The afternoon sunlight spilt gently through the curtains of Harry's bedroom. He lay still on the bed, the covers too heavy, his limbs aching as if they'd been weighed down with stones. Shadows pooled under his eyes, deep and dark, proof of a fight that had taken more from him than just his strength.
He heard the footsteps before the door creaked open.
Ginny's voice came first, quiet but steady, guiding the others—Hermione and Ron—up the staircase. Harry didn't need to look. He felt their presence the moment they entered. The room shifted, the air suddenly heavy with silent worry. It pressed on his chest, mixed with the ache already living there.
They moved in slowly, hesitantly, like people stepping into a room full of ghosts.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice was thin, like paper. It trembled.
He blinked, trying to focus, but the light filtering in through the curtains blurred at the edges of his vision. He turned his head slightly, squinting. "Hermione," he rasped. His throat was dry. Even saying her name felt like lifting a boulder.
She stepped closer, crouching by the bed. Her eyes searched his face—eyes full of questions he wasn't ready to answer. "How are you feeling?" she asked softly.
A pause.
Harry tried to gather himself. Lie, maybe. It was easier. "Fine," he said.
The word felt hollow. Pointless. His voice cracked, weak and unconvincing. Hermione frowned but didn't push.
Ron snorted, and for a second it felt almost normal. That snort. That familiar sound, like a whisper of life before everything shattered.
Harry let himself feel it—the warmth of them being here. He needed it more than he could say.
Hermione sat beside him, her tone gentler now. "We just wanted to check in on you. I thought… maybe you'd want some company."
Harry tried to smile. It didn't last. His face fell almost immediately. The truth itched beneath his skin, but he didn't want to let it out. "Thanks," he mumbled. He meant it. Even if it was hard to feel anything properly.
A soft voice broke through from the doorway. Mrs. Weasley. "Professor Slughorn has arrived, dear. He's here to speak with you. But if you're not feeling up to it, he can come back later."
Harry shifted, trying to sit up. A sharp pain shot through his ribs, stealing the air from his lungs. He gasped, biting back a groan. His whole body was one massive bruise.
Ron and Hermione were at his side instantly, helping him sit up, propping him against a mound of pillows. He could feel the way they hesitated, trying not to show how worried they were. But he saw it anyway—in their eyes, in the way Ron's hand hovered awkwardly near his shoulder, not quite touching.
Ginny moved forward and gently placed his glasses on his face. Her hands were warm and steady. He managed a grateful nod, swallowing the lump rising in his throat.
He ran a trembling hand through his hair, realising just how rough he must look. Pale. Unshaven. Weak. He hated it.
Slughorn stepped in, concern etched into his usually jovial face. He looked more like a grandfather than a professor now—anxious and unsure.
"Professor," Harry said hoarsely, trying to sound stronger than he felt. "Thank you for coming."
But the room didn't clear. No one left. They all stood there, watching him, eyes filled with questions, fear, and pity. Harry hated it. He didn't want their pity. He wanted answers.
Hermione leaned forward suddenly, voice quiet but urgent. "We already knew about the soul," she said, glancing at Ron, who nodded slowly beside her.
That single word—'soul'—cracked through the silence like thunder.
Ginny's head shot up. "Soul?" she repeated, her voice sharp. "What do you mean? What soul? What are you talking about?"
She turned to Harry, eyes wide with worry. "What are you keeping from me?"
Harry froze. His heart thudded hard against his ribs. He felt exposed, cornered. He opened his mouth, but the words tangled in his throat.
"I—I didn't mean—" he began, but Ron cut in.
"Since when did you know?" Ron asked, frowning. "Why didn't you say anything? We've all been worried sick, mate."
Guilt rose in Harry's chest like bile. He looked at Ginny again. Her expression—hurt, confused—stabbed through him sharper than any spell.
"I felt it… when Voldemort's soul inside me was destroyed," Harry said, voice barely audible. "I felt it being torn out of me."
Hermione moved closer. "What did it feel like?"
