The gloomy rain outside mirrored the deep anguish and despair Harry felt within. The following morning had dawned grey and bitterly cold, a stark contrast to the celebratory atmosphere of the previous evening's festivities. He awoke with a throbbing, splitting headache, his hands trembling uncontrollably as he fumbled to put on his glasses. A nauseating wave of sickness washed over him, making the simple act of getting out of bed feel like a monumental effort.
Mustering his remaining strength, Harry navigated his way down the creaking stairs, his body protesting with each agonising step. As he reached the landing, he spotted Ginny halfway down, her face etched with deep worry and concern. Relief instantly washed over him as she rushed to his side, steadying his shaky frame.
The rest of the Weasley family, except for Mr. Weasley, who had already left for work, watched with worried expressions as Harry struggled to maintain his balance. Despite his weakened state, Harry managed a faint smile as he joined Ron and Hermione at the breakfast table, with Ginny staying close by his side.
Hermione's eyes were wide with concern as she closely observed his every movement. "Are you feeling alright, Harry?" she asked, her voice laced with genuine worry.
Harry rubbed his temple, his expression grim. "Just a headache," he mumbled, forcing a pained smile.
"Famished, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked anxiously, pushing a plate piled high with sausages and toast towards him. He accepted it gratefully, though the thought of food sickened him. A pounding headache threatened to overwhelm him, but he couldn't bear to disappoint Mrs. Weasley's kindness.
Glancing around the table, he met the worried gazes of his friends. Their concern weighed heavily upon him. "How are you two?" He asked, needing to lighten the mood. He was hoping to spark a conversation with Ron and Hermione. Their laughter, once so common, had been absent for far too long.
"We're doing well," Hermione said brightly. "I'm staying at the Burrow for the rest of the summer. My parents finally agreed after a bit of convincing."Warmth filled Harry's heart at her happiness.
"How are your parents?" he asked, the memory of her altering their memories to protect them from Voldemort flashing through his mind.
"They're wonderful," Hermione replied, her face beaming. "After the war, I removed the charm and brought them home. I missed them so much!" She smiled at Harry, and he returned it, a genuine feeling of happiness blooming in his chest despite the lingering pain.
"Are you truly returning to Hogwarts to complete your term, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her eyes softening with affection as she gazed at Hermione.
"Yes, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione replied, her voice brimming with determination. "I want to take my N.E.W.T.s and graduate properly."
A warm, motherly smile blossomed across Mrs. Weasley's face, but it swiftly morphed into a sharp, scolding glare directed at Ron. "You really should be more responsible, Ron!" she admonished, her tone laced with evident frustration.
Ron, taken aback by his mother's chastisement, bristled defensively. "Why? We defeated Voldemort. Isn't that proof enough of our skills, Harry?" He asked, turning to Harry with a pleading look, seeking validation.
Harry fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat, his head throbbing with every movement and obscuring his vision in a blurry haze. "Yeah, sure, Ron," he mumbled, unable to meet his friend's expectant gaze.
Mrs. Weasley sighed, clearly exasperated by Ron's defiance. "Oh, please, spare me the excuses, Ron."
Undeterred by his mother's disapproval, Ron persisted. "Harry and I are going to be Aurors. We'll track down the remaining Death Eaters." He glanced at Harry, but the cheerful expression Harry had been trying to maintain had vanished, replaced by a dark cloud of gloom.
Mrs. Weasley immediately picked up on the shift in Harry's demeanour."Harry, are you feeling up to eating?" she asked, concern etched across her features.
Harry's vision grew hazy, his stomach churning with discomfort."I'm sorry, Mrs. Weasley," he croaked. He was strugglingto speak above a hoarse whisper."But could I lie down for a while?"
Mrs. Weasley's face softened with understanding. "Of course, dear," she replied.
The overwhelming pain, the gnawing dread that had settled in his stomach, and the unsettling darkness that had crept into his mind all pointed to something far more sinister than a simple headache.He knew, with a bone-numbing conviction, that this was merely the start.
Harry swayed unsteadily on his feet, struggling to maintain his balance as his vision blurred and a wave of dizziness washed over him. His stomach churned, and the world seemed to tilt dangerously around him. Feeling weak and disoriented, Harry stumbled forward, his trembling body threatening to give way.
