Chapter 12

Hermione's brow was furrowed, scepticism sharp in her gaze as she turned to Harry.

"Is there really a cave in Ireland?" she asked, arms folded, her tone cautious the moment he'd finished recounting what Malfoy had told him.

Harry hesitated. He'd expected the question—perhaps even dreaded it. The truth was, he didn't know for certain. But he couldn't quite shake the memory of the way Malfoy had looked at him—uneasy, his voice not trembling with fear, but with something that felt closer to guilt. Or perhaps desperation.

"I think so," Harry said at last, though it sounded more like a hope than a fact, even to his own ears.

Across the room, Ron sat rigidly on the edge of the bed, arms folded tightly across his chest. His expression was carefully blank, but the raised eyebrow spoke volumes.

"You think he's actually telling the truth?" Ron said, his voice thick with disbelief, a faint scoff buried beneath it. "It's Malfoy, Harry. Lying's second nature to him. It's the family trade."

Harry looked away, too tired to launch into another argument, too worn down to explain the knot in his chest that refused to come undone. He rubbed a hand wearily over his face.

"I believe him," he said quietly, forcing the words out. "I don't think he'd have come if he meant to trick us. He didn't have to."

It wasn't entirely true—and they all knew it. Malfoy could have reasons they didn't understand yet. But there had been something different this time. No swagger. No carefully prepared lines. Just something raw. Something that didn't fit.

Ron's eyes narrowed.

"Even if he's telling the truth, they're still Death Eaters, Harry. That doesn't just go away. It's who they are."

Harry flinched at that. It sounded far too much like something someone else might have said once—someone who had believed people couldn't change.

"I'm not forgetting anything," Harry muttered, staring at the worn crack in the floorboards beneath his trainers.

"But he did help us at Malfoy Manor. You saw it. He didn't give us away."

"That's not the same as standing with us," Ron shot back.

"No," Harry admitted, "but it's something."

The memory pressed itself forward—Malfoy, pale and hesitant, lingering behind his parents, watching as they debated what to do with their captives. He hadn't stepped forward. But he hadn't stopped them either. Cowardice, maybe. Or maybe the first fracture in something he'd been raised never to question.

Ginny finally spoke, arms still crossed, her brow creased in thought.

"Dad said the Malfoys have been trying to negotiate with the Ministry. They're offering assistance in exchange for leniency."

Ron scoffed immediately.

"Of course they are. They're desperate. That's not remorse, it's self-preservation."

Harry didn't argue. He couldn't. Some days, survival had been the only thing that kept him going, too.

"I just don't know if I can trust them," Ron muttered, shaking his head. His voice cracked around the edges. "After everything they did, everything they stood for… it feels wrong to let them walk away like none of it happened."

"They won't walk away untouched," Hermione said, quietly firm. "No one came out of this without scars, Ron. Not even them."

Ron's eyes darkened.

"Yeah, well, some of us didn't get to choose our scars."

The words landed like a blow. Harry's throat tightened. He swallowed against the rawness, but it didn't help. Ron wasn't wrong. He never had been.

But there were other truths—ones that didn't sit neatly in ideas of punishment or revenge.

"I owe Narcissa," Harry said, barely above a whisper. "She saved my life. She lied to Voldemort… for her son."

The memory resurfaced—cold and vivid—the Forbidden Forest, Voldemort standing over him, and Narcissa's soft, urgent whisper: Is Draco alive?

"She wasn't loyal to him," Harry said, more certain now. "Not really. In the end, the only thing she cared about was her family."

He glanced between Ron and Hermione, the weight of it settling over all three of them.

"Sometimes… that's enough to make someone choose differently."

Hermione's expression softened.

"I understand that. But Harry, we can't ignore their past just because of that one moment."

"I'm not ignoring it," he said steadily. "But that moment mattered. She didn't save me for my sake—but she saved me all the same. And Malfoy—" he paused, jaw tightening, "he didn't have to come to me. But he did."

Ron leaned forward, his brow creased.

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

"No," Harry said firmly. "But maybe we start by giving them the chance to be better."

A heavy silence settled over the room. Hermione shifted, thoughtful. Ron's mouth was set in a hard line, his jaw clenched tight. Harry could feel their unease pressing in around him.

Then Ginny, who had been silent in the corner, spoke at last.

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

Ron snorted.

"You think threatening to take everything they've got isn't revenge?"

Hermione frowned.

"It's leverage, Ron. Kingsley said he'd only seize their assets if they lied. That's not punishment—it's caution."

"And if they do lie?" Ron challenged, his voice sharp. "What then?"

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

His throat was sore now, hoarse from too many conversations like this. Too many arguments. Too much grief that still had nowhere to go. He was tired—bone-deep tired—of the war, of what came after, of the endless question of who deserved what.

But more than that—he was tired of believing people couldn't change.

Ron's temper snapped like a whip. He slammed his fist against the wall with a sharp crack that made the picture frames rattle.

