The air in Harry's room at the Burrow had the peculiar quality of something holding its breath. It hung, thick and still, as though the walls themselves were eavesdropping. It smelled faintly of warm floorboards, of that evening's leftover stew, and that familiar crackle of magic which lingered stubbornly in places where too much had happened.
Outside, the wind rustled the trees, hissing as though it knew something and wasn't about to tell. Inside, Harry lay on his back upon the lumpy bed, his fingers loosely entwined with Ginny's. Her thumb traced idle circles over his knuckles—absent, steady, comforting.
If he focused only on that—just her touch—he could almost believe that things were fine. Not normal; that ship had long since sunk. But fine enough. The sort of fine that would hold, so long as he didn't move too much or think too hard.
He didn't feel safe. Not truly. But this was close enough. A borrowed sort of safety, snatched from the silence.
The others were nearby—mere feet away—but their voices seemed distant, muffled as though they were speaking from behind frosted glass.
Ron sat hunched in the sagging armchair, one foot tapping a violent rhythm on the floorboards as if he meant to drill straight through to the kitchen below. He looked ready to bolt. Or explode. Or, perhaps, to do both at once—which would undoubtedly make quite a mess.
Harry tilted his head slightly on the pillow, feigning rest. But of course, he was listening. He always listened now.
"…can't let Harry find out about our attempts—at least, not yet," Hermione whispered, low and urgent.
Harry's stomach gave an uncomfortable twist.
Attempts?
Attempts at what? Were they trying to fix him? Were they still trying to unravel the last tangle of the Horcrux inside him? Trying to coat him in protective enchantments and hope it would hold?
His grip tightened slightly around Ginny's hand. She glanced at him, brows lifting in question, but he turned his face away. He didn't want her to see the panic quietly flaring behind his eyes.
Hermione had begun pacing again. Harry was surprised the rug hadn't worn through by now. She always did this when something big was coming.
"Right," she said at last, with the brisk, tight-lipped tone of someone announcing something rather dreadful. "First ingredient: Thestral hair."
Harry blinked. That was… unexpected.
He pushed himself up a little on his elbows. "Thestrals? How are we meant to get that?"
Hermione hesitated, which was never encouraging. She brushed her fingers absently along the edge of an ancient, dusty book, as though hoping it might yield a better answer if she coaxed it gently.
"It has to come from a wild Thestral," she said at last. "Not one raised in captivity. And, obviously… not everyone can see them."
Harry frowned, thinking hard.
"I know someone who can help," he said after a moment, hope beginning to spark faintly in his chest.
"Hagrid?" Ron guessed, looking up.
"Exactly," Harry said. "If anyone can get close to them—or knows how to convince a Thestral to part with a lock of hair—it's him."
Ron gave a small nod. For a fleeting moment, he actually looked relieved. Almost proud. But then the expression faltered, and guilt slipped across his face like mist curling beneath a door.
Harry caught it, of course. He noticed everything now. Ever since Ron had admitted he'd been reading the soul books—books Ron wasn't supposed to know about—things had shifted. He trusted them. He did. But trust didn't stop the low pulse of dread from building in his chest.
Ginny gave him a look—quiet, certain, far too good for him. The kind of look you gave to heroes in stories, not boys with tattered souls and too many fractures to count.
He wanted to deserve that look. Desperately.
But Hermione's voice cut across his thoughts.
"Even if we get the hair," she said carefully, "that's only the first step. The ritual is… extremely advanced."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "And?"
Hermione paused.
And Hermione Granger never paused unless it was going to be awful.
Ron swooped in too quickly. "Let's just take it one step at a time, yeah?" His voice cracked, thin and brittle. He cleared his throat, trying for casual—it only made it worse.
Harry gave them both a long look. He didn't press. Not yet. But he clocked it. They were hiding something. Again.
"Fine," he muttered. "What's next?"
Hermione flicked through the book, her fingers moving like she was hunting for something that might save them. "A piece of the doorway where life departs," she read, voice tight.
