Chapter 14

The lights on the hospital ceiling flickered like dying stars, buzzing faintly overhead. Shadows crawled along the peeling walls, stretching and twisting like long, grasping fingers, reaching for him. Harry was trapped beneath them, a prisoner inside his own failing body.

Every breath was a struggle—shallow, ragged gasps that barely scraped into his lungs before slipping out again. His chest felt like it was caving in, crushed beneath something he couldn't see. His stomach heaved, the bitter taste of bile rising at the back of his throat.

A wet, shuddering cough tore through him, and then he was retching again, his body convulsing violently. There was nothing left in him but sour liquid, but still the spasms wracked him, as though his body was desperate to force something out. His arms were too weak to lift himself. He hung limply over the side of the bed, trembling, too sick to care who was watching.

Hagrid's enormous hand thumped awkwardly against his back, a clumsy comfort against the storm tearing him apart.

"Easy, Harry… easy now…" Hagrid mumbled, his voice thick with worry and cracking at the edges. But it wasn't easy. It wasn't ever going to be easy again.

Harry's skin burned with fever; his sweat-soaked pyjamas clung to him, the sheets sticking uncomfortably to his back. Every nerve screamed, every heartbeat thudded like a hammer against his ribs. It felt like the poison was laughing at him now—settling deeper, curling into his bones.

He tried to speak—to ask if it was supposed to hurt this much—but his mouth opened on a dry, silent gasp. His hands scrabbled weakly at the blankets, at the air, at nothing. Panic rose inside him like fire. I'm dying. I'm dying.

Hagrid's face swam above him—pale, desperate, far too large for the tiny, suffocating room.

He could hear the Healers moving around him, exchanging urgent words, but they were distant, distorted, their voices bending strangely in his ears. He couldn't make sense of them. Couldn't hold onto anything.

Something flashed—a glimmer of glass. A flask. The antidote. Harry's blurry gaze caught it just long enough for the smallest flicker of hope to spark inside him.

"Wha's that?" Hagrid demanded, voice rough with dread.

The Healer's face was set, grim. "An antidote. Angel's Trumpet toxin. Fast. Lethal. This might save him… if he makes it through the next few days."

If.

Harry barely felt the sting of the needle sliding into his arm. He barely had time to brace himself.

And then the real pain began.

It wasn't pain—it was destruction.

Fire erupted in his veins. His back arched violently off the mattress, his whole body seizing in a rigid bow. A scream ripped from his throat, hoarse and cracked, filling the room. His vision shattered into white-hot fragments, his muscles locking so tightly he thought he might break apart.

He retched again, helpless, the bitter burn of acid scalding his throat. His eyes flooded with tears he couldn't wipe away. Please—please, make it stop, please—

But there was no stopping it. No release. Only the antidote tearing through him, burning the poison out—and with it, tearing him down to nothing.

"Can't we—can't we give him something—?" Hagrid choked, his voice cracking under the weight of it. "Somethin' for the pain—anything—?"

"No," snapped the Healer. "If he sleeps, he dies."

And then they were gone—leaving Harry to face the storm alone.

He thrashed weakly on the bed, caught in the grip of something far stronger than he was. His hands clawed at the sheets, at his own skin, at the pain. His nails bit into his palms. His mouth filled with the metallic tang of blood where he'd bitten his lip to keep from screaming.

Time dissolved. Minutes. Hours. Days. It all blurred together into one endless spiral of agony.

Somewhere—distant but steady—Hagrid's great hands pressed gently on his shoulders, holding him to the bed. Trying to stop him from hurting himself. Trying to keep him here.

"Stay with me, Harry," Hagrid pleaded, his voice breaking, thick with tears. "Don't yeh leave me, please—don't yeh dare—"

Harry couldn't answer. He could barely think. Only the pain was real now, and the dark edges of his mind, whispering how easy it would be to let go. To let it end.

But then—he felt it. Hagrid's rough, clumsy hand squeezing his own, anchoring him to the living world.

And somehow, through the fire, through the terror, Harry clung to that touch.

I can't leave him.

The thought burned through the haze, fierce and unrelenting. I won't leave him. I won't.

So he held on. Even as the poison dragged him under. Even as the antidote tore him apart.

He held on.

Because Hagrid was still there. And Harry had never been able to bear the thought of leaving the people he loved behind.

The world fractured.

One moment, Harry was in his hospital bed, drowning in pain; the next, he was somewhere else—somewhere wrong. The walls stretched and twisted like molten wax. The floor gaped open beneath him, a yawning black chasm.

He stumbled through it, gasping, clutching at his burning chest. Shapes shifted in the shadows—half-seen, half-heard. Whispers skittered through the dark, curling into his ears.

Weak… Failure… Burden…

He flinched away from them and tried to run, but his legs refused to obey. They moved as though they no longer belonged to him—heavy, sluggish, like they were filled with lead. Each step tore another scream from his throat.

Then he saw them—faces in the dark.

Ron. Hermione. Ginny. All pale, all hollow-eyed, staring at him with expressions twisted by disappointment.

"You couldn't even survive this," Hermione said, her voice thin and brittle, cracking under the weight of it. "After everything we've done for you."

"You always were dead weight," Ron muttered, shaking his head.

