Ron, Hermione, and Ginny moved swiftly through the dim corridors of St Mungo's, their footsteps muffled by layers of old enchantments and the gleaming floor beneath their shoes. The hospital had always been a strange place—teeming with magical oddities and the quiet buzz of recovery—but now it felt different. Off. The usual undercurrent of hurried voices and shifting spellwork had stilled into something colder, more brittle. The very air seemed to hum with unease.
It wasn't bustling anymore.
The halls were half-empty and too quiet.
They passed through a narrow waiting area where a handful of witches and wizards sat slumped in their chairs, each marked by some visible sign of injury or curse. A middle-aged witch, her head wrapped tightly in thick white bandages, stared glassily ahead, unmoving. A wizard nearby twitched sporadically, his right arm jerking as if tugged by invisible threads, his skin ghost-pale with exhaustion. The only sound came from the faint rustle of enchanted magazines flipping themselves in lazy loops—old, curling issues of Witch Weekly and Modern Magical Ailments, charmed to turn pages when no one else could be bothered.
They approached the ENQUIRIES desk, where a plump witch with bleached blonde hair lounged behind the counter, absentmindedly picking at her nails with the tip of her wand. Her robes were crumpled and slightly stained with ink at the cuffs. She didn't look up right away—only when their shadow fell across the desk did she finally lift her gaze, blinking slowly as though waking from a daze.
"Yes?" she said dully.
Hermione stepped forward at once, her voice polite but taut. "We're here to see Rubeus Hagrid."
The witch arched a thin brow. "The half-giant?"
Ron bristled. "Yes. That Hagrid."
She gave a long-suffering sigh, as if the name alone exhausted her. "Caused a right mess when he came in. Barely got through the front doors—knocked the whole brass frame sideways. Gave the welcome witch a right fright."
"What happened to him?" Ron pressed, his tone sharp. His hands were clenched at his sides now, fists tight.
The woman didn't bother to lower her voice. "Covered in cuts. Deep ones. It looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a dragon and lost. Blood everywhere. He didn't say a word—just slumped in through the entrance like he'd walked through a war zone. Barely even flinched when they started casting. He's a tough one, I'll give him that. Should be asleep now, though."
Ginny had gone pale. She clutched the front of her jumper, her voice barely audible. "Do you know where he is?"
"Spell Damage ward. Fourth floor. Just through those doors, then take the lift. Can't miss it."
Hermione gave a tight nod. "Thank you," she said shortly, already turning away.
They moved in silence, pushing through the heavy double doors that separated the foyer from the upper wards. The corridor beyond was long and sterile, lined with portraits of distinguished Healers past, each eyeing them with solemn expressions as they passed. Floating candles bobbed overhead, their light flickering faintly, casting strange shadows on the floor.
No one spoke.
Hermione's heart thudded in her chest, too loud in the quiet. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, willing herself not to picture him—Hagrid—lying broken and bloodied, stitched together by spells and silence.
Ginny finally broke the stillness, her voice a whisper: "What if it's worse than they told us?"
Ron didn't look at her, but his tone was firm. "It's Hagrid. He's survived worse. Loads worse. Dragons. Acromantulas. Centaurs. Merlin, he's lived in the Forbidden Forest longer than most of us have been alive. He'll be all right."
But even as he spoke, there was something brittle beneath the words.
Hermione didn't reply. She bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to taste blood. She couldn't trust her voice.
The lift clanged as they stepped inside the silver-grilled compartment, and the doors creaked shut behind them. A faint magical hum surrounded them as the lift began to rise, the sound oddly reminiscent of a swarm of bees just out of sight.
They rode in silence, hearts thudding, breath shallow.
"Level Four: Spell Damage," announced the cool, disembodied voice.
The lift doors slid open, revealing a corridor lined with soft green walls and hovering paper planes flitting lazily about the ceiling. Dozens of them, each bearing the familiar red "BILL" stamp on their wings—someone's enchanted memos, long since forgotten by their owner. They circled slowly above like restless birds trapped in a cage.
They stepped out.
A soft voice called to them from nearby. "Hello there. Can I help you?"
A witch in green Healer's robes was walking towards them, her expression kind and open. She looked to be in her fifties, with greying hair pinned back neatly and gentle eyes that carried the kind of calm forged from decades of tending wounds others couldn't see.
Hermione stepped forward. "We're here to see Rubeus Hagrid. They told us he's on this floor. Is he—" she faltered, forcing herself to breathe. "Is he all right?"
The Healer gave a small, warm smile. "He's stable. He lost a great deal of blood, and the injuries were… severe. But he's holding on. Resting now. Your friend is strong."
Ginny let out a shaky breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.
The Healer continued, lowering her voice as though to cushion the words. "It was a close thing. We're not sure what did it. Some of the cuts wouldn't close with standard spells—there's lingering magic in the wounds, old and dark. But he's made it through the worst of it."
"Can we see him?" Ron asked, almost too quickly.
"Of course," she said gently. "He's just down the corridor, past the potions trolley. First room on the left. But be mindful. He's still very weak. Try not to wake him if you can help it."
"Thank you," Hermione whispered, and together they moved forward, feet nearly silent against the soft, charmed carpet.
The ward was dim and far too small for Hagrid's vast frame. The bed groaned beneath his weight, its brass frame extended magically to accommodate him, but even so, his legs were awkwardly bent, and one arm dangled over the side, his hand larger than the bedside table. Fresh white bandages wrapped his chest, shoulders, and arms—some already blotched with red and gold where the healing spells hadn't quite held.
He looked impossibly still.
Too still.
The moment they stepped inside, all three of them rushed forward.
"Hagrid!" they cried in unison, the name breaking from their throats—fear, relief, and disbelief all tangled into a single breath.
A slow smile crept unevenly across Hagrid's bruised and swollen face, tugging at the edges of his beard as he stirred beneath the crisp white bedsheets. He tried to sit up, wincing immediately, the movement sending a visible shudder through his vast frame.
"Blimey," he rumbled, voice rasping with effort yet warm beneath the roughness. "Thought I might've been dreamin'. Good thing yeh got my letter in time. I was startin' ter go spare, lyin' here with nothin' but the ceiling and my own thoughts fer company."
Hermione sank into the chair nearest his bedside, her eyes moving anxiously over him—his bandaged arms, the faint bruising blooming across his neck, and the awkward set of his ribs beneath the linen. She didn't speak straightaway. Words felt too small in the presence of so much injury.
Ron and Ginny remained standing, hovering at either side of the bed, both of them pale and taut with worry.
"We came as soon as it arrived," Ron said, his voice low and tight. "This morning. First thing."
