Chapter 15

The next morning slammed into Harry like a curse he hadn't seen coming.

Blinding white light pierced his eyelids, and pain—thick and deep—pulled at every inch of him. He floated, helpless, on the edge of waking, every heartbeat a dull hammer to the back of his skull.

For a terrifying second, he didn't know where he was. Or why he hurt.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe if he just stayed still, he could drift back into the dark, forget this…

Forget whatever had happened—

A gentle touch landed on the bridge of his nose—soft, careful—and something in his chest gave a weak, fluttering jolt. Familiar. Safe.

"Harry, are you alright?"

The voice cracked through the fog like a whip.

Hermione. Hermione was here.

Dragging in a shallow breath, Harry forced his heavy eyelids open. The world blurred and swam before sharpening just enough to make out Hermione's anxious face, her brow furrowed so tightly it looked painful. Behind her, Ron hovered, shifting from foot to foot, his expression twisted into something Harry couldn't read—fear? Guilt? Panic?

Neville stood further back, his hands wringing together, looking like he might bolt at the slightest noise.

Harry tried to sit up—

A mistake.

Pain slammed into him, hot and ruthless, forcing a gasp from his cracked lips. He sagged back into the bed, blinking against the pounding in his head.

"Neville," he croaked, voice barely more than a raw scrape. His throat burnt.

Just saying the name dragged loose a memory—the sneer of Yaxley, the slow, sickening burn spreading through his veins—the knowledge he was dying and could do absolutely nothing about it.

"I didn't know you were here till this morning," Neville said hurriedly, stepping forward, clutching something to his chest. "Gran found out first—she… she showed me this."

He thrust out a Witch Weekly magazine. Harry squinted blearily at the cover.

There he was—limp in Hagrid's arms—being carried into the hospital like some broken doll.

Above the photo, huge letters screamed:

THE BOY WHO DISAPPEARED—SPOTTED AT ST. MUNGO'S!

Heat flushed up Harry's neck—shame, anger, and helplessness—all tangled together until he didn't know what he was feeling anymore.

"Rita Skeeter," he muttered, throat thick with hatred.

"You should see what she wrote," Hermione burst out, voice shrill. "Honestly, if I had her here, I'd… I'd—"

"Turn her into a beetle again?" Harry rasped, managing a twisted half-smile.

Hermione gave a weak huff of laughter—more a release of tension than anything. Even Ron cracked a smile, though it looked painful.

Neville's gaze flitted anxiously between them.

"What happened, Harry?" he asked, almost whispering.

"You… you looked dead in the photo. I… I wasn't sure it was real."

Harry closed his eyes, gathering the strength to answer. The memory of poison boiling through his blood clamped down around his lungs again, squeezing tight.

"Poisoned," he said at last.

The word hung in the air, cold and final.

"P-poisoned?" Neville stammered, his voice hitching up into a squeak.

Harry cracked one eye open to see Neville staggering back a step, almost dropping the magazine.

"It wasn't some random bloke either," Ron growled. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Someone pretending to be one of my brothers. Someone who knew Harry would trust him."

Neville swallowed hard. "Who?"

"Corban Yaxley," Ron spat, his voice low and dangerous.

Harry's stomach twisted. Even hearing the name made him feel like something slimy was crawling under his skin.

Neville's face drained of colour.

"Wasn't he—wasn't he the Death Eater from the Astronomy Tower? The one you—"

He cut off awkwardly, glancing nervously at Harry, as if afraid the memory itself might wound him.

"Yes," Hermione said, her voice steely. "Harry caught him. He was supposed to rot in Azkaban. But he escaped. And Voldemort gave him a Ministry job."

Ron's mouth twisted. "One of the worst of the lot."

Harry tried to shift, to sit up properly, but the pain nailed him down again.

He felt trapped. Weak. Useless.

Every second he stayed in this bed, he hated himself a little more.

"We have to be careful," Hermione said sharply, scanning the room like she expected Death Eaters to spring from the walls. "Now that the news is out, Harry's a sitting target."

Neville fidgeted, visibly trembling. "Gran says there's already a crowd outside. Not just reporters either. People shouting. Pushing at the entrance—"

Harry's blood turned to ice.

They were here.

They knew he was vulnerable.

He was bait in a trap he couldn't even run from.

"It's a mixed bunch," Ginny said from the doorway, her voice tight and clipped.

Harry's heart stuttered—Ginny. But the relief was short-lived.

"Some are just gawking," she said. "But some… they don't look friendly."

"Rita Skeeter's article basically said you were dying," Hermione snapped. "In the arms of—quote—'a fierce, beastly-looking man.'"

Harry made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

"Well, she's not wrong about Hagrid," he muttered. The brief flicker of humour died almost instantly under the weight pressing on his chest.

A sudden voice—deep, oily, and loud enough to shake the walls—split the air.

"I know you're afraid to come out."

The blood in Harry's veins turned to ice.

The voice wasn't coming from inside the room—it was everywhere. Coiling around them. Pressing into their ears, into their bones.

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

"Healers," Hermione whispered in horror. "Patients…"

Harry forced his aching neck to turn. Through the open doorway, he saw it—frozen figures, standing stock-still in the corridors. Staring. Unmoving. As if time itself had hiccupped.

They were afraid.

"Death Eaters fought bravely alongside the Dark Lord," the voice continued, silk and steel woven together. "They gave everything. And what did you do, Harry Potter? You destroyed it."

Harry's heart slammed against his ribs so hard he thought they might crack.

Yaxley.

It was Yaxley.

He was here.

He wasn't finished.

And Harry was too broken to even stand.

"Fellow Death Eaters," Yaxley's voice dripped like poison, "we know where the boy is. Let's end it."

The last word—'end'—seemed to snap the spell over the room.

Neville staggered backward. Ron swore violently under his breath. Ginny paled but drew her wand with a hand that barely shook.

Harry lay frozen, terror clawing at his insides.

