The rain hadn't stopped all night. It drummed steadily against the windowpane, a dull, ceaseless rhythm that echoed the ache in Harry's chest. Morning had arrived shrouded in grey, the sky low and heavy, pressing down on the Burrow like a weight.
Harry blinked awake to a sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes. His head throbbed like it had been split in two. Every breath felt too loud. His hands trembled as he reached for his glasses, barely managing to slide them on. Even the light filtering through the curtains made him wince.
His stomach rolled. Just lifting his head off the pillow felt like dragging a boulder uphill. Come on. Move. Just move. It took nearly all his strength just to swing his legs over the bed. When he finally stood, the floor swayed under him like the deck of a ship. Cold sweat clung to his skin.
Each step down the staircase was a battle. His knees threatened to give out, and his hand clung to the bannister. Halfway down, he caught sight of a flash of red hair—Ginny. Her face lit up the second she saw him, but her eyes told a different story: fear, confusion, and something else—guilt, maybe?
"Harry!" she whispered, rushing up the last few steps to meet him. Her hand gripped his arm, firm and steady. "You should've stayed in bed. You look awful."
He wanted to joke, say something snarky—'Do I ever look good?'—but his mouth was dry, and his thoughts were scattered. He gave her a weak smile instead, grateful for the support. She helped him down the last few stairs, her presence like an anchor.
The kitchen was quiet, save for the occasional clink of cutlery. Everyone turned at once when he entered. Ron stood mid-bite, frozen. Hermione's eyes were wide and worried. Mrs. Weasley hovered near the stove. Mr. Weasley, thankfully, had already left for work.
Harry's legs wobbled as he approached the table. Ginny didn't let go until he sank into the chair between Ron and Hermione. Every part of him protested the movement. Even sitting upright felt like an effort.
Hermione leaned in, whispering, "Harry, are you alright?" Her voice was low and urgent, like she didn't want to startle him.
He rubbed at his temple. His fingers were ice-cold, and the throbbing in his head hadn't let up. "Just a headache," he said, though the words felt too heavy. It wasn't just a headache. It was wrong. Something inside him felt wrong.
Mrs. Weasley appeared beside him with a plate piled high with toast and sausages. "Famished, dear?" she asked, forcing a bright smile.
Harry nodded out of habit and took the plate, though the sight of food made his stomach lurch. Still, he couldn't bring himself to say no—not after everything she'd done for him. He picked at the toast, hoping the motion would convince everyone he was fine.
But he wasn't fine.
He looked around the table. Ron was fidgeting. Hermione was biting her lip. Ginny hadn't sat down—she hovered behind him, close enough to catch him if he fell again. Their eyes were all on him, and it felt like too much.
"I—How are you two?" he asked Ron and Hermione suddenly, trying to deflect the attention. "Doing alright?"
Hermione straightened up quickly, clearly picking up on his need for distraction. "Yes! I'm staying here for the rest of the summer," she said brightly. "My parents agreed—finally. Took some convincing."
That tugged a smile out of him, despite the pain. He remembered the guilt she carried during the war, the way she'd altered her parents' memories to protect them. "How are they?" he asked quietly.
"They're great," she said, her eyes shining. "I brought them back after the war, and… it's like nothing ever happened." Her voice trembled just slightly. "I missed them so much."
He gave her a genuine smile. Her happiness warmed something cold inside him.
Mrs. Weasley turned toward her, a fond look on her face. "Are you going back to Hogwarts, dear? To finish your term?"
Hermione nodded, her voice steady with purpose. "Yes, I want to graduate properly. Take my N.E.W.T.s."
Harry saw pride in Mrs. Weasley's face—but then her gaze shifted to Ron, and it hardened.
"You really should follow Hermione's example," she said, her tone sharp. "You're not going to avoid responsibility forever."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Mum," he groaned. "We beat Voldemort. Doesn't that count for something?"
He turned to Harry. "Right? Tell her, mate."
Harry blinked, head spinning. The pressure behind his eyes had grown worse. Even keeping them open felt like a chore. "Yeah, sure," he mumbled, unable to look Ron in the eye. His voice sounded flat even to his own ears.
Mrs. Weasley sighed, clearly fed up. "That's not the point, Ronald."
Ron crossed his arms. "Harry and I are going to be Aurors. We're going to find the rest of the Death Eaters."
