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Arthur sat hunched at his desk in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, his foot tapping restlessly against the floor. His eyes kept flicking to the clock on the wall, each second ticking by like a hammer to his nerves. The request he had sent to Kingsley weighed heavily on his mind, and the longer the silence stretched, the harder it became to sit still.

He tried to busy himself with scribbled notes and half-finished paperwork, but the words swam on the page, unreadable. He couldn’t focus. The waiting gnawed at him. Kingsley had promised to follow up quickly. That had been nearly an hour ago.

With a sharp breath, Arthur shoved back his chair and stood. He couldn’t bear the stillness anymore. Pacing the length of the small office, he rubbed his chin, the familiar motion doing little to ease his anxiety. His thoughts spun in frantic circles—who was Kingsley speaking to? Why was it taking so long? And, most of all, what news would he bring about Harry?

The boy’s worsening condition haunted Arthur’s thoughts, each passing hour a cruel reminder that they were running out of time.

He didn’t even pause to grab his robe as he left the office. His footsteps echoed sharply in the corridor, cutting through the ministry’s usual hum. People bustled past him, but Arthur barely registered them. His mind was fixed, laser-focused, driving him forward with purpose.

A crowd had formed outside Kingsley’s office. Curious faces turned, voices whispered, but Arthur didn’t stop. Whatever the commotion was, it could wait. He veered toward the lower levels instead—toward the courtrooms.

The deeper he went, the quieter it became. The ministry’s underground corridors were eerily still, their silence pressing in on him like a weight. His footsteps grew faster, more urgent, as a growing sense of dread twisted in his gut.

Two Aurors stood outside the interrogation chamber. Arthur nodded curtly to them and stepped toward the heavy wooden door, raising his hand to knock—

The door swung open before he touched it.

Kingsley stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders tense, his expression drawn. His usually calm face showed signs of strain, and a flash of irritation burnt behind his eyes.

Behind him, Arthur caught a glimpse of pale blond hair—Lucius Malfoy. The sight made his stomach turn. Narcissa stood beside him, her face unreadable. Arthur’s jaw clenched.

Kingsley stepped out, closing the door behind him. The two men looked at each other, silent for a beat.

“Kingsley,” Arthur said, voice low. “You kept me waiting.”

“I know,” Kingsley sighed. “Lucius was being… difficult.”

Arthur scoffed. “That’s not news. Did he tell you anything actually useful, or was it all polished lies and posturing?”

“There was some truth,” Kingsley said slowly. “Or at least something that felt close to it. He’s scared, Arthur. Desperate.”

“Desperate men lie,” Arthur said flatly. “Lucius has never done a selfless thing in his life.”

“I agree. But we may be able to use that desperation. He claims he wants to help. Said he’ll name every Death Eater still in hiding, give us locations, connections—everything.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “And what does he want in return?”

“Full pardon,” Kingsley said, voice tight. “For himself and his family. He wants their names cleared. Their reputation restored.”

Arthur let out a bitter laugh. “He wants to rewrite history. Pretend he was never part of it.”

Kingsley gave a tired nod. “He’s playing a dangerous game. But I made sure he knew the stakes. I told him if he’s lying, if he’s holding anything back—I’ll destroy whatever’s left of his name. I’ll freeze his accounts. Expose every secret he has. He knows I’ll do it.”

Arthur allowed a brief smirk. “And how did he take that?”

“Pale as a ghost,” Kingsley replied. “He practically choked on his pride. The idea of being poor and disgraced? That terrified him more than Azkaban ever could.”

Arthur’s smirk faded. “He’s still a snake, Kingsley. Don’t forget that. Keep your wand ready. He’ll look for any way out.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Kingsley said grimly. “For now, we’ll keep Lucius and Narcissa under close watch. Draco too. He’s… quieter than I expected. Maybe even ashamed. But we can’t afford to take chances.”

Arthur nodded. “Good. But don’t lose sight of what’s urgent.”

“I haven’t.”

The heavy wooden door creaked open, drawing every eye in the corridor. The Malfoy family stepped through. Lucius led with his usual cold dignity, eyes straight ahead, unreadable. Narcissa followed close behind, speaking in low, hurried tones to her husband, her voice tight with worry. Draco trailed after them, a shadow of the boy he used to be—quiet, pale, and uncertain. His gaze flicked around the room nervously, his footsteps hesitant.