The room was too small.

The walls were too close.

He couldn't fight. He couldn't run. He couldn't do anything—

I'm going to die here.

The thought ripped through him so suddenly, so violently, that for a second he couldn't breathe.

Outside the windows, shouting erupted—a rising tide of chaos.

"Bloody hell!" Ron shouted, pressing his face to the window.

His voice cracked like a whip through the tense room, making Harry jolt.

"The crowd's doubled! They're practically swarming the steps!"

Harry's heart stumbled against his ribs.

The pressure outside seemed to leak into the room, seeping through the walls, thick and suffocating.

"They're trying to break into the hospital lobby!" Neville blurted, his voice high and brittle. His wide eyes darted to Harry, as if checking he was still breathing.

Every part of Harry screamed to move, to run, but his body was useless—heavy, burning, pinned down by pain like a moth on a card.

"This was the plan," Ginny said, stepping forward. Her voice was taut, like a wire stretched too thin. "Yaxley wanted to force Harry into the open. Make him vulnerable."

Harry caught her gaze—bright, fierce—but saw the fear underneath.

She was scared.

They all were.

And it was because of him.

"You have to get out of here," Neville said sharply, urgency sharpening his usually soft voice. "Now, Harry!"

Harry tried to sit up again—a useless, pathetic lurch—and immediately regretted it. Pain sliced through him, white-hot and brutal, stealing his breath.

The noise outside swelled, a rising roar of voices—angry, eager, desperate.

He could almost feel them—hands reaching for him, claws scratching at the walls.

"Back to the Burrow?" Ron asked, turning to Hermione in panic. His hands were in his hair, tugging hard like he could physically pull an idea out of his skull.

"No," Ginny cut in quickly. She shook her head, red hair flying. "It's not safe. Percy and Kingsley haven't finished strengthening the wards. It's half-exposed. If we go there, we're just handing Harry over."

"Then where?" Ron snapped, voice cracking. "Where else do we bloody go?!"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think—but everything inside him was slippery, too fast, too loud.

The pain.

The fear.

The crowd.

Yaxley.

He was drowning in it.

Hermione, who had been pacing in small, frantic circles, stopped suddenly.

"Shell Cottage," she said, breathless. "We could go to Bill and Fleur's."

Ron's face lit up like she'd just handed him a map out of a maze.

"Yeah! Shell Cottage! Safe. Protected. They won't mind—Bill'll understand."

"But how do we get there?" Ginny asked, already glancing worriedly at Harry like she was checking if he might dissolve into smoke at any second.

"Portkey," Ron said immediately. "There's a spare one at the Burrow. Dad keeps it in the shed for emergencies."

Harry blinked hard, trying to keep up, but the world was tilting again, the voices stretching out, distant and echoey.

Stay awake.

Stay awake.

"I'll go," Ron said, already moving toward the door. "Hermione, come with me."

Ginny squared her shoulders, wand tight in her hand. "Neville and I will stay here with Harry."

Neville gave a jerky nod, looking about as terrified as Harry felt, but standing his ground.

"I'll tell Mum and Dad," Ginny added, biting her lip. "Maybe Percy can help keep them safe."

Their voices blurred together after that, a rushing tide of words Harry could barely catch.

Footsteps pounded away down the hall.

Then—silence.

The quiet pressed in harder than the noise had.

Harry stared up at the ceiling, his body trembling with every shallow, painful breath. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to grow, lengthening, creeping toward him.

Beside him, Neville shifted awkwardly, trying to look brave but failing miserably.

Harry wanted to say something—a joke, maybe—to lighten the choking fear in the room.

But all that came out was a ragged gasp.

The minutes dragged on.

The world blurred.

The pain ate away at the edges of him.

Then—a creak.

The door.

Harry's heart exploded in his chest.

Neville spun around, wand raised.

Harry's hand twitched helplessly toward the nightstand—toward where he thought his wand might be—but it might as well have been a mile away.

Through the door burst Ginny—and behind her, towering and wild-eyed, Hagrid.

Relief slammed into Harry so hard it almost knocked him unconscious.

But then the real pain hit.

Not the dull, constant throb he'd been enduring—something worse.

Something sharp and immediate and wrong.

It started in his chest, spiralling out through his limbs like wildfire.

A scream tore itself from his throat before he even realised he was making a sound.

The room pitched sideways.

He clutched at the bed sheets, gasping, drowning, as the world fragmented around him.

Ginny's face paled to pure white, her eyes huge with horror.

"Oh, Harry—no—not now—" she cried, reaching for him, but her voice shattered under the sound of his own screams.

Hagrid's shout of alarm rumbled somewhere in the background, distant and broken.

Harry barely saw them.

Barely felt them.

He was falling, spiralling down into a chasm of pain so deep and dark he couldn't find the bottom.

The last thing he registered was Ginny's hand grabbing his, small and trembling, before everything went black.

Somewhere through the thick fog of his mind, voices reached him—distant and blurred. Familiar. Ron's panic, Hermione's fierce determination. He wanted to reach out to them, to anchor himself to the sound, but the pain dragged him deeper. It wrapped around him like Devil's Snare, tightening every time he struggled.

The scent of salt hung in the air, sharp and cold. Waves crashing nearby. The sickly stink of sweat and fear clung to him, making him gag. His body convulsed, and he barely noticed the rough pull of a Portkey until he was hurtling through space again—torn from one nightmare and thrown headfirst into another.

He landed hard, the breath knocked out of him. The dirt beneath his fingers was damp and gritty. He clung to it anyway, clawing at the ground as if he could stop himself from slipping any further.

He was losing himself. Piece by piece. I can't—he thought, but the words broke apart before he could finish.

A fresh wave of nausea hit. He turned his head just in time to vomit, the taste of bile burning his throat. His whole body was shaking now, helpless against the sickness wracking him.

"Harry!"

A voice, sharp and desperate, cut through the haze—Ginny's.

