Ron approached Ginny quietly, his brow creased with worry. "We need to talk privately," he said in a hushed tone. His urgent gaze implored her to follow him to a secluded corner of her room.
The sunlight filtering through the window cast a warm glow, illuminating the swirling dust motes, but Ron and Ginny were oblivious, consumed by the gravity of the moment.
Ginny's heart raced with anxiety as she leaned in closer, a protective instinct stirring within her. "What's happening, Ron?" She asked, her voice laced with concern.
Ron took a deep, steadying breath, his words stumbling out nervously. "I've found something suspicious in Harry's room," he finally admitted, the guilt evident in his troubled eyes. "I know I shouldn't have been snooping, but I just couldn't help myself."
Ginny's brows knitted together as she crossed her arms, a disapproving frown on her face. "Why were you intruding on Harry's privacy like that?" she demanded, her tone sharp.
"I didn't intend to," Ron pleaded. "But what I found was too important to ignore." He hoped to shift the focus away from his own misstep and towards the troubling discovery.
Ginny's curiosity was piqued despite her irritation. "What did you see?" she pressed, her gaze intense.
Shifting uncomfortably, Ron replied, "I came across books... about souls."
Ginny's eyebrows shot up in surprise, a flicker of bewilderment crossing her features. "Souls?" she echoed, her voice tinged with a swirl of emotions—concern mingling with an unsettling intrigue. "Why would studying souls be an issue?"
Ron leaned in, speaking in a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone. "Because he had pages and pages of notes!" he argued quietly.
Ginny's brow furrowed as she grasped for a reasonable explanation amidst the rising tension. "Maybe it's part of his summer reading list?" she suggested, her tone tinged with uncertainty.
Ron scoffed, shaking his head dismissively. "Come off it," he retorted. "Harry can't stand reading assignments. His room is cluttered with books focused entirely on souls. Doesn't that strike you as odd? Why now? Why this?"
Ginny shrugged, a sense of unease creeping into her expression. "I mean... I'm not sure what to make of it, Ron," she admitted, her voice laced with a touch of concern.
Ron's voice trembled with concern. "Do you think he's struggling with post-traumatic stress from the war?" His mind raced with haunting memories of their war against You-Know-Who, leading him to a dark conclusion.
"Given everything he went through, it's a plausible explanation," Ginny replied sympathetically. "But we can only truly understand his situation if he chooses to confide in us."
"Do you think I should talk to Harry about this?" Ron asked uneasily. Memories of their past arguments flashed through his mind, and he feared damaging their newly reconciled friendship.
Ginny stared at him, her expression one of disbelief. "No way," she said firmly. "Do you really believe he'll calm down if you bombard him with questions about something you shouldn't even know about? He needs time."
Ron's shoulders slumped as a heavy sigh escaped him, his frustration evident in his posture. "It's Harry's personal matter, I know, but—"
"Let him bring it up himself!" Ginny interrupted, her tone firm. "Trust me, he's just as stubborn as you are. Pressuring him won't help."
Ron contemplated aloud, a hint of apprehension threading through his voice. "Maybe I should ask Hermione then." He'd been eager to share the latest happenings at the Burrow with Hermione, yet the continued chaos had deprived him of that chance. "I just... I want to know how to help Harry," he admitted, his brow furrowed with concern.
"That might be a good idea," Ginny admitted, her voice tinged with both hope and worry. "Hermione is the most level-headed among us. She'll probably find a way to handle this without upsetting Harry—she always knows how to navigate tricky situations."
With a resolute breath, Ron nodded. "Okay. We'll talk to Hermione first," he said, his tone laced with determination. "But we have to keep an eye on Harry, just in case."
Ginny agreed silently, a heavy weight settling in the pit of her stomach. They left the room, uncertainty swirling around them like the dust dancing in the sunlight.
In the dim, muted light of his small bedroom, Harry sat hunched on his bed, the shadows of worry etched deep into his brow. The usually vibrant greens of the Burrow outside felt muted, almost as if nature had drawn back its colours in response to his own fading spirit. A throbbing ache pulsed incessantly in his head, the pain lurking in the background, relentlessly reminding him of his inexplicable illness. He gripped the worn, familiar edges of his quilt, hoping the comforting fabric might somehow shield him from the dread that had taken root, heavy in his chest.