Arthur watched them go, his expression darkening. There had been a time when seeing the Malfoys would’ve brought only anger, but now… now it was just another weight pressing down on an already unbearable day.

Kingsley stepped beside him, his voice a quiet rumble. “Harry,” he said. “How is he?”

Arthur’s shoulders slumped as he exhaled a slow, tired breath. “He’s trying to be strong,” he said, voice low. “But it’s bad. Worse than we’ve been letting on.”

Kingsley gave a single nod, more a gesture than a reply. His jaw tightened, and the silence that followed was heavy with unspoken fears.

Draco, pausing mid-step, glanced over his shoulder at the two men. His eyes locked briefly with Kingsley’s, something flickering there—curiosity? Doubt? Regret? Kingsley noticed. It made him speak, if only to shake the unease.

“That request for a fragment of the Veil stone,” he said slowly, brows drawn together. “That was… unexpected.”

Arthur nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Desperate times,” he murmured. “We’re willing to try anything that might help Harry, no matter how strange it sounds.”

Kingsley tilted his head. “The Unspeakables are retrieving it now, but I still don’t understand how it’s meant to help.”

“It’s for a potion,” Arthur explained. “Something his friends came up with in the book they’re following. Honestly, I don’t know what to think. It feels like grasping at shadows.”

Kingsley’s lips pressed into a hard line. “And you’d have Harry drink that? Something brewed with a piece of a stone?” He shook his head. “It sounds risky. Maybe worse.”

Arthur sighed. “Believe me, I’ve had the same thought. But we’re running out of time and options.”

The Malfoys disappeared down the corridor, but Draco lingered for a few seconds longer, stealing one last glance before vanishing after his parents. Arthur’s gaze followed him, thoughtful.

“Do you think he knows something?” Arthur asked quietly.

Kingsley didn’t answer right away. “Hard to say. But he looked… conflicted.”

He stepped in closer, dropping his voice to a near whisper. “I’ll deliver the Veil stone to Harry myself. He doesn’t need more eyes on him. Think he’s well enough to see me?”

Arthur hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “I hope so,” he said at last. “He trusts you. Sees you as a mentor. If anyone can lift his spirits right now, it’s probably you.”

That drew a small smile from Kingsley. “He’s a remarkable young man. At seventeen, he’s already more composed than some Aurors twice his age. I see real potential in him.”

Arthur let out a chuckle, though it was tired and brief. “If you told him that, I think he’d try to disappear into the floor.”

Kingsley laughed softly. “He may not seek recognition, but he’s got everything it takes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he became head of the Auror Office one day.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “You really think so?”

Kingsley’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve seen it before—the quiet strength, the ability to lead without needing to control. If the world were a little different, I could even see him becoming minister.”

Arthur blinked. The idea was almost too big to process.

“Minister?” he echoed, half to himself. “I don’t know if Harry would ever want that kind of spotlight. He’s been through so much. Fame has never been his goal.”

Kingsley shrugged. “Maybe not. But sometimes the best leaders are the ones who never asked to lead.”

The two men stood in silence for a few moments, the tension in the hallway settling again like fog.

Arthur straightened, his face set. “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said. “Right now, we need to focus on helping him survive the night.”

Kingsley nodded firmly. “One step at a time.”

They walked off down the corridor, hearts heavy but minds resolute.

Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaustion pressing down on him like a weight. His old office chair creaked as he leaned back, letting out a tired breath. The low lamplight cast long shadows across the cluttered room, full of odd Muggle trinkets that teetered on every surface. After a long, trying day at the Ministry, he was more than ready to head home—until movement at the doorway caught his attention.

Draco stood just outside, hesitating in the hallway. He looked nothing like the polished boy Arthur remembered from previous run-ins. His blond hair was messy, his face pale and drawn. There was a tightness to his mouth, a hollowness in his eyes that made him seem far too young for his age. Arthur felt a flicker of unease. Whatever Draco wanted, it wasn’t to pick another fight.

“You lost, boy?” Arthur called through the doorway, his tone dry. “Need help finding your way out of the Ministry?”

Draco stepped into the office slowly, eyes scanning the mismatched collection of Muggle items. His gaze paused on a squeaky yellow rubber duck, his expression unreadable. “No,” he said at last, voice low and flat. “I know the way.”

Arthur exhaled through his nose, fighting off irritation. He wasn’t in the mood for cryptic visits or half-answers. “Then get on with it. If you’ve got something to say, say it. I’m ready to call it a night.”