But Harry's expression had darkened. Even the word "Death Eaters" triggered something inside him—something heavy and sour.
Mrs. Weasley saw the shift immediately. "Harry, love," she asked gently, "are you feeling up to eating?"
He shook his head slightly, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry… I think I need to lie down." His voice was barely a whisper, like it belonged to someone else.
Mrs. Weasley was already reaching for him. "Of course, dear."
He stood, or tried to, but the moment he did, the room tilted sharply. His legs buckled, and he swayed dangerously. A wave of dizziness crashed over him.
Not again.
His breath hitched, and he felt the panic creep up his spine. What's happening to me?
Then arms wrapped around him—Ron's. Strong and steady.
"Whoa, easy, mate," Ron said, holding him upright.
Harry leaned into him, ashamed at how helpless he felt. "Sorry… I just… I don't know what's wrong."
"It's alright," Ron murmured. "You don't have to explain."
Hermione and Ginny were already moving. "Couch," Hermione said quickly. "Don't make him go upstairs."
Ginny rushed ahead, fluffing pillows, making a space for him. Ron guided him to the couch, helping him lie back gently. The ceiling above him spun, and he clenched his jaw to keep from throwing up.
Ginny returned with a blanket and tucked it around him with care. Her hand lingered on his for a second longer than necessary before she sat beside him, her eyes fixed on his face.
Across the room, Hermione and Ron sat down, both silent. Watching.
Mrs. Weasley appeared beside him once more. She pressed a cool hand to his forehead, her lips tightening at the heat radiating from his skin.
"Fever," she murmured.
But Harry barely heard her. The pressure in his head was growing—twisting, pulsing. The dark knot of dread inside him had tightened.
He stared up at the ceiling, trying to breathe through the rising panic.
Everything felt heavy. His eyelids, his limbs, even his breath.
With a low groan, Harry forced his eyes open, the light stabbing through the fog in his mind. His whole body felt wrong—cold, sticky, trembling. He could barely lift his head.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice was soft, trembling slightly. She was beside him, her hand brushing his damp hair back from his forehead. "You're burning up. What's wrong?"
He wanted to answer, to reassure her—but the nausea came too fast. His stomach twisted violently.
"I—think I'm gonna—"
He barely got the words out before he doubled over, clutching his middle. A brutal wave of sickness tore through him, and he vomited onto the floor.
The sound was awful—raw, choked, painful. The moment it started, he couldn't stop.
He heard someone gasp. Felt hands on his back. The world tilted. His breath came fast, too fast. The air felt thin.
His skin was soaked in sweat, freezing one second, burning the next.
"Ginny, towels and water—now," came Mrs. Weasley's voice, sharp with urgency.
Harry kept heaving, though nothing more came up. His chest hurt. His throat was raw. The room spun, and his vision swam.
This is worse than before.
He felt like he was drowning. His lungs burnt. He couldn't breathe right.
Ginny came back quickly, crouching beside him with a basin of water and towels. Her face was pale, lips pressed into a tight line as she dipped a cloth into the basin and gently pressed it to his forehead.
"You're okay. You're alright, Harry. Just breathe. Please," she whispered, voice shaking.
He wanted to believe her. But something inside him knew she was lying.
Then, it got worse.
A strange pressure built in his chest—hot, sharp, unbearable. He coughed once. Then again, harder. A horrible taste filled his mouth.
And then he saw the blood.
Thick and dark, it dripped from his lips onto his shirt.
He heard Mrs. Weasley gasp—sharp and loud—and the room fell completely silent.
"Mum?" Ron's voice cracked. "What is it?"
Harry couldn't answer. His body lurched forward again as he coughed harder, each one wringing his lungs like a wet rag.
No—no, no, no—
Blood spilt over his chin. His ribs screamed. Tears sprang to his eyes from the pain. His hands gripped the cushions beneath him so tightly his knuckles turned white.
It felt like something inside him was breaking.
Please—make it stop—
He didn't know how long it went on. By the time it ended, he was limp, barely aware of where he was. His ears rang. He felt lightheaded, like he might fall asleep and never wake up.
Mrs. Weasley knelt beside him again, gently wiping the blood from his face with shaking hands. She didn't say anything at first, just worked in silence, her eyes wet.
Then, quietly: "Oh, Merlin… I can't stand seeing him like this…"
Her voice cracked.
Harry wanted to say he was sorry. That he didn't mean to scare them. But all that came out was a weak breath.