Ginny…

He tried to lift his head toward her, but the world was a spinning blur. Her hands were on him a moment later, trembling against his skin. She was speaking—he could feel her breath on his face—but the words were lost, too soft, too far away.

Other hands joined hers—many hands. Lifting him. Holding him. Harry barely noticed who it was. Just the pressure of their touch, the way they refused to let go.

He thought dimly of the night Dumbledore had died, how they had all gathered around him after, refusing to let him be alone. How, even then, he hadn't known how to accept their comfort.

Even now, he wasn't sure he deserved it.

"Get him inside! Quickly!" Bill's voice, firm but strained, snapped through the chaos.

They half-dragged, half-carried him into Shell Cottage, the warm light inside blinding against the blackness behind his eyes. They set him down on the nearest couch. The cushions were soft, but Harry's body only registered the wrongness—the foreignness—of comfort when every part of him was screaming.

He lay there, gasping, every muscle trembling, while the world spun and tilted around him.

Bill was leaning over him, his face tight with fear. It was strange—Bill, who had always seemed unshakeable, now looking like he might shatter at any moment.

"What happened?" Bill demanded, his voice almost lost under the sound of Harry's rattling breaths.

Ron hesitated. Harry could feel the tension in the room spike. Could feel the way everyone waited for someone else to say it first.

"He's very ill," Ron said at last, his voice low and shaking.

Harry heard it like an accusation. Like a sentence.

Ron's next words, when they came, were even worse.

"He's dying."

Harry closed his eyes. It shouldn't have hit him so hard—he had been dying for weeks now, hadn't he? Ever since Voldemort's soul had marked him. Death had been a constant companion, sitting beside him, breathing down his neck.

But hearing it spoken aloud—he's dying—made it real in a way even the worst battles hadn't.

No, Harry thought fiercely, some stubborn part of him refusing to let go. No, I'm not finished yet.

He tried to move, tried to tell them, but his body refused to obey. Even his own limbs felt foreign, heavy, locked in the grip of something far stronger than himself.

Bill's voice cut in, sharp and terrified. "What do you mean, dying? What happened to him?"

Harry could hear the unspoken words underneath it: You were supposed to protect him. How did you let this happen?

There was a long, terrible pause. Harry knew Ron was trying to find the right words. Knew there were none.

"It's—" Ron said finally, his voice breaking. "It just—he just started getting worse. After… after everything. After Voldemort—" His voice cracked, and he had to stop.

Harry wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault. That it wasn't anyone's fault. But the words stayed trapped behind his teeth, a silent scream.

"Ron, help me!" Hermione's voice pulled them back to the moment, fierce with urgency. She was kneeling beside Harry, trying to force a small vial between his lips.

"He's thrashing too much—I can't get him to drink it!" she said, voice rising with panic.

Harry heard Ron scramble forward and felt strong hands pinning his shoulders down. Another set of hands—Bill's—held his legs still.

"Easy, Harry," Ron said, low and urgent. "We're right here. Just hold on, mate. Hold on."

Hold on, Harry thought bitterly. I've been holding on for so long.

The potion touched his lips, bitter and burning. Instinct screamed at him to resist, but somewhere beneath the pain, a shred of trust surfaced. He forced himself to swallow.

It felt like swallowing fire. But after a moment—one terrible, endless moment—something shifted. The pain didn't vanish, but it dulled, like a storm passing just a little further out to sea. His limbs stopped thrashing. His breathing slowed from frantic gasps to shallow, painful pulls.

A small, broken sound escaped his throat—not a cry this time, but something closer to a sob of relief.

Hermione's hands eased their grip, trembling with spent fear. Ron didn't move away, keeping a firm hand on Harry's arm like he was afraid Harry might slip away the moment he let go.

"Stay with us, Harry," Bill said again, softer now. His voice sounded rough, like he was fighting back tears. "Please."

Harry forced his eyes open, blinking hard against the brightness. Faces swam into focus—Ginny, pale and tear-streaked; Hermione, biting her lip so hard it looked like it might bleed; Ron, staring at him like he might disappear if he blinked.

I'm still here, Harry thought, with a kind of wonder. I'm still fighting.

But somewhere, deep inside, he knew it was a fragile thing. A candle flickering against the wind.

He could still feel the dark tide tugging at him, just at the edges of his mind. Waiting.

You can't stay, it whispered. You've done enough. Just let go.

Harry closed his eyes again, blocking out the voices, the faces, and the fear. For one moment, he let himself remember simpler things—riding on his Firebolt high above the Quidditch pitch, the wind in his hair. Ron laughing so hard he fell off his chair in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione's triumphant smile when she solved a problem no one else could.

Ginny's hand in his, warm and steady.

Those memories were the lifeline he needed.

Not yet, he thought, gripping them fiercely. Not yet.

The room buzzed around him—whispers, spells murmured, the clink of vials and glasses. But Harry drifted on the edges of it all, suspended between waking and sleep, life and death.

For now, at least, he had chosen to stay.

And for now, that was enough.

The fragile calm inside Shell Cottage shattered without warning.

A silver glow burst through the air like a sword drawn in silence. Harry stirred against the couch, instincts twitching before he even knew why.

The light shaped itself into a massive lynx—graceful, powerful, almost otherworldly. It glided across the room, casting soft, eerie shadows that danced along the walls.

The lynx touched down, its paws so light it barely seemed to disturb the air. For a moment it hovered, shimmering, then opened its mouth.

Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice filled the room, deep and steady—but even that strength couldn't hide the heavy urgency underneath.

"I am aware of the incident. Seek immediate shelter. Please contact me whenever possible."

The message ended, and the lynx dissolved into nothing, leaving behind a hush that seemed even heavier than before.

For a few heartbeats, no one moved.

The words lingered in the air like smoke.

