FicWad

Arthur sat hunched at his desk in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, his foot tapping restlessly against the floor. His eyes flicked repeatedly to the clock on the wall, each tick landing like a hammer on his nerves. The request he’d 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 reports, but the words swam on the page, blurring uselessly before his eyes. He couldn’t concentrate. 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 a moment longer. Pacing the cramped office, he rubbed his chin, the familiar motion doing little to settle his nerves. His thoughts circled in a frantic loop—who was Kingsley speaking to? Why was it taking so long? And, above all, what news would he bring about Harry?

The boy’s worsening condition pressed on Arthur like a weight. Every passing hour felt like another inch slipping from their grasp.

He didn’t even pause to grab his robes as he left the office. His footsteps rang sharply through the corridor, cutting across the Ministry’s usual hum. Witches and wizards bustled past him, but Arthur barely noticed them. His mind was locked, focused, driving him forward with purpose.

A small crowd had gathered outside Kingsley’s office. Curious glances followed Arthur, hushed voices trailing in his wake, but he didn’t stop. Whatever was going on there could wait. His path veered instead towards the lower levels—towards the courtrooms.

The deeper he descended, the quieter it became. The Ministry’s underground corridors were thick with silence, the stillness pressing in around him like cold stone. His pace quickened, urgency tightening in his chest, a knot of dread twisting in his stomach.

Two Aurors stood guard outside the interrogation chamber. Arthur gave them a curt nod and stepped forward, hand raised to knock—

The door swung open before he could touch it.

Kingsley stood there, filling the doorway, his broad shoulders tense, his expression worn thin. His usual calm had cracked; Arthur could see it in the tight line of his jaw, the flicker of frustration in his eyes.

Beyond him, Arthur caught a glimpse of pale blond hair—Lucius Malfoy. The sight turned his stomach. Narcissa was beside him, her face unreadable, her posture as rigid as ever. Arthur’s jaw set.

Kingsley stepped out, closing the door firmly behind him. For a moment, they simply looked at each other.

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

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

Arthur scoffed. “Hardly surprising. Did he tell you anything actually useful, or was it the usual polished lies and self-preservation?”

“There was some truth,” Kingsley said carefully. “Or something close to it. He’s frightened, Arthur. Desperate.”

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

“I know. But his desperation might work to our advantage. He says he wants to help. Claims he’ll name every Death Eater still in hiding—locations, networks, the lot.”

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

“A full pardon,” Kingsley said, voice tight. “For himself. For his family. He wants their names cleared. He wants their reputation back.”

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

Kingsley gave a weary nod. “He’s playing a dangerous game, but I made sure he understood the stakes. I told him if he’s lying—if he’s holding anything back—I’ll ruin him. I’ll freeze his accounts. I’ll make sure every one of his skeletons sees daylight. He knows I’ll do it.”

Arthur allowed the briefest smirk. “And how did he take that?”

“White as a sheet,” Kingsley said. “The thought of being poor and disgraced frightened him more than Azkaban ever did.”

Arthur’s smirk faded. “He’s still a snake, Kingsley. Never forget that. Keep your wand ready. He’ll wriggle out if you give him the slightest chance.”

“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. Possibly 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 emerged. Lucius led, his usual cold dignity in place, his gaze fixed straight ahead, unreadable. Narcissa followed close behind, speaking to him in low, hurried tones, her voice tight with worry. Draco trailed after them, a shadow of the boy he had once been—quiet, pale, uncertain. His gaze flicked nervously around the room, his footsteps hesitant.

Arthur watched them go, his expression darkening. There had been a time when the sight of the Malfoys would have brought nothing but anger. Now… now it was just another weight pressing down on an already unbearable day.

Kingsley stepped up beside him, his voice low and steady. “Harry. How is he?”

Arthur’s shoulders sagged as he let out a slow, tired breath. “He’s trying to be strong,” he said quietly. “But it’s bad. Worse than we’ve let on.”

Kingsley gave a single nod, more acknowledgement than response. His jaw tightened, and the silence that followed was thick with the things neither of them wanted to say aloud.

Draco, pausing mid-step, glanced over his shoulder. His eyes met Kingsley’s, a flicker of something passing between them—curiosity? Doubt? Regret? Kingsley saw it. It unsettled him, enough to make him speak, if only to push through the moment.

