A Horcrux's Fate

Chapter 19

Molly paced the dimly lit room, her hands twisting together, the soft glow of moonlight casting shadows on her anxious face. She glanced toward the four motionless forms, each swathed in shimmering fabric that sparkled faintly—a result of Slughorn's hastily conjured beds. Harry lay at the centre, flanked by Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, still and quiet as though they were merely sleeping, yet Molly knew better.

"How much longer do we have to wait for them to regain consciousness?" Molly asked impatiently. Her anxiety was evident on her face, lit by the moonlight. She felt Slughorn was hiding something about the predicament they were in, causing her distress at the thought of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny struggling mentally and emotionally.

Horace stood with a gravity equal to her own, his brow furrowed as he stared into the shimmering void of the ritual's aftermath. "I cannot say," he replied with a sigh, the weight of uncertainty making his voice tremble slightly. "The ritual provided no insight into their ordeal. All we can do is wait."

Hagrid shifted uneasily. "They will wake up, won' they?" he asked, his tone wavering like a breeze through leaves, as if hoping to quell the unseen storm brewing around them.

Slughorn met Hagrid's gaze, the flickering candlelight catching the tiredness pooling in his eyes. "If the ritual is unsuccessful, I fear Harry may not wake up," he said slowly, each word tinged with a heavy finality that sent a chill through the room.

A wave of horror swept over Molly and the others as they turned toward the young adults, horror straining against the edges of hope. How could they be so close to losing Harry? The thought of him trapped, battling something they couldn't see, struck at her heart with the ferocity of a bludger. She once again recalled the raw determination in Harry's eyes, a fire that had always burnt against the dark forces they faced. He had fought so many battles, yet this—this fight lay too deep within, obscured, elusive.

Hagrid stiffened, his massive frame stooped as he fixated on Harry's breathing. It was steady, a rhythmic sound that provided a meagre comfort, yet Molly noticed his complexion—paler than the moonlight bathing them all—and the stress etched in fragile lines across his face. Even the faintest curl of his dark hair appeared lifeless.

They were engrossed in contemplation when a sudden, forceful tapping noise caught their attention. All heads snapped toward the window, where a wild-eyed owl flapped in a frenzy, gripping a vibrant red envelope in its beak. The sight sent a jolt down Molly's spine, and she could feel her heart race as Bill rushed to the window, opening it wide enough for the distressed bird to enter.

"Why would George send a Howler?" Percy mused aloud, a frown creasing his forehead, his typically meticulous demeanour disrupted.

Before Molly could reply, Bill snatched the envelope, an urgency in his movements. The instant he tore it open, an avalanche of sound burst forth, filling the room with Corban Yaxley's guttural voice—a message laced with malignant glee.

WE HAVE YOUR PRECIOUS SON, GEORGE. IF YOU WANT TO SEE HIM ALIVE, BRING POTTER TO THE FORBIDDEN FOREST. YOU HAVE UNTIL MIDNIGHT.

As the words rolled through the room, penetrating every heart, the atmosphere froze, leaving only the gasp of air escaping from Molly's lips. Bill's hands trembled as he held the red envelope, and they all watched in horrified fascination as it ignited, turning into a pile of ash that floated away, sucking the warmth from the room. An oppressive silence fell upon them, each pair of eyes searching for answers that lingered just out of reach.

"M-My George," Molly stuttered as panic surged through her, one hand pressed tightly against her chest, almost as if trying to quell the frantic beating of her heart. Her gaze darted around the room, landing on Arthur, whose face was a mirror of her own fears—panic and helplessness.