Moonlight poured through the narrow gap in the curtains—cold and silvery—pooling across the floorboards and casting long, shifting shadows along the dormitory walls. I lay on my back, still and stiff, staring up at the wooden beams overhead, eyes tracking the hairline cracks in the plaster as if they might somehow pull my thoughts away from him.
From Harry.
But it didn't work. His face was still there. Clear as day. Behind my eyelids, behind every breath.
The way he'd looked just before they took him—just before he disappeared down into the dark. Pale. Silent. And not afraid, exactly, but pleading. Pleading to be found.
I rolled onto my side, clutching the edge of the blanket like it might anchor me to something real. Sleep was a lost cause. It had been for hours.
The room wasn't quiet—not properly. Lavender and Parvati whispered across the way, their murmurs drifting through the dim. I couldn't hear the words, only the shape of them—jagged at the edges, full of dread. They didn't want to say it aloud. None of us did. As if admitting it might make it worse.
The whole castle felt wrong. Like it was waiting for something. Holding its breath.
I imagined the Slytherin dormitories, imagined them fast asleep. Safe. Smug. Not grieving. Not like us. Maybe they'd woken up and laughed about it. Maybe they hadn't even blinked.
I pulled the covers tighter, as if warmth could somehow banish the guilt. Or the fury. I should've said something. I should've stood up, shouted, and rallied people. I should've done more.
Instead, I'd frozen. I, Hermione Granger, with every book and every plan and every answer, had done nothing.
We'd let them take him.
I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. A poor attempt to stop the stinging. We should have stormed the dungeons. Marched straight to the Slytherin common room and demanded the truth. Forced it out of Malfoy or Nott or whoever else had been lurking around corners with their smug little secrets.
But we didn't.
And Harry was gone.
My chest ached. Properly ached, like something had been carved out of it.
Did he even know we were trying? That we hadn't just given up? That every minute without him felt like something vital was missing?
I sat up, my heart knocking hard against my ribs again. It had been doing that all evening—like it was trying to warn me of something I already knew.
And then, suddenly—Dumbledore.
His name hit me like a wave, sharp and breath-stealing. I'd pushed the thought down, deep as it would go. But now it had surfaced. Unstoppable.
Where was he?
Was his body lying somewhere cold and forgotten, hidden by shadows and cruelty? Had someone… Had someone even bothered to bury him?
The thought made my stomach twist.
I climbed from bed quietly, trying not to disturb the others. My feet touched the stone floor, and the chill ran straight up my legs. Still, I crossed to the window. Pressed my fingertips to the glass.
Outside, the grounds were bathed in that same indifferent moonlight. Beautiful. Still. As though nothing had changed.
But everything had.
I tried to see beyond the trees. Towards the dungeons. Towards Harry. I couldn't, of course—but I felt him. Somewhere down there. Close. And yet completely unreachable. As though the air itself had conspired to keep us apart.
And Dobby… no sign. No word. That silence, too, was starting to hurt.
What if he'd been caught? What if they'd hurt him?
I swallowed, throat tight. The guilt prickled down my spine. We'd asked too much of him, hadn't we? Sent him into danger and hoped it would work. Hoped that something—anything—would break in our favour.
It hadn't.
I padded down the staircase, one step at a time, each tread echoing slightly in the stillness. The common room was deserted. Quiet, but not peaceful. The fire had dwindled to its final embers, casting a soft orange glow across the walls, flickering shadows into corners where shadows didn't belong.
I stood there for a moment. Just stood.
This was where it had all begun, wasn't it? This room. These armchairs. The hours spent plotting, revising, and bickering. Dreaming of a better world.
It all seemed so far away now.
I was just lowering myself into one of the armchairs when I saw it—a movement by the portrait hole. My heart lurched.
Please. Please let it be—
And then I saw him.
"Dobby?" I gasped, nearly tripping over the hem of my pyjamas as I rushed towards him.
He stepped into the firelight, blinking up at me. His wide green eyes shimmered like dew, and in his hands—small, careful hands—he carried something folded and a wand.
Relief hit me like a wave. I could've cried from the sheer force of it.
"You're back! Are you—are you alright?"
"Dobby has come to bring the cloak, miss," he whispered, his voice tremulous. "It was just where you said… at the top of the tower. And then—" he held out the wand, reverently, "Dobby found this. Dobby thinks… it is Harry Potter's."
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
"You're sure it's his?"
"Dobby has seen Harry Potter's wand many times, miss," he said with quiet certainty.
I took the Invisibility Cloak from his arms first, hands clumsy with urgency. It felt like home—soft, cool, familiar. Then the wand. It trembled slightly in my grip.
Harry's wand.
Something about the weight of it—solid and certain—felt like holding part of him. Like touching a memory that was still warm.
"Are you hurt?" I asked, dropping to my knees. "Dobby, are you sure you're alright?"
He gave a small nod, his ears flopping with the motion. "Harry Potter's friend is very kind. Dobby is not hurt. Dobby is careful. No one saw Dobby, miss."
I exhaled sharply, realising only then how tightly I'd been holding my breath. Still, my heart wouldn't slow.
"But it took you so long… Did something happen?"
Dobby's eyes welled again, and his bottom lip began to tremble. The wand in my hand dipped slightly.
"It has happened, miss," he said, and his voice cracked.
Everything inside me froze.