Ginny just turned away, her red hair swallowing her like a flame.

"No," Harry gasped, reaching out, but his hand passed straight through them like mist. "No, please—I'm trying—"

The shadows laughed. Low, cold, cruel.

Another wave of nausea slammed into him. Somewhere in the real world, he vomited again, choking on bile and acid. His body seized, curling tightly in on itself.

Dimly, he felt a hand gripping his shoulder—steady, immovable. Hagrid. The only real thing left.

But even that wasn't enough to stop the flood of darkness crashing back over him.

The nightmare shifted. Now he was back in the graveyard—not Cedric's death, no. His own. Cold hands wrapped around his throat, dragging him down into the earth. He kicked and fought, but his limbs were too heavy, too weak.

The soil swallowed him. Dirt filled his mouth, his nose. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream.

The poison, he realised dimly. It's killing me all over again.

"Give up," a voice hissed from the soil, sibilant and cold. "You don't deserve to live. Let go."

He almost did. Almost.

Until a new sound cut through the suffocating dark—a rough, broken voice, shouting his name, over and over.

"HARRY! Fight, yeh hear me? FIGHT!"

Hagrid. Still there. Still holding on.

Somewhere deep inside the broken wreck of himself, Harry latched onto that voice—that stubborn, ridiculous human voice that refused to let him fall.

He forced himself to breathe. To fight. Even as the earth crushed him. Even as the poison roared through his veins.

The darkness howled, furious at losing its grip.

Harry clawed his way back—up through it—up towards the pain, towards the sick, brutal reality waiting for him.

Because if he died here—if he let go—he wouldn't just lose himself.

He'd lose them, too.

He gasped awake with a choking sob, blinking into the blurry, flickering light of St Mungo's. His entire body screamed in protest. Sweat poured from him in rivers. His stomach convulsed again, dry-heaving though there was nothing left.

Hagrid was leaning over him, enormous and shattered-looking, tears streaking his bearded face.

"That's it, Harry," Hagrid whispered hoarsely, clutching his hand as though it was the only thing keeping them both anchored to the world. "That's it. Keep fightin', lad."

Harry's whole world narrowed to that—the rough hand gripping his, the voice calling him back, and the unbearable pain he chose to endure.

The hours bled into each other until they scarcely resembled time at all.

Harry drifted in and out of awareness, each moment a fresh kind of torment. Fever scorched through him, burning behind his eyes, rattling through his bones. His skin felt stretched too tight, pulled over him like it didn't quite fit. Every breath was a battle.

The bed stank of sweat, sick, and something else—something sharp and sour, like scorched metal—and Harry wasn't sure whether it was the poison leaking out of him or simply the reek of dying.

Sometimes, he surfaced just long enough to hear Hagrid's voice—low, rough, desperate—calling for help that never seemed to come quickly enough.

Other times, he slipped back under, into visions so vicious, so vividly cruel, that he couldn't tell where the dreams ended and reality began.

In one, he was back in the Forbidden Forest, stumbling through thick roots and sinking mud. The trees whispered his name with every twist of the wind, their branches clawing at his arms, raking his face. He tripped again and again, his knees splitting open on sharp stones, his hands bloodied and torn.

Every time he tried to find his way out, the forest closed in tighter.

You can't save anyone, it hissed.

In another, he saw Dumbledore—not as he remembered him, kind and steady, but distant, cold, turning away.

You were never enough, Dumbledore said, his voice echoing like a curse.

Harry tried to shout, to argue, but his mouth filled with earth again, choking him.

In the real world, Hagrid wiped Harry's face with a damp cloth, his enormous hands trembling. The Healers had left them hours ago now—trusting, or perhaps simply forgetting, that Hagrid would stay, no matter what happened.

The fever was worse. Harry's body burned beneath Hagrid's touch, his skin scalding hot. Every so often, another bout of dry heaving wracked him, leaving him gasping and shivering in the sweat-soaked sheets.

"Hang on, Harry," Hagrid kept muttering, over and over, as though the words themselves might hold him there. "Yer strong. Stronger'n any poison. Jus' keep fightin', lad."

But even Hagrid wasn't sure, now, whether he was lying.

Once, when Harry seized so violently the whole bed rattled against the floor, Hagrid tried to hold him still—terrified he'd snap a bone or tear open the place where the antidote had gone in.

"Easy, easy now," he crooned, tears sliding silently down his rough cheeks.

And then—Harry's hand, cold and shaking, found his. He gave a weak, feeble squeeze.

It nearly broke Hagrid's heart.

Night had fallen—or perhaps it had always been night. Harry could no longer tell. The world beyond the small hospital room might as well have belonged to another universe.

At some point, the fever dreams worsened.

Harry found himself standing at the edge of a lake—cold, black water stretching endlessly beneath a sky with no stars. Figures stood in the shallows, half-submerged, their hollow voices calling to him.

Sirius. Fred. Lupin. Tonks. Cedric.

All the dead he had failed.

"Come with us," they whispered. "It's easier. You've earned your rest."

Harry took a step towards them, hypnotised. He could almost feel the icy water lapping at his ankles. The peace it promised was so sweet, so close.

But then—Hagrid's voice again, rough and raw from too many tears:

"Yeh ain't alone, Harry. Don' yeh dare think yeh're alone."

