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—clawed at every inch of him. He floated, helpless, on the edge of waking, every heartbeat a dull hammer against the back of his skull.

For a frightening moment, he didn't know where he was. Or why he hurt.

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

Forget whatever had happened—

A gentle touch landed on the bridge of his nose—soft, careful—and something fluttered weakly in his chest. Familiar. Safe.

"Harry, are you all right?"

The voice cracked through the fog like a whip.

Hermione. Hermione was here.

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

Neville stood further back, wringing his hands, looking as though he might bolt at the slightest sound.

Harry tried to sit up.

Mistake.

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

"Neville," he croaked, his throat raw and burning.

Just saying the name dragged something loose—a flicker of memory—the cold sneer of Yaxley, the sickening burn spreading through his veins—the paralysing knowledge that he was dying and could do nothing to stop it.

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

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

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

Above the photo, huge, screaming letters declared:

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

Heat rushed up Harry's neck—shame, anger, helplessness—all twisting together until he couldn't tell one from the other.

"Rita Skeeter," he muttered, the name thick with loathing.

"You should see what she's written," Hermione burst out, her voice sharp with outrage. "Honestly, if I had her here, I'd—I'd—"

"Turn her into a beetle again?" Harry rasped, managing a faint, crooked smile.

Hermione let out a breathy, half-hysterical laugh—more a release of tension than anything else. Even Ron cracked a grin, though it looked like it hurt him.

Neville's eyes darted nervously between them.

"What happened, Harry?" he asked quietly, as though the words themselves might snap under their own weight.

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

Harry shut his eyes, gathering the strength to answer. The memory of poison boiling through his veins coiled tightly around his lungs, squeezing until he could hardly breathe.

"Poisoned," he said at last.

The word hung there between them, cold and final.

"P-poisoned?" Neville squeaked, his voice shooting up an octave.

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

"It wasn't just some random bloke, either," Ron growled, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. "It was 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 bitter.

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

Neville's face went grey.

"Wasn't he—wasn't he the Death Eater from the Astronomy Tower? The one you—" He stopped abruptly, glancing at Harry with wide, horrified eyes, as if the memory itself might cause more damage than the words.

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

"One of the worst of the lot," Ron muttered, his mouth twisting in disgust.

Harry tried to shift, tried to sit up properly, but the pain nailed him back against the mattress.

He felt trapped. Weak. Useless.

And every moment he stayed in this bed, he hated himself a little more.

"We have to be careful," said Hermione sharply, her eyes sweeping the room as though she expected Death Eaters to spring from the walls at any moment. "Now 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 lot," Ginny said from the doorway, her voice clipped, tight with tension.

Harry's heart jolted—Ginny. But the relief didn't last.

"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, but the flicker of humour didn't last. It shrivelled under the heavy weight pressing on his chest.

Then a voice split the air—deep, oily, loud enough to rattle the walls.

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

The blood in Harry's veins froze solid.

The voice wasn't coming from inside the room—it was everywhere. Curling around them, slithering into their ears, coiling round 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 them—frozen figures, standing stiffly in the corridors, unmoving. Staring. As though time itself had faltered.

They were afraid.

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

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

Yaxley.

It was Yaxley.

He was here.

And he wasn't finished.

Harry was too broken to even stand.

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

The last word—end—snapped the spell over the room.

Neville stumbled backwards. Ron swore furiously under his breath. Ginny went pale but drew her wand with a hand that barely trembled.

Harry lay frozen, terror scraping raw 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, sudden and vicious, knocking the breath clean out of his chest.

Shouting erupted outside the windows—a rising surge of chaos.

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

His voice cracked like a whip through the thick air, making Harry jolt.

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

Harry's pulse thundered in his ears.

The pressure outside seemed to seep into the room, pressing against them, heavy and suffocating.

"They're trying to break into the hospital lobby!" Neville choked, his voice high and unsteady. His wide eyes flicked to Harry, frantic, as if to make sure he was still breathing.

Every part of Harry screamed to move, to run, to do something—but his body was useless. Heavy. Burning. Pinned by pain like a moth on a board.

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

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

She was scared.

They all were.

And it was because of him.

"You have to get out of here," Neville said suddenly, urgency sharpening his voice in a way Harry had never heard before. "Now, Harry!"

Harry tried to sit up—a feeble, pathetic lurch—and instantly regretted it. Pain tore through him, brutal and blinding, leaving him gasping.

Outside, the noise rose—a crashing wave of voices—angry, hungry, desperate.

