Ron spoke at once, his voice sudden and sharp.
"What do you mean?" he burst out, eyes wide; the words came out before he could stop them. The air in the kitchen cooled, and sounds seemed suddenly clearer.
Hermione didn't flinch. Her shoulders remained taut, her spine rigid as if she'd braced herself for exactly this. Her hands rested atop the book, fingers curled slightly, white at the knuckles. Only her voice betrayed her: a subtle tremor.
"I mean, this will not be easy, Ron," she explained quietly but firmly. "This isn't like healing a broken arm or brewing some restorative draught. We're talking about repairing something that was never meant to be touched."
Slughorn stepped forward then, slowly, as if waking from deep thought. The jovial, rotund figure they all remembered from school had vanished. He looked smaller somehow, shoulders curved inwards. His face lost what warmth it usually had.
"Mending a soul is no small thing, Mr Weasley," he said, his voice hushed and hollow. There was no bluster now. No hint of the indulgent, self-satisfied professor who had once vied for Slug Club favourites. Just an old man, tired and perhaps a little afraid. "This is ancient sorcery. More mature than any other law. Older even than most memories. Sacred magic."
He paused, his gaze drifting across their faces—Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—lingering for a moment on each, as if watching for the slightest change in his face. For weakness.
"And nature," he continued, "lets nothing come freely. Putting the soul back together inevitably comes at a cost when it is torn."
He let the words hang there. Undeniable. Irrefutable.
"There is always a price," he finished, barely above a whisper.
Ron swallowed hard. His stomach turned cold. He couldn't say exactly why, but something in Slughorn's voice had made it feel real. Until now, it had all been words: books, theories, and terrible-sounding passages read in the dim light of a cramped kitchen. But this… this was the point where everything stopped being discussion.
And they were inching towards it.
Hermione lowered her gaze to the book again. The ancient cover was so cracked and faded it looked more like stone than leather. She traced the rune absent-mindedly, and for a moment, Ron thought she might be stalling.
"I knew we'd come to this," she said softly, almost as if to herself. "I hoped we wouldn't—but I understood."
She drew in a breath and straightened her shoulders again, her voice hardening.
"Creating a Horcrux tears the soul in ways we barely comprehend. It defies nature—twists it. Reversing that kind of damage…" She hesitated. A faint tremor passed through the table as she spoke, her tone quieter now. Slughorn looked away, unwilling to meet their gaze. "It could cost him everything… perhaps us, too."
Ginny stepped closer. Her face was pale, but her eyes were bright with the same fierce determination that had always lived behind them, even when she was just a girl with a diary full of secrets.
"But if there's a chance to save Harry," she said, her voice steady, "then we have to try."
Slughorn lifted a hand, not in dismissal, but in caution. His tone gentled, though the warning beneath it remained sharp.
"I don't doubt your courage, Miss Weasley," he said gravely. "It's never been in question. But this magic… It leaves marks. On the body, mind, and soul. Some things, once you begin them, cannot be stopped, and you may never be who you were before."
A long silence followed. No one moved. Even the ticking clock felt too loud.
Ron stared at the book. The runes shimmered faintly under the light, and it suddenly occurred to him that he could not read them. But it seemed as if it were full of warnings. This wasn't his world. He was the last son of a large family, a steady hand in a fight, a decent flier, and a quick wand when it counted. But this? This was something ancient.
He shifted in his seat. "So, what do we do?" he asked hoarsely. "Where do we start then?"
There was a pause. Hermione looked up at him slowly. Her eyes were tired but still determined. She ran her hand across the page, fingertips trembling as they passed over the dark, slanted script.
"It's not a single spell," she said. "Or even a ritual in the way we perceive it, but a process. A kind of… reclamation. You have to understand what was lost. And why it went missing. A soul has to want to heal, and we must offer something in return."
Ron's throat was dry. "What is it?"
She hesitated. Swallowed. Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper.
"Time. Memory. Pain. Maybe even… part of ourselves."
Ginny's jaw clenched. She folded her arms, her chin lifting in quiet defiance.
"I don't care what it costs," she said, her words clear as crystal. "We're getting him back. Whatever it takes."
Ron looked at her then; at the stubborn lift of her face and the flame in her eyes that matched the one in her hair. His chest tightened. She was so certain. So willing.
So was Hermione.
And yet all he could feel in that moment was the bitter taste of helplessness. Because he wasn't sure he was ready. Not for this. They'd faced danger before. They had fought monsters, stood at the edge of death, and stared evil right in the face.
But this… this was not a battle you won with wands.
This was older. Stranger. It was a fight you didn't walk away from the same. If you survived it at all.
He exhaled slowly and looked at the book again.
They were about to make a choice. If they agreed to this, things would not go back to normal.
The quiet before was almost peaceful; the sound of the clock and the hum of the Floo were still faint in the chimney.
"Harry!"
Someone shouted his name, sharp and panicked. It was not the usual tone. This was something else entirely: urgent and frightened. It stopped him cold.
He turned.
Mrs Weasley stood a few feet from the sagging sofa, frozen in place, both hands raised slightly as if bracing herself. Her arms outstretched, not in welcome, but as if she were trying to keep him from moving. Her face was pale with fear. Fingers trembling. Eyes wide.
Harry's pulse jumped. The back of his neck prickled. His breathing sped up.
What's going on?
He didn't say it aloud, but the question struck him suddenly.
"Harry, please…" Mrs Weasley's voice cracked, barely more than a whisper now, quivering with emotion. "You need to listen to me."
He stared at her. He could see the way her eyes pleaded with him, the same ones that had watched him with quiet kindness since he was twelve. But they looked different these days. There was terror in them; not fear of him, but for him. An icy shiver ran down his back.
There was something deeply wrong.
There was a low ringing in his ears. His skin felt too hot. The room tilted. His stomach lurched.
His thoughts blurred; he couldn't keep them together.
He tried to speak, but the words stuck.
Ron's voice rang out behind him, harsh and strained. "Mum, what's going on?"
But Harry barely heard him.
"We don't have time," he muttered. He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but there it was: his tone, low and distant, as though someone else had spoken. He turned to Ron; urgency flooded through his limbs, sharp and sudden.
"We need to go," he said. "Now. We should've gone already."
His eyes swept the room: the crooked family photographs on the wall, the ancient clock ticking away on the mantle, and the worn armchair where Mr Weasley liked to sit after work. All of it was recognisable. All of it was safe.
And yet, none of it felt real.
Everything appeared slightly off, half-familiar and strange.
"Harry—" Mrs Weasley moved quickly, crossing the room and placing a hand against his forehead. Her palm was warm and gentle, and the moment she touched him, a rush of heat pulsed beneath his skin.
She drew a sharp breath. "You're burning up, dear, and you are not well. Please sit down."
