FicWad

Harry’s world had shrunk to the size of his own pain. Each throbbing pulse through his body felt like a devil’s snare tightening around his heart, squeezing out all hope and happiness. He cried out, not just in anguish but in a desperate plea for help, for life. His friends had always stood by him, but this—this time—he felt radically different; like a dark weight was pulling him into an abyss.

Somewhere distant, beyond the haze of his suffering, he could hear familiar voices. Ron and Hermione were there; he was certain of it. Only, the soothing tones of comfort didn’t penetrate his fog of despair. The soft rush of the ocean and scent of salty air mixed with the stench of sweat and sickness, creating a discordant symphony that mirrored his inner turmoil.

When he felt the rush of magic envelop him—first the invisibly fierce grip of the Portkey and then the sudden release into Shell Cottage—his body could barely comprehend. He fell to the ground, grasping the earth beneath as if it were his only anchor. Waves of nausea swept over him, and the world blurred; he vomited, the contents of his stomach staining the soil.

“Harry!” Ginny’s voice cut through like steel, warm yet firm. She was here, though her face would not come into focus. Through clenched eyes, he could barely make out her silhouette as she knelt beside him, whispering words he could not catch.

His friends were all around him, frantic figures trying to dispel the storm lashing through him. He felt someone lift him, though who he couldn’t say—Hermione conjuring a stretcher? Ron’s comforting presence? It didn’t matter—they were there in his hour of need.

“Get him inside! Quick!” came Bill Weasley’s commanding whisper, the weight of worry thickening the atmosphere. The brightness of lights inside Shell Cottage blurred by his tears as they hastily laid him on the couch. The comfort of the cushions seemed foreign to him, a reality he could hardly grasp while he fought for existence.

Bill Weasley held an expression that Harry only remembered from his darkest nights. “What happened?” he demanded, his calm demeanour crackling with anxiety.

Ron’s quietness, an abyss of dread, spoke volumes. “He’s very ill,” he eventually admitted, his voice shaking. It felt momentous—an admission that sounded almost like a declaration of war.

“He’s dying,” Ron’s voice broke on that final word—a whispered confession too heavy for the moment.

“What do you mean?” Bill stared at Harry, whose suffering echoed louder than words; terror brightened his blue eyes. He remained standing, processing everything like a figure sculpted of stone against the tide of chaos unfurling before him.

Harry tried to speak, to assure them he was still here, still willing to fight, but all that came from his mouth was a tortured cry. Each word knotted itself in the unyielding grip of agony.

“Ron, I need your help!” Hermione’s voice sliced through the clamouring noise of Harry’s cries. “He’s too wild; I can’t manage him alone!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Ron was at her side, while Bill stepped forward, fighting against the instinctual urge to flee. With heavy breaths coiling around them, the trio formed a barrier between the pain and the possibility of relief. Harry felt their strength, even if he couldn’t latch onto it.

“But we’ve tried everything!” Ron insisted, his voice wretched. “Nothing has worked!”

“And that’s exactly why we can’t stop trying!” Hermione’s voice was fierce, her determination unyielding. The sight of Harry, contorted and broken on the couch, was more than she could bear. She uncorked the vial with trembling hands, and her heart raced at the thought of the healing potion; words of comfort and magic threaded through her thoughts, but deep inside, doubt crept into her resolve.

“Harry,” she called, tilting his head back, “drink this!”

She poured the potion into his mouth, gripping his chin to coax him into submission. Harry’s body responded violently, an instinctual rebellion against the pain he could not escape.

“Hold him!” Hermione cried, her desperation rising.

With Ron and Bill pushing against Harry’s thrashing limbs, they formed a wall. As the potion trickled down, Harry’s moment of clarity threaded through the chaos. He could feel the warmth spreading.

With a gasp, he stilled. His body, relentlessly burning, seemed to ease, if only for a moment. They watched, breaths collectively held, waiting for the miracle they hoped they could make.

Bill kneeled beside them, concern painted deep on his brow, willingness etched into his features. “Stay with us, Harry,” he murmured, as though their voices wove together into a protective shield.

And slowly, as moments stretched into eternity, Harry found his breath. The agony coiling inside began to untangle. Through bleary eyes, the faces around him came slowly into focus.

At that moment, the stillness had been shattered by the sudden arrival of Kingsley Shacklebolt’s Patronus, a large silver lynx gliding gracefully, as if carried on invisible wings. It landed gently, its luminous form casting a haunting glow that did little to soothe the turbulent hearts of the gathered friends.

The lynx shimmered for a moment before its jaws opened wide, revealing a solemn truth delivered in Kingsley’s deep voice, heavy with authority.