Ever alert, Ron was quick to react, rushing to catch Harry just in time. Wrapping his strong arms around his friend, Ron steadied the shaking figure. "Easy there, mate," he said, his voice laced with concern as he helped support Harry's weight.
"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled, his words coming out faint and strained. "I'm not feeling great today."
Ron's brow furrowed with worry. "I can tell," he replied gently.
Hermione and Ginny exchanged anxious glances as they noticed Harry's sudden deterioration."I think you should lie down on the couch for now," Hermione suggested with a gentle, concerned tone. "You're not in any condition to climb the stairs."
Quickly, Ginny arranged soft cushions on the couch, then darted upstairs to fetch a warm blanket. Ron helped Harry recline, his eyes squeezed shut against the spinning. Returning, Ginny tenderly draped the blanket over him and settled beside him. Across from them, Ron and Hermione took seats, their faces etched with worry.
Mrs. Weasley hurried to Harry's side, her motherly instincts taking over as she gently pressed her hand to his feverish brow. A worried frown creased her features as she confirmed his elevated temperature.
With a weak groan, Harry slowly pried his eyes open, his face pale and drawn.
"What's wrong, Harry?" Ginny asked, her voice laced with concern as she tenderly brushed his sweat-dampened hair back from his forehead.
"I think I'm going to be sick," Harry rasped, his hand flying up to cover his mouth just before a violent wave of nausea overcame him. He doubled over, a harsh, guttural sound tearing from his lips as he vomited onto the floor.
The room grew icy, the atmosphere thick with a sense of dread. Harry's breathing was laboured, his breaths shallow and rapid. Sweat beaded on his clammy, pale skin.
Mrs. Weasley swiftly cast a cleaning charm, making the mess vanish in a puff of magical energy. Concern etched her features as she noted that Harry had barely touched his breakfast, adding to her growing unease.
"Ginny, fetch some lukewarm water and towels," Mrs. Weasley instructed, her voice tight with urgency. She gently patted Harry's back, trying to soothe him as he continued to dry heave.
Ginny rushed to fulfil her mother's request, her heart pounding frantically in her chest. She hurried back with a basin of water and a stack of towels, her eyes darting nervously towards Harry, whose body was drenched in a cold sweat as he retched violently.
Suddenly, Mrs. Weasley gasped sharply, her hand flying to her mouth in shock, the sound silencing the room.
"What happened, Mum? Are you alright?" Ron asked, his voice laced with deep concern.
Without a word, all eyes snapped to Harry. He was coughing, coughing up thick, crimson blood that spilt from his lips.
A wave of horror and anguish washed over them as they watched, helpless, Harry's body wracked with excruciating pain. Tears of pure agony welled up in his eyes as he groaned, his face contorted in unbearable suffering. Finally, the violent coughing subsided, leaving him utterly drained, his body limp and lifeless against the cushions.
Mrs. Weasley swiftly grabbed a towel and gently cleaned the blood that stained Harry's pale lips and trailed down his neck. A frustrated, despairing sigh escaped her trembling lips. "Oh, Merlin... I just can't bear to see him like this anymore," she whispered, the crushing weight of the dire situation overwhelming her.
Determined, she rushed to the kitchen, returning moments later with a bottle of healing potion. Kneeling beside Harry, she spoke in a soft, reassuring tone, "Harry? I've brought you a healing potion to make you feel better."
Harry, his eyes barely open, felt the cool rim of the vial press against his lips. "Open your mouth, dear," Mrs. Weasley urged gently, her voice laced with concern.
She carefully poured the potion, and instantly, Harry felt its soothing effects wash over him. His ragged breathing slowed, the throbbing in his head receded, and the fever that had wracked his body began to break.
With a flick of her wand, Mrs. Weasley performed a diagnostic charm, a flood of relief washing over her features as she confirmed that Harry's vitals were returning to normal. She exhaled a heavy sigh, her shoulders sagging, grateful to see him improving.
Ginny's gaze was fixed on Harry's weary face as she sighed. "His symptoms will undoubtedly return," she said.
"Inform me immediately if anything changes," Mrs. Weasley instructed the three young adults, her voice firm.She then left the room, the lingering fear and heavy silence weighing on them.