Harry, still half-crushed by pain, felt his heart jolt painfully in his chest. He wanted to sit up—to ask what incident Kingsley meant—but his body refused to obey. His thoughts tumbled helplessly instead, chasing after the fear that rose up inside him like a tide.

Bill was the first to speak, breaking the frozen silence.

"Why would Kingsley send word here?" He said, frowning so deeply. "What does he mean by 'aware of the incident'?"

His voice was tight and uncertain, and Harry could hear it—the thin, breaking thread of fear stretched between them all.

He caught Hermione's eyes as she glanced at Ron, silent conversation passing between them. Harry could almost feel the tension vibrating off them. He knew that look.

They're hiding something.

Hermione drew in a slow, shaking breath. Harry watched her steel herself, the way she always did before walking into a battle she couldn't win cleanly.

"It's about Harry," she said finally, voice trembling only slightly. "And your parents."

Bill's face went completely still—too still.

"They were attacked at the Burrow yesterday," Hermione continued, the words falling heavy into the room. "Yaxley poisoned Harry… and stunned your mum and dad."

The news hit like a slap.

Harry flinched without meaning to, shame curling hot and sick inside him. Because of me. Always because of me.

Bill's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His mouth opened, but no words came out for a moment. Then—hoarse, almost childlike:

"Are they in the hospital?"

"Percy and Hagrid are with them," Ginny said quickly, her voice steady but her hands trembling where they gripped the back of a chair. "We had to leave in a hurry. We used a Portkey to get here."

Bill looked like he couldn't breathe. "But why did you leave?" he asked, his voice rising slightly with confusion—and something more. Fear, Harry thought. He's scared to know.

"There was an attack at St Mungo's—" Ron blurted out, words tumbling over each other.

"No," Hermione cut in sharply, her voice slicing through Ron's panic. "It wasn't an attack. It was a trap."

Harry watched her fight to stay calm, every word costing her something.

"Yaxley used an amplifying charm. He lured out anyone hiding and broadcast Harry's location across the wizarding world," Hermione said grimly. "Now people are reacting—some want him dead, some want answers. None of them are safe."

Silence gripped the room again, this time colder, heavier.

Harry could feel it in his bones—the way their world had tilted once again, just when they'd found a foothold.

Bill ran a hand through his hair, looking dazed. "What about Kingsley? What's he doing in all this?"

"He gave us something we needed," Hermione said, voice low. "A fragment from the Veil in the Department of Mysteries."

Bill's brow furrowed deeper. "He had access to that?"

Hermione nodded, tapping her pocket, where the small pouch containing the Veil fragment lay hidden against her side. "He brought it to the hospital after he heard about the Burrow."

"And Mum and Dad?" Bill asked again, voice cracking slightly.

Ginny stepped closer, her face softening. "They're holding up," she said. "Shaken, but alive. They said they'd come when they could."

Bill let out a slow, shuddering breath, like a man trying to hold himself together with nothing but sheer will.

Before anyone could say more, a raw, broken noise escaped Harry. A wave of pain smashed through him again, fierce and sudden.

He buried his face into the couch cushion, trying to muffle the sound—but he couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stop the feeling that his body was tearing itself apart from the inside out.

Ginny was by his side in a heartbeat, her hand clutching his, desperate to anchor him.

Harry gripped her back weakly, terrified of how cold his own skin felt against hers.

Bill turned sharply. "What's happening to him?" he demanded. "The potion was supposed to help—why isn't it working?"

Hermione was already at Harry's side too, her wand flashing, her hands steady even though her face had gone pale.

"It's complicated," she said quietly. "The potion sometimes works. Sometimes it doesn't. It depends on…" She hesitated, glancing at Harry.

"On what?" Bill snapped.

Hermione's voice softened, almost breaking. "On whether his soul can accept the healing."

The words hung there, heavy and awful.

Bill stared at her like she'd spoken in another language. "How can his soul be damaged?"

Hermione bit her lip, visibly gathering her strength.

Then—so softly it was almost a whisper—she said,

"It was Voldemort."

Harry flinched again, a tremor he couldn't control. Always Voldemort. Always.

Hermione's hands were twisting in the hem of her jumper, a nervous habit Harry remembered from school.

"When we first came here," she said, her voice shaking but determined, "we were looking for Horcruxes."

Bill's face was blank. "Horcruxes?" he echoed.

Harry closed his eyes, nausea and guilt roiling inside him like a storm.

Hermione nodded. "Voldemort split his soul—ripped it apart—and hid the pieces in objects to try to live forever."

Bill reeled back a step, horror dawning slowly across his features.

Harry turned his head away, staring into the shadows.

If they knew what I had carried… if they knew what I had been…

He squeezed his eyes shut against the guilt burning inside him.

But Ginny's hand was still wrapped around his, steady and sure.

And somehow, even with the darkness pressing in, Harry held on.

"Don't worry," Ron said quickly, trying to summon a confidence he clearly didn't feel.

Harry could hear it—the slight hitch in Ron's voice, the way his hand twitched against the couch cushion.

"It took us a while to understand, too," Ron added, forcing a half-smile that fell flat. "When Harry first explained it… it felt like everything we thought we knew just fell apart."

Harry's heart twisted painfully.

I never wanted them to carry this burden.

But there had been no choice—not when the truth had clawed its way out of him, raw and bloody, desperate for someone else to help bear it.

Ginny drew a slow breath and leaned in, her voice steady but thick with emotion.

"Harry's been in contact with Professor Slughorn," she said, glancing briefly at Harry before continuing. "That's how he learnt about the damage to his soul. And about… the chance to heal it."

She spoke plainly, but Harry heard the fear buried in her words and felt it thread through her like a barely restrained scream.

They're scared for me, he realised, the thought both a comfort and a knife in his chest.

Bill frowned, his arms crossed tight over his chest. "Has he… found a solution?"

For a second, the only sound in the room was the wind rattling the cottage windows. Then Hermione straightened her spine, her voice crisp with determination.