Harry rubbed his arm, the motion automatic, trying to ease the burning that still lingered beneath his skin. "Like fire," he whispered. "Like something deep inside me was being ripped away. It didn't just hurt—it left something empty behind."
Hermione stared at him, her voice almost a whisper. "You've been feeling this for three weeks?"
Harry nodded. "It started off small. Dull. But now…" His voice broke. "Now it's getting worse. And I don't know why."
He didn't want to say more. The panic clawing at his chest was real. He didn't want to scare them. But he couldn't lie anymore.
Mrs. Weasley muttered from behind him, almost to herself. "And the potions didn't help either…"
Ginny stood with her arms crossed, eyes fixed on him, trying to piece it all together. She looked like she wanted to scream. Or cry. Maybe both.
Slughorn finally stepped closer. His voice was quiet but steady. "Harry," he said, "I'm afraid no potion can ease what you're feeling. Because it's not just your body that's hurting—it's your soul."
Harry looked up, breathing unevenly.
"The soul doesn't heal like flesh," Slughorn continued. "When it's damaged… when something is torn from it… that damage lingers. It echoes. With symptoms."
Harry's heart thundered in his chest. He couldn't tell if it was fear, anger, or something worse. His fists clenched without him meaning to, knuckles white, arms shaking. It was like his body was reacting faster than his mind could keep up.
"Symptoms?" he repeated, barely a whisper. His voice sounded foreign—thin, hollow, cracked open by disbelief.
Slughorn nodded slowly, as if each word carried weight. "They are physical manifestations of your deteriorating soul," he said quietly, eyes heavy with pity. "The only way to reverse them is to find what's damaged your soul… and repair it."
Harry blinked. Damaged soul? His thoughts scattered like broken glass. What did that even mean?
What was wrong with him?
Hermione's voice broke the silence, hesitant. "Ron mentioned some things… things that have been happening to you lately, Harry."
He turned to her, confused. "What things?" he asked sharply, brow drawn tight.
Ron shifted beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. "You've been… off, mate," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "You get confused out of nowhere—like you've been Obliviated. And the stuff you've been reading… about souls, it's starting to scare us."
Harry's chest tightened. He felt heat rising in his throat.
"You went through my stuff?" he asked, voice flat but dangerous. "You looked through my things?"
Ron winced. "It wasn't like that," he mumbled. "I—I just saw your notes. I was looking for answers. You wouldn't tell us anything."
"We were worried about you," Hermione added, her voice gentler, pleading. "We thought maybe if we understood, we could help."
Betrayal hit him like ice water down his spine. He felt sick.
"I trusted you," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "More than anyone. And you went behind my back?"
Ron's eyes hardened. "I don't regret it."
Harry stared at him in disbelief.
"Now we know what we're dealing with," Ron went on. "And maybe we can actually do something about it."
"And what's that, Ron?" Harry snapped. "You think there's some spell out there that'll fix a broken soul? You think we'll just stumble across a cure in the library?"
Hermione looked at him, eyes wide and full of hurt. "You can't give up hope like that."
"I'm not giving up hope," Harry growled. "I'm out of time. Didn't you know how long I have left? Weeks! Days, or maybe tomorrow."
His voice broke at the end. He didn't mean to. He hadn't even realised the words were true until they were already spoken.
Hermione stepped forward. "You don't know that for sure. Maybe there's still a way."
"There isn't!" he shouted. "You think I haven't looked? I've searched every book in the library and half the ones in the Restricted Section. There's nothing."
Silence hung thick in the room.
"So what then?" Ron snapped. "You just lie down and wait for it to happen? Let yourself die?"
Harry didn't answer. He couldn't. His jaw was tight, his throat raw.
"I'm not going to sit here and watch you waste the life so many people fought to give you," Ron snarled. "Your parents died so you could live, and this is how you repay them?"
Harry flinched like he'd been slapped.
Ron's hands curled into fists at his sides. "You're throwing it all away," he said, then turned and stormed out of the room without another word. Mrs. Weasley murmured something Harry didn't catch and hurried after him.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Harry stayed perfectly still, like the weight of everything had pinned him to the bed. He could feel the others still in the room—Hermione, Slughorn, and Ginny—but he couldn't look at them. Couldn't even breathe properly.