"The Malfoys are cruel, heartless bastards," he snarled, voice rough with years of bitterness. "And now they're finally getting what's coming to them. I won't forget how they treated us—how they sneered at my family, like we were dirt because we didn't have vaults full of gold. I want them to know what it's like to be desperate. I want them to feel it. Let them suffer for once."

Harry flinched slightly at the heat in Ron's voice. He understood it—Merlin, he really did. The Malfoys had made all their lives miserable. But something in Harry's chest twisted uncomfortably, something that didn't taste like vengeance. Something heavier.

Hermione leaned forward, that sharp, unblinking look she always wore when something didn't sit right with her.

"How exactly are you planning to help the Malfoys, Harry?" she asked, her voice soft but searching.

Ron let out a bitter laugh and turned away, pacing the length of the room.

"Never thought I'd see the day. You—of all people—trying to help them. After everything they've done to you. I thought you hated them."

Harry sat very still, his hands limp in his lap, staring down at the cracked floorboards as though the answer might be written there. His throat burned. His whole body ached—not just from the lingering illness, but from something deeper. Grief, perhaps. Or guilt. He wasn't sure anymore.

"I don't hate them," he said quietly, and the truth of it surprised him. It felt strange in his mouth. Raw. "Not anymore."

Ron stopped mid-step. Hermione blinked, caught off guard.

Harry raised his gaze.

"Everything's changed. The war didn't finish with Voldemort. It broke people. Some were already broken. And yes, the Malfoys made terrible choices. But maybe we need to stop pretending that punishment fixes everything."

They were still watching him, but he pressed on.

"I'm going to talk to Kingsley. I'll tell him what I know. Maybe it won't make a difference. Maybe it will. But we've got to start somewhere."

Ginny was perched on the arm of the chair opposite him, arms folded tight across her chest, her brow furrowed.

"Do you think he'll actually listen to you?" she asked, her voice not unkind—just careful.

"I hope so," Harry murmured, rubbing absently at his throat. The idea of walking back into the Ministry made his skin crawl—the cold stone corridors, the sharp-eyed glances that followed him, the whispers just out of earshot. "Kingsley's fair. If anyone's going to see reason, it's him. But I want to keep this quiet. For now. I don't want it turning into a public trial."

Ginny's gaze lingered on him, steady and warm, but there was something in her eyes that told him she wasn't entirely convinced. Neither was Ron, who had turned his face away, jaw still clenched.

Hermione exhaled slowly.

"All right," she said at last, voice soft but certain. "If you're sure."

Harry nodded, but the knot in his chest didn't ease. He wasn't sure. Not really. But this was where he had to begin.

Hermione leaned forward again, a thoughtful crease forming between her brows.

"What if we spoke to your dad, Ron? Maybe Mr Weasley could help. Kingsley trusts him, and if we asked him to come here—"

"That might work," Harry said quickly, before Ron could object. His body felt heavier by the minute, as though his bones had been filled with lead. The idea of avoiding the Ministry, even for a little while, was a relief.

"But what about the cave Malfoy mentioned?" Ginny cut in, her voice tight with urgency. "We can't ignore it. If it's real, it could be important—dangerous even. We need to look into it."

Ron let out an exaggerated sigh and flopped back onto the bed with a groan.

"Can't believe I'm saying this, but… yeah. If you really think there's something in it, I'm in. Though it's probably just Malfoy being Malfoy. Dramatic and useless."

Hermione gave a small smile, her fingers tapping lightly against her knee.

"Then we should talk to Hagrid. He knows more about Thestrals than anyone. If they're part of this, he might be able to tell us where to start—especially if it's somewhere in Ireland."

There were quiet nods all around, but the energy in the room was already beginning to drain away. The rush of adrenaline was gone now, leaving only the heavy drag of exhaustion in its place. Harry's limbs felt weighed down, his eyes stinging, the edges of the room beginning to blur. He couldn't remember the last proper meal he'd had. Or when he'd last really slept.

"I think we should wait until tomorrow," Hermione said gently, catching the way Harry was starting to sway in his seat. "We can speak to your dad then. After we've all had some rest."

Ginny crossed the room and knelt beside him, her hand warm against his knee.

"You look dreadful," she whispered. "You need to sleep."

Harry tried to smile, but it faltered, lopsided and thin.

"Yeah. I know."

Hermione pressed a small vial into his hand.

"Nutrition potion. Drink it, please. You've barely had anything all day."

He didn't argue. He tipped it back in one go, though the thick, bitter taste clung stubbornly to his tongue. It was like swallowing cold ash.

A moment later, they were gone—soft footsteps fading down the corridor, the door clicking gently shut behind them.

Harry was alone now, but his mind wouldn't still. Images spun behind his eyes: Malfoy, pale and cornered. Narcissa, proud and trembling. Lucius, brittle, broken—half the man he'd once pretended to be. There was no victory in it. No sense of justice.

