The ceiling above him was a blur—white, buzzing faintly with flickering lights that blinked. They pulsed overhead in dizzy, disjointed flashes, casting long, spidery shadows that writhed along the walls, stretching like skeletal hands trying to reach him. They twisted and curled with each blink of dim light, crawling closer across the ceiling, the floor, and his skin.
Harry lay beneath them, paralysed in his own body, a silent prisoner to the poison curling through his veins.
Each breath scraped painfully in his chest, shallow and short. It felt like someone had put a weight on his ribcage, something heavy and invisible, slowly pressing the air out of him. His heart pounded wildly against his sternum, thudding like a trapped Snitch in a jar. His limbs were slick with sweat, too weak to lift from the tangle of damp sheets beneath him. His pyjamas were soaked through, clinging to him.
Then came the nausea—fast and cruel.
A sudden, guttural retch seized him. His body convulsed violently, lifting from the bed as another wave overtook him. Acid scorched the back of his throat, and he doubled over as far as his trembling limbs would allow, gasping and coughing. There was nothing left in his stomach to give, but the spasms kept coming—like his body was trying to rid itself of something that had already sunk too deep.
He slumped over the side of the bed, retching dryly. He was too ill to feel embarrassed. He didn't care who saw. His body was tearing itself apart. If this was living—he wasn't sure he wanted it.
A large hand thudded gently against his back—too large, too familiar.
"Easy, Harry… easy now…" came Hagrid's voice, thick with emotion. The sound of it broke something inside Harry. There was a tremor to it he'd never heard before, not even when Buckbeak had been sentenced or when Dumbledore had died.
But it wasn't easy. It never had been. Not for him.
Harry tried to lift his head, but it felt like lead. His whole body shivered, burning and freezing all at once. His skin felt too tight, his bones too brittle. The poison was everywhere now—setting every nerve alight with pain.
He wanted to ask someone, Is it supposed to hurt like this? But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a dry rasp. He fumbled blindly at the bedclothes, at the stale hospital air, at anything to hold on to.
I'm dying.
The thought surfaced again, cold and absolute.
He could hear them—voices all around him—shouting orders, clinking glass, and magical bursts of light against sterile tile. But the words didn't make sense. They bled into one another, warping and echoing as though they were coming from the bottom of a deep, dark well.
A glimmer. Something silver and sharp caught the light. A glass phial.
He squinted, forcing his eyes to focus.
The antidote.
Healers rushed around him. One of them—sharp-eyed, robes flapping—held the vial aloft. His voice was grim.
"Angel's Trumpet toxin. Fast-acting. Delirium. Hallucinations. Seizures. If he survives the next forty-eight hours… he may recover. But he's got to stay conscious. If he sleeps, he stops breathing."
"Wha's that supposed ter mean?" Hagrid growled, his voice catching in his throat. "Can't yeh give him somethin' fer the pain—anything—he's screamin'!"
The Healer didn't look up. "If he loses consciousness, he dies."
There was no time for more.
A sharp sting lanced through his arm—the needle slipping beneath skin already too raw. He barely registered it before the fire took hold.
It wasn't pain. Not like before. Not even Cruciatus had been like this.
It was obliteration.
A white-hot explosion burst through his chest. His back arched off the bed, spine bowed like a drawn wand. His scream ripped free of his throat, raw and primal, a sound he didn't recognise as his own. His vision splintered—shards of light cutting through him. Muscles locked, seized—his arms, his legs, his jaw. Everything.
The antidote was scouring him clean. Burning out the poison.
And in doing so, it was tearing him apart too.
He vomited again, choking, but there was nothing left to bring up—just bile and fire. His mouth filled with blood—he'd bitten clean through his bottom lip. Tears stung his eyes, but they couldn't fall; his face was frozen in pain.
Make it stop. Please. Please, I'll do anything, just make it stop—
But it didn't.
He heard a chair crash against the floor and someone stumbling back. Hagrid's great shadow fell across him, the half-giant trying to keep him anchored, both of his enormous hands pressing gently against Harry's shoulders as he thrashed against the sheets.
"Stay with me, Harry," Hagrid pleaded, voice thick with panic and wet with tears. "Don't yeh leave me, please… Don't yeh dare—"
One blink ago, Harry had been writhing in a sweat-soaked hospital bed, drowning in pain that left no room for thought. But in the next heartbeat, the world was wrong.
The walls no longer held their shape. They bowed and twisted, as though the very air had softened into liquid. Colours bled into one another—dull, bruised greys and greens melting into an oppressive dark. The floor beneath him cracked open like broken ice, revealing an endless, black chasm that pulsed with something ancient and hungry.
He was falling—no—stumbling. His feet found ground where there should be none, but each step felt disjointed, disconnected from his body. He clutched at his chest, breath hitching painfully in his throat. His chest didn't burn—but something else did. Something deeper. Something trying to unmake him from the inside out.
Shapes moved in the shadows—whispers curled around his ears.
Weak…
Burden…
You were always going to fail them.
Harry flinched, recoiling as if struck. He tried to turn away from the sound, to run, but his legs dragged behind him like dead weight. He wasn't controlling them anymore. They were just things—empty limbs carrying a shell forward.
Each step tore another scream from his throat. His body felt too tight, like it was shrinking from the inside. His mind couldn't keep pace—it was spinning, slipping.
And then he saw them.
Figures emerging from the dark.
Ron. Hermione. Ginny.
They stood still as statues, unmoving, pale. Their faces were waxen, drawn, and drained of all the warmth he'd ever known in them. But it was their eyes that made him stagger—a hollow, distant sort of grief that pierced deeper than any curse.
"You couldn't even survive this," Hermione said coldly. Her voice—usually so full of cleverness and conviction—was thin and brittle. "After everything we've done. After everything we risked."
Her words cut deep. Harry opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came.
"You always were dead weight," Ron added. His arms were folded tightly across his chest. He didn't sound angry. Just… tired. "We carried you as far as we could."
Ginny didn't speak. She only turned her back, her hair flaring like fire before the shadows consumed her.
"No," Harry whispered, reaching out desperately—but his hand passed straight through them. "Please. Don't go. I'm trying—I swear I'm trying—"
The shadows laughed. It was low and cold, a sound not meant for human ears. A sound full of knowing.
A wave of nausea rose so suddenly he barely registered it before his body convulsed again—in the real world, far above this hellish in-between. He retched, gagged on bile, his chest contracting in ragged spasms. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
Something real gripped his shoulder—firm, solid, warm.
Hagrid.
Even now, even here, the man's presence somehow cut through the dark.
But not for long.
The nightmare shifted again. The shadows reformed and grew teeth.
He was back in the graveyard—not the one where Cedric had died, but another, older, colder. This time, it was his name on the headstone. He knelt before it, knees in frozen mud, while something unseen curled around his throat.
Thin, corpse-pale fingers dragged him backwards, down into the soil. He kicked and fought, but his limbs betrayed him, numb and heavy. The ground opened and swallowed him whole. Dirt filled his mouth and his nose—he couldn't breathe. The weight of the earth pressed in from every direction, smothering him.
It's the poison, he thought dimly. It's killing me. Over and over and over.
A voice slithered up through the soil, dark and insidious.
"Let go," it hissed. "You don't deserve to live. You never did. All you do is cost them everything."
His body wanted to listen. His heart was barely beating. He couldn't feel the edges of himself anymore.
And then—through the roar of death closing in—a sound broke through like a crack of light.
"HARRY!"
The voice was rough. Frayed. Terrified.
"Fight, yeh hear me? Yeh've got to fight!"
Hagrid. Still calling. Still hoping.
