Chapter 12

Hermione's brow was furrowed, her arms folded tightly across her chest, eyes sharp with that particular brand of scrutiny she reserved for things that didn't quite make sense—things that should have been double-checked, triple-checked, referenced, and footnoted.

"Is there really a cave in Ireland?" she asked, voice careful and measured. The kind of tone that told Harry she was already two-thirds convinced it was a mistake.

Harry hesitated. He had expected the question. Dreaded it, even. Because the truth was… he didn't know. Not for certain. Not enough to stake lives on.

But there had been something about the way Malfoy had spoken. Not fear, exactly, but something adjacent to it. Shame, perhaps. Or guilt. Or that peculiar desperation of someone who had nowhere else to turn.

"I think so," Harry said at last, though the words felt fragile, like they might collapse under the weight of Hermione's next breath.

Across the room, Ron sat perched stiffly on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, arms crossed tight. His expression was hard to read, but the slight raise of one eyebrow said more than words ever could.

"You think he's telling the truth?" Ron said, voice thick with disbelief. "It's Malfoy, Harry. If lying were an art form, the whole family would have a gallery in Diagon Alley."

Harry rubbed a hand across his face, weariness dragging at him. He didn't have the energy to argue. There was a knot in his chest that hadn't come undone in weeks, and every time he tried to explain it, the knot just pulled tighter.

"I believe him," Harry said quietly, knowing full well how that would sound.

Ron gave a short, incredulous laugh. "You believe him."

Harry didn't flinch, but the words still landed. He kept his gaze on the worn floorboards, tracing a deep crack near his trainer with his eyes.

"He didn't have to come," Harry murmured. "He didn't have to say anything. If he was planning to lead us into a trap, why warn me at all?"

"That doesn't mean anything," Ron shot back, voice rising slightly. "Death Eaters lie. That's what they do. They play both sides when it suits them. And don't act like he's suddenly grown a conscience."

Harry didn't answer straight away. He thought of Malfoy's face earlier—pale, drawn, with something raw behind the usual sneer. The way he'd said, Be careful, like he'd meant it. And Harry hated that it stuck with him.

"He's not the same," Harry said, more to himself than anyone else. "Not completely."

"Oh, that's rich," Ron muttered. "He was raised to hate people like us, Harry. It's in his blood."

"That's not fair," Hermione said suddenly, her voice quiet but cutting through the tension. "You don't choose the blood you're born into."

Ron turned to her, jaw set. "No, but you do choose what you do with it."

"I'm not forgetting what they did," Harry said, finally looking up. "But I can't pretend it's all black and white anymore. It never really was."

Ron looked away, jaw clenched. His silence spoke louder than his arguments.

Harry pressed on. "At Malfoy Manor—he could have given us away. He didn't."

"That's not the same as helping us," Ron said bitterly. "That's cowardice."

"Maybe," Harry allowed. "Or maybe it was the first time he realised he didn't want to be part of it anymore."

Ginny, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, her arms folded across her chest, brow drawn in concentration.

"Dad said the Malfoys are trying to negotiate with the Ministry," she said. "Offering assistance in return for leniency."

Ron scoffed. "Of course they are. That's not repentance—that's survival instinct. They're only sorry they lost."

Harry didn't argue. Because that, too, was a kind of truth. A hard one. And he understood it better than he wanted to admit. Some days, survival had been all he'd had left to cling to.

"I just…" Ron's voice cracked slightly. "I don't want to trust them. After everything. After Fred. After Tonks. After Lupin—"

"I know," Harry said. "I know."

The silence that followed was thick with the weight of things unspoken. It hung there between them—grief, rage, betrayal—all the ghosts of a war they hadn't really survived, not completely.

"They won't walk away untouched," Hermione said softly. "No one did."

Ron's head bowed slightly. "Yeah, well… Some of us didn't get to choose our scars."

That hit harder than anything else. Harry swallowed against the lump rising in his throat. There was no answer to that. No defence. Just silence.

"I owe Narcissa," he said after a long pause. "She saved my life. In the Forbidden Forest… when Voldemort sent me to die. She lied to him. Because of Draco. Because she needed to know her son was alive."

Hermione's expression changed, softened. Ron just stared at the floor.

"She wasn't loyal to Voldemort," Harry continued. "Not in the end. She didn't save me because she believed in me. But she did save me. And that has to count for something."

He looked between them—Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—and felt the weight of what he was asking.

"And Malfoy…" Harry drew in a breath. "He could have stayed quiet. He could've watched me fall apart and walked away. But he didn't."

Ron leaned forward, the lines etched into his brow deepening with each passing second. His voice, when it came, was low but brimming with disbelief.

"You think that's enough? That we just… what? Forgive them? Let them carry on like nothing happened?"

Harry's fingers curled around the edge of his bed. He didn't meet Ron's eyes right away. There were too many things he couldn't explain. Things he hadn't even figured out himself.

"No," he said finally, his voice quiet but resolute. "But maybe we start by giving them the chance to be better."

There was a pause. A long one.

Hermione shifted beside him, crossing her legs neatly as her brow furrowed in thought. Her eyes flicked to Ron, then to Harry, measuring something between them. She didn't speak.

Ron's jaw tightened, his whole body radiating tension. Harry could feel it, like static charging the room. He knew Ron's anger well. It had scorched them all during the war and simmered in the aftermath, unspoken and unresolved.

From her spot in the corner, Ginny stirred. Her voice, when it broke the silence, was calm but cautious, laced with the kind of steadiness Harry had come to rely on—even when he didn't want to.

"Kingsley wouldn't let it go too far," she said. "He's fair. He's not looking to destroy them just for the sake of revenge."

Ron let out a sharp, bitter snort. "You think threatening to take everything they own isn't revenge?"

Hermione straightened in her seat, the lines around her mouth tightening. "It's leverage, Ron. Kingsley said himself—they'll only lose their assets if they lie or try to run. That's not revenge. That's caution. It's Ministry protocol."

Ron shook his head, rising from the bed with a restless sort of energy, his pacing uneven and clipped. "And if they do lie? What then? What happens when they slip back into old habits?"

"They'll face the consequences," Harry said simply.

His voice was hoarse now, rough with wear. He was tired of all of it. Of the war, of the endless conversations that circled the same grief and guilt like vultures, never quite settling, never truly leaving. He was tired of asking who deserved what, as if justice were a clean, easy thing.

And maybe most of all, he was tired of believing that people couldn't change.

With a sudden, violent movement, Ron slammed his fist against the nearest wall. The sound cracked through the room, making Ginny flinch and the frames on the wall rattle.

"The Malfoys are cruel, Harry!" he snapped. "They're heartless bastards. Always have been. They stood by while their precious master murdered and tortured anyone who didn't fit their perfect little bloodline. They looked down on us—on my family—for being poor. For not being them."

His voice trembled, raw and furious. "Now they're scared, and we're meant to feel sorry for them? I want them to suffer for once. I want them to know what it's like to be desperate."