"Yes," she said and pulled her beaded bag into her lap.

She rummaged for a moment, then drew out a thick, ancient-looking book.

Its cover gleamed with an intricate design—silver and pearl swirling together like mist frozen in time.

Even from where Harry lay, he could feel the quiet hum of magic radiating off it.

"Everything about soul repair—the process, the potion—it's all in here," Hermione explained.

She held the book out carefully, almost reverently, and Bill accepted it with a strange sort of hesitation, as if it might crumble to dust in his hands.

Bill turned it over slowly, studying the cover with a furrowed brow. "Was this Professor Slughorn's?" he asked, his voice low.

"No," Hermione said, her fingers tightening around the edge of her chair. "It was stored in Professor Dumbledore's office. Professor Slughorn couldn't break the enchantment Professor Dumbledore placed on it. It's why this information stayed hidden so long."

Bill's frown deepened. "An enchantment?" he repeated. "Why would Dumbledore go to such lengths to hide a book about… healing?"

"It's not just about healing," Hermione said, her voice dipping lower.

"It's about the fragmentation of the soul itself."

Bill stared at her, confusion shifting into something darker—wariness, maybe.

Ron shifted uncomfortably, tossing in, "I wondered the same thing when we first heard."

"But why hide it?" Bill pressed, his voice climbing slightly. "If it's knowledge that could save lives?"

Harry stared up at the ceiling, his vision swimming slightly.

He remembered standing in Dumbledore's office, the way the headmaster's eyes had always seemed to know more than he said.

Dumbledore knew… he knew what I would become. What Voldemort had already made me.

Hermione's mouth thinned. "Because most of the book isn't about healing. It's about how to break a soul. How to make a Horcrux."

A sharp silence cut through the room.

Bill recoiled slightly, as if the book itself had burnt him.

"Horcruxes," he muttered, half to himself. "Unheard of. It's… It's something dark wizards whisper about, not something real…"

It's real, Harry thought grimly.

Real enough that part of Voldemort's soul had once lived inside him like a parasite, leeching off his life, poisoning his mind.

Bill's expression crumpled in disbelief. "But… Dumbledore. He would've known. If he had this book, if he understood what it meant—"

"We think he did know," Hermione said quietly, her eyes meeting Bill's across the dim room.

"But maybe he hoped it wouldn't come to this. That Harry wouldn't need it."

Or maybe he just didn't have the heart to tell me what I really was, Harry thought bitterly.

A vessel. A mistake.

Bill stared down at the book, his knuckles whitening. "What would he have done if he had lived longer?" he whispered.

The question floated unanswered through the room.

Before the silence could pull them under, Ginny spoke up, her voice quick and bright with false cheer.

"Where's Fleur?" she asked, glancing toward Bill.

The shift was clumsy but necessary.

"She's in France," Bill said after a moment, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Visiting her parents for a few weeks."

Harry let the conversation slip past him like water.

The pain was ebbing slightly now, leaving a heavy, aching exhaustion in its place. He could feel Ginny's thumb stroking over the back of his hand.

"Should we reply to Kingsley?" Ron asked, looking to Bill for guidance.

Bill hesitated, his shoulders sagging as the weight of the last hour seemed to finally catch up to him.

"No," he said softly. "Not yet. Best to settle in first. You lot look like you've been through hell."

With a flick of his wand, goblets filled with butterbeer appeared, floating gently toward each of them.

The rich, warm smell filled the air, wrapping them in something almost like comfort.

They drank quietly, the room sinking into a companionable silence.

Outside, the last light of the sun faded, and the darkness wrapped around Shell Cottage.

When they moved Harry to the guest room—the one Mr. Ollivander had used—he barely had the strength to stand.

Ron and Bill lifted him between them, handling him like something fragile.

Harry hated how helpless he felt—but he was too tired to fight it.

The room was small, but it overlooked the clifftop garden, where a simple grave marker stood against the sea winds.

Dobby's grave.

Harry's chest ached at the sight, but strangely, it calmed him too.

He died free, Harry thought, blinking against the sudden sting of tears.

Ginny tucked the covers around him carefully, her hands lingering for a moment against his forehead. Hermione shut the windows tight against the howling wind, then drew the curtains closed.

"Stay close," Harry whispered, the words sticking in his dry throat.

He didn't even know who he was speaking to—maybe all of them. Maybe just Ginny. Maybe anyone who would listen.

"We'll be here," Ron said at once, his voice warm and certain.

Bill glanced around at the cramped space, looking slightly uncertain. "We've got spare bedrooms upstairs if you need them."

"Thanks," Ron said, straightening a little. "But we're staying here. We need to watch Harry tonight."

There was no room for argument in his voice.

Bill just nodded slowly, his face softening.

"It'll be cramped," he said, with the ghost of a smile.

"We'll manage," Hermione said brightly, even though she looked like she might collapse at any second.

"If necessary, we'll camp out in the living room."

Harry closed his eyes as their voices faded into a low murmur.

Despite the fear still lurking in the corners of his mind, despite the pain and the doubt and the shadows, he wasn't alone.

Draco Malfoy moved through Knockturn Alley like a ghost that had long since given up haunting. The cobblestones were slick with filth, the air clogged with a damp, rancid cold that seemed to gnaw at the bones. Every step sounded too loud, a sharp crack against the suffocating silence. Shadows coiled and twisted at the edge of his vision, laughing at him, whispering his name.

He ignored them. He deserved whatever was coming, didn't he?

The pub was a festering wound in the alley's side, its door sagging drunkenly on its hinges. Draco pushed it open, flinching at the screech it gave, like something being gutted alive. Inside, the world was smaller and darker. A ceiling stained with decades of smoke and worse pressed down on him. The smell hit harder than a fist: rot, desperation, and the slow, greasy death of hope.

Good. It suited him.

No one looked up as he passed. Those who still had something to lose kept their eyes down here. Only the mad stared—and Draco wasn't ready to call himself mad. Not yet.

