The next morning didn't so much arrive as crash into Harry like a rogue Bludger.
Light—blinding, merciless—stabbed at his eyelids, and pain came with it, thick and crawling, as though it had been waiting in the dark just for him. Every breath dragged through him. His skull thudded in time with his heartbeat, each thump a dull, punishing reminder that he was still alive.
He floated on the edge of waking, caught in that hazy space between sleep and consciousness where time had no meaning and nothing made sense. The pain was everywhere—bone-deep and clawing.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was. Or why he hurt.
Panic surged, sudden and sharp.
Had the battle not ended? Had he fallen again, somewhere else? Another cursed forest, another trap, another final stand?
His fingers twitched, useless against the weight pinning him to the mattress. He screwed his eyes tighter shut, willing the world away. Maybe—if he stayed still, if he didn't move or think or remember—he could slide back into that warm, forgetful dark.
But something broke through the fog.
A touch. Gentle. Light as a feather across the bridge of his nose.
And a voice—cracked, but unmistakable.
"Harry, are you all right?"
Hermione.
He knew that voice. He would know it anywhere. Even when it was pulled taut with worry. Even when it sounded like it had been pushed to breaking.
That small, familiar flutter stirred weakly in his chest. She was here. They were here.
He dragged in a shallow breath and forced his eyes open, though the light sent a fresh bolt of agony through his head.
The world blurred—edges flickering in and out of focus—before sharpening just enough to make out Hermione's face leaning close, her brow furrowed so tight it looked like it hurt. Behind her, Ron stood stiffly, arms folded, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. His mouth was drawn in a tight, unreadable line—some mix of guilt, fury and helplessness etched into every corner of it.
Neville stood further back, looking pale and twitchy, his hands wringing together like he was expecting to be shouted at.
Harry tried to sit up.
The pain came on fast—burning, vicious. He sucked in a breath that turned to a gasp and collapsed back into the pillows, blinking hard.
Stupid. He knew better. But the instinct to sit, to rise, to move—it was still wired into him, even when his body screamed otherwise.
"Neville," he rasped, his throat raw and scorched.
Just the name was enough to pull at a thread inside him. Something cracked open, and memories came spilling through the gap—Yaxley's twisted smile, the false warmth of trust, and then the poison—thick and cruel—sinking into his blood.
Neville stepped forward, clutching something flat and glossy to his chest.
"I—I didn't know you were here 'til this morning," he said quickly, his words tumbling over one another. "Gran saw this—she showed me—she said I should come straight away."
He held out the magazine with both hands, like it might bite him.
Harry squinted at the Witch Weekly cover. The image swam before his eyes—but there he was. Limp. Lifeless. Cradled in Hagrid's arms, his limbs dangling, his face ashen.
Above it, the headline screamed:
THE BOY WHO DISAPPEARED—SPOTTED AT ST MUNGO'S!
A rush of heat flared up Harry's neck and across his face—hot and sickening. Not embarrassment. Something worse. Shame. Helplessness. Anger. A storm of emotions he couldn't untangle, all twisted together until his stomach lurched.
"Rita Skeeter," he muttered, his lip curling around the name like it left a bad taste.
"She's vile," Hermione snapped, her voice sharpened with fury. "Honestly, Harry, if I had her here right now, I'd—I'd—"
"Lock her in a jar again?" Harry croaked, managing a faint smile.
Hermione gave a short, breathy laugh—half a sob, really. The sound cracked in the middle, but she clung to it. Even Ron cracked a grin, though it looked like it cost him something to do it.
Neville, however, didn't smile. He stood frozen, still holding the magazine, as though the image on the cover had locked his joints in place.
"What happened, Harry?" he asked, barely above a whisper. "You looked—you looked dead in the photo. I didn't even believe it at first. I thought… I thought it was a trick. Some kind of lie."
Harry closed his eyes again, gathering the will to speak. The memory of that moment—the heat, the helplessness, the burn in his blood—tightened around his lungs.
"Poisoned," he said at last.
The word landed like a curse.
Neville's hands trembled.
"P—poisoned?" He squeaked, eyes going wide. "But—who—how—?"
"It wasn't just some random bloke," Ron muttered, his voice low and dangerous. "It was someone pretending to be one of my brothers. Someone Harry would trust."
Harry felt his stomach clench again.
Even now, the thought of it made his skin crawl. That voice. That face. That lie.
"Who?" Neville asked, dread thick in the word.
Ron's jaw tightened.
"Yaxley," he spat. "Corban bloody Yaxley."
Neville staggered back half a step, his face draining of colour. "Yaxley? But—but wasn't he—wasn't he a Death Eater? The one—?"
He faltered, his eyes darting to Harry, as if afraid to say it aloud.
"Yes," Hermione said. "Harry hit him with a curse. A year ago. He was sent to Azkaban. But he escaped. Somehow. Voldemort gave him a Ministry post during the war. He always slithered into the places where he could do the most damage."
"One of the worst of them," Ron muttered darkly, "and that's saying something."
Harry turned his face away, jaw clenched. He could still feel the phantom burn in his veins, the way it had stolen control of his body, bit by bit. And he'd trusted him. Hadn't even flinched until it was too late.
He hated the memory. Hated the weakness in it.
And yet, even now, he couldn't shake the thought—he could've died. Easily. Quietly. Alone.
And no amount of heroics would've changed it.
He looked back at Neville, who still stood there, shocked and pale, his shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself disappear.
"I'm all right," Harry said quietly, though he wasn't entirely sure it was true.
"We have to be careful," Hermione said sharply, her voice cutting through the tension. She stood rigid by the window, scanning the corridor as though expecting Death Eaters to burst through the plaster at any moment. Her wand was clenched in her fist, knuckles white. "Now that it's in the open, Harry's a sitting target."
Harry didn't answer. The words sank into his skin, slow and cold, like sleet running down the back of his neck. Sitting target. She wasn't wrong. He couldn't even stand without help—never mind defend himself.
Neville fidgeted near the end of the bed, his fingers wringing the corner of his sleeve, his voice trembling. "Gran says there's already a crowd outside. Not just reporters, either. Loads of people. Shouting. Pushing at the entrance…"
Harry's blood turned to ice.
They were here.
They knew.
He was trapped in a hospital bed, and they knew. He wasn't Harry Potter, the symbol, anymore. He was Harry Potter: the wounded, the vulnerable, the weak.
He was bait—and the trap had already sprung shut.
"It's a mixed lot," said Ginny from the doorway. Tense. Tired. But clear.
Harry's heart kicked, thudding against his ribs.
Relief flared—but it didn't last long. Not even a second.
"Some are just gawking," she said grimly as she stepped inside. "Rubberneckers, probably. But some… they don't look friendly."
Her eyes met Harry's for a moment. There was no warmth in her expression now—only resolve and something flickering behind it. Fear, maybe.
"Rita Skeeter's article said you were dying," Hermione snapped, anger seeping out. "In the arms of—quote—'a fierce, beastly-looking man'."
Harry made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "Well," he rasped, "she's not wrong about Hagrid."
A weak joke—but it broke the surface, just for a breath.
Then the flicker of humour shrivelled, smothered by the weight pressing hard against his chest.
He could feel it. The building pressure. The way danger crept into the corners of a room before anyone acknowledged it. He knew that feeling too well. He'd felt it in tents, in battlefields, in graveyards. It was here now. Louder than footsteps. Closer than breath.
And then, as though summoned by thought alone, a voice curled through the walls.
It was deep, almost lazily so, but carried the kind of confidence that didn't need to shout to be heard.
"I know you're afraid to come out."
Harry's lungs froze. His entire body stiffened, as if the words themselves had coiled round his ribs and squeezed.
The voice wasn't coming from inside the room.
It was everywhere.
Low and oily, slipping between the walls, seeping through the air—familiar in the worst possible way.
No one moved.
No one even breathed.
Harry's pulse slammed in his ears.
"Healers," Hermione whispered, her face stricken. "The patients…"
Harry turned his head, slow and aching, towards the open door.