Harry frowned. "Sorry—what?"
Ron groaned, dragging his hand down his face. "Brilliant. Just once—just once—I'd like a magical recipe that says 'add a pinch of salt and stir twice,' not 'nick something from death's doorstep.'"
Harry let out a dry laugh. "What's next? 'Collect a phoenix's tear after a bad break-up'?"
Ginny leant in, brow creased. "Could it mean a portkey? Or a portal, maybe?"
Hermione shook her head. "No. It's metaphorical. Or… it could be literal. Possibly both. That's the problem."
"Right," Ron muttered. "So now we're translating riddles written by death himself. Brilliant."
Ginny pressed on. "What about ghosts? Would they know?"
Harry glanced at her. There was something in her voice—hope, careful and fragile, like she was afraid of it. The dangerous kind.
Hermione's answer was soft. "They wouldn't still be here if they knew how to leave. Ghosts are imprints. Echoes. They're stuck. They don't know where the door is."
Ron leant in, voice low now. "There's got to be a way to talk to the dead."
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Harry's did too.
He thought of his parents. Sirius. Lupin. Names that still sat heavy in his bones. People he'd lost. People who might have known what to do.
The silence stretched.
Ginny's hand found his, her grip firm.
He didn't say anything.
But the thought lodged itself in his chest—cold, strange, impossible to shake.
A way to speak to the dead.
A doorway where life departs.
Somehow, he knew he'd find it.
Hermione met his eyes, and there was something there—a warning, and something like quiet, desperate hope. "There is… one way," she said, barely above a whisper. "But it's ancient. Dangerous. Practically lost."
Harry's stomach turned. Her voice made the ground feel less certain, like the floor might just drop out from under him.
Ron's eyes widened. "You mean… the Resurrection Stone?"
Hermione gave a single, sombre nod.
The air shifted. The room felt colder, as if something had crept in and settled between them. Harry's chest tightened, as though invisible ropes had drawn taut around his ribs.
The Resurrection Stone.
For a second, he was there again—the Forbidden Forest. The stone, warm in his hand. His mother's voice. His father's eyes. Lupin's quiet sorrow. Sirius's smile, like nothing had changed. And then they were gone, scattered like mist in the wind.
He swallowed. "It's gone," he said quietly. "I dropped it. On purpose."
"I know," Hermione said softly. "But if there were clues—if we could work out where it landed—"
"No." Too quick, too sharp. "No chasing it. Not again."
Silence dropped over them, heavy as stone.
They were all so tired. Tired of the chase. Tired of old stories and worse truths. Tired of pretending the fight was over when everything still felt like it was falling apart.
"Maybe…" Ron began, but his voice faltered. "Maybe there's another way?"
It sounded like he didn't believe it himself.
Harry didn't answer. He couldn't. He just leaned back against the cushions beside Ginny and stared up at the ceiling. The shadows overhead shifted with the firelight, long and thin like ghosts.
His thoughts tumbled over one another until they blurred into noise.
Too many pieces. Too many gaps. Too many things slipping through his fingers.
And the worst part?
He could feel it happening—his friends quietly pulling away. Not unkindly. Not deliberately. Just… getting ready. Planning. Preparing for a fight that, maybe, wouldn't have room for him.
And maybe—deep down—he knew they were right.
He hadn't realised how long he'd been staring until something jolted through his memory—sharp, sudden, electric.
That night.
The whispers.
The Veil.
He saw it again—the stone archway deep in the Department of Mysteries, cold and ancient, older than words. Sirius falling through it, silent as ash on the wind. Gone in a breath.
Everyone had said he'd died, but Harry had always wondered—what if it hadn't been death, exactly?
What if it had been a threshold?
A line from the Anima book floated back to him: a piece of the doorway where life departs.
It struck him like lightning.
He shot upright.
"Yes!"
The word tore out of him before he could stop it, echoing through the room like someone had just set off a Stunning Spell in the middle of the library.
