The afternoon sunlight spilled softly through the curtains in Harry's bedroom. He lay motionless beneath the weight of the covers, his limbs heavy, as though they'd been filled with lead. Shadows clung beneath his eyes—deep, hollow things that bore the mark of a battle which had stripped him of more than just his strength.
He heard the footsteps before the door creaked open.
Ginny's voice came first—quiet, steady—guiding the others up the staircase. Hermione. Ron. He didn't need to look; he felt them the moment they entered. The air shifted, thick with unspoken worry. It pressed on his chest, tangled with the ache that already lived there.
They stepped inside slowly, cautiously, as though crossing the threshold of a haunted room.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice wavered, thin as parchment.
He blinked, struggling to bring the world into focus. The sunlight blurred at the edges of his vision, too bright, too far away. He turned his head slightly, squinting. "Hermione," he rasped. His throat was raw. Even her name scraped against it like stone.
She came closer, sinking to her knees beside the bed. Her eyes roamed over his face—soft, searching, full of questions he didn't have the strength to answer.
"How are you feeling?" she asked quietly.
There was a pause.
Harry fought to pull together a response. He could lie. That would be easier.
"Fine," he said.
The word hung in the air—empty. His voice cracked. He didn't sound fine, and they all knew it. Hermione's brow creased, but she let it pass.
Ron gave a small, familiar snort. For a heartbeat, it almost felt normal—that sound, that simple thread tying them to something before all of this.
Harry let himself feel it—the comfort of them being there. He needed it more than he could say.
Hermione sat on the edge of the bed now, her voice softening. "We just wanted to see you. Thought you might want some company."
Harry tried to smile. It didn't hold. The effort of it slipped from his face too quickly. The truth gnawed at him, but he couldn't find the will to let it out.
"Thanks," he murmured. He meant it—even if it felt distant, like he was reaching through fog.
A gentle voice drifted from the doorway—Mrs Weasley.
"Professor Slughorn is here, dear. He'd like a word with you—but if you're not up to it, he can come back later."
Harry stirred, trying to sit up. Pain flared sharp and sudden through his ribs, stealing his breath. He gasped, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out.
Ron and Hermione sprang forward at once, steadying him, helping him up against a stack of pillows. They moved carefully, but Harry could see it—the flicker of panic they didn't quite hide. Ron's hand hovered uncertainly at his shoulder, as though afraid to make things worse.
Ginny stepped forward, fitting his glasses gently onto his face. Her touch was warm, steady. He gave her a faint nod, swallowing the lump rising in his throat.
Running a trembling hand through his hair, Harry realised just how rough he must look. Pale, unshaven, worn thin. He hated it.
Slughorn shuffled into the room, his usual cheer stripped away, replaced by an anxious frown that made him seem far older.
"Professor," Harry croaked, trying to sound stronger than he was. "Thank you for coming."
Hermione leaned forward, her voice low but urgent. "We already knew about the soul," she said, casting a quick glance at Ron, who gave a slow, reluctant nod.
That word—soul—cracked the stillness like a sudden thunderclap.
Ginny's head snapped up. "Soul?" she echoed sharply. "What do you mean? What soul? What are you talking about?"
Her eyes found Harry, wide with worry. "What are you keeping from me?"
Harry froze. His heart was pounding so loudly he thought they must be able to hear it. He felt cornered, like something caged. He opened his mouth, but the words caught behind his teeth.
"I—I didn't mean—" he began, but Ron cut across him.
"Since when did you know?" Ron demanded, frowning. "Why didn't you say anything? We've all been worried sick, mate."
Guilt rose in Harry's throat like bile. He looked back at Ginny, and the look on her face—confused, wounded—cut through him deeper than any curse.
"I felt it," he said quietly. "When Voldemort's soul was torn out of me. I felt it… being ripped away."
Hermione moved closer, her voice gentler. "What did it feel like?"