Mrs. Weasley rushed out and returned with a potion bottle, uncorking it with trembling fingers.
"Harry, love," she said softly, lifting his head a little. "Just drink this for me. It'll help."
The vial touched his lips. It tasted bitter, but he swallowed. Slowly, a cooling sensation spread through his chest and head. The ache dulled slightly. His breathing eased.
The room slowly stopped spinning.
He saw Mrs. Weasley's wand flick and felt a warm pulse of magic run through him. She muttered a diagnostic charm. Her face relaxed—just a bit.
"Vitals stabilising," she whispered. "Thank goodness."
Harry let his head fall back against the cushion. He was still exhausted, but the worst seemed to be fading.
Still, something twisted in his gut. It wasn't just fear anymore. It was dread.
Because he knew it wasn't over.
Ginny sat beside him again, eyes on his face. She reached for his hand.
"This isn't the last time," she said quietly. "It's getting worse."
Mrs. Weasley turned to Ron and Hermione, who stood frozen nearby. "If anything changes—anything—you come and get me. Immediately." Her tone was firm, unshakeable.
Then she left the room, but her footsteps sounded heavy—dragged down by worry.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Harry could feel their eyes on him. Ron. Hermione. Ginny. Watching him like he might collapse again at any second.
And maybe he would.
Ron ran a hand through his hair, pacing near the window. "Where the hell is Slughorn?" he muttered. "What's taking him so long?"
Harry closed his eyes for a moment. He could still taste the blood.
Hermione sat at the edge of the couch, fingers twitching nervously in her lap. She looked like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.
Suddenly, the fireplace roared. A swirl of green flames burst out, and Slughorn stumbled into the room, trailing soot and sparks.
Harry opened his eyes just in time to see Ron slam a water glass down on the counter.
"Slughorn!"
"Good morning!" Slughorn panted, trying to sound cheerful. He didn't pull it off. Tucked under his arm was an old leather book—frayed, cracked, and familiar.
"I'm terribly sorry for the delay," he wheezed. "But—I have it."
He placed the book carefully on the table. Hermione leaned forward, already reaching for it. Ron stepped closer, his eyes narrowed with urgency.
But before they could even touch the cover—
Ginny burst into the room, her voice high and desperate.
"It's Harry!" she cried.
They turned.
Harry was curled over again, clutching his chest, breath rasping out in short, frantic bursts. Pain carved deep lines into his face.
And the fear returned—louder than ever.
It's happening again.
Ginny froze the moment she walked in. Her breath hitched. Her eyes locked onto Harry, and for a second, the colour drained from her face.
"No," she whispered, backing a step closer, voice shaking. "No—this doesn't look good. I've seen this before…"
She dropped to her knees beside him without even thinking. "Harry—Harry, is it the burning again? That same pain?" Her voice cracked. She reached out but stopped just short of touching him, afraid she might make it worse.
Harry tried to look at her, to speak, but the fire slammed into him again—violent, blinding, unstoppable.
He screamed.
The sound ripped from his throat like something being torn apart, raw and jagged. His back arched off the couch before he collapsed forward, fists driving into the cushions like they could somehow absorb the agony clawing through him.
"Ron, get your mum!" Hermione shouted, panic rising. "NOW!"
The room blurred in and out of focus. A high ringing filled Harry's ears. He didn't know if it was real or just in his head.
He didn't even feel his body anymore—just pain. White-hot. Endless. Like acid in his veins, tearing through muscle and bone. His magic felt like it was short-circuiting, thrashing, wild. He couldn't control it. He couldn't breathe.
A pair of hands gripped his. Warm. Steady. A voice followed, soft but urgent.
"I'm here, Harry. Stay with me. Just hold on," Mrs. Weasley whispered.
Harry squeezed her hands so tightly his knuckles popped. He couldn't stop shaking. His skin burnt like fire. He sobbed into the couch, teeth clenched so hard it felt like they might crack.
Please. Someone help me. I can't—I can't take this—
He let out another cry as the pain surged again, worse this time—deeper. Like something was being pulled out of him by force.
Make it stop. Make it stop. Please make it stop.
"Harry!" Ginny's voice broke. "You're not alone. I'm right here. Please—listen to me!"
But he couldn't. The room didn't feel real anymore. He felt trapped—caught in some dark, howling void where only pain lived. His vision blurred with tears.