Harry flinched slightly, not from the words themselves, but from the truth in them. Because he understood. He had hated the Malfoys too—loathed them for everything they represented, everything they had stood for. But somewhere, deep in his chest, that hatred had started to lose its shape.

Hermione leaned forward, her eyes fixed on him with quiet intensity. She always knew when something had shifted in him—always seemed to notice before he did.

"How exactly are you planning to help them, Harry?" she asked, her voice soft but searching. "Because if this is about protecting them, you need to be clear about why."

Harry didn't answer straight away. He didn't know how to answer.

Ron laughed bitterly and turned away, pacing again like he couldn't sit still with the heat rising in his chest.

"Never thought I'd see the day," he muttered. "You—you of all people—defending the Malfoys. After everything they did to you. I thought you hated them."

Harry stared down at his hands, palms open in his lap. They looked older than they had any right to. Scarred, lined. Like they'd already held too much.

"I don't," he said quietly. "Not anymore."

Ron froze mid-step. Hermione's eyebrows lifted slightly. Even Ginny stilled.

And Harry—Harry finally looked up.

"I thought I did," he said, each word careful. Measured. "For a long time, I did. But something's changed. The war didn't end when Voldemort died. It just… shifted. And it left behind a mess. People. Broken. Twisted up in grief and guilt and fear."

He paused, swallowing hard.

"The Malfoys made terrible choices. They were cruel. But I'm not convinced that watching them rot fixes anything. I don't think punishment always brings peace."

Ron's face was still set, but the fire in his eyes was dimmer now. He looked away, jaw clenched.

Harry pressed on, the words spilling faster now, as if they'd been waiting to surface for days.

"Narcissa saved my life," he repeated.

"And you think that's enough to clear them?" Ron asked, not unkindly now—just tired.

"No," Harry said. "But maybe it's enough to start talking."

Ginny finally spoke again, her voice more measured than before.

"Do you really think Kingsley'll listen to you?" she asked. "You'll be going up against the whole Wizengamot if this gets out."

"I know," Harry said. He rubbed at his throat, which still ached from coughing earlier and from too many conversations that left him empty. "But Kingsley's fair. If anyone will hear me out, it's him. I'll talk to him. Quietly. I don't want this turning into some public trial. I don't want headlines or interviews. Just… a conversation."

Hermione was watching him carefully now, her expression softer.

"Then we'll support you," she said at last. "But tread carefully, Harry. There are people who want the Malfoys gone. People who need a villain to blame."

"I know," he said. "But that's not who I am anymore."

He looked down again, a flicker of something dark pressing at the edges of his thoughts. He had wanted vengeance, once. But it hadn't saved Sirius. It hadn't brought back Fred. And it wouldn't fix what was broken in any of them.

Somewhere, deep down, he knew: healing had to start somewhere.

Even if it began with the people who least deserved it.

Ginny's eyes were still on him, steady and unreadable, her brow slightly furrowed. There was warmth in her gaze—always had been—but something else too, just beneath the surface. A question she hadn't quite asked. A doubt she hadn't voiced. Harry didn't blame her. He could hardly convince himself.

Across the room, Ron had turned his face away again, jaw clenching like he was grinding down words he didn't trust himself to speak aloud. His posture was tense, like he'd rather be anywhere else—anywhere but here, stuck in the uneasy quiet between what was right and what was fair.

Hermione was the first to break it. She let out a slow, measured breath, like someone making peace with the direction of a storm.

"All right," she said softly, her voice the closest thing to comfort in the room. "If you're sure, Harry."

He nodded once, but the movement felt hollow. The knot in his chest tightened rather than eased, as though the very act of deciding had only made the weight of it heavier. But it was the place he had to start. And sometimes, starting was the hardest thing.

Hermione leaned forward again, thoughtful now, her fingers lightly intertwined in her lap. There was a crease forming between her brows—the one that appeared whenever she was about to say something carefully considered and probably inconvenient.

"What if we spoke to your dad, Ron?" she asked, her voice brisk but not without hope. "Mr Weasley has the minister's ear. Kingsley trusts him. If we brought him here, if he heard it directly from us…"

Harry's head lifted slightly. "That might work," he said quickly, cutting off whatever protest Ron was about to throw in. The very idea of avoiding the Ministry, even for a day, came as a strange kind of mercy. His insides were twisted enough without having to trudge through its marble corridors again—cold, echoing with whispers.

"But what about the cave?" Ginny's voice cut in suddenly, sharper than before. "The one Malfoy mentioned. We can't ignore it. If it's real, and if it's tied to what's left of the Death Eaters, it could be dangerous. We needto find it."

Ron groaned theatrically and flopped back on the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Can't believe I'm saying this," he muttered, "but… yeah. If you really think there's something to it, I'm in. Still think it's probably Malfoy being Malfoy—dramatic, cryptic, and ultimately useless."

Despite herself, Hermione smiled faintly. "We should talk to Hagrid," she said. "He knows more about Thestrals than anyone. If they're involved somehow—if they're connected to the location—he might be able to help us narrow it down. Especially if the place is somewhere in Ireland."

Harry gave a tired nod, though the motion sent a dull ache reverberating down the back of his neck. It was getting harder to focus—his thoughts were sluggish, dragging like his limbs. The flicker of urgency was still there, but it was dim now, buried beneath the weight of fatigue.

They were all wearing thin. He could see it in their faces. The fire that had burnt through them during the war had dimmed to embers now—smouldering, not gone, but weary.

Hermione caught the way he swayed ever so slightly in his bed and stood, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt.

"We should wait until tomorrow," she said gently, with the finality of someone who knew how to draw a line in the sand. "We'll speak to your dad then, Ron. After we've slept. After we've eaten something proper. We're no use to anyone like this."

"I'm fine," Harry murmured, though even he didn't sound convinced.

Ginny was already crossing the room. She crouched beside him, her hand warm against his knee. "You look dreadful," she said quietly, not unkindly. "And I've seen you post-Dementor attack, so that's saying something."

Harry gave a weak attempt at a smile, but it faltered before it could take shape. "Yeah. I know."

Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out a small vial, stoppered with wax. She placed it gently in his palm.

"Nutrition potion," she said. "No arguments. You've barely eaten all day. That'll hold you over until morning."

He didn't argue. He was too tired to. He uncorked the vial and knocked it back in one go, even though the thick, gritty texture turned his stomach. It tasted like earth and iron and something vaguely medicinal.

The others lingered for another moment. Then slowly, one by one, they drifted out—quiet footsteps fading into the hallway. Ginny gave his hand one last squeeze before she followed the others. The door clicked shut behind her with a soft thunk.

And just like that, Harry was alone.

But his mind wouldn't still. The silence didn't comfort him—it pressed in around the edges, crowding his thoughts.

He let his eyes drift closed, though sleep was still far off.

Behind his eyelids, he saw flashes: Malfoy, pale and trembling, the collar of his robes pulled tight like a shield. Narcissa—head high, voice trembling, but eyes fixed with a mother's resolve. Lucius, brittle and hollow, a ghost wrapped in fine fabric.

