The rain hadn't let up all night. It pattered steadily against the windowpanes, a dull, relentless rhythm that echoed the ache deep in Harry's chest. Morning arrived shrouded in grey, the sky sagging low and heavy, pressing on the Burrow like a weight.
Harry blinked awake to a sharp, splintering pain behind his eyes. His head throbbed, as though someone had split it clean down the middle. Even the faint light filtering through the curtains was too much. Each breath scraped like gravel in his throat. His hands trembled as he fumbled for his glasses, barely managing to slide them on.
His stomach lurched unpleasantly. Lifting his head from the pillow felt like heaving a boulder uphill. Come on. Move. Just move. It took nearly all his strength just to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. When he finally stood, the floor rocked beneath him like the deck of a ship. Cold sweat clung to his skin.
Each step down the stairs was a battle. His knees threatened to buckle, and he clung tightly to the banister, jaw clenched. Halfway down, he caught a flash of red hair—Ginny. Her face lit up the moment she saw him, but her eyes betrayed her: fear, uncertainty, and something else—guilt, perhaps.
"Harry!" she whispered, hurrying up to meet him. She grasped his arm, firm and steady. "You should still be in bed. You look dreadful."
He wanted to quip, 'Do I ever look good?' but his mouth was dry, his thoughts scattered and sluggish. Instead, he gave her a faint smile, grateful for the support. She stayed close as she guided him down the last few steps, her presence solid and steadying.
The kitchen was quiet, save for the occasional clink of cutlery. All eyes turned to him the instant he appeared. Ron froze, mid-bite. Hermione's wide, worried gaze met his. Mrs Weasley, lingering by the stove, looked up sharply. Mr Weasley, thankfully, had already gone to work.
Harry's legs wobbled as he approached the table. Ginny didn't let go until he'd sunk heavily into the chair between Ron and Hermione. Even sitting upright felt like an enormous effort.
Hermione leant in at once, her voice low and urgent. "Harry, are you alright?"
He pressed his fingers to his temple. They were ice-cold, and the pain behind his eyes hadn't eased. "Just a headache," he muttered, though the words landed like stones. It wasn't just a headache. It was wrong. Something inside him was wrong.
Mrs Weasley appeared by his side with a plate piled high with toast and sausages. "Feeling peckish, dear?" she asked, forcing a brightness into her voice.
Harry nodded out of habit and accepted the plate, though the sight of food made his stomach twist uncomfortably. He couldn't bring himself to refuse—not after everything she'd done for him. He picked at the toast, hoping the gesture alone might convince them he was fine.
But he wasn't fine. Not at all.
He glanced around the table. Ron was fidgeting. Hermione gnawed her bottom lip. Ginny hadn't sat down—she hovered behind him, still poised to catch him should he topple again. Their stares pressed against him, too much to bear.
"I—How are you two?" he asked suddenly, desperate to shift the focus. "You alright?"
Hermione sat up quickly, seizing the change of subject at once. "Yes! I'm staying here for the rest of the summer," she said brightly. "Mum and Dad finally agreed—though it took some convincing."
The corner of Harry's mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. He remembered how fiercely she'd protected them during the war, remembered the painful choice she'd made to keep them safe. "How are they?" he asked softly.
"They're wonderful," Hermione said, her eyes glistening. "I brought them back after the war. It's like—like nothing ever happened." Her voice wobbled just slightly. "I missed them so much."
Harry gave her a genuine smile. It warmed something cold inside him.
Mrs Weasley turned to her, fondness softening her features. "Will you be going back to Hogwarts, dear? To finish your studies?"
Hermione nodded firmly. "Yes. I want to graduate properly. Take my N.E.W.T.s."
Harry caught the flicker of pride in Mrs Weasley's eyes—though it hardened a moment later when she turned to Ron.
"You really ought to follow Hermione's example," she said sharply. "You can't avoid responsibility forever, Ronald."