"What… what do you mean?" I managed, even though I already knew I didn't want the answer. My skin prickled. "Dobby… Did something happen to Harry?"
The little elf's face twisted, and then came a sound I'll never forget—a terrible, thin, strangled sort of sob.
"He… he is not well, miss," he got out at last, his whole body trembling with the effort. "He has done it."
Done it?
My brain caught on the words like a tripwire. Done what?
"What do you mean?" I asked, louder this time, taking a faltering step forward. "Dobby—what has he done? What are you talking about?"
But Dobby only shook his head, wild-eyed and panicked, his tiny fists clenched tight at his sides. "No, miss—Dobby should not… Dobby mustn't…"
He backed away a step, his ears twitching, the wandlight flickering across his face.
Then—footsteps.
Voices, murmuring from the dormitories above.
Gryffindor was waking up.
"Dobby's sorry," he breathed, his voice rising with fear. "So sorry, miss—Dobby must go—"
And with a soft pop, he was gone.
The room was still again.
I stood there, winded, the Invisibility Cloak and Harry's wand clutched to my chest. The fire gave a soft crackle behind me, but the warmth no longer reached. Everything felt wrong. Unsteady.
I didn't move. Couldn't. Not until I heard pounding footsteps from the boys' staircase.
Ron.
He looked awful. His hair stuck up in clumps, and there were dark smudges under his eyes like bruises.
"Hermione?" He said, blinking at me, his voice still hoarse from sleep. "What's happened? You look like—like you've seen—"
"Don't," I said sharply, more than a little too loud. "No jokes."
His eyes narrowed immediately, alert. "What is it?"
"It's Harry," I said, my voice catching on the name. "Dobby came back. Just now."
I held up the cloak, then the wand.
Ron's mouth opened, but no sound came.
"He brought these," I said. "But he said… he said Harry's not well. He said he'd 'done something', and then he panicked and vanished before he could explain." I swallowed hard. "Ron… I think something's gone wrong."
Ron stared at me. At the wand. At the cloak. His face had gone very pale.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know!" I snapped, my voice catching painfully in my throat. "I don't know, Ron—he was crying so much I could hardly understand a word. But it was awful. He looked—he looked terrified."
Ron stood there for a second, completely still, then dropped into the nearest armchair, burying his hands in his hair.
"Bloody hell…"
The morning light was beginning to slip in through the high windows, pale gold spreading across the carpet and catching on the tops of chairs and bookcases. It should've felt warm. Comforting. But instead, it made everything feel wrong—like a stage light shining down on something that ought to be left in the dark.
No one spoke.
A few more students had wandered down from their dormitories—some in dressing gowns, some still in slippers—but no one made much noise. They lingered near the edges of the room, drawn together by something silent and heavy. The air felt too still. Like the castle was listening. Or waiting.
Professor McGonagall hadn't come back.
She'd left in the early hours, striding from the common room with her mouth set in a line and her robes sweeping behind her like a banner. No explanations. No hesitation. She hadn't returned.
The longer she was gone, the worse it felt.
Had she found him?
Had something happened to her, too?
"Is You-Know-Who still here?" someone asked quietly—a first-year, by the sound of it. His voice was thin and trembling, like he didn't truly want to know.
I opened my mouth to answer—to say no, of course not, he's gone—but the words wouldn't come. Because I didn't know. None of us did.
And the worst part was—I was frightened, too.
"Are we meant to have breakfast with him now?" someone muttered bitterly. It was a joke, obviously, but no one laughed.
"Does he even eat?" another girl asked, voice cracking slightly.
It ought to have sounded absurd. Instead, it only added to the silence.
"Is it true he can fly?" A boy said from near the wall. He was curled up with his arms wrapped round his knees, his eyes far too wide for his face.
I should've corrected them. I wanted to. I wanted to offer something—anything—logical to steady the room again. But how could I explain what had happened when none of it made sense to me either?
The truth was, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had walked straight into our school, as if the wards meant nothing, and tortured our best friend. And none of us had been able to stop him.
Because Professor Dumbledore was gone.
And Harry…
I looked down at the wand clutched in my hands. His wand. Still warm from my grip. Still somehow his, even though he wasn't here.
Where was he now?
What had they done to him?
And—terrifyingly—what had he done?
The portrait hole burst open.
I jumped—so did half the room. The bang echoed across the stone walls like a shout, shattering the quiet.
A crowd stumbled in—mostly fifth-years and younger students, breathless and pale, some crying outright. Their robes were askew, their hair tangled, and their faces raw and wide-eyed.
Ron sprang to his feet. I was already moving, crossing the room before I even realised I had. My pulse pounded in my ears.
"What happened?" Ron said urgently. "What's going on?"
A girl near the front stepped forward—fifth-year, I thought, though I didn't know her name. Her eyes were red, her hands shaking at her sides.
"We went to see Colin," she said. "In the Hospital Wing."
Colin.
The name hit me like a jolt. My knees wobbled. I grabbed the back of a chair to keep upright.
"What about him?" Ron demanded, more sharply now. "What's happened?"
The girl pressed her lips together, eyes swimming. "He was tortured," she said in a broken whisper. "By You-Know-Who."
The words landed like ice water. The world narrowed.
I couldn't breathe.