"I'm fine," he snapped, his voice harsh and too loud. Even as he said it, his knees buckled. The room tilted slightly; the grandfather clock twisted out of focus.
Her hand faltered, and he pulled away from her touch, heart pounding.
The heat in his chest was unbearable now. It wasn't a fever; it was not normal. It was different. Something wrong. It spread deep under his skin.
Hermione stepped in then, cautiously, her voice calm but brimming with concern.
"Harry, what are you talking about?"
He turned to her, suddenly overwhelmed by frustration. Why didn't they understand? Why weren't they moving?
"We have to leave," he said through gritted teeth. "We've got to find the Horcruxes. Before it's too late."
He expected resistance, but not the look Hermione gave him. Her expression shifted, faltered. She glanced quickly at Ron, and Harry saw it then: the sorrow behind her eyes, the one he didn't argue with. The kind that knew something he did not.
"Harry…" she said quietly, "we've taken care of that."
The room fell silent. The ticking of the clock felt too loud in his ears.
He stared at her.
"What do you mean?"
Hermione stepped forward, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her voice was soft but steady, as though trying to break something gently.
"We destroyed them," she said. "The Horcruxes. All of them. It's over, Harry. Don't you remember?"
No.
That couldn't be right.
There was no way that was true.
But the conviction inside him was too strong to ignore, as if the war hadn't ended at all, as if he'd just woken in the tent again, waiting for another fight.
His mouth went dry. His thoughts scrambled. He reached back in his mind, digging for memory, for proof—for anything.
"I—when?" he breathed. "When did we do that?"
Ron spoke up, his voice hesitant, like each word might break something fragile.
"After Bill and Fleur's wedding. We left together—me, you, and Hermione. We were gone for nearly a year tracking them down. And we went to the Ministry, broke into Gringotts, and fought through hell to get to the last one, and we destroyed them—don't you remember?"
Harry blinked.
He saw flashes: mud and snow, firelight, the inside of a tent, and Ron's shout screaming his name. They came as tiny pieces, single moments. They would not connect.
"I don't…" His voice trailed off. His chest tightened.
He pressed his hands hard into his hair until his temples hurt, anything to help him recall. He was at his wit's end. But the memories were only disjointed flashes, if they were memories at all.
A flash of green light. Nagini's eyes. A scream; high and terrible. The darkness closed around him.
Then nothing.
It made little sense.
"We can't stop," he hissed; the words escaped him, strained and desperate. "Voldemort's still out there. I know he is. We haven't finished it."
He looked at them—Mrs Weasley, Hermione, and Ron—and his chest tightened painfully. Why didn't they believe him? Why were they all just standing there?
Mrs Weasley's hand came to settle on his shoulder. Her touch was light, meant to soothe, but Harry flinched. It felt like restraint, designed to keep him here, when every instinct he had was screaming, Go.
"Sweetheart," she whispered, speaking as if to a child on the edge of something dangerous, "you're not well. You need rest. Please—trust me."
"No!" he shouted, jerking away from her touch. His breath was fast now, shallow, the room spinning around the edges. "You don't understand. I can't stop! He's still out there. I can feel him. I know—"
Hermione stepped forward, her face stricken. "Harry," she blurted, her voice thick with emotion, "you're not thinking clearly. Your memories—they're scrambled. It's going to take a while. But it'll come back. You need to relax."
He stumbled backwards, as though her words had struck him physically. His legs wobbled beneath him. The world swayed unsteadily around him.
They were wrong.
They had to be.
He wasn't losing his mind.
"We're wasting time!" His tone cracked, desperate. "We should've left hours ago! Why won't any of you listen to me?"
No one moved.
Mrs Weasley took a cautious step closer, her voice barely holding steady. "You've been through more than anyone should," she said softly. "You're out of danger now, Harry. Just let yourself be safe."
But that was the thing, wasn't it?
He didn't feel protected. Not even here. Not when his whole body was tense and alert and screaming that something was wrong and unfinished. Voldemort's face flashed in his mind; inhuman and grinning. He could smell smoke. Hear the crackle of flames. The thunder of bodies hitting the ground.
Dumbledore falling.
Over and over and over again.
"I can't…" Harry whispered, and the tremble in his voice betrayed him. His knees gave way beneath him, and he collapsed to the floor, catching himself just in time. "It isn't done… It's not—it is not over…"
He felt more than seeing them moving around him. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—he caught their expressions, flickers of fear and helplessness darting between them.
They were afraid.
Of him.
Why were they afraid?
The pounding in his skull worsened. His skin was too hot and stretched too tight. He could barely hear the roar in his ears.
"Ron!" Mrs Weasley's voice snapped through the room. "Help me—now!"
He moved at once, catching Harry's shoulder before he could fall.
Hands gripped his arms—Mrs Weasley's, strong and maternal. Harry thrashed.
"Get off me!" he shouted, flailing more out of fear than strength. His limbs knocked into something, someone, and he pulled back again, heart hammering. "Don't—don't make me—don't—"
"Ginny!" she instructed. "Fetch the Calming Draught and the Sleeping Potion. Quickly!"
"No!" The word was a scream, hoarse and ragged. "You can't do this! I don't want to sleep. Don't force me to drink. Please!"
He could hear himself now, fragmented and panicked, as though his speech had detached from him completely. The words were unravelling, disintegrating into sobs he couldn't stop. His breathing became laboured. He could not get enough air.
"Harry."
Her voice.
Ginny.
He turned, and the sight of her made his stomach tighten.
She stood in the doorway; her face ghostly pale, eyes red-rimmed and glistening. In her hands, the vials trembled; one was a soft amber, and the other vial shimmered a faint silver-blue. Her fingers looked too delicate to hold anything at all.
"No," he gasped. "Ginny, please don't—don't give me those—"
"I don't want to," she whispered, and her voice cracked. A tear slipped down her cheek. "But you're not all right. I do not know what else I can do to assist you."
"I'm fine!" He barked, though even he heard the desperation in it now. "I am okay! Just stop—stop looking at me like that—as if I am—"
Broken.
That's what they all saw.
Not the Boy Who Lived.
But a person who was falling apart.
The room tilted again. The walls seemed to shift faintly as his vision swam. He reached for something, anything, but the floor swayed beneath him.
Then Ron was there, solid and quiet, holding him upright as gently as he could. Mrs Weasley braced him from behind, her arms shaking.
"No—please—don't—" he pleaded, writhing weakly against them. "Don't make me sleep. I don't want to—I can't—"
"Just a sip, my boy," came another voice softly.
Slughorn.
He stepped forward, eyes unusually gentle, his usual pomp stripped off. He looked at Harry with an expression of quiet sorrow, the kind one wears when witnessing something fragile.
"It's for the best."
He tried to twist away, but his strength was leaving him. The fight left him. His limbs went heavy. He was exhausted. Every part of him ached all the way through.