The lake shuddered. The figures began to fade.

Harry turned away, tearing himself back—back towards the pain, towards the fever, towards the life he still clung to by the barest thread.

He woke with a ragged gasp, sobbing for air.

Hagrid was still there, hunched over the bed, a mountain of grief and stubborn love.

"Tha's it, lad," Hagrid choked out, his voice thick. "Come back. Come back."

Harry didn't know how many nights he fought through.

Each one was worse than the last—a gauntlet of burning agony, sickness, and visions that clawed at the edges of his mind.

Each time, he almost let go. Each time, he came within a breath of surrendering to the sweet dark that promised no more pain.

But he didn't.

Because of the hand that never let go of his.

Because no matter how deep he sank, no matter how far the poison dragged him down, he knew Hagrid was still there—anchored to him, holding on, refusing to give up, even when Harry wanted to.

And somewhere, buried deep in the battered remains of his heart, Harry knew he had to stay.

Even if it broke him.

At first, Harry thought he must be dreaming again.

The world didn't feel right—sluggish, edges blurred. The air wasn't thick anymore, but thin and brittle, as though it might shatter with the next breath. His skin was clammy now instead of burning, but something inside him was still wrong, twisting uncomfortably beneath his ribs.

He forced his eyes open, squinting against the blurry lights overhead until they swam, nauseatingly, into focus.

His head lolled weakly to one side.

Hagrid was still there, slumped half-asleep in a chair far too small for him, his enormous hand still clamped around Harry's limp one—as though he'd drifted off holding it and had never let go.

Harry tried to move—just his fingers, just a breath—but his body didn't obey. It was as though he had turned to stone. Heavy. Unresponsive. Wrong.

Panic seized him, sharp and feral.

He pushed for a deeper breath, and the pain came surging back in a brutal wave. His muscles were cramped and locked tight, as though every fibre had been twisted to breaking point and left that way. His limbs felt splintered. His back arched stiffly off the mattress, even when he tried to relax.

The antidote. It was still working. Still fighting the last of the poison. Still finishing the war inside him.

A low, broken sound escaped him—part groan, part sob.

Hagrid jerked awake at once, terror stamped across his face until his gaze landed on Harry.

"Harry—!" His voice cracked, thick with disbelief. He leaned in so close Harry could feel the tremble of his breath. "You're awake… yeh're awake…"

Harry tried to answer, but his throat was raw, scraped bare. Only a harsh croak came out.

"Easy now," Hagrid said quickly, fumbling with the pillow behind Harry's head, trying to help without jostling him too much. "You've done it, lad. Through the worst of it now, yeh hear me? You've made it."

But it didn't feel like it.

It felt like he was still drowning—just slower now.

It felt like the antidote was gnawing at his insides, stitching him back together in the roughest, most painful way imaginable.

It felt like every tendon had been torn and tied wrong.

Harry screwed his eyes shut against the weight of it. I survived, he told himself. I survived.

But it didn't feel like winning.

It felt like losing.

His whole body trembled with the effort it took just to breathe. His joints burned. His hands were curled into claws he couldn't uncurl; the tendons drawn so tight they refused to release.

He tried to move, to speak, to do something to prove he was still here—but the smallest shift sent white-hot lances of pain shooting through him.

Hot tears slid from the corners of his eyes, soaking into the pillow.

Hagrid wiped them away with the edge of his sleeve, murmuring rough, quiet things Harry couldn't quite hear. It didn't matter. The sound of his voice was enough—something real, something solid.

Harry stayed as still as he could, forcing himself not to thrash, not to cry out.

Because he knew now—if he moved wrong, even once, the antidote would punish him for it. It would seize him again, tighten around his bones like barbed wire.

The fever was breaking.

But the fight inside him wasn't over.

He wasn't free.

Not yet.

Harry drifted at the edge of consciousness, caught somewhere that wasn't quite waking, wasn't quite dreaming. Every sound around him was muffled, distant, as though he were underwater. Even the sharp, sterile tang of the hospital was dulled to a faint chemical haze in his nose.

Footsteps shuffled into the room—hurried, purposeful. Cloaks rustling. Glass bottles clinking.

Healers.

He heard Hagrid's chair scrape sharply against the stone floor as the giant scrambled upright, as though he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. Harry wanted to turn his head, to see them, to listen properly—but even the thought was exhausting. His body didn't respond.

"He's awake, but only just," came a crisp, efficient voice. "The fever's broken. That's something."

"He's survived, then?" Hagrid's voice—hoarse, ragged. Like he hardly dared believe it.

There was a pause.

"Yes," the healer said at last. "But…" Her voice dropped lower, serious now. "The antidote is still working. His body's been pushed far past its limits. He'll need a long recovery—weeks, perhaps longer. Muscle damage. Nerve strain. Magical shock."

Hagrid made a small, broken sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob—a noise thick with relief and grief so tangled it sounded painful.

Harry tried to follow. Tried to catch the words and make them mean something.

But they slipped past him, heavy and distant, impossible to hold.

His mind sagged under the weight of them.

The exhaustion pulling at him wasn't like ordinary tiredness—it clawed at him from the inside, dragging him down, deeper and deeper.