“That request for a fragment of the Veil stone,” Kingsley said slowly, brow furrowed. “That was… unexpected.”

Arthur nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Desperate times,” he muttered. “We’re willing to try anything that might help Harry, however strange it sounds.”

“The Unspeakables are retrieving it now,” Kingsley said, his tone cautious, “but I still don’t see how it’s supposed to help.”

“It’s for a potion,” Arthur explained. “Something his friends found in that book they’re following. Truth be told, I don’t know what to think. Feels like grasping at shadows.”

Kingsley pressed his lips into a hard line. “And you’d have Harry drink something brewed with a piece of that stone? It sounds dangerous. Maybe worse.”

Arthur sighed heavily. “I know. I’ve thought the same. But we’re running out of time—and options.”

The Malfoys disappeared down the corridor, but Draco lingered a moment longer, casting one final glance back before following his parents. Arthur’s gaze lingered on him, thoughtful.

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

Kingsley didn’t answer at once. “Hard to say,” he said at last. “But he looked… conflicted.”

He stepped in closer, lowering his voice to barely a whisper. “I’ll deliver the Veil stone to Harry myself. He doesn’t need more eyes on him just now. Do you think he’s well enough to see me?”

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

That drew a faint 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 brief, tired laugh. “If you told him that, he’d probably try to sink through the floor.”

Kingsley chuckled softly. “He might not seek recognition, but he’s got everything it takes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up leading 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 instinct to lead without needing to control. In another life, in another time, I could even imagine him as Minister.”

Arthur blinked, the idea almost too vast to hold.

“Minister?” he repeated, half to himself. “I’m not sure Harry would ever want that kind of attention. He’s had enough of the spotlight to last a lifetime. Fame was never what he wanted.”

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

The two men stood in silence for a moment, the tension in the corridor slowly settling around them again like mist.

Arthur straightened, his expression firming. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said. “Right now, we need to help him survive the night.”

Kingsley nodded. “One step at a time.”

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

Draco stood just outside, hesitating in the corridor. He looked nothing like the polished boy Arthur remembered from past encounters. His blond hair was untidy, 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 another petty argument.

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

Draco stepped into the office slowly, his eyes drifting over the mismatched collection of Muggle artefacts. 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, forcing down a ripple of irritation. He wasn’t in the mood for riddles or half-answers. “Then get on with it. If you’ve got something to say, say it. I was about to call it a night.”

Draco didn’t move at first. Then, as if the words were dragged from somewhere deep and uncomfortable, he asked, “Is it true? Is Potter… ill?”

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

Arthur’s hand froze mid-reach for his papers. His eyes narrowed. “Were you listening outside the courtrooms earlier?” he asked, his 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 thinned. “I should’ve known. Eavesdropping does seem to come naturally to your lot.”

Draco’s next words came quieter, almost uncertain. “It just… it doesn’t sound like him. Potter doesn’t get sick. He causes chaos, picks fights, saves people. Falling ill doesn’t fit.”

Arthur stood up, patience thinning. “Whatever’s happening with Harry isn’t your concern,” he said sharply. “So unless you’ve got Ministry business, I suggest you leave.”

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

Arthur’s brow creased. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

Draco shifted to block the doorway, his shadow stretching across the worn floorboards. And for the first time, Arthur caught a flash of something raw behind those usually guarded eyes—guilt, maybe. Regret.

“I owe him,” Draco said, almost a whisper.

Arthur’s stance didn’t soften. “You owe him? That’s a bold thing to say.”

Draco squared his shoulders. “It’s not just something I’m saying. It’s true. He saved my life.”

Arthur studied him carefully, weighing the words, searching for insincerity. He wanted to dismiss it—to believe the boy was still the same self-serving child—but there was something about Draco’s voice, something that didn’t ring false.

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

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

The room fell into silence again, the only sound the steady ticking of the clock above the door. Arthur turned it over in his mind—Harry’s condition was precarious, his family’s safety always a concern. But a life debt… that wasn’t something easily dismissed.

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

Draco waited, tense and silent.

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

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

Arthur’s smile was thin, but his voice was steel. “Your family’s situation is… delicate. I daresay the Ministry could find half a dozen new reasons to keep a very close eye on you. Wouldn’t take much to make life very uncomfortable for your parents.”