Ginny knelt before him. She uncorked the silver-blue vial first, tipping just a sip past his lips, then followed with the amber draught.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, tears now falling freely. "Truly."
His breathing turned uneven, short and shallow. He tried to find their faces again, but everything kept blurring, slipping away like half-formed dreams.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Just a breath. A whimper.
The potion slid over his tongue. Bitter. Sharp. Cold.
He attempted to resist.
And then his limbs went slack.
The heat drained from him. The room dulled, and the faces blurred as the voices grew faint.
The last thing he saw was Ron's face, ashen and helpless, and Mrs Weasley's hand brushing his hair back from his clammy forehead.
And then—
Darkness.
Harry stirred, but not with clarity or calm. He twitched beneath the blanket, and a soft, pained murmur escaped him that barely reached the others' ears. His skin remained clammy to the touch, beads of perspiration dotting his temples despite the coolness of the room. His cheeks, flushed and fevered, stood out starkly against the pallor of the rest of his face.
Ron leaned forward, his jaw tight, and pressed his palm tentatively to Harry's forehead. He winced at the heat pulsing beneath his skin. Molly followed, her touch light against his cheek as she examined him with a mother's instinct.
"He's still burning," she murmured at last, drawing in a sharp, worried breath. Her lips thinned. "No better."
Ron's face fell. He drew back his hand slowly, almost as if it was difficult to leave him.
Across the room, Slughorn stood with his arms crossed over his ample middle, his brow creased more deeply than normal. His usual air of sleepy indifference was gone now, replaced with genuine concern.
"I'm running low on ingredients," Molly added quietly. Her eyes stayed fixed on Harry. "There's just enough for one more batch of the fever-reducing draught. After that…" Her voice trailed off, but the meaning hung there heavily.
"I will handle the potions," said Slughorn at once, stepping forward with unusual briskness. "My personal stores are well-stocked—should last at least a fortnight, and if we find ourselves in need beyond that, I'll send word to Poppy Pomfrey. She always had a soft spot for Potter."
Molly hesitated, torn between gratitude and the instinct to manage it all herself. But she nodded wearily. "Thank you, Horace, truly. I'm not sure how much more I can—"
"Think nothing of it," he said, waving a hand gently. "He oughtn't to remain down here, though. Not with all this noise and bustle. He needs quiet. Familiar surroundings. I daresay his room upstairs would do him more good than another hour on this lumpy old sofa."
With Ron steadying him by the elbow, Slughorn bent and, with surprising strength, gathered Harry into his arms.
There was a collective intake of breath.
He held him carefully, cradling him as if afraid to jostle him. Harry's head lolled against his shoulder, limp and alarmingly light. The room fell silent, the only sound the quiet rustle of fabric as the professor adjusted his grip and began the slow walk toward the stairs.
Ron, Hermione, and Ginny stepped back to let him pass, their expressions taut, eyes following every movement.
They followed in silence.
The old staircase creaked beneath his steps, each noise too loud in the hush of the Burrow.
Upstairs, Harry's room bathed in the soft, drowsy light of mid-morning. Slivers of gold filtered through the drawn curtains, glinting off the dusty surfaces and casting long shadows across the floor.
Slughorn eased Harry down onto the bed with extraordinary care. He straightened the blanket, adjusted the pillow, and stepped back with a weary sigh.
Molly was already moving, seating herself at the bedside and brushing the damp hair from his forehead with fingers that trembled just slightly. Her hand lingered, as if touch alone could calm him.
At the foot of the bed, Ginny stood with her arms wrapped tightly round herself, as though bracing herself, shoulders tight. Her eyes flicked between Harry's flushed face and her mother's strained one.
"Mum…" Her tone was hoarse. "Is he… Is he going to be alright?"
Molly's mouth opened, then closed once more. She turned to look at her daughter, and when she spoke, her voice trembled. "I don't know, love. His body's fighting… but whatever he has been through, he hasn't recovered from it yet." She swallowed hard. "And when he wakes… he might have to face all of it again."
Ginny pressed her hand to her mouth, a quiet sob escaping before she could stop it. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. "It is not just his body," she whispered. "He's forgetting things. It's like… like parts of him are fading."
There was a sharp breath beside her—Ron.
He took a step closer, fists clenched at his sides. Hermione moved with him, her hand finding his arm, though she did not seem to realise she'd done it.
"He remembered nothing yesterday," Ginny continued, her tone rising. "Something important. He looked at me, and—he hesitated. Like he wasn't sure what to think."
Ron stared at him, unmoving on the bed. His voice was quiet, hollow. "You reckon he might forget us?"
She didn't answer.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Hermione appeared as though she couldn't breathe. Her hand tightened on Ron's arm, but her eyes never left Harry. He seemed so small under the blanket. So unlike himself.
Ron sank slowly onto the edge of the bed, his back hunched, elbows on his knees. He pressed his palms to his face. For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then, in a voice so low it was barely a whisper, he said, "I'm scared."
He glanced up. His eyes were red-rimmed.
"If he keeps slipping like this… if he forgets me—you—" Ron shook his head. "I don't think I can take it. He's my best mate. He is Harry, and he alone—" He stopped. Swallowed. "He saved every single one of us."
Hermione nodded mutely, her throat too tight to form words. She moved closer and sat on the floor beside him, resting her face against his knee. She choked and blinked her tears away. The air felt close; none of them seemed to know where to look.
Ginny stepped forward, silent now, and took Harry's hand in both of hers. It was warm but unresponsive. She brushed her thumb along his knuckles, willing him to squeeze back, even just a little.
Nothing.
No flicker of recognition.
No pressure in return.
Arthur walked quickly through the Ministry corridors, faster than usual. The clatter of enchanted typewriters, the intermittent ding of departmental lifts, and the distant murmur of conversation all dissolved into the background. His pulse was fast and uneven, and Molly's letter echoed in his mind with cold clarity: Harry's getting worse.
The image rose unbidden—Harry, pale and fevered, eyes glassy with confusion, his body thinner than it ought to be, fighting some unseen battle with all the strength he had left. Arthur's chest tightened.
He turned a corner sharply and nearly collided with Percy, who stood primly outside the Department of Magical Transportation, a neat stack of files tucked under one arm. His glasses slid slightly down his nose as he looked up, startled.
"Dad?" he called after him, stepping forward, confusion creasing his brow. "Is something wrong? Where are you going?"
Arthur halted mid-stride. His breath came in quick bursts, and for a moment he simply stared at his son, caught between the need to hurry and the urge to keep this private for Harry and for the family. But it was already too late; several heads had turned, curious eyes glancing over spectacles and around cubicle walls.
He stepped closer to Percy and lowered his voice to a taut whisper. "It's him," he informed, each syllable clipped with worry. "He is… very ill. Your mother just sent word. His condition isn't improving; it is critical."