Hermione froze mid-step, eyes wide. Ron's biscuit hovered halfway to his mouth. Ginny blinked, her chin still resting on her hand. They all stared at him.
Hermione was the first to find her voice. "Harry?"
He could barely get the words out quickly enough. "The Veil. In the Department of Mysteries. It's real—it's not just a metaphor. That's the doorway. That's what the ingredient means."
For a moment, Hermione just stared, frowning in confusion—then her eyes lit up, like a fire had just caught. "Of course… Harry, that actually makes sense. Why didn't I think of that?"
"Don't know," he said, breathless. "It just came back to me. Sirius—when he fell through. I always thought he died straight away."
Ron pulled a face like he'd just swallowed a Dungbomb. "You mean that creepy whispering arch? The one where Sirius—?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah."
Ginny leant forward, her voice soft, uncertain. "Do you remember anything else? From that day?"
Harry sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Bits. It's all muddled—like someone dropped the memory in a cracked Pensieve. But this part—this feels right. I know it does."
He sat straighter, feeling something fizz under his skin—energy, sharp and restless. The first spark he'd felt in hours.
"So that's it. That's the second ingredient. A piece of the doorway. But—do we literally have to break off a bit of it? Isn't that probably cursed? Or illegal? Or both? And how are we supposed to get back in there?"
Hermione was already pacing, her brow furrowed in thought. "The Death Chamber's on Level Nine of the Ministry. Department of Mysteries. You take the lift, then through the black door—no windows, no handles. The room's circular, echoey. The doors only open when you speak to them. It's… it's like nothing else."
Ron folded his arms. "Sounds charming. Should we bring sandwiches or just write our wills now?"
Ginny brightened. "Dad could help. Or Percy. Dad used to work there—he might still know ways in. And he knows about the Veil."
Ron groaned. "Percy? Seriously? That bloke couldn't find his own wand with a map."
Ginny shot him a warning look. "He's changed. He gave up his room so Harry could stay. He's trying. That's got to count for something."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Trying doesn't mean he's suddenly useful. He still quotes Ministry regulations when Mum asks him to pass the salt."
"Let's not get sidetracked," Hermione said, firm now. "Ginny's right. We'll need help. Someone inside. And yes"—she turned to Harry, her voice deadly serious—"I think it does mean exactly that. We need to take a piece of the Veil. Somehow."
Ron looked appalled. "Right. Let me make sure I've got this. You want me to drink a potion made from shredded death's curtain, Thestral hair, and what—ashes from a phoenix having a midlife crisis?"
The laugh burst out of Harry before he could stop it—rough and cracked, but real all the same.
"You'll be fine," he said, smirking. "It's not like we're eating it raw."
They turned their attention to the next clue.
"A tear from a guise to obscure from demise."
Ron squinted at it like it had just insulted his mother. "What in Merlin's saggy Y-fronts does that mean?"
Hermione sighed, already slipping into explanation mode. "A 'guise' is a disguise. 'To obscure' means to hide. 'Demise'—death."
Ron frowned. "Right. So basically, a tear from something that hides you from dying?"
Harry felt the answer slot into place before he even said it. It settled in his chest like something waiting for them to catch up.
His throat tightened. "That sounds like… the Invisibility Cloak."
The silence that followed was one of those rare moments where none of them wanted to be the first to admit it—but they all knew he was right.
Ron broke it first. "Wait. Yeah. Yeah, it does."
Hermione nodded slowly, her grip tightening on the edge of the book. "It could be. The Cloak's one of the Hallows. The only one that actually hides you from Death."
Ginny leant in. "Where is it?"
"In my bag," Hermione said, like she was listing off spare socks. "Still packed. Ginny's room."
Harry let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Relief flooded through him, sharp and strange. That Cloak had been with him through everything. It was more than just some ancient artefact—it was home. It was safety. It was his dad.
"You brought it?" he asked, maybe too quickly.
"Of course," Hermione said. "I always do."
Good. They'd need it.
And somewhere in the silence that followed, something flickered. Small. Shaky.
Hope.
