A Horcrux's Fate

Chapter 14

The lights in the hospital ceiling flickered like dying stars, buzzing weakly. Shadows crept along the peeling walls, stretching and twisting like fingers reaching for him. Harry was trapped under them, a prisoner in his own failing body.

Every breath was a battle—shallow, wheezing gasps that barely filled his lungs before slipping out again. His chest felt like it was caving in, crushed under invisible hands. His stomach churned violently, waves of nausea clawing up his throat.

A wet, shuddering cough racked his frame, and then he was retching again, the bitter taste of bile burning his mouth. Nothing but sour liquid came up, but still his body spasmed, desperate to expel something, anything. His arms were too weak to even lift himself. He hung over the bed's edge, trembling uncontrollably, too sick to care who was watching.

Hagrid's huge hand thudded awkwardly against his back, a poor anchor against the storm tearing him apart.

"Easy, Harry, easy now..." Hagrid mumbled, his voice shaking. But it wasn't easy. It was never going to be easy again.

Harry's skin burnt with fever; his body, slick with sweat, stuck to the sheets. Every nerve screamed, every heartbeat a raw stab inside his ribs. It felt like the poison was laughing at him, digging deeper, sinking claws into his very bones.

He tried to speak—to ask if it was supposed to hurt this much—but his mouth only opened in a dry, soundless gasp. His hands scrabbled weakly at the blankets, at the air, at nothing. Panic flared inside him, wild and feral. I'm dying. I'm dying.

Hagrid's face hovered above him — pale, desperate. Too big for this tiny room, too solid for the nightmare unspooling inside Harry.

He heard the healers moving, speaking—sharp words exchanged like blows—but the noise twisted and bent in his ears. He couldn't understand them. Couldn't focus.

Something bright flashed—a flask. The antidote. Harry's blurred gaze caught on it just long enough for a flicker of hope to spark inside him.

"Wha's that?" Hagrid demanded, voice thick with dread.

The healer's face was a grim mask. "An antidote. Angel's Trumpet toxin. Fast. Fatal. This will save him... if he survives the next few days."

If.

Harry barely felt the needle slide into his arm. He barely had time to brace himself.

Then the real agony hit.

It wasn't pain—it was annihilation.

Fire exploded through his veins. His spine bowed sharply off the mattress in a violent arc. A scream tore out of him, raw and hoarse. His vision shattered into white-hot fragments. His body convulsed, muscles locking so tightly it felt like he was being torn apart.

He vomited again, helpless, as the antidote rampaged through him. His throat burnt. His eyes blurred with tears he couldn't wipe away. Please, his mind begged, please make it stop, please—

But there was no stopping it. No mercy. Only the antidote ripping the poison out and, with it, tearing him down to nothing.

"Can't we—!?" Hagrid choked, voice cracking. "Somethin' fer the pain—!?"

"No," the Healer snapped. "If he sleeps, he dies."

And then they left. Abandoning Harry to the nightmare chewing him alive.

He writhed helplessly on the bed, thrashing against invisible shackles. His body was a battlefield, every limb a casualty. His nails clawed weakly at the mattress, at his own skin. Hot, salty blood filled his mouth where he'd bitten his lip trying not to scream.