Ron's words rang in his head like a curse: throwing it all away… after all they did for you.
The blankets felt like chains now. Heavy. Suffocating.
He wanted to run. Or scream. Or disappear entirely.
He hated himself for feeling weak. For wanting to give in. For not being the brave, strong person they all believed he was. The person he used to be.
Why couldn't he just fake it a little longer?
Because I'm tired, he thought. Because I don't know who I am anymore.
He could feel Hermione watching him. The silence stretched.
Finally, her voice came, quiet but firm. "Harry…"
He still couldn't look at her.
"I know this is overwhelming. I know you're scared. But you don't have to face this alone. You never did."
She stepped closer, her voice gentler. "But we can't help you if you keep pushing us away."
Harry closed his eyes. His chest ached, not from any spell or curse, but from the sheer pressure building inside. Shame curled in his gut like poison.
"You have to fight," Hermione said, her voice breaking just a little. "Even if you think it's 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 in his throat. All that came was silence.
Then Slughorn spoke, voice softer than usual. "Harry, my boy," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly, "life's unfair, yes. Often cruel. But it's not finished yet."
He looked at Harry, and for once, there was no trace of bluster or showmanship in him.
"You've carried more than anyone your age should. But don't forget—you're still here. That means something. You meansomething."
He paused, searching for the right words. "History remembers heroes, yes. But sometimes, the ones who just keep going—they're the real ones who change everything."
Then he gave a nod and left quietly.
Hermione lingered, giving him one last look—part hopeful, part heartbroken. Then she turned and followed after Slughorn.
Only Ginny stayed.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her presence was enough—solid, grounding, unwavering.
Harry didn't look at her, but he felt her gaze on him, steady and warm.
For a second, he almost let himself believe he could keep going.
Almost.
Harry couldn't look at her right away.
He could feel her.
Her presence radiated beside him—warmth laced with tension, like the low hum before a storm. His skin prickled again, the same static pulse he'd been feeling for days now, as if the magic inside him was stirring restlessly under his skin. His breath caught when he noticed the faint tremble in his fingers. He clenched them into fists, holding them still. Not now. Please, not now.
Ginny's eyes were on him. He finally looked up—and it hit him like a blow to the chest.
She looked shattered. Eyes bright with unshed tears, lips pressed into a tight line, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles had gone white. That fierce fire that normally lived in her eyes was still there, but now it flickered behind fear, hurt, and a defiant kind of hope.
His throat dried.
"Ginny, I…" he started, but the words cracked apart halfway out.
She blinked rapidly, forcing back tears. He hated that. He hated that he had done this to her—again.
"I did what I thought was best for us, Harry," she said softly, and the quiver in her voice pierced straight through him. "I gave you space. Time. I thought… maybe you needed it. But I waited." She looked at him then, eyes shining. "I waited for you to tell me."
Harry swallowed hard. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, a sickening rhythm against the growing unease in his chest. "I never meant to hurt you," he said, voice barely audible. "I thought… keeping it from you would protect you."
Ginny's expression tightened, her hands unclasping as she folded her arms across her chest. "Are you even going to tell me what's happening?" She asked, sharper now, more than hurt—angry. "Or am I supposed to keep guessing while you waste away in front of me?"
That sting of accusation cut deeper than any spell.
"I'm not trying to waste away," he muttered, running a hand down his face. His palm came away cold and damp. He hadn't realised he was sweating. "I didn't even understand it myself for a long time. And now… now I wish I didn't."
Ginny's jaw tensed. "But you do understand now, don't you? Ron and Hermione said something about your soul. About symptoms." She hesitated. "Harry… you're scared. I can see it all over you. And I hate that you thought you had to go through this alone."
"I didn't want you to see me like this." His voice cracked at the edges.
Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Like what?"
He opened his mouth to answer—and then it happened again.
A sharp, burning jolt pulsed through his arm, twisting up to his shoulder. It was like touching cursed fire. He gasped involuntarily and gripped the edge of the bed. Ginny was at his side in an instant.