The corridor beyond was lined with people—Healers in lime-green robes, patients in hospital gowns, visitors with anxious faces—every one of them standing stock-still, frozen where they stood. Their eyes were blank. Wide. Unblinking.
Staring.
As though someone had pressed pause on the world.
As though fear itself had turned them to stone.
"Death Eaters fought bravely alongside the Dark Lord," the voice continued, smooth and cold. "They gave everything. And what did you do, Harry Potter? You destroyed it."
Harry's heart crashed against his ribcage.
He knew that voice.
Yaxley.
It was him. Of course it was.
He was here.
He was here.
Harry's chest tightened, not just with fear, but fury—hot and helpless. Yaxley had stolen his face, his voice, and his trust. He'd poured poison down his throat and watched him choke on it. And now he was back to finish the job.
But Harry couldn't fight. Couldn't even stand.
"Fellow Death Eaters," Yaxley said, his voice rising, venomous and triumphant, "we know where the boy is. Let's end it."
The final word dropped like a hammer.
End.
It snapped something in the room. Broke the silence like glass underfoot.
Neville stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over a stool. Ron let out a furious swear, one hand already digging into his pocket for his wand. Ginny didn't speak—just moved. Swift. Steady. She drew her wand like it was an extension of her arm.
Her face was pale—but her eyes were burning.
Harry didn't move.
He couldn't.
Panic crashed through him, messy and wild, tearing at the inside of his chest.
The room was too small.
The walls were too close.
He couldn't run. He couldn't fight. He couldn't do anything.
The thought slammed into him, heavy and breathless.
I'm going to die here.
He was back in that forest again, staring down Voldemort. Back in that graveyard, locked in Priori Incantatem. Back in every nightmare he'd ever survived by sheer luck and someone else's sacrifice.
Except this time, he had nothing left.
No wand. No plan. No power.
Only pain.
And them.
And the noise—the noise—it was rising outside, a crashing wave of shouts and screams.
"Bloody hell!" Ron barked, pushing aside the curtain and pressing himself to the window. "The crowd's doubled! They're swarming the steps!"
Harry's head swam. His pulse thundered. It felt like the air had turned to water.
"They're trying to force the doors!" Neville choked out. "The entrance—there are too many—they're going to—!"
His voice faltered, cracking under the strain. He turned to Harry, wide-eyed, desperate. "We have to move you! You're not safe here!"
I can't, Harry wanted to say. But even that took too much.
"This was the plan," Ginny said, her voice tight and low. "Yaxley wanted this. Wanted to trap Harry—force him into the open. While he's weak."
She met Harry's eyes again—and there it was.
The fear.
Not for herself. For him.
He hated it. Hated being the reason for that look.
"You have to get out," Neville said suddenly, stepping forward. "Now, Harry. While there's still time—!"
Harry tried.
Merlin, he tried.
He pushed with his arms—once. Twice. The third time, he almost made it upright.
Then agony slammed into him, red and merciless, shattering across his ribs and spine like lightning.
He collapsed back against the pillows with a cry.
Gasping.
Useless.
The crowd outside howled.
He could feel them now—their hunger, their fury, their belief that he owed them something. That he should show his face. That he belonged to them.
As if being their saviour once had signed his life away.
And he couldn't even lift a wand.
"Back to the Burrow?" Ron blurted, turning sharply to Hermione, panic etched across his face. His fingers were tangled in his hair, tugging with such force that Harry half-expected a chunk to come away. "We could—can't we just—?"
"No," Ginny said quickly, cutting across him before he could spiral further. She shook her head so hard her hair whipped across her cheeks in a blur of red. "We can't. It's not secure. Percy and Kingsley haven't finished the wards yet—the south boundary's still open. If we go there now, it's as good as giving Harry away."
Ron blinked, then dropped his hands to his sides, fists clenched. "Then where, Ginny? Where else are we supposed to go?" His voice cracked on the last word, too high, too loud. "He's not going to make it through another attack, not like this—"
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. The words swam around him, disjointed and sharp, bouncing off the inside of his skull. He couldn't think—his thoughts slipped through his fingers. Everything was loud, too loud—the pounding in his head, the rising noise outside, and the beating drum of panic inside his chest.
The pain was a living thing now, constant and clawing.
Yaxley.
The crowd.
The hospital was pressing in.
The taste of fear was so thick in his throat he could hardly breathe.
And still, the voices kept coming, too fast to catch—
Hermione stopped pacing. She had been circling the bed, wringing her hands and muttering half-formed plans under her breath. Now she froze mid-step, eyes wide.
"Shell Cottage," she said suddenly. Her voice cracked the way dry twigs snapped beneath a boot. "We go to Shell Cottage. Bill and Fleur—"
Ron's face lit up like someone had flung open the curtains on a dark room. "Yes! Merlin, Hermione, that's it. Shell Cottage. It's under the Fidelius, right? Properly warded. And Bill won't hesitate—not for a second."
"But how?" Ginny asked, stepping towards the bed. Her eyes flicked anxiously to Harry and lingered. "We can't Apparate him. He'd die before we even reached the boundary. And Floo's useless—the network's flooded with press and security checks."
"There's a Portkey," Ron said at once, snapping his fingers as the idea formed. "Dad's got one in the garden shed. Old emergency Portkey. Keeps it buried under the broomsticks. He used to use it for dodging inspections when he borrowed Muggle tech."
Harry tried to follow, but the words were drifting further and further away.
Stay awake.
Stay awake.
"I'll go," said Ron, already striding towards the door. "Hermione—come with me. I'll need help finding the bloody thing in all that junk."
Ginny nodded quickly, already moving closer to Harry. "Neville and I'll stay. We won't leave him."
Neville gave a jerky nod, his wand clutched tightly in his fingers. He looked petrified, but he didn't flinch. Harry saw it, that quiet courage burning low beneath the fear.
"I'll let Mum and Dad know," Ginny said quietly, as though half-afraid of her own words. "And Percy. If anyone can get the Burrow locked down fast, it's him."
Voices. Footsteps. The rush of decision-making. It all blurred together. Harry couldn't keep hold of anything for more than a breath.
Then silence fell.
Heavy and suffocating.
Ron and Hermione were gone. The sound of their footfalls had faded down the corridor, swallowed by the chaos outside. In their place came stillness. The kind of quiet that felt wrong. Like the air itself was bracing for something.
Harry stared up at the ceiling. Every breath rattled in and out of him, shallow and painful. His fingers twitched restlessly against the sheet. He could feel the shadows in the corners of the room shifting, stretching, drawing closer.
Beside him, Neville sat rigid in the hard-backed chair, glancing every few seconds between Harry and the door. He was trying to look brave. Trying to be the kind of person his gran believed he was. But Harry could see the terror in the set of his jaw, the whiteness of his knuckles around his wand.
Harry wanted to say something. Crack a joke. Anything to make the fear in the room feel a little less sharp, a little less like a knife pressed to the throat.
But all that came out was a strangled wheeze.
The minutes crept on.
The pain gnawed at him, sharper now, deeper. It felt like his bones were humming—burning from the inside out. Every throb of his heart was like another knock against the fragile scaffolding of his mind.
Then—a creak.
The door.
Harry's heart stuttered, then slammed into overdrive. His body locked.
Neville leapt to his feet, wand raised. "Who's there?"
Harry's hand jerked feebly toward the bedside table, though he knew his wand wasn't there—he didn't even remember when it had been taken from him. It felt miles away now. Like everything else.
The door burst open.
Ginny—breathless, wild-eyed—and behind her, blocking the doorway entirely, was Hagrid.
He looked enormous and frantic. The moment he stepped into the room, the air seemed to shift.
Relief crashed over Harry so fast and hard he nearly sobbed.
But then—
Something else.
Not the steady, dull ache he'd come to expect. Not even the sharp stabs of breathing or the tightness in his ribs.
This was different.
Sudden.
Hot.
Wrong.
It started in his chest—a searing pressure that bloomed outward like fire, racing down his arms, curling in his legs. His back arched involuntarily. His fingers scrabbled at the blankets, trying to hold onto something, anything—
A scream tore free from his throat.