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

Gasps echoed through the room like ripples in a pond. Bill Weasley, with furrowed brows and worry in his eyes, was the first to break the stunned silence. “Why would Kingsley send word here?” His confusion was evident, a reflection of the chaos bearing down on them. “What did he mean by ‘he’s aware of the incident’?”

Glancing at Ron, Hermione recognised the tension bubbling in the room. She took a steadying breath, her heart pounding as she prepared to reveal the horrifying reality. “It’s about Harry and your parents,” she said calmly, though her voice faltered slightly. “They were attacked at the Burrow yesterday. Yaxley poisoned Harry and stunned your mum and dad.”

Bill’s face drained of colour, the shock washing over him like a winter storm. “Are they in the hospital now?” he stammered, eyes wide with dread. The vulnerability in his tone was unmistakable.

“Percy and Hagrid are with them,” Ginny interjected, her gaze unwavering on Bill. “We had to leave in a hurry and use a Portkey to get here.”

“But why did you leave?” The tone of Bill’s voice was a mixture of confusion and frustration, his desire for clarity clashing with the fog of fear enveloping them.

“There was an attack at St. Mungo’s—” Ron began, his words flying from his lips like a desperate plea, but Hermione interrupted, sensing the need for precision in such disarray.

“It wasn’t an attack,” she clarified, meeting Bill’s worried gaze with a steady stare. “Yaxley used an amplifying charm to lure out any hidden Death Eaters and broadcast Harry’s location to the wizarding world. People are reacting violently, either wanting him dead or seeking answers for his illness.”

A silence hung thick in the air, charged with panic and urgency. Bill’s mind raced as he sought answers, returning his attention to Hermione. “What was Kingsley’s role in all of this?”

“He had access to a unique ingredient we required for the potion: a fragment from the Veil in the Department of Mysteries.” Hermione’s voice was measured, yet there was an unmistakable tremor under her calm facade.

“Has he given it to you yet?” Bill asked softly, concern shadowing his features.

“Yes, I have it with me,” Hermione confirmed, nudging the pouch secured in her pocket, feeling the small pieces of stones through the fabric. “Kingsley brought it to the hospital upon hearing about the attack at the Burrow.”

With a sudden rush, Bill probed further. “What was the condition of our parents when you left the hospital?”

“They’re holding up,” Ginny replied gently. “But still quite shaken. They suggested I inform you of what happened as soon as we got here. They’ll be dropping by later.”

Just then, a sharp pain overwhelmed Harry, making him bury his face deeper into the squishy pillow, as if trying to blend into the furniture. Ginny’s heart raced as she grasped his hand, feeling the warmth slowly ebbing away as his condition deteriorated further.

“What’s going on with him?” Bill asked, alarm shooting through him. “The Healing Potion was already administered; why isn’t it working?”

The room quivered as Hermione fought to maintain her composure. “The effectiveness of the potion is unreliable,” she explained. “It sometimes fails, but in certain instances, it works. It’s a complex process... as though his soul is resisting healing and causing harm instead.”

Bill’s brows knitted together in disbelief. “How did his soul sustain damage? Is that even possible?”

Hermione’s expression softened, the weight of her confession threatening to crush them all. “It was actually You-Know-Who who inflicted the harm.” She took a breath, smoothing down the front of her shirt as if seeking the courage to share a burden far too heavy.

“Do you remember when we first sought refuge here?” she asked softly, her eyes searching his for understanding.

Bill nodded slowly, his mind racing back to that chaotic summer. “Yes, I vividly remember. You, Harry, and Ron sought refuge here along with others.”

“We were looking for Horcruxes,” Hermione revealed, the name hanging in the air, powerful and dark.

Confusion flitted over Bill’s features. “What exactly are Horcruxes?”

A shiver of dread danced down Hermione’s spine, but she pressed on. “Voldemort split his soul and hid the fragments in objects to try to become immortal.”

Bill stood there, rendered speechless, staring at Hermione in disbelief.

“Don’t worry,” Ron reassured, trying to muster confidence he didn’t quite feel. “It took some time for us to understand as well, when Harry first explained it.” He remembered the weight of the truth sprawling out in front of them, each word clawing at their hearts.

Ginny sighed as she began to recount the conversation with earnestness. “Harry has been in contact with Professor Slughorn. That is how he uncovered the existence of his damaged soul and the opportunity to mend it.” Her voice was steady, though Harry could hear undercurrents of worry ripping through her words.

“Has he found a solution?” Bill wondered; the question lingered in the air like an unresolved riddle.

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed decisively, rummaging through her bag before producing a thick tome, its cover gleaming with intricate pearl designs. “All the details regarding soul repair, including the potion I mentioned, are contained within this Anima book. It’s part of the process.” She carefully handed the book to Bill, who accepted it with hands that trembled slightly, as if it were a fragile artefact rather than a mere book.