"Harry?"
"I'm fine," he lied, the word strangled and hollow.
"Don't lie to me."
Harry breathed through the pain, which faded just as quickly as it came, leaving behind a cold numbness in his fingertips. His magic pulsed beneath his skin again, like it was trying to push its way out. The lamp on the nightstand flickered. The covers stirred, though no wind passed through the room.
"I can't control it anymore," he admitted, barely above a whisper. "The magic—it's wrong. My soul—it's…" He shook his head. "It's falling apart, Ginny. And I don't know how to fix it."
She stared at him, horror dawning slowly. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I love you," he snapped, louder than he meant. "Because I didn't want to drag you into this curse that's eating me alive. Because I wanted to protect you from the worst of it."
Ginny stepped back, blinking. Then, in a voice that trembled but never wavered, she said, "Would you rather I stay ignorant and safe than stand beside you and fight?"
"I don't want you to hurt," he growled. "I don't want you to have to watch this happen to me."
Tears finally fell from her eyes. "And I don't want to be left behind again. I won't be. 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, voice cracking. "You're making choices for both of us, and you think you're noble, but you're just afraid."
He recoiled, stunned silent.
She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, eyes burning. "I cried for you when I thought you were dead. I mourned you. And now you're here, and you're alive, but you're already giving up. Don't you dare."
Harry looked down at his trembling hands—scarred, thin, stained with too many failures. "There's no future for us, Ginny," he said, voice barely holding together. "This thing in me… it's killing me. Slowly. I don't even know who I am anymore. Sometimes I wake up and forget where I am. Sometimes I see things that aren't there. It's like pieces of me are going missing, bit by bit."
"Then let me help you find them," she whispered.
He looked up, and she stepped forward again, her fingers curling around his.
"I don't care if it's dangerous. I don't care if it hurts. I'm not walking away from you. So stop pushing me, or I swear I'll hex you myself."
A strangled laugh escaped him, part sob, part relief.
He didn't deserve her.
And yet—here she was. Holding his hand like it was the anchor keeping him from floating away.
He exhaled, the breath shaky and broken. "I'm scared, Ginny."
She leaned in, resting her forehead gently against his. "So am I," she murmured. "But we're stronger together. You don't have to fight this alone."
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, and moved into the stifling living room. The air was thick and heavy, pressing down on his shoulders.
He didn't want to be angry. Not at Harry. Not now. But every time Harry opened his mouth to talk about death—as if it were already written—Ron felt like he was going to explode. Why couldn't Harry just try to see some hope, even the smallest bit?
Ron dropped onto the lumpy couch and groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. The warmth of the living room, once comforting and familiar, now felt suffocating. Inside him, grief and fury twisted like a storm that wouldn't let up.
The creak of the stairs drew his attention. He glanced up, already knowing who it was. His mum stood there, arms crossed but not scowling. That was worse, somehow.
"Ronald," she said softly.
"Mum, don't," he muttered, cutting her off, voice raw. He raked a hand through his messy hair. "I know—I know I shouldn't have said what I did. But he's being impossible. He was talking like… like he's already given up. Like dying's just part of the plan." His words came out in a rush. "How am I supposed to stay quiet? After everything—after Fred—how could I not say something?"
His voice broke on Fred's name. He couldn't look at her. Instead, he stared at the floor, feeling like it might swallow him whole.
Molly's expression crumpled with silent heartbreak. She walked over slowly and sat beside him, lowering herself until they were eye level. Her hand came to rest gently on his arm, grounding him.
"I know, love," she said quietly. "I know this isn't easy. But when people are hurting, truly hurting, they lash out. They say things they don't mean. I've seen it too many times." She squeezed his arm. "You're in pain. But so is Harry. And right now, he needs understanding more than anything else."
Ron blinked hard and looked at her. Her eyes were kind but filled with the same grief he felt every day. Somehow, it helped.
"I just don't know how to reach him," he whispered.
"You keep trying," Molly said simply. "You hold him steady. You be the anchor when he can't find his footing. Even if he pushes you away."