Draco didn’t move for a moment. Then, as if the words were dragged from somewhere deep and uncomfortable, he spoke. “Is it true? Is Potter… sick?”

The question landed like a rock in the middle of the room.

Arthur’s hand froze mid-reach toward his papers. His eyes narrowed sharply. “Were you listening outside the courtrooms earlier?” he asked, voice turning cold.

“You said his name loud enough for half the floor to hear,” Draco replied, folding his arms. “I didn’t need to eavesdrop.”

Arthur’s lips tightened. “I should’ve known. Eavesdropping seems to come naturally to you lot.”

Draco’s reply was quieter, almost unsure. “It’s just… it doesn’t sound like him. Potter doesn’t get sick. He causes chaos, starts fights, and saves people. Falling ill doesn’t fit.”

Arthur stood up, his patience running thin. “Whatever’s going on with Harry isn’t your concern,” he said sharply. “So unless you’ve got business here, I suggest you leave.”

But Draco didn’t move. He stepped forward, his voice firmer now, edged with something close to desperation. “It is my concern. Whether you like it or not.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

Draco blocked the doorway, his shadow stretching across the floor. For the first time, Arthur saw something raw flicker behind those usually guarded eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret. “I owe him,” Draco said, almost a whisper.

Arthur didn’t soften. “You owe him? That’s a bold claim.”

Draco stood straighter. “It’s not a claim. It’s the truth. He saved my life.”

Arthur studied him in silence, trying to gauge the sincerity in Draco’s pale face. He wanted to dismiss it—to believe the boy was still the same selfish, arrogant child—but something in Draco’s voice rang different.

“And what, exactly, are you asking for?” Arthur said at last, cautious.

Draco met his gaze without flinching. “Just to see him—repay the debt. That’s all.”

The room fell quiet again. The only sound was the steady ticking of the clock above the door. Arthur weighed the risks—Harry’s condition was fragile, his family’s safety always a concern. But a life debt… it wasn’t something to take lightly.

Arthur finally spoke, his voice low but firm. “I’ll allow it. But under one condition.”

Draco waited, still and silent.

“You don’t speak a word about what you see or hear. Not to anyone,” Arthur said. “If you do, I’ll know.”

Draco gave a short, humourless laugh. “And what happens then? What are you threatening me with?”

Arthur’s smile was thin, but there was steel behind it. “Let’s just say your family’s situation is… delicate. I imagine the Ministry could find a dozen new reasons to monitor your activities. Wouldn’t take much to make life harder for your parents.”

Draco didn’t blink. He simply nodded once and stepped aside, silently granting Arthur the right of way.

The moment passed between them like a breath—tense, heavy, unfinished.

Arthur didn’t trust him. Not fully. But sometimes, even old enemies had to find common ground.

A cold chill swept through the Burrow the moment Arthur stepped out of the fireplace.

The kitchen, usually bustling with noise and laughter, now sat in grim silence. Ron, Ginny, and Hermione were gathered at the wooden table, their faces pale, their eyes fixed on the floor. They looked like mourners at a wake rather than teenagers in their home.

Arthur’s heart clenched. One glance was enough to know something was wrong—something serious. His instincts, sharpened from years of raising seven children, screamed the name that was missing from the room.

Harry.

He was just about to speak when the fireplace flared behind him. The flames roared, sending a gust of heat through the kitchen—and then, stepping through the fire with all the arrogance in the world, came Draco.

His pale blond hair gleamed like polished silver in the flickering light. His cloak swirled as he stepped forward, that trademark smirk curling at his lips.

The moment Ron saw him, he shot to his feet. His chair scraped harshly across the floor. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped, fists already clenched at his sides, fury burning in his blue eyes.

Draco raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “Nice to see you too, Weasley.”

Hermione and Ginny exchanged a tense glance. This wasn’t some petty schoolyard spat—Draco wouldn’t show up here without a reason, and nothing about his arrival felt normal.

Before anyone could say more, a terrible scream ripped through the ceiling—high, raw, and filled with agony.

Everyone froze.

The sound tore through the kitchen like a curse, echoing off the walls. Ginny’s hand flew to her mouth. Hermione went rigid. Ron flinched like he’d been slapped.

The scream didn’t stop—it rose again, even louder, more broken, like someone was being torn apart from the inside.