There was a pause. Then he added, almost reluctantly, "Harry… he doesn't know. We didn't tell him. Things with him—they've gotten worse."
Hagrid's smile slipped. His great brow furrowed.
"Worse?" he repeated, the word catching in his throat. "He—he doesn't know I'm here, does he?"
Ginny shook her head. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her middle now, her voice barely more than a whisper. "No. We thought… we thought it might be too much."
She looked down at her trainers, twisting her fingers together until her knuckles turned white. "He's not well, Hagrid. Not just… tired. He can't eat. Can't even stand for long some days. It's like—like something inside him is fading." Her voice broke slightly. "If he found out about this—about you—it might… it might break him."
There was silence. Hagrid's enormous chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, quietly, with a heaviness that filled the room, he said, "Poor lad."
His eyes shone now, wet and wide, fixed somewhere far beyond the hospital ceiling. "Didn't know it'd gotten that bad. I should've gone to him. Should've sent word sooner."
Hermione reached out and placed a hand gently on his forearm, her fingers dwarfed by the thickness of it. "You scared us, Hagrid," she said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to steady it. "When we got your letter and saw what had happened—Death Eaters. Please. Tell us exactly what happened."
Hagrid shifted slightly, stifling a groan. It took him a moment to find his breath again.
"Yeah… yeah, I'll tell yeh," he murmured at last.
Ron stepped forward, pulling a chair around and sitting on its edge. "Was it near the cave?" he asked, voice quiet but urgent. "The Thestral nesting site—you'd gone looking for it, hadn't you?"
Hagrid nodded slowly. "Eastern forests. Just past the old borderland, where the trees grow thick and the ground gets marshy. I'd found tracks, but I wouldn't've found the nest itself if yer owl hadn't reached me. That letter told me what direction ter try. The wild ones had moved again. That info saved me hours."
He paused. Then gave Ron a pointed look. "Did yeh check yer owl this morning?"
Ron blinked. "Pig? No—he was asleep in the rafters when we left. Why?"
"Didn't look right when he arrived," Hagrid said slowly. "Wing hangin' low, feathers all ruffled. Looked like he'd been through a hedge backwards—and not by accident."
Hermione's stomach dropped. "You think… someone tried to stop him?"
Hagrid's expression turned grim. "Could be. Might explain how they found me so quick. I'd just got ter the mouth o' the cave—barely had time ter collect a few tail hairs—when they came outta nowhere. Black cloaks. Masks. Wands already raised."
Ron's face darkened. "Did you see their faces? Anyone you recognised?"
Hagrid shook his head. "No. Hoods stayed up. But I've seen enough of their kind ter know the signs. They moved like Death Eaters—fast and cold, like they'd done this kind of ambush before. They were huntin'."
Ginny's eyes flicked to the thick white bandages around Hagrid's chest and arms. "How'd they hurt you?" she asked quietly.
"Severing Charms," Hagrid muttered, almost as if embarrassed. "Two of 'em. Came at once. Crossed me right here—" he gestured, wincing, "—across the chest. Would've sliced a man clean through. If I weren't built like I am…" He trailed off.
Hermione pressed her hands to her mouth. Ron looked visibly shaken, his freckles stark against a suddenly pale complexion.
"Didn't wait ter see what else they had planned," Hagrid continued. "Used the last of my strength ter Disapparate. Thought I might not make it. Popped straight outside St Mungo's. Collapsed right there in the courtyard. Took three Healers just to levitate me through the doors."
Ginny gripped the metal edge of the bed, her knuckles white. "If you'd waited even a second longer—"
"I know," Hagrid said simply. "I know."
A long silence settled over the room. The ward beyond was quiet now—only the soft clink of a potion bottle and the occasional murmur of a healer behind a drawn curtain reached them. The air in Hagrid's room felt charged.
After a long pause, Hagrid spoke again, his voice gentler. "Don't tell Harry. Not yet. Let him rest. He's been through more than most could bear."
Hermione nodded slowly. "We won't. But when he's ready… he'll come. He'll want to see you."
"I'll be here," Hagrid said, forcing a weak smile. "Tell him that. I'll be waitin'."
Ron was staring at the edge of the bed, his jaw working, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the frame. His eyes burnt with something sharper than fear—something sour and furious.
Then, without warning, he looked up, and his voice came out hard.
"It was Malfoy," he said flatly. "He's the one who sent them. It has to be."
Hagrid blinked, visibly thrown. "Draco Malfoy?" he repeated, slow and disbelieving, as if tasting the words for the first time and finding something foul in the flavour. "But… why would he—?"
"Because he knew," Ron said, tightly. "He knew about the cave. He knew exactly where the Thestrals nested. He was the one who told us."
There was a short pause, heavy with implication.
"That doesn't mean it was him," Ginny interjected swiftly. She was trying to sound calm and composed—but her eyes darted between Hagrid and Ron, full of unease. "Death Eaters could've known that too. Anyone could've. We don't know who he told or what Malfoy's been mixed up in. We can't just—leap to conclusions."
"I'm not leaping," Ron shot back, frustration simmering just beneath his skin. "I'm following the only lead we've got."
He turned back to Hagrid, his voice growing quicker, harder, and more urgent. "Malfoy told Harry about the cave himself. Practically gave him a map. And now, Death Eaters ambush you there? It's not a coincidence. If he's betrayed Harry—after everything—"
Hagrid's brow furrowed deeper. "What d'yeh mean, everything?"
Ron gave a bitter, hollow laugh. "Harry saved his life, Hagrid. During the Battle of Hogwarts. Pulled him out of the fire, dragged him away from the collapsing castle. Risked his own neck when no one else would've bothered."
He looked down, jaw clenched. "And now Malfoy sends Death Eaters after you? After Harry spared him? I'd have left him in the flames."
Hermione stepped in before Ron could say more, her voice cutting cleanly across his. "We don't know it was Malfoy."
Her tone was cool and precise. But the sharp glint in her eyes betrayed a storm beneath.
"You always assume the worst," she said. "But we don't have proof. Not even a whisper of it. Just suspicion."
Ron folded his arms and glared at her, as though she'd just grown antlers. "You always say that," he muttered. "It's like you want him to be innocent."
"I'm not defending him," Hermione snapped, colour rising in her cheeks now. "But we saw him, Ron. He came to the Burrow. He asked to see Harry. He looked—he looked worried."
Ron scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, don't be thick. Worried? That's rich. He's a Malfoy. He doesn't do anything unless it benefits him."
Hermione's jaw tightened. "Then why risk it? Why come to us at all, knowing he'd be hexed on sight? He could've handed Harry over to the Death Eaters. But he didn't. And that has to mean something."
Ron threw his hands up. "He's playing some game. Luring us into trusting him so he can stab us in the back when it counts."
