The next morning slammed into Harry like a curse he hadn't seen coming.
Blinding white light pierced his eyelids, and pain—thick and deep—pulled at every inch of him. He floated, helpless, on the edge of waking, every heartbeat a dull hammer to the back of his skull.
For a terrifying second, he didn't know where he was. Or why he hurt.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe if he just stayed still, he could drift back into the dark, forget this...
Forget whatever had happened—
A gentle touch landed on the bridge of his nose—soft, careful—and something in his chest gave a weak, fluttering jolt. Familiar. Safe.
"Harry, are you alright?"
The voice cracked through the fog like a whip.
Hermione. Hermione was here.
Dragging in a shallow breath, Harry forced his heavy eyelids open. The world blurred and swam before sharpening just enough to make out Hermione's anxious face, her brow furrowed so tightly it looked painful. Behind her, Ron hovered, shifting from foot to foot, his expression twisted into something Harry couldn't read—fear? Guilt? Panic?
Neville stood further back, his hands wringing together, looking like he might bolt at the slightest noise.
Harry tried to sit up—
A mistake.
Pain slammed into him, hot and ruthless, forcing a gasp from his cracked lips. He sagged back into the bed, blinking against the pounding in his head.
"Neville," he croaked, voice barely more than a raw scrape. His throat burnt.
Just saying the name dragged loose a memory—the sneer of Yaxley, the slow, sickening burn spreading through his veins—the knowledge he was dying and could do absolutely nothing about it.
"I didn't know you were here till this morning," Neville said hurriedly, stepping forward, clutching something to his chest. "Gran found out first—she... she showed me this."
He thrust out a Witch Weekly magazine. Harry squinted blearily at the cover.
There he was—limp in Hagrid's arms—being carried into the hospital like some broken doll.
Above the photo, huge letters screamed:
THE BOY WHO DISAPPEARED—SPOTTED AT ST. MUNGO'S!
Heat flushed up Harry's neck—shame, anger, and helplessness—all tangled together until he didn't know what he was feeling anymore.
"Rita Skeeter," he muttered, throat thick with hatred.
"You should see what she wrote," Hermione burst out, voice shrill. "Honestly, if I had her here, I'd... I'd—"
"Turn her into a beetle again?" Harry rasped, managing a twisted half-smile.
Hermione gave a weak huff of laughter—more a release of tension than anything. Even Ron cracked a smile, though it looked painful.
Neville's gaze flitted anxiously between them.
"What happened, Harry?" he asked, almost whispering.
"You... you looked dead in the photo. I... I wasn't sure it was real."
Harry closed his eyes, gathering the strength to answer. The memory of poison boiling through his blood clamped down around his lungs again, squeezing tight.
"Poisoned," he said at last.
The word hung in the air, cold and final.
"P-poisoned?" Neville stammered, his voice hitching up into a squeak.
YOU ARE READING
A Horcrux's Fate
Fanfiction(MAJOR REWRITE/COMPLETE) Harry Potter may have triumphed over Lord Voldemort in their final battle, but true peace proved fleeting. Though the Dark Lord was gone, Harry carried a deeper, more insidious wound-one that left his very life at risk. As a...