He found him exactly where he knew he'd be. Yaxley. Slouched in the back, swaddled in shadow like a spider in its web, waiting. The flickering candles caught the white of his hair and the raw red of his eyes. A disguise. He looked like something half-dead, too stubborn to lie down.

Draco slid into the chair across from him without a word. His heart thudded once, heavy and hollow, but he kept his face smooth. Unimpressed. Bored, even.

"Malfoy," Yaxley rasped, voice like a match struck too many times. "Still breathing, then."

"Disappointing, isn't it?" Draco murmured, propping his chin on one hand like he had all the time in the world.

Yaxley's smile was a wound tearing across his face. "How are Mummy and Daddy? Still pretending they're not wearing Ministry collars around their throats?"

Draco let the words wash over him. He'd grown used to swallowing poison without flinching. "Family's fine," he said, deadpan. "Send a card if you're so concerned."

Yaxley gave a low chuckle, but there was no humour in it. "Word is, your lot's cosying up to the blood traitors. Planning to hold hands and sing in the rain, maybe?"

Draco tapped his fingers against the battered table, slow and deliberate. "Careful," he said softly. "You sound jealous."

That got a flash of teeth, but Yaxley leaned back, feigning laziness. His bloodshot eyes never left Draco's face. "And you?" he asked, voice all mockery. "Where do you plant your flag these days, boy?"

A flicker of something ugly crossed Draco's face. It was gone too fast to name, but not fast enough to hide.

"You think I'm stupid enough to tell you?" He said, voice thick with contempt. "You think you matter enough?"

The insult hung between them, poisonous and heavy.

"Maybe you've thrown your lot in with Potter," Yaxley sneered. "Wouldn't that be sweet? Little Draco the Redeemed."

For a heartbeat, Draco forgot how to breathe. The name punched the air out of him, leaving behind nothing but bitterness and spite.

He forced a laugh—sharp and empty. "Potter? Please. I'd sooner drown myself."

Yaxley tilted his head, studying him like a rat trapped in a jar. "Pity. I've already loosened dogs on that overgrown idiot he calls an ally. Big brute, stomping off to some cave in the hills, thinking he's safe."

Draco's stomach twisted, but he let his mouth curl into a slow, poisonous smile. "Charming," he said. "Always were good at kicking the slow ones first."

Yaxley's eyes narrowed to slits. "Watch your tongue."

"And you watch your back," Draco said, voice low and vibrating with fury he barely kept in check. "You'd be dead in a ditch somewhere if not for me. Remember that next time you get the urge to spit in my face."

Yaxley stiffened, his hands curling into fists against the table. The candles trembled in their sconces, the very air between them thickening into something almost solid.

"Your family's marked," Yaxley hissed. "Branded like cattle. The ministry's got you on a leash, and here you are, thinking you can bluff me?"

Draco leaned forward, slow and deliberate, his grey eyes cold enough to burn.

"I know what's wrapped around my throat," he whispered. "Better than you know what's wrapped around yours."

The older wizard sneered, reaching for his wand—but Draco was already standing, arms spread wide in mock surrender.

"Go on," he said. "Check. No tracking spells. No Aurors kicking down the door. Just you and me, Yaxley. Isn't it romantic?"

For a long, tense moment, Yaxley didn't move. Then, slowly, he lowered his hand.

Draco sat down again with a lazy, deliberate flop, stretching his legs like he was at home.

"You need me," he said. "That's what really stings, isn't it? You can't do this without me, and it's killing you inside."

Yaxley didn't answer. Didn't need to. His silence said it all.

Draco smirked and let it stretch slow and cruel across his face, savouring it.

Finally, finally, he was the one holding the blade—and he intended to twist it deep.

"You're overly confident," Yaxley scoffed, his voice rough with disdain, as if spitting a bad taste from his mouth.

Draco tilted his head lazily, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair as if Yaxley's words barely scratched him. His lips curled into a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Perhaps," he said, voice silken with false modesty. "But I play to win, not survive."

Yaxley's eyes narrowed to slits, his expression curdling. "You remind me of Potter," he sneered. "The arrogance. The bravado. The same pathetic conviction that the world owes you something."

Draco's composure cracked, the veneer slipping just long enough for his voice to come out as a hiss, sharp and burning. "Don't you dare compare me to that half-blood." His fists clenched where they rested against his arms. "He's cowardly in his own way."

"Is that what you tell yourself at night?" Yaxley said, low and goading. "That Potter's just another weakling waiting to fall? Pity for you—he keeps winning."

Draco's eyes flashed murderously, but Yaxley only chuckled under his breath, a gravelly, mirthless sound.

"Potter may be brave," Yaxley mused, tapping a filthy fingernail against the table, "but he and his little blood traitor friends… They're soft. Trusting. Stupid enough to leave the doors wide open."

There was a gleam in Yaxley's eye now, the gleam of a man savouring the memory of cruelty dealt and cruelty yet to come.

Draco leaned forward slightly, voice pitched low with something between hunger and loathing. "Tell me how you did it."

Yaxley's mouth twisted into a grin that made Draco's skin crawl.

"Imagine my surprise," Yaxley drawled, "when I overheard that pathetic fool Arthur Weasley in the Ministry Atrium. Rambling on about Potter—loud enough for anyone to hear."

Draco's face hardened, but he said nothing. He shifted, pressing his back against the cracked plaster wall behind him, listening with the cold patience of a snake in tall grass.

Yaxley crossed his arms, his burning gaze drilling into Draco like a hot poker. "They mentioned Potter's movements. His little secrets. And it reminded me of something—something Umbridge left in the records. All those charming notes about the Weasley family. Their connections. Their weaknesses."

His voice dropped lower, thick with malice.