"Maybe," Hermione allowed, her voice quieter now, gaze lowered in thought. "Or maybe he's trying to change."
Those words floated there, tentative and uncertain.
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
It was Hagrid who broke the silence; his voice was low and steady, though every syllable rang with weight. "Yeh lot've been through enough without tearing each other apart."
He looked at each of them in turn, and there was something quiet and ancient in his eyes—older than Hogwarts, older than pain. "I dunno what Malfoy's really up ter," he said softly. "But what happened ter me—that's on the ones who cast the spells, not on any of yeh. So don't blame yourselves. And don't start turnin' on each other now."
Hermione's throat clenched, thick with guilt. She bit her lip and blinked hard, but the ache in her chest wouldn't ease.
"We never meant for you to get hurt," she whispered. "We thought we were being careful. We didn't think—"
Hagrid gave a small, pained smile. "Yeh did what yeh had ter. And I'd do it all again if it meant helpin' Harry. Helpin' any of yeh."
Hermione turned away for a moment, swiping at her eyes. Even now—after ambush, injury, and blood—his loyalty remained solid as a rock beneath his ribs.
"How long will they keep you in?" she asked quietly, trying to gather herself.
Hagrid looked around the cramped ward, as though only just realising how poorly the room fit him. His legs hung awkwardly over the end of the bed, and the ceiling beams loomed dangerously close to his head.
"Few more days, I reckon," he said with a sigh. "They don't see many of my size in here—bed's too short, robes don't fit, and I keep knockin' the light fixtures with my elbow."
He gave a short, self-deprecating chuckle and reached into the pocket of his moleskin coat, fumbling for something with fingers thick as tree roots.
"Nearly forgot," he said at last, pulling out a slightly blood-stained envelope, the parchment creased and warm from his hand. "Managed ter keep this safe."
He handed it to Hermione, who opened it with reverent care. Inside, nestled against the parchment, were a few silvery-black strands—Thestral tail hair, impossibly fine and glowing faintly in the soft ward light.
"Hagrid," she breathed. Her voice trembled. "Harry will be so—so grateful."
She clutched the envelope to her chest, her heart aching with a mixture of sorrow, relief, and the fragile hope that something might still be salvaged from all this wreckage.
"You should come back with us," she said quietly, without looking up. "When you're well. Harry… he misses you. We all do."
A warm smile broke across Hagrid's battered face, softening the bruises and cuts and crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I'd like that," he said, his voice low. "I'd like that very much. You know what?"
Slowly, with immense care, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The frame groaned beneath him. He straightened, avoiding the low beams, and reached for his battered pink umbrella—the wand concealed inside humming faintly with quiet magic.
"Just lemme gather me things, and let's go ter the Burrow."
As Hermione stepped out into the corridor, she slowed, her stride faltering. A familiar figure had caught her eye near the far end of the ward—leaning slightly on the reception desk, a scroll of parchment tucked beneath his arm, and that same ever-cheerful expression plastered to his face like a permanent fixture.
Augustus Pye.
It took her only a moment to place him. The kindly young Healer who'd tended Mr Weasley during the war, the one with a perpetual look of optimism that clung to him even in the shadowed halls of St Mungo's. His hair was lighter now, and his robes hung a little more loosely around the shoulders, but the warmth in his smile hadn't faded.
Ron and Ginny hadn't noticed him yet—they were speaking quietly a few steps behind, their voices low—but Augustus looked up just as they emerged fully into the corridor. His face lit up at once, eyes crinkling with unmistakable recognition.
"Well, look who it is!" he called out, striding towards them with a surprising bounce in his step. "I had a feeling I'd be seeing the Weasleys today!"
Ron narrowed his eyes. The words might have sounded pleasant, but there was something in Augustus's tone—a quiet assumption—that made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.
"Why's that?" he asked, not unkindly, but with a thread of caution running through his voice. "Why did you think we'd be here?"
Augustus faltered ever so slightly, caught off guard by the question. "Well—aren't you here to see your brother?"
Ginny stiffened at Ron's side, and the pleasant colour in her cheeks drained as if a cold wind had passed through her. She stared at Augustus, her voice tight, laced with dread. "What did you say?"
"Your brother," Augustus said again, with an almost apologetic smile. "Percy. He was admitted early this morning."
The words struck like a dropped cauldron—loud, sudden, and entirely wrong.
Ron blinked, stunned into stillness. "That's not—he's not—Percy's at the Burrow," he said slowly, like each word had to be dragged. "We saw him. Not even—what?—a few hours ago?"
Augustus's brows drew together, a crease forming on his forehead. "No, he's not left since he arrived. Was found unconscious at the Ministry in the early hours. Some kind of attack, we think. He was brought straight in. I… assumed that's why you'd come."
Ginny took a sharp step backward, one hand coming to her chest as if to steady herself. Her face had gone ghostly pale.
"Attacked?" she echoed, the word foreign in her mouth. "You're sure it was Percy?"
"I treated him myself," Augustus replied gently, his voice dropping. "He's awake now. Little shaken, a bit confused. But stable. Physically, at least."
Hermione felt the bottom of her stomach drop out. A sickening lurch rippled through her chest, and her mouth had gone dry.
She turned to Ron—he looked as if he'd been stunned. There was no mistaking the tension in his jaw or the wild flicker of doubt in his eyes.
"This doesn't make sense," she whispered.
"No," Ron murmured, hands curling into fists at his sides. "It doesn't."
Ginny, recovering her voice, turned to Augustus with fierce urgency. "Take us to him," she said. "Now."
There was no room for argument in her tone.
Augustus gave a swift nod and turned on his heel, his healer's robes swishing behind him as he led them briskly down the corridor. The usual hum of the ward—the clink of potion vials, the quiet murmur of mediwitches—seemed to fade away as they walked. The walls felt closer somehow, the air colder and heavier. Each footstep echoed in the silence.
"I don't like this," Hermione murmured under her breath, brushing her fingertips against the bannister as they descended a narrow, dimly lit stairwell. "Something's not right."
They rounded the corner. Hagrid was in the lead.
His enormous figure loomed at the far end of the passage, shoulders hunched, peering silently through the window of a private room. He straightened, the lines on his weathered face pulled tight with worry. He said nothing, just gave a sombre nod, eyes shadowed.
Hermione's breath caught.
Through the narrow glass pane, she caught sight of a figure sitting upright in the bed. His red hair was tousled, his complexion pale, almost waxy. Percy. And yet—
Something felt off. Something about the way he held himself. The blank look in his eyes. The way he didn't quite meet their gaze when he noticed them standing there.
He blinked, squinting, and then offered a faint, faltering smile that didn't even attempt to reach his eyes.