Ron nodded, slowly, the words settling inside him. He didn't know if he had the strength to be what Harry needed. But he'd try. He had to.
Before he could respond, Hermione and Slughorn appeared at the foot of the stairs, their faces tight with worry.
Molly stood, her composure returning. "He's under so much pressure," she said softly, still speaking to Ron but watching the others now. "You all are. But Ron, if Harry loses hope, it's up to you—up to all of you—to remind him that he's not alone. Can you do that for me?"
Ron swallowed hard and gave a quiet, reluctant nod. He wasn't sure how, but he'd figure it out.
Hermione came to his side and sat close, her presence a balm to his frayed nerves. She reached for his hands and wrapped hers around them, holding tight. Ron let out a slow breath and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. That silent touch said everything they didn't have words for.
They couldn't afford to fall apart now. Not with so much on the line.
Hermione turned to Slughorn, her voice low but urgent. "Professor, you said something earlier—about Dumbledore knowing how to heal a soul. Could there be a book he left behind? Notes? Anything?"
Slughorn eased himself into a chair, groaning a little under his own weight. His expression was thoughtful, touched with a hint of sorrow.
"It's possible," he said slowly. "Dumbledore had a vast collection of books, many of them quite rare. But he was also a man of secrets. He may have come across that knowledge during his travels—or heard it from someone long ago. It's hard to say."
Ron sat up straighter, a flicker of determination sparking in his chest. "Then we need to check his office. If there's even the slightest chance something's there, we can't ignore it. We need to do something."
Hermione met his gaze, nodding. She understood. They couldn't just sit and wait. Not when Harry's life—his soul—might be slipping through their fingers.
Slughorn gave a tired sigh and looked between them. "That's one option," he agreed.
The room fell silent for a moment, filled only with the faint hum of summer outside.
Hermione's eyes locked onto Slughorn's, her voice trembling with a desperate plea. "Professor, if the book we need is still in Professor Dumbledore's office, do you think Professor McGonagall would allow us to borrow it? It belongs to Professor Dumbledore himself." She hesitated, her gaze unwavering, a flicker of hope pushing through the tension in her voice. "I know it's a lot to ask, but could you please try to find the book for us? It may contain vital information—something that could help Harry."
Slughorn didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted past her, landing somewhere beyond the room, as if trying to summon the past from memory. The lines on his face deepened, and for a long moment, the silence pressed in on them like a closing door.
Ron shifted beside Hermione, the wood beneath the couch creaking quietly. His hand found hers again, wordless but steady.
Finally, Slughorn spoke, his tone calm and careful. "I believe I could, Miss Granger. Minerva likely wouldn't mind. She's always trusted your judgement." His brow furrowed slightly. "But Albus's library was vast and… unusual. It may take time to locate what you're searching for."
Hermione nodded quickly, too quickly, as if afraid the agreement might dissolve. "Of course. We understand. Any help—any at all—means everything to us."
For the first time in what felt like hours, a tiny smile touched her lips. It wasn't much, just the barest curl of relief, but it was something.
Slughorn's expression softened, and the stiffness in his posture relaxed just enough to show that her hope had moved him. "You're good friends," he said gently. "Brave and loyal. Albus always admired that in you."
He sighed, slow and deliberate, before easing himself up from the old chair. His joints protested with a quiet groan, and he leaned briefly on the backrest for support. "I'm afraid I must be off now. But I'll do what I can. If I find anything—anything at all—I'll bring it to you."
"Thank you, Professor," Hermione whispered, her voice catching. She stood with him, clasping her hands tightly in front of her chest. "Truly. Thank you."
Ron gave a respectful nod, unable to summon the words. His gratitude was clear in his eyes.
Slughorn gave them a final nod, one filled with quiet solemnity, then turned toward the kitchen. The flickering emerald light of the Floo Network was already glowing in the hearth, casting eerie shadows across the walls. As he stepped inside the fireplace, he gave them one last look—almost like a silent understanding.
And then, with a swirl of green flame, he was gone.
