The air in Harry's room at the Burrow was heavy with the rich, earthy scents of magic and lingering dinner aromas that twisted Ron's stomach with unease. The soft, flickering lamplight cast dancing shadows across the walls as Harry lay on his bed, his fingers entwined with Ginny's. He seemed lost in contemplative reverie, blissfully oblivious to the weighty conversation unfolding just steps away.
Perched uneasily in the threadbare armchair beside the desk, Ron felt a gripping anxiety unlike any he had known before. Hermione's hushed words still rang in his ears: "We can't let Harry find out about our attempts to save his soul—at least not yet." Tapping his foot against the chair's wooden frame, Ron struggled to maintain a steady, resolute rhythm, but his nerves betrayed him.
Hermione frowned with concentration as she paced the room, her movements mirroring a minister preparing to deliver an urgent address. "Okay," she said, her voice steady and focused. "So, the first ingredient—thestral hair."
Harry's eyes lit up with curiosity. "Right," he replied, leaning in eagerly. "But how do we even get it?"
"At the moment, we don't have a clear strategy," she admitted, glancing worriedly at Ron and Ginny. "We need to collect hair from wild Thestrals, but those creatures are not easily found in the magical world."
"I have an idea of someone who can help us," Harry declared enthusiastically.
Ron's pulse quickened as he detected the desperation lacing Harry's tone and the implicit trust shining through. "Hagrid?" He suggested tentatively, forcing a casual demeanour, but his anxiety simmered just below the surface.
"Exactly!" Harry exclaimed. "Hagrid knows magical creatures better than anyone!"
A small part of Ron felt a surge of pride for Harry's quick thinking, but another part of Ron was weighed down by a heavy sense of guilt. He glanced over at Ginny, who was watching Harry with a look of pure adoration, completely oblivious to the growing tension creeping between them.
Hermione's fingers delicately traced the worn spine of the book, her brow furrowing in deep contemplation. "But remember, Harry," she began cautiously, "gathering the ingredients will be a lengthy process, and we cannot risk you discovering the true purpose of this potion."
"Why not?" Harry asked, his thick eyebrows knitted together in confusion.
Ron watched as Hermione's resolute expression faltered, if only for a fleeting moment.
Hermione started to speak, but Ron quickly interjected. "Let's just focus on the ingredients for now, yeah?" His voice came out sharper than he had meant it to, the gravity of their undertaking weighing heavily between them.
"Fine," Harry relented. "So, what's the next step after the Thestral hair?"
Hermione's fingers danced across the pages as she rapidly flipped through the book. "A piece of the doorway where life departs," she read aloud, her voice thick with uncertainty.
Silence blanketed the room, heavy with unease. Ron scowled, the weight of the cryptic riddle pressing down on him. "Why can't they just say something simple, like 'a pinch of salt'?" he muttered, rubbing his temples as tension built in his mind. "Could this be hinting at a graveyard gate or something?"
Ginny grappled with their next move. "Or maybe a portkey?" she suggested.
Their discussion drifted aimlessly, each new idea plunging them deeper into confusion rather than clarity. Ron felt a growing sense of exasperation, as if they were trapped in an endless labyrinth with no way out. Just as frustration threatened to take over, Ginny spoke up with an intriguing proposal.
"We could talk to the ghosts," she said. "Nearly Headless Nick might be able to help us."
"His soul wouldn't be trapped here if he knew of any portals. Besides..." She trailed off, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "They might not have much to offer."
Ron rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a prickle of worry creep up his spine. "What if there was another way? To communicate with those who have... passed on?" The words caught in his throat.
"There's one method," Hermione said hesitantly, her gaze flickering away. "But it... it's lost deep within the forest." She glanced over at Harry, who was now staring wide-eyed, a shadow of dread crossing his features.
Realisation dawned on Ron's face. "You mean the Resurrection Stone?" he asked.
"Yes," Hermione replied, her determination hardening. "The stone can call forth the spirits of the dead, but..." She hesitated, her voice laced with trepidation.
Harry's stomach churned with dread as he watched the desperation etched across his friends' faces, knowing the stone was hopelessly out of reach. Pinpointing its location felt futile, and any further search would be arduous and fruitless. Though Harry longed to help, he resigned himself to the fact that their quest was doomed, just as Hermione had foreseen.