For days, he had tried to convince himself it was merely a simple flu—just a passing ailment. If he kept telling himself that, maybe it would come true. Harry had never been one to shy away from challenges, but this was different. This was a foe he couldn't fight with bravery or wit. It hid beneath the surface, gnawing away at him in silence, and he was terrified that if he breathed a word of his reality to Ron or Hermione, they would look at him with pity in their eyes. That thought alone frightened him more than the illness itself.
Meanwhile, Ron paced the kitchen, nibbling the end of his quill as he plotted strategies. Glancing up towards Harry's room, a swirling storm of worry brewed in his chest. It was clear that Harry was unwell, but the reason for his ailment remained a mystery, one that Ron felt reluctant yet compelled to solve. He tapped the parchment, his thoughts flickering to the soul books—their messages hinting at something deeper than mere disagreement. Ron had read Harry's words, trying to decode their hidden meanings, but all he could decipher was pain and uncertainty.
Ginny's soft voice pulled Ron from his troubled thoughts. "Hey, Ron," she said, approaching him and gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "How's Harry doing today?"
Ron frowned, his brow creased with worry. "He's still shutting us out. I don't think it's just a cold—he's acting really strange."
Ginny's expression turned thoughtful. "Maybe he just needs some time?" she suggested gently. "He's been through so much, after all."
Ron kicked at the floor, unwilling to accept that. "But what if it's something serious? We can't leave him alone like this. He needs us."
Nodding in understanding, a knowing look crossed Ginny's face. Ron couldn't shake the feeling that Harry's illness was connected not only to their recent fallout but also to something larger—something about the soul books that had affected his best friend more deeply than just emotionally. Harry seemed to be slipping away into a world shrouded in shadows.
As the sun sank below the horizon, Harry curled up in his bed, his mind awash with a tumultuous mix of emotions. Echoes of voices reverberated through the Burrow, stirring a battle within him between the desire to reach out and the weight of shame that held him back.
Feeling the crushing loneliness press down, he found himself retreating further, convinced he could weather this storm alone. He cradled his head in his hands, the throbbing in his temples waning slightly, replaced by a gnawing emptiness that clung relentlessly to him.
Outside, the night deepened, and Harry could only hope that with the dawn, some glimmer of strength or awakening would stir within him, offering respite from the turmoil that consumed him.
Harry jolted awake early the next morning, his panicked cries echoing in the room. The vivid dream still gripped him—Hedwig, his beloved owl, trapped in a cage and struck by a blinding green light. Then, the scene shifted to Sirius Black lurking by a familiar archway.
Harry's heart raced as he clutched the sheets, sleep's grasp still clinging to him. The dark room magnified the shadows of his fear. With shaky hands, he ran his fingers through his messy hair, trying to shake the nightmare's lingering effects. The dream had felt painfully real, refusing to be easily dismissed.
Ginny and Ron burst into the room, their breath ragged from sprinting up the stairs. Alarm gripped them as they took in the sight of Harry huddled in the corner of his bed, visibly trembling with an expression of pure terror on his face.
"Where are Hedwig and Sirius?" Harry demanded frantically as soon as he saw them.
Exchanging a worried glance, Ginny approached the still-shaking Harry, her face etched with concern.
"Harry, did you have a bad dream?" She asked gently, her soothing tone coaxing him back from the brink.
Harry's body trembled as he recalled the horrifying images from his dream. "I'm not entirely sure," he replied, his voice wavering. "I saw Sirius drifting away and Hedwig being struck by the Killing Curse. I haven't seen either of them around lately." His gaze drifted to Hedwig's now-empty cage.
Ron and Ginny exchanged worried glances, unsure how to comfort Harry in his distress. They dreaded facing the reality that his nightmares might be true.
Gathering his courage, Ron spoke, his voice steady but laced with sorrow. "They're gone." A lump formed in his throat as he delivered the news that would undoubtedly shatter Harry's fragile state.
Harry's disbelief was immediate and palpable. "What do you mean, 'They're gone?'" he demanded, his voice laced with a mixture of panic and desperation as his stomach twisted into knots. "Sirius is just about to walk through that very door," he insisted, casting a hopeful glance toward the entrance. Deep down, however, he knew this was nothing more than wishful thinking.