Harry clung to that voice.
He didn't know how to move—but somehow, he willed himself to. Somewhere in the mess of failing muscle and collapsing thought, he fought. He pushed back. Against the dirt. Against the dark. Against the thing that told him to let go.
The poison screamed through him, furious that it was being driven out.
The pain was back—but so was he.
He clawed his way up, up through soil and shadow and smoke—towards the warmth, towards the sick reality that waited like a slap to the face.
He chose it.
Because if he didn't… if he surrendered here, in this godforsaken place… he wouldn't just lose his life.
He'd lose them.
With a strangled, gasping sob, Harry snapped awake—eyes flying open to the dim, flickering light of the hospital ward. The ceiling swam above him. His chest heaved. He was soaked through. His pyjamas clung to him like rags, the air buzzing with magic and disinfectant.
He retched again—dry-heaving—his entire frame shaking violently. But there was nothing left in him. Only pain and the memory of what had nearly claimed him.
"That's it, Harry… that's it…" came Hagrid's broken whisper.
He was hunched over the bedside, his massive frame bent low, clutching Harry's hand. Tears cut clean tracks through the tangled beard and dirt-smudged cheeks.
"Yeh stay with me now, alright?" he said thickly. "Yeh keep fightin', lad."
Harry didn't have the strength to speak. But he managed the smallest squeeze of Hagrid's fingers.
The hours bled into one another until they bore no shape, no edges—no sense of anything resembling time at all.
There were no days, no nights. Just the endless, unravelling stretch of suffering.
Harry drifted—half-conscious—as if he were floating just beneath the surface of a black and bitter sea. Each time he surfaced, it was only for a moment, and each moment was a new kind of torment. His body was a battlefield. Fever scorched through him like dragon-fire, boiling beneath his skin, searing behind his eyes. It crackled in his bones, in his teeth, and in the back of his throat.
He could feel his pulse in places it didn't belong—in the hollow ache behind his knees, in his fingertips, and in the curve of his spine. His skin didn't feel like skin anymore. It felt wrong. Too tight, too thin.
Every breath was a war. Each inhale was shallow and raw. His chest rose and fell in painful stutters, never full enough. Never easy.
The sheets beneath him were damp and cloying, reeking of sweat and sick and something else—something sharper, more acrid. The tang of metal, scorched and sour, clung to the back of his throat. He couldn't tell if it was the poison seeping out of him… or simply the scent of something dying.
Sometimes—when the pain gave him a moment's mercy—he heard Hagrid's voice again.
Rough. Frantic.
"Help him—please, someone—he's not right—he's not breathin' properly—!"
But no help ever came fast enough. Time twisted, knotted around itself, until even those brief intrusions from reality felt like dreams.
And then, just as quickly, he would sink back under.
The fever dreams that followed were not like ordinary nightmares. They were sharp. They hurt. They felt more real than waking—each image cut with the precision of memory, soaked in dread and doubt.
In one, he was back in the Forbidden Forest. Not as he had been on the night he faced death willingly, but different. Lost.
The trees loomed larger now, menacing and strange, their bark slick with shadow. Their branches creaked like bones, whispering his name with every twist of the wind.
Harry…
They knew him. They remembered him.
His legs dragged through mud. Roots clutched at his ankles and tugged at his boots. He stumbled over and over, his knees cracking against hidden stones. Blood slicked his palms where they'd torn on thorns. Every time he tried to right himself, the forest pushed back.
The branches clawed at his arms and tore at his sleeves. The air turned sour with rot and something older, something wrong. It was colder now, colder than the forest should've been.
You can't save anyone, the trees hissed.
You couldn't even save yourself.
"No," he breathed. "That's not true—I tried—"
But the trees closed in, knotting themselves tighter, pulling the light from the sky.
In another vision, he stood in a pale, endless space. A platform of sorts—something half-remembered. But this time, it was cold. Empty.
Dumbledore appeared before him—but not as Harry remembered him. Not the kind, silver-bearded guide from King's Cross. Not the grandfatherly warmth that had once filled Harry's heart with impossible trust.
No, this Dumbledore was distant. Distant and disappointed.
His eyes—those famed blue eyes—were dimmer somehow. Hard.
"You were never enough," he said, softly, like it was fact.
Not cruel. Not angry.
Just final.
The words hit Harry like a hex to the heart. His lungs seized.
He opened his mouth to respond—to argue, to plead—but no sound emerged. Instead, earth filled his throat again, thick and wet. He gagged. Choked.
He fell to his knees.
"No," he tried to say. "Please."
But Dumbledore had already turned away, his robes vanishing into the mist.
Then again: the forest. The graveyard. The blur of Ginny's hair disappearing through smoke. Ron's voice was accusing. Hermione looked away.
Over and over, the poison twisted his mind into new shapes of shame. Guilt. Helplessness.
He was drowning in it.
There was no escape. Only pain—endless and cyclical. Like being cursed again and again by some unseen wand. As though this was what death truly was: not a void, but an echo chamber of every failure he'd ever feared becoming.
He didn't know how long he'd been trapped like that—caught in the push and pull between nightmares and the faint edges of waking. Maybe days. Maybe more. He had no way of knowing.
Only one thing remained certain.
It hurt.
Night had fallen.
Or perhaps—it had never left.
Harry couldn't tell anymore. The world beyond the narrow, dim-lit walls of the hospital room had faded into abstraction—unreal, unreachable. It might as well have been another century, another life. Time twisted in his fevered mind like mist in a Pensieve, curling and dissolving into nothing the moment he tried to grasp it.
The dreams—if they could still be called that—grew darker.
He was standing now, barefoot, at the edge of a great black lake. The surface was as still as glass, yet impossibly deep—its waters ink-dark and cold enough to sting just looking at them. The sky overhead was void—no stars, no moon, no clouds. Just endless, cavernous dark. A silence too vast to comprehend.
Figures emerged in the shallows. They rose slowly, half-submerged, as though the lake itself had birthed them from its depths.
Sirius.
Fred.
Remus. Tonks. Cedric.
Faces he had loved. Faces he had lost.
They looked at him—not accusingly, not quite—but with a sadness so ancient, so gentle, that it nearly broke him.
Their voices echoed, not through the air, but inside his bones.
"Come with us."
"It's over now."
"You've done enough."
"You've earned your rest."
The water lapped gently at the edge. It smelt clean and cold. And suddenly, Harry felt so tired—so heavy. The ache in his body, the sickness, the pain—it all faded as he took a step forward.
The lake welcomed him.
A second step, and the cold licked at his ankles. But it wasn't cruel. It was calm. Comforting. The peace it offered reached out to him like a mother's hand, smoothing the pain in his body, whispering that he didn't have to fight anymore.
And for a moment he believed it.
He could see them properly now. Fred was smiling, lopsided and bright as always, his hair still stuck up at odd angles. Sirius stood just behind, arms folded, but his eyes shone with something close to relief.
You're almost there.
He wanted to go. Merlin, he wanted to. To step forward, to sink into the water, to be wrapped in the arms of those he'd lost. To let go of all the pain that clung to him like a curse.
But then—
A voice, thick and raw, cut across the stillness.
"Yeh ain't alone, Harry."
He froze.
"Don' yeh dare think yeh're alone."
Hagrid.
That voice, so full of grief and unrelenting love, rang louder than the lake's hush. It echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once.
The water shivered. Ripples spread out across the surface. The dead began to fade.
Fred's smile wavered. Sirius stepped back. One by one, they were drawn into the water.
Harry stood trembling, drenched in indecision. The cold at his feet turned biting. His breath quickened. He didn't know how he did it—how he turned away—but he did. One slow, shaking step back, then another.