He didn't even know he was making the sound until Ginny's face went pale and Hagrid thundered forward with a roar of "Harry! Merlin's beard—what's happening?!"
Harry didn't answer—couldn't. The world pitched sideways, the bed heaving beneath him. White exploded behind his eyes. He was falling, plummeting through the bed, through the floor, down into something deep and endless and black.
Ginny's hands were on his, clutching desperately. "Harry—Harry, no—not now—stay with me—please—!"
But her voice was shredded, drowned beneath the sound of his own pain.
He couldn't see her anymore.
Couldn't see anything.
Just fire.
And falling.
And then—
Nothing.
Just Ginny's hand, small and shaking in his—
And black.
Somewhere—just on the edge of consciousness—voices reached him.
They were muffled and tangled, distorted by distance or magic or both. But still, he knew them.
Ron's frantic shouting. Hermione, barking orders with that clipped, determined edge she always had when things got properly bad.
Harry tried to hold on to the sound, tried to follow it back to the world of light and breath and solid ground—but it slipped through his fingers.
The pain was worse now. Deeper. It wasn't just burning anymore—it pulled. Coiled around his chest like Devil's Snare, tightening every time he dared to struggle. Every gasp drew it tighter, dragging him down.
The smell of sweat—his, he realised—and something else: fear. Sour and thick, it caught at the back of his throat. He gagged, choking on it.
Then a wrench.
The sudden, stomach-lurching spin of a Portkey—violent, clumsy. Not like the gentle pull he remembered from official Ministry ones. This was rough and wrong, tearing him away from the hospital, from everything—
From safety.
He hit the ground hard.
All the breath was punched out of him in a single, brutal jolt. The gritty dampness of earth pressed against his palms, and he grabbed at it as though he could stop himself slipping further. His fingers sank into sand and weeds and broken shells.
Something sharp pricked at the air—salt. Cold and wet and bracing. It clung to his skin, soaked into his lungs. There were waves crashing nearby—he could hear them, pounding rhythmically against stone.
But it wasn't enough.
He was slipping—losing—himself, bit by bit.
I can't—
The thought fractured before it could finish.
A fresh wave of nausea surged through him. He turned his head just in time. His stomach heaved, bile scorched his throat, and for a moment, the only thing in the world was that awful, retching burn.
His whole body was shaking now. Useless. Betraying him. Even the smallest breath seemed too much.
Then—
"Harry!"
A voice—piercing through the storm. Familiar, urgent, ragged.
Ginny.
His heart jerked at the sound. Somewhere beneath the sickness and the darkness and the fear, somethingrecognised her.
He tried—Merlin, he tried—to lift his head, to find her face, but the sky spun madly above him. Her hands found him first, trembling against his cheek. Her voice followed a second later, close now, too soft for him to understand, but he felt it. The warmth of her breath. The sharp edge of fear in it.
Other hands joined hers. Stronger. Bigger. One was gripping his shoulder. Another steadied his hip. Too many to count.
They were lifting him.
He didn't know who they all were—couldn't name the hands or the arms or the voices—but they were there. They were holding on. They wouldn't let him go.
The memory came unbidden—cold and sharp and aching.
The Astronomy Tower. Dumbledore's body broken on the ground below. He'd wanted to fall with him. But they hadn't let him. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and Luna—they'd stood with him. Around him. For him.
He hadn't known how to let them help him then.
Even now—he wasn't sure he deserved it.
"Get him inside! Quickly!"
Bill's voice rang out, breaking the paralysis.
Harry felt himself hauled forward—awkward, clumsy—his limbs dragging like they weren't properly attached to him. His head lolled sideways against someone's chest, and then the light hit him.
Warm, golden.
The inside of Shell Cottage.
They set him down on the nearest couch, careful but hurried. The cushions were thick and giving beneath him, and for a moment, it felt like he was sinking into them—disappearing.
He lay there, gasping. Muscles twitching. Chest rising and falling like he'd run a marathon.
The room swam.
Bill leaned over him, and even through the blur, Harry could see it—his face drawn and pale, his eyes shadowed with something tight and fearful.
Bill had always been solid. The eldest. The protector. The calm one.
But now he looked like he was hanging on by threads.
"What happened?" Bill asked, low and urgent, glancing up at Ron and Hermione and then back down at Harry.
Ron opened his mouth, then closed it again. His eyes were red.
"He's very ill," Ron managed finally, the words raw and reluctant, like they'd scraped their way out of him.
Harry heard it like a sentence. Cold. Final.
He didn't need to ask what came next.
"He's dying," Ron added, barely above a whisper.
And there it was.
The truth, spoken plainly.
Harry shut his eyes.
He'd known, hadn't he? Somewhere deep down. From the moment Voldemort had marked him, from the first Horcrux, the first scar-ache that wouldn't leave, he'd known.
But hearing it—spoken aloud by Ron, no less—tore something inside him.
He didn't want to die.
Not like this—not so helpless, so hollowed out.
No, Harry thought, fiercely. The thought rose like fire in his gut, stubborn and hot.
But his body wouldn't move. His lips wouldn't form the words. He couldn't even blink.
He was trapped—in pain, in silence, in the weight of everyone else's grief.
Bill's voice again, sharper now. "What do you mean, dying? What happened to him?"
There was an edge in his tone—fear, but something else. A quiet accusation. You were supposed to protect him. How did you let this happen?
Hermione turned her face away. Ron flinched.
"It's…" Ron began, and Harry could feel the guilt in every syllable. "It just got worse. After everything. After Voldemort—after the final battle. We thought he was recovering at first, but then—"
He broke off. Swallowed hard.
"He's been getting worse ever since."
Harry wanted to tell them it wasn't their fault.
That it wasn't anyone's fault.
That some wounds don't leave marks you can see.
But the words were stuck. Trapped behind his teeth like everything else.
And the darkness, so close now, pressed in again, whispering that it was easier not to fight.
He clung to Ginny's hand, even as the pain rose.
"Ron, help me!"
Hermione's voice cut through the haze, sharp with fear, cracking with the pressure she was barely holding back.
It yanked them all into motion.
She was on her knees beside him, wild-haired and pale, one trembling hand cradling Harry's head, the other pressing a tiny glass vial against his lips.
"He's thrashing—I can't get him to drink it!" She gasped, her voice rising an octave as she fought to keep calm.
Harry barely registered the sounds around him—everything was smeared together: the crash of the sea beyond the walls, the hiss of breath, and the thudding panic of his own heart. The pain was everywhere, pulling tighter and tighter the more he tried to resist.
Then hands—familiar hands—were on him.
Ron.
Harry felt his best mate shove forward, his grip firm and solid, pinning his shoulders against the cushions.
"Easy, Harry," Ron muttered, low and urgent, breath ragged. "We've got you. Just hold on, yeah? Just hold on."
Hold on.
The words rang hollow in Harry's ears.
I've been holding on, he thought bitterly, for years. For all of them.
Bill's hands joined next—strong, steady, clamping down over Harry's legs as another violent shudder wracked his body. Harry wanted to scream. He wanted to stop.
Hermione pressed the vial to his lips again.
"Please," she whispered, voice trembling now. "You have to swallow, Harry. Please."
The potion was bitter, almost metallic, and his mouth recoiled instinctively—but somewhere in the storm of fear and agony, something steadier stirred: trust. It was Hermione. She wouldn't give him anything that would hurt.
He forced himself to swallow.
It scorched down his throat like firewhisky set alight, burning as it went. For one blinding moment, it felt like it might tear him apart from the inside out.
Then, slowly—so slowly it could've been his imagination—the pain ebbed. Not gone, not by a long shot, but… dulled. The panic faded into something just shy of manageable.
His limbs, once wild and spasming, stilled.
His chest heaved—still shallow, still raw—but the gasps no longer felt like drowning.
And then, without quite meaning to, Harry let out a sound. Small. Crooked. Somewhere between a groan and a sob. The kind of noise you only made when pain had finally let up enough for you to feel the relief.
