely not.
But he nodded anyway.
"I just—" he shook his head. "It's indestructible. It's supposed to be."
"It is," Hermione agreed. "But you're its master. The one exception."
Harry ran a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to throw something. "Fantastic. So my one real connection to my dad? We shred it?"
Ron scratched the back of his neck. "You know, for a magical object that cheats death, it's surprisingly high-maintenance."
"Legendary artefacts usually are," Hermione muttered.
A silence settled. It wasn't comfortable.
Harry looked at the others—at Ron trying not to look at him, Hermione still pretending to read, and Ginny with her hand hovering near his.
And then he realised: this wasn't about sentiment. This was about his soul. And curing a soul didn't care about heirlooms or legacies.
It only cared about results.
"Fine," he said at last. "Let's do it."
Hermione exhaled like she'd just unclenched her whole spine. She turned pages quickly now, voice gaining speed. "Alright. The ritual requires four things—besides the Cloak and the hair. A drop of blood from the afflicted…"
"That's me," Harry said before she could finish. "Shocking, I know."
Ron raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Could be my dramatic fate tied to an ancient curse."
"Do you have a soul that screams whenever it wants?" Harry asked.
"Fair point."
Ginny smirked, despite herself.
Hermione continued. "So it's the thestral hair. And… a piece of the Veil archway from the Department of Mysteries."
Ron groaned. "Well, that's convenient. We'll just pop by the Ministry and grab a piece of a haunted death arch. Should be in aisle three."
Hermione ignored him. "If we split up and gather ingredients separately, we might do it in a few months."
"Months?" Ron repeated, incredulous.
Harry leaned forward, his voice low, calm. "We don't have months. Not really. But I'm not quitting. I'll fight for every day I have left."
That shut everyone up.
For a moment, the weight of it hung in the air. Then Ginny spoke, quiet but firm. "Then we'd better start now."
Harry looked at her—and something in his chest steadied. He wasn't doing this alone.
"Right," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "Let's destroy some priceless magical history."
Hermione closed the book with a soft thump. "We need to talk to your dad, Ron. He might know something about the Veil. And we have to write to Hagrid too."
Ron checked the clock and sighed. "Too late now. Dad'll be asleep, and Pig'll bite my hand off if I try to send a letter this late."
"First thing in the morning," Ginny said, her voice warm, calming. "We'll sort it then. We need sleep too."
Harry nodded, grateful for her steadiness. She always knew when to ease the tension without pushing it aside.
Ron leaned over Hermione's shoulder, eyes looking at the book. "Does it say how long the potion takes?"
"An hour," she said after opening the book again. But then she stopped, eyes fixed on the page. Her expression shifted—something dawning on her.
Harry leaned forward. "What is it?"
Her voice was breathless. "The ingredients… they match the Deathly Hallows. Almost perfectly."
Harry blinked. "Wait. What?"
Ron leaned in. "You're serious?"
Hermione's voice trembled—not with fear this time, but something sharper. Almost excitement.
That edge in her tone—it always meant she was close to figuring something out.
"The Thestral hair. The Cloak. The Veil's stone…" she murmured, eyes darting across the open book. "It's not exact. But it's close. Too close to be a coincidence."
Harry's heart gave a hard, sudden thump in his chest. His mouth was dry. "You think this potion is tied to the Hallows somehow?"
"I don't know," Hermione admitted. "But it feels like we're walking into something bigger than we ever imagined."
Harry stared down at the ancient book in her hands. His mind buzzed like a broken wand, sparking with questions. He glanced at Hermione, Ron, then Ginny.
Something twisted in his gut. Uncertainty, yes—but alongside it, a strange clarity, like the fog had lifted just enough for him to glimpse the edge of something vast.
This wasn't just about fixing what Voldemort broke. Not anymore.
"The thestral tail hair," Hermione said softly, almost reverently. "One of the rarest wand cores in existence. It's as powerful as the Elder Wand's."
Harry felt a tremor of awe ripple through him.