Draco tilted his head, feigning interest. “Blimey,” he said lazily, “is someone being tortured up there?”

Rage surged through Ron like wildfire. “That’s Harry!” he roared, stepping forward. “You think this is funny, you twisted git?”

Draco didn’t flinch. “Relax, Weasley. I heard he’s just… unwell.”

“You don’t know anything,” Ron growled. “You shouldn’t even be here. Harry doesn’t want to see you!”

Arthur gently put a hand on Ron’s shoulder, trying to calm him. “Easy, son. There’s a reason he came. Let’s not lose our heads.”

“He’s not welcome here, Dad,” Ron muttered, his voice thick with emotion. “And Harry—he’s in no state to talk to anyone.”

Arthur turned to Ginny. “He’s in his room?”

She nodded, her expression tight with worry. “He’s been screaming on and off for the past hour.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “Right. I’ll go check on him.” He turned to Draco. “You’ll behave?”

Draco offered a mocking smile. “I’m always on my best behaviour.”

Arthur gave him a hard look but said nothing. He left the kitchen quickly, the sound of Harry’s cries still echoing faintly overhead.

The second he was gone, silence fell again. Except now, it was heavier—filled with anger and pain.

Ron stood stiffly, shaking with frustration. Hermione sat frozen, her hands clenched in her lap. Ginny was glaring daggers at Draco.

Draco leaned casually against the sink, arms folded, his eyes scanning the room like it bored him.

“Honestly,” he muttered, “they really ought to put silencing charms on whoever’s suffering. Ruins the atmosphere.”

Ron’s face turned red. “You absolute bastard! He’s not being tortured—he’s—he’s—” He broke off, his voice cracking.

“Sick. Yeah. I heard,” Draco replied, voice cold and detached. “So why aren’t you up there with him, playing the loyal friend?”

Ron’s mouth opened, but Hermione beat him to it.

“Don’t you dare stand there and pretend you care,” she said, her voice sharp as glass. “You don’t know what he’s going through. None of us do. But at least we don’t make jokes while he screams.”

Draco chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the reaction. “Touchy, aren’t we?”

Ginny stood then, her chair scraping back. “You need to leave. Now. Or else—”

He met her glare with a lazy smirk. “Temper, temper. I didn’t realise the welcome committee here included death threats.”

“You’re not welcome,” Ron said again, quieter this time, but his voice carried steel. “Not here. Not ever.”

Draco pushed off the sink and strolled around the kitchen like he owned the place. “Merlin’s beard, this place is worse than I thought,” he muttered. “Feels like I’ve walked into a funeral home for blood traitors.”

Ginny stepped forward, fists clenched. “Get. Out.”

Draco’s eyes twinkled with cruel amusement. “Is that how you speak to guests? Didn’t your dear old dad teach you manners?”

Ron’s hands were shaking. “One more word, Malfoy. Just one more.”

Draco shrugged. “Look, if Potter’s dying upstairs, I think I deserve to know. After all, he’s always been such a shining star in my life. So dramatic. So tragic. So—”

“That’s enough!” Hermione snapped, rising to her feet. “He doesn’t need your smug attitude. You have no idea what he’s been through.”

“No,” Draco said smoothly, “but it seems you don’t either. Sitting down here while he screams his lungs out?”

Ron charged forward, only for Ginny to grab his arm and hold him back. “Don’t give him what he wants,” she whispered.

“Why are you even here?” Hermione asked, her voice low and tired.

Draco finally dropped the smirk. His expression turned guarded, almost unreadable. “Because,” he said, “whether you like it or not, Harry and I have unfinished business.”

Ron shook his head. “He won’t want to see you. Not now. Not like this.”

“We’ll see,” Draco said coolly, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “I’ll decide that for myself.”

Then came the sound—sharp and unmistakable. Harry’s screams pierced through the quiet again, echoing from the kitchen with a rawness that cut straight to the bone. They were louder now, more desperate, like something inside him was breaking open.

Arthur rushed down the stairs, his face pale but composed. There was worry in his eyes—but also a flicker of relief. “Harry’s stable,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “For now.”

Ginny stepped forward quickly, her voice small, hopeful. “Is he asleep?”

Arthur shook his head. “No… but he’s resting. Calm, at least. He… he’s agreed to see Draco.”

The room froze.

Ron’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait—what?” he snapped. “Harry’s okay with that? With him? He just went through hell and back! And now Malfoy gets a bloody audience like it’s tea time?”