Just the ache.

And the cold.

Sleep found him before he realised it—deep, dreamless, silent. Just silence.

The soft glow of morning seeped through the dusty panes of the window, casting long, golden streaks across the worn wooden floor. Harry winced at the brightness, squeezing his eyes shut. His eyelids felt heavy, as though they'd been stitched together. Something was wrong—off in a way he couldn't yet place.

He forced his eyes open and stared at the ceiling, his mind thick with fog. Lifting his head took far more effort than it should. The room was unfamiliar. It didn't feel right. He didn't recognise the faded furniture, the peeling wallpaper, or the battered old trunk in the corner. A peculiar sense of exposure crept over him, sharp and unnerving, like he was being watched.

Panic began to stir, low and pressing.

Where was he?

He sat up too quickly. The world tilted at once, his stomach lurching violently, and he clutched the edge of the mattress to stop himself from toppling.

"Where… where am I?" he rasped. His voice sounded strange—dry, frayed, as if it barely belonged to him. He tried to clear his throat, but it only made the soreness worse.

His heart was hammering now, bile rising at the back of his throat.

Breathe. Just breathe.

The confusion swept over him in suffocating waves. Nothing made sense. His hands were shaking as he shoved the covers aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His limbs felt wrong—like they weren't his anymore, too long, too distant.

He tried to stand.

Tried.

His knees buckled at once and he crumpled to the floor with a hard thud, catching himself against a wooden crate just before he crashed into it. Pain jarred up his arms. His breath hitched. The air felt too thin, like he couldn't draw in enough of it. He stayed where he was, hunched over, forehead pressed to the grain of the wood, trembling.

Get up. Come on. Just get up.

He waited, breathing through clenched teeth, then forced himself to look around again. This time, something settled into place. The room was at the Burrow—Ron's house.

Relief flooded him, sharp and brief like a gasp of air. But it didn't last.

If he was here, something must have happened.

But what?

His mind skated over fragments—scattered flashes he couldn't quite catch. Feelings: fear, heat, screaming, pain. Blinding pain. But the memories slipped away before he could grasp them.

Gripping the wall for balance, Harry dragged himself upright and staggered towards the stairs. Each step was a battle. His body felt foreign, like his bones had been swapped for something brittle and wrong. Even brushing his fingers along the railing made him flinch.

His throat burned. His legs were shaking. His whole frame seemed fragile, as though he might splinter apart.

The stairs groaned beneath him. Somewhere below, warm scents drifted up—toast, tea—and low voices hummed in the kitchen. Mr Weasley looked up from his place at the table. Harry tried to summon a smile, some faint greeting, but the second he shifted his weight, his legs gave out again.

He didn't hit the floor this time.

Strong arms caught him.

"Whoa—got you," Mr Weasley said quickly, his voice both steady and concerned. He lifted Harry as though he weighed nothing, guiding him down into a chair with careful hands. Harry sank into it, wishing he could disappear into the wood. His face burned with the sting of humiliation.

"I'm fine," he muttered, though the words were thin and unconvincing.

Mrs Weasley appeared in an instant, her hand cupping his cheek, her face tight with worry.

"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice thick with concern. "You're freezing. And you're as pale as parchment. Did you sleep at all? Are you in pain?"

Harry's pulse jumped at her touch. There had once been comfort in it—warmth, safety, something that felt like home. But now it landed strangely on his skin, like a memory that no longer quite belonged.

His body recoiled beneath the contact.

He should have known her. He should have reached for that familiar comfort.

But he didn't.

The woman's face blurred at the edges. Her voice was kind—too kind—soft and trembling with worry, but Harry couldn't place her. Something about her eyes scratched at the edge of his mind, like a name struggling to form, only to slip away before he could catch it.

Panic stirred.

Why couldn't he remember her?

She was saying something—asking if he was all right—but the words sounded distant, like he was hearing them through water. He shrank back, muscles taut. Her hand hovered mid-air, frozen in the space between them.

"Harry?" she said again, her voice smaller now. Hurt, perhaps. Or frightened.

His breath caught in his throat.

Who are you?

He didn't say it. He couldn't.

The room tilted slightly, the colours too sharp, the light far too loud. His head throbbed as he turned—slow, sluggish—towards another voice. A different woman this time. Younger. Sitting close. Her hair was wild and frizzy, her eyes wide with concern as she leant towards him.

She looked vaguely familiar.

But not enough.

She said his name like she knew him.

"Harry, what's happening?" she asked quietly, her voice steadier than the first woman's—calmer, even soothing.

Her name. What was her name?

Hermione.

Yes—Hermione. The name echoed faintly in his skull, but even saying it aloud didn't make it feel certain.

"Hermione," he said slowly, tasting the name on his tongue as though it might betray him. "I… I'm all right."