There was no justice in it. No satisfaction. No retribution that felt right.

There was only the ache.

Only the weight of what came after.

And the cold.

Eventually—he wasn't sure when—sleep came.

It crept in slowly, not with dreams, not with memories, but with quiet. Deep, blank silence.

The faint glow of early morning bled slowly through the dusty panes of glass, spilling long bars of sunlight across the scuffed wooden floorboards. He winced against it, squeezing his eyes shut as though it might keep the room at bay. His eyelids felt heavy, almost stitched shut, and behind them, his thoughts swirled.

Something wasn't right.

There was a dull ache in the back of his skull, pulsing faintly in time with his heartbeat. He forced his eyes open anyway. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—yellowed with age, with a hairline crack running jagged through the plaster. He blinked again, slower this time, as the grain of reality began to settle in odd, ill-fitting pieces.

Where was he?

Lifting his head took far more effort than it should have. His neck protested, stiff and sore, and the rest of his body felt leaden—like he'd been sleeping under a dozen coats. He took in the rest of the room in fragments: a trunk pushed against one wall, its latch held shut; wallpaper with what might have been Quidditch teams.

It wasn't his room.

And it didn't feel right.

There was an odd sense of… exposure crawling across his skin—like he was being watched or studied, though there was no one else there. The space felt too still. Too quiet.

Panic began to stir in his chest, low and tight and rising fast.

He pushed himself upright far too quickly. The moment he moved, the world reeled sideways and then lurched. His stomach turned violently. He grasped for the edge of the mattress, knuckles whitening as he clung on.

"Where… where am I?" He rasped, though the sound of his own voice startled him. It was raw and dry and cracked, as though it hadn't been used in days.

He tried to clear his throat but only managed a rough cough that scraped its way up. His chest ached. Everything ached.

His heart was pounding now, hot and relentless against his ribs. A sour taste had crept up the back of his throat.

Breathe. Just—breathe.

But it wasn't easy. Nothing was.

He threw back the covers, shivering at the brush of cool air against his skin, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. They felt strange beneath him—too far away, as if they weren't properly connected. It was like trying to stand inside a body that no longer felt like his own.

He tried to rise.

Tried.

His knees gave out at once, and he went down hard, landing with a thump that rattled through his spine. One hand slammed against a wooden crate, catching him just before he hit the floor properly. A sharp jolt of pain flared up his arm. The breath rushed out of him in a hiss. He stayed there, hunched and trembling, forehead pressed to the grain of the crate's lid.

Get up, he told himself, jaw clenched. Come on. Just get up.

But even that—just moving—seemed monumental. Like hauling himself out of a deep pit he didn't remember falling into.

He stayed there for a moment, teeth gritted, until the ringing in his ears dulled enough to let him think. When he looked up again, he caught sight of something small and familiar at the corner of his desk: Hedwig's cage.

The Burrow.

Relief hit him like a gasp of cold air—sudden, sharp, but fleeting.

He was safe. That much, at least, he could be certain of. But the question remained, colder now than before: why was he here at all?

His memories were jumbled, the edges of them fraying as soon as he tried to examine them. There had been voices—shouting—heat. Pain. Something burning. Something wrong. But it slipped away again, evasive as smoke through his fingers.

He pushed himself upright, using the crate for balance, and staggered to his feet with grim determination. Every part of him felt brittle. Too thin. Too breakable.

The door creaked as he nudged it open and stepped out onto the landing, gripping the bannister. The stairs loomed in front of him, each one steeper than he remembered, as though the house had somehow stretched overnight.

Just go slow. One step at a time.

Even touching the railing made his fingers throb. His throat still burnt, and his legs trembled with every movement, but he made it halfway down before the scent of toast and tea drifted up to meet him.

And then—voices. Familiar ones.

Mr Weasley was seated at the kitchen table, poring over the Daily Prophet with his usual calm frown. There was a faint clatter of crockery and the sound of a kettle hissing on the stove.

For one brief, fragile second, Harry almost believed it could have been an ordinary morning. Like all of this—the war, the cave, Malfoy's warning—had only ever been a dream.

But as he shifted his weight to descend the last few steps, his legs gave out again.

He pitched forward, breath catching, vision blurring—

—and didn't fall.

Strong arms caught him mid-collapse.

"Whoa—steady now," said Mr Weasley, rising with surprising speed, his voice firm but laced with concern. "Got you, Harry. Easy, lad. Sit down before you do yourself a real injury."

Harry barely registered the motion as he was guided gently into a chair. His limbs felt like wet rope. He sank into the seat, breath shallow, face burning—not from fever, but from the sharp stab of humiliation.

"I'm fine," he muttered. No one in the room believed it. Least of all himself.

Mrs Weasley crossed the room in a few swift strides and dropped to her knees beside him, her warm hand rising to cup his face.

"Oh, sweetheart," she breathed, her voice thick with alarm, "you're ice-cold… and your colour—oh Harry, you're as pale as parchment. Have you been sleeping? Are you hurting, love?"

Harry flinched at the touch.

It wasn't harsh—it never was with her. Her palm was soft, calloused in familiar ways, radiating the kind of warmth that once, years ago, might have soothed him. It should have. There had been comfort in her presence before—something maternal. Something like home.

But not now.

Now it felt foreign. Her touch settled strangely on his skin, as though his body couldn't quite remember how to respond. The connection had frayed somewhere, and he hadn't noticed until it was gone.

His body recoiled instinctively, without thought. He didn't mean to.

He saw the way her face tightened, how her hand hovered in midair, uncertain now—afraid of touching something fragile.

He should have said something. Should have reassured her. But his tongue sat heavy in his mouth, unwilling.

Her face—so familiar, so full of care—blurred around the edges. Her voice reached him again, gently asking if he needed anything, if he was in pain, if he'd eaten. But the words seemed to echo oddly. The worry in her voice was clear—but he couldn't place her. Couldn't place that look in her eyes.

Panic sparked in his chest.

Why couldn't he remember her?

He knew he should. Knew this woman loved him fiercely, like her own son. But her name eluded him. Everything about her, once second nature, now scratched at the edges of his mind.

His throat dried, and his breath caught.

Who are you?

He didn't say it. The words pressed against the back of his teeth, sharp with fear.

He turned away from her instead, blinking hard.

A second voice cut through, steadier and more controlled. A younger voice. A woman, sitting close—frizzy hair, hands clenched together in her lap. Her eyes, dark and earnest, searched his face with something too fierce to be anything but love.

She was familiar. More than the first.

"Harry," she said, softly. "What's going on? You're scaring us."

Her voice was gentle but insistent, as if she already knew something was wrong—deeply wrong—and was trying to coax the truth from him without frightening him further.

Her name. What was her name?

He stared at her face, willing something to rise to the surface.

And then—Hermione.

Yes. Of course. Hermione.

The name fit, but only just. It echoed faintly. Saying it aloud felt strange, but he tried anyway.