He froze. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if the words refused to land properly. "What?" he said at last, a bit too loudly. "Harry? Sick?"
Arthur gave a short, grim nod. "Yes. Badly."
"But—but how?" Percy looked rattled, his usual composure fraying at the edges. "He was recovering, wasn't he? At the Burrow, with everyone? What's happened? Is it curse residue? Or maybe prolonged magical strain? Post-battle depletion is a documented condition; it can manifest weeks later—"
"Not here," Arthur said sharply, casting a wary glance at the ever-growing number of bystanders whose ears were most definitely tuned in. He lowered his voice further. "You know as well as I do, son—once people hear the name Harry Potter, word gets around fast."
Percy flushed crimson and glanced about, finally realising how many curious eyes had fixed on them. He adjusted his glasses stiffly and dropped his tone to a near-murmur.
"I just don't understand," he admitted. "He's always been so resilient. Merlin, he has survived things I cannot even imagine. How is it possible that he got sick?"
Arthur reached out and laid a firm hand on his son's shoulder. His grip was steady, but there was an undercurrent of strain there: tight and urgent. "I can't explain now," he told him. "Not here. But I promise when I find out more, I'll write to you myself. Just don't speak of it in public. Not to anyone."
"But Dad—" he began, his voice caught somewhere between frustration and fear.
"I know," Arthur said, his tone softening as he squeezed Percy's shoulder. "I understand you want to help. And I'm aware of how much he means to all of us. But your mother needs me now, and so does he too."
Percy hesitated, his mouth drawn into a tight line, his composure cracking further. "Please… owl me, won't you? As soon as there's anything. And tell Mum I am thinking of her. And of Harry."
He nodded. "I will."
And with that, he left at once, walking so fast that people had to step aside for him. His thoughts were a relentless drumbeat: I hope he'll be all right and let him hold on.
Moments later, with a sharp crack, Arthur Apparated just outside the Burrow.
The wind met him at once, brisk and cold, tugging at his coat and sending leaves skittering across the garden path. The sun was low behind thick clouds, casting a dull grey light over the crooked house. Everything was still.
He stepped inside.
Shadows stretched on the floor, as the dim kitchen was lit only by an enchanted lamp. The teapot sat untouched on the counter, cold. The wireless was silent, and the room felt smaller than usual.
Molly was standing near the table, her back to him, twisting a tea towel so tightly in her hands that the fabric had frayed. Her shoulders trembled just once before she turned.
She didn't speak.
Instead, she crossed the area in a few quick steps and wrapped her arms firmly around Arthur. The dishcloth dropped to the floor. Her embrace was fierce, desperate, almost painful, and he returned it without hesitation, holding her.
For several long moments, they said nothing.
When she pulled back, her face was pale and lined with exhaustion. Her eyes, red-rimmed and wet, searched his, and he saw it there: the fear, the helplessness, the pain of seeing someone you love weakened.
"How is he?" Arthur asked softly.
"Horace came earlier. Just after lunch. He stayed for a while… looked Harry over." She pulled back slightly, enough to glance at the dying green flicker in the hearth, the last trace of Slughorn's Floo powder fading into the ashes. "He's returned to Hogwarts."
He followed her gaze, his brow furrowed. The house felt colder, emptier somehow, even quieter now that Slughorn was no longer there.
"And where's Harry?" he asked, his throat tightening. The words came out too quickly, too sharp. "Is he still downstairs?"
Molly shook her head, her face pinched and pale. "No. We moved him upstairs. Back into his room. He's… sleeping at this moment. Or something close to it."
Arthur's stomach dropped. He knew that look in her eyes. She did not mean normal sleep. She meant it even more seriously.
"We gave him a Calming Draught," she went on, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve, "mixed with a light sedative potion. He became agitated again, frightened and confused. Delirious. He kept saying… You-Know-Who is alive."
Arthur stared at her, stunned. "He—he what?"
"As though he were still on the run," Molly whispered, her eyes glistening. "He said he hadn't finished destroying the Horcruxes—that nothing was over."
He exhaled slowly, a sick weight settling in his chest. He looked lost and feverish; his gaze flickered beneath his lids.
"Just like at the station," he murmured, almost to himself. "When he was waiting for his uncle to pick him up…"
Molly nodded, her jaw trembling. "It's worse now. He isn't always sure where he is. Sometimes he doesn't even recognise who's with him—not right away. He was looking at me as if I were a stranger. And the fever's come back."
Arthur didn't speak. He sank into one of the kitchen chairs with a heavy sigh, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.
"They're with him now," Molly added quietly. "Ron, Hermione… Ginny. They won't leave his side. Not even for a moment." Her voice hitched, though she tried to hide it. "They are being so brave."
Arthur thought of the children upstairs, their youthful faces drawn with exhaustion. They were facing something no spell could fix.
He reached across the table and took her hand, grounding her, despite his thoughts racing.
"Did Slughorn—did he bring the book?" he asked finally.
Molly's eyes dropped to the knotted wood grain. "Yes. He brought it with him. It's upstairs. None of us has had a proper look yet. He's gone back to Hogwarts to brew more stabilising potions—stronger ones."
Arthur's gaze swept the kitchen absently, seeing everything and nothing. The cluttered counter, the lukewarm tea in the pot, and the open cupboard where a box of calming herbs sat half-empty. "We'll need them," he agreed under his breath.
"I'm running low on all supplies," Molly said, her voice a near whisper. "Feverfew, valerian, moonwort… and I haven't slept properly in days." Her shoulders sagged, and for the first time in all their years together, he saw how thin she looked beneath her robes, how fragile. "Arthur, I am doing whatever I can, but it's not enough. We are losing him."
"No," he said, too firmly. "We're not. We can't."
She glanced up at him, her gaze hollow. "He didn't eat today. When he is awake, he won't touch anything. He says he's not hungry. Or… he has already eaten when he hasn't."
He closed his eyes for a moment. "We may need to use nutrient potions soon," he whispered. "If he is not keeping food down—"
"I know," she said. "I've started preparing some."
They sat like that for a while, hands joined, and neither of them spoke.
A small clock on the mantel ticked steadily. It was the only sound left in the kitchen.
After a while, Molly drew a shaky breath, as if forcing herself to re-enter the world.
"How was the ministry?"
Arthur gave a tiny, humourless snort. "It is… bustling. Celebrating. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has just completed another round of Death Eater arrests. You'd think it was Christmas." His mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Kingsley's doing his best, but half the place is running on denial and press releases."
Molly didn't speak, but her frown deepened.
Arthur's jaw tightened. "They've started sending letters to Harry."
She blinked. "Letters?"