Harry rubbed his arm without thinking, as though trying to soothe some phantom burn that still lingered beneath the skin. "Like fire," he whispered. "Not just pain… something deeper. It was like something inside me was torn in two. And when it was gone… it left a hole."
Hermione's eyes were wide, her voice barely more than breath. "You've been feeling like this for three weeks?"
Harry nodded. "It started off dull. Like an ache. But now…" His voice cracked. "Now it's worse. And I don't know why."
He didn't want to say it aloud—but he couldn't lie anymore, not to them.
Mrs Weasley murmured behind him, as if to herself, "And the potions didn't help…"
Ginny stood rigid, arms folded across her chest, her eyes never leaving Harry's face. She looked as though she were caught between shouting and bursting into tears.
Slughorn finally stepped forward. There was no joviality left in him now—his voice was quiet, but steady. "Harry," he said, "I'm afraid no potion will help you. Because it isn't your body that's in pain—it's your soul."
Harry looked up slowly, his breathing uneven.
"The soul doesn't mend like skin or bone," Slughorn went on. "When it's damaged… when something is torn away… the wound remains. The pain echoes. It lingers. It manifests."
Harry's fists clenched without him realising. His arms were shaking. His mind felt splintered, like it was scrambling to catch up with his body.
"Manifests?" he repeated, the word thin and unfamiliar on his tongue. It sounded like someone else speaking.
Slughorn gave a slow nod, as though each syllable was a burden. "Physical symptoms. Confusion. Tremors. Fatigue. Nightmares. They're not just the result of trauma—they're echoes of what your soul has endured. And unless the source is mended… the symptoms will worsen."
Harry stared at him.
Hermione's voice broke the silence. "Ron mentioned… things that have been happening to you."
Harry turned to her, brow furrowed. "What things?" he asked, sharper than he meant.
Ron shifted awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. "You've just been… off, Harry," he said. "You get confused sometimes—properly confused. Like you've been hit with a Memory Charm or something. And the stuff you've been reading lately—about souls and magic—it's starting to scare us."
Harry's chest tightened. Heat was rising thick in his throat.
"You went through my things?" he said, his voice low, flat, but laced with danger. "You looked through my things?"
Ron flinched. "It wasn't like that," he muttered. "I—I just saw your notes. I was trying to find answers. You wouldn't tell us anything."
"We were worried about you," Hermione added quickly, her voice softer, pleading. "We thought if we could understand, maybe we could help."
The betrayal hit Harry like a blast of icy water down his spine. His stomach twisted.
"I trusted you," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of it. "More than anyone. And you went behind my back?"
Ron's jaw tightened. "I don't regret it."
Harry stared at him, the disbelief sharp and cold in his chest.
"Now we know what we're dealing with," Ron pressed on, his voice rising. "Maybe now we can actually do something."
"And what's that, Ron?" Harry snapped. "You reckon there's some spell that'll mend a broken soul? Think we'll stumble across a cure tucked away in the back of the library?"
Hermione's eyes filled with something close to panic. "You can't give up hope."
"I'm not giving up hope," Harry growled. "I've run out of time. Haven't you been listening? Weeks. Days, maybe. I might not even have that."
His voice broke on the last word, sharper than he'd meant, and the awful part was—it was the truth. He'd known it somewhere deep down, but saying it aloud made it real.
Hermione stepped forward, firm but desperate. "You don't know that for certain. There could still be a way—"
"There isn't!" he shouted, the words tearing out of him. "You think I haven't looked? I've scoured every book in the library. I've gone through the entire Restricted Section. There's nothing."
The silence that followed was thick and suffocating.
"So what then?" Ron snapped, his temper rising. "You're just going to lie there and wait for it? Just let yourself—"
Harry didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was tight, his fists clenched.
"I'm not going to stand by and watch you waste the life that so many people fought to give you," Ron said fiercely. "Your parents died so you could live, and this is what you're doing with it?"