"And the archway," Hermione continued, her voice dipping lower. "It's like the Resurrection Stone. Not exactly, but… It's connected to the other side. It lets people sense what lingers beyond the veil."
Cold dread coiled in Harry's chest.
He could still hear them, sometimes. The whispers. Echoes from the other side of the Veil.
Sirius.
He swallowed hard. "I've heard them… the voices. They're real."
His voice faltered, caught with grief.
Hermione nodded gently, sensing what he didn't say. "And your Invisibility Cloak—that's the third piece. The connection to the legend. The one thing that ties it all together."
Harry said nothing. He could feel the weight of the Cloak in the beaded bag even now, folded neatly, quiet and unassuming.
Three objects. Three Deathly Hallows.
Ron frowned, confusion lining his face. "Wait—how does all this help us with the potion?"
Hermione didn't even hesitate. Her eyes were bright, burning with purpose. "Wielding all three makes someone the Master of Death."
Harry stiffened. The words settled around him again.
Master of Death?
A chill ran through him, like Xenophilius Lovegood had just whispered a secret into his bones again.
Ron blinked. "Hold on. That potion only takes an hour to brew?" He asked, his eyes scanning the text. "That can't be right. Something that powerful should take… I dunno, weeks."
Hermione furrowed her brow. "It's not about the time—it's about the rarity. These ingredients are impossibly rare. That's what makes it so potent."
Harry tried to steady himself, but he could feel the storm inside him stirring again. Hope. Fear. Anticipation.
Ever since he'd learnt about the damage to his soul, he'd felt cracked open. Haunted.
I'm not whole. I haven't been since Voldemort's soul is destroyed…
But now—
"This is wonderful!" he said, almost gasping for breath. "We're close, aren't we? If this potion works, I'll finally be free of it. All of it."
He could see it—life without the pain. Without the emptiness gnawing at him. Without the nightmares.
"I can't wait to drink it and feel normal again."
He smiled. For the first time in weeks, he felt light. Almost happy.
But then—
The room shifted.
Not physically. Emotionally. It was like the warmth had been drained away.
Ginny's hand trembled in his. Her fingers were ice-cold. Ron was suddenly pale, sweat forming at his brow. Hermione didn't move. She looked like she'd been petrified.
Harry's smile faltered. "What's wrong?"
They didn't answer.
The silence pressed down like a thick, choking fog. He searched their faces. Ginny's lips parted slightly, but no words came. Ron looked away. Hermione's eyes were too wide.
"What is it?" Harry asked again, louder this time. A knot twisted in his stomach.
Why aren't they happy? Why do they look… afraid?
Still, no one answered. His heart started to race.
"Say something," he demanded. "What? What is it?"
Hermione stepped forward, her hands raised a little, like she was trying to calm a dangerous magical creature. "Please, Harry. Listen to me before you get upset."
That's never a good sign.
He looked straight at her. "What did you do?"
His voice came out harder than he intended. But he couldn't help it. The dread was clawing at him now, rising fast.
"We didn't do anything," Hermione whispered. "We… we've just been trying to protect you."
"From what?" he snapped. "If you didn't do anything, what's the problem?"
Hermione hesitated. Her eyes flicked to Ron, then Ginny, who looked away. She looked like she was forcing herself to speak past a wall of fear.
"The potion," she said finally, "it's not meant to be drunk by you."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"It's meant to be drunk… by us."
Time stopped.
Harry stared at her, his mind blank. "What are you talking about?"
Hermione couldn't meet his eyes. "It's designed to repair a soul. But not from the inside. Not the person who's damaged. It needs to be someone connected to them. Someone who… cares. Who's willing to share the burden."
"No," Harry said instantly. "No. You're not doing that. None of you."
"We already agreed, Harry," Ginny whispered. Her voice cracked.
He stood up, shaking his head, his pulse thundering.
This can't be happening.
"I'm not letting you do that. Any of you. You can't—"
"You don't get to decide this alone anymore," Hermione said softly. Her eyes glistened. "You've carried this pain by yourself for too long. Let us help. Please."
