The Fever.
Harry awoke to the sound of soft murmuring.
He groggily blinked his eyes, the world spinning around him. His head felt heavy, as though his skull was weighed down by a thousand invisible hands. His body felt weak, stiff. His throat was dry, and the sharp taste of metal clung to the back of his mouth.
"Harry?"
A familiar voice, warm and concerned, cut through the haze. Sister Maria.
He tried to speak, but his throat tightened, and only a faint croak escaped. His mouth was too dry, his tongue too heavy.
Slowly, the room came into focus. He wasn’t in his room anymore. He was lying on a simple cot in one of the back rooms of the church. The faint smell of incense and old wood filled the air. The flickering light of a single candle cast dancing shadows on the stone walls.
He could feel her hands—cool, comforting—on his forehead, brushing away the sweat that had soaked through his hair.
"You're burning up," Sister Maria said softly, her voice laced with worry. "You've been unconscious for hours. I found you in your room... just like that, collapsed."
Harry could barely keep his eyes open, the weight of the fever pulling him down into a stupor. But something felt off.
He could feel it.
There was something... wrong.
Sister Maria pulled away, and Harry caught a glimpse of her face, her eyes full of concern. But as she moved, Harry noticed the oddness in her expression—her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a tight line as if she were trying to hide something.
"Harry," she began again, her voice trembling, "your skin is so pale... like you haven’t seen the sun in weeks. And your eyes..."
Harry’s hand instinctively went to his face, fingers brushing against his eyelids. They felt heavy, the skin beneath his eyes tender and swollen. When he dared to glance down at his hand, his fingers trembled.
Why am I so pale?
It didn’t make sense.
His skin was always fair, yes, but it had never looked this sickly, this unnatural. His eyes felt as though they were sinking deeper into their sockets, and the dark bags beneath them looked like they’d been etched into his face. The fever had made everything feel like a dream, like he wasn’t in his own body.
Maria went to grab a damp cloth and gently pressed it to his forehead. "You need rest, Harry. You will only make your fever worse."
But Harry couldn’t help but feel the unease gnawing at him.
The vision.
The portrait.
The nun...
Her presence lingering, like an echo in the back of his mind.
Something was pulling at him from the inside, as though his very magic was being twisted in a way he couldn’t comprehend.
He tried to sit up, but his head swam, and he was forced to lay back down again, the room spinning dangerously.
Maria’s eyes softened, but she didn’t stop. "Rest, Harry," she whispered. "It’s okay. You’re safe here."
Safe.
Safe.
A small, bitter laugh almost escaped him. Safe... How could he be safe when the shadows felt like they were following him? When her cold presence still lingered in every corner of the room, waiting. Watching.
I need to get out of here.
But the words wouldn’t form. His body wouldn’t obey him. His magic was like a sluggish, tired thing, unwilling to respond to his commands.
Sister Maria gave him a gentle smile, brushing his hair away from his forehead. "I’ll stay with you. You just rest."
But Harry couldn’t rest.
Not with her out there.
Not with the suffocating weight of black magic pressing against him from all sides.
Harry lay still, his body burning with fever, but his mind racing. He could feel it—she was still there. Watching him.
And it wasn’t over yet.