Then the darkness surged.
The lake, the figures, the peace—all gone in a blink. Ripped away like curtains torn from a window.
Harry's eyes flew open.
He sucked in a breath so sharp it felt like it was tearing through his chest. His lungs heaved. His body jerked, seized, and convulsed.
Sweat drenched him. His pyjama shirt soaked through. The air tasted stale and metallic, heavy with potions and old pain.
He was back.
Still in the hospital bed. Still in this fragile, faltering body.
And Hagrid was there—slumped forward in the chair beside him, his shoulders hunched like a collapsed mountain, eyes bloodshot, and beard soaked with tears.
He looked up. Their eyes met.
"Tha's it, lad," Hagrid whispered hoarsely, clutching Harry's hand. "Come back. Come back ter us."
Harry couldn't speak. His throat was raw, his tongue leaden. But he blinked—twice. That was all he could manage.
He was still here.
He didn't know how many nights followed. How many more times did he descend into that deep black sea or wander the endless paths of the dead?
Each one was worse than the last—a trial by fire, by sickness, by memory. Visions clawed at the edges of his mind like Inferi, cold and unrelenting.
Each time, he came close. He almost let go.
The pain begged him to. The quiet offered mercy. And he wanted it. Wanted peace. Release.
But he didn't surrender.
Because of that hand—always there.
Rough. Firm. Steady.
Because no matter how far the poison dragged him down, there was always someone at his bedside, calling him back. Holding on. Refusing to give up, even when Harry himself wanted to.
At first, Harry thought it must be another dream.
Everything felt… wrong. Not in the jagged, feverish way it had felt when the poison had raged through him, burning him from the inside out, but in a strange, suspended way—as though he'd surfaced too suddenly from deep underwater and the world hadn't quite settled back into place.
The air was thin.
His skin, once burning with fever, was clammy now. Damp with cold sweat, but no longer aflame. Still, something inside him wasn't right. Something coiled beneath his ribs, twitching uncomfortably.
He forced his eyes open. The lights above him blurred and swam, soft and unfocused. He squinted, and slowly—painfully slowly—the room around him emerged from the haze.
A ceiling. Cracked plaster. Faint buzzing from overhead enchantments. And beside him, as always—
Hagrid.
Slumped awkwardly in a too-small chair, head bowed in restless sleep, beard streaked with what might've been sweat, or maybe tears. One enormous hand still wrapped firmly around Harry's. As if he'd been holding on when Harry had gone under and hadn't once let go since.
Harry's heart twisted at the sight.
He tried to move. Just a twitch of his fingers. A shift of breath. Something to reach for the hand holding his.
But nothing happened.
His body didn't respond. It lay there, heavy and foreign, as though he'd been stuffed back into a shell that no longer fit. Every limb was weighted. Every muscle, locked.
Panic bloomed in his chest, sharp and cold.
Move, he thought. Come on—just move…
He pushed for a deeper breath, and the pain surged back in a brutal, unforgiving wave.
It wasn't the firestorm from before. Not quite. But it was worse in its own way—deep, gnawing pain that nestled in the joints and sinews. Like his entire body had been wrenched apart and stitched together by someone who didn't know what they were doing. His back arched off the mattress involuntarily, and even that small movement sent fire darting along his spine.
The antidote.
Of course. It was still working. Still burrowing through him, burning out the last traces of poison with all the delicacy of a blunt axe.
A sound escaped him—a low, broken noise that might have been a groan or a sob. He didn't know which.
Hagrid jerked awake at once.
"Harry—!" His voice cracked, hoarse with sleep and something more than fear—grief, maybe, or desperate hope. He leaned forward so quickly that the chair groaned beneath him. His eyes were wide, disbelieving. "You're—bloody hell, you're awake… yeh're awake…"
Harry tried to speak. His tongue felt like it had been scoured with sandpaper, his throat raw and scraped hollow. What came out was little more than a croak.
Hagrid was already fumbling with the pillow behind him, trying to lift it without jostling him too much. "Don' talk, don' try to move—not yet," he said quickly. "You've done it, lad. Through the worst of it now, yeh hear me? You made it."
Made it?
Harry blinked slowly, struggling to make sense of the words. They felt false.
It didn't feel like he'd made it.
It felt like he was still drowning. Just more slowly now. Like the water had gone still but hadn't receded. Like the war inside him had gone quiet—but not ended.
His hands were curled into tight claws at his sides. He tried to uncurl them. They wouldn't move. The tendons had drawn so tight it was as though they'd fused that way. Every breath was like dragging air. His whole body was trembling with the effort of staying conscious.
This isn't over, he realised, a heavy stone settling in his chest. It's just changed.
The agony hadn't left. It had only shifted shape.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to cry out, trying to will the weakness out of his limbs and the ache from his bones. I survived, he told himself, again and again, trying to make it feel true. I survived.
But it didn't feel like victory.
It felt like loss.
Like something had been taken from him, piece by piece, and only now was he realising how little of himself remained.
Hot tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, soaking silently into the pillow.
Hagrid's hand was there a moment later, rough but gentle, brushing them away with the edge of his sleeve. "There, now," he murmured, his voice so low it was almost lost beneath the hum of the magical lighting above them. "S'alright. You're safe now, Harry. We've got yeh. You're safe."
Harry didn't reply. He didn't know what safety felt like anymore. Not when his body was still a battlefield and his mind kept slipping back into the lake, into the forest, into the dark.
He lay as still as he could, terrified of what would happen if he moved wrong. Of what the antidote would do if he pushed too far. It was coiled inside him still, sharp-edged and unforgiving. Waiting.
So he didn't fight.
He let the pain wash over him. Let it crash and recede, crash and recede. Let the quiet sound of Hagrid's breath and the warmth of his hand ground him—just enough to hold on.
The fever was breaking.
But the fight wasn't done.
He wasn't free.
Not yet.
Harry drifted at the edge of consciousness, caught in that strange, colourless space where waking and dreaming seemed to blur into one. He didn't know how long he'd been there. Minutes. Hours. Days, maybe. Time had lost all meaning. Everything around him was distant and dull.
He was aware of sound, faint and distorted: quiet murmurs, the occasional clink of glass, and the rustle of robes. Even the sharp, medicinal tang of St Mungo's—the ever-present mix of disinfectant, bitter potions, and something vaguely metallic—was reduced to a ghost of a scent, lingering vaguely at the back of his throat.
Footsteps entered the room. Not the heavy, careful tread of Hagrid, but quicker, lighter—professional. Purposeful. Multiple sets. Cloaks swished. Bottles clinked together with a quiet chime. Healers.
Somewhere to Harry's right, Hagrid's chair scraped sharply against the stone floor. He must have leapt to his feet, startled, as though caught out in something he shouldn't have been doing—though Harry couldn't imagine what. Hagrid had done nothing but sit beside him, hour after hour, never leaving his side, anchoring Harry to the world by sheer stubbornness alone.
Harry wanted to turn his head. To open his eyes. To look at them. But even the thought was exhausting. His limbs felt anchored to the bed, too heavy to lift. His chest rose and fell with agonising slowness, each breath shallow and forced.
"He's awake, but only just," came a crisp, clipped voice—a woman's, professional and brisk, the kind that didn't waste time on false hope. "The fever's broken. That's something."
Hagrid's voice followed almost at once, low and ragged. "So he's—he's survived, then?"
There was a pause. A beat too long.
"Yes," the healer replied at last. Her tone had softened, but there was something in it—something cautious. "Yes. He's made it through. But…"
But.