"Invitations. Public appearances. Speeches. They want him to stand at a podium and tell everyone that the war is well and truly over. Sign autographs. Shake hands. Be the smiling, triumphant saviour they have all painted in their minds." He looked away. "They think he's… healed."
She gave a small, strangled sound, not quite a laugh. "If only they knew."
"They don't know," Arthur said bitterly. "They have no idea that he wakes up screaming. Sometimes he doesn't remember who's holding his hand. They do not understand what it cost him. Molly, they are not interested in knowing. They want their hero whole."
Her lips thinned, her fingers tightening around his. "Then let's keep it that way—for now. No one outside the family needs to know how bad it is."
Arthur hesitated, reluctant. "I… told Percy."
She looked at him, surprised. "You informed him?"
"He saw me rushing out of the Ministry. Wondered what was wrong. I said to him the boy was unwell."
Her eyes searched his. "Is he going to keep quiet?"
"Yes," he replied with soft certainty. "He understood. I think, seeing me as I was, he knew this wasn't something to gossip about. He asked about you. He told me to owl him the moment there was news."
Molly nodded slowly, though a sliver of unease remained behind her eyes. "People will start asking questions soon. The Prophet always sniffs around when someone like Harry goes quiet. And if they discover no one has seen him for weeks—"
"I know," Arthur agreed, his voice low. "We'll handle it. When the time comes."
Ron shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking faintly beneath him as he sat cross-legged in the corner of Harry's small bedroom.
He watched Harry breathe. His chest rose and fell under the blanket. He kept checking the rhythm without meaning to. His skin was too pale, his brow slick with fever. He twitched in his sleep sometimes, murmuring things none of them quite understood. And every so often, Ron caught himself holding his breath, waiting, hoping, to see him stir.
Across from him, Ginny sat on the edge of Harry's bed, her legs folded beneath her. She clutched the battered Anima book in her lap, her thumb rubbing unconsciously at a tear in the leather cover. Her gaze kept flicking between the faded text and his face, as if checking he was still there.
Hermione paced in tight, anxious lines, arms crossed, her eyes darting from the book's open pages to the scrawl of notes she'd made in the margin. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, the crease between her brows growing deeper by the minute.
Ron, for his part, felt like deadweight. He'd tried reading the text, but the words swam together, laced with obscure magical theory and Latin he hadn't seen before. Hermione moved through it like a storm, Ginny with quiet intensity. He had managed thus far to keep from dozing off. He counted that as a contribution.
Then, Hermione's voice cut through the silence.
"That's not helping, Ronald."
He blinked, startled out of his thoughts. "What?"
"Whatever it is you're doing—which, at the moment, appears to be absolutely nothing," she snapped, her eyes flashing. "We're not here to sit around and wait for things to get worse."
Ron sat up straighter, stung. "I was thinking, actually," he said, though if pressed, he couldn't have explained what about. "Can't we have a minute to breathe? He's asleep, and we are not exactly racing a dragon to the finish line."
The room smelled of burnt candle wax and potion smoke. The air felt heavy and stagnant.
"We might as well be," Hermione hissed. "Every second counts. Slughorn said the symptoms are speeding up. We don't know how much time we have."
Ginny, still hunched over the book, broke the tension with a quiet voice, reading aloud: "'A threde y-rene from the shagge of a wilde beest, that bereth the semblaunce of Dethes shadwe.'"
The words fell into the silence.
Ron scratched the back of his neck. "Could be anything, couldn't it? Dementors, werewolves… Boggarts, if you're feeling dramatic."
Hermione whirled round, clearly exasperated. "Oh, brilliant, and what's your plan then? Ask a Boggart nicely for a lock of hair while it turns into your greatest fear?"
"Depends," Ron muttered. "Might be more polite if it's turned into my Aunt Muriel. She always had a few strays flying about."
Ginny gave a sudden, startled laugh, but she tried to stifle it. Her fingers tightened around the book again, the smile fading almost instantly.
"Seriously though," she said, more sombre now, "do we really need to tame a werewolf? That's what it says, doesn't it? Untamed. How would that actually work? You can't exactly walk one on a lead."
Hermione stopped pacing. "I've never read about anyone who's successfully managed it," she whispered. "Even Professor Lupin… when he transformed, he had no control over it. That is the whole tragedy. It strips them of who they are."
Ginny nodded slowly, frowning. "I saw that too. In the Hogwarts library, there was this book, Lupine Lawlessness: Why Lycanthropes Don't Deserve to Live."
Hermione made a choking sound of disgust. "That thing? Ugh, Picardy's a complete bigot. It's full of anti-creature propaganda. He actually claimed that werewolves are incapable of empathy. That they can't form meaningful relationships. Absolute drivel."
Ron shifted uncomfortably. "That's not fair. Lupin was… he was good. One of the best defence teachers we ever had. Quiet, yeah. But brave."
Hermione's expression softened. "Exactly. And that is why books like that are dangerous. People read them and think they're the truth."
Nobody spoke. He stretched his legs out with a groan, cracking his knuckles.
"All right, so no werewolves," he said. "What about a dragon? Properly untamed, breathes fire, ticks all the boxes."
Hermione gave him a withering look. "This isn't Magical Creatures Top Trumps, Ron. We are attempting to solve a riddle. Not brainstorm ways to get ourselves killed."
"Well, you could at least act like I'm trying to help," he grumbled.
"You could try being a bit more useful," she shot back.
Ginny cleared her throat. "What about Thestrals?" she blurted, her voice low but firm. Her gaze flicked between them, both of whom turned to her, surprised. "They're connected to death, aren't they?"
Hermione stilled, her lips parting, and her eyes widened slightly.
She whispered, "Thestrals," as though the word was a discovery. Her thoughts raced, the details connecting.
He blinked at her. "You mean those creepy skeletal horse things? The ones that pulled the carriages?"
She let out an exasperated huff through her nose. "Honestly, Ron. We studied them. Fifth year. Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid?"
"Oh, yeah," he muttered, rubbing his neck sheepishly. "Right. Brilliant times, that. Nothing like a field trip with airborne death-horses to round out your O.W.L. prep."
Hermione shot him a withering look. "Do you ever focus on anything useful?"
Ron shrugged, sprawling back against the sofa cushions with all the grace of a sack of galleons. "I pay attention. Only selectively."
She pressed her hands to her hips, her voice sharpening. "Thestrals aren't simply creatures; they're intelligent and can perceive the world's subtleties and the reasons behind actions. They are not similar to hippogriffs or Abraxans. They do not just carry passengers, but they seem to understand where someone needs to go."
Ginny leaned forward, her entire face suddenly alight. "Exactly! That's what I thought! They don't just follow, but they lead. That is how they found the Ministry, remember? They took us precisely where we needed to be. Maybe they can do it again."