A lie. And not even a good one. His voice wobbled, and his eyes flicked between their faces, still struggling to make sense of them.

But they didn't feel real. Not yet.

He felt like he'd wandered into a play he didn't remember auditioning for. Everyone else knew their lines—except him.

He wanted to ask, Who are you? Why are you looking at me like that? What am I supposed to feel?

But he said nothing. He clung to the silence, afraid of what might fall out if he opened his mouth again.

Ron's voice cut through next—rough, uncertain.

"You sure, mate?" He stood just behind Hermione, arms folded, his brow furrowed. "You looked… well, like you'd gone somewhere else for a bit."

Harry looked at him, and something settled more easily there. Ron felt steadier, more solid in his memory—but even that was loose, like remembering a dream rather than a person.

"I just…" Harry's voice cracked. "I just need a minute."

He turned away, dragging in a breath that caught and splintered on the way out. The room pressed in, the air too thin. He was sinking, and there was nothing to hold onto.

What's wrong with me?

The fear lodged in his chest.

He was forgetting people.

Not just passing moments—people. Faces. Names. People who loved him.

How much more will I forget before it's all gone?

He couldn't bring himself to say it aloud—not with them watching, not with those tight, worried faces—but he knew, deep down: this wasn't simple exhaustion. It wasn't stress. It wasn't anything ordinary.

He was getting worse.

And it was because of his damaged soul.

His head pounded. His throat was raw, every cough tearing at him, sharp enough to draw blood to his tongue. His skin burned wherever it was touched.

He barely tasted the food when breakfast was served. Every movement required careful thought. Lifting the fork, cutting the toast—it was too much. His hands wouldn't stop trembling, and every scrape of metal against plate made his jaw lock tight.

Once, the fork slipped from his fingers and clattered loudly to the floor. The room fell silent.

Harry closed his eyes, his teeth grinding together. Humiliation prickled up his spine. He could feel them watching. Waiting.

He bent to pick it up with shaking fingers, keeping his eyes fixed on the table.

"I'm all right," he whispered again.

But the more he said it, the less it felt like the truth.

Ginny's offer to help landed like a blow, even though her voice was soft—gentle. He hated needing help. Hated that something as pathetically simple as holding a spoon now felt like trying to lift a broomstick with broken fingers.

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled, barely able to meet her eyes. His hand trembled as he fumbled with the spoon. The eggs on his plate looked like something from a memory he couldn't reach—warm, familiar, meaningless.

Ginny didn't so much as flinch. "It's all right," she said quietly, as if she'd done this a hundred times before. She nudged the spoon nearer, guiding his hand ever so slightly. "Small bites, okay?"

He tried. He really did. But after two wobbly mouthfuls, his stomach turned. He set the spoon down, jaw clenched in frustration. The potion beside his plate caught his eye—a faint shimmer in the small glass vial. Nutrition potion. Because even eating had become too difficult. Because he couldn't even manage that anymore.

Across from him, Hermione was speaking softly, her voice floating in the background like distant music. She was chatting to Mr Weasley, trying to keep things light. Keep things normal. Harry listened—or tried to. But the words slid past him like water. Familiar sounds. No meaning.

"…isn't that right, Harry?" Mr Weasley asked suddenly.

Harry froze. The room tipped sideways. Noise and silence crashed through his skull all at once. He blinked, confused. Panicked. Was he meant to say something?

"Harry?" Hermione's voice broke in, quiet but sharp with concern. "Can you hear us?"

He blinked again, forcing his gaze to focus on her. She looked worried. Too worried.

"Yes?" His voice cracked, raw and uncertain.

Hermione leaned closer. "Are you feeling all right?"

No. Not even slightly. He didn't say it aloud, but the truth was scrawled across his face, in the tremble of his hands, the cold sweat gathering at the nape of his neck, and the dreadful wrongness of everything around him.

"Mr Weasley asked you something," she said gently, like she was trying not to frighten him. "Do you remember?"

Harry looked between them, his eyes finally resting on the red-haired man across the table. There was something about his face that tugged at the edges of memory—but nothing landed. Nothing stuck. Just a blank, echoing silence where recognition ought to have been.

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

The room fell still. As if someone had cast a Silencing Charm over everything.

Ginny froze, her hand paused halfway to her cup. Ron stared. Hermione went rigid beside him. And the man across the table—Mr Weasley—blinked once. Pain flashed across his features, quickly masked by a sad, patient smile.

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

Harry's stomach turned over. "I'm sorry," he whispered, heat rising up the back of his neck. He felt exposed, like someone had peeled him open. "What was the question again, sir?"

The "sir" slipped out automatically. It felt safer than trying the name again.

Ron looked at him like he'd seen a ghost. The air had gone cold—thick and heavy with something unspoken.

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

The name hit like a jolt of lightning—but it fizzled out almost immediately. He knew it. He was certain it mattered. But he couldn't grab hold of anything. Just blankness. And a pressure building in his chest.