That word snagged in Harry's chest like a thorn.
"…his body's taken an enormous toll. The antidote's still active—it'll be working through his system for a while yet. He's been pushed far past safe magical limits. There's muscle damage, widespread nerve fatigue, and what I can only describe as acute magical shock. His recovery will be slow. Weeks at minimum, possibly longer."
Hagrid let out a sound then—half gasp, half sob—a noise so full of tangled grief and relief that Harry's stomach clenched in response.
He wanted to speak. To reassure him somehow. But even forming the idea was too much.
The words were there, floating somewhere above him. But he couldn't catch them. Couldn't hold them still long enough to make sense of anything. The healer's voice became just another wave of noise, washing over him.
"…full reconditioning… carefully dosed nerve tonics… possible lasting damage to—"
"Will he be able ter walk again?" Hagrid interrupted. His voice was rough, frayed at the edges.
A pause. Longer this time.
"In time," the healer said at last, gently. "But it won't be easy. It'll hurt. He'll need assistance—quite a lot of it. His nervous system's been through hell."
Something cold and sharp twisted behind Harry's ribs.
He didn't want help. He didn't want to be looked after. He didn't want to become a burden—again.
The thought should have filled him with dread. Or shame. Or anger. But everything felt far away now. Even the humiliation. Even the fear. Blunted by the weariness that pressed in from all sides, dragging him under.
Words floated around him: therapy… nerve regeneration… spell-induced trauma… prolonged rest…
None of it meant anything. None of it mattered.
All that mattered was the ache in his bones, deep and dull, like he'd been pummelling with Bludgers in every joint and muscle. His body throbbed with every beat of his heart. Not sharp pain—just endless, throbbing discomfort, stretching from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. The sheets chafed against his skin. The pillow beneath his head felt wrong, too hard in some places, too flat in others. Even the air pressing down on him felt oppressive, like it carried weight of its own.
His eyes fluttered closed, too heavy to keep open.
He couldn't do it anymore.
Couldn't keep clinging to the surface.
The exhaustion inside him wasn't normal tiredness—it was deeper. Bone-deep. Magic-deep. It felt like something had been carved out of him, something essential, and now all that remained was the hollow space it had left behind.
"Sleep, Harry," came Hagrid's voice again, closer this time, gentler. It rumbled low and steady. "Yeh've earnt it, lad. Yeh've fought harder than anyone I've ever known."
Harry wanted to answer. To say thank you. To say sorry. To say anything.
But no sound came. Only silence.
A large, warm hand brushed lightly through his hair—clumsy, but careful. Hagrid.
That was the last thing Harry felt before the dark pulled him under again. Not like drowning, this time. Not violent. Just heavy. Final.
Sleep swallowed him whole.
Harry surfaced slowly. His thoughts were sluggish, floating hazily to the top of his mind before slipping away again. For a while, he wasn't sure whether he was still dreaming—if the light touching his eyelids was real or imagined, if the bed beneath him truly existed or was just another creation of his aching mind.
Eventually, the stillness settled enough for him to begin to feel the edges of his body. It hurt—everything hurt. But not the sharp, searing pain of cursefire or battle wounds. No, this was something deeper. A low, grinding ache that pulsed behind his ribs and down into his bones. His limbs felt thick, unwieldy, and too heavy to move. He lay there for a long time, breathing slowly, eyes half-open, trying to piece together the shape of himself.
The ceiling above him was white but blurry. Pale light filtered through the curtains to his left—early morning, maybe. Or late afternoon. He couldn't tell. Time had gone strange again.
His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. I'm alive, he thought distantly, as though the realisation was too big to feel all at once.
It didn't feel like victory.
He shifted slightly, just enough to turn his head—and saw him.
Hagrid.
Slumped in a chair beside the bed, his enormous body spilling over the wooden arms. His wild black hair was matted and tangled, his beard frayed and damp in places. One massive hand was resting, half-curled, on the edge of Harry's mattress, as if he'd fallen asleep mid-gesture. His head lolled slightly to the side, mouth open, snoring softly. He looked like some oversized, well-worn toy that had been left in the rain and then forgotten—but still faithfully kept its post.
Something in Harry cracked.
A small, broken noise escaped his throat—half relief, half pain. He hadn't even realised how much he'd needed to see someone familiar, someone safe. Just the sight of Hagrid's enormous, loyal presence made his throat tighten and his eyes sting.
He tried to sit up, but it was a mistake. A brutal one.
Agony ripped through his chest and down his arms, as though invisible hands had grabbed hold of his muscles and twisted them. His ribs felt splintered, and his back screamed in protest. A choked gasp slipped out before he could stop it, and he bit hard on the inside of his cheek, jaw clenched, willing himself not to cry out.
But the noise was enough.
Hagrid stirred, snorted, and jerked upright with a grunt. His chair creaked under the sudden shift of weight. His eyes, bloodshot and panicked, flew around the room until they landed on Harry.
"Harry?" he croaked, voice cracking with sleep and something deeper—fear, maybe, or disbelief.
Harry swallowed, his throat bone-dry and rough. It felt like he hadn't used it in days.
"Hey, Hagrid," he rasped, lips barely moving. He tried for a smile, but it faltered halfway through. "Sorry… didn't mean to wake you."
The words came out sharp and uneven. He shifted instinctively towards Hagrid's arm, needing to feel something solid, something real. Even if it was just warmth, just presence. Something to prove he wasn't still stuck in one of those dreams where everything twisted cruel.
Hagrid leaned closer at once, but with care—his hand hovered uncertainly over Harry's shoulder, clearly terrified of hurting him more. His massive brow furrowed, and he blinked hard, as if trying to make sure he wasn't imagining this.
"It's all right, Harry. Don't yeh worry 'bout me," Hagrid said gruffly, his voice thick. "How're yeh feelin'?"
Harry gave a weak laugh that turned almost immediately into a cough, sharp and rattling. He winced, eyes watering.
"Like I've been run over by the Knight Bus," he muttered, breathless. "Twice."
He tried to move his right arm, just to test it—but lightning shot up his nerves, and he hissed through his teeth, every muscle tensing.
"Whoa, whoa—easy now," Hagrid said quickly, reaching out without thinking, catching Harry's wrist gently between two fingers. "Don' push it. The antidote's still workin'. Bit slow, but it's doin' its job."
Antidote. The word thudded through Harry's brain, heavy and ominous. He blinked, fragments of memory rising—pain, yes. The cold creeping into his limbs. A burning in his throat. Someone screaming. Then nothing.
He gave a faint nod and let his head sink back against the pillow. His thoughts were molasses-slow, but the pieces were there. Poison. Someone had poisoned him. Someone had tried to kill him.
And they'd nearly succeeded.
"This is… St Mungo's, isn't it?" he murmured after a long pause, squinting at the plain, softly lit room. It looked oddly peaceful—out of place, somehow.
"Aye," Hagrid said, softer now. "We got yeh here as quick as we could."
We.
Harry blinked and turned his head, just enough to look at Hagrid properly. His brow furrowed.
"We?" he repeated, his voice hoarse and confused. "Who's…?"
Hagrid's expression changed then—something proud and sorrowful all at once. He nodded, slow and solemn.
"Ron. Hermione. Ginny. They found yeh. Fought their way ter yeh, and got yeh out. Risked everythin'. Wouldn't leave yeh behind."
Harry didn't speak.
The flood of relief that crashed through him was so fierce it hurt. He had barely dared hope they were all right—and now Hagrid was saying they'd saved him. That they'd been there.
"They're okay?" he croaked.
"They're alive," Hagrid confirmed. "Shaken. Tired. But in one piece."