He could almost feel them—hands clawing at the walls, reaching for him, dragging him towards the inevitable.

"Back to the Burrow?" said Ron, rounding on Hermione in panic, his hands in his hair, tugging hard as though he could physically wrench an idea out of his head.

"No," Ginny cut in quickly, shaking her head so fiercely that her red hair whipped across her face. "It's not safe. Percy and Kingsley haven't finished the wards. It's still half-exposed. If we go there, we're just handing Harry over."

"Then where?" Ron snapped, his voice cracking. "Where else are we supposed to go?!"

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

The pain.

The fear.

The crowd.

Yaxley.

It was all pressing in on him, dragging him under.

Hermione, who'd been pacing in tight, frantic circles, stopped dead.

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

Ron's face lit up as if she'd just handed him the answer to a riddle he couldn't solve.

"Yeah! Shell Cottage! It's safe, it's protected—they'll understand."

"But how do we get there?" Ginny asked, already glancing worriedly at Harry, like he might vanish if she looked away for too long.

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

Harry blinked hard, trying to follow, but the world was tilting again, the voices pulling away from him, slow and echoing.

Stay awake. Stay awake.

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

Ginny squared her shoulders, her knuckles white around her wand. "Neville and I will stay here with Harry."

Neville gave a jerky nod, looking every bit as terrified as Harry felt, but he stood his ground.

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

The voices blurred after that, running together in a tide of words Harry could no longer catch.

Footsteps thundered away down the corridor.

Then—silence.

The quiet pressed in on him, heavier than the noise had been.

Harry stared up at the ceiling, trembling with every shallow, painful breath. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch and lengthen, creeping slowly towards him.

Beside him, Neville shifted awkwardly, clearly trying to look braver than he felt.

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

But all that came out was a ragged gasp.

The minutes dragged on.

The world blurred.

The pain gnawed away at him, pulling at the edges of his mind.

Then—a creak.

The door.

Harry's heart exploded against his ribs.

Neville spun, wand raised.

Harry's hand twitched helplessly towards the bedside table—towards where he thought his wand might be—but it may as well have been miles away.

The door burst open—and Ginny was there, her chest heaving, and behind her, enormous and wild-eyed, stood Hagrid.

Relief crashed over Harry so suddenly it nearly knocked him out.

But then something else hit him.

Not the dull, steady ache he'd been enduring—something worse.

Something sharp and sudden and wrong.

It started in his chest, searing outwards through his arms and legs like wildfire.

A scream tore itself from his throat before he even knew it was coming.

The room lurched, the walls pitching sideways.

He clawed at the bedclothes, gasping, drowning, as the world shattered around him.

Ginny's face turned white, her eyes wide with terror.

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

Hagrid bellowed something from somewhere in the room, his voice thick with panic, but Harry could barely hear him.

Could barely see him.

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

The last thing he felt was Ginny's hand clutching his—small and shaking—before the world went black.

Somewhere, through the thick fog clouding his mind, voices reached him—distant, blurred. Familiar.

Ron's panicked shouting. Hermione's fierce, determined commands.

He wanted to reach out to them, to hold on, to anchor himself to the sound—but the pain dragged him deeper. It coiled around him like Devil's Snare, tightening every time he struggled.

The sharp tang of salt clung to the air, cold and bracing. Waves crashed somewhere nearby. The sour stink of sweat and fear clung to him, thick and suffocating, making him gag. His body convulsed, but he barely registered the rough yank of a Portkey until he was spinning again—torn from one nightmare and flung headfirst into the next.

He slammed into the ground, the breath knocked clean out of him. The dirt beneath his fingers was damp and gritty. He clung to it anyway, scrabbling at the earth as though he could stop himself from slipping any further.

He was losing himself—piece by piece. I can't— The thought fractured before he could finish it.

A fresh wave of nausea hit. He turned his head just in time to be sick, bile scorching his throat as his stomach heaved.

His whole body was shaking now, useless against the sickness tearing through him.

"Harry!"

A voice, sharp and desperate, pierced the fog—Ginny's.

Ginny…

He tried to lift his head towards her, but the world spun wildly. Her hands were on him a heartbeat later, trembling against his burning skin. She was speaking—he could feel her breath against his face—but the words slipped past him, too soft, too far away.

Other hands joined hers—more, now. Lifting him, steadying him. He barely noticed who they belonged to. Just the pressure, the weight of their touch, the fact that they wouldn't let him go.

His mind flickered—just for a moment—to that night at the top of the Astronomy Tower. After Dumbledore had fallen. How they had gathered around him, shielding him, refusing to let him be alone.