Ron groaned, rolling his eyes. "Mum, we helped beat Voldemort. Doesn't that count for something?"
He shot Harry a look. "Right? Back me up here, mate."
Harry blinked, head spinning. The pressure behind his eyes had worsened—thick and unrelenting. Even keeping them open was an effort.
"Yeah, sure," he mumbled, unable to meet Ron's gaze. His voice sounded flat, distant, as though it belonged to someone else.
Mrs Weasley sighed, clearly at the end of her patience. "That's not the point, Ronald."
Ron folded his arms across his chest. "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 hearing the words Death Eaters stirred something inside him—something heavy, sour, and cold.
Mrs Weasley noticed the change immediately. "Harry, love," she asked softly, "are you feeling well enough to eat?"
He gave the smallest shake of his head, eyes closed. "Sorry… I think I need to lie down," he murmured, the words barely audible.
Mrs Weasley was already moving towards him. "Of course, dear."
He tried to stand, but the moment he did, the room tilted sharply. His knees gave way, and a surge of dizziness swept through him.
Not again.
His breath caught. Panic coiled tight in his chest.
Then strong arms caught him—Ron's. Steady. Solid.
"Whoa—easy, mate," Ron said, holding him upright.
Harry leant into him, shame gnawing at his insides. "Sorry… I just… I don't know what's wrong."
"It's alright," Ron murmured, voice firm. "You don't have to explain."
Hermione and Ginny were already moving. "The sofa," Hermione said quickly. "Don't make him go back upstairs."
Ginny rushed ahead, fluffing the cushions, clearing a space. Ron guided Harry to the sofa, easing him down with careful hands. The ceiling spun wildly above him, and he clenched his jaw against the rising nausea.
Ginny returned with a blanket, draping it over him with gentle precision. Her hand lingered on his for a heartbeat longer before she sat beside him, her eyes never leaving his face.
Across the room, Hermione and Ron sat down, silent, watching, tense.
Mrs Weasley knelt beside him once more, pressing a cool hand to his forehead. Her mouth drew into a thin line.
"Fever," she muttered, half to herself.
But Harry barely heard her. The pressure in his skull was mounting—throbbing, twisting. The dark knot inside him tightened.
He stared up at the ceiling, willing himself to breathe through the panic pressing against his ribs.
Everything felt heavy. His limbs, his breath, his very bones.
With a low groan, Harry forced his eyes open, the light stabbing into him like knives. His body felt wrong—clammy, trembling, leaden. He could hardly lift his head.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice was soft, laced with fear. She knelt close, brushing his damp fringe back from his forehead. "You're burning up. What's wrong?"
He wanted to answer, wanted to reassure her. But the nausea hit him too quickly, vicious and overwhelming.
"I—I think I'm gonna—"
The words barely left his mouth before he doubled over, clutching his middle as violent sickness wrenched through him.
The sound was awful—raw, choking, brutal. And once it began, he couldn't stop.
He heard someone gasp. Felt hands steadying him. The world pitched and rolled around him. His breath came too fast, ragged and shallow. The air felt thin, wrong.
Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. He was freezing one moment, burning the next.
"Ginny—towels and water, quickly," Mrs Weasley's voice rang out, sharp with urgency.
Harry kept heaving, though there was nothing left. His chest ached, his throat scorched. The room blurred and spun.
This is worse than before.
He couldn't breathe properly. His lungs felt crushed, desperate for air.
Ginny returned swiftly, kneeling beside him with a basin and fresh towels. Her face was pale, her jaw set as she dipped a cloth into the water and gently pressed it to his burning skin.
"You're alright. You're okay, Harry. Just breathe. Please." Her voice trembled.
He wanted to believe her.
But something inside him told him she wasn't telling the truth.
Then it got worse.
A strange pressure built in his chest—hot, sharp, unbearable. He coughed once. Then again, harder. A foul, metallic taste flooded his mouth.
And then he saw the blood.
Thick, dark drops splattered onto his shirt, each one vivid against the fabric.