"Let's just forget about the stone," Ron proposed quietly. "Is there another way we can speak to the dead?" he asked, the words hanging heavily in the thick, suffocating air. Retreating into their own troubled thoughts, each member of the group was consumed by the stifling quiet that enveloped them.
Harry's mind drifted back to that haunting night, replaying the flickering shadows and whispering voices that had crossed the divide between life and death. Before him stood the ghostly figures of his parents, vivid as ever, while Sirius had slipped away, bound to the mysterious Veil.
Suddenly, a surge of memory intertwined with longing struck him—"A piece of the doorway where life departs." The realisation hit him like a jolt; the Veil had been more than just an archway—it could be the key.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, the word bursting forth with unexpected enthusiasm. His eyes sparkled with newfound hope, instantly capturing the attention of his friends. They pivoted towards him, their expressions shifting from worry to intrigue as their curiosity piqued.
Hermione paused her pacing, her brow furrowing as she intently focused on Harry. "What do you mean by that?" she asked, her voice laced with both concern and anticipation.
"The Veil," he stated simply, the two words heavy with profound implication.
At first, Hermione's face registered confusion, as if an unseen puzzle hung in the air. Then, comprehension dawned, and she exclaimed, "Oh, Harry, why didn't I think of that sooner?" Her excitement mirrored the spark igniting in Harry's chest.
"I only just remembered the dream," he explained hurriedly, his mind racing. "Sirius was floating away through some kind of archway. You told me he fell through the Veil—I never connected the two until just now!"
Ginny's gaze lingered on Harry, her expression wistful and tinged with melancholy. "Do you still remember everything from that day?" she asked softly, her voice coloured by a hint of yearning.
Harry shrugged, the shadows of recollection flickering unpredictably behind his eyes. "My memories come and go, all jumbled together." He gestured with renewed energy. "But never mind that. Let's talk about the second ingredient. How do we get to the Death Chamber? And what exactly does 'a piece of the doorway' mean—do we actually have to break off a part of it?"
Hermione's brow furrowed in deep contemplation as she carefully considered the task ahead. "The Death Chamber is located within the Department of Mysteries. To reach it, we must take the lifts down to Level Nine from the Ministry Atrium. A single black entrance door guards this heavily secured level—no windows, no other exits. And the chamber itself is protected by doors without handles, though they will open if one simply asks to leave."
Ron crossed his arms. "Very cryptic," he muttered, his tone dripping with doubt. "And how do we convince someone at the Ministry to help us grab that... artefact? They'll want to know why."
Ginny's eyes lit up at the prospect. "Maybe Dad or Percy could help! Dad worked for the Order in the Department of Mysteries, and he knows about the Veil. He might have some insight into retrieving it safely." Her voice was brimming with hopeful anticipation.
Ron's face twisted into a scornful expression as he dismissed the idea outright. "Percy? Really? That self-centred git has never been trustworthy, and nothing's changed even after all these years."
"But he has changed," Ginny argued passionately, a fierce loyalty flashing in her eyes. "He gave up his own room for Harry, and he's trying to make amends. You should at least give him a chance."
"I'll only consider it if he can actually help us find the Veil," he retorted, his voice dripping with scepticism about Percy's true allegiance to their cause.
"Harry," Hermione chimed in, her voice tinged with urgency. I think Ron has a point." She was eager to defuse the escalating disagreement. "They'd definitely need to chop off part of the archway since it specifically calls for a 'piece.'"
Ron's face twisted with horror. "You really think I could down that potion with a chunk of rock and Thestral hair in it? I might end up hurling before we even get to the third ingredient." His tone dripped with dread at the very thought.
They studied the enigmatic words before them. Hermione's eyes narrowed as she carefully examined the cryptic phrase: "A tear from a guise to obscure from demise."
The others exchanged perplexed glances, Ron scratching his head as he grappled with the meaning. "A what?" he murmured, his frown deepening. "A 'guise to obscure from demise?' What could that possibly mean?"
Hermione's calm, resolute expression preceded her measured words. Drawing a deep breath, she began, her voice steady and assured. "The term 'guise' refers to an appearance or form. 'To obscure' means to hide, and 'demise' denotes death. So it seems we must uncover—or devise—a means to evade even the finality of death itself."