"Ron, help me hold him down!" Mrs. Weasley barked suddenly. Her voice was shaking now too.
Ron was already there, crouched beside the sofa. "I've got his legs," he said hoarsely, but his grip was clumsy, desperate.
Harry kicked hard—he didn't mean to. He just couldn't stop. His limbs moved without thought. The fire kept spreading. His lungs screamed for air.
He writhed violently, helpless in his own skin.
"It hurts!" Harry screamed. "Please—please, help me! I can't—!"
The scream tore through the room like glass shattering. Ginny flinched. Hermione covered her mouth, eyes wide with horror.
Slughorn just stood there, pale, useless.
"He's been like this before," Ginny said suddenly, barely audible. Her voice was breaking apart. "Hours sometimes… I—I didn't tell anyone. He begged me not to…"
Mrs. Weasley turned sharply. "Why didn't you say something?!"
"He was terrified, Mum," Ginny cried. "He made me promise. He didn't want anyone to see him like this. He didn't want to be alone."
Harry felt like he was dying.
His chest heaved, lungs pulling in short, panicked gasps. Sweat soaked his clothes. The cushion beneath him was wet from tears and spit. His body wasn't his anymore—just a vessel for pain.
No more. I can't. I can't—
"Can't we give him something?" Ron shouted. "A potion—anything?!"
Mrs. Weasley's hands were shaking now too. "He had a healing potion an hour ago—it could be dangerous to give him more—"
Ron's voice rose, almost shouting now. "But he's screaming, Mum! He's—dying!"
He wasn't wrong. Harry felt like something inside was tearing, ripping away, like his soul was being split again and again and again.
"Professor!" Ron shouted at Slughorn. "Do something! Please—do something!"
Slughorn finally stepped forward, his face ashen. "A Calming Draught… It might—might take the edge off."
Mrs. Weasley rushed to the cabinet, almost knocking over bottles in her panic. She returned with a small glass vial, her fingers trembling.
"Harry, sweetheart—drink this. Please. Just a sip."
But Harry couldn't respond. Couldn't hear her. The screams wouldn't stop. His body convulsed with another violent spasm.
Hermione knelt beside him, tears falling freely. "Please, Harry. You have to drink this. You're not alone—we're all here. We love you, okay? Just hold on."
They held him down. Forced the vial to his lips. Some of the potion spilt, but enough got in. Harry choked on it, gagged—but swallowed.
The taste was bitter and cold, like swallowing ice through a mouth full of fire.
Slowly—slowly—the edges of the pain began to blur. The storm in his chest dulled slightly, enough to breathe. His screams softened into hoarse sobs.
The world didn't stop burning. But for the first time in what felt like hours, he wasn't drowning in it.
He looked up—barely.
Ginny was still there. Her eyes were locked on his, her hand pressed tightly against his arm like she could anchor him to the world.
And Harry let himself hold on.
Harry wasn't sure when the shaking stopped—only that his body had finally gone limp. He was barely aware of Ron loosening his grip around his legs, following Mrs. Weasley's soft signal. Every inch of him ached with a strange, hollow weight, like his bones had been replaced with lead. He let out a small, broken whimper. It was all he could manage.
He heard someone calling his name—Mrs. Weasley, he thought—but he couldn't respond. Couldn't open his eyes. Couldn't even lift a finger. The effort it would take to speak or move felt impossible.
Everything was still. The room had fallen into an eerie silence, broken only by the shallow, ragged sound of his breathing. The others didn't speak. He could sense them nearby, their presence like flickering candle flames. Dim. Fragile. Burnt out.
It was over—whatever it was—but the terror hadn't left him. It clung to his skin like cold sweat. His body knew it wasn't safe, even if the danger had passed. He could still feel it—the pain, the fear—as if it had left a mark on something deeper than his flesh.
A soft rustle. Mrs. Weasley knelt beside him, her face pale and drawn. Harry didn't need to see her clearly to know she looked as exhausted as he felt. She tucked the blanket around him slowly, carefully, her hands trembling slightly as if she were afraid he'd break at the slightest touch.
He let out a quiet moan. His eyelids fluttered open for half a second—just long enough to see the worry in her eyes—before pain surged through him, forcing them shut again. A hot shudder passed through him, and he clenched his jaw to keep from crying out.
He hated this. The weakness. The helplessness. The way his body betrayed him with every breath. He felt like a child again—small and scared, curled up in the dark, hoping someone would come.