"Will he be able ter walk again?" Hagrid asked, voice rough and unsteady.

The healer hesitated. "In time. But it'll be difficult. It'll hurt. He'll need help—a great deal of it."

Something cold twisted in Harry's chest.

He didn't want help. He didn't want to be a burden. He didn't want to weigh everyone down.

But he was too far gone to feel it properly—even the shame was distant, blunted by the sheer weight of exhaustion.

The voices blurred together, rising and falling like a tide he couldn't fight.

Words like nerve regeneration, potion therapy, and muscle reconditioning floated past him, strange and heavy.

His whole body throbbed—not sharp pain, but something dull and deep, like he'd been bruised all the way through to his bones.

The bed was too hard. The sheets were too rough. Even the weight of the air pressing down on him was unbearable.

His eyes fluttered closed. He couldn't hold them open anymore.

He couldn't keep fighting.

The last thing he heard was Hagrid's voice, closer now, a low, rough murmur.

"Sleep, Harry. Yeh've earnt it, lad. Yeh've fought harder than anyone I've ever known."

Something warm brushed through his hair—Hagrid's hand, clumsy and careful.

Harry let go at last, slipping into a deep, heavy sleep that swallowed him whole.

Harry drifted awake slowly. The light in the hospital room was soft and pale, filtering weakly through the curtains. For a long moment, he simply lay there, blinking up at the blurry ceiling, not quite sure where he was—or even who he was. Everything hurt. It was a deep, heavy ache that seemed to settle in his bones. His body felt wrong, too heavy to move.

When he finally managed to turn his head, he caught sight of a huge, familiar figure slumped awkwardly beside his bed. Hagrid. Fast asleep, his enormous frame squeezed into a chair far too small for him, his wild hair and beard making him look even more unkempt than usual—like some battered old stuffed toy left out in the rain.

A small, broken sound escaped Harry's throat—part relief, part pain. He tried to sit up, but the movement sent a sharp agony tearing through his chest and down his limbs. Every tiny shift felt like something was tearing open inside him. He bit down hard on his lip to stop himself from crying out.

But even that was enough. Hagrid stirred, blinking groggily, then jolted upright with a grunt, his wide eyes darting around the room like he expected an attack.

"Harry?" His voice cracked with panic and sleep.

Harry swallowed. His throat felt like sandpaper. "Hey, Hagrid," he rasped, managing the barest hint of a smile. "Sorry… didn't mean to wake you."

His voice gave out halfway through, splintering into a croak. Without thinking, he curled a little closer to Hagrid's arm, desperate for some sort of warmth, something solid to cling to.

Hagrid leaned in, his massive hand hovering uncertainly over Harry's shoulder, as though afraid to touch him. His face was pinched tight with worry. "It's all right, Harry. Don't yeh worry about me," he said gruffly. "How're yeh feelin'?"

Harry gave a weak laugh that turned quickly into a cough. "Like I've been flattened by a Bludger," he croaked. "Everything hurts."

He tried to stretch his arm, testing it, but a vicious bolt of pain shot through his muscles, and he gasped, screwing his eyes shut.

"Easy now," Hagrid said quickly. "The antidote's workin'. Bit slow, but it's startin' to clear yer system."

Poison. Right.

The word sat heavy in Harry's mind. He remembered scraps—fear, shouting, the cold spreading through his veins. And then… nothing.

He gave a faint nod, letting his head fall back against the pillow. His mind felt like it was wading through treacle.

"This… this is St Mungo's, isn't it?" he mumbled after a pause, his gaze dragging slowly around the plain little room. It was quiet, almost peaceful—strangely at odds with the storm still churning inside him.

"Aye," Hagrid said, his voice softening, like they were sharing a secret. "We got yeh here. Quick as we could."

Harry frowned. We?

He turned his head slightly to squint up at Hagrid. "We?" he repeated, confusion fogging his voice.

Hagrid nodded, serious now. "Yer friends. Ron, Hermione… Ginny too. They're the ones who found yeh."

A hard rush of emotion punched through Harry's chest—relief so sharp it almost hurt. They're safe. They're alive.

"Where are they now?" he asked, a little too quickly. The thought of them being injured—because of him—made his stomach twist painfully.

"In the waitin' room," Hagrid said gently. "Healers said no visitors just yet. Said yeh needed rest first."

Harry's heart sank, but he nodded. It made sense. Still, knowing they were just outside—and not being able to see them—gnawed at him.

"But you're here," he said quietly, almost accusingly, trying to understand why Hagrid had been allowed to stay when the others hadn't.

Hagrid gave a small, sheepish chuckle. "They made an exception for me. Told 'em I weren't leavin'. Might've scared 'em a bit, if I'm honest," he added, with a wink that didn't quite hide the glimmer in his eyes.

Despite everything, Harry found himself smiling faintly. Trust Hagrid to be stubborn, even with hospital staff.

But the smile slipped from his face the moment he noticed the thick white bandages wrapped around Hagrid's arms, the edges peeking out from beneath his sleeves. A cold weight dropped in Harry's stomach.

"Hagrid—what happened?" Harry croaked, trying to sit up again, only to be hit by a fresh wave of dizziness that left him gasping.