"Hermione," he whispered, slow and uncertain. He tested the word like a child learning it for the first time. "I… I'm all right."

It was a lie. A bad one. He could hear it in the weakness of his voice and see it in her expression as her brow creased further.

He didn't feel all right. He felt lost.

Hermione leaned closer. Her hand twitched as if to reach for his, but she didn't. She just waited, her worry radiating like heat.

Behind her, Ron shifted uncomfortably, arms folded across his chest. His voice was rough, uncertain.

"You sure, mate? You looked… well, like you weren't really here. Like you'd gone off somewhere."

Harry turned his head slowly. Ron's face was familiar—more anchored than the others—but even that familiarity felt fragile.

There was comfort in his presence, though.

"I just…" Harry began, but the words failed him. His throat burnt. "I just need a minute."

He turned away again, dragging in a breath that trembled and caught, splintering on the way out. The walls seemed closer now. The room pressed in around him, the light too bright, the air too thin.

What's happening to me?

He was forgetting people.

Not facts. Not names in books or forgotten spells.

People.

Faces that should have lived forever in his memory. Voices he'd once known better than his own. People who had stood by him in battle, in grief, in silence. People who had held him when he'd wanted to disappear.

How much more would he lose before it was all gone?

He didn't speak the fear aloud. Not with them staring, their faces drawn tight with worry. He didn't want to see that fear reflected back at him.

But he knew, deep down, what this was. Knew it in the marrow of his bones.

This wasn't fatigue. It wasn't grief or stress. It wasn't something sleep could fix.

This was the price of the soul being damaged.

This was the sickness that had been growing inside him ever since that last fight—since he'd crossed the line no one should cross.

And it was getting worse.

His head throbbed dully, a steady pressure just behind his eyes. His throat felt like raw cloth, every cough sending shocks through his chest. When breakfast was finally laid out, the smell of toast and tea turned his stomach. He couldn't taste any of it. Could barely lift his fork without his hand trembling.

He made the effort anyway. Tried to keep pace, not draw attention. But every movement felt like swimming upstream.

At one point, his fork slipped from his grip. It clattered against his plate and tumbled to the floor, loud in the quiet kitchen.

Everything went still.

Nobody spoke. Hermione glanced at him sharply. Ron looked away.

Mrs Weasley bent to retrieve it with trembling fingers. She didn't say anything as she handed it back. But her eyes were glassy, and her voice had fled.

Harry took the fork. Managed to nod his thanks.

Ginny's offer landed softly, her voice low, almost hesitant—but the weight of it struck Harry like a physical blow. As if she'd placed a hand on a wound he hadn't realised was open.

"Do you want me to help?" she asked, eyes never leaving his face. There was no pity in them—only quiet steadiness. She said it like it was nothing at all.

But it was something. It was everything.

Harry looked down at the spoon clutched loosely in his hand. It trembled faintly, as though some small, defiant part of him was still trying to keep up the pretence. His fingers ached from the effort of holding it.

He hated this. Hated that it had come to this. That something as basic as eating had become an act of humiliation. Lifting a spoon now felt like trying to summon a broomstick with broken fingers.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, barely audible. The words scraped out like gravel. He didn't meet her gaze.

"You've nothing to be sorry for," Ginny said softly, already reaching out. Her tone was light—so practiced it almost sounded effortless. She nudged the spoon into a better angle, her fingers brushing his. "Just small bites, yeah? Don't rush."

Harry gave a stiff nod. He tried to follow her instruction. Two bites, slow and unsteady. But on the third, his stomach twisted unpleasantly. The nausea crept up without warning, and he set the spoon down with a quiet clink, clenching his jaw. He felt raw. Weak. Not in the body, exactly, but in the thing beneath it.

His eyes slid to the small glass vial sitting beside his plate. Nutrition potion. Shimmering faintly in the morning light.

Because even eating was too much now.

Because this… this was who he was becoming.

Across the table, Hermione was saying something to Mr Weasley—her voice soft and rhythmic, half to soothe and half to distract. Something about international law and the Department of Magical Transportation. Harry wasn't sure. The words reached his ears but failed to land.

Then: a break in the pattern.

"...isn't that right, Harry?" Mr Weasley's voice cut through, kind but firm.

Harry blinked.

The room tipped slightly to the left. A strange pressure filled his head. Noise and silence seemed to collide all at once. He hadn't been following. He'd barely been there.

"Harry?" Hermione leaned in, her voice edged with concern now. "Can you hear us?"

He blinked again, harder this time, trying to focus. Her face swam into view—creased brow, searching eyes. She looked frightened. Too frightened for something so small.

"Yes?" His voice cracked. It didn't sound like him.

Hermione frowned. She looked past him at Ginny, then over her shoulder at Ron, whose posture had gone oddly rigid. When she turned back, she softened her tone, as if she were speaking to a child.

"Are you all right?"

He wasn't. Not even slightly. But how did you say that out loud? How did you explain the feeling of slipping out of your own life, of memories unravelling?

The answer was written in the tremble of his hands, the sheen of sweat collecting at the back of his neck. He could feel it—this dreadful wrongness pulsing just beneath the surface, like something poisonous was slowly bleeding through his skin.

Hermione hesitated, then continued. "Mr Weasley asked you something a minute ago. Do you remember what it was?"

Harry turned his head slowly, eyes landing on the man seated across from him. He should have known who he was. Should've known from the kind lines in his face and the way his fingers toyed absently with his teacup. But instead there was only a strange emptiness, like standing in a familiar place and not knowing how you got there.

"…Who's Mr Weasley?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

The silence that followed was immediate.

It felt as though someone had cast a Silencing Charm over the entire kitchen.

Ginny's hand paused mid-reach. Ron's fork hovered inches above his plate, unmoving. Hermione's breath caught audibly in her throat.

Mr Weasley himself blinked once—then again—and the flicker of pain that crossed his face was enough to make Harry want to vanish into the floor. But it was gone in an instant, smoothed away behind a kind, patient smile.

"I'm Mr Weasley," he said gently. "Arthur Weasley."

The name hit something inside Harry like the soft scrape of a match, but it didn't catch. The warmth of recognition never came.

"I'm sorry," Harry said again, his voice barely a whisper. Heat rose up his neck, prickling across his scalp. He felt as though he'd been peeled open—exposed before them, raw and broken. "What was the question again, sir?"

He added the sir instinctively. It felt like a safety net, a way to retreat from the unfamiliar name that didn't quite fit anymore.

Ron was still staring. His face was pale, drawn in a way that didn't suit him. He looked like he'd just watched someone vanish in front of him.

Mr Weasley cleared his throat gently. "I'd asked… if you intended to give testimony against the Malfoys."

The name sent a jolt through him. Malfoy. That meant something. Surely it did. A face hovered, blurred—pale, sharp-eyed, sneering—but the context slipped through his grasp. The image disintegrated before it could form into something solid.

"Testimony?" Harry echoed. "Against the Malfoys?"

