Fevered Delusions
The Burrow felt far too warm for Harry. The fire crackled in the hearth, but its warmth couldn’t reach the ice-cold ache in his bones. He was shivering despite the sweat beading on his forehead, his body too hot to touch but freezing in every other way. His head throbbed, heavy and relentless, and the weight of the fever was pressing down on him like a stone.
"Harry, mate, you're burning up," Ron's voice cut through the haze, a sharp edge of worry. His hand was gentle as it rested on Harry’s forehead, but Harry barely registered it. Everything was so muffled. The room was spinning.
“I’m fine,” Harry mumbled, his voice weak, hoarse. He was aware of the tremor in his hands, but the words barely made it out. He wanted to say something else—something reassuring—but all he could think of was how everything felt so wrong.
"You are not fine, mate," Ron insisted, his voice cracking a little. He sounded so much younger than usual, the edges of his words sharp with concern. "I—Hermione, come on, we need to get him cooled down. He’s really burning up."
But as Hermione rushed into the room, her figure blurry in Harry’s feverish vision, something else gripped him. It was a voice. Cold. Hissing. It wrapped around him, slipping into his mind, slithering in like a serpent.
"Potter..."
The voice was low and venomous, and Harry's heart skipped a beat. His chest tightened, the pressure almost unbearable, suffocating. He could hear it now, louder than anything else, louder than Ron’s voice, louder than Hermione’s frantic attempts to cool him down. Voldemort’s voice.
"You’re weak. You’re nothing. You always have been. You always will be."
Harry gasped, his hands clutching the blanket tighter, the sensation of it pressing against his skin unbearable. His eyes darted around the room, looking for something solid, something to hold onto, but all he could see were blurred shapes and shadows. Everything was slipping away.
Ron and Hermione’s voices were distant, drowned out by Voldemort’s cold words.
"You failed them. You failed your parents, your friends. You’ll fail again. You can’t win."
“Harry, no, focus on me,” Hermione said urgently, her voice close now. He could feel her hand on his arm, but it didn’t seem to help. The darkness was pulling him further under.
"You can't defeat me. You’ll die trying. You think they’ll help you? They’re just using you, Potter. You’ll always be alone."
Harry’s breath hitched in his chest. He tried to speak, to ask for help, but his words tangled in his throat, locked behind a wall of panic. His vision blurred further, his skin hot and clammy as he fought to stay grounded, to escape the suffocating grip of the voice in his head.
“No,” he rasped, his body trembling. “No, I can’t— I can’t do this.” His words felt like they were being ripped from him, like they weren’t his own. “I can’t... stop him. I’m not strong enough.”
His chest constricted painfully. His heart raced. Every breath felt like it was being drawn through a straw. He could feel Ron and Hermione's frantic efforts, but it all seemed so distant, like they were in another world.
Ron’s voice broke through the chaos, but it was filled with frustration now, a tremor in it Harry had never heard before. "Harry, come on, mate, you're not hearing things, this is just the fever messing with your head. This isn’t real. It’s just your mind—"
But Harry couldn’t listen. His head was too full. The voice kept pushing in, invading every space.
"You’re nothing but a weapon to them. They don’t care about you. You’re a failure. You always have been."
“No!” Harry screamed, his voice raw and ragged, his hands flying up to clutch his head. The pressure was unbearable. “Stop! Please!”
Ron was beside him now, holding him down, his face pale with panic. “Harry! Look at me, mate. This fever’s got you, it’s making you think all this rubbish. You’ve got to focus. You’ve got to come back to us!”
But Harry couldn’t. He couldn’t escape the voice. It was too powerful, too overwhelming. The guilt, the shame, the fear—it all blurred together. The fear that he wouldn’t be enough, that he’d fail, that he’d never be able to stop Voldemort, that he’d die and leave everyone else to pick up the pieces.
Hermione was crying, he could hear it in her voice now. "Harry, please, don’t do this to yourself. You’re not alone. We’re right here. You’re strong. You are."
But the voice cut through her words, louder now, more forceful.
"They’ll die because of you. You’ll fail. And in the end, you’ll be just like them. Just like your parents."
Harry gasped again, his body jerking violently as if he’d been struck. “No!” he yelled, this time with everything he had, trying to push the voice away. His whole body shook with the force of his emotions, the tears blurring his vision. “I won’t be like them... I won’t...”
But the voice didn’t stop. It just kept coming, relentless.
"You’re weak. Weak. Weak."
"Harry!" Ron’s voice was sharp, but there was panic underneath it now. Harry felt Ron’s hand on his shoulder, but it was no comfort. "Listen to me, mate. You’re not weak. You’re not. This fever’s messing with your head—"
Ron faltered, seeing the torment in Harry’s eyes, the way his friend was struggling just to breathe, just to stay here. He clenched his jaw, helplessness overtaking him for a moment. How could he fix this? How could he make Harry understand?
“Harry, mate, please.” Ron’s voice cracked as he spoke again. “You’re not alone. You’re stronger than this. We’ve gotten through worse together. You’ve gotten through worse. Don’t let this fever tell you otherwise.”
Harry’s body shook with feverish tremors. His heart was racing, thumping against his chest so violently it felt like it might burst. He could barely see through the tears blurring his vision. He could still hear Voldemort’s voice, like a snake coiled around his thoughts.
Hermione’s face was pale with worry, and she was speaking in a frantic, almost pleading tone. “Harry, please—just listen to us. This is just the fever. This isn’t real.”
But Harry wasn’t sure anymore. He didn’t know what was real. He didn’t know if he could trust his own mind. The voice, the guilt, the suffocating weight of his responsibility—he couldn’t bear it.
He felt like he was drowning. And for a fleeting, terrifying moment, Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to come back to the surface.
"I’m not strong enough," he muttered, his voice hollow, barely audible.
"Harry, stop," Ron said, his voice breaking. "You are strong enough. You've been through hell and back. You’re not going to let him win. You’ve got us. We’ll get through this, together. We’ll get you through this."
But the voice didn’t stop. It never stopped. Voldemort’s cruel laughter echoed in Harry’s mind, mocking him, taunting him.
And all Harry could do was hold on—hold on to the fragments of reality, hold on to his friends.
But the darkness loomed so large, so suffocating, that Harry wasn’t sure if he could hold on for much longer.
Ron and Hermione continued to try, but the battle was not just against the fever. It was against everything Harry feared. Everything he was running from.
And for a moment, they didn’t know how to pull him back from the edge.