Ron clapped his hands together. "Brilliant. So we just—" He stopped. His mouth stayed open, but no words came out.
Harry turned and saw why.
Hermione had gone still, her lips pressed into a thin, pale line. She was staring down at the book like it had just betrayed her.
"Hermione?" Harry asked, his little scrap of hope flickering.
She looked up, slowly. "We have to tear it."
Harry just stared. "Sorry—what?"
"That's what it says." Her voice had that stubborn edge—the one that said she'd already gone over it three times and wouldn't be talked out of it. "It has to be damaged. By the one who owns it."
The words hit like ice water.
"No way," Ron said flatly. "You mean the Cloak? The unbeatable, unhexable, can't-even-get-dust-on-it Cloak?"
"That one," Hermione said grimly.
Harry's stomach twisted. His mouth felt dry.
The Cloak. His father's Cloak. The only real thing he still had of James Potter.
"You're sure?"
Hermione's voice softened, but she didn't waver. "Yes."
Ginny's hand brushed his arm, feather-light. "Harry… are you alright?"
No.
Absolutely not.
But he nodded anyway.
"I just—" He shook his head, frustrated. "It's supposed to be indestructible."
"It is," Hermione said quietly. "But you're its master. That makes you the exception."
Harry dragged a hand through his hair. "Brilliant. So my one proper connection to my dad? We tear it to bits."
Ron scratched the back of his neck, grimacing. "You know, for a magical object that cheats death, it's a bit of a maintenance nightmare."
"Legendary artefacts usually are," Hermione muttered.
The silence that settled over them wasn't a comfortable one.
Harry looked at them—Ron, awkward and not meeting his eye; Hermione, pretending to read but not turning the page; Ginny, still there, her hand close to his.
And he realised—this wasn't about heirlooms. Or sentiment. Or even his dad.
It was about his soul. And his soul didn't care about keepsakes.
It cared about being whole.
"Fine," Harry said at last, his voice rough. "Let's do it."
Hermione let out a long breath, like she'd finally unclenched her whole spine. She flipped the pages faster now, her voice gaining momentum.
"Right. The ritual needs four things—aside from the Cloak and the Thestral hair. A drop of blood from the afflicted—"
"That's me," Harry cut in before she could finish. "Shocking, I know."
Ron raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Could be me. Might've missed my dramatic ancient curse destiny."
Harry gave him a look. "Do you have a soul that screams whenever it fancies?"
Ron considered. "Fair point."
Ginny smirked despite herself.
Hermione pressed on. "So. Thestral hair. A piece of the Veil—"
Ron groaned, loud and theatrical. "Oh, brilliant. We'll just pop down to the Ministry and chip a bit off the haunted death arch, shall we? Probably next to the paperclips."
Hermione ignored him. "If we split up and collect everything separately, we could manage it in a few months."
"Months?" Ron squawked. "Are you serious?"
Harry leant forward, his voice steady, quiet. "We don't have months. Not really. But I'm not stopping. I'll fight for every day I've got left."
The weight of it landed like a dropped stone. No one argued after that.
For a moment, the room was painfully still. Then Ginny's voice cut through, soft but firm. "Then we'd best get on with it."
Harry looked at her, and something in his chest eased. He wasn't doing this alone.
"Right," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Let's go destroy some priceless magical artefacts, then."
Hermione shut the book with a quiet thump. "We need to speak to your dad, Ron. He might know something about the Veil. And we should write to Hagrid."
Ron checked the clock and sighed. "Bit late now. Dad'll be asleep. And Pig'll take my hand off if I try sending anything at this hour."
"First thing in the morning," Ginny said, warm and certain. "We'll sort it then. We need sleep too."
Harry nodded, grateful for her calm—she always knew when to soften the edges without pretending they weren't there.
Ron peered over Hermione's shoulder, squinting at the text. "Does it say how long the potion takes?"
Hermione flipped back through the pages. "About an hour," she said. Then her eyes caught something, and she stopped, her expression shifting—like a thought had just struck her sideways.