"I can't even imagine how many times Harry has faced something like this." Ron's voice cut through the silence, low and uncertain. "If he's usually able to bear it… then what he just went through must've been…"
He trailed off. Harry could hear the fear in his voice. The guilt. The horror.
I didn't want you to see me like this, Harry thought, his chest tightening. I didn't want any of you to.
He felt Mrs. Weasley shift beside him. Then her soft gasp. Her hand touched his forehead, and the chill of a damp towel made him flinch. Fever. Of course. He could feel it burning behind his eyes, soaking through his skin. He was too hot. Too cold. Trapped somewhere in between.
Mrs. Weasley let out a breath and sank into the chair beside him. Harry felt the weight of her gaze on him—fierce and protective, like a mother who was ready to fight Death itself. He wished he could thank her. Say I'm sorry you have to see me like this. But the words wouldn't come.
The silence thickened again. It felt suffocating. Like the air had been replaced with something heavier.
Why won't the fever break? Harry wondered, his thoughts slipping in and out of focus. Why won't my body just stop hurting?
Each breath scraped against his lungs like sandpaper. His skin felt too tight, his limbs twitching with every flare of heat. The worst of the pain had passed, but the ghost of it still lingered—just enough to remind him of how close he'd come to breaking.
Only moments ago, he'd been drowning in it. Pain and panic crashing over him, wave after wave, until he could barely remember who he was. He'd bitten his tongue to keep from screaming. Dug his nails into the couch. Anything to stay grounded. Anything to stay here.
Because part of him had truly believed, 'This is it. This is the moment I don't come back from.
And the worst part? It wasn't even dying that scared him.
It was the thought of leaving them behind.
Ron. Hermione. Ginny.
What would happen if he let go? Who would fall next? He couldn't do that to them. He wouldn't.
So he'd held on. Even when it felt like the pain would tear him apart. Even when it felt like the air itself had turned to fire in his lungs.
Now, as the heat pulsed through his body and his head spun with fever, he blinked through half-open eyes. Faces loomed above him—blurry, shadowed, but familiar. Their expressions were pinched with fear, their mouths moving with words he couldn't quite hear. But they were there.
Still here, he thought, his heart aching. They didn't leave.
That thought gave him a sliver of peace. A thread of strength. Not much—but enough to let go for now.
Darkness crept back in, soft and heavy. His eyes slipped shut, and Harry finally surrendered to it, letting himself fall.
Slughorn stood by the window, arms folded tightly across his chest. His eyes drifted across the horizon, but they didn't really see it. His mind was caught in a storm of old regrets and heavy memories.
"What have you done, Tom?" He murmured, the words barely escaping his lips. His voice was thick with guilt and years of remorse. "Harry… he doesn't deserve any of this. He's just a boy. He should be worrying about Quidditch matches and exams, not fighting shadows that once belonged to my past."
Behind him, Hermione watched quietly, her brow creased with concern. She could feel the weight in his words, the burden of guilt that hadn't lifted in years. After a moment, she stepped forward gently.
"Professor," she said, her tone soft and deliberate, "Harry's resting now. Maybe it's time we looked through the book together. Maybe… maybe there's something in it that can help."
Slughorn flinched slightly, jolted from his thoughts. He straightened his back and turned around, blinking as if returning to the present. A glimmer of the old charm touched his eyes.
"Yes. Yes, of course," he said, clearing his throat. "We mustn't waste a moment."
Hermione nodded, and Ron and Ginny followed as the group moved back to the worn wooden kitchen table, the heart of the Burrow, now occupied by matters far darker than breakfast tea.
"I went straight to the headmaster's office yesterday," Slughorn began, easing into a chair with a soft grunt. "From the Burrow—no detours."
"Did you speak to Professor Dumbledore?" Hermione asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as though afraid to disturb the fragile air around them.
"I did," Slughorn said with a slow nod, his expression wistful. "He was there, in his portrait, looking down at me. He seemed surprised… but not unprepared. As if he had been waiting."
Ron leaned forward, eyebrows raised. "Wait—he knew why you were coming? But how?"
A faint smile played on Slughorn's lips. "You forget who he was. Dumbledore always had a way of seeing what others missed. When I pulled the book from his shelf, he gave me one of his knowing looks. It was as if he'd expected it all along."
Ginny leaned in, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "And? What did he say?"