Harry flinched as if Ron had struck him.
Ron's hands curled into fists at his sides. "You're throwing it all away," he spat, then spun on his heel and stormed from the room. Mrs Weasley murmured something Harry couldn't catch and hurried after him.
The silence left behind was unbearable.
Harry stayed perfectly still, as though the weight of it all had pinned him to the bed. He knew Hermione, Ginny, and Slughorn were still there, but he couldn't look at them. Couldn't even draw a proper breath.
Throwing it all away… after all they did for you…
The blankets felt heavy, like chains now, pressing him down. He wanted to run. To scream. To vanish.
He hated himself for feeling weak. For wanting to give in. For not being the person they all still seemed to think he was—the person he used to be.
Why couldn't he just pretend for a little longer?
Because I'm tired, he thought miserably. Because I don't know who I am any more.
Hermione's gaze was still on him. He could feel it.
When she spoke, her voice was quiet but steady. "Harry…"
He didn't move. He couldn't.
"I know this is too much. I know you're scared. But you don't have to go through this on your own. You never have."
She stepped closer, her voice softening. "But we can't help you if you keep shutting us out."
Harry shut his eyes. His chest ached—not from magic, not from injury—but from the sheer weight pressing in from all sides. Shame coiled in his gut like poison.
"You've got to fight," Hermione said, her voice trembling now. "Even if it feels hopeless. Because we're not giving up on you. And we need you not to give up on you either."
He wanted to answer. To say thank you, or I'm sorry, or I'm trying. But the words stuck, caught somewhere in his throat. All that came was silence.
Then Slughorn spoke, his voice unusually soft.
"Harry, my boy," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly, "life's unfair. Cruel, more often than not. But it's not over yet."
He looked at Harry, and for once, there was no trace of bluster, no hint of self-importance.
"You've carried more than anyone your age ever should," he said quietly. "But don't forget—you're still here. That means something. You mean something."
He paused, as though weighing his next words carefully.
"History remembers the heroes, yes. But sometimes… it's the ones who simply keep going—the ones who don't stop—who really change everything."
Then, with a small, respectful nod, he turned and left without another word.
Hermione lingered, her eyes on Harry—part hopeful, part heartbreak. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but nothing came. After a moment, she followed Slughorn out, the door clicking softly behind her.
Only Ginny stayed.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her being there was enough—solid, steady, a quiet anchor.
Harry didn't look at her straight away. He could feel her though—her presence buzzing beside him like the charged air before a storm. His skin prickled again, that same faint pulse he'd felt for days now, as though something inside him—magic, maybe—was stirring, restless beneath his skin.
His breath caught when he noticed his fingers trembling again. He clenched his fists tightly, forcing them still.
Not now. Please, not now.
Ginny's gaze didn't waver.
When he finally looked up, it hit him like a punch to the chest.
She looked wrecked. Her eyes bright with unshed tears, lips pressed into a thin, determined line. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had gone white. The fire that usually burned so fiercely in her was still there, but now it flickered behind fear, behind hurt, behind something like stubborn, desperate hope.
His throat dried painfully.
"Ginny, I…" he began, but the words cracked halfway out.
She blinked hard, fighting the tears he could see threatening to spill. He hated that. Hated that he had done this to her—again.
"I did what I thought was best for us, Harry," she said softly, though her voice trembled in a way that sliced straight through him. "I gave you space. I thought that's what you needed. So I waited." Her eyes locked on his. "I waited for you to tell me."
Harry swallowed, hard. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, pounding against the sharp, crawling unease in his chest.
"I never meant to hurt you," he said, barely above a whisper. "I thought… keeping it from you would protect you."
Ginny's expression twisted, her hands unclasping as she folded her arms tightly across her chest.
"Are you going to tell me now?" she asked, her voice sharper, not just hurt now—angry. "Or am I supposed to just keep guessing while you waste away in front of me?"