"Oh—er—I didn't think anyone would come," Percy said, his voice hoarse and oddly thin, like it hadn't been used in days.
Ron stepped forward slowly, his heart pounding behind his ribs. "We weren't expecting you to be here," he said cautiously. "Percy… what's going on? What about the Burrow? We thought—well, we thought you were there. Are Mum and Dad alright? Did something happen?"
Percy looked baffled. He gave a weak laugh—forced, hollow—and glanced down at the sheets bunched in his lap.
"The Burrow?" he repeated, frowning. "No, I've never been. I mean—I meant to, but… work's been… busy, you know."
Hermione felt the cold in her veins deepen. Ginny took a sharp breath beside her.
"What do you mean," she said, her voice tight and trembling, "you've never been to the Burrow?"
Percy glanced at her, confused. "I don't understand. I've been meaning to visit Mum and Dad, really I have, just… things kept coming up. The Ministry's been—" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Dad told me what happened to Harry. I've heard he's… unwell. I wanted to check in, honestly. I just didn't want anyone to make a fuss."
Ron's hands dropped to his sides, limp and useless, as if all strength had drained from them.
Ginny's voice cracked, brittle and high with emotion. "The Healer said you'd been attacked."
Percy stared at her, blinking as though she'd just spoken to him in Mermish. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes wide and vacant with confusion.
"Attacked?" he repeated, almost as if tasting the word. "I… I don't remember that."
Hermione stepped forward, her pulse thudding painfully in her throat. Something wasn't right—hadn't been from the moment they entered. The Percy they knew was fastidious, sharp, and irritatingly composed. This Percy seemed to have slipped from his own mind.
"Percy," she said, gently but firmly, her voice quiet with intent. "Do you know what year it is?"
He gave a strained laugh, but it was hollow—an echo of what it should have been. "Of course I do, it's—" He faltered. His brow creased. He glanced downward as if the answer might be waiting on the blanket tucked around his waist.
"I… it's… hang on—"
But the words didn't come.
He looked up again, startled now, his eyes darting between their faces. "Why can't I remember?"
Hermione felt the breath leave her all at once. Ginny gasped beside her, the sound sharp.
Ron stepped forward, one hand bracing hard against the bedframe, knuckles white. His voice was low but steady.
"Percy… it's 1998."
Silence bloomed like a crack in the wall.
Percy's mouth opened and closed. His gaze flicked from Ron to Hermione, then to Ginny, but there was no recognition, no recollection—only growing dread.
"Something's wrong with him," Ginny whispered, barely audible. Her arms were wrapped around herself as though to keep from falling apart. "Something's really wrong."
Percy looked at them helplessly, the colour draining from his face. "I—I don't understand. I was at work… I think I was at work. I don't remember getting here." He looked over his shoulder, as though half expecting the answer to be printed on the hospital wall. "Where's Dad? Is he here?"
Ginny shook her head, her voice breaking. "No. We're here because Hagrid was attacked. Death Eaters."
Percy flinched. "Hagrid? But he's harmless—he's—who would do that to him?"
"We don't know yet," Ron replied, his voice rough with worry. "But he's safe. St Mungo's patched him up. He's recovering."
Percy sagged against the pillows, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders. "That's good," he murmured. "That's… that's really good."
But even as he spoke, Hermione couldn't stop staring. The shape of him was right, the voice familiar, but the soul behind the eyes—something was missing. The air in the room felt thin and cold, as though Percy's presence didn't fully belong here.
Ron moved closer, crouching a little so he could meet his brother's eyes.
"So—what happened?" he asked, the confusion in his voice laced with something else now. Worry. "What do you remember?"
Percy shifted in the bed, uneasy. His fingers twitched restlessly against the blanket, his eyes unfocused.
"I was in my office this morning," he said slowly. "I remember sitting down to review a report—a departmental briefing, I think. Same routine as usual. I put on a pot of tea, and then…" He paused, frowning. "There was a sound. A voice, maybe. Faint. Muffled. I couldn't make out what it said."
Hermione leaned in slightly, every muscle tense. "Did you see anyone? Did anything unusual happen?"
He shook his head, blinking hard. "No… not really. Just this strange feeling. Like the floor had tilted under me. My ears were ringing. I felt light-headed… like I was going to faint. And then—nothing. Just black."
He ran a trembling hand through his hair, frustration etching lines across his forehead. "When I woke up, I was here. That's all I've got."
Ron reached for Hermione's arm, gripping it with such force that she winced but said nothing. Her eyes were still locked on Percy, her mind spinning.
Ginny was motionless, her arms clamped tightly around her ribs. The way she stared at Percy—it was as if she didn't recognise her own brother anymore.
Percy looked at them, a growing note of panic in his voice. "Wait—you said I was at the Burrow. That you saw me. But I've been here. I haven't left since I came to."
Hermione's stomach dropped.
"Percy…" she said faintly, barely managing the words. "This morning. You Flooed to the Burrow. You were there. We spoke to you. You sat at the kitchen table. We had tea. You talked to Harry—don't you remember?"
Percy stared back at her as if she were mad. But Hermione wasn't looking at him anymore.
Her eyes had gone wide with terror. She turned slowly to Ron. Then to Ginny.
And the truth hit her.
"No," she whispered, slapping a hand over her mouth. "Oh no—"
Ron looked as though the blood had drained from his face entirely. His voice, when it came, was no louder than a breath.
"That wasn't you," he said. "It was someone else. Someone's been pretending to be you."
Percy sat bolt upright, all colour gone from his face. "What?" he breathed. "Someone's out there—right now—using my name, my face?"
The idea seemed to hit him like a Bludger to the chest. He inhaled sharply, his breathing ragged and uneven.
Ginny gasped, a terrified sound that echoed down the corridor. "Oh Merlin—Harry!"
She clapped her hands to her mouth, her whole body trembling.
Percy threw back the blanket with a sudden burst of energy and swung his legs off the bed, wincing as pain lanced through his side. But he ignored it, fumbling for his coat, his wand, anything that would get him out of the ward.
"We have to go," he said urgently. "We have to warn them!"
Percy was already halfway to the door, moving as if sheer panic could carry him through the pain.
"I'll be back soon, Augustus!" he shouted over his shoulder, barely noticing the Healer still frozen in the doorway, face pale with shock.
"Harry, wake up!"
The voice pierced the fog.
Harry jolted, a sharp bolt of pain lancing through his chest. He gasped, but the air didn't come properly—his lungs seized, throat thick and burning as if he'd swallowed smoke. He couldn't breathe. Something invisible and heavy was clamped over him, pressing him down.
His eyelids fluttered open by sheer force of will, sticky and heavy as though someone had glued them shut. His vision blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. A dull, insistent hum filled his ears.