Harry leant in. "What is it?"
Her voice went a little breathless. "The ingredients… they line up with the Deathly Hallows. Almost exactly."
Harry stared. "Wait—what?"
Ron leaned in. "You're kidding."
Hermione shook her head, her voice gaining that sharp, electric edge she always had when she was on the verge of putting the pieces together. "The Thestral hair. The Cloak. The stone from the Veil archway… It's not perfect, but it's close. Far too close to be coincidence."
Harry's chest tightened. His heart thumped hard against his ribs. "You think this potion's connected to the Hallows?"
"I don't know," Hermione said quickly. "But I think we're walking into something much bigger than we thought."
Harry's eyes dropped to the old book in her hands, the pages yellowed and brittle. His head buzzed like a faulty wand, crackling with half-formed thoughts. He glanced at Ron, then at Ginny, then back to Hermione.
Somewhere deep in his gut, something twisted.
Uncertainty, sure—but alongside it, a strange clarity. Like he'd just caught a glimpse of something vast. Just out of reach.
This wasn't just about mending what Voldemort had broken.
Not anymore.
Hermione's voice softened, almost reverent. "The Thestral hair—one of the rarest wand cores. As powerful as the Elder Wand's."
A chill prickled down Harry's spine.
"And the Veil…" Hermione's voice dropped lower. "It's not exactly the Resurrection Stone. But it's… linked to the other side. A threshold. It lets people hear what's waiting beyond it."
Harry felt something cold coil tight in his chest.
The voices.
The whispers.
He could still hear them, sometimes. In the quiet. Just under the surface.
Sirius.
His throat closed. "I've heard them. The voices. They're real."
His voice cracked on the last word, grief bleeding through before he could stop it.
Hermione gave a small nod, as if she understood what he hadn't said out loud. "And the Invisibility Cloak—that's the third piece. The one thing that ties it all together."
Harry said nothing.
He could feel the weight of it even now, tucked away in Hermione's bag. His father's Cloak. Quiet. Ordinary. So much more than it looked.
Three objects.
Three Hallows.
And now… this.
Harry's pulse pounded in his ears.
Whatever this was—it had never just been a cure.
They were standing at the edge of something else entirely.
Something ancient.
Something waiting.
Ron frowned, lines deepening on his forehead. "Hang on—how does all this help with the potion?"
Hermione didn't even pause. Her eyes were shining now, alight with something sharp and urgent. "Because wielding all three—the Thestral hair, the Veil's stone, the Cloak—it makes someone the Master of Death."
Harry froze.
The words slid around him, cold and weighty.
Master of Death.
A chill licked up his spine, like Xenophilius Lovegood had whispered it into his bones all over again.
Ron blinked, still catching up. "Wait, the potion only takes an hour to brew? That can't be right. Something this powerful—it should take, I dunno… weeks."
Hermione shook her head, brows knitted. "It's not about the time. It's about the rarity. No one would ever be able to collect all this. That's what makes it so dangerous."
Harry tried to steady his breathing, but he could feel it again—that sharp rush building in his chest. Hope. Fear. Desperation.
Ever since he'd learned what was wrong with him, the way Voldemort's soul had left its scar—he'd felt hollow. Fractured.
Not whole.
Not really living.
But now—
"This is it," he said, breathless. "We're close. Aren't we? If this works… I'll finally be free. Of all of it."
It unfolded in his mind—the weight finally gone. No more aching spaces where something dark used to live. No more splitting headaches, no more waking up gasping from dreams that weren't his.
"I can't wait to drink it and feel normal again," he said, the grin tugging at his mouth before he could stop it. He hadn't smiled like that in weeks. It almost felt foreign. But it felt good.
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to glow around him. Light. Possible.
And then—
It changed.
Not the room itself. The feeling.
The air seemed to cool, like someone had snuffed out a flame.
Ginny's hand trembled in his. Her fingers were ice. Ron's skin had gone greyish, sweat beading along his brow. Hermione… Hermione wasn't moving at all. Like she'd been Petrified on the spot.