He heard Mrs Weasley gasp—sharp, immediate—and the room fell deathly silent.
"Mum?" Ron's voice cracked, laced with panic. "What is it?"
Harry couldn't answer. His body convulsed again as he coughed harder, each spasm twisting his lungs like a sodden rag.
No—no, no, no—
Blood spilled over his chin, bright and terrible. His ribs seared with pain. Tears pricked his eyes as he doubled over, fists clenched tight around the cushions until his knuckles blanched.
It felt like something inside him was splitting apart.
Please—make it stop—
He didn't know how long it lasted. When it finally subsided, he sagged against the cushions, spent, his surroundings blurring at the edges. His ears rang. His head lolled back, light and distant, as though he might drift off and never wake.
Mrs Weasley dropped to her knees beside him, her hands trembling as she gently wiped the blood from his mouth. She worked in silence at first, her eyes glassy.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper: "Oh, Merlin… I can't bear to see him like this…"
Her voice cracked on the last word.
Harry wanted to tell her he was sorry—that he didn't mean to frighten them—but all that escaped was a shallow, ragged breath.
Mrs Weasley rose and hurried from the room, returning a moment later clutching a potion bottle. Her fingers shook as she uncorked it.
"Harry, love," she said softly, steadying his head with one hand. "Please—just drink this for me. It'll help."
The glass vial touched his lips. The potion was bitter, but he swallowed it down. Slowly, a cool sensation spread through his chest, easing the raw burn in his lungs. The pressure in his skull lessened; his breathing began to steady.
The room gradually stopped spinning.
He felt a faint pulse of magic wash over him as Mrs Weasley cast a diagnostic charm. Her brow furrowed, but after a tense moment, her shoulders sagged slightly.
"Vitals stabilising," she murmured, as though reassuring herself. "Thank goodness."
Harry let his head fall back against the cushions, utterly drained. The worst of it seemed to be passing.
But in the hollow of his stomach, dread churned.
Because he knew.
It wasn't over.
Ginny settled beside him again, her eyes never leaving his face. She slipped her hand into his, her grip firm, grounding him.
"This isn't the last time," she said quietly, as though voicing what they were all thinking. "It's getting worse."
Mrs Weasley turned to Ron and Hermione, who still stood frozen nearby. "If anything changes—anything—you come and find me straight away. Do you understand?" Her tone brooked no argument.
They both nodded at once.
Mrs Weasley gave Harry one last glance before hurrying out, but her footsteps dragged, heavy with worry.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Harry could feel their eyes on him—Ron, Hermione, Ginny—watching him like he might collapse again at any moment.
And perhaps he would.
Ron ran a hand through his hair, pacing near the window. "Where's Slughorn?" he muttered. "What's taking him so long?"
Harry closed his eyes. The taste of blood still lingered on his tongue.
Hermione perched on the edge of the sofa, her fingers twitching nervously in her lap. She looked like she wanted to speak but couldn't find the right words.
Suddenly, the fireplace roared to life in a swirl of green flames, and Professor Slughorn stumbled out, trailing soot and cinders.
Harry opened his eyes just in time to see Ron slam a glass of water down on the sideboard.
"Slughorn!"
"Good morning!" Slughorn panted, attempting cheerfulness but failing spectacularly. He was clutching a battered leather book—frayed at the edges, its spine cracked with age.
"I'm terribly sorry for the delay," he wheezed, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. "But—I've got it."
He placed the book carefully on the table. Hermione immediately leaned forward, her hand half-reaching for it. Ron stepped closer, his jaw tight.
But before either of them could so much as brush the cover—
Ginny's voice rang out, sharp and panicked.
"It's Harry!"
They turned.
Harry was doubled over again, clutching his chest, his breath rasping out in short, frantic bursts. Pain carved deep lines into his face.
And the fear came back—louder than ever.
It's happening again.
Ginny froze the moment her eyes fixed on Harry, and for a heartbeat, all the colour drained from her face.