The words felt strange in his mouth—foreign, hollow. He didn't understand. He didn't know the answer. He didn't even understand the question.

All he knew was the panic rising again. This bottomless, suffocating fear that he was losing himself bit by bit—and everyone around him could see it.

They were waiting. Watching. Expecting something of him.

But he had nothing left to give.

He drew in a breath, shallow and dry. His hands were clammy on his lap, fingers curling into fists. The ache behind his eyes had returned, dull and insistent.

Then the words came—sudden, quiet, barely recognisable as his own:

"In fact… I want to speak in their defence."

The words struck the room—sudden, startling, and impossible to ignore. For a long, breathless moment, no one moved.

The scrape of cutlery had stopped mid-motion. Even the grandfather clock in the corner seemed to tick more loudly, as though stunned into solemnity. Mr Weasley's fork hovered, forgotten, halfway to his mouth. Mrs Weasley stared at Harry as though he'd sprouted antlers.

Then—

"Are you serious, Harry?" Mr Weasley asked, his voice tight, incredulous. He leaned forward in his chair, brow deeply furrowed, his features drawn in disbelief. "You—you—want to defend the Malfoys? I… Merlin's beard, I can't get my head around that. Kingsley might take your word seriously, of course, but—" He broke off, then frowned sharply. "Harry, look at me. Honestly now. Is Draco blackmailing you? Is that what this is?"

Harry's jaw clenched. A low heat spread through his chest—not anger, exactly. Just that dull, aching frustration that rose when people assumed the worst before listening. When they expected deception instead of trust.

He pushed his hands flat against the edge of the table, steadying himself as he met Mr Weasley's gaze squarely. His voice, when it came, was low but steady.

"No, Mr Weasley. Draco hasn't blackmailed me. No one has." He swallowed thickly, the words burning on the way out. "I'm doing this because… because I owe Narcissa Malfoy. She saved my life. From Voldemort. And I can't forget that. I won't."

The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was heavy. Dense with disbelief, with re-evaluation. With an emotion no one had yet named.

Harry could feel the weight of their stares pressing down on him, measuring, searching. His pulse thrummed in his ears. He tried to breathe, but the air in the kitchen had grown thicker, more solid somehow.

Mr Weasley blinked slowly. His hands came up to rub at his temples, his fingers raking distractedly through thinning red hair. "She saved you?" he repeated, sounding almost dazed. "You're saying Narcissa Malfoy—Narcissa—lied to Voldemort for you?"

Harry gave a slow nod. His throat was dry and tight.

"It doesn't sound like any Malfoy I've ever met," Mr Weasley said quietly, almost to himself.

"I know," Harry murmured. "I know what she's done. What they've all done. I haven't forgotten that."

Ron sat forward suddenly, glancing between his parents with the wary sort of expression he usually reserved for Exploding Snap and Hermione's revision schedules. "Look, we get it, Dad," he said quickly, his voice more measured than usual. "We do. But it's Harry. He wouldn't say it if it weren't true."

Mrs Weasley's face softened. The lines of tension around her mouth eased, and her eyes—already glassy with unspoken emotion—shifted from surprise to something gentler. Worry, perhaps. Or maybe pity.

Harry wasn't sure which one hurt more.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered. Her hand came across the table to rest lightly on his. "That's… that's a lot to carry, dear. But you must understand—it's a shock. The Malfoys haven't exactly given us many reasons to trust them."

Harry's gaze dropped to their joined hands. He felt the tremor in his fingers against her palm and hated how much it revealed.

"I do understand," he said hoarsely.

There was a pause. Mrs Weasley tilted her head slightly.

"Will you tell us what happened?" she asked gently. "If you feel up to it."

Harry stared into his water glass. The ripples on its surface caught the light in strange ways—warped and too bright. His reflection was pale and flickering.

He took a small sip, more to buy time than for thirst. The memory had never truly left him. It lay buried beneath his waking thoughts, always just beneath the surface.

The forest. The unnatural stillness. The way the world had quieted around him, as though waiting to see what choice he would make. The Resurrection Stone. His mother's smile. Sirius. The way Remus had looked at him—not with fear, not with sorrow, but with happiness. And then the green flash. The weightless fall.

And then—her.

Narcissa Malfoy.

Her fast breathing. Her hand touched his face, down to his chest, and felt his heart. Her voice, cool and precise, whispering urgently.

She could have exposed him. She didn't.

Harry took a deep breath and retold the story the way he did with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.

"She lied to him," Harry continued, quieter still. "Right to his face. Gave me the chance to finish it. If she hadn't done that… I don't think any of us would be here now."

The silence that followed didn't press down on him this time. It lingered. Reflective. Like everyone was trying to piece it together—this woman they thought they knew, this version Harry had laid out.

Harry hesitated, then added, "And later… Draco came to me. After everything. Said he owed me. He told me where to find the Thestrals. I think he meant it."

He glanced at Mr Weasley, searching for something—understanding, maybe. Or at least a softening.

But Mr Weasley remained seated with arms folded, his lips pressed into a hard line.

"That's a big leap, Harry," he said at last, low and measured. "A very big one."

Harry nodded, not arguing. Because it was a leap. It was a risk. It was something he couldn't quite explain, except for the quiet, stubborn belief that people had to be allowed to change. Because if they weren't—if no one could ever be more than what they'd once done—then what had the war been for?

And more selfishly… if he didn't believe people could change, what did that say about him?

Then, mercifully, Ron broke the tension with a sudden, awkward clearing of his throat.

"Oh! Right. I, er… I wrote to Hagrid last night," he said, scratching behind his ear in a poor attempt at nonchalance. "Asked if Malfoy was bluffing about the Thestrals. Figured he'd know, wouldn't he?"

Harry turned to him, the tension in his chest easing—just a little.

"Thanks, Ron. That means a lot."

Ron shrugged, flushing faintly. "Didn't see the harm," he muttered, fiddling with the corner of his napkin.

Hermione, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for much of the meal, finally spoke—her voice calm but edged with purpose.

"Mr Weasley," she said, looking across the table with that familiar focus she wore when she had decided something important, "could Kingsley come here? To the Burrow, I mean. Harry wants to speak with him."

Her words seemed to hang in the air for a moment, weightier than their simplicity should have allowed. Everyone turned slightly, as if Harry had just made some unspoken declaration through her.

Mr Weasley shifted in his seat, his napkin falling forgotten to his lap. "Actually, yes," he said slowly, blinking as if just remembering. "He asked if he could stop by to deliver the piece of the Veil."

Harry stiffened.

The Veil.

His fingers curled instinctively beneath the table.

Mr Weasley glanced at him. "I think he wants a word, too. Didn't say what about."

Harry found his voice before anyone else could fill the quiet.

"That's fine," he said, low but clear.

There was something final in his tone, enough that even Mrs Weasley, who had opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it.

Mr Weasley nodded, visibly relieved. "Right. I'll send word from the office when I'm back."

And that was that.