The room fell deathly silent. Harry's heart pounded with a growing sense of dread. What form could possibly evade the inevitable grasp of death? He glanced over at Ron, whose furrowed brow mirrored his own bewilderment.
"Wait," Ron spoke up, his voice laced with confusion. "Isn't death just... unavoidable? I mean, if your time is up, there's no way to stop it, right?"
Hermione shook her head slowly. "I don't think it means literal death. I believe it refers to Death as a concept, a personified force." She paused, her expression pensive. "So the question is, how do we hide from such an abstract, powerful entity?"
A spark of inspiration ignited within Harry's mind. His eyes lit up with excitement as he blurted out, "Being invisible!" Enthusiasm bubbled up in his voice. "And for that, we need the—"
"Invisibility Cloak!" Ron and Ginny chimed in unison, their words tinged with eagerness.
Ginny's eyes darted around the room, searching frantically for any sign of the Invisibility Cloak. "Where's the Cloak?" she asked, her voice laced with anxiety.
Hermione's response was casual and unconcerned. "It's in my beaded bag," she said.
Relief washed over Harry as he sensed the Cloak's presence, as if it were shielding them all. "Did you bring the bag with you?" he asked.
"Yes," Hermione confirmed, "it's still packed away in Ginny's room."
"Great!" Ron started enthusiastically. "So we just need to—" but he trailed off, startled by the abrupt shift in Hermione's expression. Her eyes burnt with a reluctant gravity, a profound intensity that silenced him.
"What should we do with the cloak?" Ron prompted, but it was Hermione's answer that stunned them all.
"We have to tear it," she whispered, her words barely breaking the stagnant air.
Harry's mind reeled in stunned disbelief at Hermione's words. "What?!" he exclaimed, his thoughts scrambling to comprehend the implications. Beside him, Ron and Ginny stiffened, shock and uncertainty rippling through them.
"That's what the book says, Harry," Hermione pressed, her gaze steady and unyielding.
Harry floundered, grappling to articulate his turmoil. The Invisibility Cloak was one of the most revered magical artefacts in existence—a priceless legacy from his father that was irreplaceable. How could this be happening? Doubt and dismay churned within him.
Ron wrestled with the gravity of their situation. "Do you really think we can do this?" He stammered hesitantly. "Destroy something so legendary?"
Hermione's gaze fixed intently on Harry. "Xenophilius assured us that no magic can damage it," she said firmly. "Only its rightful owner has that power. And that's you, Harry."
The cloak was more than just cloth—it was a symbol, a shield against the past, a reminder of cherished memories with those now gone. The thought of discarding it made Harry's heart ache, but the daunting reality of their perilous quest weighed on him far more intensely.
After what felt like an eternity of inner turmoil, Hermione leaned in, her voice gentle. "It may be our best choice, Harry."
A tumultuous storm of emotions—fear, anger, despair—swirled within him. But as Harry met Hermione's unwavering gaze, her resolute determination gradually seeped into his soul, steadying his wavering spirit. Harry gave a reluctant nod, knowing this was no simple choice. With a hushed whisper, he steeled himself, the burden of this decision pressing painfully on his heart. "Let's do it."
Hermione's eyes scanned the pages in silence, her body relaxing as a wave of relief swept over her. Reinvigorated, she turned to the book's final section with a renewed sense of determination.
A drop of the afflicted's blood
"It's my blood," Harry said simply, his voice devoid of emotion. The words hung in the air, their meaning clear.
Hermione's eyes locked onto Harry's, a swirl of understanding passing between them. She nodded slowly, her expression pensive and thoughtful.
"How long do you reckon it'll take us to track down the thestral hair and a piece of the archway?" Ron asked, his voice brimming with eager anticipation. The hopeful glimmer in Harry's eyes mirrored Ron's excited tone.
Hermione paused to consider. "Given our current resources and the availability of the required ingredients, I estimate we shouldn't need more than a few months to gather everything," she replied thoughtfully.
Harry sensed Ron's doubtful scepticism hanging heavily in the air. "Months?" Ron's voice rang out, thick with disbelief as he struggled to wrap his mind around the timeline. Harry met Ron's gaze, their eyes conveying a silent exchange of reassurance and mutual understanding.