The air was thick with unspoken worry. Ron and Hermione watched Harry, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and helplessness. Each episode of his mysterious illness grew more severe. All they could do was stand by, monitor, and hope.
"Slughorn, where the hell are you?" Ron whispered, his voice tight with nerves. His absence had set Ron on edge. He headed for the kitchen, the familiar clinking of water glasses a feeble attempt to soothe his agitated mind.
Suddenly, the fireplace erupted in a burst of emerald flames, jolting them from their anxious vigil. Professor Slughorn stumbled out, scattering sparks around him, looking weary but determined.
"Slughorn!" Ron exclaimed, relief and frustration battling within him as he slammed his water glass down with more force than necessary.
Hermione rushed in at the sound, her curiosity piqued.
"Good morning!" Professor Slughorn greeted them, his forced cheerfulness barely concealing his unease. Cradled under his arm was a well-worn leather book, the very book they had been desperately searching for.
"Sorry for the delay," he rasped, his voice strained. "But I have it now." With a weary sigh of relief, he carefully placed the precious book on the table before them.
Ron and Hermione, their eyes alight with anticipation, eagerly reached for the book, hoping its contents might hold the key to their troubles. But before their fingertips could brush the worn covers, Ginny burst into the room, her face etched with worry and fear.
"It's Harry!" she cried, her voice shrill with panic.
They hurried into the living room, where Harry was doubled over, clutching his chest in obvious distress. His breaths came in short, ragged gasps that sent a chill through them.
Ginny's eyes widened with a haunting recognition as she surveyed the scene. "This doesn't look good," she said, her voice laced with concern. "I've seen this before."
Wasting no time, Ginny dropped to her knees beside Harry, Ron, and Hermione, hovering close with growing alarm. "Harry, is it that burning sensation again?" Ginny asked, her voice trembling with worry.
Hermione's sharp tone cut through the tension. "Quickly, call your mum," she urged Ron, her words tinged with urgent desperation. "We need help now."
A minute later, Mrs. Weasley hurried into the room, her face etched with worry, Ron trailing anxiously behind her. Kneeling swiftly beside Ginny, she turned her gaze to Harry, her eyes scanning his face with deep concern. "What's wrong, my dear?" she asked, her voice laced with motherly tenderness.
Before anyone could respond, Harry doubled over once more, burying his face into the cushions as his breaths came in ragged, shuddering gasps. Mrs. Weasley gently took his clenched fists in her hands, her voice soft and soothing. "Harry, listen to me; stay focused, alright? I'm here," she murmured, her tone reassuring and comforting.
Harry tried to nod in agreement but only let out agonising screams instead. The piercing cries tore through the room, a desperate plea that clawed at the hearts of those present. He clung tightly to Mrs. Weasley's hands, seeking comfort and contact amidst his torment, but her soothing words offered little solace.
Slughorn and the others stood by, helpless spectators to Harry's suffering. Their faces were etched with deep worry, hands clenched in a futile attempt to help. Hermione and Ginny were on the verge of tears, their own pain mirroring Harry's anguish. Ron, his usual boisterous nature extinguished, kept his head down, unable to bear the sight of his best friend's terrible torment.
Tears streamed down Harry's face as he buried his head in the pillow, overwhelmed by a torturous, searing pain that consumed him. It was as if his flesh was being mercilessly stripped away, while agonising daggers relentlessly pierced his trembling limbs. The sheer, unimaginable anguish made his very soul cry out in anguish, his desperate, anguished sobs a silent plea for someone, anyone, to end his unbearable suffering.
Mrs. Weasley's heart ached for the boy she considered her own as she made a desperate attempt to soothe him. But Harry's anguished cries drowned out her comforting words, and a surge of panic flooded her as she watched him writhe in torment.
"Ron, I need your help to keep Harry from harming himself," she pleaded urgently, her voice laced with fear as she struggled to restrain his violent movements.
Ron obeyed without question, his face etched with concern as he held down Harry's thrashing legs on one side of the couch. But his attempts only seemed to intensify Harry's suffering, the invisible force tormenting him relentlessly.