Hagrid reached out quickly, one of his great hands pressing Harry gently back against the bed. "Easy now, easy," he said. He let out a sigh then, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, his massive shoulders slumping like all the air had gone out of him.

"Got attacked," he said quietly. "In the cave. Was lookin' fer what yeh needed… didn't reckon on how dangerous it'd gotten. Barely made it out."

Harry stared at him, horrified. Because of me.

If Hagrid had been hurt—if he'd died—because of this reckless quest, Harry didn't know how he would've borne it.

"But—you're alright now, aren't you?" Harry asked, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry—Merlin, I'm so sorry—we never should've dragged you into this—"

"Stop that," Hagrid said firmly, holding up his hand. "None o' this was yer fault, Harry. None of it."

For a moment, it looked like Hagrid might actually cry. His beetle-black eyes shone, his mouth trembled slightly beneath his beard. But he swallowed hard and kept going.

"I'm worried about you, not me," he said, thickly. "Ron and Hermione told me… about yer soul. About the poison. Gave me the fright of my life, I can tell yeh."

He scrubbed at his face roughly with one enormous hand, as though trying to rub the memory away. Then he sat up a little straighter, his voice steadier now. "I got what yeh needed. The tail hair. Gave it straight to Hermione soon as I could. They're already workin' on the potion."

Harry shut his eyes, a surge of relief washing over him—but it didn't last. A prickling unease crept along his skin.

Had Ron and Hermione told Hagrid everything? About the price? About the risk?

"Thank you, Hagrid," he said quietly, meaning it, though the words snagged in his throat. But deep down, something cold twisted inside him.

He wasn't sure any of them really understood what they'd set in motion.

The door creaked open then, slowly, hesitantly, as though even it wasn't sure whether it ought to disturb him. Harry blinked blearily at the sound, lifting his head slightly from the pillow. Light spilled into the ward from the corridor beyond, and in stepped Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Their faces were tight with worry, pale with relief—and perhaps, somewhere beneath it all, a flicker of guilt.

"Harry!" they cried, nearly in unison.

Before Harry could fully sit up, Ginny had crossed the room in three quick strides and flung her arms around him. Pain burst through his ribs, sharp enough to make him hiss—but he didn't care. He clung tightly to her hand, grounding himself in the warmth of her touch, the steady rhythm of her breathing. For the first time since waking, the cold knot of fear inside him began to loosen.

"We couldn't stand it anymore," Ron said, out of breath, as though he'd sprinted the whole way. "Waiting… Merlin, Harry, you won't believe everything that's happened while you were out."

Hermione hovered just behind him, her eyes wide and searching Harry's face like she was afraid he might disappear if she looked away. "How do you feel?" she asked, her voice a little too tight, her worry plain as day.

Harry tried to push himself more upright, but a sharp jolt lanced down his spine and stole his breath. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to grimace too obviously. "The antidote's working," he muttered. "Still feels like I've been flattened by a Bludger, though."

He gave them a faint, crooked smile, hoping it would be enough to ease the knot in their brows.

"Hagrid told me," he added quietly, "about the cave."

Ron fidgeted with the hem of his jumper, his fingers twisting the wool absently—a sure sign he was itching to speak. "Harry… d'you reckon Malfoy was involved?" His voice was careful, but there was a flicker of something else, too—hope, almost, like he wanted Harry to confirm his worst suspicions.

Hermione stood very still, arms folded tightly, her lips pressed into a thin line as she waited for Harry's answer.

Harry swallowed, his throat dry. Part of him was still reeling—from Malfoy's warning, from the attack, from those long, awful hours trapped in the dark with nothing but the sound of his own breathing. His chest ached—not just from the poison, but from something deeper, heavier: the pull on his damaged soul.

"I wanted to talk to you about that," Ron rushed on, unusually serious. "Your opinion—it means everything, mate."

Harry met his eyes and, despite the fog in his head and the dull, constant throb of pain in his body, he knew one thing for certain. "It wasn't Malfoy," he said flatly.

Ron's jaw dropped. "You're joking."

Harry shook his head, ignoring the sharp lurch that sent the room tilting. "He warned me. And I don't think he hurt Hagrid, either. He… he actually helped."

Hermione's brow furrowed, sceptical as ever. "How can you be sure?" she asked carefully, her voice not accusing but wary. "I'm not saying you're wrong, Harry, but… it is Malfoy."

"I know," Harry said, a bit more sharply than he intended. He shifted against the pillows and a flash of pain rocketed through his ribs, stealing his breath. He clung tighter to Ginny's hand. "But he came to the Burrow. Met your dad, Ron. Face-to-face. He didn't have to do that. If he wanted to set me up, he could've done it some other way. Something easier."

Ron folded his arms, his scowl deepening like Harry had just announced he was planning to send Malfoy a Christmas card. "So you trust him now?"

"No." Harry gave a short, humourless laugh. "Trusting Malfoy? That'd be bloody stupid. I'm just saying—he didn't betray me this time. That counts for something."

"But what if he's waiting for a bigger opportunity?" Ron pressed, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. "Maybe he's playing the long game—trying to get close enough to—"

Harry shook his head, cutting him off. "He owed me. He paid his debt. That's it."