The sting of her words cut deeper than he expected.
"I'm not trying to waste away," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. His palm came away cold and clammy—he hadn't even noticed he was sweating. "I didn't understand it myself for ages. And now… now I wish I didn't."
Ginny's jaw tightened. "But you do understand now, don't you?" she pressed. "Ron and Hermione told me bits. About the soul books. About symptoms." She hesitated, searching his face. "Harry… you're scared. I can see it. I hate that you thought you had to go through this on your own."
His hands trembled in his lap. He clenched them again, tighter.
"I didn't want you to see me like this," he said. His voice broke on the last word.
Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Like what?"
Harry opened his mouth to answer—and then it happened again.
A sharp, burning jolt shot through his arm, twisting up to his shoulder. It felt like searing cursed fire. He gasped, his hand flying to grip the edge of the bed as his body jolted with the pain.
Ginny was beside him in an instant.
"Harry?"
"I'm fine," he lied, the word thin and strangled.
"Don't lie to me."
He tried to breathe through it as the pain ebbed, leaving behind that now-familiar coldness, the numb tingling spreading across his fingertips. He could feel the magic beneath his skin again, pulsing hard, like it was pressing to break free.
The lamp on the bedside table flickered.
The covers shifted, though no wind touched them.
"I can't control it anymore," he said, barely above a whisper. "The magic—it's wrong. My soul—it's…" His voice faltered. "It's coming apart, Ginny. And I don't know how to stop it."
She stared at him, horror dawning slowly across her face. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I love you," he snapped, louder than he intended, the words spilling out hot and raw. "Because I didn't want to drag you into this curse that's eating me alive. I wanted to protect you from the worst of it."
Ginny took a step back, blinking rapidly.
And then, in a voice that trembled but didn't waver, she said, "Would you rather I stay ignorant and safe, than stand beside you and fight?"
"I don't want you to get hurt," he growled, clenching his fists. "I don't want you to have to watch me—watch this happen to me."
Her tears finally fell.
"And I don't want to be left behind again. I won't be." Her voice cracked but stayed fierce. "You're not the only one who gets to make sacrifices, Harry."
"I'm trying to save your life!"
"You're not saving me—you're punishing me!" she shouted, her voice breaking with the weight of it. "You're making decisions for both of us, and you think it's noble, but really—you're just afraid."
The words hit him like a punch to the gut.
He recoiled, stunned, unable to answer.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her sleeve, her eyes blazing.
"I cried for you when I thought you were dead. I mourned you." Her voice wobbled. "And now you're here. You're alive—but you're already giving up. Don't you dare."
Harry's gaze dropped to his hands—thin, trembling, scarred, stained with every failure.
"There's no future for us, Ginny," he whispered, barely able to keep his voice steady. "This thing inside me… it's killing me. Slowly. And I'm losing myself. Sometimes I wake up and I don't know where I am. Sometimes I see things that aren't really there. It's like… like I'm disappearing. Piece by piece."
"Then let me help you find those pieces," she whispered, stepping forward.
Harry looked up just as her fingers closed around his.
"I don't care if it's dangerous. I don't care if it hurts. I'm not walking away from you." Her grip tightened, fierce and steady. "So stop pushing me away, or I swear I'll hex you myself."
A strangled laugh escaped him—a half-sob, half-breath, sharp with both pain and relief.
He didn't deserve her. He knew that.
And yet, here she was—holding his hand like she was the only thing tethering him to the ground.
His breath left him in a shaky exhale, rough and uneven.
"I'm scared, Ginny," he admitted, the words breaking him open.
She leaned in, her forehead resting gently against his.
"So am I," she murmured. "But we're stronger together. You don't have to fight this on your own."
The scorching afternoon sun beat down on the Burrow, turning the house into a furnace and stoking Ron's already simmering frustration. He stormed out of Harry's room, fists clenched, his ears burning, and marched into the sweltering living room. The air was thick, heavy, pressing against his shoulders like a weight.