The moment passed, and conversation picked up again—unevenly at first, with the odd clearing of a throat or the forced clink of cutlery against plates. Gradually, the table reawakened, voices rising and falling around him in soft, companionable waves.

But Harry didn't move. He sat very still, eyes fixed on the tablecloth. He felt… removed. Like he was watching everything from just outside himself. The voices were familiar, the food on his plate warm—but it might as well have belonged to someone else. He couldn't seem to bridge the distance between him and the rest of them.

And then—

Whoosh.

The fire erupted in the hearth without warning, exploding into emerald green flame with a roar that made every head at the table turn. Harry jolted, blinking rapidly against the sudden light, eyes stinging from the smoke.

The Floo.

A tall, sharply outlined figure stepped out of the flames, brushing soot from their robes with the brisk, precise movements of someone used to being where they didn't quite belong. For one strange second, Harry thought it might be Kingsley already—come early, perhaps. But then the figure turned, and the firelight caught on spectacles, a stiff collar, and an unmistakable face.

Percy Weasley.

It took Harry a moment longer than it should have. Percy had always existed at the periphery of Harry's world—never entirely absent, but never quite close either. The name brought with it a strange assortment of memories: evenings at the Burrow, Molly's fussing, the glint of a Head Boy badge, and a sense of distance even when he was in the room.

And now, he looked oddly unfamiliar. Or perhaps it was Harry who felt like the stranger.

"Percy!" cried Mrs Weasley, her chair already half-abandoned as she rushed forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him. "Oh, my dear boy, we weren't expecting you! Are you eating properly? You look thin. And are you sleeping?"

Her hands flew to his face, then his shoulders, checking, smoothing, mothering in the way only she could. Mr Weasley approached more slowly, but the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable as he placed a steady hand on his son's shoulder.

"Glad to see you, son," he said softly. "You look well."

Percy offered a slightly sheepish smile, straightening his already immaculate robes. "I'm managing."

The room brightened with quiet joy. Ginny had stood to hug him too, Ron grinned around a mouthful of potatoes, and even Hermione gave a nod of welcome.

Harry sat very still.

He could feel it—that distance again. The scene in front of him played out like something remembered rather than lived. He knew he should smile. Should stand. Should greet Percy with warmth, with some sort of familial recognition. But nothing came.

He watched the others, saw their ease, their laughter—but it didn't reach him. The dull throb in his chest persisted, steady and unwelcome.

Then Percy turned.

Their eyes met—and Harry's breath caught.

Just for a fraction of a second, Percy's smile slipped. The flicker of it was subtle—easily missed by anyone else—but Harry saw it. A brief narrowing of the eyes. A touch of hesitation. Something that wasn't quite pity, but not far off either.

Recognition. Concern. Calculating restraint.

The way the Healers at St Mungo's sometimes looked at him. As if they were trying to assess how far gone he was. As if any wrong move might cause him to shatter.

Harry hated it.

He couldn't look away, and Percy, for a heartbeat too long, didn't either. Then he blinked, smoothed his expression, and turned to find a seat at the table.

His eyes lingered again just a little too long on Harry before glancing away.

Harry swallowed hard. His palms itched beneath the table. He wanted to disappear.

"Still at the Ministry, then?" Ron asked, mouth still half-full, clearly trying to steer the conversation back toward solid ground.

Percy gave a small nod, adjusting his spectacles. "Yes. Things have been… hectic, to say the least. There's been an attempt to breach the Floo Network. Several, actually. Death Eaters, mostly. Trying to find back doors into the Ministry. We're on high alert now. It's been… tiring."

Harry barely heard him. The words registered, but distantly.

He was still thinking about that glance. That moment of being looked at not as Harry, but as something fragile. As someone broken.

Percy continued, oblivious to Harry's tightening grip on his own knees beneath the table. "They've become bolder lately. More reckless. And there's a lot of talk about you, Harry." He glanced back over. "The young hero who vanquished the Dark Lord."

The words rang out too clearly in the space between them.

The young hero.

Harry flinched. Not visibly—he didn't think so—but something inside recoiled. The words sat wrong. They tasted bitter. They felt too big, too far removed from the truth.

He heard Ron let out a nervous chuckle. "Yeah, we've heard that a few times."

Harry stared down at his hands.

The young hero who vanquished the Dark Lord.

He tried to repeat it silently, tried to make the words mean something. But it was like saying a stranger's name aloud—hollow and foreign. Something didn't fit.

Then, softly, he asked, "Why?"

Percy blinked. "I—I'm sorry?"

Harry lifted his head. His eyes were steady but distant—like he wasn't entirely in the room.

"You said the young hero vanquished him. What happened to him?" His voice was quiet, not panicked, but there was a raw edge to it—uncertainty threading through each word.

The table went still.

Hermione's fork hovered just above her plate. Ginny stared. Even Ron stopped moving.

Percy's face shifted, his eyes widening. "Harry…" he said carefully. "You—you defeated him. Don't you remember? The battle… Hogwarts…?"

Harry frowned faintly, as though trying to grasp at a dream dissolving on waking.

Percy's chair scraped faintly across the flagstones as he leaned forward, his expression strained. "Harry… Are you alright?"

The concern wasn't veiled anymore—it stretched plain across his face, wide and unguarded, as though he'd abandoned the formality he usually wore.

Harry didn't answer.

He looked down at his hands instead. Pale. Thinner than he remembered. Not quite steady. A faint tremble shivered through his fingers, and without thinking, his thumb drifted over the nearly invisible scar on the back of his hand—the one Umbridge had left behind. I must not tell lies.

It was barely there now. Just a whisper of a wound. But he still remembered how it burnt.

Who are you?

It wasn't Percy's question echoing in his head.

It was his own.

And he didn't have the answer.

Not anymore.

He didn't know why everything in his chest ached all the time. Why every sound seemed far away. Why the world, once so loud and urgent, now felt muffled and soft.

He only knew this: whatever they were all looking for when they looked at him—it wasn't him. Not as he was now.

Percy was still speaking—something about the Ministry, something about security protocols, and departments he couldn't bring himself to care about—but Harry barely caught any of it. The words floated around him, without shape or meaning.

He could feel the others watching him now. Ron. Hermione. Ginny. Mr and Mrs Weasley. All of them waiting. Hoping.

Searching his face for something.

Some flicker of the boy they remembered.

But Harry didn't know how to be that boy anymore. He didn't even know where to start. So instead, he said quietly—so quietly it barely registered at first,

"When they see me like this…"

His voice trailed off, a breath brushing the edge of sound.

"I doubt they'll even recognise me."

His eyes swept over them but didn't quite land. Didn't see them.

"Let alone care about me at all."

The words thudded into the centre of the table.

Silence followed—thick, unmoving, unnatural.

Not the comfortable kind that came from old friendships and easy company. This was the silence that pressed in on all sides. The kind that made your skin itch. The kind that made people forget how to breathe.

He could feel it—their discomfort. Their unease.

But it wasn't the words that frightened them.

It was the truth underneath—the slow, awful unravelling they couldn't ignore. The hollowing out of someone they once thought unbreakable.