Ron looked at Ginny, a puzzled expression crossing his face. Had Harry truly forgotten everything? Ginny could only offer a small, empathetic shrug in response. It was now painfully clear that Harry's memory loss was far more serious and profound than they had ever anticipated.
Ginny's soft voice barely rose above a whisper as she placed a gentle hand on Harry's arm, her eyes filled with deep sorrow. "Harry, I'm deeply sorry for your loss."
Confusion and fear swirled in Harry's eyes as he struggled to recall the fragmented memories. "How... when did this happen?" he asked, his voice trembling.
Ron spoke with a sombre calmness, but his words carried the weight of grief. "It was nearly a year ago, before you came of age, Harry. Hedwig was killed during our escape from the Death Eaters. Don't you remember recounting those tragic events to us?"
Harry's gaze drifted away, lost in a world of profound silence and ominous shadows. He felt as though he stood precariously at the edge of a dark, yawning abyss, teetering on the verge of tumbling into its depths. The mere mention of Hedwig's name dragged the suffocating weight of grief crashing down upon him, leaving him in a sea of anguish. Yet, there was no recollection, only a hollow, echoing emptiness.
"And the Death Eaters ambushed us at the Department of Mysteries," Ron continued solemnly. "Bellatrix cast a spell on your godfather and engaged him in combat. He died when he fell through the veil. It happened about three years ago, mate."
As Ron finished speaking, he turned to face Harry, whose eyes were fixed despondently on his knees. Muffled sniffles began to emerge, revealing Harry's utter devastation, and Ron's heart sank at the sight of his friend being engulfed by the heavy, relentless waves of despair.
Harry's voice trembled with raw emotion, thick with the weight of unimaginable grief and simmering frustration. "Was I not there when he fell? I mean, I saw the entire thing, didn't I?" He grappled with the agonising void where his memories should have been, unable to reconcile the terrible pain that consumed him with the unsettling blankness of his mind. The betrayal of his own fractured thoughts gnawed relentlessly at his psyche.
The room was heavy with an oppressive stillness that seemed to suffocate Harry. The only sounds cutting through the silence were the gentle tapping of raindrops against the windowpane and Harry's muffled sobs. But as time passed, the storm within him began to settle, and he felt a weight lift.
When he finally looked up, he noticed Ginny and Ron staring at him, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity. A rush of embarrassment flooded his cheeks, making them burn with heat. Hastily, he wiped away his tears, trying to regain his composure.
"I'm sorry," Harry said, his voice barely audible above the background noise. He stared at the floor, as if the pattern of the wooden floorboards held the answers he sought.
Ron's voice, a mixture of irritation and worry, cut through the damp air. "Good grief, Harry! You nearly gave us a heart attack out there. What was all that about? Are you even thinking straight?"
Ginny shot her brother a reproachful look, her soft yet firm voice laced with concern. "Can't you see that Harry's upset?"
The sudden confrontation startled Harry, and he turned his gaze to the window. Heavy sheets of rain obscured his view of the outside world, mirroring the obscurity of his own thoughts. He had come to The Burrow seeking comfort, but the fear of the unknown now loomed larger than ever, a dark cloud over his mind. The burden of secrets that clung to him felt as oppressive as the weight of an invisibility cloak. Yet the steady drum of his heartbeat urged him onwards, signalling that the time had come for honesty and clarity.
He cleared his throat and took a deep, steadying breath, focusing on the faint, earthy scent of rain-soaked soil wafting through the window. When he finally lifted his chin, the worry in his green eyes gave way to steely determination. "Do you remember when I said I would share something once I was certain?" he began, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze first found Ginny's—her vivid red hair framing her face like a fiery aura—before including Ron in his resolute expression. "Well, the night before we left school, I—"
But before he could continue, a soft hoot interrupted the tense atmosphere, causing Ron to spin around. The unmistakable silhouette of Pigwidgeon flitted through the rain-lashed window, bringing a surge of anticipation that cut through the heaviness like a breath of fresh air.
Ron rushed to the window, his nimble fingers quickly untying the scrolls attached to Pigwidgeon's leg. One scroll bore Hermione's neat, familiar handwriting, while the other, Harry recognised, was addressed to him.