"No," she whispered, stepping closer, her voice trembling. "No—this isn't right. I've seen this before…"
Without thinking, she dropped to her knees beside him. "Harry—Harry, is it the burning again? The same pain?" Her voice cracked. She reached out, but her hand hovered just above his arm, afraid she might make it worse.
Harry tried to look at her, to speak—but then the fire slammed into him again, sudden and brutal.
He screamed.
The sound tore from his throat, raw and jagged, like something being wrenched out of him. His back arched violently before he collapsed forward again, driving his fists into the cushions as though they could somehow absorb the agony.
"Ron, get your mum!" Hermione cried, panic rising fast. "NOW!"
The room wavered, slipping in and out of focus. A high, piercing ring filled Harry's ears—he didn't know whether it was real or just inside his head.
He couldn't even feel his body anymore—only pain. White-hot, endless, searing through him like acid. His magic was thrashing, wild and out of control, crackling just beneath his skin.
He couldn't hold onto it. He couldn't breathe.
A pair of hands gripped his—warm, steady. A voice followed, low and 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 burned. He sobbed into the sofa, his teeth clenched so hard he thought they might crack.
Please. Someone help me. I can't—I can't bear it—
Another wave of pain surged through him, deeper, sharper—like something inside was being torn out by force.
Make it stop. Please make it stop. Please—
"Harry!" Ginny's voice broke. "You're not alone! I'm right here—please—listen to me!"
But he couldn't. The room was slipping away. He was trapped—lost in some dark, roaring void where nothing existed but pain. His vision blurred, tears streaming down his face.
"Ron, help me hold him!" Mrs Weasley barked suddenly, her voice shaking.
Ron was already there, dropping to the floor 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—his body just wouldn't stop. His limbs jerked and twisted without his say. The fire raged on, spreading through him, burning everything in its path.
"It hurts!" Harry screamed. "Please—please help me! I can't—!"
The scream shattered the room like breaking glass. Ginny flinched. Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
Slughorn stood frozen, pale, useless.
"He's been like this before," Ginny said suddenly, barely audible, her voice splintering. "Hours sometimes… I—I didn't tell anyone. He made me promise not to…"
Mrs Weasley's head snapped towards her. "Ginny—why didn't you say something?"
"He was terrified, Mum," Ginny sobbed. "He made me promise. He didn't want anyone to see him like this. He didn't want to be alone."
Harry thought he might be dying.
His chest heaved in shallow, ragged gasps. Sweat soaked his skin. His clothes clung to him. The cushions beneath him were damp with tears and spit. His body didn't belong to him anymore—just a shell, wracked with pain.
No more. I can't. I can't—
"Can't we give him something?" Ron shouted. "A potion—anything?!"
Mrs Weasley's hands trembled now too. "He had a healing draught an hour ago—it's dangerous to give him more—"
"But he's screaming!" Ron shouted, frantic. "Mum—he's dying!"
And he wasn't wrong. It felt like something inside Harry was tearing, splintering apart, like his very soul was being ripped in two—again, and again, and again.
"Professor!" Ron shouted at Slughorn, desperate now. "Please—do something!"
Slughorn finally stepped forward, his face grey. "A Calming Draught… it might—it might take the edge off."
Mrs Weasley darted to the cabinet, nearly knocking over several bottles in her haste. She returned with a small glass phial, her fingers trembling.
"Harry, sweetheart—just a sip. Please."
But Harry couldn't respond. He couldn't hear her. The screams wouldn't stop. His body jolted again, wracked by another brutal spasm.
Hermione dropped to her knees beside him, tears streaming down her face. "Please, Harry. You have to drink this. You're not alone—we're all here. We love you, okay? Just—just hold on."
They held him still, carefully but firmly, forcing the phial to his lips. Some of the potion spilled, dribbling down his chin, but enough went in. He gagged on it, choked—but he swallowed.
It was bitter and cold, like swallowing ice through a mouth full of fire.