He had always been the one who ran towards danger. Who stood up when it mattered. The one who dared.

Now they were looking at a shadow.

Faded. Uncertain. Small.

Hermione spoke first, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. "You can't afford to be seen like this, Harry. If the Death Eaters catch wind of it—if they realise how vulnerable you are—" She swallowed. "They won't stop. They'll want to finish what Voldemort couldn't."

Her eyes were red-rimmed. Shining. But she blinked the tears away with stubborn determination.

Harry didn't contradict her. There was nothing to contradict.

Because she was right. Every word of it.

He wanted to tell her not to worry. To say something brave, or steady, or true.

But even now, sitting up straight felt like climbing uphill in the rain. His head pounded, and his limbs felt miles away. There was no strength left for pretending.

"I know," he murmured hoarsely, pressing his fingers against his temples. Pain pulsed beneath his skin, in time with his heartbeat. "They won't hesitate. Not if they see me like this. They'll know I'm already half gone."

"No," Hermione said sharply, stepping closer, eyes wide. "Don't say that. Don't even think it. You're not gone. You're not—"

Her voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough to hurt.

"We always find a way, Harry. We always have."

He looked at her and saw what it cost her to say that. Saw how much it scared her. Not just what was happening to him—but what it was doing to all of them.

Mr Weasley cleared his throat gently, as though trying to break the tension without shattering it entirely. "We'll have to be careful," he said, his voice composed but strained. "Discreet. There may be… options. Quiet ones. But we can't afford too much attention right now. Not until we understand what we're dealing with."

Harry nodded faintly, but the words drifted past him.

They were making plans again. Talking in steps and solutions.

But he was slipping further.

Like he was watching his own life from the far end of a tunnel.

"Er—how's life been at the Burrow, Harry?" Percy asked suddenly, forcing brightness into his voice that didn't quite ring true. "Peaceful enough, I hope?"

Harry turned his head slowly. Everything ached.

Even answering felt impossible.

"It's… fine," he said at last, barely above a whisper. "Thanks, Percy."

His throat felt raw. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Or slept. Or laughed. The edges of his days were starting to blur together.

Ginny appeared at his side then, her touch light but certain. She held up two small vials, the liquid within catching the light like melted opal.

"Try these," she murmured. "They'll help."

He looked at her, and something stirred.

Her face—the freckled line of her nose, the way her fringe always curled slightly out of place—was a thread to something solid. Something that still mattered.

He trusted her.

"Alright," he whispered. He let her tip the vial to his lips. The potion was bitter and metallic on his tongue—but he drank. For her.

"Would you like to lie down, dear?" Mrs Weasley asked gently, already bustling closer with a knitted blanket in hand. "The sofa's right here; I've just fluffed the cushions. You'll be more comfortable, I think."

Harry nodded—or thought he did. He made the effort to rise.

He meant to.

But the world tilted without warning. His knees gave out.

The floor rushed up.

"Harry!" Ron was at his side in an instant, arms braced, catching him just in time. Mr Weasley was there too, hands firm and steady, lowering him carefully into the sofa.

"Thanks," Harry mumbled, the word slurred, already distant.

And then—

Darkness folded in.

No pain.

No fear.

No dreams.

Just stillness.

"Is he really dying?" Percy asked, his voice barely above a whisper. It sounded strained and strange in the air, like he hardly believed it himself. As though saying it aloud might give it form—make it real in a way he wasn't ready for.

Molly didn't answer straight away. She stood by the sink, her hands motionless on the edge of the counter, knuckles white. One hand drifted to her mouth, fingers trembling as though they could hold back the grief rising in her chest. Her eyes were glassy, wide with a pain she was trying very hard to keep from spilling out.

Then she turned away from them, her shoulders curling inwards.

"It's hard to believe," she murmured, not quite to anyone, her voice cracking. "But it's happening. He's… slipping through our fingers."

The words hung in the air.

Percy stared at her, lips slightly parted, as if waiting for her to laugh, to take it back. As if it might all vanish with a bit of reassurance and tea and time.

But she didn't.

And it didn't.

"But—he was fine," Percy said suddenly, almost accusingly, as though the thought had burst from his chest without permission. "After the battle. He was fine. Exhausted, yes, but—he was Harry. How could it have come to this so quickly?"

"It started when Voldemort destroyed the part of his soul inside Harry," Ginny said. Her voice was low and flat, barely more than a breath. She was staring at her hands in her lap, twisting the sleeves of her jumper so tightly around her fingers that her knuckles had gone white.

Percy blinked, his brow furrowed. "His soul?" he echoed, looking between them. "What do you mean, his soul?"

Hermione stepped forward then, quietly, as she always did when the unbearable needed saying. Her expression was calm, but her fists were clenched at her sides, the nails digging half-moons into her palms.

"There was a piece of him," she said, slowly, carefully. "Of Voldemort. Inside Harry. It had attached itself to him—like a parasite—when he was a baby. That's why he could hear him, feel him… speak Parseltongue. All of it." She swallowed hard. "Voldemort never meant to make it—but he did."

She didn't look at Percy as she spoke. Her eyes were somewhere else—years ago, in a tent in the woods, beside a frozen stream. Or maybe in the Forbidden Forest, where Harry had walked to his death without a sound.

"When Voldemort killed Harry in the Forest… he destroyed that piece. But something happened when it was torn away. It wasn't clean. It left… a wound. One we didn't understand at the time."

She didn't need to say the word Horcrux again. The room had gone still and quiet as the truth sank in.

Percy's mouth opened, but no words came. He just stood there, staring—not at Hermione, but at some place far past her, where understanding had begun to crack the surface of his thoughts.

Ginny straightened suddenly, her voice sharp with urgency. "We're not done," she said, and her tone had shifted—no longer hollow, but hard-edged. "We're close. We just need the ingredients. When Hagrid and Kingsley arrive, we can start. But we have to be ready. Every moment counts."

Percy seized the lifeline of action like a drowning man. "Did Dad speak with the Minister?"

"Yes," Ginny replied quickly. "Kingsley's bringing the stone fragment himself."

Percy hesitated, a flicker of memory catching behind his eyes. "Earlier… when I spoke to Harry. He didn't respond when I said his name. Not at first."

The others glanced at each other—quick, anxious looks passed like signals down a line.

"His memories are slipping," Hermione said quietly, her gaze now resting on Ginny. "Sometimes he's still… there. Still Harry. And then it's like something yanks him away. He forgets where he is and who he's with. It's happening more often now."

Ginny broke.

Her face crumpled as she turned into Hermione, pressing her forehead to her shoulder as a sob slipped loose. Her whole body shook with it, as though something inside had finally given way.

"It's like he's disappearing," she choked, her voice muffled by Hermione's jumper. "And I can't stop it—I don't even know if he knows who I am anymore."

Hermione held her tightly, both arms wrapped around her, one hand gently stroking her hair in a way that was painfully tender.