Draco didn’t blink. He gave a single nod, then stepped aside, wordlessly granting Arthur the right of way.

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

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 alive with clattering pots and bursts of laughter, sat in grim, suffocating silence. Ron, Ginny, and Hermione were gathered at the wooden table, their faces pale, their eyes fixed on the worn floorboards. They looked more like mourners at a wake than teenagers in their home.

Arthur’s heart clenched. One glance told him everything—something was wrong. Badly wrong. His instincts, honed over years of raising seven children, immediately registered who wasn’t in the room.

Harry.

He was about to speak when the fireplace flared behind him, a brief roar of green flame sweeping through the kitchen.

Stepping through the hearth, his movements as smooth and self-assured as ever, came Draco Malfoy.

His pale blond hair gleamed in the flickering light, his cloak swirling behind him as he dusted non-existent ash from his sleeve, a familiar smirk curling at his lips.

Ron shot to his feet, his chair scraping violently across the floor. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he spat, fists already clenching, his blue eyes blazing.

Draco raised a lazy eyebrow, entirely unbothered. “Lovely to see you too, Weasley.”

Hermione and Ginny exchanged a sharp glance. This wasn’t some petty Hogwarts squabble. Draco wouldn’t have shown up at the Burrow without a reason, and nothing about his presence felt remotely ordinary.

Before anyone could say another word, a scream ripped through the ceiling.

High, raw, and agonised—it tore through the kitchen like a curse, echoing off the walls and freezing them all in place.

Ginny’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. Hermione went rigid. Ron flinched as though struck.

The scream came again, louder this time, more broken, more desperate—like someone was being torn apart from the inside.

Draco tilted his head, almost as if intrigued. “Blimey,” he drawled, “is someone being tortured up there?”

Ron’s rage ignited instantly. “That’s Harry!” he bellowed, charging forward. “You think this is funny, you twisted git?”

Draco didn’t so much as blink. “Calm down, Weasley. I heard he’s just… unwell.”

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

Arthur placed a steady hand on Ron’s shoulder, his voice low but firm. “Easy, son. There’s a reason he’s come. Let’s not lose our heads.”

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

Arthur turned to Ginny. “He’s upstairs?”

She nodded, her jaw tight with worry. “Been screaming on and off for the last hour.”

Arthur’s expression hardened. “Right. I’ll check on him.” He looked to Draco. “You’ll behave?”

Draco’s smirk didn’t falter. “Always on my best behaviour.”

Arthur shot him a pointed look but said nothing more. He left the kitchen briskly, Harry’s cries still echoing faintly from above.

Silence settled again, thick and oppressive, hanging over the room like a storm cloud.

Ron stood rigid, fists clenched, his whole body taut with frustration. Hermione sat frozen, her hands balled tightly in her lap. Ginny glared at Draco as though sheer force of will might banish him.

Draco, ever infuriating, leaned casually against the sink, arms folded, as if the entire situation bored him.

“Honestly,” he muttered, his tone light, but his words cutting, “they really ought to put silencing charms on whoever’s suffering. Completely ruins the atmosphere.”

Ron’s face turned crimson. “You absolute bastard! He’s not being tortured—he’s—he’s—” His voice cracked, the words caught in his throat.

“Sick. Yes. I gathered,” Draco said coolly, his gaze flicking lazily over Ron. “So why aren’t you up there with him, then? Playing the loyal friend?”

Ron’s mouth opened, but Hermione cut across him.

“Don’t you dare stand there and pretend you care,” she said, her voice sharp. “You’ve no idea what he’s going through. None of us do. But at least we’re not cracking jokes while he screams.”

Draco let out a soft, humourless chuckle, clearly enjoying himself. “Touchy, aren’t we?”

Ginny shot to her feet, her chair scraping loudly across the floor. “You need to leave. Now. Or—”

His smirk deepened as he met her glare. “Temper, temper. Didn’t realise the Burrow’s welcome committee included death threats.”

“You’re not welcome,” Ron said again, quieter now, but his voice was iron. “Not here. Not ever.”

Draco pushed off the sink, strolling leisurely around the kitchen like it belonged to him. “Merlin’s beard, this place is even worse than I imagined,” he muttered. “Feels like I’ve stepped into a blood traitor’s funeral parlour.”