He didn't want to be angry. Not at Harry. Not now. But every time Harry spoke about death—as if it were already settled—Ron felt like he might explode. Why couldn't Harry just see a bit of hope, even the tiniest scrap of it?
Ron dropped onto the sagging old sofa with a groan and rubbed his face with both hands. The warmth of the Burrow, once so familiar and comforting, now felt stifling, unbearable. Grief and fury twisted inside him like some great knot that wouldn't loosen.
The creak of the stairs pulled him from his thoughts. He didn't need to look. He already knew who it was.
His mum stood there, arms folded—not scowling, just watching him with that quiet look that somehow made it worse.
"Ronald," she said softly.
"Mum, don't," he muttered, cutting her off, his voice hoarse. He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging at it in frustration. "I know—I know I shouldn't've said what I did. But he's impossible. He's talking like… like he's already made peace with it. Like dying's just the plan now." His words tumbled out in a rush. "How'm I supposed to keep quiet? After everything—after Fred—how could I not say something?"
His throat closed around Fred's name, and he couldn't bring himself to look at her. He stared hard at the floor instead, willing it to swallow him whole.
Molly's face crumpled, a fresh wave of silent grief flickering behind her eyes. She crossed the room slowly and sat beside him, lowering herself until they were level. She placed a warm, steady hand on his arm.
"I know, love," she said gently. "I know how hard this is. But when people are hurting, they lash out. They say things they don't mean. I've seen it more times than I can count." She gave his arm a little squeeze. "You're in pain. But so is Harry. And right now, more than anything, he needs understanding."
Ron blinked rapidly and finally looked at her. There was kindness in her eyes—but also the same grief that lived in him. Somehow, that helped.
"I just don't know how to get through to him," he whispered.
"You keep trying," Molly said simply. "You hold him steady. You be the anchor when he can't find his feet. Even when he pushes you away."
Ron nodded slowly, her words settling deep inside him. He didn't know if he had it in him to be what Harry needed. But he'd try. He had to.
Before he could say anything more, Hermione and Slughorn appeared at the foot of the stairs, both of them pale and tight-lipped.
Molly rose to her feet, smoothing down her apron as if reclaiming some small piece of order. "He's carrying far too much," she said quietly, mostly to Ron now, though her gaze flicked briefly to the others. "You all are. But Ron, if Harry loses hope, it's up to you—it's up to all of you—to remind him he's not on his own. Can you do that for me?"
Ron swallowed hard and gave a reluctant nod. He didn't know how he'd manage it. But he'd find a way.
Hermione sat down beside him, her closeness like a steadying hand. She slipped her fingers into his, lacing them tightly. Ron exhaled slowly and gave her hand a faint squeeze in return. It said everything they couldn't seem to put into words.
They couldn't afford to fall apart now. Not when everything still hung in the balance.
Hermione turned to Slughorn, her voice low and urgent. "Professor, you mentioned something before—about Dumbledore knowing how to mend a soul. Is it possible? Could there be a book he left behind? Notes? Anything at all?"
Slughorn lowered himself into a chair with a soft grunt, his bulk settling heavily as the wood creaked beneath him. His face was pensive, tinged with quiet sorrow.
"It's possible," he said slowly. "Dumbledore had an extraordinary collection of books—many quite rare. But he was also a man of secrets. It's just as likely he found the knowledge elsewhere—during his travels, or perhaps from someone long gone. It's hard to say."
Ron sat up straighter, a flicker of determination sparking in his chest. "Then we've got to check his office. If there's even the slightest chance something's there, we can't ignore it. We have to try."
Hermione met his gaze and nodded, understanding immediately. They couldn't just sit here and wait. Not while Harry's life—his very soul—was slipping through their fingers.
Slughorn gave a weary sigh, glancing between them. "That's certainly one option," he said, though his tone was heavy.