Silence fell like a heavy curtain. The house, once full of footsteps and conversation, now felt too still, too quiet. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed louder than it had any right to be.
Ron sank back into the couch, shoulders slumping under the weight of everything they didn't yet know.
Hermione stood a moment longer, watching the fire die down to ordinary orange embers, her thoughts spinning.
"What if he doesn't find anything?" Ron said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "What if there is no book or nothing that can help?"
Hermione turned, her expression tired but resolute. "Then we keep looking. Somewhere, somehow… there has to be something. We're not giving up."
Ron nodded slowly, though the knot in his chest remained tight. "Yeah," he muttered. "I just… I don't want to lose him, Hermione."
Her eyes filled with quiet sadness as she stepped over and lowered herself beside him again. "Neither do I."
The Burrow sat under a heavy blanket of grief. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the creak of the old floorboards and the occasional sigh that escaped weary lungs. Word of Harry's condition had spread quickly, and with it came a storm of dread that none could shake.
Molly sat hunched at the kitchen table, her fingers wringing a handkerchief until it was soaked through. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale and drawn. Across from her, Arthur stood motionless, still in his Ministry robes, a crumpled letter trembling in his grasp. The words on the parchment blurred together, but the meaning was clear enough—Harry was slipping, and no one knew how to stop it.
Ron stood near the fireplace, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His jaw was clenched, his brow furrowed in helpless frustration. Beside him, Hermione hovered nervously, her hands twisting the hem of her jumper. Ginny leaned against the wall, her eyes fixed on the stairs, as if listening for any sound from above.
Upstairs, Harry lay curled beneath a heavy quilt, but there was no comfort to be found in its warmth. His body trembled with pain, muscles seizing at random as waves of agony pulsed through him. The sleeping potion Molly had given him had dulled the worst of it for a little while, but now he drifted in and out of restless half-sleep. Every sharp inhale was followed by a stifled groan. His hands gripped the sheets, knuckles white with strain.
Back in the kitchen, Arthur finally spoke, his voice low and careful. "Is he asleep?"
Molly nodded, though her lips quivered as she answered. "Sort of. The potion's wearing off. He stirs every few minutes—whimpers, even in sleep. I—I don't think he can bear much more of this."
Arthur sank into the chair beside her, the paper still clutched in his hand. "Maybe… maybe it's time we took him to St. Mungo's. They might be able to help, or at least ease his suffering."
"No," Ron said sharply, stepping forward. "He wouldn't want that."
Arthur looked up at his son, his expression tight with worry. "Ron, this is serious. He needs care—proper care."
"I know," Ron replied, more gently 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 poke and prod and try everything anyway, but the pain—it'll still come back."
Molly's lips parted in disbelief. "So you're saying we just… keep him here? Let him suffer while we hope something turns up?"
Hermione stepped forward, her voice trembling. "We're not giving up, Mrs. Weasley. We just—we need more time. Slughorn's out searching, and once he's back, we'll try something else. Anything else. But for now… Harry trusts us. He didn't want to be turned into a case study."
"And if Slughorn never comes back?" Molly demanded, her voice cracking. "If there is no cure? Are we just going to sit here and watch him waste away?"
A silence fell over the room like a shroud.
"No," Ron said, finally. "We're going to find a way. Even if it takes everything we've got."
Hermione suddenly straightened, as if struck by an idea. Her eyes lit up—not with joy, but with purpose. "Harry's books," she murmured. "The ones you found, Ron.
She turned, already moving toward the stairs.
"Where are you going?" Ron called after her.
"To his room," Hermione said firmly. "I'll start there. Maybe there's something we missed. Something no healer would think to look for."
Ron rose halfway from her chair, torn between protest and hope. "Be careful. Don't wake him."
"I won't," Hermione promised. "But I need to do something. We all do."
As Hermione disappeared upstairs, the silence returned—but this time, it was tinged with something faint, something fragile. Not quite hope. But not despair, either.
Just determination.