Harry held the letter, anticipation rising as he unfolded the parchment. Frowning slightly, he scanned the message, a mix of curiosity and apprehension stirring within him. The words on the scroll added a new layer of complexity to the already tense situation, leaving Harry to wonder about the implications of this unexpected correspondence.
Meanwhile, the urgency in Hermione's words was evident as Ron took in the contents of his scroll.
Ron,
Are you certain about this? Harry has many reasons to research souls, and we should be concerned about his intentions. After all, he dealt with the trauma of seven Horcruxes, not to mention being one himself. Remember how he confided in us right after the war? Now he's looking into illnesses and symptoms, and I can't fathom why. Surely he doesn't plan to create a Horcrux—that would be completely out of character for him. The very thought of it terrifies me. Please keep me posted on what he's up to. I'm deeply worried about what he might do next.
Hermione
As Ron gently slid the letter into his pocket, the crinkle of parchment echoed in his ears, mingling with the thumping rhythm of his anxious heart. He had meant to ask Harry about the contents of his own mysterious letter. However, that moment of quiet contemplation was shattered by the familiar, cheerful yet demanding call of Molly from the kitchen.
"Ron! Ginny! Breakfast is ready!"
The Weasleys were accustomed to their morning routines, yet today an unspeakable weight seemed to hang in the air. Just moments later, Molly's voice carried through the door again, softer but tinged with maternal concern. "Harry, my dear, I'll bring your breakfast up shortly."
Without hesitation, Harry sprang to his feet, determination etched across his features. He swung the door open. "No need, Mrs. Weasley. I'll join everyone for breakfast downstairs."
"Are you certain, dear?" she asked, genuine concern lacing her vibrant voice. "You still look a bit pale."
Harry mustered a smile that barely reached his eyes. "I'm sure," he assured her, the words feeling like an unwieldy weight lifting from his chest. Mrs. Weasley relented, vanishing down the stairs, the lingering scent of her cooking trailing behind her.
As Harry turned to Ron, his gaze extended an unspoken invitation. "I think it's time we head down for breakfast." In that simple statement, he conveyed the urgency of the letter. "I'll fill you in on the details later, I promise."
The three of them made their way downstairs, the chatter and clanging of dishes slowly pulling them away from their muted concern. At first, breakfast began with the usual lively commotion, but Mrs. Weasley's keen eye soon disrupted the cheerful atmosphere. With a series of chores assigned to Ron and Ginny, the gregarious spirit of the meal faded, replaced by murmurs of relentlessness as the siblings found themselves tethered to the countless duties of their home. The fleeting moment of laughter was quickly extinguished, giving way to a sense of resignation.
The heavy, ominous weight of Hermione's latest letter hung over Ron's shoulders, casting a gloomy shadow of worry across his mind. Despite this, his mother's relentless chores and assignments transformed Ron's genuine concern into grim, resolute determination, though a current of frustration pulsed beneath his furrowed brow. He was desperate to finish his tasks quickly so he could visit Harry but found himself trapped in the monotony of domestic duties.
Weary and worn, Harry's earlier resolve to confide in Ron had faded into the hazy evening. His unspoken promise disappeared into the shadows, lost to the encroaching night. Though he had yearned for a private moment to share the strain of the day, the Burrow felt stifled by Mrs. Weasley's ever-watchful presence.
As the sun sank beneath the horizon, Harry and Ron succumbed to a gruelling exhaustion. The flickering firelight cast wavering shadows that mirrored their fatigue, prompting them to retreat to their separate rooms and seek rest.
Despite Ginny's room adjoining Harry's, even she was too drained to check on him before falling asleep.
Agonising pain lanced through Harry's body again, eliciting anguished screams that echoed in his room. Desperate to avoid disturbing the others, he cast Silencing Charms to muffle his cries as he writhed in torment. Though he knew his secret would eventually be exposed, Harry dared not risk being overheard, fully cognisant of the grave consequences that would ensue if discovered.
The letter from Professor Slughorn lay ominously on Harry's desk, its cryptic and tantalising contents hinting at matters that danced precariously close to the edge of understanding. They had discussed tainted souls and the arduous path to purification, with each of Slughorn's carefully guarded words leaving Harry frustrated and yearning for the clarity that eluded him. Harry had written back and forth, but his trembling hands could not capture the turmoil of his thoughts, and he discarded scribble after scribble, the floor littered with the remnants of his failures.