The room fell into a thick silence, broken only by the faint buzz of summer outside.
Hermione's voice trembled when she spoke again, desperate but controlled. "Professor, if there's a chance the book we need is still in Professor Dumbledore's office, do you think Professor McGonagall would let us borrow it? It was his personal collection, after all." She hesitated, her gaze steady, hope flickering behind her words. "Please… would you be willing to look for us? It could be vital—something that might help Harry."
Slughorn didn't answer straight away. His gaze drifted over her shoulder, as if searching the distant past for some hidden clue. His face seemed to sag under the weight of memory, and for a long while, the silence pressed in on them like a closing door.
Ron shifted beside Hermione, the old sofa groaning beneath him. He found her hand again, their fingers lacing together without words.
At last, Slughorn stirred, his voice careful, measured. "I believe I could, Miss Granger. Minerva has always trusted your judgement." His brow creased. "But Albus's library was… vast. Strange, even. It may take some time to find what you're after."
Hermione nodded quickly, too quickly, as though afraid the offer might vanish if she didn't seize it. "Of course. We understand. Any help—any at all—would mean the world to us."
For the first time in what felt like hours, the tiniest smile ghosted across her lips. It was faint, almost uncertain, but it was something.
Slughorn's expression softened. His shoulders eased slightly, the stiffness in him relaxing at last. "You're good friends," he said quietly. "Brave. Loyal. Albus always admired that in you."
He sighed, long and slow, before hauling himself upright from the chair. His joints gave a soft crack as he leaned briefly on the backrest for support. "I must be off, but I'll see what I can find. If I uncover anything—anything at all—I'll bring it to you."
"Thank you, Professor," Hermione whispered, her voice catching faintly. She rose with him, clasping her hands tightly in front of her chest. "Really—thank you."
Ron gave a stiff nod, the words lodging in his throat. His gratitude shone plainly in his eyes.
Slughorn inclined his head to them both, a look of quiet understanding passing over his features. Without another word, he turned towards the kitchen, where the Floo fire glowed green, the flickering light casting long, twisting shadows across the walls. As he stepped into the fireplace, he paused, giving them one last, lingering glance—something unspoken hanging in the air.
Then, with a swirl of emerald flame, he was gone.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, pressing down on the house like a blanket. The old clock on the wall seemed louder than ever, its ticking suddenly unbearable.
Ron sank back into the sagging cushions, his shoulders slumping under the weight of it all.
Hermione lingered a moment longer, staring into the hearth as the Floo flames died back to ordinary orange embers. Her mind was already racing ahead, but the what-ifs circled in her chest.
"What if he doesn't find anything?" Ron said suddenly, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "What if there's no book, no answers? What if there's nothing we can do?"
Hermione turned to him, exhaustion etched across her face, but there was still a spark of resolve in her eyes. "Then we keep looking. Somewhere—somehow—there has to be something. We're not giving up."
Ron nodded slowly, though the tight knot in his chest didn't loosen. "Yeah," he muttered, voice low. "I just… I don't want to lose him, Hermione."
Her heart ached at the truth of it. She crossed the room and sat beside him again, close enough that their shoulders touched. "Neither do I," she said softly.
And neither of them moved for a long while.
The Burrow lay beneath a suffocating blanket of grief. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the creak of the old floorboards and the occasional, weary sigh. News of Harry's condition had travelled swiftly, and with it came a dread none of them could quite shake.
Molly sat hunched at the kitchen table, twisting a damp handkerchief in her trembling fingers. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale and drawn. Across from her, Arthur stood frozen, still in his Ministry robes, a crumpled letter trembling in his grasp. The words had blurred on the parchment, but their meaning was all too clear—Harry was slipping away, and no one knew how to stop it.