Hermione let out a shaky breath, her hands finally loosening. She sagged, slumping down beside the sofa, as though the fight had gone out of her all at once.
Ron's hand stayed on Harry's arm, warm and unmoving. As if letting go might undo whatever fragile magic had just taken hold.
Bill crouched beside them, his voice quieter now, but the emotion still thick in it. "Stay with us, Harry," he said, eyes shadowed. "Don't let go."
Harry prised his eyelids open.
It took effort.
The room swam in and out of focus, bathed in firelight and fading spells. Ginny was kneeling nearby, her face pale, her freckles stark against her skin, tears still clinging to her lashes. Her hand hovered just above his chest, not quite touching, like she didn't trust herself not to shatter him.
Hermione sat back on her heels, biting her lower lip, looking near to breaking. Ron… Ron looked like he'd just watched Harry fall off a cliff and wasn't entirely convinced he hadn't.
Harry swallowed. His throat burnt.
I'm still here, he thought, stunned.
And he was. Barely. But he was.
Yet even now, he could feel it—the fragility of it.
The dark's still there, whispered something in his head. It hasn't gone. It's waiting. You've done enough. No one would blame you.
No, Harry thought back, fiercely.
He shut his eyes tight, blocking out their faces, the guilt, and the fear.
He forced his thoughts elsewhere—anywhere else.
To flying: the rush of air in his face, the Firebolt trembling beneath him, the stadium roaring with life.
To Ron's laugh, the sort that left him red-faced and breathless, doubled over.
To Hermione, triumphant and smug, flourishing a book or scroll with that "I told you so" sparkle in her eyes.
To Ginny's hand—warm, calloused from broom work, steady in his.
He clung to those moments. Dug his fingernails into them and held on.
Not yet, he told the darkness. I'm still fighting.
Around him, the room moved on without him—soft whispers, the clink of glass, the occasional whispered spell. He felt it all like through water—muffled, blurred.
He hovered at the edge of it. Between sleep and wake. Between pain and something else. Letting go tugged at him.
And then—
The stillness shattered.
A burst of silver light split the air.
Harry flinched, his whole body jerking as if jolted by a curse.
The light coalesced in the air before him, swirling like mist caught in moonlight, until it sharpened—shimmered—shifted—
—a lynx.
Massive. Beautiful. Its coat shimmered like starlight as it glided forward, utterly silent, glowing with spectral intensity. It moved like it was part of the wind, rippling through the air without sound.
Harry knew what it was before it opened its mouth.
Kingsley's Patronus.
The lynx hovered, paws barely brushing the floor, and parted its jaws.
Kingsley's voice filled the room, smooth and deep, but there was something strained beneath it. A tension Harry wasn't used to hearing.
"I am aware of the incident. Seek immediate shelter. Please contact me whenever possible."
Then—silence.
The lynx dissolved into smoke, vanishing in an instant.
No one moved.
Not immediately.
The silence it left behind was heavier than the Patronus itself. It settled over them.
Hermione sat frozen. Ginny had gone pale again. Ron's jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth might've cracked.
Harry felt his pulse hammering.
Incident? he thought. What incident?
His mind chased the words, tripping over itself in panic. He tried to sit up, but even that was too much—his limbs refused to obey. His fingers twitched uselessly at his side.
It was Bill who broke the frozen silence, though even his voice sounded as though it had been scraped raw.
"Why would Kingsley send word here?" he asked, brow furrowed so deeply it might have been carved into stone. "What does he mean, 'aware of the incident'?"
The question hung in the air, sharp and unforgiving, and no one answered straight away. The tension in the room had tightened.
Hermione's eyes flicked to Ron, and in the half-second before she looked away again, Harry caught it: the silent exchange. Too fast for anyone else to see, but he knew that look. He'd seen it more times than he could count over the years.
They were keeping something from him.
Hermione drew a breath, the kind that braced a person for bad news. She always did that—steeled herself before plunging into something messy. It was a habit she had when stepping into arguments, or battles, or the truth.
"It's about Harry," she said quietly. "And your parents."
Bill didn't move. Didn't blink. It was the kind of stillness that made Harry's skin crawl.
"They were attacked," Hermione continued, slower now, as if the words had weight. "At the Burrow. Yesterday."
Harry's insides clenched.
"Yaxley got to them. He poisoned Harry… and stunned your mum and dad."
Harry flinched—visibly—his fingers curling against the fabric of the blanket thrown over his legs. A bitter sort of shame curled in his gut, acidic and biting.
Because of me.
It always came back to that. No matter how far they ran, no matter how many times they survived, it alwayscame back to him.
He didn't want to look at Bill. Didn't want to see what was in his eyes.
But he didn't have to.
Bill's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw worked silently for a moment before anything came out—and when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, frayed with something raw and childlike.
"What? Where are they now—St Mungo's?"
"Yes," Ginny said, quickly and firmly, and for once her voice sounded years older than she was. "Percy and Hagrid are with them. They're alive. Just… shaken."
Her knuckles were white around the back of the chair she stood behind. Harry realised she hadn't let go since they arrived.
"We had to leave," she went on, her tone growing harder. "Fast. We used a Portkey."
Bill stared at her, and for a moment he looked lost.
"But—why?" he asked, his voice splintering at the edges. "Why did you leave them?"
Harry recognised the tremble in his voice.
It was fear.
The kind that crept in when you were afraid of the answer—because you already knew it.
"There was an attack—" Ron blurted, voice cracking. "At St Mungo's—"
"No," Hermione cut across him, low and cold. "Not an attack. A trap."
She stepped forward slightly, her face pale, her breathing ragged, but her tone never wavered again. "Yaxley used an amplifying charm. Some kind of dark broadcast spell. He amplified Harry's presence—sent a magical signal, somehow, through the entire wizarding world. Anyone sensitive to certain magic could feel it."
Harry's blood ran cold.
"He wanted to draw people out of hiding. Stir the pot. And it worked. People are panicking. There's unrest and fear, and more than a few people are looking for Harry now—and not all of them mean well."
She stopped then, and the silence that followed wasn't just quiet—it was heavy. Pressing. As if the weight of everything they'd just said was dragging the room down around them.
Harry could feel it.
The moment. The shift.
They'd had a brief window—a flicker of hope after the war, after Voldemort's fall. A heartbeat of peace. But it was gone now.
Bill ran a hand through his hair, and it shook slightly. "And Mum and Dad?" he asked, his voice cracking.
"They're holding on," Ginny said gently. "They said they'd come when they can."
Bill nodded, but it was a hollow thing—automatic. He was trying to make sense of it all. But there wasn't one.
Before anyone else could speak, Harry made a sound—low, rough, and raw—somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
And then the pain hit.
No warning. No build-up. Just fire.
He arched against the sofa cushions, biting down hard on a cry that tore its way through his throat anyway. He buried his face in the fabric, desperate to muffle it—but the tremors wouldn't stop. His limbs jerked. His chest burnt.
It felt like something inside him was tearing—splitting straight down the middle.
Ginny was at his side in a flash, her hand finding his, gripping it tightly—too tightly—but he was grateful for it. He clung to her hand with what little strength he had left, terrified by how cold his own skin felt beneath hers.
Bill turned sharply, alarm flaring in his eyes.
"What's happening to him?!" he demanded. "The potion would help—why isn't it working?!"
Hermione was already kneeling beside Harry, wand out, murmuring diagnostic incantations under her breath, her movements swift but careful. Her face had gone pale again, and there was a flicker of panic behind her eyes now, no matter how steady her hands remained.
"It's not that simple," she said. "It's not like healing a wound. It's deeper than that. Sometimes the potion helps. Sometimes it doesn't. It depends."
Bill's voice cut through her explanation like a whip. "Depends on what?"
Hermione looked up at him.
Her voice was quieter now. And it broke, just slightly, when she answered.
"On whether his soul can accept the healing."
Bill was staring at Hermione now as though she'd begun speaking in Mermish without warning.