"Testimony…" he echoed faintly. "Against the Malfoys?"

His voice didn't sound like his own. It was too small, too far away—like someone else was speaking with his mouth. He didn't know the answer. He wasn't even sure he understood the question. All he knew was the rising panic and the terrible truth:

He didn't know who these people were.

Didn't know what they expected.

Didn't even know himself.

Harry inhaled, slow and deliberate, trying to gather the tangle of thoughts in his mind. The words felt foreign, heavy on his tongue—like something that didn't quite belong but needed to be said. His eyes stung as he blinked against the pressure behind them, and when he finally spoke, his voice came out rough, uncertain, and not quite his own.

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

The words hit the room like a dropped goblet—sharp, jarring. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Mr and Mrs Weasley stared at him as though he'd grown an extra head. The scrape of cutlery stopped. Mr Weasley's fork hovered mid-air, forgotten. Mrs Weasley's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, as though she couldn't quite believe what she'd heard.

"Are you serious, Harry?" Mr Weasley's voice was tight, thick with disbelief. His brow furrowed so deeply it looked painful. "You—of all people—want to defend the Malfoys? I… I can't get my head around it. Kingsley might take your word seriously, of course—but tell me, honestly—is Draco blackmailing you? Is that what this is?"

Harry's jaw tightened. Heat rose in his chest, flushing into his cheeks. Not anger, not quite. Just—frustration. That twisting, breath-stealing sort that made him want to shout, just to be understood.

"No, Mr Weasley," he said firmly, planting his hands against the edge of the table to steady himself. "Draco didn't blackmail me. No one did. I'm doing this because…" He faltered, the weight of the words pressing down now that they were half-spoken. "Because I owe Narcissa Malfoy my life. She saved me—from Voldemort. And I can't pretend that didn't happen. I can't forget it."

Silence.

It settled over the room like a heavy fog. Harry's breathing seemed too loud in his own ears. No one spoke. No one moved.

Mr Weasley ran a hand through his thinning hair, slow and distracted. "She saved you?" he repeated, as though still trying to understand. "That… doesn't sound like any Malfoy I've known."

Harry's chest twisted. He understood. He really did. It didn't make it easier.

Ron leaned forward, glancing quickly between his parents. "We get it, Dad," he said, hurrying now. "We do. But it's Harry. He wouldn't say it if it wasn't true."

Mrs Weasley's expression softened at last. The shock ebbed away, replaced by something gentler—concern, maybe. Or pity. Harry wasn't sure which stung more.

"Oh, Harry," she murmured, reaching out to place a hand over his. "That's a lot to carry on your own, dear. But you must understand—this is… unexpected. The Malfoys haven't exactly made it easy to trust them."

Harry nodded, barely. His throat felt thick. "I know."

"Would you tell us what happened?" she asked, her voice kind, careful.

Harry swallowed hard. He glanced down at his glass of water, lifted it, and took a slow sip, stalling. The memory lingered. Always. Lurking in the shadowed corners of his mind.

The forest. The oppressive silence. The feel of the Resurrection Stone in his palm. His parents. Sirius. Remus. Then Voldemort. The pain. The darkness.

And through all of it—Narcissa's voice. Her eyes. Her lie.

"She checked if I was alive," he began, his voice quieter now. "After Voldemort hit me with the Killing Curse. She leant over me, whispered… she asked if Draco was safe. I told her he was. And then she… she told him I was dead. She lied to him. She gave me a chance to end it. Without that, I don't think we'd be sitting here right now."

Silence again—but it felt different this time. He could almost feel them thinking. Trying to rearrange what they'd always known about the Malfoys to fit this version—the one he was telling them.

"And after that," he added, more quietly still, "Draco came to me. He said he owed me. He told me where to find the Thestrals. I think he meant it."

Mr Weasley leant back in his chair, arms folded, lips pressed into a thin line. "That's a big leap, Harry," he said at last, his voice low with hesitation. "A very big one."

Harry didn't argue. He only nodded. Because it was. And he didn't have all the answers. But something inside him wouldn't let it go—some part of him needed to believe that people could change. Because if they couldn't… what had all of it been for?

"Oh!" said Ron suddenly, cutting through the silence. "I wrote to Hagrid last night—asked if Malfoy was bluffing about the Thestrals. Figured we'd get a straight answer from him."

Harry turned to him, and some of the weight pressing against his chest lifted, just a little. "Thanks, Ron. That means a lot."

Ron shrugged, trying for nonchalance. "Didn't see the harm."

Hermione, who had been quiet until now—always listening, always several steps ahead—spoke up. "Mr Weasley, could Kingsley come to the Burrow? Harry wants to speak with him."

Mr Weasley shifted in his seat. "Actually, yes—he asked if he could stop by. Said he's bringing something for Harry… something personal. A piece of the Veil." He glanced towards Harry. "And I think he wants a word, too. Didn't say what about."