He was lying flat—on a sofa? The arm of it was digging into his ribs. His entire body ached. It wasn't just soreness; it was as though he'd been dropped from a great height, bones jostled and nerves flayed. He tried to shift, to lift his head, but his neck refused. The effort sent a wave of nausea rolling through him.
Where am I?
His eyes finally focused on the ceiling overhead—plaster, slightly cracked, with a dangling light fitting that had once held a mobile of enchanted butterflies.
The Burrow.
He was in the Weasleys' sitting room.
But something wasn't right.
The house was silent—wrongly so. No thudding from upstairs. No clang of pans in the kitchen. No distant singing from the wireless. Even the gnomes outside weren't making their usual racket.
Where is everyone?
He shifted, grimacing at the burn that followed, and then—
"Finally," came a voice.
A figure loomed into view, standing over him.
Percy.
Crisp Ministry robes. Horn-rimmed glasses glinting in the low light. The usual frown of fastidious disapproval.
Except—
Harry's breath caught.
Something was wrong.
The face was Percy's, but too smooth, too composed. His eyes were all wrong—unblinking and flat. And the smile—thin, clinical—stayed fixed in place, as if pinned there.
"You've been asleep nearly an hour," the figure said.
The voice was close, but not quite. Not Percy's voice exactly—it lacked cadence and conviction. It was like someone trying to sound like Percy and failing.
Harry tried to sit up, but pain knifed through his side. He groaned instead, the sound rasping painfully out of his throat.
"Wha… what…" he croaked, but the words barely formed.
Percy crouched beside him, withdrawing something from his robes.
A glass vial.
Slender. Crimson liquid inside, swirling thickly.
"Here," he said, his tone soft, coaxing. "You'll need this."
Healing Draught? That's what he was supposed to be offering. But the moment the vial appeared, something inside Harry recoiled.
Why is he giving me a potion? Where's Mrs Weasley? Why isn't she here instead?
His thoughts were fractured, slipping away as fast as he tried to grasp them. His brain felt fogged, like he'd been Confunded.
"Where's Ron?" Harry rasped. "Where's… Mrs Weasley?"
No answer.
Percy just watched him, unmoving, as he twisted the cork free from the vial.
Harry's heart was pounding now, far too fast and too loud in his ears. Something was wrong. Deeply, terribly wrong.
He tried to move again, but his limbs were heavy and unresponsive.
"Drink," said the figure again, more firmly this time, and leaned forward to press the vial to Harry's lips.
But Harry clenched his jaw. Shook his head as much as his body would allow. His instincts—buried though they were beneath the pain—screamed at him not to drink.
Percy's smile vanished, his expression tightening.
"Don't make this difficult," he said.
Harry grunted, twisting feebly away, but the vial was already there, jamming against his mouth. Cold glass. The scent of copper.
"Stop—stop—" he groaned, struggling weakly.
Too late.
The potion poured into his mouth, bitter and thick.
The taste hit him like a blow—metallic, searing, wrong.
Not Healing Draught.
Not anything he'd ever tasted before.
He tried to spit it out, but the damage was already done. It slid down his throat like acid.
The burn came instantly.
Fire, spreading from his chest outwards. His stomach clenched. His vision flared white.
No—no no no—
His arms convulsed, legs kicking against the cushions, then sliding uselessly off the edge of the sofa. His back arched. The scream tore out of him before he could even think to stop it.
A sound not quite human.
He hit the floor with a thud, body twisting violently. Nerves on fire. Skin crawling. His heart thudded, then skipped, then thundered again.
It felt as if something was inside him—thrashing, clawing, trying to rip its way out.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
Make it stop—
"W-what… What did you…" he gasped, his face pressed to the cool wood floor, soaked in sweat.
He could barely see. The world swam in and out of shape. But the figure above him hadn't moved.
Percy stood calmly, adjusting his cuffs.
And then he laughed.
A low, measured sound. Wrong. So terribly wrong.
Harry dragged himself forward with both elbows, every joint screaming in protest. His legs were dead weight. His stomach churned like he might be sick again, though there was nothing left to bring up.
"Please," he rasped. "Help—someone—"
A kick landed squarely in his back.
Harry let out a strangled cry, rolling onto his side, breath hitching as fresh agony tore through him.
Percy watched, entirely unmoved.
"You never were all that clever, were you?"
The voice sliced through the haze, smug and deliberate. Harry blinked up through the spinning world above him, his head pounding, vision still warped with pain.
The man pacing the room moved with an eerie precision, hands clasped behind his back like some pompous Ministry official holding court.
But nothing about him felt right.
There was a coldness in his stride. A cruel calculation in the way his boots clicked softly against the floorboards. He was circling Harry like a predator.
"W-why… what…" Harry coughed, the words catching in his throat, raw and tattered. "What are you… doing?"
His voice cracked—barely a whisper now. He was trembling. He could feel the sweat pouring from him, soaking the back of his shirt. His limbs convulsed every few seconds with the spasms the potion had ignited in his nerves. The pain had become a second heartbeat, steady and relentless.
"Fixing things," said Percy in a light, breezy voice, as though he were discussing nothing more than reorganising a bookshelf. "Putting things back the way they should've been, before you… meddled."
Harry tried again to move. If he could just reach the fireplace—crawl, inch by inch, grab a fistful of Floo powder, and throw himself into the grate—he could get out and alert someone—
He had barely managed to drag himself a few inches before Percy's imposter seized him by the collar and slammed him backwards, his head crashing against the floor with a sickening crack.
Stars burst behind his eyes. The world spun violently.
His lungs spasmed. He gasped, but no breath came. The burn intensified, curling deeper into his core. His muscles locked. His heart stuttered once—twice—before slamming back into a brutal, erratic rhythm.
Percy crouched beside him again. Too close. His breath was warm against Harry's ear.
"I used to think you were special," he whispered, the words soaked in malice. "The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. All that fuss… all those stories."
He gave a low, mirthless chuckle.
"But you're just another gullible little boy who believed the hype. Look at you now. Broken. Helpless. And no one's coming to save you."
Harry's body trembled violently. Tears slid down the sides of his face, unwanted and stinging. He didn't know if they came from pain or fury or fear—perhaps all three. His hands scrabbled weakly against the floor, fingers searching, desperate.
A wand. Anything. Please, anything.
There was nothing. No way out.
The agony rolled over him again, tighter this time—his ribs searing with cold and heat all at once, the pain curling like a serpent around his spine. He couldn't breathe properly. His fingers were numb, bloodless. His head was full of fog, and his thoughts were sinking beneath the weight of it all.
He didn't want to die on the floor of the Burrow.
Not here. Not like this.
