A Horcrux's Fate

Chapter 5

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.