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"Is there really a cave in Ireland?” she had asked, her eyes bright with contemplation.

Though Malfoy was notoriously deceptive, Harry couldn't shake the notion that maybe this time he was being honest. It was a feeling he struggled to explain, especially since he was often torn between old grievances and the possibility of forgiveness.

Ron, perched at the end of the bed, crossed his arms sceptically. “Do you think he’s telling the truth, mate?” He raised an eyebrow. “He’s not exactly known for being honest.”

Harry rubbed his eyes, his mind still racing. “I believe him,” he insisted. “He had a debt to repay. Why bother coming here if he was just going to deceive us?” The brief memory of Draco's nervous, earnest expression sent flutters of doubt through him, but he had come to know that appearances often betrayed true intentions.

“Even if that’s the case, they’re dark wizards,” Ron retorted, his angst clear. “Deception is second nature to them.”

“Maybe,” Harry replied, feeling a flicker of hope cross his heart. “But should we not give someone a chance? You remember at Malfoy Manor… He helped us then.”

Hermione nodded slowly, crossing her arms pensively. “Your father did say the Malfoys hoped to help the ministry in exchange for exoneration and a restored reputation.”

“Even if they’re trying to turn over a new leaf, I don’t trust them,” Ron conceded, shaking his head. “They deserve to feel the weight of what they did. You know, I can’t help but feel frustrated. I want them to understand the consequences of their actions—just like we lived with the consequences of theirs for years.”

Harry sighed. He could never forget the things the Malfoys had done either. But then again, wouldn’t they all want redemption? “I owe Narcissa,” he said quietly, “after what she did to save me. It’s complicated, but I believe everyone deserves a chance to make amends.”

“But Harry,” Hermione interjected gently, “the consequences are important. You can't simply brush aside their past because of one moment.”

Harry’s brow furrowed in contemplation. “Narcissa’s fear for her son’s safety drove her to deceive Voldemort by claiming that I was dead,” Harry explained. “I don’t think her allegiance to Voldemort was genuine; rather, it stemmed from her desire to protect her family at all costs. Isn’t that what we all want?””

Ron expressed his scepticism with a snort. “They should consider themselves lucky that you’re shielding them from a stint in Azkaban,” he remarked. “Without Narcissa’s intervention, one can only wonder how Malfoy would have coped without his parents if You-Know-Who had killed them. The rejection faced by their family would have been magnified, making it even harder for Malfoy to find acceptance in a society that now abhors them more than ever. It’s a harrowing thought to contemplate being destitute in such a hostile environment.”

“Kingsley was only threatening to seize all their wealth if they lied,” Hermione sharply reminded Ron. “I don’t think he would actually leave Malfoy penniless, even if it came to that. It would be too cruel. Besides, he would probably find a way to get back on his feet, one way or another.”

“I find it hard to believe Minister Kingsley would be so heartless,” Ginny stated. “I know him well, and he’s not the type to be cruel. He’s always been fair and just in his decisions.”

Ron slammed his fist against the wall. “The Malfoys are cruel individuals,” he said angrily. “They’re now facing the harsh consequences of their actions. I can’t forget how they teased our family for being poor. I want to see them struggle and be labelled poor themselves. I want to see them suffer, just like we did.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “How do you plan on helping them, Harry?” she eagerly asked.

Ron expressed his disbelief with a shake of his head. “I never thought I’d see you offering help to the Malfoy family,” he commented. “Considering how much you despised them for all the terrible things they’ve done to you,”

“I don’t harbour any hatred towards the Malfoys,” Harry responded thoughtfully, taking a moment to carefully choose his words. “Although our history is complicated, I believe it’s time to move past it. I intend to speak with Kingsley and disclose what I know. We can determine the next steps from there.”

“Do you think Kingsley will be receptive to what you have to say?” Ginny asked, voicing her uncertainty.

Harry paused before replying, “It’s worth a shot. I trust Kingsley; he’s a reasonable man. I’m confident that once I provide a full explanation, he’ll understand the situation. But I’d much rather avoid going to the ministry if possible.”

“What if we approach Mr. Weasley?” Hermione chimed in with a suggestion. “Perhaps he could convince Kingsley to visit the Burrow instead.”

Ginny, clutching a piece of parchment with scribbled notes from her latest quest, spoke up, “Shouldn’t we focus on that cave Malfoy mentioned? It could be something. If it really exists, we could investigate it ourselves.”

Ron groaned, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if you think there’s something essential in that cave, I’m in. But it’s probably just another one of Malfoy’s tall tales.”