Ron looked like he wanted to argue, but Ginny gave Harry's hand a gentle squeeze and spoke instead, her voice soft but steady. "Then… if it wasn't Malfoy, do you think Yaxley's working alone?"

The question hung heavily between them.

Harry parted his lips to answer, but his head throbbed and his thoughts moved sluggishly, as if wading through treacle. He hated this—hated feeling weak, hated not knowing.

Before he could speak, the door banged open with a loud crack, making him flinch and sending a fresh jolt of pain through his ribs.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered under his breath, grimacing.

Kingsley Shacklebolt strode into the room like he owned the place, Percy trailing behind him, looking stiff and oddly uncomfortable. A harassed-looking Healer followed close behind, her expression thunderous.

"What d'you think you're doing?" she snapped, fixing them all with a glare sharp enough to cut stone. "Mr Potter needs rest. Only two visitors at a time—maximum! The rest of you, out!"

Harry blinked at her, half-expecting her to hex them all on the spot.

Kingsley, calm as ever, stepped forward. His low, steady voice sliced through the tension like a blade. "Apologies for the intrusion. But I must speak with Mr Potter and his friends. Immediately."

The Healer opened her mouth, clearly ready to argue, but thought better of it. With a huff loud enough to make her feelings known, she spun on her heel and stormed from the room, her shoes clicking furiously down the corridor.

The world tipped slightly when Harry tried to sit up straighter. A sharp, cold spike of pain shot beneath his ribs, forcing him to grit his teeth to keep from wincing like a child with a scraped knee. Brilliant, he thought. One more thing he couldn't control.

"Harry Potter," Kingsley said, his deep voice slicing cleanly through the room like a wand through mist. "Apologies for the intrusion, but Percy here informed me of the situation at once."

Harry turned his head slowly, careful not to set off another dizzy spell. Percy stood ramrod straight beside Kingsley, looking like he'd swallowed a broomstick. He probably thought he was being heroic. Across the room, Ron was rolling his eyes so hard Harry half-wondered if they might actually get stuck. Even now, it was almost funny.

Almost.

"We were just discussing the matter, Minister," Hermione said briskly.

Kingsley offered a brief smile. "Please—call me Kingsley."

The knot of tension in the room eased just a little. Not in Harry, though. The pain still gnawed at him steadily, like a rat chewing its way through the floorboards of his chest.

"Tell me what happened," Kingsley prompted, his voice firm but kind.

Harry stayed quiet, letting Hermione step forward. It wasn't that he didn't want to speak—it was just that he was afraid he might say something ridiculous like Everything's fine and then pass out.

"Draco Malfoy came to the Burrow yesterday," Hermione began, her voice steady, "to see Harry. He… he wanted to repay his life debt from the war. In return, he told him about a cave in Ireland. A cave containing a crucial ingredient to heal Harry's soul."

Harry caught the flicker of disbelief on Ron's face and gave him the faintest shrug. Yeah, he didn't get it either. Malfoy showing gratitude was right up there with Voldemort sending Christmas cards.

"We thought it was worth looking into," Hermione went on. "So we sent a letter to Hagrid."

Harry shifted slightly, trying to mask another stab of pain by fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

"And then," Hermione said, swallowing hard, "this morning Percy arrived at the Burrow. Only… we discovered too late that it wasn't really Percy."

Kingsley's expression remained perfectly controlled, but Harry could feel the crackle of restrained anger humming in the air. The memories flashed through him—the poisoned potion, the crushing silence, the sudden, paralysing terror.

"Corban Yaxley," Hermione said quietly, her voice almost a whisper. "He poisoned Harry. He attacked Mr and Mrs Weasley."

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating.

Kingsley's jaw tightened. "Where are Molly and Arthur now?"

"In the next room," Ginny answered at once. Her voice was oddly flat, stretched too thin. "They're still unconscious, but the Healers are with them."

Harry forced himself to meet her eyes. He hated the guilt he saw there. Hated knowing that all of this, in the end, circled back to him—to the poisoned, broken thing he had become.

"And when you say you discovered too late that Percy was an impostor?" Kingsley asked Hermione, his tone still gentle but with an edge of urgency.

Hermione's composure cracked like thin ice. "When Harry started getting worse, Yaxley—the impostor—asked me what was wrong. And I…" She dashed quickly at her eyes, blinking furiously. "I told him everything. About Harry's condition. About how it started."

Harry didn't even pause. "It's not your fault," he said roughly. "None of us knew it wasn't the real Percy."

"But he could use that information against you, Harry!" Hermione burst out, her voice trembling. "I told him everything."

Ron, still standing close beside her, gave her shoulder a firm squeeze. "We were all fooled. Hermione, come on—it's Yaxley. He could've tricked anyone."

A part of Harry wanted to believe that. Another part—the part that had lived through too many betrayals—whispered that maybe he'd just become too easy to hurt these days. Maybe he always had been.

The ache was rising now, curling into his throat. He coughed into his hand, hoping no one noticed.

"I'll see to it that Yaxley's locked up the moment we find him," Kingsley said grimly. "The Aurors are already searching."

Harry wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or just… bone-tired. Probably both.

Kingsley turned to Percy. "Did you notice anything unusual before you were attacked?"