Harry shut his eyes for a moment, unable to speak. His chest was tight—not from the poison, not from the pain—but from something else entirely. Gratitude. Guilt. Love. All tangled together in a knot, he didn't know how to untie it.
"Where are they now?" he asked, a little too urgently. The idea of them being so close—and not seeing them—felt wrong. Unbearable.
"In the waitin' room," Hagrid said gently. "Healers said no visitors yet. Wanted yeh to rest a bit more before they let anyone else in."
Harry nodded, though the disappointment settled in his chest. It made sense. Still… the distance ached.
He looked up at Hagrid again. "But… you're here."
There was a slight edge in his voice—curious, maybe even a little accusatory—but not unkind.
Hagrid's mouth twitched into a sheepish smile. "Well… might've refused ter leave, if I'm honest. Told the Healers they'd have to stun me before I budged. Made a bit of a scene."
His smile faltered then, his voice dropping to something quieter, almost ashamed.
"I couldn't leave yeh, Harry. Not when yeh looked like that. I've seen a lot, but… not like that. Not you."
Harry blinked hard, the weight of everything crashing down once again.
"You stayed," he said quietly.
"'Course I did," Hagrid muttered. "Always will."
And despite the ache, despite the fact that it felt like his body had been taken apart and stitched together wrong—Harry managed a real smile.
But the smile slid from Harry's face almost as soon as it had appeared.
His gaze, bleary though it was, caught on the thick, white bandages wrapped around Hagrid's forearms. They peeked from beneath the rolled sleeves of his coat, frayed edges stained faintly with something that might have been old blood or healing salve. The sight of them landed in Harry's stomach.
"Hagrid—" he rasped, sitting forward without thinking.
A fresh wave of dizziness slammed into him. His vision swam and darkened at the edges. The room tilted alarmingly.
"Whoa—easy now, Harry," Hagrid said, catching him gently and guiding him back against the pillows. "Don' try movin' yet. Not till yeh're stronger."
Harry allowed himself to be eased down, gritting his teeth against the spin in his head. The bandages still stared back at him, accusing and stark.
"What happened to you?" he asked, his voice raw with worry. "Those—those bandages?"
Hagrid hesitated. Just for a second.
He shifted in his chair and looked away, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window as though the words would be easier to say if he didn't have to meet Harry's eyes.
"Er," he said at last, low and grim. "Got meself in a bit o' trouble. Was trackin' the Thestrals—lookin' fer what yeh needed. Thought I knew the place well enough. But it wasn't the same anymore. Wild magic's twisted everything down there. Got caught up by some Death Eaters. Hexed me with a Severing Charm."
He gave a rough little laugh, the kind people used when they were trying not to sound shaken. "Tore me up a bit, they did. Arms mostly. Lucky it wasn't worse."
Harry stared at him, horror churning in his gut. His mouth felt dry. The images sprang unbidden to his mind—Hagrid, alone in some dark, half-forgotten cave, grappling with a Death Eater, bleeding and determined and still thinking only of how to help.
Because of me.
"If you'd been hurt—if you'd died—" Harry's voice cracked. He swallowed hard and tried again. "Hagrid, I'm so sorry. This was never supposed to—you shouldn't have—"
"Stop that," Hagrid cut in firmly, raising a bandaged hand. His voice was still gentle, but there was no mistaking the edge in it. "None o' that now. Yeh listen to me, Harry James Potter—this wasn't your fault. Not one bit of it. I went 'cause I wanted to. Knew the risk. I'd do it again."
Harry pressed his lips together, the apology still burning at the back of his throat. He couldn't say it—not when Hagrid was looking at him like that, eyes glassy and fierce and utterly sure.
For a moment, it looked as though Hagrid might cry. His great, bearded face crumpled slightly, and he blinked hard. But he didn't let the tears fall. Instead, he cleared his throat roughly and looked down at his hands.
"I was scared for yeh," he murmured. "Ron an' Hermione told me what You-Know-Who did. Told me 'bout yer soul. Then the poison. Thought we were gonna lose yeh, Harry. Properly lose yeh this time."
He rubbed at his face with one meaty hand, as though trying to scrub away the memory. Then he straightened his shoulders with effort and squared his jaw.
"But I got it," he said, quieter now. "The tail hair. From the Thestral. Gave it straight to Hermione."
Harry let out a long, shaky breath and closed his eyes. Relief washed over him, sudden and hot, but beneath it… something else. Something colder. He wasn't sure it was quite fear.
"Thank you," he said softly, and he meant it. More than Hagrid could ever know. But even as the words left his mouth, they caught on something jagged inside him. What if it doesn't work? What if we were wrong? What if we set something in motion we can't take back?
He opened his mouth to ask—but before he could speak, the door creaked open.
It was slow and hesitant, as though the person behind it was half-expecting to be turned away. Light spilt across the ward's wooden floor, warm and gold, and Harry turned his head.
Ron. Hermione. Ginny.
They stood just inside the doorway, pale and drawn and taut with worry. Harry had barely seen them before—before the cold ache in his chest surged upwards—and then Ginny was moving.
She crossed the room in three determined strides, eyes shining, and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Before he could think, before he could say a word, she flung her arms around him.
Pain burst through his ribs like lightning—sharp and breathless. He gasped aloud, vision flaring white, but he didn't push her away.
He buried his face in her shoulder instead, clutching weakly at her hand, grounding himself in the familiar warmth of her skin and the quiet, steady sound of her breathing.
"Sorry," she whispered into his neck. "Sorry—I didn't mean to hurt you—I just—" Her voice broke. "I thought I'd never see you again."
Harry said nothing. His throat had closed up, and his eyes stung. He tightened his fingers around hers and held on.
Ron was next, stepping forward with a helpless, lopsided smile.
"We couldn't take it anymore," he said, still a bit breathless, as if he'd been pacing the corridors for hours. "The waiting. The not knowing. Hermione almost hexed a Healer."
"I did not!" Hermione snapped automatically, stepping in behind him. Her voice was tight and high, and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. "I only threatened to. And he deserved it—he wouldn't tell us a thing."
Harry gave a hoarse little laugh that turned into a cough. "You lot never change," he murmured, letting his head fall back against the pillows.
"How do you feel?" Hermione asked, stepping closer. Her eyes searched his face like she was trying to assess the damage, cataloguing every bruise, every twitch of discomfort.
"Like I've been hit by a Bludger. A big one." He tried to grin, though it came out crooked. "Then run over by a herd of Hippogriffs."
The others chuckled, but it was a soft sound, frayed with worry.
Harry glanced towards Hagrid, then back at his friends. "He told me… about the cave."
Ron's smile vanished, and Hermione looked away, swallowing.
Ginny's fingers tightened around his.
Ron had taken to fidgeting with the hem of his jumper. That alone was telling. He only ever did that when his nerves got the better of him.
"Harry…" he began, his voice low and cautious. "Do you reckon Malfoy was involved?"
There was something in his tone—not just suspicion, but a thin thread of something Harry recognised far too well.
Hope.
He wanted it to be Malfoy. He wanted the enemy to be someone simple. Predictable. Someone who'd already played the villain before. That would make things easier. Cleaner.
Hermione, by contrast, stood very still. Arms crossed tightly over her chest, lips pressed into a tense line. She didn't speak. She was waiting. Calculating. Watching Harry like he was some unstable potion she wasn't sure would explode or go still.
Harry swallowed hard. His throat still burnt, raw from too much coughing and too little water, but the ache in his chest—that was something else entirely. Something deeper. Older. The aftertaste of that poison, maybe, still clinging to the edges of his soul. Or perhaps just the weight of too many near misses.
