A Horcrux's Fate

Chapter 19

Molly paced the room like a trapped animal, the low candlelight flickering across her pale, drawn face. Shadows trembled along the stone walls, chasing her every movement. Her fingers twisted the edge of her sleeve as her eyes darted toward the four still figures lying side by side.

Harry was in the centre, surrounded by Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Their bodies were too still, their chests rising only faintly, as if even breathing took too much effort.

"They look like they're just asleep," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. Then, louder, more brittle: "How much longer?" Her voice cracked. "How long until they wake?"

Slughorn hesitated, wringing his hands. His normally ruddy cheeks were bloodless, and his eyes darted from one unconscious figure to the next. "I—I don't know," he said finally, his voice thin and unsteady. "The ritual didn't say what would happen afterward. Only that it had to be done."

Molly turned to him sharply. "You performed advanced magic on them without knowing the consequences?"

"It was the only way!" Slughorn snapped, then immediately looked ashamed. "They were willing. They knew the risk."

"But did they understand it?" Molly's voice rose, shrill with panic. "They're just children—"

"They're not," Hagrid cut in quietly. He stood off to the side, massive hands clenched into trembling fists. "Not anymore."

Silence fell like a stone.

Hagrid took a slow, shuddering breath, eyes fixed on Harry. "They will wake up... won't they?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me they will."

Slughorn opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down at the floor. When he spoke again, his voice was low. "If the ritual failed... if Harry couldn't do what he needed to... he may never come back."

The words slammed into Molly like a blow. Her knees nearly gave out, and she reached for the edge of a table to steady herself. Around her, the air seemed to grow heavier, suffocating.

"No," she said, almost to herself. "No, not Harry. Not after everything."

She looked at him—the boy who had been like a second son. His face was too still, too pale. That fierce spark that always lived behind his eyes, even in sleep, was gone now. Her chest tightened with a helpless grief.

Ginny's hand twitched slightly. Molly rushed forward—but it was only a nerve spasm. Nothing more.

"I can't do this again," she whispered. "I can't bury another child."

Ron's face was turned slightly toward Hermione, as if even in unconsciousness he was reaching for her. Hermione's brow was furrowed, caught in some silent nightmare. And Harry—Harry was unreachable, locked away in a place no magic could touch.

A sharp knock shattered the silence.

It wasn't a knock, Molly realised—it was tapping. Urgent, desperate tapping against the glass. Everyone turned. A wild-eyed owl beat its wings furiously outside the window, a red envelope clutched in its beak.

Bill crossed the room in two strides, throwing open the window. The owl swooped in and dropped the Howler, screeching as it wheeled around and disappeared back into the night.

Bill caught the envelope mid-air. "It's from George," he said, confused. "Why would he—?"

But the envelope had already begun to smoke.

It burst open in a flare of red light, and a deep, snarling voice poured out—twisted and cruel:

"YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD HIDE FROM ME. YOU THOUGHT YOUR LITTLE BLOOD-TRAITOR FAMILY COULD DEFY US. BUT WE SEE EVERYTHING."