Ron frowned. "Alright, fine—but even if they're clever, where are we supposed to find one now? Just pop into the back garden and hope one's grazing next to the gnomes?"
Hermione opened her mouth, clearly ready to fire in response with a list of likely locations and regulations, but Ginny was already on her feet, her eyes bright with urgency.
"Wait, I've still got that book on magical creatures. Hang on, I'll get it!"
She spun on her heel and bolted from the room, her footsteps vanishing with a thud and a slam somewhere.
Hermione turned and looked at Ron, who slumped sideways. "Honestly," she muttered, shaking her head.
"What?" he asked defensively, his hands flopping to either side. "I was contributing. My brain just works better when I'm horizontal."
"It barely functions when you're upright," she said, folding her arms across her chest.
He grinned lazily. "Go on, admit it. You'd miss me if I got eaten by a werewolf."
"I'd crave the noise, perhaps," she replied archly. "But not the smell."
For the first time in what seemed like days, they laughed. The sound felt strange after so long.
Ron looked up at the ceiling, the grin still tugging at his face. "Feels good. Laughing."
Hermione nodded slowly, the tightness in her chest easing just a little. "It does."
Before the moment could settle fully, Ginny's footsteps came thudding back, fast and frantic. She burst into the room, breathless and flushed, clutching a thick, well-worn tome to her body.
"I found it!" she gasped, falling to her knees beside Hermione with a dull thud. "Magical Beasts of the Northern Hemisphere. I bookmarked the section on Thestrals—here—look!"
She flicked rapidly through the pages, the parchment rustling beneath her fingers, until they stopped abruptly, almost reverently. Her eyes widened.
"Here," she breathed, pushing the book towards Hermione with a slightly trembling hand. "Read this."
She leaned in at once; her gaze scanning the cramped script. The room fell silent again, but this time the hush felt expectant.
"Thestral tail hair," she murmured, her brow furrowing. "It's… it's believed to be an exceptionally rare wand core. Possibly one of the most potent. Known to have unique affinities with death-aligned magic and obscure branches of pathfinding and fate work."
Ron sat up, his slouched frame suddenly alert. "Believed?" he repeated, suspicious. "That's the sort of thing you hear muttered over a dodgy pint at the Leaky Cauldron. Is there any actual proof? Or is this another crackpot theory like that one bloke who tried to prove trolls invented Apparition?"
Hermione didn't rise to the bait. "There's reason to think it's credible," she replied slowly, flipping the page. "It's not confirmed, no—but the properties described here…" She trailed off, her mind racing ahead of her words. "They match what's known about the Elder Wand."
Ron blinked. "Wait—what?"
"The Elder Wand," Hermione said again, more firmly. "No one's ever been certain what its core is. Some say dragon heartstring or basilisk fang. But if it were Thestral hair… it would explain a lot."
He looked vaguely horrified. "You're telling me the most dangerous weapon in history might've had bits of invisible death horse inside it?"
Hermione wasn't listening. Her gaze had gone distant again, unfocused in the maddening way she got when a theory had taken root. "A wizard, who was said to control mortality, held a wand with a core from a creature you can only see if you've witnessed death. It makes sense."
Ginny, who became still, swallowed hard. "So if we were trying to make one that could rival it, or even understand it, we'd need Thestral tail hair?"
"I think so," Hermione replied softly. "There's nothing else quite like it. Not symbolically. Not magically."
The room fell silent as they realised what it meant.
Ginny exhaled slowly. "Right," she said at last, her voice steady despite the weight behind it. "Thestrals it is."
Ron shifted where he sat. His eyes darted towards the floor, then back up again, his tone low and uncertain. "Assuming we actually go along with this… how exactly are we supposed to get the hair? It's not like you can stroll up to a Thestral and ask it nicely to shed a bit."
There was a beat of silence before Ginny replied, her voice softer now, more cautious. "First, we'd need to see them," she breathed. "Which is… well, not really easy, is it? You can't spot Thestrals unless…"
She didn't finish the sentence.
The quiet stretched. None of them knew what to say.
Hermione lowered her gaze to the book still open in her lap. Her tone when it emerged was subdued, almost hollow. "We can probably see them now."
Ginny gave a small nod, solemn and slow, her fingers fiddling with the fraying cuff of her jumper. Ron said nothing, but the way his jaw had clenched and his fists had tightened silently at his sides spoke volumes.
The only sound came from the pages as Hermione turned them.
After a moment, he cleared his throat roughly, trying and failing to appear casual. "The ones at Hogwarts… they're trained, yeah? Not wild?"
She blinked, pulled from whatever dark place her thoughts had drifted to. "Yes," she said, nodding. "To a certain extent, Hagrid had taught Thestrals. He told us in fifth year that the herd at school is the only group in Britain. Even then, they are not exactly docile. Gentle, yes, but nervous. And cautious. They don't just come trotting when you call."
Ron dragged a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath that might have been a swear. "So we're supposed to track a wild one instead? Right. Sounds easy. Can't wait."
Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly trying to keep her own doubts at bay. "I know it won't be. But if the tail strands really are what we need… there may not be another option. If we mess this up, Harry might not get any better. We cannot afford to guess."
The room lapsed into silence again, a quieter kind this time, not grief, but grim determination.
"Well," Ron said eventually, with a weak grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, "at least it's not a dragon."
Ginny gave him a look. "Don't jinx it."
Hermione exhaled, closing the book with a soft thump. She rubbed her temples, her brow deeply furrowed. "They are elusive. Solitary. They live only in a few parts of Britain, some forests in Ireland and pockets in northern France. Spain, maybe. But they're rare even there. Most wizards never see one in their entire lives."
Ron blew out a sigh and tilted his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it might present a better idea if he just looked hard enough.
Then Ginny spoke again, her voice stronger now, steady with purpose. "We should talk to Hagrid."
Both he and Hermione glanced up at her.
"If anyone can help us find a Thestral," she went on, "or persuade one to trust us… it's him. He knows them better than anybody else. He raised half the herd at Hogwarts himself."
Hermione's expression sharpened, the lines of worry replaced by something firmer, more resolute. "You're right. He's our best chance. We'll need to contact him straightaway; send an owl or meet him in person."
Ron groaned, slumping forward with theatrical despair. "Oh, brilliant. I can hear him already. 'What d'yeh mean yeh want ter go botherin' Thestrals?! Are yeh completely barmy?!'"
Ginny let out a short laugh. "He'll grumble initially, but then he will lend a hand. He always does that."
"Sure," he said, grinning now despite himself. "Right after he threatens to sit on us. Again."
Hermione gave a small, weary smile. "He may overreact, but he'll grasp it. We'll just have to be honest with him. Not everything, but enough."
He raised an eyebrow. "And you reckon Hagrid will keep it quiet?"
Ginny looked at him levelly. "He's kept bigger secrets than this."