He turned on Draco, who stood smugly near the fireplace.

“He needs rest, not another round of stress,” Ron went on. “You just had to show up, didn’t you?”

Arthur raised a hand. “Ron. I asked Harry if he was willing, and he didn’t object. Just gave a nod. That’s all.”

Ron made a noise halfway between a growl and a groan and started for the stairs, but Arthur stepped into his path, his voice firm. “Ron. No. Only Draco goes up. The rest of you stay here.”

Ron stopped short. “But—Dad—!”

“I know you’re worried,” Arthur said gently, “but this isn’t our call. If Harry wants to talk to him, we respect that. We don’t spy, and we don’t interfere.”

Hermione and Ginny exchanged glances, both visibly bristling. Ginny’s fists clenched at her sides.

Ron looked like he might explode. “He doesn’t deserve to talk to Harry!”

Draco, of course, looked like he was enjoying every second of it. He tilted his head and gave Ron a slow, smug smile.

“You know,” Draco drawled, “I’d almost forgotten how fun it is watching you lot trip over yourselves in a moral panic.”

Ron took a step forward, his voice low and sharp. “Try anything, Malfoy. So help me—”

Draco didn’t flinch. “Please. Do you think I’d bother hexing someone who can’t even stand upright? Harry’s not exactly at duelling strength right now.”

The air went still. Ron’s face darkened.

He lunged.

But before his fist could make contact, Arthur grabbed his arm, holding him back with surprising strength for a man who’d just come off a sleepless night.

“Son,” Arthur said quietly, with just enough weight to cut through the tension. “Let it go.”

Ron didn’t move. His jaw was clenched, eyes blazing.

Arthur turned to Draco, and his expression hardened. “You’re here on my word. You will treat Harry with respect, or I’ll drag you back to the Ministry myself. Are we clear?”

Draco looked away, avoiding Arthur’s eyes.

“Are we clear?” Arthur repeated, voice like steel.

“Yes,” Draco said shortly.

“Good,” Arthur said, stepping aside. “Upstairs. Now.”

Draco started toward the staircase, but not without one last glance at the others. His eyes swept across them—Ron, Hermione, Ginny—with a look that said he was already imagining how he’d retell this later to someone equally unpleasant.

Ron caught the look and stiffened. “I swear,” he muttered, “if he even breathes wrong in that room—”

Ginny, arms crossed, said darkly, “I’ll hex him myself.”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. “Let’s just… wait. And hope Harry knows what he’s doing.”

Ron grumbled under his breath, pacing like a caged Kneazle. His gaze flicked to the staircase.

“I bet I could still find one of Fred and George’s Extendable Ears,” he muttered.

Arthur shot him a warning glance.

Ron raised his hands. “Kidding! Sort of. Mostly.”

Ginny flopped down onto the couch with a huff. “This better not be one of those ‘Harry forgives his enemies’ things. I swear, if he tries to be noble and let Draco off the hook, I’ll throw something.”

Hermione sat beside her, looking equally torn. “Well… maybe he has a reason. Harry’s not stupid.”

Ron snorted. “He’s not stupid. He’s Harry. That’s way more dangerous.”

The three of them sat in restless silence, eyes flicking toward the ceiling as footsteps creaked above.

Whatever was about to happen in that room, it was bound to change everything.

Malfoy crept up the stairs like a shadow slipping through twilight, the sharp click of his shoes muffled by hesitation. Harry could hear him, even before he reached the room. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was just how loud the world felt when pain hollowed everything out.

The sun was setting, casting long golden bars across the floor, far too warm and gentle for how cold Harry felt. His body trembled under the blanket Molly had tucked around him earlier, his skin clammy, throat raw. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt more.

He heard the door creak open.

Malfoy stepped in, and Harry could feel the weight of his stare before he said anything. The room was dim, the only light coming from the open window. Molly stood up, wordless. Her silence said enough. She shot Draco a glance colder than the draught rolling in from the hall, then swept out of the room without a sound.

Now it was just the two of them.

Harry wanted to turn away, to close his eyes and make this part go away. He didn’t have the strength for another round of Malfoy’s sneering superiority. Not today.

He heard Malfoy clear his throat—awkward, unsure. The noise scraped the silence like sandpaper. “Potter.”

It was strange, hearing that name from him. Not spat, not loaded with venom. Just… spoken.