"This was a gift," Yaxley said, almost reverently. "Polyjuice Potion. A single hair from that Ministry lapdog, Percy Weasley. I became him." His grin widened, a grotesque thing. "Rather fitting, don't you think? All it took was a borrowed face and a bit of patience."

Draco swallowed thickly. The ease, the coldness—it should have shocked him. It didn't. Not anymore. It only left a hollow taste in his mouth.

"You breached their defences," Draco said, his voice even, though his nails bit into his palms.

Yaxley laughed, a soft, awful sound. "Breached?" he repeated mockingly. "No, dear boy. I was invited inside."

He leaned forward, the candlelight catching the crags of his face, making him look more corpse than man.

"A simple file left sitting in Percy's office," Yaxley murmured. "Careless. A complete list of fireplace locations tied to the Order of the Phoenix. All I had to do was look interested enough, and the information practically begged for the taking."

Draco's stomach churned, but he kept his features carefully blank.

"And when I saw the owl," Yaxley continued, his voice syrupy with glee, "I knew the game was mine."

Draco arched a brow, masking his revulsion with a sneer. "An owl. How quaint."

"You mock what you don't understand," Yaxley said, lips peeling back from yellowed teeth. "Communication is everything. That letter… spoke of Potter. Spoke of a meeting. A cave. A blind spot."

He sat back, smug, his arms spreading wide as if offering Draco a glimpse of his kingdom of rot.

"You have no idea how helpless he is, stripped of his little network, stripped of his pretty lies."

Draco stared at him, something coiling inside him—something darker than anger, blacker than hatred. He fought to keep his voice steady.

"And Potter now?" he asked. The words came out colder than he intended, each syllable a shard of ice.

"Incapacitated," Yaxley said, the word blooming in his mouth like a flower fed on blood. "A little poison, a little fear. It doesn't take much to bring down a hero."

He laughed—an ugly, broken thing—and Draco barely resisted the urge to flinch.

"You take pleasure in that?" Draco said quietly, though something bitter crawled up his throat.

"Why wouldn't I?" Yaxley shot back, grinning with feral delight. "To watch him squirm, to hear him scream? After all these years of that smug little bastard looking down on the rest of us?"

He threw his arms wide, basking in some imagined applause.

"It's perfect," he said. "Poetic."

Draco's mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. Watching Yaxley gloat was like watching a man drown himself for the sake of theatrics. Pathetic. Predictable.

Without comment, Yaxley reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a battered copy of Witch Weekly. He flipped through the crumpled pages until he found what he was looking for—then slid it across the table with a flick of two fingers.

Draco glanced down.

There, grainy and off-colour, was an image of Harry Potter, half-unconscious, slumped against Hagrid's chest. His skin was sallow, his glasses cracked, and his face slack with sickness.

The headline screamed, The Boy Who Disappeared—Spotted at St. Mungo's.

Draco's lip curled. "I haven't wasted my time reading Skeeter's drivel in years," he said dryly. "Did you hire her yourself, or is she just naturally drawn to wreckage?"

Yaxley chuckled, a low, slithering sound. "I don't need to whisper in her ear. Skeeter's a vulture. She smells the rot all on her own."

He leaned in again, voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur.

"And Potter? He's rotting from the inside out. Just like the rest of them will."

Draco met Yaxley's gaze without blinking, his own eyes cold, unyielding. He said nothing, his throat tightening around words he wasn't sure he wanted to say.

The shadows around him seemed thicker now, pressing in, dragging cold fingers across the back of his neck.

Was this what he had wanted once? Glory? Revenge? The hollow scraps of a crumbling name?

He swallowed hard.

"But Potter is still alive," he muttered at last, the words leaking out like a weakness he couldn't quite dam up. "He's… recuperating at the hospital, right?"

Yaxley gave a lazy shrug, his grin sharp enough to slice skin.

"No," he said simply. "He vanished. Slipped away from St. Mungo's. Admirers, enemies… doesn't really matter. He's a ghost now."

Draco's heartbeat stuttered painfully in his chest.

"You lost him," he said, trying for scorn but only managing something brittle.

Yaxley chuckled, a rich, rotten sound. "We didn't lose anything. We laid a net, and sooner or later, the prey comes crawling back. We have… contingencies."

Draco shifted, a sick dread unfurling in his gut like a slow poison.

"And I'm involved in your little scheme now, am I?" He said, voice low and sharp.

Yaxley's grin widened, a grotesque stretch of teeth and cruelty. He leaned forward, his breath sour against the candlelight between them.

"Yes," he hissed, with a gleam in his eye that Draco hated. "You see the bigger picture now, don't you? This isn't just revenge anymore."

He spread his hands, painting grand illusions in the rank air.

"This is about legacy. Power. Blood reclaiming its rightful place. Your family, Draco. Rising again. Beyond shame. Beyond apology."

Draco stared at him, and for a moment he almost wanted to believe it.

The old dreams. The old pride. But it curdled inside him now, soured by everything he'd seen, everything he knew.

"You think the Malfoy name can be salvaged by dancing on Harry's corpse?" he asked, his voice hoarse with something like despair. "By hitching ourselves to your madness?"

"Isn't that what you've always wanted?" Yaxley said softly, pressing closer. "To make them all kneel again? To make them remember?"

Draco's jaw tightened. His grey eyes, so often cold and unreachable, flickered with something raw before he tore his gaze away.

Slowly, with the mechanical precision of someone pulling a blade from his own ribs, he nodded.

Yaxley sat back, looking unbearably pleased with himself.

"Well done," he said, the praise coating his words like oil slick over filthy water. "You've proven yourself, Draco. A pureblood, through and through. Unlike your… disappointing parents."

The jab landed like a slap.

Draco's head snapped up, rage flashing sharp and bright through the haze.

"Leave them out of this," he said coldly, each syllable honed to a razor's edge.

Yaxley only chuckled, a noise like bones grinding together.

"Ahh, there's that fire," he said, voice dripping with false admiration. "I've missed that. I do wonder, though…"

He leaned in again, his shadow swallowing the candlelight between them.