His mind flicked, unbidden, to the memory of Malfoy in his room. The worried look on his face. The warning he'd given.
Harry still couldn't decide what had unsettled him more—the worry in Malfoy's voice or the fact that he'd told the truth.
"I meant to talk to you about that," Ron said, plunging on, his fingers still pulling at his jumper like he could distract himself from whatever Harry was about to say. "Your opinion… it means everything, mate."
Harry met his eyes. And despite the grogginess, despite the lingering ache in every joint and the unpleasant swirl of fever still retreating from his bloodstream, he knew—completely and unquestionably—what he had to say.
"It wasn't Malfoy," he said, his voice flat.
Ron stared at him. "You're joking."
Harry shook his head slowly, regretting it at once when a dull throb began behind his eyes. The room tilted slightly. He breathed through the wave of nausea.
"No joke," he said. "He warned me. And I don't think he hurt Hagrid either. He actually… helped."
Hermione's eyebrows pulled together. Not judgemental, exactly—but sharp, wary. "Helped?" she echoed. "Harry, are you sure? I'm not saying you're wrong. But… it is Malfoy."
"I know who he is," Harry snapped, the words slipping out harsher than he meant. He shifted slightly, trying to sit up better, and immediately regretted it—pain speared through his ribs. He gritted his teeth, squeezing Ginny's hand more tightly. "But he came to the Burrow. Faced your dad, Ron. That's not nothing. He didn't have to do that. If he wanted to trap me, there were easier ways."
Ron's scowl deepened, his arms now folded as tightly as Hermione's. "So what, we trust him now? Invite him for Sunday dinner?"
Harry barked out a dry laugh that caught in his throat. "Don't be thick. I don't trust him. Not completely. But I know what a debt looks like when it's being paid. He owed me. He settled it. That's all."
There was a beat of silence, taut and bristling. Ron looked like he wanted to argue more, and Harry braced himself for it—but then Ginny spoke instead.
"If it wasn't Malfoy," she said quietly, "then do you think Yaxley's working alone?"
Her voice was soft, but the question carried weight. Because that was the thing none of them wanted to say out loud.
What if it wasn't just one of them? What if it was more?
Harry opened his mouth, but the words caught. His thoughts felt slow. He hated this. He hated being the one lying in the bed while everyone else circled around him, waiting for answers he wasn't sure he had.
And then—
CRACK.
The door swung open so hard it banged against the wall, making Harry jump. Pain stabbed through his side, sharp and immediate, and he hissed through his teeth.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, blinking back a fresh surge of dizziness.
Kingsley strode into the room with the controlled urgency of a man who never arrived anywhere without purpose. Behind him came Percy, looking as uncomfortable as someone who'd been dropped into a room full of Blast-Ended Skrewts. And trailing behind them both was a harried-looking Healer, her robes slightly crooked and her face thunderous.
"What do you think you're doing?" She barked, rounding on them all with the righteous fury of someone who'd dealt with one too many Ministry types that week. "Mr Potter is under strict observation. Two visitors maximum. The rest of you—out, now!"
Harry blinked, stunned into silence. Even Hagrid looked like he was considering backing away from the wrath of her gaze.
Kingsley, however, was utterly unbothered.
He stepped forward, calm and imposing, his deep voice cutting clean through the tension.
"I'm afraid this can't wait," he said simply. "I need to speak with Mr Potter and his friends. It's a matter of national security."
The Healer looked scandalised. Her mouth opened—perhaps to protest again—but then she caught the look in Kingsley's eye.
She turned on her heel with a snort loud enough to echo, stormed into the corridor, and slammed the door behind her.
Harry tried to sit up, stubbornness winning out over common sense, until a sharp, ice-cold jab of pain lanced beneath his ribs. He clenched his jaw against the gasp that tried to escape, biting down on it as if the sound itself would betray him.
Brilliant, he thought grimly, fingers curling into the edge of the blanket. Another thing I can't control.
He was already too used to that—his magic faltering when he needed it most, his body betraying him, and even his soul now fractured like a dropped wand. And now this: weakness on top of injury, laid bare before everyone he trusted.
"Harry Potter," said Kingsley—deep, calm, cutting through the tension in the room.
His presence filled the space instantly, his long dark robes catching the morning light as he stepped forward. The sheer steadiness of him sent a strange shiver of both relief and dread through Harry's chest.
"Apologies for the intrusion," Kingsley continued smoothly. "But Percy informed me of the situation at once."
Harry turned his head carefully and saw Percy standing beside him like a particularly stiff statue. His back was bolt straight, chin high, and eyes flicking nervously between everyone else in the room.
He looked, Harry thought, like he desperately wanted to be applauded for showing up.
Across from them, Ron was rolling his eyes so hard Harry thought he might actually dislocate something. Even now, even after everything, it was almost funny.
Almost.
"We were just discussing the matter, Minister," Hermione said at once, ever brisk, ever composed, though her fingers betrayed her as they fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve.
Kingsley's mouth twitched into the barest of smiles. "Please—call me Kingsley."
The tension in the room eased, but only a fraction. Not enough to undo the tight coil in Harry's chest. The pain had become a background noise now, steady and biting, gnawing away like a rat behind the walls.
But he welcomed it. The pain meant he was still here. Still breathing.
Kingsley's dark eyes met his. "Tell me what happened."
"Draco Malfoy came to the Burrow yesterday," she said, her voice level but low. "To see Harry. He—he wanted to repay the life debt he owes him from the war."
Harry watched Ron stiffen slightly at that, arms folding across his chest again, the same old flicker of distrust rising to the surface. Understandable. Malfoy saying 'I owe you' was only marginally less shocking than Voldemort turning vegetarian.
"In return," Hermione continued, "he told Harry about a cave. In Ireland. Somewhere old magic still lingers. And inside that cave, he said, was something Harry needed."
Kingsley's brow furrowed, but he didn't interrupt.
"We thought it was worth investigating," she went on. "So we wrote to Hagrid."
Harry shifted slightly beneath the covers, his fingers ghosting over the hem of his hospital gown, trying to disguise the shiver that passed through him.
"And then," Hermione said, her voice catching, "this morning Percy arrived at the Burrow. Only… we discovered too late that it wasn't Percy."
Kingsley stilled. It wasn't dramatic—just the quiet stillness of someone who had learnt long ago how to contain fury behind a mask of calm.
Harry didn't need Legilimency to feel the weight of it building.
"Corban Yaxley," Hermione said, barely above a whisper. "He impersonated Percy. He poisoned Harry. And… he attacked Mr and Mrs Weasley."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Even the magic humming through the hospital walls seemed to recoil.
Kingsley's jaw clenched. "Where are Molly and Arthur now?"
"In the next room," Ginny said quickly. Her voice sounded stretched. "They're still unconscious. The Healers… they're doing everything they can."
Harry turned to look at her—and the guilt hit like a punch to the stomach. Her eyes were shadowed with worry, red-rimmed and too wide, and her knuckles were white where she clenched the edge of the bed.
He didn't want to see that guilt. Didn't want to know that even she thought this might be his fault.
But it was, wasn't it?
"And when you say you discovered too late that it wasn't really Percy?" Kingsley prompted gently, though his voice now carried a harder edge beneath the velvet.
Hermione faltered for the first time. Her face crumpled beneath the weight of everything she'd held in.
"When Harry started getting worse," she said, blinking fast, "Yaxley asked me what was wrong. And I—I told him. Everything. About the symptoms. About… the soul damage."
Harry shook his head, forcing the words through a raw throat. "It's not your fault."