“Was Professor Slughorn in possession of this book?” Still caught in the web of confusion, Bill turned the book over in his hands, searching for answers in its ornate cover.

“No,” Hermione answered, her voice steady and clear. “It was actually stored in Dumbledore’s office. Professor Slughorn had difficulty breaking the enchantment that Dumbledore had placed upon the book. But it’s crucial.”

An enchantment, Bill thought, his brow furrowing. “Why would it be concealed in such a manner?”

“I had the same question when Slughorn told us,” Ron added nonchalantly, trying to lighten the mood but only thickening the tension further.

“It was Professor Dumbledore’s decision to keep the book hidden,” Hermione clarified, an edge of frustration creeping into her tone.

“But why go to such lengths to conceal it?” Bill pressed, confusion morphing into agitation.

“The book focusses on the fragmentation of souls,” Hermione stated firmly.

Bill shook his head, disbelief painting his features. “But splitting one’s soul is unheard of, and creating a Horcrux is even more uncommon. How could that be—” His frustration mounted, and he took a moment before inhaling deeply. “Did Dumbledore foresee that Harry would eventually suffer from his damaged soul?”

“We cannot say for certain, but it is a possibility,” Hermione answered, her eyes glistening in the low light with a resolve that was both calming and worrying.

“What would he have done if he had known?” Bill’s voice was barely above a whisper now, lost in thought.

“Bill, where’s Fleur?” Ginny broke the mounting silence, seeking distraction.

“She’s currently in France, visiting her parents for a few weeks,” Bill provided, his thoughts scattered even more now.

The atmosphere thickened, and silence clawed its way into the room, broken only by the howling wind that whipped around the house and through the cracks of the old structure. Harry eased into a calmer state, though his discomfort lingered.

“Should we reply to Kingsley?” Ron suggested, looking to Bill for guidance.

Bill shook his head gently, his gaze turned back toward his younger brother. “It may be best to settle in first before reaching out to him. The recent events have been overwhelming, and you all seem shaken,” he replied, as he waved his wand and summoned goblets filled with butterbeer that floated gently toward them.

They drank in quiet contemplation, each lost in their thoughts, until the sun slipped beneath the horizon, darkness wrapping around them like a comforting shroud.

Eventually, they moved Harry to the room Mr. Ollivander had occupied, offering him a view of the clifftop garden and Dobby’s grave—allowing for fleeting moments of solace. As they tucked him into bed, the wind howled outside, prompting Ginny to shut the window to protect him from the cold.

“Stay close,” Harry murmured, his voice barely audible.

Ron and Bill exchanged glances, the mix of fear and determination evident. “We’ll be here,” Ron said softly, watching as Ginny and Hermione encircled Harry with comfort, their quiet reassurance a steady heartbeat in the tumult.

Bill offered, “We have spare bedrooms upstairs if you prefer.”

“Thanks, but we’d rather remain close to Harry,” Ron declared boldly, as if it were an undeniable truth. “We need to monitor him throughout the night.”

Bill nodded reluctantly. “It might be cramped in here.”

“We’ll manage,” Hermione quipped, a tentative grin breaking through the desperation. “It’s better than being alone. If necessary, we can even sleep in the living room.”

Draco Malfoy briskly made his way down the deserted cobblestone streets of Knockturn Alley, an unsettling feeling prickling at the nape of his neck with each step. Shadows danced along the walls, and his cautious glances to the left and right spoke of a deep-seated apprehension. This was not the first time he ventured into this underbelly of the wizarding world, but tonight felt different. Tonight, he was a puppet drawn into a game far more dangerous than he had anticipated.

Upon reaching his destination, he pushed the creaking door of a dimly lit pub open, the stale scent of pipe smoke wafting through to greet him. The establishment buzzed with hushed whispers and the clinking of glasses, its acrid ambiance thick with the combined weight of secrets and schemes. With flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows on the worn wooden walls, Draco navigated through crowded tables and low ceilings, his heart pounding in time with the nervous energy surrounding him.

Seated at a far table in the back corner was an enigmatic figure, shrouded in darkness. Draco squinted, trying to discern the man’s features, only to have his gaze meet the stark contrast: milky white hair, bloodshot eyes glowing menacingly as they reflected the candlelight. A chill he couldn’t shake seemed to dance upon him like the flickering flames surrounding them. As Draco took a seat across from him, he felt the weight of scrutiny and a smirk that promised danger.

“Yaxley,” Draco acknowledged, his voice steady despite the unease lurking within.