Percy straightened like a soldier on parade. "No, sir. I… I heard a faint voice. Then—nothing. I woke up in hospital."

Harry almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But the pounding behind his eyes was making him far too irritable for sympathy just now.

Kingsley's frown deepened. "It sounds like Yaxley planned this carefully. Was he there when you received the letter from Hagrid?"

Ron and Ginny exchanged a glance, then both nodded grimly. "Yes," they said in unison.

"Then how did he find out?" Kingsley asked, his voice low.

Hermione picked up the thread. "Ron sent the letter the same night Malfoy told us about the cave. But Hagrid said later the owl looked battered when it arrived."

"Aye," Hagrid rumbled from his seat, awkwardly perched on the too-small chair. "Looked like it'd flown through a battlefield."

Harry winced—half at the memory, half at the fresh spike of pain twisting in his gut. Brilliant. Now even the owls were getting battered because of him.

"They must have intercepted the letter," Hermione finished, her voice shaking. "That's how they knew."

Kingsley nodded slowly. "And if they knew about the cave, they likely knew about the Burrow too."

A cold thread slipped down Harry's spine. Nowhere was safe anymore. Not the Burrow. Not home.

Kingsley turned back to Percy, his face all business. "You'll recheck every single enchantment around the Burrow. Walls, fireplaces, windows—the lot. If Yaxley got in, it means the protections are weakening."

Percy straightened even further—if that was physically possible. "Yes, sir!" he said briskly, as though he were preparing to charge into battle.

Harry leaned his head back and closed his eyes briefly. His body ached like an old, cracked broomstick, and the room was tilting just enough to make his stomach churn.

Kingsley's gaze shifted restlessly, as if every corner of the ward held some hidden danger.

"As for Draco Malfoy," Kingsley said, his voice rough as stone grinding on stone, "I have my doubts. He's being watched, of course, but we'd be fools to dismiss the possibility. Tell me, Harry—do you think Draco could be working with Yaxley?"

Harry let out a slow, weary breath. His hand drifted up, fingers threading absently through the tangle of his hair. He was so bloody tired of all the suspicion—of being asked to weigh people's worth like some final judge.

He wanted to say it was impossible, but the words caught in his throat.

Too many betrayals still sat raw beneath his skin.

"I know how it sounds," Harry said at last, his voice ragged. "But no. I don't think he would. Malfoy's many things, but he's not an idiot." His chest tightened painfully. "He came to me because he owed me. He wouldn't spit on that debt—not now. Not when it's the only thing keeping his family afloat."

Kingsley's steady gaze didn't waver. He was watching Harry carefully, weighing him.

"Your instincts haven't failed you yet, Harry," he said slowly. "But we'll stay cautious."

Harry gave a low, bitter laugh under his breath.

Instincts. Right. His so-called instincts had got plenty of people killed already. Cedric. Sirius. Dumbledore. He shoved the thought aside before it could sink its claws in too deep.

"The Malfoys know exactly how fragile their position is," Harry said, more firmly this time. He needed them to understand—needed to believe it himself. "They wouldn't risk everything they've managed to hang onto for another snatch at power."

Kingsley folded his arms, as though weighing Harry's words like stones in his hands.

"Recklessness has never been the Malfoy way," he agreed. "They move when it's safe to move." His gaze sharpened. "If you're right—if they're truly trying to change—would you stand for them? Would you testify?"

The words landed harder than they ought to have, leaving Harry briefly winded.

Would he? Could he really stand for them—the family who had once stood at Voldemort's side while he himself had bled and broken under their indifference?

He could feel every gaze in the room settle on him, heavy as iron chains. They still looked at him like he had the answers. As though surviving meant he knew something they didn't.

But Harry didn't feel wise. He didn't feel strong.

He just felt hollow. And tired. And so, so old.

Still, he straightened his back, forcing himself to meet Kingsley's steady gaze.

Because if he didn't believe in second chances, what had all of this been for?

"I'll do it," Harry said quietly. "I'll testify."

Kingsley's mouth pressed into a thin line, unreadable, but he gave a small, deliberate nod.

Harry drew in a breath, deep and ragged, and let the memories unfurl inside him, raw as an open wound.

"During the Battle of Hogwarts," he began, voice low and rough-edged, "Voldemort had me at his feet. I thought I was going to die. Maybe, by then, part of me wanted to." His throat tightened, but he forced himself on. "It was Narcissa Malfoy who saved me. She lied. Risked everything—just to find out if her son was alive."

The truth hung there, sharp and terrible.

Because, in the end, it hadn't been some grand act of heroism that saved him. It had been a mother's fear.

"She didn't do it for me. She didn't even do it because it was right. She did it because she loved her son more than she feared Voldemort." He let out a short, humourless laugh. "Love. That stupid, human thing Voldemort never understood. And it cost him everything."

Across the room, Harry caught Hermione's eye. She gave him the smallest, tightest nod, and he held onto it like a lifeline.

"After the battle," Harry went on, his voice steadier now, "the Malfoys didn't stay to fight. They didn't try to reclaim what was lost. They just searched for their son. They walked away. From all of it."

The silence in the room was thick, stifling.

Harry could feel it pressing against him, whispering that he was wrong, that things weren't so simple, that maybe the Malfoys didn't deserve forgiveness.