"His soul?" he echoed, slowly, like he was trying to process the word itself. "What d'you mean, is his soul damaged? How's that even—?"
He broke off, his voice faltering under the weight of something larger than confusion—something closer to fear.
Hermione drew in a sharp breath. She bit her lower lip, hard, in that familiar, frantic way that always meant she was bracing herself to say something awful.
Then—barely more than a whisper—she said, "It was Voldemort."
Harry flinched. He couldn't help it. It felt like the name itself reached inside him and scraped something raw.
Even now, even after death, Voldemort's reach lingered like a shadow he couldn't shake.
Hermione's fingers were tugging at the hem of her jumper now. She looked like she was about to sit on her NEWTs.
"When we first came here," she began carefully, her voice trembling in spite of itself, "we weren't just running. We were searching. For Horcruxes."
Bill blinked. The word seemed to bounce off him.
"Horcruxes?" he repeated, frowning. "But those are—aren't they dark magic? Like… really dark?"
Harry let his head fall sideways on the cushion, eyes shutting tightly. Nausea twisted through him again, hot and shaming.
Guilt bloomed thick in his chest. He knew how it must sound. To anyone else, to someone not in the thick of it, it sounded like madness.
It always had.
Hermione nodded slowly, lips pressed into a thin, white line. "He split his soul. Voldemort. He tore it apart deliberately and hid the pieces inside objects. He thought—" she paused, swallowing, "he thought it would make him immortal."
Bill staggered back a step as though her words had struck him full in the chest. For a moment he simply stood there, visibly reeling, like the floor had shifted beneath his feet and nothing quite made sense anymore.
Harry turned away, unable to look at any of them. Shadows curled at the edge of his vision. His skin felt cold, and his chest ached with something far beyond the physical.
It was too much—this truth, this weight they all kept carrying long after the war had ended.
He was so tired of being the reason.
But Ginny's hand was still wrapped around his, warm and real and steady in a way that held him fast. She didn't let go, not even when he flinched, not even when his fingers twitched uselessly in hers.
"It's all right," Ron said suddenly, his voice loud in the quiet room. Too much like someone trying to mend a shattered window with Spellotape.
"We didn't get it at first either," Ron went on, the corners of his mouth twitching into something like a grin—but it faltered, never reaching his eyes. "When Harry told us the first time… it was like everything we thought we knew just came undone. We didn't want to believe it either."
Harry's chest pulled tight. The memories pressed in—Grimmauld Place, the Forest of Dean, Dobby's grave, the cold silence of Shell Cottage the first time they'd been here. All of it carried the same thread: the truth unravelled slowly, painfully, until it was all they had left.
Ginny shifted beside him. He could feel her watching him. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, but it didn't waver.
"Harry's been speaking with Professor Slughorn," she said, glancing quickly at him, then back to Bill. "That's how he learnt the damage was still… lingering. And that there might be a way to heal it."
The room went still again.
Harry could sense it in all of them now—fear. Not the adrenaline-laced panic of battle, but something quieter. Deeper. The kind of fear that came from watching someone you loved slip through your fingers without knowing how to stop it.
Bill let out a slow breath and crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw tight with effort. "And has he… found a way?"
For a long, suspended moment, the only sound was the low whistle of the wind against the windowpanes.
Then Hermione nodded.
"Yes," she said, straightening. Her eyes flashed—not with fear now, but resolve.
From her beaded bag, she drew out a book.
It was thick and ancient, its cover a tapestry of silver and pale pearl. Runes glimmered across the surface. Even from where he lay, Harry could feel the magic thrumming from it—old magic, deep and strange.
"This has everything," Hermione said. "Soul repair. The process. The potion. The conditions. Everything."
She passed it to Bill as though handing over a sacred object, and Bill took it slowly, holding it in both hands.
He turned it over, inspecting the binding with a cautious frown.
"Was this from Slughorn?" he asked, voice low.
"No," Hermione replied, her grip tightening on the arm of her chair. "It was in Professor Dumbledore's office. Slughorn couldn't get through the enchantments on it after Dumbledore died."
Bill frowned deeper. "Dumbledore protected a book like this. Why? If it's knowledge that could save lives, if it could help Harry—why lock it away?"
Harry kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, blurred at the edges, as though the shadows there might offer some answer. His mind was slipping again, drifting, but something in Bill's question rooted him—dragged him back to the present with a slow, aching pull.
He could still picture the high shelves of Dumbledore's office, the soft rustle of the wind beyond the tower windows, and the way the headmaster's eyes—piercing, fathomless—had always looked as though they were staring directly into the centre of him. Not just seeing what Harry was—but what he might become.
Dumbledore had known.
He must have known.
Because I was never just Harry to him, was I?
I was the thing Voldemort left behind.
Hermione hesitated.
Then she said, softly, "Because it's not just about healing. This book could very well be the reason a Horcrux was ever created in the first place."
She glanced down at Harry, and something flickered in her expression—fear, sadness, maybe guilt. It was hard to tell. All of it had lived between them for so long.
"It's about fragmentation," she said. "About what happens when a soul is… broken. And how, maybe, it can be made whole again."
Bill looked lost, like someone dropped halfway into a story he hadn't agreed to hear. "But Dumbledore… he must've known. If this was in his office—if he had access to this—then why didn't he…?"
"Tell us?" Hermione supplied, meeting Bill's eyes. Her voice was low. Tired. "We think he knew. We think he hoped it would never come to this."
Or maybe he couldn't bear to tell me what I really was, Harry thought, the bitterness curling in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he looked at me and saw what was inside—and decided to spare me the truth for as long as he could.
A weapon.
A means to an end.
A mistake.
Bill stared at her. His wariness was no longer masked. It was written plainly in every crease of his brow.
"And you think this is safe?" he asked, carefully. "This magic—whatever it is—you think it won't make things worse?"
Hermione looked as though she wanted to lie. Just for a second. Just to give him—and the rest of them—something solid to cling to.
But she didn't.
"No," she admitted, softly. "We don't know if it's safe. We don't know much at all. Only that it's the only way forward."
She turned her gaze back to Harry. "And that he doesn't have much time."
Bill stared down at the book, his fingers white-knuckled against the edge of the cover, the patterns shifting beneath his hands. "What would he have done, do you think… if he'd lived longer?"
The question hung there. No one answered it.
Ginny's voice broke the silence—too loudly, too suddenly. "Where's Fleur?" she asked, forcing a note of brightness into the room.
Harry was grateful. The conversation had begun to feel like drowning.
"She's in France," Bill replied after a pause, brushing a hand through his hair, his voice distant. "Went to see her parents for a few weeks."
"Should we reply to Kingsley?" Ron asked. He sounded uncertain, and Harry didn't blame him. The world outside this cottage felt a thousand miles away.
Bill exhaled slowly, the weight of everything they'd said pressing visibly on his shoulders. "Not yet," he said at last. "Let's get settled first. You all look like you've been dragged through the Dragon's tail."
With a flick of his wand, five goblets of butterbeer floated into the room, steaming gently. The scent rose into the air—spiced and familiar—and for a fleeting moment, Harry felt the fragile echo of home.
They drank in silence, not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much. The quiet was a kind of agreement: rest now. Speak later.
Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, and twilight descended fully on the cliffs. The wind picked up, rattling the windowpanes, and Shell Cottage folded itself into the hush of evening.
When they moved Harry to the guest bedroom, he barely had the strength to lift his head. Ron and Bill supported him between them, guiding his faltering steps. Every part of him ached—bone-deep, soul-deep—but worse than the pain was the helplessness. The way he sagged between them, limp and heavy like something half-broken.
He hated it.
But he couldn't fight it.
The room was small and simply furnished, with pale walls and soft blankets that smelt faintly of sea salt and lavender. Just beyond the window, Harry caught the glint of moonlight on stone.
A single grave marker stood in the garden, weathered by wind and time.
Dobby.
Something snagged in Harry's chest, sharp and immediate.
He died free.
The words echoed in his mind, a balm and a wound all at once.