But Hermione had already turned away, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand.
"I didn't even think," she muttered, as if trying to explain it to herself.
"You were trying to help," Ron said firmly, moving to her side and placing a hand on her shoulder. "You're not the one who poisoned him, Hermione. Come on."
Harry looked down at his hands—scarred and pale against the white sheets. He wanted to believe Ron. Wanted to believe this was all just some dark ripple from the war that would pass in time.
But a part of him, buried deeper than he liked to admit, whispered that he'd always been easy to hurt. Always open to manipulation, to guilt, to being used as bait. Maybe he hadn't left that behind at all.
"I'll see to it Yaxley's locked away the moment he's found," Kingsley said, voice like steel. "The Aurors are already combing every known contact of his. He won't get far."
Kingsley turned, his expression sharpening as he faced Percy. "Did you notice anything unusual before you were attacked?"
Percy straightened at once, shoulders snapping back like he'd been summoned to stand at attention. "No, sir," he said stiffly. "I… I heard a voice, faint—almost like it was echoing from behind me. Then—nothing. I woke up in the hospital."
Harry watched him closely, noting the tightness in his jaw and the faint flicker of shame in his eyes. Percy wasn't lying—that much was obvious—but he was rattled. And though a small part of Harry felt the familiar sting of old annoyance, most of him just felt too drained to summon proper irritation.
He looks like he wants a medal, Harry thought tiredly. For getting hexed.
And yet… the pounding in his skull was growing steadily worse, each throb pushing behind his eyes like a heartbeat made of nails. He didn't have energy left for bitterness.
Kingsley's brow furrowed further. "It sounds like Yaxley planned this well in advance. Was he present when the letter from Hagrid arrived?"
Ron and Ginny exchanged a glance—an unmistakable flicker of guilt passing between them.
"Yes," they said at once, their voices grim.
Kingsley's voice dropped lower. "Then how did he know what was in it?"
Hermione stepped forward. "Ron sent the letter the same night Malfoy told us about the cave. But Hagrid mentioned something odd after—the owl arrived looking injured. He said he looked like he had been through a war zone."
"Aye," Hagrid rumbled, his deep voice echoing from the corner of the room where he sat awkwardly in a chair far too small for him. He shifted, the chair creaking under his weight. "The poor bird was half-frozen an' filthy. Like it'd been flown through a dragon's backside."
Despite everything, Ron gave a small, incredulous snort. "Charming image, that."
Harry, however, winced—not from the picture painted, but at the memory. And from the fresh stab of pain twisting somewhere behind his ribs. Wonderful, he thought, jaw tightening. Even the owls are getting battered just for trying to help me.
"They must've intercepted the letter," Hermione finished, voice brittle. "That's how they knew where we were going."
Kingsley nodded slowly, the weight of the situation sinking deeper into his frame. "If they knew about the cave," he said quietly, "then they knew about the Burrow too."
A cold dread unfurled in Harry's chest.
Nowhere was safe anymore. Not even the places that had once been sanctuaries. He swallowed, but his mouth had gone dry.
Kingsley turned to Percy again, all business now. "You'll go over every protection on the Burrow. I want the wards checked—the boundaries, the Floo network, the fireplace protocols, and the windows. Every stone and charm, every blade of grass. If Yaxley got in, it means something's fraying."
Percy nodded so vigorously it looked painful. "Yes, sir. I'll see to it personally."
Harry watched him, almost pitying him—so desperate to be useful, to reclaim some lost honour. Percy had always been that way. Desperate to matter.
Harry leaned back slightly, his body aching as if he were made of broken brooms and spell-damaged bones. He closed his eyes for a moment, the pressure behind them blooming into a dull roar. The ward felt unsteady again—off-kilter and humming.
He forced them open again as Kingsley spoke once more.
"And as for Draco Malfoy," Kingsley said, voice rough and even, "I have my doubts. He's being watched, of course. But we'd be fools to dismiss the possibility that he's involved. Tell me, Harry—do you believe Malfoy could be working with Yaxley?"
The question hit harder than Harry expected. He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he rubbed a hand through his hair—his fingers tangling in it absently. He was so tired of this. So tired of being the one they all turned to for judgement. Like he was still carrying that bloody Elder Wand, still playing god with people's fates.
He wanted to say no, firmly and without doubt. But the words stuck somewhere behind his ribs, trapped beneath the memory of too many betrayals.
"You think he could be lying," Harry said at last, voice low. "That this is all a setup."
"I think it's possible," Kingsley said carefully. "And I'd be negligent if I didn't ask."
Harry nodded, more to himself than anyone else.
"I know how it sounds," he murmured. "But no—I don't think Malfoy's involved. He's many things—a coward, a prat—but he's not stupid. He came to me because he owed me. I don't think he'd throw that away."
He paused, something bitter and tight twisting in his chest.
"Not when that debt might be the only thing keeping his family afloat."
Kingsley's eyes didn't leave his. There was no judgement there—only a quiet, heavy scrutiny.
"Your instincts haven't failed you yet, Harry," he said slowly.
Harry let out a breath, half a laugh, half a growl. "Haven't they?" he muttered. "Cedric's dead. Sirius is dead. Dumbledore… Fred…"
He trailed off, unable to say the last name. It caught in his throat.
Ginny looked away.
He swallowed hard. "Sometimes I think my instincts just get people killed."
But Kingsley didn't flinch. "You were seventeen, Harry. And the weight of the world was on your shoulders. Don't mistake surviving for failing."
Harry looked down at his hands again. He didn't feel like someone who'd survived. He felt like someone who'd been scraped together from the leftovers of a war.
"The Malfoys know they're on thin ice," he said, louder now. Firmer. "They wouldn't risk what little they have left on a second war."
Kingsley folded his arms, as though weighing the words in his hands. "Recklessness has never been the Malfoy way," he said finally. "They wait until the winds shift, and then they move."
He hesitated.
"If you're right—if Draco is trying to make good—would you stand for them? Would you testify?"
The question hit like a Bludger to the gut. Harry's breath caught.
Would he?
Could he?
Could he really stand up for them—the family who had once watched him bleed and suffer from behind gilded masks? Who had sat beneath Voldemort's shadow like it was shelter?
He glanced around the room. Every pair of eyes was on him—Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Percy, and Hagrid. Watching. Waiting. As if the answer would mean something larger than just yes or no.
As if it might mean who Harry was now.
He didn't feel wise. Or noble. Or anything the world thought he was.
He just felt tired.
But he knew the answer all the same.
If he didn't believe in second chances—if he didn't believe people could choose differently—then what had they fought for?
What had they won?
Harry met Kingsley's gaze.
"I'll do it," he said quietly. "I'll testify."
Kingsley's mouth pressed into a thin line. His expression remained unreadable, but after a long, pensive pause, he inclined his head with slow, deliberate gravity.
A nod, not of agreement—yet—but of respect. Of understanding.
Harry drew a breath, the kind that scraped all the way down. His lungs felt too full and too hollow at once, as though the very air inside him didn't know whether it was meant to stay or flee.
And then, without even meaning to, he let the memories rise.
He told Kingsley what he had told Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. The night in the Forbidden Forest, how Narcissa saved him.
He glanced across the room—and met Hermione's gaze.
She wasn't crying, not quite, but her eyes were too bright.
"After the battle," Harry went on, steadier now, "the Malfoys didn't stay. They didn't fight for their place in the world. They didn't protest. They didn't boast. They didn't try to reclaim what they'd lost."
He took another breath.
"They just searched for their son."
That memory, too, was sharp. Mr Malfoy limped through the rubble, his robes torn and his face grey with dust. Mrs Malfoy calling, frantic, desperate, her hands scraped and shaking.