Even then, he hadn't known how to let them help him.

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

"Get him inside! Quickly!" Bill's voice snapped through the din, tight with panic.

They half-carried, half-dragged him into Shell Cottage. The warm light inside blazed against the dark behind his eyes, too bright, too clean.

They set him down on the nearest sofa. The cushions were soft, but all Harry could feel was the wrongness—the foreignness—of comfort, when every part of him was raw and screaming.

He lay there, gasping, every muscle trembling, the room tipping and spinning around him.

Bill leaned over him, his face drawn and pale. It was strange—Bill, who always seemed steady, now looked like he might crack apart any second.

"What happened?" Bill demanded, his voice barely rising above Harry's rattling breaths.

Ron hesitated. Harry could feel the tension spike, 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 a verdict. Final. Unforgiving.

Ron's next words landed like a blow.

"He's dying."

Harry shut his eyes. It shouldn't have hit him so hard—he'd been dying for weeks, hadn't he? Ever since Voldemort had marked him. Death had always been there, trailing him like a shadow.

But hearing it spoken aloud made it real in a way the worst battles never had.

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

He tried to move, to tell them—but his body wouldn't obey. Even his own limbs felt strange, distant, held fast by something stronger than himself.

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

Harry could hear what Bill wasn't saying—You were supposed to keep him safe. How did you let this happen?

There was a terrible pause.

Harry knew Ron was trying to find the right words.

Knew there weren't any.

"It's—" Ron started, his voice cracking. "It just—it just got worse. After… after everything. After Voldemort—" He broke off, his throat closing around the words.

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 snapped them back to the moment, sharp with urgency. She was kneeling beside Harry, desperately trying to press a small vial to his lips.

"He's thrashing—I can't get him to drink it!" she cried, her voice rising, tight with panic.

Harry felt Ron scrambling forward, strong hands pinning his shoulders to the sofa. Another set of hands—Bill's—clamped around his legs, holding him steady.

"Easy, Harry," Ron urged, low and firm, his breath coming fast. "We're right here. Just hold on, mate. Hold on."

Hold on.

Harry let out a ragged breath, bitter at the words. I've been holding on for so long.

The potion touched his lips—sharp and bitter, scorching as it slid across his tongue. His body recoiled on instinct, fighting it, but somewhere beneath the pain and panic, something steadier stirred—trust. He forced himself to swallow.

It burned all the way down, like swallowing fire. For one endless, brutal moment, he thought it would tear him apart. Then—slowly, like a storm pulling just out of reach—the pain ebbed. It didn't vanish, but it dulled, the sharp edges blunted to something he could almost bear.

His limbs stilled. His breath slowed, still shallow, still raw, but no longer frantic gasps.

A small, broken sound escaped him—not a cry, not a groan, something closer to a sob of relief.

Hermione's grip loosened at last, her hands trembling as the fear drained from her.

Ron didn't let go. His palm stayed firm against Harry's arm, as though he couldn't trust him to stay otherwise.

"Stay with us, Harry," Bill said quietly, his voice rough, frayed with the strain he was barely keeping back. "Please."

Harry forced his eyes open, blinking against the brightness. The room swam in and out of focus—Ginny, pale and tear-streaked, her hand hovering just over his; Hermione, biting her lip so hard it looked ready to bleed; Ron, watching him like he might disappear if he so much as blinked.

I'm still here, Harry thought, almost in disbelief. I'm still fighting.

But deep down, he knew how fragile it was. He could feel it—a candle flickering in a gust of wind.

The dark tide was still there, tugging at him, just at the edges of his mind.

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

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, shutting out the room, the faces, the fear. He dragged his thoughts elsewhere—to simpler things.

Soaring high above the Quidditch pitch on his Firebolt, the wind sharp in his hair.

Ron laughing so hard he'd fallen clean off his chair in the Gryffindor common room.

Hermione's triumphant grin whenever she cracked a puzzle no one else could solve.

Ginny's hand in his, warm, steady.

He clung to those memories with everything he had.

Not yet, he thought fiercely, holding fast. Not yet.

The room buzzed around him—low voices, whispered spells, the faint clink of vials and glasses. But Harry drifted at the edge of it all, caught somewhere between waking and sleep, between holding on and letting go.

The quiet inside Shell Cottage shattered in an instant.

A silver light burst through the air, sharp and sudden as a drawn blade.

Harry stirred, his body flinching before his mind caught up.