The next day, Ron observed his mother standing outside, her hands firmly planted on her hips, brow furrowed in frustration. Nearby, Ginny paced with barely contained temper. A shadow of foreboding hung over Ron. He had decided today was the day to challenge the cleaning frenzy his mother had inexplicably concocted.
"Why do we suddenly have to clean the entire house?" Ron exclaimed, his emotions flaring. Embarrassment and indignation flushed his cheeks. Sure, they could tidy up a bit, but an overhaul felt excessive, especially when he'd rather do anything else—like talk to Harry about the promise he had sworn.
Molly whirled around, her piercing gaze shutting down his protest. "Do not speak to me that way, young man. I already told you, your professor is coming today." The sharp cadence of her words left no room for argument.
Ron's bewilderment morphed into disbelief as he mirrored Ginny's astonished expression. "What?" he blurted, pressing a hand to his flushed cheeks. "You didn't mention anything about a professor visiting. Who is it?"
"It's Horace Slughorn," Molly replied, her tone suggesting that was all the information they needed.
Curiosity broke through Ginny's earlier irritation. "Why's he coming here?" She asked, her eyebrows knitted together.
Molly's face fell as her maternal instincts kicked in once again. She shifted from confrontational to reassuring, sighing deeply. "I'm not entirely sure, but he specifically asked to speak with Harry. And I'm confident that it's nothing serious," she said, her voice tinged with concern.
Ron arched an eyebrow, unable to shake off the unsettling feeling that the situation was far more ominous than his mother's casual tone suggested. "How can you be so sure?" he questioned, his brow furrowed.
"Horace assured me that his visit is purely for academic purposes," Molly stated, but the determination in her voice lacked the unwavering conviction that would typically quell Ron's nagging worries.
Worry crept into the corner of Ron's mind. He glanced anxiously at Ginny, and they exchanged nervous, apprehensive looks—the kind that conveyed their shared sense that something was amiss, even if they couldn't yet articulate what.
Hurrying back inside, Ron rushed upstairs to Harry's room, his heart pounding with dread. The clock on the wall ticked ominously, and a thick knot of anxiety formed in his stomach. What if something was wrong? He hesitated for a moment before knocking on the door, hoping against hope for a response, but the only sound was the hollow echo of his knuckles against the wood.
Glancing again at the clock, the late hour seemed a stark, worrying reminder that Harry should be awake by now. Propelled by growing concern, Ron knocked more urgently, a tremor of worry creeping into his voice. "Harry! Are you awake?" he called out, straining to hear the familiar shuffle of his friend stirring. But the door remained silent, and Ron felt a chill of foreboding seep into his bones. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he cautiously pushed the door open, the creaking hinge matching the tension tightening in his chest.
The dim, muted light inside the room painted a sombre scene as Ron gazed upon Harry, who lay asleep in bed. Ron felt a brief flicker of relief watching the steady rise and fall of Harry's chest, but his worry quickly resurfaced, gnawing at him. "Harry?" he whispered urgently, kneeling beside the bed.
Harry stirred, blinking slowly as if emerging from a deep, dreamless sleep. Disoriented, he squinted against the bright morning sunlight streaming in. "What's going on?" he mumbled groggily, rubbing his eyes.
Ron's panic was mounting. "You need to wake up, Harry. Professor Slughorn is coming to visit today," he explained, his tone laced with urgency.
Confusion knitted Harry's brow as he strained to sit up, the fog of sleep still clinging to him.
"Didn't you know that?" Ron pressed, a hint of frustration seeping through his concern.
Harry groped through his muddled thoughts, his memory struggling to catch up. "No... I thought I'd missed something. What visit?" His voice was a hushed whisper, the fragments of the day colliding in his mind.
Ron sighed in exasperation. "I thought you knew! He—" Ron trailed off mid-sentence, captivated by a sudden shift in Harry's expression.
Harry's demeanour shifted, his face pinching as if caught in a fierce, unexpected storm. "I... I must have missed the letters," he murmured, the realisation fogging his voice.
"Letters? What letters?" Ron leaned in closer, his curiosity battling with concern. But before he could investigate further, Harry's scream pierced the air, slicing through the silence like a shard of ice and paralysing Ron where he knelt.