Ginny gently smoothed the covers over him, her fingers brushing lightly across his brow. Hermione crossed the room and shut the window firmly against the cold. Then she drew the curtains closed, as if to hold the world at bay.
Harry's voice cracked through the stillness, rough and barely audible. "Stay close."
He didn't even know who he was speaking to. Maybe all of them. Maybe just Ginny. Maybe no one in particular—just the darkness, begging it not to take him.
"We're here," Ron said at once, firm and sure, dropping into the chair beside the bed.
Bill glanced around the room and gave a soft huff. "It'll be a tight squeeze if you're all staying down here."
"We'll manage," Hermione said with a ghost of a smile, already conjuring extra blankets. "We've camped in worse places."
She didn't say it with bitterness. Just tired affection.
"We're not leaving him," Ron added, not looking away from Harry.
Bill nodded slowly, the tension in his face finally easing. "All right, then. I'll keep watch on the Floo. Let me know if anything changes."
Harry let his eyes drift closed. Their voices softened into low murmurs—half-conversation, half-lullaby.
And through it all, Ginny's hand never left his.
Draco moved through Knockturn Alley. The ancient stones beneath his feet were slick with filth, and the reek of soot and sour mildew clung to the air. Foul water dripped somewhere behind him, echoing in the gloom. Each step rang out sharper than the last.
The shadows seemed to shift as he passed, stretching long, tendril-like fingers along the walls. They hissed in voices he didn't try to decipher—mocking, murmuring, always watching. Some might have called it madness. Draco simply thought of it as penance.
He didn't flinch when a hag hunched in a doorway reached out with clawed fingers, muttering about blood and bones. He slipped past her, untouched. He had nothing left she could take.
The pub emerged from the murk like a rotting tooth in a diseased mouth. Its crooked sign creaked on rusted chains, half-swallowed by mildew and darkness. The door sagged under his touch, groaning open with the squeal of tortured hinges. The sound scraped down his spine, sharp as nails on stone.
Inside, the air was thicker, heavier. The walls pressed close, saturated with smoke, old curses, and worse. It smelt of wet fur and spilt ale, burnt hair and hopelessness. Perfect. It matched the shape of him now.
No heads turned. Down here, in this pit of forgotten loyalties and fraying sanity, curiosity was a death sentence. The clever ones kept their eyes on their drinks. The rest weren't worth noticing.
He found Yaxley where he'd known he would—curled into the gloom of the farthest corner like a fungus that refused to die. His hair had gone white as chalk, scraped back from a waxy face that was more skull than skin. The red glint in his eyes wasn't his own—some crude glamour, perhaps, or a dark enchantment that hadn't quite taken. Whatever he'd been once, he looked nothing human now. Just a husk that hadn't got the message.
Draco slid into the seat opposite him without so much as a twitch. His heart gave a heavy thud, echoing in his ribs. But he met Yaxley's gaze with the same cool indifference he'd mastered in Malfoy Manor's drawing room.
"Malfoy," Yaxley rasped, his voice dry as crumbling parchment. "Still breathing, are we?"
Draco tipped his head, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Bit of a letdown, I know. Do try to contain your heartbreak."
Yaxley's grin peeled back in a gash of yellow teeth. "How's the family? Still licking the Ministry's boots and pretending the collars round their necks are just fashion statements?"
Draco's mouth twitched, though not quite into a smile. "Touching. If you're writing home, I'll let Mother know you asked."
A low laugh slithered from Yaxley's throat, humourless and sharp. "Word is, your lot's breaking bread with blood traitors now. Tea with the Weasleys, is it? Shall I send flowers?"
Draco drummed his fingers lightly on the warped table between them, the sound calm and methodical. "Careful," he murmured. "You're beginning to sound envious."
Yaxley's grin faltered, just for a moment. Then he leaned back, feigning ease, though his eyes never left Draco's. Those eyes were feverish. Ravenous. The sort of look one gave a creature that ought to have been devoured long ago.
"And you?" he said at last, voice slathered in mockery. "Where do you fly your colours these days, boy?"
Something flickered across Draco's face. Cold. Brief. Dangerous. Then it was gone, shuttered behind a smirk of elegant disdain.
"You think I'm stupid enough to tell you?" he said silkily. "You think you matter enough?"
The words hung in the air. Yaxley's grin curdled.
"Maybe you've gone soft," he sneered. "Tumbled over to Potter's side, have you? Little Draco the Redeemed. There's a headline."
The name hit like a hex—fast, sharp, unbidden. Draco's chest tightened before he could stop it. The familiar fury surged, bitter and hot—but he forced it down.
He laughed, thin and bitter. "Potter? Don't insult me."
"Pity," Yaxley said, leaning forward now, voice dropping into something cruel and conspiratorial. "I've already lost a few friends his way. That oaf of his—Hagrid, is it? Thinks he's safe in the hills."
Draco's stomach turned, nausea twisting through him. But he kept his face still, his eyes narrowing instead into a smile that didn't reach his soul.
"Going for the slow ones first," he murmured. "Very you."
Yaxley's smile vanished. "Watch your tongue, boy."
"And you watch your back," Draco replied, voice lowering to a growl. "You'd be six feet under in a nameless grave if I hadn't vouched for you. Don't forget whose name bought you breathing space."
Yaxley's knuckles whitened against the filthy table. The air between them trembled, as if the pub itself held its breath.
"Your family's branded," Yaxley spat. "Leashed and caged. You think that buys you leverage?"
Draco leant forward, grey eyes shining with cold fire. "I know what's round my throat," he said quietly. "Better than you know what's round yours."
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Yaxley's hand twitched—a ghost of a reach for his wand—but Draco was already standing, both palms raised in mock surrender, his wand still holstered at his side.
"No need to fuss," he drawled. "No trackers, no Ministry thugs lurking in the alley. Just a drink between old friends. Romantic, isn't it?"
They stood there, tension crackling in the stale air like an uncast spell. At last, Yaxley let his hand fall. His jaw was tight, the lines of his face drawn too tight.
Draco dropped into the seat with the sort of deliberate indolence that reeked of provocation. His limbs sprawled outwards, occupying space like it belonged to him by birthright—which, in many ways, it did. He laced his fingers behind his head, crossing one leg over the other with a casual elegance that might've looked effortless if not for the sharp glint in his eye.
"You need me," he said, his voice a silken drawl, almost playful. "That's what's truly gnawing at you, isn't it? You can't do this without me—and it's absolutely killing you."
Yaxley said nothing. He didn't so much as flinch. But he didn't have to—his silence rang with the grudging truth of it. Draco could taste the resentment in the air.
A slow smirk curled at the edge of Draco's mouth. At long last. After everything. After the years of crawling in shadows behind stronger men, biting his tongue until it bled, now he was the one with the leverage.
"You're overestimating your value," Yaxley growled at last, his voice sandpaper-rough with contempt. "A bit too sure of yourself, boy. Dangerous trait."
Draco tilted his head lazily, his expression unreadable. Arms folded across his chest, he leaned back with the bored arrogance of someone who'd already won.
"Maybe," he said lightly. "But I've learnt something useful over the years. Playing to survive gets you nowhere. I play to win."
Yaxley's eyes narrowed into slits, the corners of his mouth curling into something between a sneer and a snarl. "You sound like Potter," he spat. "All that bloody arrogance. That same pathetic belief that the world owes you something."
Draco stiffened. Only slightly. Barely perceptible. But the name hit harder than he'd expected. His lips parted in a flash of anger.
"Don't you dare compare me to that half-blood," he snapped, his voice low and venomous. "He's a coward in his own way. Hides behind sentiment and friends and false nobility."
He could feel the tightness in his throat—old bitterness stirring, restless. Potter had always been just out of reach, always one step ahead. And worse still—he was loved for it. Respected. Remembered.
But not feared.
"Is that what you tell yourself at night?" Yaxley's voice dropped, taunting and slow. "That Potter's just another weakling waiting to fall? Amusing, really… because somehow, he keeps winning."
Draco's jaw locked. His pulse thudded in his ears. He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Yaxley could see it in the tightness of his grip, the flicker in his eye.