Ginny moved closer, her fists tight at her sides. “Get. Out.”

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

Ron’s hands were trembling. “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 light 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’ve 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 lunged, but Ginny caught his arm, holding him back with surprising strength. “Don’t give him what he wants,” she hissed.

Hermione’s voice came out low, tired. “Why are you even here?”

Draco’s smirk faltered. His expression shifted, becoming harder to read. “Because,” he said at last, “whether you like it or not, Harry and I have unfinished business.”

Ron shook his head, furious. “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.”

And then it came—the sound that silenced them all.

Harry’s screams, raw and desperate, pierced through the ceiling again. Louder this time. More broken. It sounded like something inside him was being torn apart.

Arthur appeared on the stairs a moment later, his face pale but composed, the tightness around his mouth betraying his concern. Still, there was a faint flicker of relief in his eyes.

“Harry’s stable,” he said, his voice steady but soft. “For now.”

Ginny stepped forward quickly. “Is he asleep?”

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

The room froze.

Ron stared at him, stunned. “Wait—what?” he burst out. “Harry’s fine with that? With him? After what he’s just been through? Malfoy gets to waltz in like it’s tea time?”

His gaze snapped to Draco, who remained comfortably near the fireplace, looking smug.

“He needs rest,” Ron hissed. “Not more stress. You just couldn’t stay away, could you?”

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

Ron let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a growl and a groan, and made for the stairs, but Arthur stepped smoothly into his path, his voice suddenly firm.

“No. Only Draco goes up. The rest of you stay here.”

Ron gaped at him. “But—Dad—!”

“I know you’re worried,” Arthur said, gentler now, “but it’s not our decision. If Harry wants to see him, we respect that. We don’t spy, and we don’t interfere.”

Ginny and Hermione exchanged tense glances. Ginny’s fists stayed clenched.

Ron looked ready to explode. “He doesn’t deserve to see Harry!”

Draco, predictably, looked as though he was enjoying every second of the chaos. He tilted his head slightly, his smile maddeningly slow.

“You know,” Draco drawled, “I’d almost forgotten how delightful it is watching you lot work yourselves into a moral crisis.”

Ron stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous. “Try anything, Malfoy. I swear—”

Draco’s lip curled, unconcerned. “Please. Do you honestly think I’d waste a hex on someone who can barely stand upright? Potter’s not exactly in duelling form these days.”

The air seemed to snap, sharp and cold.

Ron’s fury boiled over. He lunged—this time not to threaten, but to hit.

Arthur caught his arm before the punch landed, his grip firm, his voice like iron. “Son. Let it go.”

Ron seethed, his jaw locked tight, his eyes blazing.

Arthur turned to Draco, his face hard as stone. “You’re here on my word. You will treat Harry with respect, or I’ll haul you back to the Ministry myself. Are we clear?”

Draco’s gaze flicked away, his smirk gone.

“Are we clear?” Arthur repeated, his voice steely.

“Yes,” Draco muttered.

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

Draco started up the stairs, but not before casting one last glance back at them. His eyes swept over Ron, Hermione, and Ginny with a look that plainly said he was already composing some smug retelling for an audience just as insufferable as himself.

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

Ginny, arms folded tight across her chest, said coldly, “I’ll hex him myself.”

Hermione sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Let’s just… wait. And trust Harry knows what he’s doing.”

Ron began to pace, his movements sharp and restless, like a caged Kneazle. His gaze flicked up towards the stairs.

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

Arthur shot him a warning look.

Ron raised his hands quickly. “I’m joking! Mostly. Probably.”

Ginny sank onto the sofa with a huff of frustration. “This better not be one of those ‘Harry forgives everyone’ moments. If he tries to pull the noble card and let Malfoy off the hook, I’ll throw something at his head.”

Hermione sat beside her, though her brow was furrowed, her uncertainty plain. “Well… maybe he has a reason. Harry’s not stupid.”

Ron gave a short, humourless laugh. “He’s not stupid. He’s Harry. That’s way more dangerous.”

Malfoy crept up the stairs like a shadow slipping through twilight, the sharp click of his shoes dulled by hesitation. Harry could hear him, even before he reached the landing. Perhaps it was instinct. Perhaps it was just that pain made the world feel so bloody loud.