Harry's cries of anguish echoed off the walls, his body contorting in pain as tears streamed down his face. "It hurts!" he screamed, his voice laced with agony. "Please... make it stop... Please, help me..." he pleaded, his words punctuated by ragged gasps.
The desperate cries from Harry's lips were gut-wrenching. Seeing his friends' distressed and helpless expressions only heightened the anguish of the grim scene. Ginny and Hermione called out to him, offering words of consolation, but nothing seemed to alleviate his suffering.
Ron, acutely aware of the gravity of the situation, turned to the others. "How much longer can he endure this?" he asked, his voice laced with desperation as the intensity of Harry's piercing screams echoed in his ears.
"I've heard him in agony for hours," Ginny shared, her voice trembling. "Once, I even went to check on him, and he told me it was just as terrible as before."
"Why didn't you inform me sooner?" Mrs. Weasley asked; hergaze was filled with disappointment, though her tone conveyed more concern than blame.
"I'm sorry, Mum. Harry begged me not to leave him alone," Ginny explained with a saddened tone. "He was frightened and wanted me by his side, so I promised to stay with him always."
"Is there absolutely nothing we can do? Maybe a healing potion or something?" Ron pleaded, desperation gripped in his voice.Struggling to restrain Harry's thrashing body on the sofa, Ron felt his own strength waning. The agonising screams tearing from Harry's lips left Ron utterly powerless, and he turned to Professor Slughorn with desperate, pleading eyes, silently begging for a solution to the terrifying situation unfolding before them. "Professor, please, do something!" Ron cried out, his voice heavy with urgency.
"I'm afraid Harry already had a healing potion just an hour ago; it's too risky to give him another one so soon," Mrs. Weasley's voice trembled as she explained to Professor Slughorn. "Is there anything else we can try? Anything at all?" She pleaded, her hands growing numb from Harry's desperate grasp.
Professor Slughorn's brow furrowed with concern. "Perhaps a calming draught could provide some relief," he suggested nervously, his voice barely above a whisper. "It won't take away the pain, but it could help calm him down a bit."
Mrs. Weasley's movements were frantic but determined as she rushed to her potion cabinet. She returned with a vial of swirling blue liquid. Speaking softly above Harry's anguished cries, she urged him to drink the potion, but Harry, consumed by his overwhelming sorrow, seemed oblivious to her pleas.
With Professor Slughorn's help, Hermione struggled to hold Harry steady as they attempted to administer the Calming Draught. Harry gagged and fought against the liquid, but eventually some of it found its way down his throat.
The grip on Hermione's arm slackened, but Harry's breathing remained ragged and laboured. Mrs. Weasley tried to comfort him, gently stroking his shoulder, only for him to suddenly pull away. She signalled to Ron to release Harry's feet now that he had calmed somewhat. Utterly drained, both physically and emotionally, from the ordeal, Harry let out only feeble whimpers. His limbs felt leaden and heavy. Mrs. Weasley called out his name, but he was too exhausted to respond or even open his eyes.
The others, like Harry, seemed to have been drained of their strength, as if they had been sapped by soul-sucking Dementors. The room was eerily silent, save for Harry's laboured breathing. The ordeal was over for now, but the lingering fear and exhaustion weighed heavily on them all, casting a pall over the space.
Mrs. Weasley, her usually vibrant face now etched with fatigue, carefully tucked the blanket around Harry, her movements gentle and almost tentative. The ordeal had clearly taken a toll on her as well, leaving her feeling just as weary as the rest.
Harry let out a soft moan, his eyes fluttering open for a brief moment before the pain forced them shut again. His body shuddered with a discomfort that lingered even as the worst of the agony subsided.
A shiver of dread ran down Ron's spine, breaking the heavy silence. "I can't even imagine how many times Harry has faced something like this," he murmured, his voice barely audible, laced with fear and deep worry. "If he's usually able to bear so much pain, the suffering he just endured must have been... agonising."
Mrs. Weasley's heart sank as the latest test results came in. Harry's fever had returned, its erratic spikes and drops defying every attempt to control it. A wave of renewed worry swept through the room. Gently, she placed a cool, damp towel on his forehead, a silent gesture of comfort. Settling into the chair, she closed her eyes, her gaze filled with a mother's desperate protectiveness as she checked on him.