The light twisted, shimmered, and shaped itself—a lynx, vast and spectral, gliding through the air with silent power. Shadows rippled and danced in its wake as it crossed the room.

It landed lightly, scarcely disturbing the air. For a heartbeat, it hovered—brilliant, almost otherworldly—then parted its jaws.

Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice filled the room, deep and steady, though even he couldn't hide the heavy urgency beneath it.

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

The message dissolved into the air, the lynx vanishing with it, leaving a silence that pressed in thick and heavy.

No one moved.

For several long, rattling heartbeats, no one spoke.

Harry, still crushed beneath the weight of the pain, felt his heart jolt painfully in his chest. He wanted to sit up—to ask what incident Kingsley meant—but his body wouldn't obey. His thoughts tumbled, frantic and useless, chasing after the surge of fear rising inside him.

It was Bill who broke the frozen silence first.

"Why would Kingsley send word here?" he asked, frowning so deeply it looked carved into his face. "What does he mean by 'aware of the incident'?"

His voice was tight, fraying at the edges, and Harry could hear it—that thin, snapping thread of fear stretched taut between all of them.

Hermione's eyes flicked to Ron. Harry caught the look they exchanged, the silent conversation that passed too quickly to follow—but he didn't need to hear the words. He'd seen that look before.

They're hiding something.

Hermione drew in a slow, steadying breath, bracing herself the way she always did when stepping into a fight she couldn't win cleanly.

"It's about Harry," she said quietly. "And your parents."

Bill went still. Too still.

"They were attacked at the Burrow yesterday," Hermione went on, each word landing like a stone. "Yaxley poisoned Harry… and stunned your mum and dad."

The blow landed hard. Harry flinched, shame flaring hot and sharp beneath his ribs.

Because of me. Always because of me.

Bill's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His mouth opened, but for a moment, nothing came out. Then—hoarse, almost like a child:

"What? Where are they now—St Mungo's?"

"Yes. Percy and Hagrid are with them," Ginny said quickly, her voice steady, though her knuckles were white where she gripped the back of a chair. "We had to leave—fast. We used a Portkey to get here."

Bill's breath hitched. "But why did you leave?" His voice wavered, tangled with confusion—and something Harry recognised. Fear. He's afraid to hear the answer.

"There was an attack at St Mungo's—" Ron blurted, the words tripping over each other in his haste.

"No," Hermione cut across him, sharp as a curse. "It wasn't an attack. It was a trap."

Harry watched her fight to stay calm, her breathing ragged, her words measured, like each one was costing her more than she could afford.

"Yaxley used an amplifying charm. He drew people out of hiding. He… he broadcast Harry's location across the wizarding world," she said, her voice low and grim. "Now people are reacting. Some want him dead. Some want answers. None of them are safe."

Silence settled over the room again—thicker this time, colder, like a weight pressing on all of them.

Harry could feel it in his bones—that awful shift, the tilt of their world, just when they'd found a place to stand.

Bill ran a shaking hand through his hair. "What about Kingsley? What's he doing?"

"He gave us something," Hermione said, glancing briefly at Harry, then back at Bill. "Something we needed. A fragment from the Veil at the Department of Mysteries."

Bill stared at her. "He had access to that?"

Hermione nodded, her fingers brushing her pocket, where the small pouch with the Veil fragment lay pressed against her side. "He brought it to the hospital. After he heard about the Burrow."

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

"They're holding on," Ginny said softly, stepping closer. "Shaken, but alive. They said they'd come when they can."

Bill let out a long, trembling breath, as though he was trying to stitch himself back together from the inside out.

But before anyone could speak again, a raw, broken sound tore out of Harry.

Another wave of pain hit him like a curse—fast, brutal, searing through his body with no warning. He buried his face into the sofa cushion, desperate to muffle it—but the shaking wouldn't stop. He couldn't stop. It felt like something inside him was ripping apart.

Ginny was beside him in an instant, her hand wrapping around his, tight, desperate, as though her grip alone could anchor him to the world.

Harry clung to her weakly, terrified by how cold his skin felt against hers.

Bill spun round 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, her wand flicking and flashing, her hands steady even though her face had turned pale.

"It's complicated," she said quietly. "Sometimes the potion works. Sometimes it doesn't. It depends on…" She faltered, her eyes flicking to Harry.

"On what?" Bill barked.

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

The words dropped like stones, heavy and dreadful.

Bill stared at her as if she'd started speaking Mermish. "His soul?" he repeated, blankly. "How can his soul be damaged?"