But he also remembered lying on the forest floor, half-dead, and feeling Narcissa's fingers tremble against his chest. He remembered the way she had whispered, "Is he alive? Is my son alive?"—and how desperately she had needed the answer.

"They chose their family over the war," Harry finished quietly. "That has to count for something."

For a long moment, nobody moved. Harry could hear the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

At last, Kingsley exhaled slowly.

"Thank you, Harry," he said, his voice gentler now. "You've given me much to consider. Your experiences… they carry a weight none of us can afford to ignore."

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

"In light of your testimony, I will recommend mercy. No Azkaban." He lifted a hand to cut off any argument. "But there will still be consequences. They will answer for what they've done. Justice demands it."

Harry nodded, the knot in his chest loosening—but only a little.

There was no triumph. No satisfaction. Only that familiar, bitter ache—that understanding that in this broken, bleeding world, no choice would ever feel clean again.

"I thought you'd say that," Harry said, managing a tired, lopsided smile. "You're not nearly reckless enough to let me make all the decisions."

Kingsley let out a quiet chuckle, and the tension in the room eased—though not completely.

Harry lay there a moment longer, breathing in the heavy air, feeling the dull throb of old scars beneath his skin.

Another small victory, perhaps.

But the war inside him hadn't ended.

"It's not often we get the chance for a proper conversation, Harry," Kingsley said, a rare, soft smile tugging at his mouth as he reached into the depths of his pocket. His movements were slow, careful, as though he were handing over something dangerous rather than precious.

"Here. This is the stone fragment you'll need for your potion."

Harry blinked, caught off guard. For a moment he just stared at the pouch resting in Kingsley's outstretched hand, half-convinced this must be some sort of test he was about to fail spectacularly.

Then he took it, the faint, steady warmth of the stone bleeding through the fabric, grounding him. He curled his fingers tightly around it, almost afraid it might vanish if he let go.

"I didn't think you'd have it so soon," Harry said, his voice a little hoarse. He shoved the pouch deep into his pocket, as though it were something precious—or fragile. "Thanks, Kingsley. Really."

"Any time, Harry," Kingsley replied, his voice carrying that quiet, steady encouragement that somehow made Harry feel both seen and deeply uncomfortable.

He wasn't used to people giving him things anymore—not without asking for something in return.

"I look forward to seeing you at Auror Headquarters," Kingsley went on, his tone shifting—firmer now, with an edge of expectation. "Putting your skills to good use. It's time the Ministry saw what you're really capable of."

Harry opened his mouth to answer—to protest, maybe—but Hermione got there first.

"Absolutely!" she said brightly, practically bouncing on her toes. "Harry's more than ready. Honestly, Minister, he ought to be the next Head of the Auror Department."

Harry's face burned so quickly he was sure he might catch fire on the spot. He shot Hermione a look of wide-eyed betrayal, but she only grinned at him, thoroughly unrepentant.

Kingsley chuckled, clearly enjoying himself, and nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, Miss Granger," he said, with a spark of humour. "I think you may be onto something. Mr Potter—my office. One week from today. Don't be late."

Harry sat there, stunned, feeling as though someone had just casually dropped a boulder on his head and then patted him cheerfully on the back.

He managed a weak smile, mostly because Kingsley was still watching him.

"Yeah," Harry said, his voice cracking embarrassingly. "Of course. Wouldn't dream of it."

Kingsley's deep laugh rumbled in his chest as he clapped Harry on the shoulder and turned to leave, his cloak sweeping behind him as though he were somehow immune to the usual chaos of the world.

As soon as the door shut, Ron threw up his hands in mock outrage.

"Well, that's brilliant, isn't it?" Ron said loudly, half-laughing, half-grumbling. "You don't even have to apply for a job, and I'm stuck filling out applications like some sort of Muggle post boy. Honestly, Harry—just hire me as your assistant. I'll even make your tea."

A ripple of laughter swept through the room, the tension breaking—if only for a moment. Even Harry laughed, though the sound rasped out of him like it had to claw its way free.

It was strange, how life could still offer up these odd, bright moments—small sparks of normality in a world still stitched together with grief.

But of course, reality was never far behind.

The Healer swept back into the ward, her robes snapping furiously behind her, her scowl dark enough to frighten a mountain troll.

"This boy needs REST, for Merlin's sake!" she thundered, her voice ringing out like a hundred howlers all at once. "OUT! All of you—OUT!"

There was hurried muttering and a good deal of reluctant shuffling as everyone scrambled for the exit, no one keen to be hexed for loitering. Even Hagrid—all seven feet of stubbornness—gave a guilty little shrug and lumbered out, throwing Harry one last, worried glance that seemed to weigh a tonne.

And then, just like that, Harry was alone.

The room felt far too big without the noise. Too empty.

He shifted slightly on the bed, wincing as the sharp, familiar pain stabbed through his side. It had been lurking under the surface all along, waiting for the quiet to strike.

He lay back, staring up at the ceiling, the stone fragment warm against his leg through his pocket.

It was a small comfort, but not enough to drown out the deep, settled ache in his bones—the ache of everything he had won, and everything he had lost along the way.

Victory didn't feel much like victory when you were the one left to carry it.