Slowly—achingly slowly—the edges of the pain began to soften. The storm inside him dulled, just enough for him to breathe. His screams broke into hoarse sobs, each one scraping rawly from his throat.
The burning didn't stop. The ache didn't vanish. But for the first time in what felt like hours, he wasn't completely drowning in it.
He lifted his head a fraction—barely.
Ginny was still there. She hadn't moved. Her eyes were locked onto his, her hand pressing tightly against his arm, as though she could hold him to the earth by sheer force of will.
And Harry clung to that.
He didn't know when the shaking stopped—only that his body had gone heavy, his limbs limp with exhaustion. Somewhere at the edge of his fading awareness, he felt Ron loosening his grip on his legs, releasing him slowly at Mrs Weasley's soft signal.
Every part of him ached with a strange, hollow weight, as though his bones had been replaced with lead. He let out a faint, broken whimper—the only sound he could manage.
Someone was calling his name—Mrs Weasley, he thought—but he couldn't answer. Couldn't lift his head. Couldn't move at all. The sheer effort of it seemed impossible.
Everything was still. The house had fallen into a suffocating silence, broken only by the rough, uneven sound of his breathing. No one else spoke. But he could sense them—Hermione, Ron, Ginny—nearby. Their presence flickered like distant candle flames. Small. Fragile. Almost gone.
It was over—whatever it was—but the terror clung to him like sweat. His body still trembled with it. His chest still tightened as though the pain might return at any moment.
Even now, with the worst behind him, he didn't feel safe.
He could still feel it—its mark on him, deep and indelible, as if it had carved itself into something far beneath his skin.
A soft rustle. Mrs Weasley was beside him again, her movements slow, careful. She tucked the blanket around him, smoothing it over his shoulders with trembling hands, as though afraid he might shatter at her touch.
Harry let out a low groan, his eyelids fluttering briefly. For a fleeting second, he saw the lines etched into her face, the fear in her eyes—then pain surged again, forcing them shut.
A hot shudder passed through him. He clenched his jaw, biting back another cry.
He hated this. The weakness. The helplessness. The betrayal of his own body. He hated the way it dragged him back—to being small, to being scared, to that old place where he was nothing more than a frightened boy curled up in the dark, hoping that someone would come.
"I can't even imagine how many times Harry's gone through something like this."
Ron's voice broke through the silence—low, hesitant. "If he usually manages to bear it… then what just happened must've been…"
He didn't finish. He didn't have to. Harry could hear it all in his voice—the fear, the guilt, the helpless horror.
I didn't want you to see me like this, Harry thought bitterly, his chest tightening. I didn't want any of you to.
Beside him, Mrs Weasley shifted. He heard her soft intake of breath just before the cool press of a damp flannel touched his forehead. He flinched at the sudden chill.
Fever. Of course. He could feel it now, burning behind his eyes, clinging to his skin like fire soaked into every pore. He was too hot. Then too cold. Caught somewhere between the two, like his body couldn't decide which way to break.
Mrs Weasley exhaled shakily and settled into the chair next to him. He could feel the weight of her gaze—fierce and unyielding, the look of a mother ready to take on death itself. He wanted to thank her. Wanted to say I'm sorry you have to see me like this. But the words refused to come.
The silence swelled again, thick and heavy, as though the air itself had turned to fog—suffocating, unmoveable.
Why won't the fever break?
His thoughts blurred in and out of focus. Why won't it stop hurting?
Every breath scraped through his lungs like sandpaper. His skin felt stretched too tight, every inch of him twitching with each pulse of heat. The worst had passed—he knew that—but the memory of the pain clung to him like smoke, refusing to leave. Just enough to remind him how close he'd come.
Only moments ago, he'd been lost in it. Buried. Drowning beneath wave after wave of fire and panic, until he couldn't even remember where he was, or who he was. He'd bitten his tongue to stop screaming. Dug his nails into the fabric of the sofa. Anything to hold on. Anything to stay here.