Harry cracked his eyes open. The light burnt a little, but he could just make out Malfoy’s pale figure near the foot of the bed. He looked like he didn’t belong in this room, like he didn’t know why he was here. For a moment, Harry almost pitied him.

Almost.

Then Malfoy sneered, defaulting to habit. “What happened to you?” he asked, and the coldness in his voice returned, stiff and awkward. Like he didn’t know how else to speak.

Harry coughed before answering, the pain slicing down his throat like broken glass. “Sorry I’m not looking my best for you, Malfoy. You, on the other hand, seem lost without your dear Voldemort. Is that it? Mourning his absence?”

Malfoy’s eyes flared. His whole face twisted in a flash of anger. “Are you seriously going to spout that kind of garbage while you’re half-dead?” he snapped. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to? I’m superior to you.”

Harry let out a hoarse, humorless laugh, more wheeze than chuckle. It cost him—it pulled at his chest, made his head spin—but it was worth it.

“Superior?” he echoed, shaking his head weakly. “All I see is a coward hiding behind his family name and a couple of robes too expensive for someone with so little spine.”

Malfoy’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough,” Harry rasped. “You always walked around like you were better than everyone else—like being a Malfoy meant you didn’t need a soul. And now what? You show up here trying to prove something?”

“I’ve done things—things you couldn’t imagine!” Malfoy’s voice rose, indignant.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “You mean taking orders from your father? Or from a man who killed without blinking? Yeah, very impressive.”

“Even without them, even without Crabbe and Goyle, I’ve survived,” Malfoy said stiffly, stepping closer. “I’m not helpless.”

Harry smirked, though it hurt to hold the expression. “So that’s what this is? You miss your goons, and now you’re wandering around trying to figure out who you are without them?”

Malfoy gave a bitter laugh, sharp and forced. “Don’t flatter yourself, Potter. You’re not that important.”

“Then why are you here?” Harry snapped, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “If you’re just here to insult me, save us both the trouble and leave. I’m too sick to care.”

There was a pause.

Then Malfoy spoke, quieter. “I’m here because I owe you.”

Harry blinked. That… he hadn’t expected.

“You saved my life,” Malfoy continued. “And whether I like it or not, that means I’m in your debt.”

Harry’s lips curled into another faint smirk. “Funny way of showing gratitude—storming in here acting like I’m beneath you.”

Malfoy’s jaw tightened. “Just tell me how to repay you so I can go.”

Harry stared at him for a long moment, too tired to hide the disbelief on his face. “You really hate this, don’t you?” he murmured. “Being indebted to me.”

“I’d rather owe anyone else,” Malfoy admitted, his voice bitter. “You’ll probably make it unbearable.”

Harry’s vision swam a little, but he held on. “Fine. If you want to repay me, then here’s your task: stay away from me. Don’t come back. That’s it.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “That’s all?”

Harry nodded slowly. “It’s the easiest thing I could ask for. And honestly? The most peaceful.”

“No,” Malfoy said suddenly, the word sharp and final.

Harry frowned. “No?”

“I’m not leaving just because you want me gone,” Malfoy said. “You don’t get to decide who’s in your life anymore, Potter. Not after everything. You’ll just have to tolerate me.”

Harry stared at him. For the first time since Malfoy walked into the room, he couldn’t quite read his expression. There was something behind the sneer now—something twisted up and uncertain.

And as much as he wanted to push him away, tell him to go to hell, Harry suddenly felt too tired to keep fighting. His body ached, his throat burnt, and his chest was tight with something that wasn’t just fever.

Maybe it was loneliness.

Maybe it was the strange, quiet truth that even Malfoy’s voice—his annoying, arrogant voice—meant he wasn’t completely alone in this house.

“Fine,” Harry whispered, shutting his eyes again. “Stay. But don’t expect me to be nice.”

He could almost hear the smirk in Malfoy’s voice as he replied, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Every part of Harry’s body ached.

It wasn’t just tiredness—it was bone-deep, skin-burning, lung-tightening agony that never let up. His head pulsed like it had its own heartbeat. Breathing hurt. His throat felt like it had been clawed raw from the inside, and just lying down made his muscles scream.

He let out a shaky breath and rasped, “I can’t do this anymore.”

His voice cracked, and it stung. Just speaking felt like dragging broken glass over his vocal cords. “I’m sick, Malfoy,” he managed, swallowing painfully. “Exhausted.”