The older man chuckled—a dry, rusted thing that sounded like it hadn't been used in years. "Potter may be brave," he mused, tracing the grain of the wooden table with a cracked fingernail, "but he surrounds himself with sentimental fools. Blood traitors. Mudbloods. The lot of them. Always trusting. Always giving people the benefit of the doubt." His voice twisted into a sneer. "Soft. That's their weakness."
Draco said nothing. But he leaned forward, the air between them taut now, humming like a wand mid-duel.
"Tell me how you did it," he said quietly. His voice was no longer mocking. It was edged now, low and dangerous, with something darker coiled beneath.
Yaxley's grin stretched—slow and grotesque. It made Draco's stomach lurch, though he kept his face still.
"Would you believe," Yaxley began, voice thick with glee, "it all started with a bit of Ministry gossip?"
Draco's brow twitched.
Yaxley's tone turned almost cheerful, in that grisly, unfeeling way some killers take pride in detailing the mess they've made. "Arthur Weasley. Fool was in the Atrium, rattling on to his son about Potter. Loud enough for half the bloody Ministry to hear. Merlin, he might as well have posted it on the Floo Network himself."
Draco leaned back again, watching, listening. Cold now. Detached. Every word added to the picture.
"Sloppy," he murmured.
"Oh, it gets better," Yaxley said, eyes glittering. "Hearing that got me thinking. There was something in Umbridge's old records. Something about the Weasleys. Notes. Family connections. Weak points. Percy, in particular…"
He let the name hang there.
Draco's stomach turned again, but he kept his expression blank.
"Polyjuice," Yaxley said with relish. "Just one hair. That's all it took. Ministry security's a joke these days—too many sympathisers still clinging to their morals. It was child's play."
"You impersonated Percy," Draco said flatly.
"Wore his face like a mask," Yaxley confirmed, tapping his own cheek. "Went strolling into the department like I had every right. I even borrowed his voice. Smiled at his co-workers. Asked the right questions, especially to Arthur Weasley. People are so eager to share when they think they're being clever."
Draco's fists clenched. "And they gave you the location of Potter?"
Yaxley's voice dropped, grave and gloating. "Not just that. There was a folder left open on his desk. A charming little list. Fireplace coordinates. Known allies. Safe houses."
He leaned forward, face ghostly in the candlelight.
"All I had to do was look interested, and the world opened its doors to me. They didn't see it coming. None of them did."
Draco's stomach twisted with a slow, simmering revulsion, but he kept his expression schooled—aloof, indifferent, the polished mask he'd worn so well for so long.
"And when I saw the owl," Yaxley drawled, voice syrupy with satisfaction, "I knew the game was mine."
Draco arched an eyebrow, the movement slight, calculated. He allowed a sneer to tug at the corner of his mouth, just enough to mask the unease squirming in his chest.
"An owl," he said lazily. "How quaint."
Yaxley's laugh was thick and wet, like something rotting in the back of a throat. "You mock what you don't understand, boy. Communication is everything. That letter… it spoke of Potter. A cave."
He leant back in his chair, arms spreading wide as though unveiling some triumphant masterpiece, the candlelight catching on the ragged hem of his robes and the glint of something vicious behind his eyes.
"You've no idea how exposed he is now, stripped of his little network, stripped of his pedestal of glory and noble lies."
Draco stared at him. Something dark and hot coiled in his chest—not anger, not even hatred. Something older. Something more bitter. A coldness that crawled along his spine and settled behind his ribs.
"And Potter now?" he asked, each word sharp, measured. "What state is he in?"
"Incapacitated," Yaxley purred, savouring the word like a wine too long cellared. "A touch of poison. A taste of fear. That's all it took. Funny, isn't it? For all his fanfare, it doesn't take much to topple a hero."
He gave a harsh bark of laughter that made Draco's teeth clench. It was an ugly sound—one that reeked of rot, of cowardice dressed as cruelty.
"You enjoy this?" Draco asked, voice low. There was no hiding the disgust in it now.
Yaxley's eyes glittered with malice. "Why wouldn't I? The famous Harry Potter, curled up like a kicked Kneazle. Moaning, twitching, broken. After all these years of that arrogant little wretch parading about, pretending he's better than the rest of us…"
He flung his arms wide, as though demanding applause. "This? This is justice. Poetic, even."
Draco's lips curved, but it wasn't a smile. It was the bare edge of something dangerous.
Yaxley didn't notice. He reached into his cloak and, with an exaggerated flourish, produced a battered copy of Witch Weekly. The cover was creased, the ink slightly faded, but the headline still screamed in lurid pink: THE BOY WHO DISAPPEARED—SPOTTED AT ST MUNGO'S.
Yaxley flipped to the centre page and slid it across the table with two crooked fingers. Draco looked.
There, grainy and poorly lit, was a photograph of Potter—half-limp, his head lolling against Hagrid's shoulder. His skin looked pale, his face slack with fever. His glasses were askew, cracked across one lens. His hands hung uselessly by his sides.
Draco said nothing. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
"I haven't read Skeeter's tripe since school," he said at last. "Did you bribe her yourself, or does she just naturally sniff out decay?"
Yaxley chuckled again, the sound crawling along Draco's skin. "She's a vulture. She doesn't need telling where to feed."
He leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper, as though confiding a terrible secret.
"And Potter?" he murmured. "He's rotting. From the inside out. Just like the rest of the Order will. Just like Dumbledore."
Draco's stare was unflinching now. He said nothing. The silence stretched—dense, brittle, dangerous.
The shadows in the room seemed to press closer. Draco's throat felt dry. He blinked slowly.
Is this what he'd wanted once? Power? Status? To see Potter fall?
He swallowed.
"But he's still alive," Draco said at last. Quietly. The words tasted strange in his mouth. Uncomfortable. "He was recuperating. At the hospital."
Yaxley's smile stretched. "Not anymore. He's vanished. Slipped away from St Mungo's. Supporters, enemies, madmen—it makes no difference. He's become a myth now. The boy who fell from grace."
"You lost him," Draco said, and this time the sneer came naturally—sharpened by something bitter. "All that planning, all that grandstanding, and you let him go."
Yaxley's gaze narrowed. But he didn't rise to it.
"We've lost nothing," he said with smug certainty. "We've stirred the water, and the prey will surface again. They always do. When they think it's safe. When they think they've won."
Draco shifted slightly in his chair. The dread was growing now. Not fast—but slow and certain. Like poison in the blood.
"And I'm part of this… scheme, am I?" he asked, voice low.
Yaxley leaned forward once more, his grin feral. The candlelight caught the edges of his teeth, and Draco thought suddenly of wolves.
"Oh, you're more than part of it, Draco," Yaxley said softly. "You're the keystone."
Draco stared at him.
"You see it now, don't you?" Yaxley continued, voice reverent. "This isn't just about vengeance. This is rebirth. Legacy. Blood reclaiming its rightful place."
He gestured with both hands, as if conjuring a vision out of the thick, stinking air.
"The Malfoy name—cleansed. Restored. No more shame. No more crawling to blood traitors and Mudbloods for scraps."
Draco's face didn't change. Not outwardly. But his insides felt like ice cracking underfoot.
He could almost hear his father's voice, smooth and unyielding. You must choose a side, Draco.
He already had, once. And that path had nearly broken him.
"You think the Malfoy name can be salvaged," Draco said, voice low and rough, "by dancing on Potter's corpse? Is that it? You think we can claw our way back to respectability by shackling ourselves to yourdelusions?"
His voice didn't shake, but it was close. Beneath the surface, his hands were already trembling. He dug his fingernails into his palms to stop them.
Yaxley didn't flinch. If anything, he looked encouraged—like a vulture delighted to find its prey still breathing.
"Isn't that what you've always wanted?" he replied, gently, mockingly, stepping closer. "To make them all kneel again? To see the fear in their eyes when they hear your name? To make them remember?"