Ron stood near the fireplace, his arms folded tightly across his chest, jaw clenched, frustration simmering just beneath his skin. Hermione hovered nearby, wringing the hem of her jumper between restless fingers. Ginny leant against the wall, her gaze fixed on the staircase as though willing some sound to drift down from above.
Upstairs, Harry lay curled beneath the heavy quilt, though its warmth offered no comfort. His body trembled with pain, his muscles seizing without warning as waves of agony rolled through him. The sleeping draught Molly had given him had dulled it for a while, but now he drifted in and out of a restless half-sleep. Each sharp breath was followed by a stifled groan. His hands fisted the sheets, knuckles white.
In the kitchen, Arthur finally broke the silence, his voice low and cautious. "Is he asleep?"
Molly nodded, though her lip quivered as she spoke. "Of a sort. The potion's wearing off. He stirs every few minutes—he… he whimpers, even in his sleep. I—I don't think he can bear much more of this."
Arthur sank into the chair beside her, the letter still crushed in his hand. "Perhaps… perhaps it's time we took him to St Mungo's. They might be able to help. Even if they can't cure him, they could ease the pain."
"No," Ron said at once, stepping forward, his voice firm.
Arthur looked up, his expression lined with worry. "Ron, this is serious. He needs proper care."
"I know," Ron said, his voice softer now. "But it's not that simple. Slughorn said there's no cure. No spell. No potion. And if we take him to St Mungo's, they'll try everything anyway—they'll prod and poke and run tests—but the pain will still come back. Nothing will change."
Molly's mouth fell open in disbelief. "So you're saying we just… leave him here? Let him suffer and hope something turns up?"
Hermione stepped forward quickly, her voice shaking. "We're not giving up, Mrs Weasley. Truly, we're not. But we need more time. Slughorn's still searching, and when he returns, we'll try something else—anything else. But Harry… he trusts us. He didn't want to be turned into some experiment."
"And if Slughorn doesn't come back?" Molly's voice cracked, the weight of it breaking through her composure. "If there is no cure? Are we supposed to just sit here and watch him waste away?"
The silence that followed settled over them like a heavy shroud.
"No," Ron said quietly, but with a hard edge. "We're going to find a way. Even if it takes everything we've got."
Hermione's eyes flickered suddenly, as if something had struck her. She straightened, urgency sparking in her gaze. "Harry's books," she breathed. "The ones you found, Ron."
Without waiting, she turned towards the stairs.
"Where are you going?" Ron called after her.
"To his room," she said firmly. "I'll start there. Maybe there's something we've missed. Something no Healer would think to look for."
"Be careful. Don't wake him."
"I won't," Hermione promised over her shoulder. "But I have to do something. We all do."
As Hermione disappeared upstairs, the quiet settled around them once more. But this time, it was different. The silence still weighed heavily, but beneath it lingered something faint—something fragile.
Not quite hope.
But not despair, either.
Just determination.
Hermione, Ron, and Ginny sat huddled around the low table in the Burrow's sitting room, Harry's borrowed library books strewn across every surface. The lamplight bathed their tired faces in a soft, golden glow, throwing long shadows that seemed to press in around them.
Silence hung heavy between them, broken only by the soft rustle of turning pages and the occasional frustrated sigh. For hours, they had scoured the texts, desperate for anything—any mention of Horcruxes, of soul damage, of healing magic that might offer the faintest chance. But their hopes were wearing thin. Most of the books barely skimmed the subject, offering vague theories or well-trodden information they already knew by heart.
"This is useless," Ron muttered, snapping his book shut with a loud thud. "Every page says the same thing. Potions, spells, meditation—none of it's anywhere near what Harry needs." He shoved the book aside with a rough push. "Why is all the real stuff hidden away? People are suffering, and they just bury the answers."
Hermione didn't flinch at his outburst. She lifted her head, fixing him with a patient, if weary, look. "Because it's dangerous," she said evenly. "What did you expect, Ron? That they'd leave instructions lying around in the Hogwarts library?"