He closed his eyes. Maybe if he stopped looking at him, Malfoy would finally go away.

But the silence didn’t last.

“Why are you sick?” Malfoy’s voice cut through the haze, too sharp, too loud. Harry flinched involuntarily. His temples throbbed harder.

Dark spots blurred the edge of his vision.

“There are… rumours,” Malfoy added, tone shifting. “People are saying you’re dying.”

Harry’s heart thudded once—then again, hard enough to make his ribs ache. The words hit too close. Because maybe they’re right. Maybe I am.

“That’s none of your business,” he muttered, jaw clenched against the sharp jolt that ran down his spine every time he turned his head too quickly.

Malfoy smirked, and Harry hated him for it. “Judging by your screams, I’d say it’s something nasty.”

Harry glared through half-lidded eyes. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he bit out, but even the sarcasm was dulled by the pain. He could feel the fever crawling beneath his skin, setting his nerves on fire.

“So, what is it, then?”

“Merlin’s sake, Malfoy,” Harry snapped, voice catching on a dry edge. “Just let it go.” He blinked slowly, the world tilting slightly. “I’ve had a long day. A long week. I don’t need you pushing.”

But Malfoy didn’t budge. His arms crossed like he was ready to settle in for a fight.

“I’m not leaving till I get an answer.”

A fresh wave of nausea rolled through Harry. He gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles white, holding himself up by sheer force of will. Every inch of him hurt—his joints ached like they were being pried apart. He had to grit his teeth to keep a groan from escaping.

“I don’t owe you anything,” he said quietly, voice rasping. “Not my time. Not my pain.”

He didn’t want Malfoy to see the tremble in his hands or the way his vision kept blurring. Didn’t want him to notice how his whole body felt like it was fraying from the inside out.

”Why are you in pain? Don’t you have anything to heal yourself?”

“There’s a cure,” he said after a long pause, words thick and slow. “Or something close. We’re working on it.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Is it about that stone? The one from the Veil?”

Harry’s stomach twisted. His pulse jumped, and not in a good way. “How do you know about that?”

Malfoy gave a half-hearted shrug. “I listen. Unlike you, I don’t shout everything I know. Now, tell me about the cure.”

Harry leaned forward, dizzy. The movement sent a sharp stab of pain through his chest. He winced, hand pressed flat against his ribs. He gritted his teeth, breath shallow.

“You want to know so badly?” he rasped. “Well, tough. I’m not explaining it to you.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I could just ask Mr. Weasley, you know. Tell him I overheard something about the cure and the stone.”

“Drop it,” Harry said, louder this time—but the effort burned. He coughed, dry and rough, and it left him gasping. He felt the heat rising again, sweat prickling down his spine.

“Honestly,” Malfoy sneered, “what part of ‘I want to help’ is so hard for you to—”

“Stop!” Harry burst out, louder than he should’ve. A sharp pain tore through his chest, and he doubled forward slightly, arms clutching his middle. He breathed in shallow bursts, every inhale scraping against raw lungs.

“Please,” he added more quietly. “I can’t take this right now.”

The silence after that hung heavy.

“I’m tired too,” Malfoy said at last, and something in his voice was almost… real. “I’m not trying to make it worse.”

Harry lay back slowly, still holding his side. “You want to know?” he whispered. “Fine. We don’t have the cure. We’re still missing something.”

Malfoy tilted his head. “What?”

Harry forced the words out like they weighed a hundred pounds. “A wild Thestral.”

Malfoy’s brows rose. “Why a Thestral?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, panting lightly, trying not to sound desperate. “Do you know where I can find one?”

Malfoy hesitated. “The Dark Lord needed one. Told me where they hide.”

Harry blinked. Even his eyes hurt now. “Why?”

“No idea,” Malfoy said, brushing it off. “Weren’t told.”

“Then tell me where.”

Malfoy smirked. “Only if that pays my debt.”

Harry let out a long, shaky breath. “Fine. Just say it.”

“There’s a cave. Hidden deep in Ireland. Thestrals nest there. But the place is… not safe.”

Harry met his gaze, jaw clenched through the pain. “Safe isn’t an option I have.”

Malfoy paused, eyes flicking down to where Harry was clutching his side, hunched over and pale. His voice dropped a notch. “Be careful, Potter. Use extreme caution or else it might kill you.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He was already halfway there.