My mind felt hollow, ringing. My skin prickled all over. I could barely hear the sounds in the room anymore—the fire, the gasps, the shifting weight of students pressing forward for answers. All of it dimmed.
Tortured.
By him.
No. No, it didn't make sense. Colin was just a boy. Small. Eager. Always smiling, always asking questions, with that camera round his neck like it was part of him. He didn't matter to them, did he? He wasn't a threat. He wasn't…
My thoughts tangled, then crumpled in on themselves.
"How—how do you know?" I asked, my voice thin. I clung to logic like a ledge, fingers slipping.
"Dennis told us," the girl replied, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "This morning. Professor McGonagall came into the boys' dormitory and pulled him out. Didn't say why. Just said, Come with me. So we followed. Thought maybe it was something small. That he'd fainted, or had a fall, or…"
She trailed off. Another girl—smaller, pale—let out a cracked sob and covered her face.
"Why would he do it?" she whispered hoarsely. "Why would You-Know-Who go after Colin? He didn't doanything."
I stepped forward carefully, trying to keep my voice steady. "Is Dennis still with him?"
Of course he would be. He wouldn't leave Colin's side.
A third-year boy nodded. "Yeah. He said he's staying. Won't move till Colin wakes up."
Wakes up.
Not gets better. Not recovers. Wakes up.
Something twisted deep in my chest.
I glanced at Ron, but he was still staring at the fire, unmoving, like it was speaking to him and only him. I turned back to the boy.
"What… what condition is he in?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer.
The boy hesitated and swallowed. He looked like he might be sick. "He's… barely breathing," he said at last. "Like… something's still choking him. But there's nothing there. Just… air."
My hand flew to my mouth.
In my mind, I saw it—an image I hadn't been given but could picture too clearly. A small boy lying still, his chest barely rising, lips turning blue. Gasping for breath that never came.
"What kind of curse does that?" I whispered, mostly to myself. "What sort of magic lingers… even after the caster's gone?"
I felt light-headed. Sick.
"Did Dennis say how Colin ended up with him?" I asked. My voice was too calm. I didn't want the answer. But I had to hear it. Every bit of truth mattered, no matter how much it hurt.
The tall boy with the dark curls nodded. "He said they were just in the common room last night. The two of them. Then Amycus Carrow came in. Told Colin he had detention. Said his name was on a list or something. Had a bit of parchment in his hand. Looked official."
I straightened. "A list?"
"Maybe," he said, uncertain. "Dennis said it all happened really fast. Colin didn't even argue. Just followed him out."
And no one stopped him.
No one thought to question it.
The wild-haired girl stepped forward again, voice unsteady. "When we saw him… when we found him… he was whispering."
I frowned. "Whispering what?"
She swallowed hard. "Harry's name," she said, and her voice broke. "Just… over and over. Wouldn't stop."
The room went silent. Utterly silent.
Harry.
A coldness crept up my spine, unfamiliar and relentless. Not fear, exactly. Something worse.
"Why?" I asked, barely audible.
She shook her head. "We don't know. Dennis doesn't either. He thought… maybe Colin saw him. Maybe Harry was there."
I turned to the fire. The embers had burnt low—soft and pulsing in the grate. But they didn't look like embers anymore. They looked like eyes. Or screams. Or something left behind after everything else had been taken.
Colin had whispered Harry's name.
That could mean he'd seen him.
That he was alive.
But if he hadn't—
I wrapped my arms tightly round my middle. I felt hollow, as though something inside me was being carved out—slowly, methodically. Bit by bit.
I didn't cry.
There wasn't time.
There was only one thought, one hope, stretching thin and desperate through my mind:
Let him be alive.
Please.
Let Harry still be breathing.
The portrait hole banged open again with a shriek that sliced the stillness clean in two. At once, the murmuring stopped. Every breath held.
They were there.
Alecto and Amycus Carrow.
They didn't so much walk in as seep, like rot leaking through floorboards—sour and heavy and wrong. Alecto's lank hair clung to her skin, her lip curled in something that might have been a smile had it not looked so pleased with itself. Amycus was worse—eyes glittering, face twitching with delight, like he'd caught us mid-sin and couldn't wait to start punishing.
Next to me, Ron tensed. I didn't blame him. My stomach clenched so sharply I thought I might be ill. There was a taste at the back of my throat—metallic, acrid. Fear.
"What're you waiting for?" Alecto's voice rasped through the air, low and vicious. "Every one of you. Out. Great Hall. Now."
Her eyes flicked over us, sharp and fast, searching for the smallest flicker of defiance—any excuse.
No one moved.
We were packed shoulder to shoulder, but the room felt hollow. Brittle. My hand gripped the arm of the chair beside me, fingers digging in. My mind was already racing—not away, not quite—just forward. Too fast.
The Great Hall. Why there? What had they planned?
Amycus stepped forward with a snarl. "I said, move, you little shites!" His wand jerked upwards—not a warning. A promise.
Still, we didn't shift. Not yet.
We were Gryffindors. Brave—usually. But also tired. Frightened. We knew what the Carrows could do. We'd watched it. Lived it. Words weren't the worst things they threw at you.
Then Ron took a step. "Why?" he said, low but firm. The one word hung in the air like a challenge.
Amycus grinned—teeth crooked, too many of them. "Because you won't want to miss the show," he said thickly, like he was already savouring it.
Alecto let out a coarse laugh. "They're in for a treat," she added, gleeful.