The poison churned again. He cried out—or tried to. His throat had gone raw. His fingernails cracked as they scraped across the boards, trying to drag himself even an inch further away.
Then—
The back door creaked open.
It was a sound so simple, so ordinary, but in that moment it cracked the nightmare wide open.
Footsteps. More than one. Heavy. Measured.
Harry tried to lift his head. His vision wobbled, shifting between red and black. But through the pain—through the storm surging in his chest—he heard.
"Wha's happened 'ere?"
Hagrid's voice. Thick. Familiar.
Harry's breath hitched. His stomach clenched.
Another voice followed—high and panicked.
"Mum? Dad?"
Ginny.
Her voice cracked on the second word. Harry felt it like a jolt to the heart. Were they—? Were they hurt?
"They're alive," Ginny said a moment later, her tone shaking but determined. "They must've fought back—just enough—before they were stunned."
Harry clung to her voice like a hand in the dark. But the pain surged again, dragging him beneath it. He was drowning in it now—lungs on fire, skin crawling. He couldn't speak. Couldn't even scream anymore.
"We need ter get 'em outta 'ere—quick," Hagrid said sharply, no hesitation in his voice now. "Could be more of 'em nearby."
Harry tried to cry out, to warn them.
It's not Percy. Don't trust him.
But his mouth wouldn't obey him. His tongue felt thick. His limbs were dead weight. The poison had wound itself so thoroughly through him that his body barely belonged to him anymore.
And then the false Percy laughed.
It was a terrible sound. Not just cruel—wrong. Hollow, like something trying to remember what laughter sounded like.
Harry managed to lift his head. Barely.
He looked up—and saw the imposter standing calmly over him, smiling like he'd already won.
And then—without warning—a sharp, brutal kick drove straight into Harry's ribs.
He screamed.
This time the sound came. A ragged, shattered howl of pain that tore through the house.
The kick alone might've broken something. But it wasn't just that. The potion flared again, as though the violence had ignited it anew. It rushed through his blood like molten iron. His back arched, hands clawing at the air, a fresh wave of fire ripping through every nerve.
Please—stop—stop—
He couldn't hear properly anymore. His ears were full of a rushing, like wind—or maybe it was his own pulse, thudding madly as if trying to outrun death itself.
But in the swirling blur around him—movement.
Wands. Cries. Gasps. Footsteps.
Voices.
Ron. Hermione. Ginny.
And—
Another Percy.
Harry's breath caught.
There were two of them. Two identical faces. But only one looked stricken. Pale and breathless and real.
Harry tried to speak again, to warn them, but all that escaped was a hoarse, broken croak.
The imposter—still poised, unmoved—sat down casually on the edge of the coffee table. Crossed his legs. A small glass vial spun lazily between his fingers.
Dark liquid inside. Thick and glimmering.
The imposter tilted it, watching the contents swirl like wine.
"Fascinating," he murmured, as if to himself. "How just a few drops can unravel someone so completely."
"Who the hell are you?!"
Ron's voice rang out like a spellfire blast—sharp, furious, trembling at the edges.
He was struggling madly against Hagrid's restraining arms, face red, eyes wild. "What did you do to Harry?! Let me go, Hagrid!"
The impostor turned toward him slowly, his expression one of cool amusement, as though the outburst were barely worth acknowledging. The Percy-mask was still there—glasses slightly askew, ginger hair neat and ordinary—but the eyes gave everything away. Too still. Too smug.
"I poisoned him," he said mildly, as though announcing he'd added milk to his tea. "And I must say—watching it take hold has been… enlightening. Rather exquisite, really."
Harry heard Hermione gasp, a choked sound of disbelief—but it seemed to echo from somewhere impossibly far away. Her voice wavered, lost beneath the roaring in his ears. His chest felt like it was being compressed by iron bands.
His vision blurred again. Darkness pressed at the edges. The pain was pulsing now—rising and falling in waves. But he fought it. Anchored himself to it. He couldn't lose consciousness.
A hand seized a fistful of his hair.
He didn't even hear the footsteps—just the sudden, wrenching pain as his head was yanked back, and he screamed, his throat raw and ruined. The white-hot agony that followed exploded behind his eyes. He felt every nerve scream. He couldn't breathe—couldn't think—his whole body was being split apart.
"I'm not the one you should fear," the impostor whispered, breath sour against his cheek. "I'm just the beginning."
Then—
A roar shook the house.
"Don' yeh dare touch him!" Hagrid bellowed, and the sound was like thunder breaking against the walls.
Harry dimly heard the rush of movement—heavy boots pounding across the floor. Hagrid was charging—arms outstretched—
But then came silence.
Not stillness—silence. A smothering, sickening weight in the air, as if the room had swallowed itself.
Magic. Thick and ancient. The kind that didn't just tingle—it crushed.
Harry's vision, already swimming, focused just long enough to see it: Hagrid, frozen mid-air. Arms caught halfway in motion, face twisted in fury. Held there, trapped. Suspended as though caught in invisible stone.
And the impostor? He hadn't even moved. Hadn't flinched. He simply let out a soft, contented chuckle—low, cold, and utterly devoid of feeling.
Hermione stumbled forward a step, wand raised, voice trembling but laced with steel. "Why?" she asked. "Why are you doing this?"
There was fear in her tone—but also understanding. The kind that comes too late.
The impostor didn't answer.
Instead, he reached inside his robes and withdrew a second vial. This one was darker than the first—viscous and heavy, a syrupy liquid that seemed to pulse on its own.
No hesitation. No flourish.
The impostor drank it.
The change was immediate.
Magic rippled through the air. The face began to melt—features warping, bones shifting. The neat ginger hair paled to blond. Freckles vanished. The sharp line of the nose, the cruel set of the mouth—familiar in the worst possible way.
Hermione staggered back. She made a choked, horrified sound.
"No," she whispered, her voice breaking. "No—it can't—"
But it could. And it was.
Because the face now staring back at them wasn't Percy Weasley's at all.
"Corban Yaxley," Ron breathed, his voice brittle, hollow with shock.
Harry had seen that face before—flashing in torchlight at the Ministry, leering from the shadows in Malfoy Manor. A Death Eater who'd always kept his distance. But now—he was here, standing in the Burrow, wearing Percy's face.
"That's right," said Yaxley, as though they were old friends catching up over drinks.
Harry could barely keep his eyes open. His body no longer felt entirely his. The poison was eating through him—his limbs heavy, disconnected. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, slow and erratic.
Yaxley turned toward him again, face smug. "I rather liked the little spot you and your friends used to Disapparate from after your little Ministry escapade," he drawled. "I made it my own, you know. It took me some time to work out the Fidelius, but… well. Patience pays off."