Hermione grinned, her excitement palpable. “We should consult Hagrid too! He might have some insight about the Thestrals in Ireland.”

They all nodded in agreement.

Harry was feeling incredibly tired, to the point where he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. As his eyelids grew heavy, he knew that sleep would soon take over. They decided to postpone their plans to speak with Mr. Weasley until the next day because it was late and they all needed to rest. Harry hadn’t been able to eat anything that day, so they gave him a vial of Nutrition Potion. When they left Harry’s room, he was already sound asleep.







As morning light poured through the worn windowpanes and warmed the wooden floors of the Burrow, Harry struggled to open his eyes against the relentless brightness. He blinked, attempting to shake off the fog that clung to his mind. The room around him felt foreign, yet oddly comforting—a strange juxtaposition that left him feeling vulnerable.

“Where am I?” he whispered hoarsely to himself, gripping the bed's edge as if it might anchor him in reality. A wave of confusion crashed over him, leaving him disoriented. The soreness in his throat was just the cherry on top of an already bewildering start to the day.

Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and attempted to stand, but his legs buckled, collapsing beneath him like fragile twigs. Heart racing, he caught himself against the crate beside his bed, breathing heavy as he processed the bizarre sensation of being so out of control. After a moment, he mustered the courage to look around the room once more. That was when recognition swept over him, sending warmth flooding through his chest.

“The Burrow,” he murmured, slowly fitting the puzzle pieces of his memories back together. Laughter, warmth, and a sense of belonging began to tell a story he had almost forgotten—remnants of visits filled with playful banter, laughter, and the delicious aroma of Mrs. Weasley’s famous breakfast.

With a hesitant push, Harry made his way toward the staircase. Each step made him acutely aware of his slowness, and he leaned heavily against the walls for support. It was disconcerting how weak his body felt—as if it belonged to someone else entirely. He swallowed hard, hoping to ease the discomfort in his throat as he descended, desperate for the comfort of breakfast and the bustling energy of the Weasley family.

Reaching the kitchen, he spotted Mr. Weasley. Harry smiled weakly, mustering what little strength he had left. But as soon as he shifted his weight, his legs betrayed him again, and he stumbled. Mr. Weasley was quick; with a surprising ease, he caught Harry and lifted him, cradling him like a child—even though Harry was far from either of those two states of being.

“Just sit you down here, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, setting him gently at the table. Embarrassment surged through Harry, heat rising to his face. He could hear the murmur of voices suddenly hush around him, eyes turning with a mix of concern and curiosity, eyes that should have felt familiar yet floated somewhere outside the realm of comfort.

“Oh, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said, concern etched on her face as she cupped his pale cheeks in her strong hands. “You’re very pale, dear. Did you sleep well? Are you feeling alright?”

Harry felt his heart race at the warmth of her touch, which now seemed strange to him. Just moments ago, he would have welcomed it, but now everything felt wrong. The room around him seemed to spin, erasing any sense of why he was even there. A sudden wave of unease washed over him.

“I’m—” Harry started, voice barely above a whisper. His chest tightened, and he shied away from her touch, instinctively feeling the need to retreat even from those who cared for him most. His eyes swept across the table, landing on the faces of the strangers he was supposed to consider friends.

“Harry, are you okay?” the woman asked, reaching out to touch him once more. He flinched, causing her to stop her tracks.

“Harry?”

Startled by the voice of another person, Harry turned to focus on the unfamiliar woman sitting next to him. She had bushy hair, and she fixed him with a puzzled gaze.

“What’s happening, Harry?” She asked. “Is everything alright?”

"Hermione. I... I’m okay," he managed, but his voice trembled with uncertainty. Fighting against the swell of memories threatening to overwhelm him, he tried to focus, to grasp onto something tangible in the chaos of his mind.

“Are you sure, mate?” Ron chimed in, biting his lip. There was an apprehensive look in his friend’s eyes that only amplified Harry's unease. “You seemed lost for a moment there.”

Harry nodded, though the gesture felt more like a shake—a denial battling within him as the tightness in his throat came back with a vengeance. “I’m fine...” The lie hung in the air, heavy and defiant, contrasting with the truth roiling inside him—a storm of confusion racing through his mind and heart.

Harry took a deep breath, summoning the past that felt like a wisp of smoke, elusive and insubstantial. “I—I just need a minute. I’ll be alright.”