Draco's jaw locked. His face, usually so controlled, twitched. And for just a heartbeat, something flickered in his grey eyes—something cracked and human. He turned away, jaw tight, as if even looking at Yaxley was more than he could stomach.
But he didn't deny it.
And slowly—like someone peeling off scabs with fingers that still bled—he gave a single, deliberate nod.
Yaxley sank back into his chair, entirely too pleased with himself, his mouth curled into a smile.
"Well done," he purred, the praise slithering out. "You've proven yourself, Draco. A true pure-blood. Unlike your… thoroughly disappointing parents."
The words landed like a backhand across the face.
Draco's head snapped up, anger slicing through the dull weight in his chest.
"Leave them out of this," he said, voice cold and sharp. "They have nothing to do with your… game."
But Yaxley merely chuckled, low and cruel.
"Ah, there it is. That fire," he said, amused. "I've missed that. Though I must admit, I've always wondered…"
He leant forward, shadow swallowing the glow of the hearth between them.
"Why did you hesitate so often back then?" His voice dropped to a whisper, each word slow and deliberate. "So skittish. So weak. Were you ever truly loyal to the Dark Lord, Draco? Or just playing dress-up in his ranks, hoping no one would notice the fear behind your eyes?"
The accusation slithered into the air and lingered—heavy, venomous, inescapable.
Draco's chest tightened. He could barely draw breath.
In his mind, he heard the echo of his father's cold voice. His mother's quiet, frantic whispers in the dark. The screams he hadn't caused but hadn't stopped, either.
He clenched his jaw until it hurt.
"Don't ever question my loyalty," he growled, voice raw with fury and shame. "I carried out his orders. I met every expectation. I killed Dumbledore."
The lie felt like a brand across his tongue—searing, bitter, unforgivable.
He'd never stopped paying for it. Not in the mirror. Not in his sleep.
Yaxley didn't so much as blink. He reclined, smug as ever, like he'd been expecting that exact response.
"No, you didn't," he said, his tone maddeningly casual. "You hesitated. You faltered. And Snape—Snape—had to clean up your mess."
His lips curled into a sneer.
"All you did was sulk around Hogwarts. Hardly a proud legacy for the last scion of the House of Malfoy."
Draco's hands were fists now, shaking with the effort of keeping them by his sides. His nails had broken skin. He could feel the hot sting of blood in his palms.
"I don't sulk," he hissed.
Yaxley's smile widened. He had him, and they both knew it.
"Then prove it," he said softly. And then he shoved—a single jab of his finger against Draco's chest, deliberate, taunting, like a final push off a ledge.
"Prove you're not the coward we all know you are."
The fire flared, casting gold and shadow across the walls. For a moment, the world narrowed to that single point of pressure, that insolent touch. Draco could feel his fury thrumming just beneath his skin, molten and barely contained.
He wanted to strike. To hex Yaxley where he stood. To scream, I've survived more than you ever could.
But instead, he breathed—slow and shallow—and stayed still.
He swallowed the anger, bitter as poison.
"What's your plan?" he said, voice rough, like it scraped against something sharp on its way out. "What grand little scheme are you cooking up this time? Because unless you've suddenly got a way to find him, I don't see what good your sneering does."
Yaxley didn't blink. His expression was almost serene now—tranquil in that twisted, self-satisfied way that made Draco want to break something.
"Our primary objective," Yaxley said, as if delivering a lecture, "is not to kill Harry Potter."
Draco frowned. His stomach gave a small, uneasy twist.
"What?" he said, before he could stop himself. "That's been your only objective. You poisoned him—you had the chance—"
Yaxley waved a hand, irritation flitting across his face. "Oh, please. A quick death is so… anticlimactic."
He leaned back again, fingers steepled in front of him.
"No. We don't want to kill him. Not yet."
A slow smile unfurled across his face.
"We want to break him."
Draco stared.
A part of him—it had to be the last shred of his sanity—wanted to laugh. Because hadn't they already done that? How much more was there left of Potter to destroy?
"And how," he asked slowly, "do you mean to pull that off… when you don't even know where he is?"
Yaxley's smile didn't so much as twitch.
Before he could speak, the door to the pub creaked open on ancient, rusted hinges, the sound slicing through the low hum of voices. Two cloaked figures slipped inside, silent as mist, their movements swift and unnervingly deliberate.
Draco's gaze snapped to them at once, instinct tightening his muscles before his mind caught up. There was something in the way they moved—no hesitation, no uncertainty, just sharp, calculated steps—that sent a cold trickle down his spine. Not the swaggering bravado of the older lot, not the snarling mask of blind loyalty. These ones were precise. Practised. The kind who didn't speak unless there was something worth saying. The kind who left no mess behind.
They moved like predators.
Wordlessly, they approached Yaxley's corner, their cloaks brushing the floorboards. One leaned down, close to Yaxley's ear, muttering low and fast. Draco caught snatches of words—Weasley house… no sign… Aurors in the area…
The second man spoke up, his voice like gravel underfoot. "Close one. Nearly got pinned down. They moved fast. Must've had help."
Draco felt something coil in his chest—a slow, cold dread tightening. The Burrow. They'd gone to the Burrow. Gone after the Weasleys.
Not just Potter anymore. Not just the so-called Chosen One they'd obsessed over for years. They were hunting everyone who'd ever stood beside him. Family. Friends. The people who hadn't run, who'd dared to care out loud.
The walls were closing in now—not just on Harry but on every single person who had dared to love him.
Yaxley's expression changed. The smug ease that usually curled at the edges of his mouth vanished, and in its place rose something meaner, colder—stripped of pretence.
"And St Mungo's?" He barked, fingers drumming once against the table.
The first man straightened, pulling his hood back slightly, revealing a narrow jaw and stubbled chin. "Blood traitors are dug in. Percy Weasley's inside. That half-giant's with him. No sign of Potter. One of the healers said she spotted two of Potter's friends bolting down a corridor—said she thought she heard screaming. Then they vanished. Portkey, most likely."
Yaxley's eyes glittered, catching the dim light. A smile crept across his face, slow and awful, as though he were savouring something no one else could smell.
"Is that so?" he murmured, almost to himself.
Then, with a casual flick of his hand, he dismissed them. They nodded, turned, and melted back into the haze.
Draco watched them go, throat tight, hands clenched in his lap. He didn't recognise either of them. New recruits, probably. The kind who never made it to a second mission. Useful only until they weren't.
Expendable.
His jaw locked.
"How many Death Eaters do you actually have left?" He asked suddenly, the words slipping out more bitter than he'd meant.
Yaxley didn't seem offended. If anything, he looked amused. He gave an exaggerated sigh and leaned back.
"Fewer than twenty," he said breezily. "And even that's generous. Half of them are barely worth the ink on their forearms. Desperate. Paranoid. Like rats in a trap, gnawing at the woodwork, hoping they'll find a way out."
His tone turned, just slightly, his lip curling. "Once, we dreamt of power. Of cleansing. Of a new order." He sneered. "Now we scrabble through the ashes, picking at scraps left by cowards and traitors."
Draco said nothing.
He'd grown up believing in names. In pedigree. In power earned by blood. He'd been taught that the world bent for the worthy, that magic respected those who ruled it.
And yet, here he was—here they all were—sitting in the ruins of a cause that had devoured itself, teeth first.
A thought slid, quiet and sharp, through the back of his mind:
What if we'd done it differently?
What if he and Potter had stood on the same side?
What if he hadn't been born into chains gilded to look like a legacy?
He crushed the thought before it could settle. No use thinking that way.
Yaxley studied him for a moment, gaze sharp and unreadable, and then smiled. Not kindly. It wasn't that kind of smile. It was the kind that made your stomach twist a little too tightly.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"We're paying a visit," he said, voice low, almost pleased. "To one of the blood traitors."
The words landed. Final. Measured.
Draco's spine went rigid.
He didn't ask.
He didn't want to ask.
But the silence stretched, heavy and expectant, until he heard his own voice—quiet, distant—asking anyway.
"Who?"
Yaxley's grin widened, teeth glinting in the firelight.
"George Weasley."