Because somewhere in the deepest part of him, he'd believed: This is it. This is the moment I don't come back from.
And what frightened him most wasn't the dying.
It was leaving them.
Ron. Hermione. Ginny.
What would happen if he let go? Who would it hurt? Who would carry the weight?
He couldn't do that to them.
So he'd held on. Even when it felt like his body was being torn apart from the inside. Even when every breath was like dragging fire into his lungs.
Now, with the heat still pulsing through him and his head spinning, he blinked up through eyes half-closed. There were faces above him—blurry, shadowed, but familiar. Their expressions were tight with fear. Their mouths moved, saying something he couldn't quite catch. But they were there.
Still here, he thought, and his heart gave a faint throb. They didn't leave.
That thought eased something deep within him. Not enough to smile. Not enough to speak.
But enough to let go.
Darkness crept in again—soft this time, and heavy like a blanket. His eyes closed. His body sank. And Harry let himself fall.
Slughorn stood by the window, his arms folded tightly across his chest. His gaze drifted towards the horizon, but he didn't really see it. His mind was lost in a storm of old regrets and memories that clung like ivy.
What have you done, Tom?
The words slipped out in a faint murmur, scarcely more than breath. His voice was thick with guilt, heavy with the weight of too many years.
"Harry… he doesn't deserve this. None of it. He's just a boy. He should be worrying about Quidditch matches and exams… not fighting shadows left behind by my past."
Behind him, Hermione lingered quietly, brow furrowed with concern. She could hear the ache in his voice—the burden he'd never truly laid down. After a moment's hesitation, she stepped forward carefully.
"Professor," she said gently, her tone soft but firm. "Harry's resting now. Maybe it's time we went through the book together. Perhaps… there's something in there that can help."
Slughorn flinched, as though yanked back to the present. He straightened slightly and turned to face her, blinking as though shaking off a fog. For a brief second, a faint flicker of his usual charm returned.
"Yes. Yes, of course," he said, clearing his throat. "We mustn't waste time."
Hermione nodded. Ron and Ginny trailed after them as they moved back to the worn wooden kitchen table—the heart of the Burrow—though it now bore far weightier things than pots of tea and plates of toast.
"I went straight to the Headmaster's office yesterday," Slughorn began, lowering himself into a chair with a soft grunt. "Directly from the Burrow—no detours."
"Did you speak to Professor Dumbledore?" Hermione asked quietly, as though afraid to disturb the fragile calm that had settled over the room.
"I did," Slughorn said, nodding slowly. His gaze turned distant again, wistful. "He was there, in his portrait, looking down at me. He seemed… surprised. But not entirely. As if, somehow, he'd been waiting."
Ron leant forward, curiosity sharpening his features. "Hang on—he knew why you'd gone to him? How could he?"
A faint smile tugged at Slughorn's mouth. "You forget who he was, Mr Weasley. Dumbledore always noticed things the rest of us missed. When I reached for the book on his shelf, he gave me that look—one of his knowing ones. As though he'd been expecting it all along."
Ginny's brow creased, her curiosity cutting through her lingering worry. "And? What did he say?"
Slughorn hesitated, his fingers grazing the edge of the book that now lay between them. "Nothing. Not a word. But I could feel it—the message was there, whether he spoke it or not. It took me hours to break the enchantment he'd placed on it."
Ron frowned. "But if he knew you'd come for it, why enchant it so heavily? Why not just leave it out for you?"
Hermione crossed her arms, huffing faintly. "Isn't it obvious, Ron? He wanted it protected. In case it ever ended up in the wrong hands."
Ron flushed. "Yeah, I knew that," he muttered, glancing away.
A quiet moment passed, heavy with the weight of what they all now faced.
"I never thought I'd need to look at this book," Slughorn admitted, his voice lower, rawer. "When Dumbledore told me what Tom had done—how far he'd gone—I was horrified. I shut the door on all of it. Locked it away. I couldn't bear to face it. And while I turned my back, Dumbledore protected the book. Hid it. Trusted that perhaps… one day, someone would come looking."