The word twisted in my gut. Treat. That meant something was waiting. Something cruel. Something we were meant to see.
And suddenly I knew.
Harry.
A sick chill swept through me, head to heels. My grip tightened on the chair.
Was he there now—in the Hall? On display? Was that the point—to make us watch? Make us learn?
The last time I'd seen him, he was barely standing. Pale. Half-conscious. And the Carrows had looked at him the way a dog eyes a bone. A prize. A warning.
"NOW!" Amycus roared, wand raised.
I jumped. So did others. The spell hadn't come, but the threat was enough. It jolted us into motion.
Ron's hand found mine. I held on without thinking. His palm was hot—almost feverish—his grip tight. Steadying.
I slowly passed the cloak to Ron. He took it and hid it inside his oversized jumper.
My other hand drifted instinctively to the lump beneath my jumper. My wand and Harry's. It felt small. Insufficient. But it was something.
We filed out. Slowly. Quietly. Not out of obedience. Out of instinct. Because standing still was just as dangerous.
We didn't speak. No one dared. There were only footsteps—dozens of them—echoing down the corridors. The sound of us being marched.
I held my head up. I had to. Someone had to. But inside, everything was fraying.
The halls felt colder. The portraits watched without blinking. Even the castle—usually so alive—seemed to draw back, as if it couldn't bear to see.
And I kept thinking: Harry. If he was waiting for us, it wasn't to be rescued.
It was to be shown.
Used.
No. Stop it, Hermione. Don't go there.
But I couldn't help it. The thought lodged itself deep and pulsing—a single point of dread that only grew sharper with every step.
We turned another corner. The Carrows herded us forward, smirking like they'd already won.
I glanced back—just once—at the fading sliver of light from a tower window. Our common room. The last safe place.
Then it vanished from sight.
And ahead of us loomed the Great Hall.
Whatever waited inside… it would leave a mark. On the castle. On us. On everything.
And some things—I knew it then—would never come clean again.
The Great Hall had never felt so wrong.
I'd sat in this room hundreds of times—thousands, probably. Eating, talking, laughing. Watching snow fall from the bewitched ceiling at Christmas and owls drop letters straight into my breakfast. It had always felt like the heart of the castle. Safe. Familiar.
Now it felt like stepping into a tomb.
The torches lining the walls were burning too brightly—harsh and yellow, the light smearing at the edges without my glasses. The ceiling above still showed a pale blue sky, serene and soft, like a lie stretched too thin. As if the world hadn't been turned upside-down. As if Dumbledore hadn't fallen from the Astronomy Tower. As if I wasn't walking into something I might not come out of.
Each step beside Snape felt heavier than the last. The flagstones seemed to push back beneath my shoes, like the castle itself didn't want me here. Like it knew what I was walking towards.
My scar burnt—deep, splitting, like something white-hot was tearing through the centre of my skull. A second pain flared too—my arm, where the mark lay, twisted and alive, as if it were trying to crawl free. One pain in my head. The other in my flesh. Both pulling in opposite directions.
Voldemort in my mind.
Voldemort in my body.
I staggered. Snape's hand caught my elbow, fingers like ice. I hated that I needed him—just for that second—to keep me upright. I wanted to shake him off, but my knees weren't listening. When he let go, I nearly fell again.
He kept walking.
I didn't. Not properly. I was still behind him, but it felt like I was on a different planet.
The silence inside the hall wasn't real. Not completely. Beneath it, I could hear the buzzing of whispers, the sharp little intakes of breath. Students. Teachers. People. Watching. I couldn't see their faces—without my glasses they were just shapes, shadows in school robes—but I felt them. All of them. Staring.
I tried to pull my sleeve further down over my wrist. The mark throbbed, steady and unnatural, like a second heartbeat. It didn't matter if I hid it. The truth was already here. Everyone would know.
Snape stopped walking.
So did I.
At the far end of the Hall—where Dumbledore used to sit, where I used to see him smiling behind those half-moon glasses—stood a figure. Tall. Unmoving. Pale as a bone.
Even without my glasses, even through the haze and blur, I knew who it was.
Voldemort.
Just the sight of him turned my stomach to ice. He didn't have to move. He didn't have to speak. His presence crawled over my skin, slick and cold and ancient, like smoke that didn't need fire. He looked carved—wrongly human. Unbending. Hollow.
He was still.
I couldn't breathe.
My feet were rooted to the floor. My hands curled into fists, but I barely felt them. All I could think—all I could feel—was that he had been here. In this school. In this Hall. Where I'd grown up. Where we used to sing and laugh and eat treacle tart. Where I once thought Dumbledore could fix anything.
That life had ended.
Then he spoke.
"Harry Potter," he said, like he was greeting an old friend at the end of a very long journey. "At last."
His voice slid across the room like oil—soft, poisonous. Too calm. It wrapped itself round my ribs and tightened. I wanted to shut him out, to scream, to run. Anything not to hear him.
But his voice curled inside my head like it belonged there.
I clenched my teeth.
Don't let him in. Don't answer. Don't break.
I forced myself to hold on to something—anything that wasn't him. Colin. I thought of Colin. His camera. That ridiculous grin. The way he always acted like being in the same room as me was something amazing. Annoying, yeah. But kind. Pure. Always asking questions.
Too small. Too hopeful.