"Harry! What's wrong?" Panic gripped Ron as he sprang to his feet. Harry was thrashing in bed, the peaceful scene from moments ago shattered by his anguished cries.
"It hurts!" Harry gasped, his voice laced with desperation. Ron's heart raced, pounding faster than ever before.
"Hang on!" he shouted, backing away as he turned on his heel and raced down the stairs. "Mum! Mum!" The panic lent speed to his frantic steps.
The house felt like a labyrinth as he rushed through the stairs, slamming into the kitchen where his mother stood at the stove. Her back was turned, lost in the rich aroma of whatever she was cooking. It wasn't until Ron crashed into the room that she spun around, her flour-smudged apron betraying her focus.
"What on earth—" she began, but the urgency in Ron's eyes silenced her.
"Harry! He's in pain! He needs you!" Ron's words tumbled out, jumbled and frantic, as he grabbed his mother's arm.
They dashed upstairs together, Ron leading the way, his heart pounding as they burst into Harry's room.
The scene that greeted them was pure chaos. Harry thrashed violently in his sweat-soaked bed, his eyes wide with unbridled terror. "It hurts! Make it stop!" he cried, his voice trembling with a mixture of boyish fear and something deeper, darker.
Mrs. Weasley rushed to his side, her hands gently grasping his trembling shoulders in a desperate attempt to offer comfort. "Harry! Focus on me. Tell me what's wrong," she pleaded.
But Harry could barely hear her through the all-consuming haze of searing pain. With a tender touch, Mrs. Weasley brushed the damp hair away from his sweat-drenched forehead. "Where does it hurt, Harry?" she asked softly.
"Everywhere," he croaked, squeezing his eyes shut as each shuddering syllable was laced with a torturous agony that coursed through him like wildfire. Outside, the wind howled in a mournful chorus, its cries a mere whisper compared to the anguish he felt.
Ginny's heart sank as she watched Harry writhe in discomfort, confined to the cramped room.
"Ginny, quickly—in the storage cabinet there's a small bottle labelled 'Healing Potion,'" Mrs. Weasley instructed, her voice urgent yet composed.
Without hesitation, Ginny dashed down the creaky stairs, her pulse pounding like a wild drum. Flinging open the cupboard, she scanned desperately for the potion.
After some agonising moments, Ginny found the familiar, smudged label. Seizing the small bottle tightly, she raced back up the stairs, fear and determination fuelling her every step.
Mrs. Weasley shifted on the bed, gently trying to soothe Harry's distress. He lay with half his face buried in the pillow, his cries escalating with each agonising pulse. Ginny's arrival prompted a grateful glance from Mrs. Weasley as she uncorked the healing potion with a practiced hand.
"Harry, this potion will help relieve your pain," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor of concern in her heart.
Tears streaked Harry's flushed cheeks, glistening like dew on the grass at dawn. With great effort, he managed a faint nod.
Ron, hovering protectively at the foot of the bed, stepped forward, sensing the unspoken exchange between his mother and sister. Together, they gently propped up Harry.
As the potion slid down Harry's throat, he felt a cool, initially reassuring wave wash over him, yet he braced himself instinctively as the pain still lingered like a spectre.
The familiar warmth of Mrs. Weasley's blankets enveloped him just as the darkness began to creep in, the edges of his consciousness fading away. "Harry, stay with me," she pleaded, her voice a lifeline as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Desperation gripped Ron's chest as he hurriedly pulled out his wand, sending a frantic Patronus to Hermione. "Harry's not getting better. You need to come now," he pleaded, his voice laced with an urgent, youthful fear. The prospect of facing Professor Slughorn's incessant riddles and half-hearted solutions weighed heavily on Ron's heart.
Ginny sat on Harry's bed, her fingers trembling against Harry's burning skin. She gasped as she felt his fever spike, hotter than before, sinking her heart further. Despite the endless potions they had tried, any respite was fleeting, slipping from their grasp. Muggle remedies followed—the cold baths, the cool cloths—but Harry's battle seemed far from over, his condition deteriorating.