The ensuing silence was heavy and stifling, mirroring the oppressive atmosphere. The fever, an unwelcome and unyielding presence, had taken hold of Harry's body, stubbornly refusing to let go. It ebbed and flowed like an unpredictable tide, threatening to drown them all.
Harry's body burnt with scorching heat, every breath a struggle. The sharpest pangs had dulled, but a persistent discomfort remained, a constant reminder of his ordeal.
Just moments ago, he had been consumed by overwhelming sensations—a dizzying cascade of pain and fear that left him feeling utterly helpless. He had fought back tears, clinging to a fragile strength, haunted by the terrifying possibility that he might not survive the next wave of agony. The thought of abandoning his friends, his lifeline, filled him with desperate dread. He needed them; he had to hold on, even as the effort became impossibly taxing.
Through blurry, sweat-soaked eyes, he saw worried faces hovering over him, reflecting the gravity of his condition. But his eyelids grew heavy, his last vestiges of strength fading as he slipped back into unconsciousness.
Professor Slughorn stood by the window, his arms folded across his chest. His gaze was fixed on the distant horizon, but his mind was consumed by the painful memories of the past. "What have you done, Tom?" he murmured to himself, the words thick with a profound sense of guilt and regret. "Harry doesn't deserve any of this. He's just a young boy who should be free to enjoy typical teenage activities, not enduring a life consumed and imprisoned by the darkness of evil."
Hermione watched him, her expression etched with quiet concern. She understood the immense weight and burden of his words, the heavy consequences of past decisions. "Professor," she said softly, stepping closer. "While Harry is resting, shall we examine the book together? Perhaps we can find a way to ease his suffering."
Professor Slughorn, jolted from his reverie, straightened up with a start. A flicker of his usual charm flickered back to life in his eyes. "Absolutely," he responded, a hint of urgency colouring his tone. Obediently, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny trailed after him back to the kitchen table.
"I made a direct journey from the Burrow to the headmaster's office yesterday," Slughorn began, settling into his chair.
"Were you able to have a conversation with Professor Dumbledore during your visit?" Hermione enquired gently.
"I did indeed," Slughorn answered, a contemplative expression softening his features. "When I arrived, I found him gazing down at me from his portrait. He seemed surprised, yet understanding, of my presence."
Ron's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "Dumbledore knew why you came to see him?" he asked, his voice laced with incredulity. "How could that be possible?"
Professor Slughorn's lips curled into a subtle smile. "From the moment my eyes landed on the book, he gave me a knowing look and a smile. With Dumbledore's exceptional intellect, he likely anticipated the urgency of my visit. It wouldn't be beyond his remarkable capabilities," he explained.
Ginny's curiosity finally got the better of her. "So, what did the headmaster say to you, Professor?" She pressed, her eyes shining with anticipation.
Professor Slughorn's face betrayed a flicker of vulnerability as he hesitated. "Well, nothing, really. But given that I only just arrived, it took me quite a while to remove the protective enchantment Albus had placed on the book."
Ron's brow furrowed in confusion. "If Dumbledore knew you would eventually look for the book, why did he feel the need to enchant it?" He pondered aloud, his voice tinged with bewilderment. "Wouldn't it have been simpler to just give it to you directly?"
"Isn't it obvious, Ron?"Hermione's response carried a touch of impatience."Dumbledore wanted to ensure the book remained secure and out of reach of anyone who might try to take it for malicious purposes."
Ron's frustration flared, and his voice came out a little too loudly in the quiet room. "I know that!" he snapped.
Their attention then turned to Professor Slughorn, waiting anxiously for his reaction.
"I never expected I'd need that book, Mr. Weasley," he confessed, his voice heavy with regret. "When Dumbledore told me about Tom Riddle's successful Horcruxes, I was devastated and disillusioned. I lost all motivation to delve deeper into the subject, despite Dumbledore's efforts to involve me. Unbeknownst to me, he found the book and chose to protect it with a spell rather than reveal its existence."
"But Professor," Ginny's concerned voice cut in. "Why did it take so long to undo the enchantment?"
Professor Slughorn heaved a heavy, dejected sigh."Albus' tragic and premature death has made the enchantment permanent and irreversible," he lamented in a sombre, melancholic tone. "Yet, brooding over past calamities achieves nothing. We must now turn our attention to the fact that the coveted book is at last within our grasp."