Too young for this.
And yet here we were.
"Where's Colin?" I croaked.
My voice didn't sound like mine. Thin. Off-key. Like it had come from someone else entirely.
No one answered.
I blinked, hard, eyes stinging. "Colin!" I shouted, louder this time. The name echoed through the Great Hall, sharp and strange against the stone.
Nothing.
And then—they laughed.
Low at first. Just one. Then another. Until the sound rose, swelling like a sickness. Harsh. Mocking. A wall of it. Death Eaters, hidden in the dark like rats in the walls, revelling in it. In my voice. My fear.
It scraped along my nerves.
"What have you done to him?" I shouted, my voice cracking, splitting open halfway through. I didn't even know who I was shouting at—Voldemort? The whole room? Myself?
I should've got here sooner. Should've—
Voldemort didn't answer at once. Of course not. He waited. Always waiting. Always making you suffer in the silence.
At last, he said, "The boy is of no consequence."
My stomach twisted. No consequence?
He had a name. A family. A brother. He was a Gryffindor. A student. He'd followed me out of the castle with that stupid camera round his neck, wanting to help. Always wanting to help.
"You should concern yourself with what truly matters," Voldemort said, idly, like he was commenting on the weather.
He raised a hand.
And the shadows shifted.
Black robes emerged. Death Eaters. Dozens of them. Moving as one, a slow, encroaching tide. Watching. Smirking. Waiting to see me fall apart.
I turned my head, frantic. Searching the blur of faces. Looking for Ron. Hermione. Neville. Ginny. Anything or anyone I knew. But without my glasses, they were just ghosts. Smudged outlines and flickering shapes in a nightmare I couldn't wake from.
My knees threatened to give way, but I wouldn't let them. Not yet.
Not here.
Whatever was coming, I would meet it on my feet.
Even if I was alone.
Even if this was the end.
And Merlin help him—if Colin was dead, I would make Voldemort regret every breath he'd ever stolen.
A voice sliced through the room, cool and sharp.
"Really, Potter," said Lucius Malfoy, his drawl thick with disdain. "Haven't we been through this before? You must learn the difference between dreams and reality."
I stopped breathing.
The words hit like a curse.
I knew them. Knew them down to the last syllable. Not just what they meant—but where I'd heard them. Two years ago. In the Department of Mysteries. The room with the arch. The veil.
The vision. The lie. Sirius.
The Hall tilted, just for a second. The air seemed to warp and stretch. My insides plummeted.
No. No, not again.
This isn't real.
It's a trap.
Another one.
And I'd walked right into it.
I turned, desperate, and found Snape—still standing, still watching. His expression unreadable. But something in the way he looked at me… there was intention. Not sympathy. Not kindness. Just… something. Like he knew what I'd just worked out. Like he'd known all along.
Colin's not here.
He never was.
Just like Sirius.
Another phantom Voldemort dangled in front of me.
And I followed.
Again.
My knees buckled.
The pain in my scar meant nothing compared to what was twisting inside me now. Shame. Fury. Stupidity. How many times was I going to fall for this? Dumbledore had told me. He'd begged me to learn Occlumency. To shut Voldemort out.
But I hadn't. I'd said it didn't matter.
And now look at me.
A dog on a lead.
The laughter came next—high, cracked, manic.
Bellatrix.
"Oh, the baby can't even tell what's real!" she shrieked. "Look at him! Poor little hero—already broken!"
Her voice rang through the hall, jagged and gleeful.
I flinched. My hands curled into fists. I was shaking, jaw locked, barely holding myself together.
I wanted to shout. To fight. To tear her apart.
But I had no wand.
No wand.
No protection. No plan.
No hope.
Voldemort's voice crept into my head like damp seeping into stone.
"Don't be so ashamed, Harry," he murmured—not aloud, not for anyone else. Just me. Just inside. Like he was curled up behind my eyes, whispering directly into my skull.
"You were never strong enough. You were always going to lose. That's why Dumbledore died. That's why they all will."
I clenched my eyes shut, as though that might block him out. But it was useless. He didn't need doors or windows. His voice wormed through, latching onto every fear, every crack I'd spent years trying to seal.
"I can see everything in you," he hissed. "Your doubt. Your guilt. Your weakness. It makes you so… easy."
And the worst part—the bit that made my skin crawl, made me want to rip him out of me by force—was that I believed him.
Just for a moment. A short, dreadful moment.
Because I couldn't see.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't move.
I didn't even know how to fight anymore.
The pain struck again—white-hot, like a blade behind my eyes, slicing through my head. I gasped, then collapsed—knees slamming against the stone floor. My hands flew to my forehead, as if I could smother the fire with my fingers.
I barely heard my own cry. Everything blurred—black and red and white—vision gone, thoughts screaming.
This wasn't pain anymore. This was something else.
A tearing. A hollowing.
A claiming.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
And for a moment—a stupid, naïve moment—I thought they were reacting to me. My fall. My agony.
But then I heard it. Clear. Horribly clear:
"Blimey, is that a Dark Mark on his arm?"
My breath caught.
No.
No. No. No.
I looked down.
And there it was.
The Mark. Dark as ink, sharp as ever. A skull. A snake. Twisting from beneath my sleeve, plain for all to see.
His symbol. His brand.
I'd tried to hide it. Kept my arm tucked in, hands clenched. But the fall had torn everything open.