His voice dropped to a murmur, mocking. "I assume you were too busy running for your life to go back and check?"
Harry gritted his teeth, tried to sit up—tried to speak. His body screamed in protest.
"G—Grimmauld Place… isn't y—yours…" he rasped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Yaxley smiled. A slow, cruel curl of the lips.
"Oh, but it is now."
Then—crack.
His boot slammed into Harry's ribs again. The pain was instantaneous and blinding.
Harry's scream was muffled by the floorboards as his face smashed against them, the world spiralling into a white-hot flare of agony. His hands trembled. Something sharp had lodged beneath his ribs, twisting in his lungs.
Yaxley crouched beside him, breath cold against Harry's skin.
"You've stolen from me, Potter," he murmured. "The Dark Lord's plans. His victories. His secrets. So now—I'll take you. I'll take this house. I'll take every miserable little thing you care about. Piece by piece."
Harry wanted to fight. To move. But he couldn't. His body had become a prison. His limbs were leaden, his magic unreachable. He couldn't even lift his arm.
He could just about hear Ron shouting—furious, desperate.
"Get away from him!"
It sounded like it came from a great distance. Hermione was shouting something too—her voice breaking, choked with tears. Ginny's ragged breathing filled the edges of his awareness.
But Harry—he was barely holding on.
Everything inside him screamed at once—his nerves, his bones, and his magic. He was fading. Slipping beneath the pain.
"I heard Potter's dying."
The voice cut through. Light. Amused. Unbothered.
Yaxley stepped into the centre of the room with the ease of someone who believed themselves entirely untouchable. His pale face glistened in the morning light, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. His eyes settled on Harry with unfeigned satisfaction.
"Thought I'd help it along," he added casually.
He withdrew a vial from the inner folds of his cloak, holding it delicately between two fingers. The contents were thick, black, and glistening like oil. He gave it a slow swirl, watching it catch the light like he was admiring fine wine.
Harry's heart pounded weakly against his ribcage, each beat harder than the last. He could barely lift his head, but dread rolled over him in great, crashing waves.
Yaxley crouched beside him, the folds of his cloak whispering against the floorboards. Up close, Harry could see it—the hunger in his face, the barely contained thrill.
"This one's special," Yaxley murmured, voice dipped in poison. "It lets you feel every nerve as it burns."
"No!" Ron's voice exploded through the room, raw with rage. There was a crash, then the hurried scuffle of boots—he was lunging, wand raised, arm outstretched—
Bang!
A blast of red light shot through the air, flinging Ron backwards. Sparks sprayed the walls. Hermione screamed.
"Ron!" she cried, darting forward—but another wave of magic crackled between them, forcing her and Ginny back with a shriek of power that split the air.
Harry tried to move—to shout—to do something—but his body was frozen in a prison of agony. He was dimly aware of Yaxley's hand clamping round his jaw—cold, sharp nails digging into skin.
"Don't fight it," Yaxley whispered with a smile that made Harry's blood run colder than the potion ever could. "You won't die just yet."
The vial tilted.
Harry gagged as the liquid touched his tongue—foul, greasy, impossibly cold—and then, all at once, fire.
A scream was torn from his chest. It ripped free, wild and guttural, scraped raw from the very centre of him. The pain wasn't pain—it was everything. He wasn't sure where his body ended and the agony began. His skin burnt, blistered, and then froze over, only to burn again. His lungs seized. His stomach twisted.
His mind shattered.
There was no time. No thought. No air.
Just pain.
He didn't know if the screams he heard were his own anymore. Hermione's? Ginny's? The world blurred—colour and light smearing together. His vision fractured into shards of white and black, each blink worse than the last.
Somewhere—very far away—he heard laughter.
Not human laughter. Cruel. Detached. Triumphant.
Yaxley.
Then—crack.
The sound of Disapparition. Yaxley was gone.
But the pain didn't go with him.
It stayed. Burrowing deeper. Twisting round his ribs, his lungs, his spine. Every breath was a punishment. His body spasmed against the floor, uncontrolled, his muscles jerking violently. His skin still felt aflame—too tight, too raw.
I'm dying, he thought. And it didn't even sound afraid anymore—just certain.
Then—hands.
Warm.
"Harry—stay with us—stay with us!" Hermione's voice cracked in panic. She was holding his hand—he could feel her trembling.
"We've got you—we've got you—" Ginny's voice, low and desperate, thick with tears. She was brushing the sweat-soaked hair off his forehead.
"Portkey—where's the bloody Portkey?!" Ron's voice, frantic, echoed in the background.
A blur of motion—someone sprinting. A flash of ginger. Percy, real this time, face drawn, eyes wide.
"Use this!" he barked, shoving something into Ron's hands. "Here! Witch Weekly—Portkey! Just go! I'll deal with the Ministry—go!"
Hagrid loomed over him next—giant hands trembling as he scooped Harry up.
"Yeh'll be alright, Harry. I promise. Jus' hold on, mate. Jus' hold on—"
Harry wanted to say something—to thank them, to plead for it to stop—to tell Ginny how sorry he was, how afraid he was—but he couldn't make his mouth work. His tongue was heavy. His lungs no longer felt like they could draw enough air.
He saw Hermione conjuring stretchers with a flick of her wand—her hands shaking as she carefully levitated Mr and Mrs Weasley, both frighteningly still. Ginny was on her knees beside them, whispering something Harry couldn't hear, her tears falling fast and silent as she stroked her mother's hair.
The whole world felt like it was tearing at the seams.
"Everyone—touch it! Now!" Percy shouted.
They all reached for the magazine.
Harry's hand, half-curled, barely brushed it—
And then—whoosh.
The air was yanked from his lungs. His body twisted in mid-air, the floor vanishing beneath him. Light and noise spun in a dizzying whirl, a vortex of colour and pain—
And then—impact.
Hard, cold stone. Fluorescent lights. Shouts. The sharp smell of antiseptic and potion fumes.
St Mungo's.
Harry didn't know whether it was the corridor spinning wildly around him or whether it was simply his body surrendering—betraying him under the weight of whatever vile thing had been forced into his veins.
Voices clashed above him, tangled and frantic—panicked shouts, the thunder of rushing footsteps, and sharp bursts of spellfire. Someone was crying out. Someone else was barking orders. He couldn't make sense of any of it.
Then something ripped through his chest. A jolt so fierce it tore a raw sound from his throat and slammed him straight back into his body.
His lungs stuttered and seized. Each breath dragged through his throat, cruel and jagged. He clawed at the air, at nothing, fingers twisting, searching desperately—for what? Help? A wand? Someone to make it stop?
"Poison," someone was saying. The word slipped, thin and clipped and terrifying.