The sun was setting, casting long, golden bars of light across the floor—far too warm and soft for how cold Harry felt. His body trembled under the blanket Mrs Weasley had wrapped round him earlier, his skin clammy, throat raw. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt more.

The door creaked open.

Malfoy stepped inside, and Harry could feel the weight of his stare before either of them spoke. The room was dim, lit only by the fading light from the window. Mrs Weasley stood up at once. She didn’t say a word—didn’t need to. The look she shot Malfoy as she left was colder than the draught drifting in from the hall.

Now, it was just the two of them.

Harry wanted to turn away, to shut his eyes and push this whole moment aside. He didn’t have the strength for another one of Malfoy’s sneering performances. Not today.

Malfoy cleared his throat—awkward, unsure. The sound scraped the silence like sandpaper.

“Potter.”

Strange, hearing his name from Malfoy like that. Not spat, not barbed with insult. Just… spoken.

Harry cracked his eyes open. The light stung, but he could just about make out Malfoy’s pale figure standing near the foot of the bed. He looked entirely out of place here, like even he wasn’t sure why he’d come. For a heartbeat, Harry almost pitied him.

Almost.

Malfoy sneered then, falling back on what he knew. “What’s happened to you?” His voice was stiff, awkward, cold—like he didn’t know how else to speak.

Harry coughed, the sound dragging shards of glass down his throat. “Sorry I’m not looking my best for you, Malfoy. You, on the other hand—” He swallowed hard. “—seem a bit lost without your precious Voldemort. Mourning the vacancy?”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed. His whole face twisted with sharp, instant fury. “Are you seriously going to spit out that rubbish while you’re half-dead?” he snapped. “Do you remember who you’re talking to? I’m superior to you.”

Harry let out a hoarse, humourless laugh—more a scrape of breath than anything else. It hurt. Everything hurt. But it was worth it.

“Superior?” he echoed, shaking his head faintly. “All I see is a coward in fancy robes, hiding behind a family name. Expensive threads for someone with no spine.”

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

Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “I know enough. You always walked around like you were better than the rest of us—as though being a Malfoy meant you didn’t need a soul. And now what? You’ve come here, what, trying to prove something?”

“I’ve done things you couldn’t imagine!” Malfoy shot back, his voice rising.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What—taking orders from your master? From a man who killed without blinking? How impressive.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitched, furious. “Even without him—even without Crabbe and Goyle—I’ve survived. I’m not helpless.”

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

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

“Then why are you here?” Harry shot back, his patience fraying. “If you’re just here to insult me, don’t bother. I’m too ill to care.”

There was a pause.

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

Harry blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

“You saved my life,” Malfoy went on, his voice clipped but steady. “And whether I like it or not, that means I’m in your debt.”

Harry let out another faint, painful laugh. “Funny way of showing gratitude—storming in here like I’m something you’ve scraped off your shoe.”

Malfoy’s jaw tensed. “Just tell me how to repay you so I can be done with this.”

Harry stared at him, exhaustion dragging at every part of him. “You really hate this, don’t you?” he murmured. “Being indebted to me.”

“I’d rather owe anyone else,” Malfoy admitted, bitter and honest. “You’ll only make it unbearable.”

Harry’s vision blurred at the edges, but he pressed on. “Fine. If you’re that desperate to settle the score, here’s your task: stay away from me. Don’t come back. That’s all.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “That’s it?”

Harry gave a slow nod. “It’s the easiest thing I could ask for. And honestly? The most peaceful.”

“No,” Malfoy said at once, the word cutting and final.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “No?”

“I’m not leaving just because you’ve told me to,” Malfoy said, chin lifting stubbornly. “You don’t get to decide who’s in your life anymore, Potter. Not after everything. You’ll just have to put up with me.”

Harry stared at him. For the first time since Malfoy had stepped into the room, he couldn’t quite read his expression. The sneer was still there, but something else flickered beneath it—something knotted and uncertain.

And as much as Harry wanted to shove him away, to tell him to bugger off for good, the fight simply drained out of him. His body throbbed with pain, his throat burnt, and his chest ached with something that wasn’t just fever.

Maybe it was loneliness.