Panicking, I reached to cover it again—but it was too late.
Far too late.
Voldemort laughed.
It was full and terrible—mocking and victorious. It echoed round the hall like a bell tolling at the end of something. Not a duel. Not a war.
Me.
"Don't hide it now, Harry," he said, purring. "They've seen it. Let them see what you are."
Murmurs everywhere. Sharp and frantic.
"Is he one of them?"
"Was he always?"
"He's marked—look!"
"No," I whispered. My throat burnt. "I'm not—"
But the words came out broken. Dry and useless.
Voldemort stepped forward, his voice cutting through everything.
"You may think you're not a Death Eater," he said silkily, almost gently. Like he was trying to teach me something. "But you've been marked by me. I see no reason to deny it."
He turned, slow and deliberate, to the crowd.
I felt it then—the way the room shifted, the air tightening, as though even the walls were listening.
"Harry Potter," Voldemort declared, "is now one of my servants."
A pause.
"He is, as of this moment… a Death Eater."
The hall erupted.
Screams. Shouts. Footsteps. Chaos.
I couldn't hear the words. Just the sound of belief being broken. Or worse—built.
Because they thought it was true.
They looked at me, and they believed him.
My insides twisted. I thought I might be sick.
I wanted to rip the skin from my arm. Wanted to disappear. Wanted to be anyone else.
But I couldn't move.
Couldn't think.
Could only tremble—raw and exposed, the echo of his lie still ringing through me.
"Damn you, Voldemort!" I choked. My voice cracked, shaking with fury and something worse—something like grief. "I will never—"
He moved.
I barely saw it.
Just a shift of robes. A blur of white.
And then his hand was round my throat.
Everything stopped.
Pain exploded at my throat—sharp, immediate, blinding. His fingers were like iron, cold and thin as carved bone, closing round my neck with terrible finality.
I clawed at his wrist, uselessly, like trying to pull down a wall with my bare hands.
And then my scar ignited.
Not a flare. Not a throb.
An eruption.
It felt like claws had buried themselves behind my eyes—scraping, raking, tearing through my skull from the inside. My whole head pulsed with fire. Every thought shattered.
"You will bow," Voldemort breathed, low and close. His voice curled into my ears. "You will obey."
His face was inches from mine—inhuman, that waxy, pitiless mask, eyes red and endless. He didn't just look at me. He looked through me. Tearing past everything I'd ever tried to hide.
Occlumency, I thought, half-mad. You never learnt it properly. You let him in.
Now he was inside.
"When I tell you to hurt yourself," he whispered, voice syrupy, "you will bleed. When I demand you kill, you will kill. No hesitation. No resistance."
I couldn't speak.
Couldn't breathe.
My throat burnt. My lungs kicked out, frantic, starved. My body sagged in his grip, knees folding. Darkness licked at the corners of my sight, slow and smothering.
"Have I made myself perfectly clear?" he asked, as if discussing homework. "Or do you require further… persuasion?"
I tried to answer. Tried to summon words from the pit of my chest. All that came was a raw, broken rasp. My nails scraped against his wrist. Still useless.
But something inside me—some stubborn, bleeding scrap—forced the sound through my ruined throat:
"…I… w-will… n-nev—"
He let go.
I dropped like a corpse. My knees slammed the floor, and I crumpled forward, coughing, choking, retching for air like it was water. My lungs screamed. My chest rose and fell in jagged gasps, each one sharper than the last.
I was still alive.
Barely.
When I looked up, still trembling, he was already turning away.
Graceful. Slow. Deliberate.
His wand lifted—not towards me. Towards the crowd. The blur of shapes and colours I still couldn't quite make out.
And then—
A scream.
Not magical. Not inhuman.
Human.
A real scream, pure and sharp and awful. It cut straight through the Great Hall, straight through me, and the sound of it—raw, helpless agony—made my blood stop.
I tried to stand. My legs gave out. I collapsed again, arms trembling, head spinning, body useless.
"No," I wheezed. "Voldemort, stop!"
But the screaming didn't stop.
I couldn't tell who it was. Couldn't tell if it was a girl or a boy—only that someone was hurting. Badly. Terribly.
And it was my fault.
I tried again to push up, elbows buckling under me.
That was when the pain came back.
My scar flared—sharp, splitting pain—and the mark on my arm burnt so hot it felt like it might sear right through my bones. My thoughts scattered. The world tilted.
Then—
A thud.
A body hit the floor beside me.
I turned, heart crashing against my ribs.
Even through the haze, through the swimming, broken light—I knew the curls. The blood. The uniform.
Justin Finch-Fletchley.
"Justin!" I rasped.
I crawled to him. My arms barely worked. My hands closed around his. His skin was clammy, too pale. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth.
His eyes fluttered.
Alive.
Just.
I almost broke down with the relief. My grip tightened.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't know—I swear, he's using me—I never meant—"
Then his voice came again.
Silk. Ice. Death.
"Oh yes, you did, Harry," Voldemort said softly. "You knew exactly what would happen. And you defied me anyway."
Something clattered in front of me.
A wand.
Dropped at my feet.
My insides turned to ice.
"Prove yourself," he said. "Torture him."
I stared at the wand.
It looked ordinary.
Wood. Handle. Tip.
But it might as well have been a snake. Poison-tipped. Venomous.