He couldn't breathe.
Harry's thoughts were a tangled storm. He couldn't keep up with what Hermione had just said. Her words hit him like a spell to the chest—sudden, sharp, and impossible to ignore. He instinctively took a step back, as though physical distance could make the truth less real.
"No—no," he gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of panic. "That can't be right! I'm the one whose soul's in danger. I'm the one who's supposed to drink the potion!"
His eyes darted from Ginny to Ron, searching their faces for something—clarity, contradiction, anything that might tell him this was just a mistake. But they both looked as lost and afraid as he felt.
Ginny's voice was barely above a whisper. "The book says the potion has to be taken by those who are going to save your soul… not you."
Her words felt like ice dripping down his spine.
"What does that even mean?" Harry asked, his breath catching in his throat. "'Save my soul'? Who decides that?"
His head pounded, dread building behind his eyes like a pressure he couldn't release. The room suddenly felt smaller and heavier.
Ron spoke next, slowly, like every word was a weight he had to carry. "Harry… it's us. We're the ones meant to save you. So we're the ones who drink it."
Harry stared at him, heart hammering. "No. No, that's insane." He shook his head fiercely. "You've misunderstood it—misread it—there has to be another way."
He looked at Hermione, silently begging her to tell him they were wrong. That she had a better plan.
But she stepped closer instead, her voice calm, too calm. "This is the only way."
Her certainty only made the chaos in his chest worse. Harry's mouth went dry.
"The only way?" he echoed, barely able to form the words. "To save my soul?"
"Yes," she said softly.
Ron's frustration flared. "Did you really think you had to do this all by yourself?" he asked, his voice strained. "We're not going to let you go through this alone."
Harry flinched, anger and fear rising fast in his chest like flames fed by wind.
"That's exactly what I wanted!" he snapped, his voice raw with emotion. "I have to do this alone. I won't let any of you risk yourselves for me!"
His voice cracked on the last word. His hands clenched into fists, trembling with the effort of holding himself together.
But Ron didn't back down. "It's not just your choice anymore, Harry. We're in this with you, whether you like it or not. We're willing to risk it all—our lives, our souls—if that's what it takes."
Harry reeled.
"You'd risk your souls?" He whispered, stunned. "For me?"
It didn't make sense. Why would they do that? For him?
Ron looked uncertain now, his earlier bravado faltering. "Harry, just… just let us explain."
Hermione reached for him gently. "Please," she said, her eyes filled with emotion. "Let us talk to you. Let us help."
But Harry couldn't listen. He couldn't think. A sick, terrible feeling was crawling through him, wrapping around his chest and squeezing tight.
He snatched the book from Hermione's hands, flipping through the fragile pages in a frenzy. The words blurred before his eyes until finally, he found it.
And when he read the line—
"It would cost a higher price to recondition the soul if attempted. And if it should fail, in accordance with who may have tried, the cost will, therefore, be marked the same as the other…"
—his heart stopped.
No. No, no, no.
He staggered back, his face draining of colour. The book slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud. Then he was running—he didn't remember deciding to—but his feet carried him blindly to the bathroom.
He barely made it.
Collapsing in front of the toilet, he retched, the nausea rising with the panic still storming inside him. He didn't care that his knees hit the cold tile or that his hands were shaking uncontrollably. All he could think of were the words from the book, ringing in his mind like a curse.
"Marked the same as the other."
If they drank it—if it failed—they'd lose their souls too. Just like him. Or worse.
Footsteps. Voices. Distant at first, then closer.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice. Soft, scared. Her hand touched his back gently, rubbing slow, steady circles.
Ron and Hermione hovered nearby, not daring to move closer yet.
But Harry couldn't respond. Couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. The truth pressed down on him, choking him.
They were willing to die for him. Worse—damn themselves for him.
They can't do this, he thought, over and over again. They shouldn't. I won't let them.
But even as the thought repeated like a heartbeat in his mind, a terrible question followed right behind it.
What if they're right? What if this is the only way?