Maybe it was the quiet, uncomfortable truth that even Malfoy’s insufferable, drawling voice meant he wasn’t completely alone in this house.

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

He could practically hear the smirk in Malfoy’s reply. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Every inch of Harry’s body ached.

It wasn’t just tiredness—it was the kind of bone-deep, skin-burning, lung-crushing agony that clung to him, constant and unrelenting. His head thudded with its own pulse. Every breath scraped like gravel. His throat felt shredded, and even the weight of the blanket was unbearable on his aching muscles.

A breath rattled out of him. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The words cracked as they left him, scraping against raw vocal cords. Speaking felt like dragging glass across his throat. “I’m sick, Malfoy,” he rasped, swallowing around the sting. “Exhausted.”

His eyelids drooped, heavy with the pull of sleep or faintness—he couldn’t tell which. Maybe if he kept his eyes shut, Malfoy would finally take the hint and go.

But the silence didn’t last.

“Why are you sick?” Malfoy’s voice sliced through the haze, too sharp, too loud. Harry flinched, the sound making his temples throb in time with his heartbeat.

Dark patches edged into his vision.

“There are… rumours,” Malfoy added, his tone shifting from smug to something else—something quieter. “People are saying you’re dying.”

Harry’s heart jolted, twice in quick succession. The words landed too close to the truth.

Maybe I am.

“That’s none of your business,” he muttered, jaw clenched against the sharp crack of pain that shot down his spine whenever he moved too quickly.

Malfoy smirked, and Harry could have cursed him for it. “Judging by the screaming earlier, I’d say it’s something nasty.”

Harry forced a glare through half-lidded eyes. “I’ve no idea what you’re on about,” he croaked, though even sarcasm was beyond him now. The fever prickled hot beneath his skin, setting his nerves alight.

“So? What is it, then?”

“For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy,” Harry snapped, voice rasping, brittle at the edges. “Just drop it.” His eyelids fluttered as the room tilted gently round him. “I’ve had a long day. A long week. I don’t need you poking at it.”

But Malfoy didn’t move. His arms crossed in a way that said he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m not leaving till you tell me.”

A fresh wave of nausea rolled over Harry. He gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles white, holding himself upright by sheer force of will. Every part of him hurt—his joints throbbed like they were being prised apart. He had to clench his teeth to keep a groan from slipping out.

“I don’t owe you anything,” he said quietly, his voice raw and 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 sliding out of focus. He didn’t want him to notice how his whole body felt like it was unravelling from the inside.

“Why are you in pain? Don’t you have anything to heal yourself?” Malfoy pressed.

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

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

Harry’s stomach twisted sharply. His pulse lurched. “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, the room tilting as a sharp stab of pain shot through his chest. He winced, pressing his hand flat against his ribs, breathing shallowly.

“You want to know so badly?” he rasped. “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. About the stone.”

“Drop it,” Harry said, louder this time—but the effort scorched his throat. He coughed, dry and brutal, his breath catching as he gasped for air. Heat rose under his skin, sweat prickling at the nape of his neck.

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

“Stop!” Harry burst out, louder than he meant to. Pain ripped through his chest and he doubled over, arms clutched round his middle. His breathing came in ragged, shallow pulls, each one scraping like sandpaper inside his lungs.

“Please,” he added hoarsely, barely above a whisper. “I can’t take this right now.”

The silence that followed settled thickly between them.

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

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

Malfoy tilted his head, curious despite himself. “What?”

Harry forced the answer out, the weight of it sitting heavily on his tongue. “A wild Thestral.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows lifted. “Why a Thestral?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, breath coming quick and shallow. “Do you know where I can find one?”

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

Harry blinked slowly—his eyes stung now, every blink another ache. “Why?”

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

“Then tell me where.”

Malfoy’s mouth curled in a small, deliberate smirk. “Only if that pays my debt.”

Harry let out a shaky breath. “Fine. Say it.”

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

Harry met his gaze, his jaw clenched tight against the ache in his ribs. “Safe isn’t really an option I’ve got.”

Malfoy’s eyes flicked down to Harry’s hunched form, the way his hands pressed against his side, pale and shaking. His voice dropped, low and oddly careful. “Be careful, Potter. The place might kill you.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He was already halfway there.