"Like Norbert," Hermione offered, "and Aragog."
"And Grawp," Ginny added.
Ron grimaced. "Blimey, Grawp. How is he anyway?"
There was a low, aching groan from the bed.
Harry stirred, eyelids fluttering. He blinked at the ceiling as shapes drifted in and out of focus. His skull throbbed with a deliberate, pounding ache, a pressure that had built for hours.
He frowned. The room didn't feel quite right.
The sound of his breathing changed first; a slow hitch, a faint rustle of blankets, and all three of them froze.
"What—?" His words cracked, hoarse and dry. He winced at the noise of it, rubbed at his throat, and tried again. "What's going on?"
There was a sudden scuffle beside him: feet against floorboards, a chair scraping awkwardly.
"Harry!" Hermione's voice rang out, far too shrill and too high-pitched to be casual. She looked like someone who had been caught doing something they shouldn't: guilty, red-faced, with eyes wide and wet. "You're awake! How do you feel?"
He blinked at her, still thick with confusion. Ginny was already at his side, leaning forward with quiet purpose. She reached for his glasses from the bedside table where she had set them earlier and slid them gently onto his face, her fingers brushing his temple with the briefest warmth. The world came back into focus.
And there he was: Ron hovering near the foot of the bed, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as if he'd rather be anywhere else. Hermione looked torn between panic and tears. And Ginny, close enough to touch, and yet even she wore a guarded tightness around her eyes that made Harry feel oddly cold.
They were all watching him too carefully.
"Why are you all looking at me like that?" he asked slowly; something tense took hold in his chest. "Hermione, what were you just saying?"
She glanced away, her mouth pressing into a thin line. She tugged at the edge of the blanket as if it urgently needed adjusting. "I—nothing, honestly. Don't worry about it."
Harry's stomach twisted.
There it was again, that weight in the room, the way they looked at him like he might shatter if they said too much. He knew that silence because he'd lived in it long enough to recognise it on sight. He hated it.
"You lot are terrible liars," he muttered, trying to sound irritated, but it came out weaker than he meant—not anger, but fear, close beneath the surface. "Something happened, didn't it?"
Ron was the first to move, clearing his throat and stepping forward in the way he always did when he was attempting to be helpful and failing at it. "How're you feeling, mate?"
Harry blinked at him, the question barely registering. "Like a Hippogriff have flattened me," he muttered, pressing his palms to his eyes. "Everything's… hazy. I'm starving, actually. Did I miss breakfast?"
"You… tried," Ron said cautiously. "But you only had a few bites. You looked a bit out of it. Then you missed lunch altogether."
Harry frowned, trying to summon the memory. Nothing came. Just shadows. Echoes. He could almost hear his own voice far away, muttering things he did not understand. Scraps of thoughts he hadn't meant to speak aloud.
"What did I say?" he asked, his tone barely above a whisper.
There was a pause.
A long one.
Hermione looked down, her fingers gripping the edge of the bedcover too tightly. Ron ran a hand through his hair, visibly uncomfortable. Ginny didn't move; she stayed by his side closely, as if she knew he'd need someone to hold on to.
Finally, he whispered, "You were talking about Horcruxes."
Harry froze.
"You mentioned you were leaving the Burrow," he continued. "Said you had to finish it. That he wasn't gone. That you were going after him."
The room tilted.
It was like something winded him, and he took a sharp breath. He stared at Ron, then Hermione, then down at his own hands, half-expecting them to glow or burn or reveal some mark of what he'd done and stated.
"I said that?" he whispered.
He had no memory of it. But that only made it worse. The words did not feel foreign. They sat too easily in his chest. It was as if they were already there, ready to emerge.
He shut his eyes briefly. "I didn't mean to—"
"Stop," Ginny cut him off. Her voice was firm but kind, solid as her hand when it found his again. "Don't apologise. You weren't well. You still aren't."
"But I—" Harry started, but she shook her head.
"You need food and rest. Then answers. One thing at a time."
He nodded, but the thought of standing made his head swim. Despite that, he swung his legs deliberately over the edge of the bed. His limbs felt as though they didn't quite belong to him. When he tried to push himself upright, the floor seemed to shift unnaturally beneath his feet—the entire room turned slowly, disorienting.
His knees gave out.
"I've got you," Ginny said immediately, slipping her arm around his waist before he could fall. Her grip was firm, stronger than he expected, and steady.
Hermione moved forward in alarm. "Are you sure this is a good idea? He should stay in bed. He's barely—"
"I can do it," Harry stated quickly, though his voice lacked conviction. "I just need a bit of help."
Ginny glanced at him with something like approval. "Lucky I'm here, then."
Ron trailed behind them as they made their slow way toward the door, still visibly unsettled. "Next time," he muttered, "if you fancy having another one of these dramatic collapses, maybe wait until after breakfast?"
With careful steps, Harry made his way down the crooked staircase of the Burrow, clutching the banister with one hand and Ginny with the other.
The handrail was warm beneath his fingertips, worn smooth by years of use. He focused on the ridges and notches, the curve of the rail where Fred and George had once slid down, shouting things that made Mrs Weasley shout louder.
By the time he reached the bottom step, sweat clung to his temple again.
Mr and Mrs Weasley turned sharply, alarm flashing across Mrs Weasley's expression as she caught sight of him.
"Harry!" she gasped, hurrying over. Her hands fluttered for a second as if she wanted to touch him, to check his forehead or cradle his face, but didn't quite dare. "Is everything all right? You should be resting."
"He's hungry, Mum," Ginny said quickly, her voice quick and businesslike. "Can we get him something to eat?"
Mrs Weasley's expression softened in an instant, her worry reshaped into brisk compassion. "Of course, of course. Sit him down, love. You're white as a sheet."
Before Harry could argue, Mr Weasley was there too, easing an arm around his shoulders and guiding him to the table with quiet insistence.
"Come on now," he beckoned, his voice warm but low, as if he was trying not to startle him. "Take a seat before Molly feeds you standing up."
The kitchen smelt like sage and roasted onions and something thick and simmering in a pot.
He slumped into the nearest chair, grateful while attempting not to show it. Every part of him ached. It lived deep in the muscle.
"How are you holding up?" Mr Weasley asked as he sat beside him, folding the Daily Prophet and setting it aside on the table with a glance Harry couldn't quite read.
He hesitated. The truth lingered awkwardly on his tongue.
"Still a bit… wobbly," he said at last, rubbing at his brow. "But I'm all right. Thanks."
He didn't meet Mr Weasley's eye nor want to see pity or, worse, concern he hadn't earned.
"Lunch is nearly ready," Mrs Weasley told him, bustling back to the cooker and lifting a heavy ladle. "I'll dish you up something now, love."
Harry nodded but did not speak. He could feel her eyes on him as she worked, and it was a kind gaze, but it made his throat tighten anyway.