A hush fell over the gathered group as all eyes fixed upon the centre of the table. There, resting atop the cheerful floral tablecloth, lay a book unlike any they had ever witnessed.
The massive book captivated them with its pearlescent white cover that shimmered in the soft morning light. The title, "Anima," was elegantly embossed in gold, surrounded by delicate silver engravings that adorned both the front and back.
Hermione marvelled at its breathtaking beauty, her fingers tracing the intricate design with reverent precision. "I've never seen anything quite as stunning," she whispered, her voice brimming with awe.
Ron's brow furrowed in confusion. "What does 'Anima' mean?" he asked.
"Anima is a Latin term that translates to soul," Professor Slughorn replied. "It's a fitting title for such a captivating book," he remarked; a hint of wondercrept into his tone. His eyes remained fixed on the pages before him.
Examining the swirling, almost otherworldly engravings, Ron couldn't help but feel a prickle of unease. "Those patterns look strange," he muttered. "If that's what souls are supposed to look like, I'm not sure I'd want one."
Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron's characteristic scepticism. "The designs are symbolic representations of souls, not literal depictions," she clarified. "It's meant to provoke thought and reflection, not be taken so literally."
Ginny, seated on a worn stool, couldn't help but feel unease as she eyed the ancient, leather-bound book that seemed so out of place in the warm, lively atmosphere of the Burrow. Its presence, coupled with the intense concentration of the others, created a peculiar, almost unsettling tension in the room.
Hermione's brow furrowed with curiosity as she studied the unfamiliar Latin title. "Professor, why is the text in Latin?" She enquired, her voice tinged with intrigue. "Is the entire book written in that language?"
Professor Slughorn's brow furrowed as he carefully opened the fragile, yellowed volume. "No, the texts are translated into Old English," he explained, the cracked pages crinkling under his touch. Professor Slughorn paused, his frown deepening. "I'm not sure of the book's exact origin or why it was named in Latin. But based on what I've read so far, it predates the documented work on Horcruxes."
He placed the ancient tome back down, his expression pensive. "The soul's existence itself allows magic to split it for immortality," Professor Slughorn continued, his voice grave. "If I recall correctly from Dumbledore, that was why the book on Horcruxes was written."
Overcome by curiosity, Ron snatched the mysterious book and began frantically flipping through its pages, desperate to uncover its secrets. "Who wrote this? There's no listed author," he exclaimed, his brow furrowed with frustration.
Ginny's voice rang out, laced with a newfound intensity. "The name doesn't matter," she declared, snatching the book from Ron's hands and placing it back on the table. "This could be the cure we need."
Ron's grip on the table's edge tightened, his knuckles turning white as his frustration boiled over. "Well, this better provide the answer we require. It is Harry's only hope," he growled, the weight of the situation palpable in his tone.
Hermione's eyes flickered with apprehension, but her voice remained steady. "Right," she said simply.
With a furrowed brow, Slughorn intently flipped through the weathered book, his eyes scanning each page until he located the elusive passage. Turning the book towards Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, the faded, archaic script stood in stark contrast to the kitchen's vibrant surroundings.
A soul touched by evil slowly incinerates its own existence until it ultimately ends. 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.
"What does that mean, 'marked the same as the other'?" Ron whispered. His eyes were wide with bewilderment and a dawning sense of fear.
Ginny was struck speechless, her face paling. Shock and horror flooded her features as she stared at the passage. The weight of the implications crashed down on her, leaving her utterly breathless. Glancing at Hermione, Ginny saw her usual composure fractured by a slight tremble, and the ground beneath her seemed to sway. Just the night before, they had been discussing a daring, hopeful plan to help Harry.
The once warm and inviting kitchen now lay shrouded in a heavy, ominous silence. The cheerful atmosphere had been replaced by the chilling weight of the ancient words etched in Anima.
Hermione's voice was barely a whisper as she spoke, her words laced with a grave uncertainty. "If we don't succeed in repairing Harry's soul, we'll face the same dire consequences as him." The fate of their friend, and perhaps their own, now hung precariously in the balance, the path forward obscured by a daunting uncertainty.