Hermione bit her lip hard, visibly gathering herself.

And then—so softly it was almost a whisper—she said, "It was Voldemort."

Harry flinched, another tremor he couldn't stop. Always Voldemort. Always.

Hermione's hands were twisting in the hem of her jumper, the nervous habit Harry knew too well from their school days.

"When we first came here," she said, her voice shaking but stubbornly steady, "we were searching for Horcruxes."

Bill blinked. "Horcruxes?" he echoed, baffled.

Harry closed his eyes, nausea and guilt twisting inside him like a nest of snakes.

Hermione nodded. "Voldemort split his soul. He tore it apart—deliberately—and hid the fragments inside objects. To try to make himself immortal."

Bill reeled, stepping back as if the horror physically struck him.

Harry turned his head away, staring into the shadowy corner of the room.

He screwed his eyes shut against the guilt blazing inside him.

But Ginny's hand was still wrapped around his, steady, certain, there.

And even with the darkness creeping in at the edges, Harry held on.

"Don't worry," Ron said quickly, too quickly, forcing a note of reassurance into his voice that didn't quite land.

Harry could hear the tiny tremor beneath Ron's words, the way his fingers twitched nervously against the sofa cushion.

"It took us a while to get our heads round it too," Ron went on, mustering a half-hearted grin that slipped almost at once. "When Harry first told us, it felt like… like everything we'd ever known just cracked apart."

Harry's chest tightened painfully.

But there'd been no choice. Not when the truth had clawed its way out of him, raw and ragged and desperate for someone else to bear it.

Ginny drew a slow breath, leaning closer. Her voice was firm, but Harry could hear the weight trembling beneath it.

"Harry's been in contact with Professor Slughorn," she said, glancing at Harry briefly before going on. "That's how he found out about the damage. And about… the chance to heal it."

She spoke plainly, but Harry could hear it—the undercurrent of fear, like a silenced scream knotted in her throat.

They're scared for me, Harry realised, the thought a bittersweet ache.

Bill's brow furrowed, his arms folding tightly across his chest. "Has he… found a way?"

For a long moment, the only sound was the wind rattling the cottage windows.

Then Hermione straightened, her back taut with determination.

"Yes," she said. She reached into her beaded bag and drew out a thick, ancient-looking book.

Its cover gleamed—silver and pearl woven into intricate designs, the patterns shifting like mist caught in moonlight.

Even from where Harry lay, he could feel the quiet pulse of magic humming from it.

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

She held the book out carefully, almost reverently, and Bill accepted it with a strange hesitation, as though he was afraid it might crumble to dust in his hands.

He turned it over slowly, studying the cover with a deepening frown. "Was this Slughorn's?" he asked quietly.

"No," Hermione said, her fingers curling tight around the edge of her chair. "It was kept in Professor Dumbledore's office. Professor Slughorn couldn't break the enchantments Dumbledore placed on it. That's why it stayed hidden for so long."

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

Hermione's voice dropped lower. "It's not just about healing," she said quietly.

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

Bill stared at her, the confusion on his face shifting into something darker—wariness, perhaps.

Ron shifted uncomfortably and muttered, "I wondered the same thing when we first found out."

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

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

He remembered standing in Dumbledore's office, remembered the way the headmaster's eyes had always seemed to see further than anyone else's. Further than he ever 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," she said quietly. "It's about how to break a soul. How to make a Horcrux."

A sharp silence sliced through the room.

Bill flinched, recoiling from the book as though it had scorched him.

"Horcruxes," he muttered, half to himself. "Unheard of. That's… that's the sort of thing dark wizards whisper about. Not something real…"

It's real, Harry thought grimly.

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

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

"We think he did know," Hermione said quietly, her eyes locking with Bill's across the shadowed room.

"But maybe he hoped it would never 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 against the cover. "What would he have done if he'd lived longer?" he whispered.

The question hung in the air, unanswered.

Before the silence could pull them all under, Ginny spoke up suddenly, her voice a little too bright, a little too quick.

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

The change of subject was clumsy but necessary.

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

Harry let the rest of the conversation pass over him like water.

The pain had ebbed a little now, leaving behind a heavy, aching exhaustion. He could still feel Ginny's thumb stroking gently over the back of his hand.

"Should we reply to Kingsley?" Ron asked, glancing at Bill for direction.

Bill hesitated, the weight of the last hour settling visibly on his shoulders.

"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 of butterbeer appeared, floating gently towards each of them.

The rich, warm scent filled the air, wrapping them in something that, for a moment, felt almost like comfort.

