A Horcrux's Fate

Chapter 8

The air in Harry's room at the Burrow was doing a very good impression of a held breath. It hung heavy, like the walls were eavesdropping. It smelt like warm floorboards, tonight's leftover stew, and that faint crackle of magic that clung to places where too much had happened.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees, hissing like it knew something and wasn't about to tell. Inside, Harry lay on his back on the creaky bed, his fingers loosely laced with Ginny's. Her thumb brushed his knuckles in slow, aimless circles. Absentminded. Comforting.

If he focused just on that—just on her touch—he could almost believe things were fine. Not normal. That ship had sunk ages ago. But fine-ish. The kind of "fine" where if he didn't move too much or think too hard, he wouldn't fall apart.

He didn't feel safe. Not really. But this was close enough. It was a borrowed kind of safety—stolen in the quiet.

The others were nearby—only a few feet away—but their voices sounded distant. Blurred. Like they were talking behind frosted glass.

Ron sat in the rickety armchair, foot tapping a violent rhythm on the floorboards like he was trying to drill his way into another dimension. He looked like he might bolt—or explode. Or both, which would be messy.

Harry tilted his head slightly, pretending to 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.

Harry's stomach did an elegant little somersault.

Attempts?

What kind of attempts? Were they trying to fix him? Undo the horcrux thing? Bury him in protective runes and hope for the best?

His fingers tightened around Ginny's, just slightly. She glanced at him, eyebrows twitching, but he turned away. He didn't want her to see the panic quietly throwing a rave behind his eyes.

Hermione had started pacing—again. Harry was surprised the rug hadn't filed a restraining order. She always wore a hole in the floor when something big was coming.

"Alright," she said in that brisk, announcement-of-doom tone. "First ingredient: Thestral hair."

Harry blinked. That was... unexpected.

He sat up a little. "Thestrals? How are we meant to get that?"

Hermione hesitated, which was never comforting. She brushed the edge of a very dusty book like it might offer her a better answer if she caressed it enough.

"Well, it has to be from a wild Thestral," she said. "Not one raised in captivity. And obviously, not everyone can even see them."

Harry squinted.

"I know someone who can help," he said a moment later, hope sparking in his chest like a lit match.

Ron looked up. "Hagrid?" he guessed, like it was obvious.

"Exactly," Harry said. "He raised half the forest. If anyone knows how to charm a Thestral into giving us a lock of hair, it's him."

Ron nodded slowly. For a second, he looked... relieved. Almost proud. Then the expression cracked, and guilt slipped in beneath it like fog under a door.

Harry didn't miss it. He noticed everything now. Ever since Ron had confessed he'd seen the soul books—books Harry wasn't even supposed to know existed—things had been different. He trusted them. He did. But trust didn't stop dread from making a nest in his stomach.

Ginny gave him a look—soft and sure and too good for him. Like he was the hero in a story and not just a teenager with one too many pieces of soul rattling around inside.