"That's fine," Harry said quietly, before anyone else could speak. "He can come."

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

And that was that. The conversation moved on, the table slowly filling with low chatter and the soft clink of cutlery. But Harry stayed still, the weight of everything unsaid resting heavy on his shoulders.

Then, without warning, the fire roared to life.

It erupted in the hearth in a rush of emerald flame, startling Harry from the fog he hadn't realised he'd drifted into. He blinked, half-blinded by the sudden light, squinting through the smoke and green shimmer as a tall figure stepped out of the flames like something conjured from memory—or dream.

The room jolted into motion. Voices stirred. Someone laughed.

It took Harry a long moment to place the face.

Percy. That was it. Percy Weasley—the one with the glasses and the overly-starched robes. The brother who'd once left, then come back again. He'd always existed at the edges of Harry's life—never quite close, but not distant, either. A name attached to family meals, to Mrs Weasley's fussing, to summers at the Burrow.

But just now, he looked like a stranger.

Mrs Weasley rushed forward, pulling him into a tight embrace as though she might never let go. "Percy, my dear," she breathed, voice thick with emotion. "I've missed you dreadfully. Are you eating properly? Are you sleeping?"

Her arms wrapped around him like he was something precious. Mr Weasley followed, placing a steady hand on Percy's shoulder.

"How've you been, son?"

Their faces were alight with joy.

Harry stayed still.

He felt removed, as though a pane of glass had dropped between him and the others. He could see the warmth, hear the laughter—but none of it touched him. He knew what he ought to feel—happiness, at the very least—but all he could register was the dull throb in his chest and the quiet, persistent voice reminding him he didn't belong here.

Then Percy looked at him.

Just for a second, his smile slipped. A flicker of something—concern, perhaps? Caution? Recognition? It passed quickly, but Harry saw it.

Their eyes met, and Harry's stomach turned.

Not with fear—something colder. Shame, maybe. Because in that single glance, Percy looked at him the way the Healers at St Mungo's sometimes did. Like they were trying not to startle him. Like they were weighing how breakable he might be.

Percy recovered quickly, smoothing his expression as he took a seat.

"I'm doing quite well," he said breezily, though his eyes didn't leave Harry.

And Harry couldn't look away. He felt exposed—like a spotlight had flicked on, hot and bright. He didn't know why Percy was staring.

But he hated the way it made him feel.

Ron's voice broke the silence, thick through a mouthful of mashed potato. "How're they treating you at the Ministry, then?"

Percy finally looked away. "Surprisingly well," he said, straightening his glasses. "Although… there's been an issue. Death Eaters trying to infiltrate the Floo Network. We're on high alert. It's… tiring."

Harry barely registered the words. His mind had caught on that look—that brief, sharp moment.

That Why are you looking at me like that? moment.

Percy went on, his tone darkening. "Some of them are bold enough to target the Ministry directly now. And, well—there's no shortage of talk about you, Harry." He nodded in Harry's direction. "The young hero who vanquished the Dark Lord."

The words clanged in Harry's ears like a dropped goblet.

They felt… wrong.

Ron gave an awkward laugh. "Yeah, we've heard that a few times."

The young hero, Harry repeated to himself, slowly. It tasted bitter. The words sat on his tongue like they belonged to someone else.

Who vanquished the Dark Lord.

He tried to say it aloud, but it didn't feel right. It felt like reading lines from someone else's story. He couldn't find himself in them—not really.

A name floated into his head—Harry—but it slid away again, thin as mist.

Percy was watching him now, brow furrowed. "That's what I said."

Harry tilted his head, as though studying something distant. "Why?" he asked, quiet but steady. "What happened to him?"

The room stilled.

Forks hung in mid-air. Someone's breath caught.

Percy blinked. "I—I don't follow. What do you mean?"

Harry's gaze didn't waver. His voice dropped to a low, careful murmur. "The hero. The boy you're all looking at like he's supposed to be me."

Percy's chair scraped faintly as he leant forward. "Harry… are you alright?" The concern was no longer hidden—it stretched plainly across his face.

Harry didn't answer. He looked down at his hands instead—pale, a little thinner than he remembered. There was a faint tremble. The scar Umbridge had carved into his skin was almost gone now, just a pale shadow. His thumb rubbed over it absently.

Who are you?

It wasn't Percy's question. It was his own.

He didn't know the answer.

He didn't know why his chest always ached, why every sound felt far away, why every glance slid off him like water on glass. He only knew this: whatever they were looking for, it wasn't him. Not anymore.

Percy was still talking—something about the Ministry, about precautions—but Harry wasn't listening. His thoughts had gone elsewhere. He could feel their eyes now—Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Mr and Mrs Weasley—all waiting for something. A flicker of the boy they thought they knew.

But Harry didn't know what they wanted.

So he said, in a quiet, distant voice, "When they see me like this… I doubt they'll even recognise me."