Poison.
His brain scrambled backwards, blindly searching for the moment it had happened. A drink? Had he taken something? No—no, he hadn't eaten—hadn't touched— Had it been a curse? Was it spellwork? Or was it in that vial—Merlin, the vial—
But his thoughts were thick, muddied, and slow. Everything was pulling away from him, spinning out of reach.
All that remained was the thud of his heart—lurching, frantic, uneven—as though it, too, were trying to escape the pain.
He was dying.
The realisation settled over him, cold and heavy. It wasn't just fear anymore. It was the truth. Irrefutable. Solid. He couldn't speak. Couldn't scream. His body had become a prison of pain and silence. He could feel the panic tightening in his chest, growing sharper with each ragged breath.
He tried to lift his head, but the world reeled sideways. Everything around him was fractured—faces and ceiling lights warping into one another. Shouts echoed. He was slipping further, deeper, the pain rushing in from all sides.
Then—a scream.
His own. He hadn't known it was there until it broke out of him. A desperate, ragged thing, raw with agony and fear.
He became dimly aware that people were staring.
"Harry's been poisoned!" Hermione's voice rang out, high and hoarse, trembling with urgency. "He needs help—now!"
There was a pause—just half a second—but it was long enough to make Harry's stomach twist. It was the hesitation. The recognition.
A voice broke through, half whisper, half awe. "Harry? You mean—Harry Potter?"
Always that name.
Even now. Even here, with poison burning through his veins and death closing in, he couldn't just be Harry. Just a teenager. Just someone in need of help.
Of course it's me, he thought bitterly, head rolling to one side. Who else would it be? Who else has disasters like this?
"YES, it's him!" Ron bellowed, his voice raw and furious. "Now stop standing there and HELP HIM!"
The air snapped to life.
Healers rushed forward at last, cloaks billowing. Harry felt himself being lifted, hands everywhere—levitating, rotating, stabilising. But his body was limp and foreign, like he'd been separated from it entirely. Voices overlapped in a storm of orders, too fast to follow. Someone was running beside him, shouting about dosage levels and containment fields.
Through the blur of movement, Harry caught a flash of a familiar face—thin, nervous, and too pale.
Augustus Pye.
Some strange part of Harry's mind fixated on him—on the bags under his eyes, the lines of worry etched deep. Did he ever wonder why the Weasleys—and everyone they loved—always seemed to end up in his ward? Was it bad luck? Fate? Or were they cursed, one and all?
Maybe they were.
Harry tried to speak. To ask for someone. Ginny? Hermione? Even Percy. But only a strangled, broken sound escaped his throat. His hands twitched but wouldn't close. His legs were dead weight.
Then he heard it.
A voice—booming, rough, impossibly loud even in a hospital full of noise.
"I'm not leavin' Harry!"
Hagrid.
Harry wanted to cry with relief. Hagrid was here. Hagrid knew. It made it real—and terrifying. If Hagrid was here, everyone knew. It meant they'd seen what had happened. It meant this wasn't going to be brushed aside like some passing curse or scuffle.
It was serious.
Harry's vision began to grey at the edges. He could feel the darkness clawing at the corners of his mind, dragging him down. The pain flared again—his chest twisted, ribs aching, every breath shallower than the last.
He wasn't ready. He didn't want to go. There were still things he hadn't said. Faces he wanted to see again. Ginny—
He tried to fight it. To stay. To hold on.
But it was slipping through his fingers. His world was fading into cold and silence.
The last thing he heard before it all went black was Hermione's voice, cracked and shaking:
"Harry—please. Stay with us."
The silence was thick—oppressive. It pressed against Harry's chest like an invisible weight, smothering and unrelenting. For a moment, he wasn't sure if he was actually there at all. His mind felt untethered, floating somewhere just beyond reach of his body. Every sound was muffled.
Footsteps. Breathing. Low murmurs that echoed too softly to latch onto. He hovered on the edge of consciousness, caught in the space between pain and nothingness.
Then, through the fog, a voice broke through.
Ron.
His voice was hoarse, rough-edged with strain, like he'd been shouting for hours. "The Healers—they'll have antidotes. Loads of them. They know what they're doing. They can sort this—they have to."
Harry latched onto the sound and tried to focus. He wanted to believe it—to let Ron's stubborn certainty be enough. If Ron believed, maybe he could too.
But then Hermione spoke. Her voice was quiet. The kind of quiet that made Harry's stomach twist.
"Even if they do…" she said slowly, and Harry could hear the effort it took not to let her voice crack, "it might not be fast enough. Depending on the poison… the damage could already be irreversible."
Irreversible.
The word crashed into him like a spell to the chest.
No. No, not irreversible. Not after everything. He'd survived too much—come too far—for it to end here. Not on a hospital bed. Not like this.
He tried to move. Even just a twitch. He tried to open his eyes, to force some part of him to react—but nothing happened.
Then Ginny's voice filtered in. Quieter than the others. Trembling, but clear.
"I… I think I know which one it is," she said. "If it's the same one I'm thinking of—if it's what they used before—he might not survive another dose."
Her words were measured. Not dramatic. Not shouted. But they hit harder than anything else.
Harry felt something heavy and cold settle over him, curling into his chest. Dread, deeper than he'd ever known. Not the panicked, frenzied fear of battle—but something slower. Sinking. Like the creeping certainty of drowning, just before your head goes under.
He was running out of time.
Across the room, Ron's fury erupted again. It burnt in his voice—hot and barely contained.
"Yaxley," he snarled. "And Malfoy. It's got their stink all over it. I know it's them. And if I see them again—if I get within ten feet—Merlin help me, I'll make them pay."
Silence.
Even in Harry's blurred awareness, he felt it. Ron's words hung in the air, bitter and furious.
Then came Hermione's voice again. Gentle. Not soft.
"Ron… revenge won't save Harry."
A beat. A breath.
"I don't care!" Ron shouted, voice cracking with rage and something dangerously close to despair. "He's in there—he's dying—and they're out there walking free! Someone has to dosomething!"
Harry wished he could answer.
Not yet, he wanted to say. Wait for me. Let me stand beside you. Let me fight too.
But nothing came. No words. Not even a whisper.
He couldn't move. Couldn't draw breath without pain. It was like the world around him was slipping further and further away, while he remained trapped—buried somewhere deep within a body that no longer responded.
And he could feel it. The shift. The way the edges of the room were blurring, how everything seemed colder. Distant. The warmth of voices was beginning to fade. Even Ginny's. Even Ron's.
It was like water filling his lungs. A slow, creeping pressure. He tried again to call out—to say anything—but the words dissolved before they could reach his mouth.
Help me.
But no one heard.
And then the dark pulled him under again.