Hermione, Ron, and Ginny sat huddled around a low table in the sitting room, surrounded by Harry's borrowed library books. The lamplight cast a golden hue over their tired faces, highlighting the lines of worry etched deep into their brows.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the soft rustle of turning pages and the occasional sigh of frustration. For hours, they had combed through texts, searching desperately for any mention of Horcruxes or how to repair a damaged soul. But their hopes were dwindling fast. Most of the books barely scratched the surface of souls, offering only vague theories or basic descriptions of magical ailments they'd long since memorised.
"This is useless," Ron muttered, snapping his book shut with a thud. "Every page says the same thing. Potions, spells, meditation—none of it even comes close to what Harry needs." He pushed the book aside with a frustrated shove. "Why is all the real information locked away? People are suffering, and they just hide it!"
Hermione didn't even flinch at the outburst. She simply lifted her head from her own book and fixed Ron with a tired, patient look. "Because it's dangerous," she said evenly. "What do 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 soft but firm. "She's right. Horcruxes are dark magic—probably the darkest. It makes sense they'd keep anything about fixing that kind of damage hidden away."
Ron groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Yeah, but it's not like we're trying to make Horcruxes. We're trying to fix someone. Help someone. You'd think there'd be something."
Hermione closed her book more gently, her fingers resting lightly on its worn cover. "There probably is," she said quietly. "But not here. Not in these books. Not in this house."
Ron stood abruptly, pacing back and forth. His frustration boiled just beneath the surface, too loud to contain. "So where? Where are the answers? Slughorn's been gone for hours and hasn't sent a word. And the books we really need? They're just sitting in Dumbledore's office. Probably gathering dust. What's taking so long?"
"Give him time," Ginny said softly, trying to calm him. "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 cracked before he could finish the sentence.
"Don't," Ginny cut in, her tone sharp. "Don't say that."
Ron stopped pacing, folding his arms tight across his chest, looking both defensive and ashamed. "But it's true," he muttered. "He's lying up there in pain, and we're down here reading the same useless pages over and over. It feels like we're doing nothing."
Hermione spoke then, her voice tight and low. "We're doing what we can. And hoping Slughorn comes back soon is all we can do. I've been in Dumbledore's office—it's enormous, filled floor to ceiling with books, many of them unlabelled or written in languages no one reads anymore. Slughorn could be searching all night."
Ron slumped back down onto the sofa, rubbing his temples. "I wish we could go help him. Or at least do something."
"Maybe we can," Hermione said slowly, her eyes narrowing with thought. "What if I try a Summoning Charm? Like I did with the Horcrux books last time."
Ron perked up. "You think that could work?"
She hesitated. "Maybe. But this is different. The Horcrux books were drawn to me because I was actively researching them before. A book on soul healing… that's a lot less specific."
"But worth trying," Ron pressed. "If there's even a chance—"
"I'll try," Hermione agreed, though her tone was cautious. "But we have to be realistic. If healing a soul was easy, it would already be common knowledge. The damage a Horcrux causes—it's not just magical, it's moral. It tears something essential inside you. And fixing that…" She trailed off, her expression grave. "Fixing that might require something just as powerful. Maybe even dangerous."
Ron's brow furrowed. "You mean like… dark magic?"
Hermione shook her head quickly. "No. I'd never go there. But powerful magic always has a cost. We just have to hope it's one we can pay without crossing any lines."
There was a long pause.
"I'll pay it," Ginny said suddenly, her voice steady. "Whatever it is. Whatever it takes. I'll do it."
Ron turned to her, startled. "Ginny—"
She held his gaze. "I mean it."
Hermione smiled, pride flickering through her exhaustion. "I believe you."
Ginny glanced at Ron, raising an eyebrow. "What about you, big brother? Going to back out on us?"
Ron huffed. "Of course not. You'll need someone strong."
Hermione laughed—a real laugh, light and sudden. Ginny joined in a second later, the sound like sunlight through storm clouds. For a moment, the tension lifted. Just for a moment.
"We're more than capable of handling this," Hermione said with a wink. "Even without a strong man."
Ron rolled his eyes but grinned in spite of himself. "You two are insufferable."