Harry's voice was hushed, but a glimmer of determination flickered behind his eyes as he spoke. "I know what you're thinking. I'm facing my limited time, and I've come to accept it. But I'll fight with everything I have to stay alive as long as possible."
Silence settled over them, thick and weighted. Harry sensed the unvoiced worries swirling in their minds. They knew they had to act fast and decisively to unravel the looming mystery.
"We need to talk to your father about the Veil, Ron," she whispered, her urgency cutting through the hush. "And we have to write to Hagrid right away."
Ron checked the time, his heart sinking. "It's far too late now. Dad will be fast asleep, and Pig won't be pleased to deliver a letter in the dead of night." A heavy sigh escaped Ron's lips, tinged not with disbelief but with the same weary resignation settling over them all.
Ginny's soothing voice cut through the tense silence. "We can take care of it first thing in the morning. It's best not to disturb anyone during these late hours."
Ron's eyes darted to Hermione's open book, desperately searching for any clues. "Does it say how long the potion takes to brew?" he asked, his voice laced with anticipation.
Hermione's fingers danced across the pages. "Just an hour," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Suddenly, her eyes went wide, and she froze, the room falling silent around her. A sharp, audible gasp escaped her lips, instantly captivating her friends.
"What is it?" they asked in unison, their voices laced with curiosity as their hearts raced, eager to uncover the source of Hermione's reaction.
Hermione's eyes widened as she hesitated. "I've just made a connection," she finally ventured. "But it seems too coincidental." The fervour in her voice made Harry sit up straighter.
"Out with it, Hermione! What have you realised?" Ron pressed, his tone laced with urgency.
"The three ingredients…" she breathed, her voice tinged with awe. "They bear an uncanny resemblance to the Deathly Hallows!"
Harry's pulse quickened with anticipation as Hermione unveiled the precious item.
"Thestral tail hair is considered one of the most potent wand cores, like the legendary Elder Wand," Hermione explained, her voice tinged with reverence. "And the Veil's archway, much like the fabled Resurrection Stone, grants individuals the ability to perceive the realm of the afterlife with profound clarity."
Harry's gaze drifted to the archway's mysterious Veil, triggering a flood of haunting memories. "It holds voices—faint whispers from the other side," he murmured, his expression etched with the tragic remembrance of Sirius. Yet beneath the sorrow, a flicker of determination sparked within him.
Hermione, sensing the shift in Harry's demeanour, chimed in eagerly. "And your Invisibility Cloak—that's the final piece, the tie that binds each item to the legend." Her words were buoyed by Harry's pensive thoughts.
Ron's brow furrowed in bewilderment. "How does that relate to our predicament right now?" he asked, perplexed.
Hermione spoke with unwavering confidence, her eyes blazing with intensity. "Wielding these three objects grants you the power of the Master of Death," she declared.
A shiver of equal parts excitement and dread ran down Harry's spine, sending a chill through his body.
Ron's mind whirred. "Hold on, the potion only takes an hour to brew? That seems awfully fast," he blurted.
Hermione paused, her brow furrowed in thought. "The rarity and intricacy of the ingredients are the reasons for the brief brewing time. The unique combination of these rare components is what gives the potion its remarkable potency."
Excitement surged through Harry's veins like a potent potion, mingling with the anxiety that had plagued him for weeks. Whispers of a damaged soul had haunted his thoughts ever since.
"This is wonderful!" he exclaimed breathlessly. The knowledge he'd uncovered felt like a lifeline in turbulent waters, loosening the grip of despair around his heart. He could envision the freedom-promising potion, a remedy for the wounds he'd endured in his fight against dark forces.
"I can't wait to drink that potion and be free of this damaged soul!" His smile shone brightly.
But his friends' faces twisted with dread, their eyes bulging in horror, as if they had just seen a harrowing tragedy unfold before them. The hopeful warmth that had filled Harry instantly dissipated, replaced by a chill that pierced his core. Ginny's hand trembled in his grasp, icy to the touch, while Ron's brow glistened with nervous sweat, as if confronting his worst fears. Hermione stood paralysed, her usual poise and composure utterly shattered.
A creeping sense of confusion gripped Harry. He searched their fearful faces, his earlier epiphany curdling into dread. "What's wrong?" he asked, desperation lacing his voice as he sought answers in their uneasy silence.