He was on the brink of being overwhelmed by panic, as he feared his memories were gone for good. Since the previous day, his situation had only gotten worse. Despite his reluctance to acknowledge it, his well-being was rapidly declining. A night of tossing and turning had resulted in a splitting headache, eyes bloodshot from lack of rest, and a throat so parched and scratchy that coughing brought up traces of blood. The burning sensation had caused lasting damage to Harry’s skin. Every sudden movement caused him to grimace in agony, and his heightened sensitivity only served to intensify the lingering internal pain, rendering even the gentlest touch unbearable.

Harry’s friends observed him intensively during breakfast, noting his careful and delicate approach to eating. They were troubled by the visible discomfort he seemed to be experiencing, wincing occasionally as he consumed his meal. The room fell quiet each time Harry’s trembling hands caused his utensils to clang against his plate, adding to the unease in the air. Following each instance of dropped cutlery, Harry could be seen bowing his head in frustration, visibly struggling to maintain his composure before resuming his meal. Despite the evident concern radiating from his friends’ gazes, Harry seemed to withdraw into himself, avoiding making eye contact and revelling in his solitude.

When Ginny offered to help, he felt a mix of shame and relief. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just can’t seem to hold the spoon properly anymore.” His pride took a beating, but the honesty in her sympathetic smile reassured him, if only for a moment.

“It's fine,” she murmured, her voice light and calming as she fed him small bites of scrambled eggs. The taste was familiar, comforting, yet his stomach churned as if questioning the wisdom of eating at all. Harry glanced at the vial of nutrition potion Mrs. Weasley sat down beside his plate—a grim reminder that even the simplest task of eating now felt monumental.

Beside him, Hermione attempted to steer the conversation elsewhere, aiming her questions at Mr. Weasley. Harry tried to listen and tried to anchor himself to their words, but the whirlwind of confusion swirled in his mind like a storm.

When Mr. Weasley addressed him, concern etched across his features, Harry struggled to respond, the world spiralling just beyond his control. “Harry,” Hermione called gently, pulling him back from the fog. “Can you hear us?”

It took a moment—a moment that felt stretched over eternity—before he blinked and focused on her. “Yes?” he asked, though his voice trembled with uncertainty.

“Are you feeling alright?” She sounded anxious, and her worry only deepened the pit in his stomach. He felt like an alien in his own life. “Mr. Weasley has asked you a question.”

The confusion only multiplied when he raised his head to meet Hermione’s eyes. “Who’s Mr. Weasley?” he asked, the words tumbling out like stones dropped into a chasm.

Silence fell over the table, heavy and foreboding. The Weasleys exchanged looks of shock and worry, their breakfast abruptly forgotten. Hermione’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Harry, what—?”

“That would be me, Harry,” Mr. Weasley interjected, his expression a blend of sadness and patience. “I'm Mr. Weasley.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeated with a hint of panic, feeling stripped of the layers that made him who he was. “What was the question again, sir?”

The response from Ron was instantaneous. His eyebrows shot upward. It wasn’t just Ron; every single one of them looked at Harry as if they were witnessing a heartbreaking trance.

“I was just wondering if you planned to give testimony against the Malfoys,” Mr. Weasley said.

Testimony? Against the Malfoys? He knew the name, but logic slipped through his fingers like sand. He found himself at a loss for words and felt anxious about being put on the spot. Harry inhaled deeply, searching for clarity. He shifted his gaze, blinking several times, and in a raspy voice, he uttered, “In fact, I wish to speak in support of them.”

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were taken aback, nearly tumbling out of their seats in shock. Their eyes widened, and their mouths hung agape as they looked at Harry with surprise.

“Are you serious, Harry?” Mr. Weasley’s brows furrowed deeply in confusion, and his fork hovered mid-air, forgotten. “I must admit, it’s hard for me to believe that you, of all people, would come to the aid of the Malfoys. While Kingsley may consider your words, can you explain what has spurred this sudden decision? Did Draco perhaps blackmail you into helping them?”

Harry felt a hot rush of frustration surge through him. “No, Mr. Weasley,” he replied firmly, his green eyes blazing with conviction. He tightened his grip on the table edge, steadying himself. “Draco didn’t blackmail me. I feel a sense of obligation towards Narcissa Malfoy because she once saved me from Voldemort. It’s a debt I cannot simply ignore.”

A deep silence fell over the table. Mr. Weasley rubbed his bald head thoughtfully, his disbelief palpable. “Saved you? It’s difficult for me to fathom that a Malfoy would perform such a selfless act.”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes softened, a flicker of empathy crossing her features. “Oh, Harry, that’s quite a story. But you must understand why we’re hesitant.”