Suddenly, vibrant green flames burst to life in the fireplace, startling both Molly and Ron. As the flames quickly died down, a figure emerged, greeting the scene with a warm, rich smile. Professor Horace Slughorn, impeccably dressed in his signature waistcoat adorned with shiny gold buttons, stepped forward while brushing soot from his attire.
"Good afternoon!" he said in a jovial manner that eased Molly's surprise. "I must apologise for my unexpected entrance. I believe we didn't set a specific time for my visit, did we? Age seems to be catching up with me."
Molly's cheeks flushed pink as she approached him, extending her hand. "Oh no," she stammered, "you did mention a time. I'm so sorry; it completely slipped my mind due to some unforeseen circumstances."
Professor Slughorn's attempt to lighten the mood with a jovial "Not at all! I hope I am not intruding" was cut short as flames suddenly surged again, more intense this time. Hermione stumbled through, dishevelled and wide-eyed.
Ron rushed forward, instinctively wrapping her in a firm, comforting embrace. "Hermione!" Relief flooded his voice.
Molly approached, concern creasing her forehead. "Hermione? What brings you here?" she asked.
Professor Slughorn's face brightened with delight when he saw Hermione. "Ms. Granger! What a pleasant surprise! It's been quite some time," he exclaimed warmly.
Hermione offered a strained smile as she approached Professor Slughorn and Mrs. Weasley. "I'm sorry for not sending a message beforehand. I just heard about what happened to Harry..." Her voice wavered, the words trailing off as a heavy silence settled over them.
At the mention of Harry's name, Professor Slughorn's earlier cheer faded, replaced by concern. "Harry? Is he alright?" He asked, his tone shifting from joy to worry.
Molly let out a sorrowful breath. "No, Horace. Harry was in so much pain just an hour ago that he passed out. The healing potions weren't effective, and I'm at a loss for what to do," she said, her words tinged with anguish.
"It feels like more than a simple sickness," Ron admitted, his eyes glimmering with distress. All eyes turned to him, their focus sharpening.
With a worried glance at Hermione, he continued, "He's been acting strange. He woke up screaming from a nightmare, asking for Hedwig and Sirius, as if he didn't remember their deaths. He thinks he's still waiting for the Dursleys to pick him up, like he's forgotten he lives with us now. He's confused and seems to be suffering from fever and pain everywhere."
Ron clenched his fists, his persistence rising. "And I found one of his books. It outlines all the symptoms he's experiencing—confusion, pain, fever—everything. But there was more, Hermione. You mentioned something in your last letter about Horcruxes."
Professor Slughorn's features paled. "Wait a minute, Mr. Weasley," he interrupted. "Did you say 'Horcrux'?"
"Yeah," Ron replied, bewildered.
Professor Slughorn's head hung low, the weight of his own haunting memories dragging him down. "Harry came to me once, curious about them. 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 eyes went wide, her hands flying to her mouth as she grasped the implications of their discussion.
Slughorn's usually jovial face was now a canvas of dread, etched with the shadows of revelation. Hermione stood before him, her brow furrowed, her voice strained like a thread that might snap at any moment.
"Did Harry tell you why he was asking about Horcruxes?" She pressed, her heart pounding in her chest.
Professor Slughorn swallowed hard, a deep unease settling over him. "No, Harry did not give me a specific reason for his questions," he responded, his voice barely audible. The chill in the air felt ominous as he replayed their earlier conversation, the once-innocent questions now tinged with a desperate edge. "Why do you ask?"
Hermione's breath quivered, like a leaf trembling in the wind, as she pressed on. "Because Harry was a Horcrux too. When Voldemort tried to kill him as a baby, the curse failed, but a fragment of Voldemort's soul became linked to Harry." With each word, the room seemed to grow heavier, shadows lengthening as if feeding on their terror. "So when Voldemort cast the Killing Curse at Harry again during the Battle of Hogwarts, he unknowingly destroyed his own soul fragment inside of Harry."
Professor Slughorn's eyes went wide with horror. "Merlin's beard!" he exclaimed. He had previously brushed aside the unsettling implications, but now they blossomed into monstrous clarity in his mind. "No wonder he was asking about remedies for a damaged soul!"
"What's this Horcrux that Harry has been dealing with for so long?" Molly asked, her voice laced with concern. "No one told me about it!"