"So…" he said after a moment, trying to sound casual. "How's the Ministry?"
Mr Weasley glanced at him sideways. "Busy. Tense. Chaotic still. Kingsley's doing his best, but you know how things are after a war. People are celebrating. The rest of it is yet to be sorted out."
He paused as Mrs Weasley returned with a steaming bowl and set it gently before Harry. He didn't miss the way her hand lingered briefly on his shoulder, as though trying to reassure both him and herself that he was really there.
"There's a lot of celebration," he went on, resting his elbows on the table. "Some relief. But also questions. People want… well, they need answers."
Harry's fingers closed loosely around his spoon. He stared into the rising steam, his appetite evaporating as quickly as it had come.
Mr Weasley lowered his voice. "They are looking for you."
Harry blinked. "Me?"
"There's talk," he admitted. "Of where you are, what you're doing. You've been quiet, and Kingsley's trying to protect your privacy, but the longer you stay hidden, the louder the speculation gets. Some think you have left the country. Others…" He shrugged. "You can imagine."
He felt it at once. A tight ache of guilt rose in his chest.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, eyes fixed on the stew. He hadn't touched it. He told himself to eat, but the smell turned his stomach.
"Sorry?" Mr Weasley echoed, surprised. "Why are you apologising?"
"For making this harder on you," Harry said. "Because I dragged you all into everything. For not—" He hesitated. "I simply… I just want it to stop. I wish to be left alone."
There it was, out in the open. And saying it didn't give him a feeling of lightness, only more exposed.
Mrs Weasley stood beside his chair and laid a warm hand on his arm. Her voice was soft and steady.
"You're not a burden, Harry. You are family."
Mr Weasley nodded firmly. "You did more than anyone should ever have been asked. Wanting peace doesn't make you selfish, but it makes you human."
He couldn't speak. His throat had closed up tight. He stared down at the bowl again; the stew swirling gently in its dish. He forced his hand to move, lifted the spoon, and took a bite.
The warmth hit his tongue.
His stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, and the sound broke through the weight in the room.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Ron leaned back in his chair with a grin. "Blimey, mate, you seem like you haven't eaten in a week. Hungry enough to swallow the giant squid whole, are you?"
Harry let out a short, unexpected laugh. The tension eased a little.
"Honestly?" he said, wiping a bit of stew from his mouth. "I think I might."
He tore into a hunk of bread, chewing slowly, letting the food pull him back to himself. The warmth spread through his limbs.
But even as he reached for another bite, he felt it again, that shadow behind their eyes. The silence that came when people were thinking too much and saying too little.
He glanced up, his voice quieter now but edged with curiosity.
"So…" he began, trying to sound offhand, "what were you all talking about while I was… out?"
The room became still.
Ginny froze mid-sip. Hermione, seated at the far end, went rigid as a statue. Ron, who'd just shoved a large spoonful of stew into his mouth, made a strangled noise, then immediately started coughing violently. He choked, spluttered, and flailed for his goblet and sloshed half the water down his front as he tried to talk.
"Ron!" Hermione said, alarmed, reaching over with a napkin.
Harry frowned, confused. "What—?"
"No, it's—fine," Ron rasped, still wheezing. "Went down… the wrong way…"
Ginny was biting her lip so hard it looked like she might draw blood.
Hermione was the first to speak—far too quickly.
"We were just talking about job applications," she said, the words tumbling out with a breezy casualness that immediately sounded rehearsed. Her hand twitched to her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear with the precision of someone performing a gesture they'd practised in the mirror.
Harry's eyes narrowed.
He wasn't stupid. He hadn't spent years sneaking about under invisibility cloaks and dodging Death Eaters to miss something as obvious as that.
Hermione didn't fidget unless she was lying.
He glanced at Ron, who was even redder in the face, recovering from his coughing fit. A sheen of sweat glistened at his temples, and he was suddenly very focused on stabbing pieces of potato as if they'd insulted him personally.
Harry's gaze slid to Ginny.
She wasn't looking at him or at anyone, in fact. She sat unnaturally still, except for her fork, which was moving slowly, aimlessly, pushing a few peas across her plate like they were pawns in a game she no longer wanted to play.
She hadn't touched her food.
Something in his chest tightened—only slightly, but enough to notice. That flicker of disquiet. The creeping realisation that whatever this was… it wasn't just about him.
"So…" he said carefully, his voice low, "you're not going back for your final year, then?"
Ginny didn't answer. Her fingers tensed around her fork, knuckles paling, but she kept her head down.
The energy in her eyes, the one he knew so well, had faded. Not gone, but dampened. As if someone had quietly drawn the curtains on her fire.
Harry's stomach gave a slow, uncomfortable twist.
"But… you are going back, aren't you?" He asked once more, softly now.
She didn't look up, blink, or breathe.
The silence that followed was absolute. It rang in his ears like an unanswered question.
Hermione cleared her throat, and this time her voice was firmer and rehearsed. "I am. I'm returning to complete my last year."
Harry turned to her, frowning. "But… you just said you were looking at jobs…"
She cut across him, too sharp and too fast.
"I meant Ron's exploring some options," she corrected, brushing past the detail. "Ginny and I, we'll think about that after we've finished school."
He blinked at her.
It was like walking into a room and realising everything had been rearranged. Familiar, but subtly wrong. Their words didn't match the look in their eyes.
They were being overly cautious.
Too polished.
It appeared someone had edited, reviewed, and approved each sentence beforehand.
He took a slow bite of stew, chewed, swallowed, and tried for something that sounded casual.
"So," he said, tone light but deliberate, "what's the Anima book about?"
The effect was immediate.
The word hit the room hard; everyone froze.
Opposite him, Mr and Mrs Weasley exchanged a look; fleeting but unmistakably significant. Not alarmed exactly, but wary.
Ron dropped his fork. It clattered off his plate and sent a splash of gravy skidding across the table. He cursed under his breath and reached for a napkin, ears going pink.
Hermione's spoon had frozen halfway to her mouth. A slow drip of stew slid down the edge and fell onto her skirt with a quiet plop.
The air changed. Tangibly. It was as if someone had lowered the temperature in the room by several degrees. It felt heavy again, pressing into the space between them.
Ginny's eyes darted to Hermione, then Ron. Her shoulders had drawn up, tense and guarded.
They didn't speak. None of them did.
But Harry could feel it; they looked at one another in a way that told him they had already talked about this when he wasn't there.
And that, somehow, hurt more than anything else.
He was familiar with being left out. Used to adults keeping things from him "for his own good". But this was not Dumbledore or the Ministry.
This was them.
These were his people.
He could tell this was not about careers or school. This was about him.
"What is it you're not telling me?" Harry asked quietly.
The question hung between them, unanswered.