Harry's smile faltered. "What? What's wrong?"
Silence.
Ginny's lips parted like she wanted to speak, but nothing came out. Ron was staring at the floor like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. Hermione's wide, stricken eyes stayed fixed on the book.
The quiet pressed in, thick and suffocating. Something was wrong. He could feel it, cold and rising.
"What is it?" he asked, louder this time, the knot twisting hard in his stomach.
They still didn't answer.
Why aren't they happy?
Why do they look afraid?
His chest tightened. His pulse kicked up.
"Say something," he snapped. "What? What is it?"
Hermione finally stepped forward, hands slightly raised, as if calming a dangerous beast.
Which, to be fair, she might've been.
"Please, Harry," she said gently. "Listen to me before you get angry."
Bad start.
That never led anywhere good.
His voice sharpened. "What did you do?"
His own words came out too fast, too hard, but he couldn't stop them now. Dread was clawing up his throat.
"We didn't do anything," Hermione whispered quickly. "We—we've just been trying to protect you."
"From what?" he demanded. "If you didn't do anything, what's the problem?"
She hesitated.
Her eyes flicked to Ron, then to Ginny, who had turned her face away.
When Hermione finally spoke, her voice sounded like it was fighting its way past something heavy. "The potion—it's not meant to be drunk by you."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"It's not for the person who's damaged. It's for… someone else."
The world dropped out from under him.
"What are you talking about?"
Hermione's gaze wouldn't meet his. "It's meant to be drunk by someone connected to the afflicted. Someone who… cares. The damage has to be drawn out—shared."
"No," Harry said, instantly, firmly. "No. You're not doing that. You're not."
"We already agreed," Ginny said softly, her voice cracking. "All of us."
Harry shot to his feet, his heart hammering in his chest. "No. Absolutely not. I'm not letting any of you—"
"You don't get to make this decision on your own anymore," Hermione said, her voice thick but steady. "You've been carrying this by yourself for too long. You've fought this fight alone for too long. Let us help."
His breath stuttered. He couldn't seem to get enough air.
This wasn't how it was meant to go. He was supposed to be the one who carried it. He always had. That's how it worked. He survived. He took the weight. They didn't have to.
"That's not fair," he choked out.
Hermione stepped closer. "We know."
"You can't ask me to let you—"
"We're not asking," Ginny whispered, her hand tightening in his. "We're telling you. We're doing this."
Harry's throat burned. His chest ached in that awful, familiar way—the one that usually led to him shoving everyone away.
But they weren't going.
Not this time.
And part of him—deep, secret, terrified—wanted to believe them.
He closed his eyes. The ache didn't lessen, but it shifted, just enough.
"…You're all mental," he muttered, voice rough.
Ron managed a shaky grin. "Yeah, well. You'd be lost without us."
Harry's thoughts spun wildly, crashing into each other, impossible to hold. He could barely process what Hermione had just said—it hit him like a Stunning Spell, sharp and sudden, knocking the breath from his lungs.
He stumbled back a step, as if putting space between them could make the truth less real.
"No—no," he gasped, panic crackling in his voice. "That can't be right! I'm the one whose soul's—my soul's the one in danger! I'm the one who's supposed to drink the potion."
His eyes darted to Ginny, then to Ron, desperate for some sign—some contradiction, some loophole—that would tell him he'd got this wrong. But their faces only mirrored his dread, pale and stricken.
Ginny's voice trembled. "The book says… the potion has to be taken by the ones who are going to save your soul. Not you."
Her words slid over him like ice.
"What does that mean?" Harry's voice rose, ragged. "'Save my soul'? Who says who that is? Who decides?"
His head throbbed, panic pressing in at his temples, the air in the room tightening around him like a noose.
Ron swallowed hard. "It's us," he said quietly, like it hurt to say. "It's always been us. We're the ones who are meant to save you. So… we're the ones who have to drink it."
Harry stared at him, his heart pounding so hard it almost hurt.