Harry's voice shook, barely holding together under the weight of everything he was feeling. "Are you saying… this potion might not just help me—but could cost you everything?" His throat tightened as the words escaped, raw and cracked. Tears stung his eyes before he could stop them, spilling down his cheeks as he turned to Hermione, needing her to say something—anything—that would make it all okay.
Hermione stepped closer, slow and cautious, like she was walking across thin ice. Her fingers twitched at her sides, unsure, and her eyes shimmered with emotion. "Harry," she said softly, "we think it's a risk worth taking. The book says… it's not just about the potion. It's about connection. Love. The people who care for you—who love you—have to be part of it. That's the only way to reach your soul."
Love. That word echoed in Harry's chest like a blow. He didn't know what to do with it—didn't feel like he deserved it.
"She's right," Ron added, stepping up beside her. "But it's not just some magical cure. It's deeper than that. You've always tried to carry everything on your own, but we're done watching you suffer by yourself. You're our friend. You're family."
Family.
The word hit harder than Harry expected. A wave of emotions surged up inside him—gratitude, panic, and anger. It all tangled together and made it hard to breathe.
"Family?" he repeated, his voice sharper than intended. Bitterness leaked into his words before he could stop it. "You think risking your lives makes us family? That putting yourselves in danger somehow proves something?" He clenched his fists, trying to hold himself together. "It only makes you—" He cut off, the heat in his chest suddenly twisting into something colder, sadder. His voice broke. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, fingers catching in the mess of it. That familiar gesture did nothing to calm him.
He was so tired of being the reason people got hurt.
"Please, Harry," Ginny said. Her voice cracked around his name. "This isn't about winning an argument. We don't want to see you suffer anymore. You don't have to carry this alone. Let us in. Let us help. We're stronger when we're together."
Her words struck something in him—something fragile.
"Stronger together?" He repeated, almost laughing, though there was no humour in it. "And if it doesn't work? What then? What if I drag you all down with me—for nothing?"
He hated how scared he sounded. Hated that he couldn't stop thinking about losing them—about them losing themselves—just for his sake.
Hermione didn't back down. She stepped forward again, her expression fierce and determined, her eyes burning with that fire she always carried when she believed in something too much to let go.
"And what if it does work?" she said. "What if this is how we finally save you—really save you? You have to trust us, Harry. We're not rushing into this blindly. We're doing it because we love you. That's not weakness—it's strength."
Her words echoed around the small bathroom like spells cast in silence. The sun was setting behind the grimy window, shadows crawling along the tiled walls. Harry's heart pounded so loud it drowned out everything else.
Could he do this?
Could he really let them in—after everything? After losing so many people he'd cared about? Sirius. Dumbledore. Fred. So many names that haunted him.
His stomach twisted.
"What if you lose yourselves?" he whispered. The fear in his voice startled even him. It felt like the realest thing he'd said all day. "What if I pull you into the dark with me, and there's no coming back?"
Ron moved closer, his tone steady. "Then we face it together. We've been through too much—Voldemort, Death Eaters, all of it—and we survived because we had each other. That doesn't stop now. We're in this with you. No matter what."
"Harry," Ginny said, her voice soft as candlelight. "There's always a price. Whether you fight alone or we fight with you. But at least this way, you don't have to face the pain by yourself. We've always been connected, haven't we? Maybe this potion can help you feel that again—help bring you back."
Harry looked at them all—Hermione, Ron, and Ginny. He saw the fear in their eyes, but also the strength. They meant it. Every word.
Hermione knelt beside him, her voice low. "You have to stop carrying this guilt. We've talked about it, and we've made our choice. We're with you."
Ron raised an eyebrow, his mouth curling into a crooked grin. "And besides, mate… what's a life-threatening magical ritual without a little danger?" He yelped as Hermione stomped on his foot, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He laughed, rubbing his ankle. "Alright, alright—bad timing. But seriously, aren't you at least a little glad we're here? You were never going to do this alone. We're your backup whether you like it or not."
And somehow, despite the fear tightening in his chest, Harry felt something start to loosen. Just a little.