Ginny, sitting cross-legged on the floor, nodded in agreement. Her voice was quiet but firm. "She's right. Horcruxes are dark magic—the darkest. It makes sense that anything about repairing that sort of damage would be well hidden."
Ron dragged a hand through his hair, groaning in frustration. "Yeah, but it's not like we're trying to make Horcruxes. We're trying to help someone. You'd think there'd be something—anything."
Hermione closed her book more gently, her fingers resting on the worn leather cover. "There probably is," she said quietly. "But not here. Not in these books. Not in this house."
Ron shot to his feet, pacing in tight, restless circles. His frustration simmered just beneath his skin, hot and insistent. "So where, then? Where are the answers? Slughorn's been gone for hours, and we've heard nothing. And the books we really need? They're probably just sitting there in Dumbledore's office, collecting dust. What's taking him so long?"
"Give him time," Ginny said softly. "He only left this afternoon."
"That's exactly my point!" Ron snapped. "It's nearly midnight. What if something's happened? What if Harry—" His voice caught and cracked, and he couldn't finish.
"Don't," Ginny cut in sharply, her voice firm as steel. "Don't say it."
Ron stopped pacing, arms folded tightly across his chest. His expression shifted, somewhere between defiance and guilt. "But it's true, isn't it? He's lying up there in pain, and we're down here reading the same useless rubbish over and over. It feels like we're doing nothing."
Hermione's voice was low, her words taut with effort. "We're doing what we can. Hoping Slughorn comes back soon is all we've got. I've been in Dumbledore's office—it's enormous, Ron. Shelves stacked to the ceiling, books in languages no one's spoken in centuries. Some of them aren't even labelled. Slughorn could be searching all night."
Ron sank back onto the sofa, rubbing his temples. "I wish we could help him. Or at least… do something."
Hermione paused, her brow creasing as a thought began to form. "Maybe we can."
Ron glanced up. "What do you mean?"
She hesitated, her fingers drumming lightly against the book's cover. "What if I try a Summoning Charm? Like I did with the Horcrux books last time."
Ron straightened, a flicker of hope lighting in his eyes. "You think that could work?"
"Possibly," Hermione said, though her voice was cautious. "But this is different. When I summoned the Horcrux books, I'd been researching them for weeks—they were connected to me. A book on soul healing… that's a lot less specific."
"But it's worth a try, isn't it?" Ron pressed. "If there's even the slightest chance—"
"I'll try," Hermione agreed, though the set of her mouth remained serious. "But we have to be realistic. If healing a soul was easy, it would already be common knowledge. The damage a Horcrux does—it's not just magical, Ron. It's moral. It tears something essential inside you. And fixing that…" She trailed off, her expression darkening. "Fixing that might require something just as powerful. Maybe even dangerous."
Ron frowned. "You mean… dark magic?"
Hermione shook her head firmly. "No. Never that. But powerful magic always has a price. We just have to hope it's one we can pay without crossing any lines."
The room fell quiet.
"I'll pay it," Ginny said suddenly, her voice steady, unwavering. "Whatever it is. Whatever it takes. I'll do it."
Ron turned to her, startled. "Ginny—"
She met his gaze without flinching. "I mean it."
A small smile broke through Hermione's exhaustion. "I believe you."
Ginny arched an eyebrow at Ron. "What about you, big brother? Planning to back out?"
Ron huffed, though the corner of his mouth tugged upwards. "Of course not. You'll need someone strong."
Hermione laughed—a light, genuine laugh, bright and surprising. Ginny's followed a heartbeat later, the sound warm and golden, cutting cleanly through the tension like sunlight after a storm. For a brief, fleeting moment, the weight on their shoulders lifted.
"We're more than capable of handling this," Hermione said, her eyes sparkling with quiet determination. "Even without a strong man."
Ron rolled his eyes, though he couldn't quite hide his grin. "You two are insufferable."