The room was thick with a heavy, oppressive tension, like a suffocating fog. Ron and Ginny exchanged worried, furtive glances, their eyes darting away from Harry's pleading, desperate gaze. Hermione fidgeted nervously, combing through a tangle of anxious thoughts as the seconds stretched on painfully.
Increasingly frustrated by their ominous silence and fearful expressions, Harry's patience began to wear thin. "What?" he asked again, his voice tinged with growing anxiety. A surge of unease churned in the pit of his stomach as he desperately sought answers from his friends, his need for understanding palpable.
Hermione's voice quivered as she leaned in, her expression pained and pleading. "Please, Harry, try to understand. Don't react in anger before listening to me."
The sight of Hermione's pallid, fearful face did little to ease the mounting tempest in his chest. "What did you do?" A blade of apprehension sliced through the thick silence as Harry's words came out sharper than intended.
"We didn't do anything, Harry," she murmured anxiously, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might unleash something even more calamitous.
"Then what's the issue?" Harry's response came out sharply, his voice cracking with impatience as the muscles in his jaw tightened. Something felt off, and a coil of dread tightened within him, like a serpent poised to strike.
Hermione hesitated, her throat tightening with a heavy lump that made her swallow hard. Glancing nervously at Ron and Ginny, she searched their worried expressions for a shred of reassurance, but their concern only amplified her own anxious nerves. "The potion is meant to be drunk by... us," she finally forced out, her eyes darting away as she spoke the words.
Harry's mind whirled, overwhelmed by the gravity of her words. He recoiled, panic seizing his heart. "What?" he cried, brimming with disbelief. "But why? This makes no sense! I'm the one whose soul is in peril—shouldn't I be the one to drink it?" Desperate for reassurance, he pleaded with Ron and Ginny, but only uncertainty stared back at him.
"The book says the potion should be taken by those who will save your soul, not necessarily you," Ginny said softly, her voice trembling.
Harry's head throbbed with dread, the pressure pulsing against his skull. "Wait, what do you mean 'those who will save'?" He asked, his voice thick with apprehension as the dreaded answer crystallised in the shadows.
Ron's weighty words cut through the silence. "Mate, we're the ones trying to save your soul," he admitted, as if unburdening a heavy secret. "We're the ones drinking the potion."
Dismay etched across his features, Harry vehemently shook his head. "No! You can't be serious! This is utter madness!" he cried, his heart pounding as he wrestled with the startling revelation. "You must have misunderstood the instructions," he pleaded, desperation lacing his tone.
Hermione moved closer, her calm demeanour cutting through Harry's inner turmoil. "This is the only way, Harry," she declared with unwavering certainty. Her resolute words only served to unsettle the swirling emotions within him.
"The only way to save my very soul?" he echoed, his voice quivering with rising fear.
Ron leaned in, frustration evident in his words. "Why on earth did you think you had to face this alone?" he asked, a tinge of exasperation colouring his tone. "We're right here, ready to help you through this, no matter the cost."
Harry's stomach twisted and roiled, a tempest of furious emotions surging within him. "That's exactly what I wanted!" he shouted, his words laced with a raw, burning intensity that threatened to consume him. "I won't let any of you jeopardise your lives for my sake! This is my burden to bear, and I must face it alone!"
But Ron stood firm, his voice resolute and unwavering. "This isn't just your decision to make, Harry. We're prepared to risk everything—even our very souls—to ensure your safety and see you through this challenge."
Shock and disbelief washed over Harry, his features etched with bewilderment. "What!" he gasped, a shiver racing down his spine. "You would risk your own souls for me?"
Caught off guard by his own words, Ron's bravado flickered in the light of his dawning realisation. "Harry, please, let us explain," he pleaded, desperation creeping into his voice. "We would go to any lengths to keep you safe."
Hermione leaned closer, her expression a mixture of worry and entreaty. "Harry, please, just hear us out. Allow us to share our reasons with you."
Gripped by a sense of urgency, Harry abruptly rose and snatched the book from Hermione's hands.
"Harry, what are you doing?" Hermione's voice rang out, laced with surprise and a hint of worry. "You don't have to—"
But Harry didn't hear her. An unsettling dread gnawed at him, relentless as a hungry wolf. As he frantically flipped through the brittle pages and read the instructions, the words seemed to echo in his mind, persistent and cold.