"No. No, that's mad." He shook his head fiercely, like he could shake the idea loose. "You've misread it—there's got to be another way."
He turned to Hermione, desperate now. "There's another way, right? You—you've got something else."
But Hermione stepped closer, her voice steady, too steady. "There isn't another way."
The certainty in her voice only made the panic surge.
Ron's frustration snapped. "Did you really think you had to do this alone?" His voice cracked under the weight of it. "You always think you have to do it alone. But we're not leaving you to it this time."
Harry flinched like he'd been struck. Anger surged, white-hot and immediate.
"That's what I wanted!" he shouted, his voice fraying at the edges. "I have to do this alone! I won't—" his voice broke, splintering mid-sentence "—I won't let you risk yourselves for me."
His fists trembled at his sides, fingernails biting into his palms.
But Ron didn't back down. "It's not just your decision anymore," he said, breathless, like the words themselves cost him. "We're in this. All of us. And if we have to risk our lives—our souls—we will."
Harry reeled, breath shallow. "You'd risk your souls?" he whispered, stunned. "For me?"
It didn't make sense.
Why would they do that?
Ron hesitated now, his earlier resolve flickering. "Harry, just—just let us explain, yeah?"
Hermione reached out to him, her voice thick with something that sounded like it might crack at any second. "Please. Let us talk to you. Let us help."
But Harry wasn't listening. Couldn't.
His skin felt too tight. His chest was caving in.
He snatched the book from Hermione's hands, fingers shaking as he tore through the fragile pages. He skimmed the text blindly, his heart hammering until—there. The words leapt out at him, sharp and merciless.
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…
His stomach dropped.
His hands tightened on the edges of the page.
The cost.
If it failed—
It wouldn't just kill him.
It would kill them too.
His breath caught, his throat clamped shut.
"No," he whispered, eyes still fixed on the words. "No. I'm not—"
His voice faltered. The page trembled in his grip.
I can't let them do this.
He could feel them watching him—Ginny, Ron, Hermione—waiting. Waiting for him to understand. Waiting for him to accept it.
But he couldn't. He wouldn't.
Not at this price.
No. No, no, no.
Harry staggered back, his legs barely holding him. The book slipped from his hands and hit the floor with a dull thud, but he hardly heard it.
Then he was moving—running—though he didn't remember deciding to. His feet carried him blindly through the hallway, panic slamming through him, rising like a tide he couldn't stop.
He barely made it to the bathroom.
Dropping to his knees, he retched into the toilet, his body convulsing, the cold tiles biting into his skin. His hands shook violently against the edge of the bowl. He didn't care. He couldn't think past the words echoing in his skull, sharp and terrible.
Marked the same as the other.
If they drank it—
If it failed—
They wouldn't just risk their lives. They'd risk their souls.
Footsteps, quick and uncertain. Voices, distant at first, then closer.
"Harry?" Ginny's voice, soft, afraid. He felt her hand on his back, steady and warm, moving in slow circles.
Ron and Hermione hovered in the doorway, silent, frozen.
Harry couldn't look at them. Couldn't speak. The weight in his chest was crushing, tightening around his ribs like iron bands.
They were willing to die for him.
Worse—
They were willing to lose themselves for him.
They can't do this. They can't. I won't let them.
But even as the thought looped through his head, another crept in behind it, quieter and far more dangerous.
What if they're right? What if this is the only way?
His voice broke when he finally spoke. "Are you saying… this potion might not just help me—but it could… it could cost you everything?"
His throat burned, the words scraping out like they'd cut him on the way up. His eyes stung, and before he could stop them, tears slipped free, hot and unwanted. He turned to Hermione, desperate for her to tell him he'd misunderstood. That he'd got it wrong.
But her face said he hadn't.
She stepped closer, slowly, carefully, like she was approaching something that might shatter.
"Harry," she said quietly, her voice trembling, "we think it's a risk worth taking. The book says… it's not just about the potion. It's about connection. About love. The people who care about you—the ones who love you—have to be part of it. It's the only way to reach your soul."