"We'll get him back," she said fiercely, her voice unsteady but resolute. "We will. He's still Harry. He's stillfighting."

A sharp tapping at the kitchen window sliced through the silence. All heads turned at once.

Ron was already on his feet. "It's got to be Hagrid," he said, hope surging into his voice.

The tapping quickened—urgent and uneven, like a frantic heartbeat. Ron strode across the room and flung the window open.

Pigwidgeon tumbled in in a chaotic flutter of feathers and frantic energy, his wings barely carrying him as he spiralled to a halt on the windowsill. He was shivering with exhaustion, his tiny chest rising and falling in jerky gasps.

"Poor thing," Ginny murmured, brushing tears from her cheeks as she reached out to steady him. Ron had already begun untying the scroll from his leg, hands clumsy with nerves.

Pig gave a feeble trill and collapsed into a puff of feathers, still quivering.

Ron unrolled the parchment and scanned it, his expression shifting instantly.

"It's from Hagrid," he said tightly. Then he read aloud:

Ron,

I got the Thestral tail hair. I'm injured badly. Death Eaters attacked me. I'm at St Mungo's.

–Hagrid

The note ended abruptly, as though torn off in haste—or because there had been no more time to finish.

No one spoke. The words seemed to ring and echo in the room long after Ron had stopped reading.

Even Pigwidgeon's wings had gone still.

Ron looked up, his face pale, stricken. Hermione and Ginny sank into their chairs, the shock dragging them down with its full weight. Percy flinched, knocked his teacup sideways, and only barely caught it before it spilt.

"Was Hagrid attacked in Ireland?" Ron asked hoarsely. "That's where he went, isn't it? That cave with the Thestrals?"

The question hung in the air, jarring in its simplicity. No one moved at first.

Hermione's face had gone terribly pale, all the colour drained as if the words had leached it from her. "But—how?" she breathed, barely more than a whisper. "No one was supposed to know. That cave wasn't on any map. Not officially. Even I had to use half a dozen cross-referenced Thestral migratory records just to locate it."

At the sink, Molly froze mid-scrub, her hands suspended over the steaming water, the dishcloth dangling limply from her fingers. Slowly, as though in a dream, she dried her hands and reached for the crumpled parchment Ron still held.

Her fingers trembled as she read it, her lips moving silently, eyes widening with every line. She didn't speak. She simply handed it to Arthur, who had just stepped into the kitchen, brushing rain from his cloak. His brow creased as he took the note, eyes flicking across the words, his mouth drawn into a grim line.

"Death Eaters are everywhere now," Ron muttered bitterly, his arms folded across his chest, jaw clenched tight. "Percy said they were regrouping. Said they were desperate. Cornered animals. They'll lash out at anything—at anyone."

Hermione had begun pacing, her arms wound tightly around her ribs as though she were holding herself together. Her footsteps tapped sharply against the worn kitchen floor.

"It doesn't add up," she said after a moment, her voice strained. "That cave was heavily warded. It was crawling with Thestrals—enough to put most wizards off, even skilled ones. Not to mention the proximity to the ley lines—wild magic, unstable ground. It would've been a death trap without proper protection. Why would Death Eaters go near it at all unless…"

"Unless they already knew who was there," Ginny finished flatly, her voice hollow. She stood near the window, arms wrapped around herself. "Or worse—maybe someone told them."

She paused, her hands twisting together as her voice dropped. "I've had this awful feeling all day. Like we're being watched. I thought it was just nerves, but… what if someone followed Hagrid? What if someone led them straight to him?"

"Malfoy," Ron said abruptly, his voice suddenly sharp.

Hermione stopped pacing mid-step. "What?"

"It has to be Malfoy," Ron snapped, turning on her. "Draco Malfoy. He told Harry about the cave—about the Thestrals. Don't you remember? It was him."

Percy, who'd remained seated at the table, straightened with a suddenness that betrayed his own unease. "Draco Malfoy?" he repeated, his voice clipped, brittle. "And what, exactly, was he doing discussing Thestrals with Harry?"

"He came here," Ginny said tightly, glancing over her shoulder. "Just after Dad got home from the Ministry. Said he needed to speak to Harry alone. That's when he told him. About the Thestrals. About the cave. About all of it."

"No one else knew," Ron growled. "Just us. And now Hagrid's in hospital after going exactly where Malfoy told Harry to go?"

Percy's eyes narrowed. "That's convenient, isn't it? Malfoy drops a hint, sends Harry chasing after it, and now we've got Hagrid bleeding in a hospital bed."

"Wait," Hermione said quickly, cutting across him. "Malfoy owes Harry a life debt. He wouldn't betray him. He can't. That sort of magic—it's binding. It's deeper than a vow. It works on instinct. He'd be forced to protect Harry, not harm him."

Ron gave a bitter, humourless laugh. "You really think that matters to someone like him? You think that'd stop a Malfoy? They've been skirting laws and twisting magic for centuries. Life debt or not, he'd find a way around it if it meant getting back in their good books."

Hermione's eyes darkened, but she didn't back down. "We don't know he's betrayed anyone. What if he's being used? What if someone found a way to manipulate the debt? There are rituals—dark ones—that—"

"Oh, come off it, Hermione," Ron snapped, slamming his palm down flat against the table with a sharp crack that made everyone flinch. "He's always been a coward. Always sniffing around both sides, waiting to see which one wins. He's been feeding them scraps this whole time—just enough to stay alive. Just enough to stay useful."

Hermione's voice sharpened. "You don't know that!"

"No," Ron bit back. "But I believe it. And that's good enough for me."

"Belief isn't proof," Hermione shot back, her fists clenched at her sides, her voice trembling with frustration. "And right now, facts are all we've got left. If Malfoy's our only lead—if he knows what happened out there—we can't just write him off."

Ron turned away, his shoulders rigid, the muscles in his jaw working furiously. He didn't answer.

"Enough," Ginny said suddenly. Her voice was low but carried a weight that made them both fall silent. She stepped between them, her eyes fierce, her jaw set. "This isn't helping. Hagrid's lying in a bed at St Mungo's; Merlin knows how bad it is, and we're here yelling at each other like children. We need answers. And the only person who might have them is him."

She turned to Percy, her tone softening. "Will you stay here? Someone needs to watch over Harry. Make sure nothing else happens."

Percy nodded. "Of course. I'll stay close. Let me know what Hagrid says the moment you hear anything."

Ron looked down at the parchment still crumpled in his hand. His fingers had curled into it without him realising, crushing the writing into unreadable creases. His heart thudded heavily against his ribs. He wasn't sure if it was fear or fury. Probably both.

Without another word, he crossed the kitchen and pulled his cloak from the peg by the door.

Hermione followed, catching up quickly, her thoughts racing a mile a minute, her lips pressed tightly together.

Ginny lingered a moment longer, her hand resting on the doorframe, casting one last glance back toward the hallway, where Harry lay beyond, silent and fading.

"Let's hope Hagrid's awake," she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else. "Because if he isn't… we're running out of time."