They drank in quiet companionship, the room falling into a heavy, grateful silence.

Outside, the last of the sunlight slipped beneath the horizon, and darkness folded itself 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 supported him between them, carrying him carefully as though he might shatter.

Harry loathed the helplessness, but he was too drained to fight it.

The room was small but overlooked the windswept clifftop garden, where a simple grave marker stood, weathered by the sea air.

Dobby's grave.

Harry's chest tightened at the sight, but strangely, it soothed him too.

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

Ginny tucked the covers round him, her hands lingering for a moment against his forehead. Hermione crossed the room to shut the window tight against the howling wind, then drew the curtains closed.

"Stay close," Harry whispered, his throat raw, the words catching painfully.

He wasn't even sure who he was asking—perhaps all of them. Perhaps just Ginny. Perhaps anyone who would hear him.

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

Bill glanced around the cramped space, looking faintly doubtful. "We've got spare rooms upstairs, if you need them."

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

There was no room for argument in his tone.

Bill simply nodded, his expression softening.

"It'll be cramped," he said, the ghost of a smile flickering on his face.

"We'll manage," Hermione said brightly, though her eyes were glassy with exhaustion. "If we have to, we'll camp out in the sitting room."

Harry closed his eyes as their voices drifted into a low, soothing murmur.

Draco moved through Knockturn Alley like a ghost long past giving up the haunting. The cobblestones were slick with grime, the air thick with a damp, rancid chill that gnawed at his bones. Every step sounded too loud, sharp cracks echoing against the oppressive silence. Shadows writhed and twisted at the edges of his vision, whispering his name, laughing at him.

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 crookedly on rusted hinges. Draco pushed it open, flinching at the screech it gave—like something being gutted alive. Inside, the world shrank, pressing in on him. The ceiling, yellowed by decades of smoke and worse, drooped overhead. The stench hit him like a fist: rot, desperation, the slow, greasy decay of hope.

Good. It suited him.

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

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

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

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

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

Yaxley's smile split across his face like a fresh wound. "How's Mummy and Daddy? Still pretending they're not wearing Ministry collars round their necks?"

Draco let the words slide off him. He'd long since learnt how to swallow poison without flinching.

"Family's fine," he said flatly. "Send a card if you're that bothered."

Yaxley gave a low, humourless chuckle. "Word is, your lot's cosying up to the blood traitors. Planning to hold hands and sing in the rain, are we?"

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

That earned a flash of yellowed teeth, but Yaxley leant back, pretending to be at ease. His bloodshot eyes never left Draco's face.

"And you?" Yaxley drawled, his voice all mockery. "Where do you plant your flag these days, boy?"

A flicker of something sharp and ugly crossed Draco's face—gone too fast to name, but not fast enough to miss.

"You think I'm thick enough to tell you?" His voice dripped with contempt. "You think you matter enough?"

The insult hung between them, thick and poisonous.

"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 from his lungs, leaving behind bitterness and bile.

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

Yaxley tilted his head, watching him like a rat pinned in a jar. "Shame. I've already loosed dogs on that overgrown lump he calls a friend. Big brute, stomping off to some cave in the hills, thinking he's safe."

Draco's stomach twisted, but his mouth curled into a slow, venomous smile.

"Charming," he said. "You always did like to go for the slow ones first."

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

"And you watch your back," Draco returned, his voice low, trembling with barely contained fury. "You'd be rotting in a ditch if not for me. Remember that next time you fancy spitting in my face."

Yaxley stiffened, his hands curling into fists against the table. The candles flickered in their sconces, the very air between them thickening, pressing, as though it had turned to glass.

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

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

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

The older wizard sneered, his hand twitching towards his wand—but Draco was already on his feet, arms spread wide in mock surrender.

"Go on," he drawled. "Check. No tracking spells. No Aurors waiting outside. Just you and me, Yaxley. Isn't it romantic?"

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

Draco dropped back into his seat with a lazy sprawl, stretching his legs as if he owned the place.

"You need me," he said, his voice casual, almost sing-song. "That's what's really eating at you, isn't it? You can't do this without me. And it's killing you."

Yaxley said nothing. He didn't need to. His silence was answer enough.

Draco let a smirk creep across his face—slow and cruel—savouring the moment.

Finally. Finally, he was the one holding the blade. And he fully intended to twist it.

"You're overly confident," Yaxley scoffed, his voice rough with contempt, as though trying to spit a bitter taste from his mouth.