His eyes passed over them, not quite focusing.

"Let alone care about me at all."

The words landed like a stone in the middle of the table. No one spoke. The silence stretched, thick and unmoving. He could feel their stares—uneasy, startled, afraid. But it wasn't really the words that unsettled them. It was the truth pressing in behind them—the hollow, gnawing sense that he was fading. That bit by bit, something inside him was slipping away.

He had always been the one who charged in first. The one with his wand raised and his heart ablaze, even when the world stood against him. Now they were looking at someone smaller. Duller. A shadow of what they remembered.

Hermione's voice cut through at last, soft but trembling. "You can't afford to be seen, Harry. If the Death Eaters realise—if they see how weak you've become—they won't stop until they finish what Voldemort couldn't. It's not safe."

Her eyes were shining, but she blinked quickly, pushing it away.

Harry didn't argue. There wasn't much to argue with.

Because he already knew she was right.

He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to sound strong—to pretend he was still that person, the one who had faced down death and survived. But even now, just sitting upright felt like dragging himself through mud.

"I know," he said, his voice rough, pressing his fingers to his temples. His head thudded in time with his pulse. "They won't hesitate. To them, I'm already gone."

Hermione stepped closer, shaking her head, her eyes shining. "Don't say that, Harry. Please. You can't… you have to keep fighting. We'll find something—we always do."

Her voice cracked, just a little, but Harry heard it, sharp as a blade. It cut straight through him. He hated making her sound like that. He hated what he was doing to them—what his being like this was doing to all of them.

Mr Weasley cleared his throat, as though trying to steady the air in the room. "We need to be careful about who we involve," he said, his calm, measured voice stretched a little too thin. "There are… options we can look into. But we can't afford to draw attention. Not yet."

Harry barely took it in. They were speaking in plans now—steps, strategies, precautions—but all he could feel was the quiet inside himself. The place where thoughts used to come quickly, where memories used to settle clearly. Now they came in flickers, fragments.

He was slipping. He could feel it. Like trying to cup water in his bare hands, watching it spill through his fingers.

"Er—how's life been here at the Burrow, Harry?" Percy asked suddenly, his voice falsely bright, the question landing like a wrong note in a funeral march.

Harry blinked slowly, lifting his head. Everything ached. Even answering felt like a mountain.

"It's… fine," he managed, barely louder than a whisper. "Thanks, Percy."

His throat burned. He wasn't sure if he'd eaten. Or slept. Everything was starting to blur.

Ginny was at his side before he realised, her hands gentle as she picked up the vials. "Try these," she said softly, her voice barely carrying. "They'll help."

He looked at her, and something stirred—a faint spark beneath the fog. The shape of her face, the way her hair caught the light—familiar. Steady. Something that still mattered.

He trusted her.

"Okay," he whispered. He let her lift the vial to his lips. The potion tasted bitter, sharp like old copper, but he drank. For her.

"Would you like to lie down, dear?" Mrs Weasley asked quietly, stepping closer, her hands already fussing with the edge of a blanket. "The sofa's just here—I can bring you something warm."

Harry nodded—or thought he did. He made an effort to stand. He really did. But his legs gave out before he could straighten.

"Harry!" Ron caught him quickly, Mr Weasley close behind. They eased him back down as though he might break.

He managed a faint, slurred "Thanks," and then the weight of it all pulled him under at last.

He didn't dream.

"Is he really dying?" Percy asked, his voice low, strained, as though saying it aloud might make it real.

Mrs Weasley didn't answer at once. Her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes glistening. Then she turned away.

"It's hard to believe," she whispered. "But it's happening. He's… slipping through our fingers."

Percy just stared at her. The words seemed impossible.

"But—he was fine. After the battle. He was fine. How can it have got this bad so quickly?"

"It started when Voldemort destroyed the part of his soul inside Harry," Ginny said, her voice flat, her fingers twisting in her sleeves, trying to hide the way they trembled.

Percy blinked, frowning. "His soul? What do you mean?"

Hermione stepped forward. Her voice was steady, but her hands were clenched tight at her sides. She explained as carefully as she could—what Harry had carried, how it had been ripped from him, how it had left something behind. She didn't say Horcrux. She didn't need to. The room seemed to darken with every word.

When she finished, Percy didn't speak. He just stood there, frozen.

Ginny straightened, her voice gaining a hard edge. "We're not done. We're close. We just need the final ingredients. When Hagrid and Kingsley arrive, we can start. We have to be ready. Every moment counts."

Percy latched onto the nearest thread of action. "Did Dad speak to the Minister?"

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

Percy hesitated, frowning as something surfaced in his memory. "Earlier… Harry didn't respond when I said his name. Not at first."

The others exchanged glances—guarded, worried.

"His memories are slipping," Hermione said quietly. She placed a firm hand on Ginny's shoulder. "Sometimes he's clear, then it's like… it all vanishes. It's happening faster now."