"Why did you always hesitate back then, Draco? So shy. So reluctant to act."

His voice dropped to a deadly whisper.

"Could it be you were never truly loyal to the Dark Lord?"

The accusation hung in the air, venomous and heavy.

For a moment, Draco couldn't breathe past the weight of it.

His father's stern voice echoed in his mind. His mother's soft pleas.

He bared his teeth in a grimace.

"Do not question my loyalty," he spat, his voice shaking with a fury he couldn't quite contain. "I carried out his wishes. I achieved his expectations. I killed Dumbledore."

The lie burnt his throat raw.

He had never stopped paying for it.

Across the table, Yaxley lounged back, the very picture of smug contempt.

"No, you didn't," he said, almost lazily. "You hesitated. You faltered. You choked, and Snape cleaned up your mess."

He smirked, a wicked, knowing little curl of his lips.

"All you did was sneak a cabinet into Hogwarts and skulk around in the dark like a rat."

Draco's hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms so deeply he thought they might draw blood.

"I don't skulk around," he snarled, the words boiling out of him.

Yaxley only smiled wider, sensing the crack, the weakness, and driving the knife deeper.

"Then prove it," he said softly, his finger jabbing against Draco's chest with slow, deliberate cruelty.

"Prove you're not the coward we all think you are."

For a moment, the world narrowed to that single point of contact, that single insolent shove.

Draco's fury boiled under his skin, dangerous and suffocating. Every instinct screamed at him to lunge, to tear, to burn it all down—

But instead, he forced himself to be still.

Forced himself to listen.

"What's your plan?" He bit out, the words nearly choking him with disgust.

Yaxley's smile thinned into something colder, more calculating.

"Our main goal," he said, almost conversationally, "is to kill Harry Potter. Properly. Publicly. Spectacularly."

Draco's stomach twisted.

"You can't be serious," he said. "You've been chanting that like a mantra for years. You poisoned him—you had him—you could have finished it."

Yaxley waved a hand, dismissive, almost bored.

"Simply killing him would be far too dull," he said. "Where's the art in that? Where's the pain?"

He leaned back in his chair, the firelight catching the cruel gleam in his eyes.

"No, Draco. We're not here to kill Potter. Not yet."

He smiled, slow and terrible.

"We're here to break him."

Draco kept his gaze locked on Yaxley, cold and measured, as if daring the older man to betray something with a twitch or flicker.

But Yaxley was in his element now, basking in the foul glow of his own machinations.

"How do you plan to kill him if you have no idea where he is?" Draco pressed, voice low, slicing through the thickened air between them.

Yaxley merely smirked, a patient serpent waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Before he could respond, the pub's door creaked on its rusted hinges, and two cloaked figures slipped inside—silent as grave dirt.

Draco's eyes flicked toward them immediately, tension rippling through him.

They moved with a precision that set his nerves on edge, gliding toward Yaxley like wraiths summoned by bad decisions.

One bent low and muttered something urgent. Draco caught only shards of it—Weasley house… no sign… Aurors…

The other added, heavier, "It was close. We nearly got caught."

Draco's unease thickened, curdling into something more sour and slippery.

The Burrow. They'd gone after the Weasleys.

It wasn't just Harry who was a target now—it was anyone who had dared to stand near him.

The noose was tightening around necks that had once laughed too loudly and loved too easily.

"What about St. Mungo's?" Yaxley barked, the lazy mask slipping from his face to reveal something colder, leaner—something that smelt of blood and burning.

"The blood traitors are holed up inside," the second wizard rumbled. "Percy Weasley, the half-giant. No Potter. A healer claimed she saw two of Potter's friends running down the corridor… said she thought she heard screams… Then they vanished. Portkey, probably."

A slow, ugly smile unfurled across Yaxley's face, like a wound reopening.

"Is that so," he murmured, more to himself than to them.

With a flick of his wrist, he dismissed the cloaked men like insects, and they melted back into the smoky haze of the pub.

Draco watched them go, the unease in his gut deepening into a bitter pit.

He hadn't recognised those two.

New recruits, no doubt. Disposable pawns in Yaxley's ever-spiralling chaos.

"How many Death Eaters do you even have left?" Draco asked, slicing into the moment, forcing Yaxley back into focus.

The older man gave a theatrical sigh, spreading his hands in a mockery of despair.

"In these trying times?" he drawled. "Fewer than twenty. And even they are like cornered rats—desperate, paranoid, and willing to chew off their own legs if it means survival."

He sneered. "Once, we dreamed of a righteous society. Now? Now it's all scraps and ruin. Our proud vision—reduced to scavenging among the ruins left by cowards and turncoats. Do you agree?"

Draco looked away, the old pride in his bloodline curling and dying in his chest like a dried leaf.

He had been raised to believe in power. In heritage.

And yet here he sat, surrounded by the rotting carcass of a cause that had devoured itself.

A dark thought slithered through him—bitter, treacherous:

What if we had done it differently?

What if he and Potter had stood on the same side, once?

What if he hadn't been born with chains disguised as a crown?

He crushed the thought before it could root itself any deeper.

There was no use longing for what could never be.

After a taut silence, Draco forced himself to speak.

"Yes," he said, voice rougher than he intended. "I do."

For a beat, Yaxley studied him, the hunger in his gaze flaring like a dying star catching new fuel.

Then he smiled—a grim, predatory thing—and leaned forward.

"Good," he said. "Very good."

Draco felt the weight of the next move settle on him like a death sentence before Yaxley even spoke it.

"We're paying a visit," Yaxley said, voice smooth and oily. "To one of the blood traitors."

The words slid between them like a blade.

Draco stiffened, suspicion prickling down his spine.

"Who?" he asked, though he already knew the answer would taste like ash.

Yaxley's smile widened, shark-like, gleaming with promised violence.

"George Weasley."