Ginny's voice wavered slightly. "But why did it take so long to break the spell? I thought you were the best at this sort of thing."
Slughorn gave a weary sigh, his shoulders sinking as though the weight of it all had finally caught up with him. "Because, after Dumbledore died… the enchantment changed. His death sealed it. Hardened it. Almost made it unbreakable. But I got through. At last."
His gaze dropped to the book in front of them, resting in the centre of the table like something half-asleep but dangerous all the same.
"And now," he murmured, almost to himself, "we have this."
The volume was unlike anything they'd ever seen. Its white cover gleamed like pearl, catching the pale morning light with an odd, ghostly shimmer. Gold letters spelled out Anima across the front, encircled by delicate silver engravings that pulsed faintly, as though they were alive.
Hermione reached out, her fingertips brushing the intricate designs. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "Too beautiful for something that holds such dark truths."
Ron peered at the title, squinting. "What's Anima mean, then?"
"Latin," Slughorn replied quietly. "It means 'soul'."
"Well, that's not ominous at all," Ron muttered, eyeing the book as though it might bite.
Hermione huffed, though the worry in her brow remained. "The designs are symbolic. They're not meant to be taken literally, Ron."
"Yeah, well… if that's what souls look like, I reckon I'd rather not see mine," he said, folding his arms.
Ginny sat nearby on a low stool, her gaze never leaving the strange, glimmering book. It didn't feel evil—not exactly—but it didn't belong here, either. Not in the warm, familiar safety of the Burrow. There was a weight to it, something that pressed against her ribs and made it harder to breathe.
Hermione tilted her head, still studying it with curiosity. "Professor, is the whole book in Latin?"
"No," said Slughorn, carefully flipping open the cover. The brittle pages crackled as they turned, yellowed and worn. "It's mostly in Old English. Some sections are untranslated. I couldn't tell you where it came from—it's older than anything I've studied. Older, I daresay, than the Horcrux work we've seen before."
He paused, tapping one long, weathered finger against the page. "Dumbledore believed this book was the beginning. The first source. He thought this—" his finger traced the text "—was where the earliest ideas about splitting the soul began. That the soul's very nature made it… vulnerable."
Ron leaned in, hastily flicking through the next few pages. "There's no author. No notes. Who wrote this thing?"
"The name doesn't matter," Ginny said quietly, pulling the book back towards the centre of the table. Her voice was soft but resolute. "What matters is what's in it. What it can tell us. It might be the only chance we've got to help Harry."
Ron's hands curled into fists on the tabletop, his knuckles white. "Then it'd better tell us something. Because if this is all we've got—if this is it—then we need answers. Fast."
Hermione swallowed hard. When she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet they could barely hear her. "Right."
Slughorn turned the fragile pages slowly, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. At last, he stopped and rotated the book to face them. The old script sat stark against the familiar checkered tablecloth.
Ginny leant forward to read aloud, her voice steady but faint:
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 brow creased. "What's that mean—'marked the same as the other'?"
Silence.
Ginny's breath caught in her throat. Her face drained of colour. She turned to Hermione, but the calm, collected expression Hermione had worked so hard to maintain had splintered. Her hand trembled as she reached out to steady herself against the edge of the table.
Only last night they'd been whispering plans—reckless, hopeful things. Now those plans felt like broken glass scattered across the floor, sharp and useless.
The air in the kitchen seemed colder somehow.
Hermione forced herself to speak, though her voice came out hoarse. "It means… if we try to mend Harry's soul—and we fail… the magic might not just reject him. It might… it might destroy us as well. Like we'd already been marked. As if we were broken, too."
No one spoke for a long while.
The book lay motionless in the centre of the table, heavy with its terrible possibilities. And Harry's future—their future—was no longer simply uncertain.
It was terrifying.