'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.'
Panic gripped Harry, surging through his veins as he turned pale and staggered back. The book slipped from his trembling hands, thudding heavily against the floor as he bolted toward the bathroom, consumed by a grip of horror. Waves of nausea rolled over him, overwhelming his senses. Barely making it in time, he collapsed in front of the toilet, his mind reeling from the devastating implications of what he had just read.
A chorus of concerned murmurs rose behind Harry as Ron, Hermione, and Ginny rushed to his side, worry etched on their faces. Ginny stepped in, her hand gently massaging his back. Ron and Hermione exchanged glances, each acutely aware of the heavy burden weighing on Harry's heart.
"Harry, please," Ginny urged softly, her touch firm yet reassuring.
But the words barely penetrated the haze of dread clouding his mind. All he could hear was the haunting echo of the book's dreadful quote: "Marked the same as the other..." The thought filled him with dread. They can't do this. They shouldn't do this. Their own souls will be in danger!
Harry's voice wavered, cracking under the weight of his desperation as he spoke. "Are you telling me that this potion might not just save me but could cost you everything?" Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks as he searched Hermione's face for reassurance.
Hermione stepped forward, her fingertips trembling at her sides. Empathy etched across her features as she met Harry's gaze. "Harry, we believe it's a risk worth taking. The book suggests that those who care for you—who love you—must partake in the potion to reach your soul. We're connected to you, and that bond is what can ultimately save you."
"She's right," Ron said. "But this is more complex than just a potion. You've always taken on peril by yourself, but we can't stand by and let you do it again. You're our friend, and... and you're family to us."
A powerful surge of conflicting emotions swept through Harry—a profound gratitude and simmering resentment that left him utterly disoriented. "Family?" he spat bitterly. "Do you truly believe that recklessly endangering yourselves makes us a family? It only makes you—" His voice faltered as the anger warring within him clashed with an overwhelming sense of love and responsibility. Frustrated, he ran a trembling hand through his hair, a familiar gesture that now offered little solace.
"Please, Harry!" Ginny pleaded, her voice trembling with emotion. "This isn't something to argue about. We don't want to see you in pain anymore. You think you have to be the hero, but it's okay to let us help you. We are stronger together—"
Harry's response came out in a raised, incredulous tone. "Stronger together?" he echoed. "What if it doesn't work? What if it fails? Then I'll have put you all in danger for nothing!"
Hermione strode forward, her eyes blazing with unwavering resolve. "And what if this works? What if this is our chance to save you, to mend your fractured soul? You must trust us, Harry! We're not recklessly rushing into this—it's because we love you so deeply that we're willing to take on these risks."
The bathroom fell silent, the fading light filtering through the small window, casting ominous shadows that danced along the walls. The weight of Hermione's words hung heavy in the air, each of them acutely aware of the gravity of the situation. Harry's heart pounded as he grappled with the enormity of their commitment, the trust between his friends a powerful force that tugged at him with disarming intensity.
Perhaps they were right—it was time to share the burden, to let go of the stubborn pride that had long dictated his actions. But the thought of his friends suffering because of him twisted his insides with dread and guilt.
"What if you lose yourselves?" he whispered, his voice trembling with apprehension as the chilling uncertainty flooded his mind. The prospect of losing his friends struck deeper terror within him than facing his own inner turmoil.
Ron stepped closer, his unwavering gaze meeting the other's eyes. "That's why we need to do this together. We've weathered so much—Voldemort, the Death Eaters—and we have to trust each other to see it through. It's about fighting the fight as one, not alone."
"Harry," Ginny's voice was soft and tender as she spoke. "The cost will always be there, whether it's you or us. But we can't bear to watch you suffer through this alone. The potion might help you reconnect with that special bond we've always shared."
Hermione knelt beside him, her whisper laced with empathy. "You need to let go of the guilt. We've carefully weighed the costs, and we stand united in this, no matter what."
Ron's eyebrow arched upwards, a devious smirk slowly spreading across his face. "What's adventure without a little danger, eh?" he quipped. Hermione swiftly stomped on his foot, and he flinched, a pained laugh escaping his lips and cutting through the tense atmosphere. "Besides," he chided, "aren't you glad we're here to help you? You can't possibly take this on alone. To have any chance of winning, you'll need backup by your side."