Ron chimed in, barely able to contain himself. “We all understand what you’re trying to say, Dad.”

“Do tell us what happened, dear,” Mrs. Weasley urged, leaning in closer, her nurturing instincts taking over.

Harry took a deep breath. He thought of the night in the Forbidden Forest—the shadows that flickered in the corner of his mind. Sorting through the memories, he began to recount the events, pausing to take a sip from the cool glass of water in front of him, the memories swirling in his mind. He felt the weight of their expectations and felt the judgement lingering in the air. “Afterwards, Draco came to me. He owes me a favour and suggested where we could find the wild Thestrals.”

Mr. Weasley sat back, arms crossed, visibly wrestling with the implications. “That’s a big leap, Harry,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Ron interjected eagerly, breaking the tension. “I already sent Hagrid a letter last night, asking if Malfoy was telling the truth or bluffing. I hope he responds soon.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said, almost relieved to have something to occupy Ron’s eager mind.

“Mr. Weasley, you said Kingsley was actually planning to come here,” Hermione interjected, her brow furrowing with curiosity. “May I ask why?”

“Ah,” Mr. Weasley replied, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Kingsley wants to personally give Harry the piece of stone from the Veil and possibly have a chat... I don’t know anything else,” he added quickly as Hermione opened her mouth to enquire further.

Mr. Weasley turned to Harry, the concern etched on his face deepening. “You wouldn’t mind, Harry, would you? If it’s too much, we can always decline.”

Harry shook his head, the determination settling within him like a comforting cloak. “No, it’s fine,” he said, his voice steady.

“Excellent. I’ll let Kingsley know when I get back to work,” Mr. Weasley said, picking up his fork with renewed purpose.

Suddenly, flames leaped from the fireplace, tearing Harry from his thoughts. He squinted against the light, hardly believing his eyes as Percy Weasley emerged, grinning from ear to ear. The flames subsided as quickly as they had erupted, but the energy in the room shifted immediately.

“Percy!” Mrs. Weasley shouted, her arms wide as she hurried toward him, relief etched across her face. She enveloped him in a tight, maternal embrace, scrutinising him for signs of weariness. “Are you taking care of yourself, dear? I’ve missed you so much,” she continued, her voice thick with emotion.

Mr. Weasley followed suit, his curiosity more subdued but no less affectionate. “How have you been, son?” he asked, clapping a hand on Percy’s shoulder.

Percy stepped back, a satisfied smile plastered across his face, but Harry noticed the slight shadow flicker across Percy’s features as he turned to see him. Their eyes met briefly, and Harry felt a pang of unease course through him. Percy’s smile stayed, but the concern that pooled in his brow didn’t disappear. Harry felt something in the air shift—a palpable worry that he wondered if anyone else could decipher.

“I’m doing quite well,” Percy replied, his tone breezy as he eased into his seat at the table. His gaze lingered on Harry longer than necessary, and the worry heavy in his eyes only intensified Harry’s discomfort.

Sensing the tension, Ron leaned into the conversation, shovelling mashed potatoes onto his plate. “How are you being treated by the Ministry?”

“Surprisingly well,” Percy said, his focus briefly shifting from Harry to the rest of the family. “However, Death Eaters have been infiltrating several Floo Network fireplaces. We’re being vigilant; we can’t let our guard down.”

Ron, his mouth full of food, froze. “That sounds incredibly worrying.”

“It is,” Percy affirmed solemnly, his voice unwavering. “We can’t underestimate them. Some are bold enough to even attack Ministry grounds. On top of that, there’s been a lot of chatter regarding you, Harry. People can’t stop talking about the young wizard who defeated the Dark Lord.”

“Yeah, we’ve heard,” Ron said, trying to joke but failing to mask the somberness in his tone.

Harry chuckled, but it came out hollow, an echo rather than laughter. “People are eager to meet the young wizard who defeated the Dark Lord,” he repeated, almost sarcastically. A voice inside him whispered that those words felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else entirely.

“Yes, that’s what I said,” Percy replied, surprise hitching his voice. He glanced back at Harry, uncertainty lining his features.

When Harry asked further, “Why? What happened to the boy?” Percy was unable to follow.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Percy replied, frowning. “Are you feeling alright, Harry?”

Percy was acutely aware of the pallor in Harry’s cheeks, the hollowness beneath his tired eyes. It was as if the very essence of Harry was being hollowed out from the inside, leaving behind a shell—a shadow of the boy who had stood so bravely beside them.