Ginny broke. She pressed her face into Hermione's shoulder, her body shaking. "It's like he's disappearing," she choked out. "And I can't stop it—I don't even know if he recognises me anymore."

Hermione wrapped both arms around her, holding her tightly. "We'll get him back," she said fiercely, her voice trembling but resolute. "We will. He's still Harry. He's still fighting."

A sharp tapping at the kitchen window cut through the heavy silence. All of them turned.

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

The tapping grew more frantic, quick and sharp like a racing heartbeat. Ron crossed the room in three strides and threw open the window.

Pigwidgeon tumbled through the gap, wings fluttering wildly, struggling to stay upright. The tiny owl quivered with exhaustion.

"Poor thing," Ginny murmured, steadying him as Ron carefully untied the scroll from his leg. Pigwidgeon gave a weak trill, then perched on the windowsill, still trembling.

Ron's hands shook as he unfurled the parchment. Hermione and Ginny leaned over his shoulder, eyes locked on the page.

Ron's voice was tight when he spoke. "It's Hagrid."

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 letter stopped there—blunt, unfinished.

Silence pressed down on the kitchen like a weight. Even Pigwidgeon's wings faltered in the still air.

Ron looked up, pale, his mouth working soundlessly. Hermione and Ginny dropped heavily back into their chairs, the shock dragging them down all at once. Percy, startled by the sudden movement, nearly knocked his tea across the table.

"Was Hagrid attacked in Ireland?" Ron asked, his voice cracking. "That's where he went, isn't it?"

Hermione's face had gone very white. "How?" she whispered. "No one else was supposed to know. That cave wasn't on any map."

Mrs Weasley, standing at the sink, froze mid-scrub. Wordlessly, she took the parchment from Ron, her hands trembling as she read. She passed it to Mr Weasley, who had just stepped into the kitchen. His brow furrowed as he scanned the note, his jaw set hard.

"Death Eaters are everywhere now," Ron muttered, his voice low and tense. "Percy warned us. They're desperate—cornered. They'll do anything."

Hermione had begun pacing, arms folded tight across her chest, her footsteps tapping sharply against the tiled floor.

"It doesn't make sense," she said at last. "That cave was crawling with Thestrals. Even experienced wizards would think twice before going near it. Why would Death Eaters take that risk? Unless…"

"They're mad," Ginny said flatly, glancing toward the dark window. "Or worse—maybe they knew something we didn't."

She hesitated, her fingers twisting together. "I don't like this. I keep feeling like we're being watched. What if someone followed Hagrid? What if—?"

"Malfoy," Ron said suddenly, his voice sharp, his eyes hardening.

Hermione stopped pacing. "What?"

"It has to be Draco Malfoy," Ron snapped. "He told Harry about that cave. He knew. He knew, Hermione!"

Percy straightened at once. "Draco Malfoy?" His voice was tight now, the suspicion rising quickly. "And how would he know anything about Thestrals? Or Hagrid's plans?"

Ginny's face tightened. "He came here. Just after Dad got home. Asked to see Harry. He's the one who told him about the wild Thestrals."

"No one else knew," Ron growled. "Only us."

Percy's mouth twisted. "So Malfoy gives Harry the information, and now Hagrid's in hospital. Doesn't that seem a little… convenient?"

"Wait—" Hermione's voice was sharp, cutting across him. "Malfoy owes Harry a life debt. He wouldn't betray him now. He can't. That kind of magic—it binds."

Ron gave a bitter laugh. "You really think that would stop him? Malfoy's still a Death Eater. Life debt or not, they'd throw anyone away to get what they want."

Hermione's expression faltered, but she pressed on. "What if he's not in control? What if he's being used? What if someone's forcing him to—"

Ron slammed his palm flat on the table. Ginny flinched.

"He's always been a coward, Hermione! He's been playing both sides from the start—pretending to help, feeding them everything. We can't trust him!"

"We don't know that!" Hermione snapped back, her cheeks flushing, her fists clenched at her sides. "We need facts, Ron—not guesses. If Malfoy's our only lead, we can't just cut him off."

Ron turned away, his shoulders tight with fury.

"Enough," Ginny said, stepping between them. Her voice was quiet but firm. "This isn't helping. Hagrid's hurt. We need to go to St Mungo's. He might know what happened. We need to hear it from him—not waste time arguing."

Percy cleared his throat. "I'll stay here. Someone should keep an eye on things. And on Harry."

Ron nodded, but his eyes were still burning with doubt. He looked down at the crumpled letter in his hand, his fingers tightening around it. Fear was still there—but now it had company: suspicion, and a hard, cold anger twisting in his chest.

Without another word, he headed for the door. Hermione followed quickly, her mind racing.

Ginny paused at the threshold, looking back once.

"Let's hope Hagrid's awake," she said quietly. "Because we're running out of time."