Professor Slughorn spoke with a sombre gravity. "A Horcrux is an object that holds a piece of an evil wizard's soul, granting them immortality. It can only be created by committing murder, the ultimate evil." His features were etched with regret. "I tried to avoid this topic, but I was the one who informed Tom Riddle about Horcruxes. I feared the worst, and it came to pass. My foolish statements allowed Riddle to use this knowledge." He looked at Molly with empathetic sorrow. "Albus insisted I give Harry that specific memory."
Molly sank into a nearby chair, her trembling hand pressed to her heart. Dread filled her eyes.
The brittle silence pressed in as Hermione could no longer contain her questions. "Professor, what did you mean by a 'damaged soul'? What happens to the host?" Her voice trembled, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with a chilling finality.
Professor Slughorn's reply was laced with anguish. "It's unusual. I assume the host would waste away and die."
Ron, usually brimming with bravado, gulped audibly, the sound echoing in the charged atmosphere.
Dread twisted in Hermione's gut as her pulse quickened. "How long can the host survive?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Professor Slughorn's face fell. "It could be a few months, weeks, or less," he said, anguish embroidered into his tone.
His chilling words hung over them like a dark, suffocating shroud, each heartbeat echoing the terrible truth they had come to understand: Harry was slowly losing the fight.
Ron instantly recognised the reasons behind Harry's reluctance to confide in them about his struggles. Aware of the limited time Harry had left and wishing to shield his friends from needless worry, Harry concealed his inner torment. Ron grappled with the thought of Harry enduring his burdens alone, a blend of concern and frustration coursing through him.
The weight of Harry's solitude bore heavily on Ron, who couldn't fathom why his loyal friend doubted their allegiance after all they had weathered together. Recalling the near loss of Harry to Voldemort's wrath, Ron couldn't bear the prospect of reliving that ordeal. Resolute in his determination, Ron vowed to stand steadfastly by Harry's side, come what may, and prevent history from repeating itself.
Hermione's heart was heavy with distress, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. Though she had weathered countless trials before, the mere prospect of losing Harry was utterly unbearable. She cherished him as a beloved friend, and the thought of him not by her side left a gaping void in her heart. Reflecting on their past, Hermione berated herself for failing to recognise the depth of Harry's post-war anguish. Despite her best efforts, Harry had always been guarded about his struggles, and Hermione respected his need for privacy. Yet, she knew there were times when he required more than just his own fortitude to overcome obstacles. Though she stood ready to support him, Hermione felt wounded when he shut her out. Still, their bond ran deep, and she would do anything for him, cherishing him as an integral part of her family.
Hermione's voice cracked with desperation as tears streamed down her cheeks. "Surely there must be a solution to this, Professor?" She pleaded, her eyes glistening with fear and anguish. "Please, you must find a way to help him!"
Professor Slughorn's face was etched with concern as he let out a heavy sigh. "Ah, Ms. Granger," he said, his gaze growing distant as the candlelight flickered off his round spectacles. "I wish I could gladly tell you there is a solution, but that would only deceive us both. Creating a Horcrux is a profoundly evil act, and all information about them has been banned from the public." He paused, his expression sombre. "To my knowledge, there is no reference to healing a fragmented soul. Before you told me, no one would dare to attempt such a thing."
Hermione's heart sank as a flicker of hope extinguished within her. She leaned back in her chair, allowing her shoulders to slump in defeat. "But what if—" she began, her voice wavering.
"Interesting," he continued, gently but firmly cutting her off. "When I briefly discussed this with Albus, he mentioned soul splitting. As the greatest wizard of all time, he may have learnt how to heal souls. But the discovery that Tom Riddle had succeeded in creating Horcruxes disturbed me so deeply that Albus never spoke of it again."
A sombre silence fell over the room. The rustling of the wind outside and the distant calls of birds echoed a world that had moved on, untouched by the heavy burden weighing on Hermione's heart. She wrapped her arms around herself, desperately trying to steady the whirlwind of thoughts racing through her mind.
"Surely, there has to be something," Hermione said. A flicker of hope flickered in her cautious tone. "Dumbledore believed in soul-mending. He must have read about it somewhere—"
But before she could explore the idea further, Ginny burst into the kitchen, her face flushed with a mix of urgency and relief.
"Harry's finally awake!" Ginny announced, the tremor of joy unmistakable in her voice.