Slughorn hesitated, his fingers brushing the edge of the book that lay between them. "He said nothing. Not a word. But I could feel it—the message was there. It took me hours to break the enchantment he'd placed on the book."
Ron frowned. "If he knew you'd come for it… why enchant it at all? Why not just leave it out for you?"
Hermione sighed, her arms crossed tightly. "Isn't it obvious, Ron? He wanted it protected. In case it fell into the wrong hands."
Ron's face reddened. "I know that," he muttered, stung.
Silence fell for a moment, until Slughorn spoke again, his voice quieter.
"I never thought I'd need to look at this book," he admitted. "When Dumbledore told me what Tom had done—how far he'd gone—I was… horrified. I shut the door on all of it. I couldn't bear to face it. And while I turned away, Dumbledore hid this book. Protected it. Trusted that maybe one day someone would come looking."
"But why did it take so long to get past the spell?" Ginny asked, her voice touched with worry.
Slughorn gave a heavy sigh, filled with something that sounded like failure. "Because… after Dumbledore died, the enchantment changed. His death sealed it. Made it nearly permanent. But I finally got through. And now… we have this."
He gestured toward the centre of the table, where the book rested like a sleeping beast.
The volume was unlike anything they'd ever seen. Its white cover gleamed like pearl, catching the morning light with an eerie shimmer. Gold letters spelt out Anima across the front, surrounded by delicate silver engravings that pulsed faintly, as though alive.
Hermione reached out, her fingertips grazing the intricate designs. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "Too beautiful for something that holds so many dark truths."
Ron peered at the title, squinting. "What does Anima mean?"
"Latin," Slughorn replied. "It means 'soul'."
"Well, that's not ominous at all," Ron muttered, eyeing the book with growing suspicion.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "The designs are symbolic. They're not meant to be taken literally, Ron."
"Yeah, well… If that's what souls look like, I think I'd rather not see mine," he said.
Ginny sat on a low stool nearby, her eyes fixed on the strange, glimmering book. It felt… wrong. Not evil, exactly, but like something that had never belonged in the warm, bustling safety of the Burrow. A tension hung in the air, pressing against her chest.
Hermione tilted her head, still curious. "Professor, is the whole book written in Latin?"
"No," Slughorn said, flipping open the book with care. The pages crackled as they turned, yellowed with age. "It's mostly Old English translations, though some passages retain their original tongue. I don't know where it came from. But it's old. Much older than the Horcrux work we're familiar with."
He paused, tapping a weathered page. "This book predates everything we thought we knew about the soul. Dumbledore believed it was the inspiration behind the first Horcruxes. He thought the soul's very nature made it vulnerable to being split."
Ron leaned forward and began flipping through the book with clumsy urgency. "There's no author. No notes. Who even wrote this?"
"The name doesn't matter," Ginny said suddenly, snatching the book gently from his hands and placing it back down. Her voice was quiet but firm. "What matters is what's in it. What it can do. It might be our only hope for Harry."
Ron clenched the table, his knuckles pale. "Then it better tell us something. Because if this is all we have—if this is it—then we need answers. Fast."
Hermione swallowed hard. Her voice, when it came, was almost too quiet to hear. "Right."
Slughorn turned the pages with slow care, scanning the ancient text until he found the passage he'd been searching for. He rotated the book toward them. The old script looked out of place against the familiar checkered tablecloth.
A soul touched by evil slowly incinerates its own existence until it ultimately ends. It would cost a higher price to recondition the soul if attempted. And if it should fail, in accordance with who may have tried, the cost will, therefore, be marked the same as the other.
Ron's voice came out barely above a whisper. "What does that mean—'marked the same as the other'?"
Nobody answered.
Ginny's breath hitched. Her face went pale. She looked to Hermione, but Hermione's mask of calm had cracked. Her hand trembled as she reached for the edge of the table.
Only last night, they had been whispering ideas—hopeful, reckless plans. Now, those hopes felt like shattered glass, scattered by a single paragraph in a forgotten book.
The air in the kitchen turned cold.
Hermione finally spoke, her voice hoarse. "It means… if we try to fix Harry's soul and fail… the magic might treat us the same way. Like we're broken, too. Like we're already doomed."
No one said anything for a long time.
The book sat silently in the centre of the table, its pages heavy with risk and possibility. And the future—Harry's future, their future—was no longer just uncertain.
It was terrifying.