My fingers twitched. Reached—then stopped.
No.
No.
I won't.
I won't become that. I won't let him twist me. I won't hurt Justin. I won't be like them.
I'd rather die.
The silence thickened.
Then came the pain.
Again.
It hit like fire.
Not like pain—but something worse. Electricity tearing through every nerve at once. I screamed—loud and hoarse and unfiltered—my whole body locking, curling in on itself as if that might stop the agony. My muscles spasmed so violently I thought something inside me might snap.
"You will obey me," Voldemort said, softly. As though he were singing a lullaby.
I lifted my head. My vision was dim at the edges—clouded black. My nose was bleeding. It slid down my upper lip, warm and metallic.
"N-no."
He looked at me. His expression unreadable. Something flickered behind his eyes—disappointment, maybe. Or worse… amusement.
Then he turned.
"Then you leave me no choice."
His wand rose.
"Imperio."
Justin went still.
He drew a breath—sharp, shallow—and then…
His eyes glazed.
No focus. No fight. Just blank, hollow stillness.
"No—" I gasped. "No, no—please—"
Voldemort didn't even glance back.
"Kill yourself."
Justin moved.
Bending slowly, like he was sleepwalking, he reached for the wand on the floor. Picked it up. He turned it in his fingers.
Then pointed it at his own chest.
There were screams.
Not just fear now. Grief. Horror. The kind of screaming that came from the gut—from hearts snapping in two.
I could barely make sense of the voices. The hall was shaking with them. Some cried Justin's name. Others shouted curses, begged Voldemort to stop, or simply sobbed into each other's arms.
But I wasn't part of it.
I was underneath it. Crushed by it. Drowning.
"No—no—Justin—don't!"
My throat was raw. The words came cracked and splintered—but somehow, they echoed anyway. Hung in the air between us.
Justin's hand was shaking.
The wand touched his chest. Right above his heart.
And I—
I couldn't move.
My brain screamed, Do something—anything! Crawl. Reach. Shout louder. Throw yourself at him if you have to—
—but nothing answered. My body was gone. Hollowed out. Like someone had scooped me clean and left only ash.
It wasn't a spell. No Petrificus. No ropes. Just him.
Voldemort didn't need magic to paralyse you. He just needed your fear.
Because I knew—somewhere deep and gut-level—I knew that if I fought this, if I tried to stop Justin, Voldemort would do worse. Make it slower. Make it cruel. Maybe kill him anyway and make me choose someone else.
That was the game.
It was never about control. It was about surrender. My will. My voice. My soul, peeled off layer by layer until nothing was left.
"No," I said again. I didn't even know who I was saying it to. Justin? Voldemort? Myself?
Justin didn't look at me.
He couldn't.
His eyes—the ones that used to light up when he talked about what he learnt in Dumbledore's Army or defended him against Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle—were empty. Still. Like someone had switched the lights off behind them.
No fear. No pain.
Just silence.
His hand didn't shake anymore.
The curse had made him calm. Clear.
And I—I—was falling to bits.
"This isn't real," I muttered. "It's a trick. Another one. Like Sirius. Like before—"
But it wasn't.
He was there. Right there. Blood at the collar of his robes. His chest was rising too fast. Wand clutched in fingers that were twitching less and less.
It was happening.
And it would be my fault.
"Stop it!" I shouted—shouted so loud I felt something tear inside my throat. "Voldemort, stop it—STOP THIS!"
Nothing.
Just the wand in Justin's hand, rising a fraction.
The pause before the final blow.
"Please—not him—take me! Take me instead, please—"
I reached for him.
Tried to touch his arm.
But my body gave way entirely. My muscles collapsed. My limbs buckled, heavy as lead. I hit the stone floor with a horrible crack. My cheek slammed hard into the cold, and my head swam.
I couldn't move.
Couldn't lift my head. Couldn't turn it.
Couldn't even breathe properly.
I just lay there.
Twitching.
Trembling.
Gasping.
And Voldemort watched.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
He knew.
He was making sure they knew.
This wasn't a duel. Not a battle. It wasn't even about magic anymore.
It was about helplessness.
It was about showing them all that Harry Potter couldn't save anyone—not even the boy bleeding beside him.
That all it took was one curse. Two words. One breath.
That he was God now.
My thoughts spiralled out of control—wild, panicked, useless. Would the spell hit Justin's heart? Would it be quick? Would he scream? Would it be quiet? Would I hear his body hit the floor and never be able to forget the sound?
Would I ever sleep again?
"STOP!" I shouted—no, screamed—but it came out cracked, pathetic, like a child's tantrum trapped in a nightmare.
Didn't matter.
Nothing did.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
But it didn't stop. The image was burnt behind my eyelids—Justin, motionless. A puppet. Wand aimed at his own chest. Controlled. Violated.
Because of me.
Because I hadn't learnt. Because I hadn't practised Occlumency. Because I'd let my anger rule me again. Because I'd walked into another trap, again. Because I was still the same stupid boy who chased visions. Who thought Sirius was alive. Who thought he could save everyone.
And Voldemort knew.
He always knew.
I forced my eyes open.
I made myself look.
If Justin was going to die, I'd see it. I wouldn't look away. Wouldn't lie to myself. Wouldn't pretend I was still the hero.
His hand was still.
His breath—barely there.
He was waiting.
Just one word.