"They walked away," Harry said. "From all of it. From Voldemort. From the war. From the power."
And suddenly the silence in the room felt heavier. Dense with judgement. Suspicion. Doubt.
He could feel it—pressing in from every corner.
Because forgiveness wasn't easy. Not for the Malfoys. Not after everything.
He could almost hear it in their minds: They didn't fight for us. Why should we fight for them?
But Harry had not forgotten.
He remembered lying in that forest, heart barely beating, and feeling Mrs Malfoy's hand trembling against his chest. Remembered the way her voice had broken on the words, "Is he alive? Is my son alive?"
She had defied the Voldemort. Lied to save her child. Not because she was brave. But because she was human.
"They chose their family over the war," Harry finished quietly. "That has to count for something."
For a moment, nothing happened.
The silence swelled and pressed at the corners, thick and suffocating.
Then Kingsley exhaled, a long, slow breath that seemed to shift the very air around them.
"Thank you, Harry," he said at last, his voice softer than before. "You've given me much to consider."
He paused then, visibly weighing his next words.
"Your experiences… they carry a weight none of us can afford to ignore."
Harry held still. The ache in his chest hadn't lessened, but something inside him—some nameless coil of guilt or fury—unwound, just slightly.
Kingsley straightened, his tone firm again. "In light of what you've shared, I'll recommend mercy. No Azkaban."
He raised a hand preemptively, cutting off any objection before it could form. "But they will not walk free. They will answer for their choices. Justice demands it—even tempered by compassion."
Harry nodded. The knot inside him loosened—but didn't vanish. It wasn't triumph he felt. Not victory. Just… weariness. A deep, cold ache where certainty ought to be.
Because nothing was ever simple anymore. No choice came without cost. No mercy without weight.
"I thought you'd say that," Harry said with a crooked half-smile. "You're not reckless enough to let me run the whole show, anyway."
Kingsley gave a quiet chuckle, the first hint of warmth in his eyes since he'd arrived.
"No," he said dryly. "But I'd be a fool not to listen to you."
The tension in the room slackened just a fraction. But Harry knew it wouldn't last.
He leaned back again, the mattress creaking beneath him, the pain in his side flaring dull and hot. His bones ached. His thoughts buzzed. There were too many battles still to fight—only now, they were quieter. Internal. Just as dangerous.
Kingsley, meanwhile, reached into his robes.
"It's not often I get the chance for a proper conversation with you, Harry," he said, his voice lowering into something rare—almost gentle. "I've a feeling this won't be the last."
From deep within his pocket, he drew something out with careful fingers. His hand moved slowly, like he was handling a dragon egg rather than an object barely the size of a walnut.
He opened his palm.
"Here," he said. "This is the stone fragment you'll need for the potion."
The object nestled in his palm glinted faintly in the dim light—no bigger than a Snitch, and marbled with flecks of deep green and silver.
Harry blinked, momentarily wrong-footed. For a second, he simply stared at the stone, as though it might vanish—or worse, as though accepting it might trigger some hidden test he hadn't studied for.
He clutched it reflexively, wrapping his hand tightly around it, as if letting go might somehow undo everything.
"I didn't think you'd have it already," Harry said after a beat, voice rough at the edges. He slipped the stone deep into his pocket, tucking it away as though it were something both precious and breakable. "Thanks. Really."
Kingsley nodded, his expression unreadable but calm, his voice still carrying that quiet steadiness that had always managed to settle a room—or make Harry feel awkwardly like he was being seen too clearly.
"Any time, Harry," he replied, his tone sincere without being indulgent.
Harry looked away, suddenly aware of how tightly his fingers were clenched in the blankets. He wasn't used to people giving him things—not without expecting something in return. Lately, he'd grown so accustomed to fighting for every scrap of peace that generosity felt unfamiliar, almost suspicious.
Kingsley, however, was already pressing on.
"I look forward to seeing you at Auror Headquarters," he said, voice shifting—firmer now, laced with purpose. "It's time the Ministry saw what you're truly capable of. We need more than heroes. We need builders."
Harry blinked again, caught between surprise and dread. He opened his mouth to answer—maybe to object, to insist that he wasn't sure, that he needed time—but Hermione, predictably, got there first.
"Absolutely!" she chirped, practically vibrating with pride. "Harry's more than ready. Honestly, Minister, if you ask me, he ought to be the next Head of the Auror Department."
Harry made a strangled sort of noise and turned to stare at her, aghast. His face was burning so fast he was fairly sure steam might be rising off the back of his neck.
"Hermione—" he hissed, scandalised.
But she only beamed at him, utterly unrepentant.
Kingsley let out a rich, amused chuckle. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as though actually entertaining the suggestion.
"Yes, Miss Granger," he said, that faint spark of humour lighting his eyes. "You might be onto something. Mr Potter—my office. One week from today. I expect you there on time."
Harry gaped at him. Words—sensible ones, anyway—deserted him completely. It felt rather like being handed a wand and told to duel without warning.
He managed a weak smile, mainly because Kingsley was still watching him. His voice, when it emerged, cracked embarrassingly.
"Yeah… yeah, of course. Wouldn't dream of missing it."
Kingsley's laughter rumbled again, warm and knowing. He clapped a large, firm hand on Harry's shoulder and turned with a sweep of his cloak that billowed behind him in true ministerial fashion.
Then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
A beat passed.
"Well, that's brilliant, isn't it?" Ron burst out, arms thrown dramatically into the air. "You don't even have to fill in a bloody form, and here I am, stuck writing cover letters like some sort of Muggle temp. Honestly, Harry—just make me your assistant. I'll even bring your tea."
A ripple of laughter swept the room, light and sudden. Hermione giggled behind her hand. Even Ginny snorted.
And Harry, startled by the sound of his own laughter, let it out in a hoarse bark that was more breath than voice. It scratched its way out of him like it hadn't been used in weeks.
And for the first time in what felt like hours—maybe longer—he didn't feel like he was carrying the weight of everything alone.
It was strange, the way moments like this could still break through: bright, flickering glimpses of something like normality. Almost like hope, if he squinted hard enough.
But the world, Harry had learnt, rarely let those moments last.
The ward door slammed open once more, and the Healer stormed in. Her robes billowed behind her, and her glare could've stopped a Bludger mid-flight.
"This boy needs REST!" She barked, hands on hips, her voice echoing like a hundred Howlers in a cathedral. "OUT! All of you—OUT, I said!"
There was a flurry of guilty movement. Chairs scraped, boots shuffled, and no one—not even Ron—dared argue. Hermione and Ginny muttered something about returning tomorrow. Hagrid, who could usually out-stubborn a mountain, gave Harry a last, mournful glance and lumbered out after the others, his shoulders hunched apologetically.
And then—
Silence.
The door shut with a thud. The room exhaled.
And Harry was alone.
The ache in his ribs flared the moment the stillness returned—like it had only been waiting for the quiet to creep back in.
He reached into his pocket and closed his fingers around the stone. The stone inside was warm against his skin—comforting, somehow. Not enough to chase away the heaviness that had settled deep in his chest. Not enough to silence the dull throb in his bones, the echo of spells and screams, and everything that had been torn away.
Victory, Harry thought bitterly, didn't feel much like victory at all.
Not when you were the one left to carry it.
Not when the war had ended, but the weight of it hadn't.
He let his eyes drift shut, the room still spinning faintly around him. Somewhere, buried deep beneath the fatigue and the pain and the relentless whisper of what comes next, he felt the faintest pull of determination stir again.
Not strength.
But something like it.