Percy’s gaze lingered on Harry for a moment before he shifted his attention to the other Weasleys—his brothers, his mother, and Ginny—each wearing expressions etched with worry.

Before anyone could interject, Harry spoke up once more, his tone surprisingly calm, devoid of the agitation they'd come to expect. “Once they catch sight of me in this state, I highly doubt they’ll even recognise me, let alone show any sympathy towards me.”

His friends exchanged concerned glances as Harry's words sank in, their expressions reflecting worry and apprehension. There was a truth to his statement that hung heavily among them; Harry had always been their hope, the heart around which their lives revolved. To think that he had become so diminished felt like staring into a gaping abyss.

“You can’t afford to be seen, Harry,” Hermione cautioned, her voice trembling with anxiety. “If the Death Eaters realise how frail and defenceless you’ve become, they will stop at nothing to avenge the defeat of You-Know-Who. It’s far too dangerous.”

Harry met Hermione’s eyes, his resolve astonishingly clear despite his fragile state. “I know, Hermione,” he affirmed firmly, gripping his throbbing temples as if the pressure might ease the ache in his mind. “They wouldn’t hesitate to kill me because, in their eyes, I’m as good as dead already.”

The weight of his words cast a sombre mood over the group; they grappled with the stark reality of Harry’s condition.

“Don’t say that, Harry,” Hermione insisted, determination prickling her voice. “You have to stay positive and keep fighting.”

Mr. Weasley intervened gently, his voice like a soft balm in the tense atmosphere. “We must tread carefully when choosing whom to confide in. We have the knowledge and means to find a cure for Harry’s condition, and we must protect that at all costs.”

Despite the supportive words, Harry remained isolated in his suffering, the invisible chains of illness binding him tighter with each passing moment. Feeling like a ghost flitting through memories, he dissociated from the very reality that surrounded him.

“How’s life here for you, Harry?” Percy asked, opting to bridge the silence in a lighter tone.

Harry shifted his gaze, weariness in every movement. “It’s going okay. Thank you, Percy,” he managed to reply weakly, his words uneven as if they carried the weight of fatigue too great for him to bear.

Feeling the heavy blanket of futility settling upon them, Ginny reached for the vials on the table, remnants of attempts to restore Harry's strength. She coaxed him gently, her voice soft yet firm. “Please, just try these. They can help.”

With reluctance, Harry surrendered, managing a grateful nod as Ginny helped him sip the healing potion, its bitterness lingering over his tongue like a painful reminder of his current plight.

As Harry’s eyes fluttered, battling sleep against the overwhelming fatigue, Mrs. Weasley offered, “Would you like to rest, Harry? You can sleep on the sofa. I’ll bring you a blanket.”

“Okay,” he murmured, weariness beginning to take its toll, but when he nodded and attempted to rise, his knees gave way beneath him.

“Harry!” Ron yelped, and together with Mr. Weasley, they eased him back onto the sofa, worry etched deeply across their faces.

Harry mumbled his gratitude, surrendering to the void of sleep.

“Is he really dying?” Percy asked his mother in a hushed tone, his gaze lowering with concern evident in his eyes.

Mrs. Weasley’s gaze fell to the ground, her expression sorrowful. “We’re struggling to accept it, but unfortunately, it appears that way.”

Percy's shock reverberated through him, the steady drum of denial in his chest pounding louder with every word. “But he was perfectly fine when I saw him during the Battle of Hogwarts. What could’ve caused this sudden decline?”

“It wasn’t until You-Know-Who destroyed a piece of his soul within Harry that it began to affect him.” Ginny murmured, her voice a mere whisper, tears welling up in her eyes.

Confusion clouded Percy’s features as he sought clarification. “You-Know-Who’s soul? What do you mean, Ginny?”

It was Hermione who delved into the darkness headfirst, carefully explaining the tumultuous events that had unfolded since then, skirting around the topic of Horcruxes. As she finished, a sombre silence settled over the room, leaving Percy at a loss for words.

“As dark as this is, we still have time.” Ginny asserted, driving their attention back to their purpose. “We just need those final ingredients to begin healing him. I hope Hagrid and Kingsley will arrive soon. Every moment is crucial.”

“Did Dad speak to the Minister?” Percy asked. “He needs to know what’s going on.”

“Yes,” Ginny replied, her voice resolute. “He intends to bring the stone fragment to Harry himself.”

Percy nodded to indicate his understanding. “Earlier, Harry didn’t seem to recognise his own name. What was that about? Was he under a spell?”