Draco tilted his head lazily, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back, entirely at ease, as if Yaxley's words barely grazed him. The smirk remained, but it never quite reached his eyes.

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

Yaxley's eyes narrowed, his lip curling in disgust. "You remind me of Potter," he sneered. "The arrogance. The bravado. That same pathetic belief that the world owes you something."

Draco's composure cracked—just for a heartbeat. His voice came out in a hiss, sharp, burning, defensive. "Don't you dare compare me to that half-blood." His fists clenched tight against his forearms. "He's a coward in his own way."

"Is that what you tell yourself at night?" Yaxley's voice dropped, low and taunting. "That Potter's just another weakling waiting to fall? Funny, isn't it—he keeps winning."

Draco's eyes flared, murderous and cold. But Yaxley only chuckled under his breath, a dry, mirthless sound.

"Potter might be brave," Yaxley mused, drumming a filthy fingernail against the wood, "but him 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 who had already dealt cruelty, and was hungry to deal more.

Draco leant in, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur, edged with something between loathing and hunger.

"Tell me how you did it."

Yaxley's grin widened, slow and grotesque. It made Draco's skin crawl.

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

Draco's jaw tensed, but he said nothing. He shifted back in his seat, pressing his spine against the cracked plaster wall, listening with the cold patience of a snake waiting in long grass.

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

His voice dropped further, thick with malicious delight.

"It was a gift," Yaxley murmured, as though savouring the words. "Polyjuice Potion. Just a single hair from that Ministry lapdog, Percy Weasley. And there I was. All it took was a borrowed face and a bit of patience."

His grin split wider—a cruel, rotted thing.

"Rather fitting, don't you think?"

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

"You breached their defences," Draco said, his voice steady, though his nails dug crescent moons into his palms.

Yaxley laughed—soft and awful. "Breached?" he echoed, mocking. "No, dear boy. I was invited in."

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

"While disguised, I simply asked Arthur Weasley for Potter's whereabouts. There is also a simple file left sitting on Percy's desk," 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 me to take it."

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

"And when I saw the owl," Yaxley went on, his voice syrupy with delight, "I knew the game was mine."

Draco arched a brow, hiding his disgust beneath a sharp sneer. "An owl. How quaint."

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

He leant back, smug, arms spreading wide as if to show Draco his kingdom of rot.

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

Draco stared at him, something coiling inside—something darker than anger, blacker than hate. He forced his voice to stay level.

"And Potter now?" he asked, the words colder than he intended, each syllable honed to a blade's edge.

"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, splintered sound—and Draco barely resisted the urge to recoil.

"You take pleasure in that?" Draco asked quietly, though something bitter clawed its way up his throat.

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

He flung 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 out of sheer vanity. Pathetic. Predictable.

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

Draco glanced down.

There, grainy and off-colour, was a photograph of Harry Potter—half-unconscious, slumped against Hagrid's chest. His skin looked waxy and pale, his glasses cracked, 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 time reading Skeeter's drivel in years," he said dryly. "Did you hire her yourself, or is she just naturally drawn to carnage?"

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

He leant in again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.

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

Draco met Yaxley's gaze, unblinking, his own eyes cold and unyielding. He said nothing, his throat tightening around words he wasn't sure he even wanted to speak.

The shadows seemed thicker now, pressing in, cold fingers brushing the nape of his neck.

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

He swallowed, hard.

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

Yaxley gave a lazy shrug, his grin sharp as a knife.

"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, aiming for scorn but landing somewhere brittle instead.

Yaxley chuckled, a rich, rotten sound. "We've not lost anything. We've set a net, and sooner or later, the prey comes crawling back. We've… contingencies."

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

"And I'm part of your little scheme now, am I?" he said, his voice low and sharp.

Yaxley's grin widened—a grotesque baring of teeth and cruelty. He leant forward, his breath sour in the candlelight between them.

"Yes," he hissed, eyes alight with a gleam Draco despised. "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 heartbeat—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 Potter's corpse?" he asked, his voice hoarse, rough 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 dragged his gaze away.

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

Yaxley sat back, unbearably pleased with himself.

"Well done," he said, the praise slick and oily, like filth on standing water. "You've proven yourself, Draco. A pure-blood, 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 fog.

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

Yaxley only chuckled—a sound like bones grinding together.

"Ah, there's that fire," he drawled, his voice syrupy with false admiration. "I've missed that. Though I do wonder…"

He leant in once more, his shadow swallowing the flame 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 between them, heavy and venomous.

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, desperate pleas.

He bared his teeth in a grimace.