One whisper.
And I realised I was whispering too.
Not to Justin. Not to Voldemort.
Just into the world.
"Please… please… please…"
Adrenaline caught fire in my veins, white-hot and savage.
I moved.
Didn't think. Just moved.
My body lurched forward, teeth clenched, arms dragging through the air like they weighed a tonne—just as a sick, luminous green began to pulse at the tip of Justin's wand.
"NO!"
My shoulder collided with him. The wand flew from his grip, clattered across the flagstones—and then—
Silence.
For one breathless second, everything stopped.
No screams.
No pain.
No Voldemort.
Just stillness. Like I'd plunged underwater, the world above was muffled and distant. The air was thick and heavy and wrong.
Too quiet.
Too calm.
Not real.
And then—
"Kill the boy…"
A whisper.
Low. Disgustingly intimate.
"Kill him… just kill the boy…"
The water around me darkened. Ripples cut through the stillness.
No.
A voice inside me stirred. Small, but real. A flicker. A flame.
I won't.
"Kill him…"
I won't.
"Kill the boy."
I WON'T!
My hand spasmed—brushed against the wand on the floor.
The same wand I'd knocked from Justin's grip.
My fingers recoiled like I'd touched fire.
But the voice in my head grew louder. Sharper. It raked across my skull.
"Do it."
I won't—I won't—I WON'T—
"I WON'T!"
It exploded out of me. A scream torn from somewhere deeper than breath—deeper than bone. It cracked the trance like lightning through glass.
The fog shattered.
And the pain slammed in.
Blinding. Crushing. My scar throbbed like a drumbeat, hot and furious. The mark on my arm burnt like molten iron, branding straight through skin to soul.
I gasped—choking on air. My limbs convulsed, jerking with the shock of being back.
And then his voice.
Low. Cold. Pleased.
"You won't?"
I turned my head—barely—and saw him.
Voldemort.
Standing like a man carved from ice and shadow, red eyes glowing with cruel delight.
"You won't kill the boy?" he said softly. "Does that mean… you'd rather I finish him off instead?"
Terror tore through me.
I lunged in front of Justin without thinking, arms flung wide, my body a shield. I was shaking all over.
"No—don't—please—don't hurt him—I'll do anything—please, just don't kill him!"
And I meant it.
Every word. Every pathetic syllable.
I'd have said anything.
Done anything.
But his expression didn't shift. There was no mercy. Just satisfaction. He had what he wanted.
"Crucio."
Pain ripped through me.
I arched backwards, screaming. My hands clawed at the floor. Every muscle seized at once, locked in a twisted, unnatural spasm. I could hear myself—my own cries—echoing off the stone. But it felt like they belonged to someone else.
And then—
It stopped.
One breath.
Then—
"CRUCIO!"
The scream tore out of me this time. Hoarse. Raw. My voice came apart with it—shredded at the edges. My limbs jerked so violently I thought something might snap. My back slammed against the stone again. And again. And again.
He did it again.
And again.
Time stopped meaning anything.
There was no count, no end, just pain—unyielding and absolute.
I was nothing but pain.
A puppet made of nerves. A body without thought. No voice left to scream. No strength left to fight.
At some point, I must have gone silent. Couldn't say when. Couldn't say why. I'd lost my voice. My breath. Maybe myself.
I simply… endured.
Until—
Silence.
The curse lifted.
I collapsed. Shaking all over. My chest heaved. My hands twitched. Every inch of me ached. Every nerve was still alight, as if the pain was clinging on, unwilling to leave.
I couldn't move. Couldn't lift my head. My vision pulsed with white.
Justin.
Was he—?
I tried to turn. Tried to reach. But my arms wouldn't obey me. Everything was a blur—fog and ringing and pain.
Then hands—strong, tight—clamped beneath my arms and dragged me upright.
My legs dangled. My body hung like dead weight. My muscles were gone. My skin didn't feel like my own.
The corridor swam past in smudges of torchlight and stone.
Behind us—shouting. Footsteps. Screams. Sobbing.
I thought I heard someone call out. A voice I almost recognised.
Snape?
Was it Snape?
The grip on me tightened as I stumbled, half-dragged along the flagstones. My feet skidded uselessly. My head lolled forward. Every breath felt like glass in my lungs.
"Justin…" I croaked. My throat was scorched raw. "Is he…?"
"Don't worry about him now," said Snape—short, clipped, voice tight.
"But—I have to—save—him—"
"You did what you could."
"Not—enough—"
My body sagged. My knees gave way, and Snape caught me, tightening his hold.
"I think—I'm—" I didn't finish.
I doubled over, retching hard onto the stone. Bile scorched my throat. My stomach curled in on itself, cramping with each heave.
Voices gathered.
Closer now.
Boots on stone.
Someone barked an order, cold and clean through the chaos:
"Get him to his room. The Dark Lord wants you now, Snape."
Snape's hand twitched on my arm.
He hesitated. Just for a second.
Fear?
Then he moved again—arm wrapped around my chest, half-hauling me forward.
I tried to walk.
My legs gave out.
Everything tipped.
The corridor tilted.
Torchlight spun.
"Justin…" I whispered again. Couldn't stop myself. "Justin…"
Snape said something in response—my name, I think.
But I didn't catch the rest.
Darkness swelled up behind my eyes.
And I let it swallow me.