The group exchanged uneasy looks, the heartbreaking realisation settling in. “Harry's memories are confusing him,” Hermione explained softly, cradling Ginny’s shoulder in solidarity. “He couldn't remember anything at one point… And at other times—it's like a switch; either he’s lost or lucid. There’s no in-between.”

Tears streamed down Ginny’s face, and she buried her face in Hermione’s shoulder. “Seeing him like this is heartbreaking. The fear of him forgetting me or our relationship is unbearable. It feels like he’s slipping away from us bit by bit.”

“Yet, we will get through this,” Hermione insisted, her tone fierce even through her own vulnerability. “He’s stronger than we can imagine. He’ll recover; you’ll see.”

Their focus abruptly shifted when they heard a faint tapping on the kitchen window. Ron’s eyes darted toward the sound, and he jumped up with sudden enthusiasm. "It must be Hagrid!" he shouted. The small owl tapped again, more insistently, and Ron hurried to open the window, the rustling of parchment sounding like thunder in the sudden hush.

Pigwidgeon fluttered in, his tiny body quivering with the effort. A rolled piece of parchment was fastened to his leg. Ron delicately unfastened it, heart racing, while Hermione and Ginny leaned in, their breaths shallow and tense.

“Hagrid!” Ron exclaimed, his voice a mixture of curiosity and dread. He began to read aloud:

Ron,

I got the thestral’s tail hair, but I’m badly injured. Death Eaters attacked me. I am currently being treated at St. Mungo’s Hospital.

Hagrid

A heavy silence fell over the room, punctured only by the sound of Pigwidgeon taking a nervous flap. Ron shared startled looks with Hermione and Ginny before they quickly retreated to their seats, their movements so sudden that Percy came dangerously close to tipping over his cup of tea.

“Did Hagrid get attacked in Ireland?” a panicked Ron asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Hermione wore a horrified expression, her mind racing. “But how could anyone else have found out?”

Mrs. Weasley paused her cleaning, reading the letter with wide eyes before handing it to her husband, who stood in the doorway with a furrowed brow.

“Death Eaters are everywhere now,” Ron said grimly. “As Percy warned, they’re fugitives on the run.”

“There’s something about this that doesn’t add up,” Hermione said, pacing the kitchen floor. “Wild beasts seemed to pose the greater threat. Thestrals, especially. What would Death Eaters be doing in the same cave as wild Thestrals? It’s not sensical. They’d be mad to do that.”

“Mad or not, they did it,” Ginny said softly, glancing uneasily toward the window. “But our plan is a secret. Nobody knows when Hagrid will look into that cave. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched. What if…”

“Draco Malfoy!” Ron exclaimed, the fire igniting in his chest. “He must be up to something; I just know it.”

“Draco Malfoy?” Percy asked, his expression shifting from confusion to intrigue. A malicious glow danced in his eyes. “How did he come to know about this?”

“He asked to speak with Harry before Dad went home,” Ginny explained, her fingers tightly clasped together. “He came here, and told Harry where he could find wild thestrals. But nobody else should have even known!”

“Is that so?” Percy mused, raising an eyebrow.

Hermione interjected before Ron could respond, her voice sharp with reason. “He reminded us about the life debt Malfoy owes him for saving his life. He shouldn’t have any reason to betray Harry now.”

“Yeah, right,” Ron scoffed, his fists clenching. “He’s still a Death Eater, and they’ll risk everything for their cause, even if they owe you their lives. You can’t trust them!”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, frustration boiling just beneath the surface. “But if Malfoy really is turning to our side, then is it possible he’s caught in something much larger than our plans? What if he’s a pawn in this game?”

“Think about it,” Ron said, his voice low and intense. “If we can’t figure out how the Death Eaters knew about the cave, Malfoy is our only lead. He remains the singular person who could have let it slip.”

“There has to be more to Malfoy than just being the obvious suspect,” Hermione argued, desperation creeping into her voice. “I don’t want to think that he could betray us… but we have to consider all angles.”

“Who cares?” Ron said heatedly. “He’s played both sides this whole time. He’s not trustworthy, Hermione!”

“Let’s go see Hagrid and get the whole story,” Ginny suggested, trying to diffuse the tension that threatened to explode. “Maybe he can shed some light on this situation before we jump to conclusions.”

“I’m going to stay here with Mum and Dad,” Percy said, standing firm. “I can keep an eye on Harry while you visit Hagrid.”

Ron and Hermione nodded in agreement, their collective concern about Hagrid outweighing their quarrel.