"Do not question my loyalty," he spat, his voice trembling with a fury he couldn't quite suppress. "I carried out his orders. I met his expectations. I killed Dumbledore."

The lie scorched his throat raw.

He'd 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 curl of his lips.

"All you did was smuggle a cabinet into Hogwarts and skulk about in the shadows like a rat."

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

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

Yaxley's grin stretched wider, sensing the crack, the weakness, and driving the blade in deeper.

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

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

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

Draco's fury simmered beneath his skin, sharp and suffocating. Every instinct screamed at him to strike, to lash out, to set the whole rotten thing alight—

But he forced himself to stay still.

Forced himself to listen.

"What's your plan?" he said through gritted teeth, his disgust lodged like a stone in his throat.

Yaxley's thin smile didn't waver, though his eyes glinted with something cold and precise.

"Our main objective," he said, as though discussing the weather, "is to kill Harry Potter. Properly. Publicly. Spectacularly."

Draco's stomach gave a painful twist.

"You can't be serious," he said. "You've been going on about that for years. You poisoned him—you had him—you could've finished it."

Yaxley waved a hand dismissively, as though Draco had missed the point entirely.

"Killing him would be far too quick," he said. "Where's the satisfaction in that? Where's the real damage?"

He leant back in his chair, the firelight catching in his pale eyes, making them gleam.

"No, Draco. We don't want to kill Potter. Not yet."

His smile stretched wider, slow and deliberate.

"We want to break him."

Draco kept his gaze steady, his face impassive. He didn't trust himself to speak just yet.

But Yaxley was enjoying himself now, the plan clearly something he'd rehearsed over and over.

"And how exactly do you mean to do that," Draco said, his voice flat, cutting clean through the sour air between them, "if you don't even know where he is?"

Yaxley only smirked, maddeningly patient.

Before he could answer, the pub door creaked open, and two cloaked figures slipped inside, quiet as shadows.

Draco's attention snapped to them at once.

There was something about the way they moved—sharp, practised—that set his nerves on edge.

They drifted towards Yaxley, wordless, until one bent low and muttered something hurriedly. Draco caught only fragments—Weasley house… no sign… Aurors…

The other added, gruffly, "Close call. Nearly got caught."

Draco felt the unease in his chest deepen.

The Burrow. They'd gone after the Weasleys.

It wasn't just Potter they were circling now—it was anyone who'd stood beside him.

The walls were closing in on those who'd dared to care too much, love too openly.

"And St Mungo's?" Yaxley snapped, his easy swagger dropping away to reveal something colder, sharper—something that reeked of blood and smoke.

"The blood traitors are holed up inside," the second man said. "Percy Weasley's there. The half-giant, too. No sign of Potter. A Healer claimed she saw two of Potter's friends running down a corridor… said she thought she heard screaming… then they vanished. Portkey, most likely."

A slow, unpleasant smile crept across Yaxley's face.

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

With a flick of his hand, he dismissed them. They retreated, silent, melting back into the dim haze of the pub.

Draco watched them go, the pit in his stomach tightening.

He hadn't recognised them. New ones, probably. Throwaway.

"How many Death Eaters do you actually have left?" Draco asked, breaking the silence.

Yaxley gave a theatrical sigh, spreading his hands.

"Fewer than twenty," he said, almost cheerfully. "And even they are desperate. Rats in a trap, chewing through anything in the hope of escape."

He sneered. "Once we dreamt of power, of a new order. Now we scavenge in the rubble left behind by traitors and cowards. Wouldn't you say?"

Draco looked away.

He'd been raised to believe in strength, in the weight of his name.

And here he was, sitting in the wreckage of a cause that had swallowed itself whole.

A strange, quiet thought crept through him:

What if we'd done it differently?

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

What if he hadn't been born wearing shackles dressed up as inheritance?

He smothered the thought before it could settle.

There was no point in wishing.

After a pause, Draco forced himself to speak.

"Yes," he said, his voice rougher than he would've liked.

Yaxley's sharp gaze lingered on him for a moment, then he smiled—a thin, predatory thing—and leant forward.

Draco felt the weight of it coming—the next instruction—before Yaxley even spoke.

"We're paying a visit," Yaxley said, his tone light, almost pleased, "to one of the blood traitors."

The words dropped between them like a stone.

Draco's shoulders stiffened, a cold prickle running down his spine.

"Who?" he asked, though he already knew the answer would sit like ash on his tongue.

Yaxley's smile spread, wide and sharp.

"George Weasley."