Love.
The word landed in his chest like a weight. He didn't know how to hold it. Didn't know what to do with it. It felt too big. Too good. Too dangerous.
"She's right," Ron said, stepping beside her, his voice steady but strained. "It's not just about magic. It's about you letting us in. You've spent your whole life trying to carry this on your own. We're done watching you do that. You're not just our friend, Harry. You're family."
Family.
The word hit harder than Harry expected. It cracked something open inside him—gratitude, guilt, anger, all tangled into something sharp.
He barked a laugh, bitter and brittle. "Family?" he repeated, his voice harder than he meant. "You think risking your lives makes us family? That putting yourselves in danger proves something?"
His hands curled into fists, his whole body taut, fighting to hold himself together.
"It doesn't make you—" He stopped, the heat behind his words faltering, twisting into something colder. Something quieter. His throat burned.
He dragged a hand through his hair, gripping hard enough to hurt, the old, familiar motion doing nothing to steady him.
He wanted to tell them to stop.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted it to be enough that he didn't want them to do this.
But it never had been.
He was so tired.
So tired of being the reason people got hurt.
"Please, Harry," Ginny said, her voice cracking on his name. "This isn't about being right. We just—" she swallowed hard—"we don't want to watch you suffer anymore. You don't have to do this alone. Let us help. We're stronger when we're together."
Her words hit something in him—something thin, something already fraying.
"Stronger together," he repeated, almost laughing, though the sound was hollow. "And if it doesn't work? What then? What if I drag you all down with me—for nothing?"
The fear slipped out before he could stop it. He hated how much of it was in his voice. Hated that the only thing he could think about was losing them—worse, them losing themselves—because of him.
But Hermione didn't flinch. She stepped forward, her chin set, eyes bright with that relentless fire she always carried when she was sure.
"And what if it does work?" she said. "What if this is how we finally save you—really save you? You have to trust us, Harry. We're not charging into this without thinking. We've read the risks. We've chosen them. Because we love you. And that's not weakness. That's the point."
Her words hung in the air, sharp and solid.
The fading sunlight slid across the bathroom tiles in thin gold bars, shadows stretching as the day slipped away. Harry's heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Could he do this?
Could he really let them in—after losing Sirius, after Dumbledore, after Fred? After everyone he couldn't save?
His chest ached like it always did when he thought about them. The emptiness. The weight.
His voice came out barely above a whisper. "What if you lose yourselves?"
The fear in it startled even him. It was too real. Too close.
"What if I pull you into the dark with me, and there's no coming back?"
Ron moved closer, his voice steady, solid as ever. "Then we go together. We've faced You-Know-Who. Death Eaters. We've survived because we stuck with each other. That doesn't stop now. We're with you. All the way."
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, his throat tight.
"Harry," Ginny said softly, kneeling beside him. Her hand found his, cold but steady. "There's always a price. Whether you fight alone or we fight with you. But at least this way… you don't have to carry it by yourself. We've always been connected, haven't we? Maybe this potion can help you feel that again. Maybe it can bring you back."
Connected.
The word pressed against something hollow inside him.
Harry looked at them—Hermione's fierce, tear-bright eyes, Ron's stubborn set jaw, Ginny's quiet, unshaken grip on his hand.
They were scared. He could see it.
But they'd already chosen. They weren't stepping back.
Hermione sat beside him now, her voice low but firm. "You have to let go of this guilt. We've talked about it. We've made our choice. We're with you. Whether you like it or not."
Ron cracked a half-smile, forcing some life back into the room. "Besides, mate… what's a life-threatening magical ritual without a little danger?"
Hermione promptly stomped on his foot.
"Oi—bloody—fine, bad timing," Ron muttered, wincing, but there was a spark in his eyes now. "Still. Aren't you at least a little glad we're here? You were never going to do this alone. We're your backup. Always have been."
And somehow—despite the terror still knotting his stomach—something inside Harry loosened. Just a little.