denial
Three days later, Harry was certain he was coming down with a bad case of wizard flu. His symptoms had expanded beyond the headache and nausea to include periodic chills, a persistent low-grade fever, and worst of all, moments when his magic seemed to sputter and flare unpredictably.
During a training session with junior Aurors, his simple Protego charm had exploded outward with such force that it had knocked two trainees off their feet. An hour later, he'd struggled to summon a file from across his office, his Accio failing completely.
"You need to go home," Ron had told him bluntly when he'd stopped by Harry's office to find him pale and shivering despite the warmth of the room. "You look bloody awful."
"I'm fine," Harry had insisted. "Just need to push through it."
But by Friday, even Harry had to admit he was getting worse, not better. His scar now felt like it was being carved into his forehead anew with each passing hour. The pain would spike without warning, leaving him breathless and disoriented.
That evening, as he stumbled through the Floo into Grimmauld Place, he barely made it to the bathroom before violently emptying the meager contents of his stomach. He knelt on the cold tile floor, trembling, as wave after wave of nausea wracked his body.
When he finally looked up, the sight in the mirror stopped his breath. His scar stood out livid and inflamed against his ashen skin, and—most alarmingly—thin tendrils of what looked like black veins seemed to be spreading from the edges of the lightning bolt.
"No," Harry whispered, reaching up with shaking fingers to touch the darkened skin. It burned at his touch.
A noise from downstairs jolted him. Ginny was home early from practice. Harry quickly splashed water on his face and cast a hasty glamour charm over his scar—something he hadn't done since his early twenties when the staring had finally begun to subside.
"Harry?" Ginny called.
"Be right down!" he replied, wincing at how hoarse his voice sounded.
He managed to make it through dinner by claiming tiredness and picking at his food. When Ginny suggested an early night, Harry gratefully agreed. But as they prepared for bed, he caught her watching him with worried eyes.
"Harry," she said carefully as they climbed into bed, "what's going on? And don't say 'nothing' because I know you better than that."
Harry sighed, turning to face her. "I think I've caught something. Probably that bug that's been going around the Ministry."
Ginny's hand came up to his forehead, and he couldn't help but flinch when her fingers brushed near his scar. "You're burning up," she said, frowning. "How long have you been feeling ill?"
"Just a few days," he lied. "I'll be fine after a weekend of rest."
She didn't look convinced. "Maybe we should call a Healer—"
"No," Harry interrupted, too quickly. "No Healers. You know how they get with me. It'll be all over the Prophet by morning."
Ginny's eyes narrowed slightly, but she nodded. "Alright. But if you're not better by Monday, we're going to St. Mungo's, Prophet be damned."
Harry mumbled his agreement and turned over, pretending to fall asleep quickly while his head pounded and his scar burned.
That night, he awoke with a start around three in the morning, his body seized by violent chills. The glamour charm had worn off in his sleep, and when he staggered to the bathroom, careful not to wake Ginny, he was horrified to see the black veining had spread further, creeping down toward his right eye.
Whatever this was, it wasn't wizard flu.
As he leaned against the sink, a sudden, searing pain ripped through his scar, so intense that his vision whited out. His knees buckled, and he caught himself against the wall, a strangled noise escaping his throat.
Something's wrong, a voice in his mind whispered. Something's very wrong.
But the part of Harry that had endured the Dursleys' neglect, that had pushed through Umbridge's detentions without complaint, that had walked to his death in the Forbidden Forest—that part overruled his fear with stubborn determination.
He couldn't worry everyone again. Not with phantom pains from a connection that no longer existed. He'd handle this himself.