A tense silence filled the space between them, thick as fog, as their gazes clashed. Yaxley’s smile revealed too many teeth, a predator sizing up his prey. “How are mommy and daddy?” he asked, a faint malice threading through his words.

Draco shrugged, feigning disinterest. “They’re fine.”

“I’ve heard whispers that your family is betraying our cause and cosying up to the Ministry,” Yaxley said, leaning back in his chair as though the accusation were nothing more than idle gossip.

“Yes,” Draco replied, his monotone voice masking the flare of anxiety rising in his chest.

“And you?” Yaxley pressed, his tone thickening like heavy cloud cover. “Are you part of this betrayal too?”

A flicker of irritation sparked within Draco. “You underestimate me,” he retorted, a tinge of fire in his words. “I’m capable of much more than you realise.” He levelled his gaze back at Yaxley, frustration tightening around his features before he lowered his eyes to the table.

“Aiding Harry Potter, perhaps?” Yaxley’s tone shifted, his demeanour sharpened as he studied Draco with newfound suspicion.

The mention of Harry’s name sent a jolt through Draco, a rush of discomposure. He hastily met Yaxley’s eyes, seizing the fragile threads of confidence that remained. “It doesn’t matter how you know,” he spat, almost dismissively. “What matters is that I’m not the one in the wrong here.”

“I have already deployed forces to attack the giant on his way to the cave,” Yaxley countered, a sinister smile playing upon his features, manipulating the very shadows they inhabited.

Draco laughed—sharp and disconcerting, a reflection of the anxiety writhing in his gut. “What’s amusing is your arrogance. Do you really think you’ve orchestrated a foolproof plan?” The words hung heavy, charged with bitterness and rebellion. “You could at least show some appreciation for the part I’ve played in this.”

Yaxley’s expression hardened, a storm of anger brewing behind his eyes. “You don’t get to mock me, boy! You weren’t supposed to be involved in this.”

“And yet you took a chance on my plan for your own benefit!” Draco shot back through gritted teeth, refusing to let Yaxley get under his skin. “I have every right to voice my opinions on this matter. That giant deserved what he got. I assume you’re unsure about your next move.”

Yaxley’s glare felt like a vice, thickening with rage. “Your family is marked as traitors,” he hissed. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the ministry’s tracking spell on you? By betraying me, you risk my exposure! Tell me, why should I place my trust in someone so duplicitous?”

Draco held Yaxley’s gaze unwaveringly, his voice icy. “Critique my family all you want; I’m aware of the consequences. Yes, I’m being tracked as part of my probation, but…” He leaned in conspiratorially, the space between them electric with tension. “I used a charm to conceal my whereabouts. That should give us enough time for our discussion tonight, don’t you think? I’ll let you verify if you wish.” Draco stood up.

Rather than drawing his wand, Yaxley remained still, watching with an air of contemplation.

Draco resumed his seat, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips; the old man was cornered in their game, and he could feel it.

“You’re overly confident,” Yaxley scoffed.

“Perhaps,” Draco replied, crossing his arms and leaning back. “But I play to win, not survive.”

Yaxley narrowed his eyes. “You remind me of Potter. The arrogance, the bravado.”

“Don’t you dare compare me to that half-blood!” Draco hissed, his self-control fraying. “He’s cowardly in his own way.”

“Potter may be brave, but he and the blood traitors lack wit.” Yaxley mused, leaning closer with a sly smile. “They’re so vulnerable to attack.”

“Tell me how you did it,” Draco demanded, visibly intrigued.

“Imagine my surprise,” Yaxley said, his tone dripping with malice, “when I overheard Arthur Weasley speaking about Potter at the Ministry Atrium.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. He leaned against the back wall, listening intently as Yaxley recounted his sinister exploits. With every word this man spoke, a chill crept into Draco’s bones.

Yaxley crossed his arms, his burning gaze never wavering from Draco. “They mentioned Harry’s name, and it sparked something within me. I remembered the records of Umbridge’s grievances against the Weasleys. This was a chance.” The dark man’s smile twisted into something monstrous as he revealed his plan.

“Polyjuice Potion and some of Percy’s hair,” Yaxley continued, his eyes gleaming at the memory. “I became him. Fitting, wouldn’t you say?”

Draco swallowed. He hadn’t expected this level of cunning and deceit, played out like a chess game with unforgiving pieces. He barely masked his curiosity. “You managed to breach their defences?”

Yaxley chuckled, a low, sinister sound. “Oh, it was exquisite. Their fireplace location was practically handed to me—a file in Percy’s office containing vital information. I managed to bypass the protective spells discretely to avoid detection. And when I saw that owl leaving, I knew I had a key to their secrets.”

“An owl,” Draco interjected, his scepticism barely contained.

Yaxley leaned in closer, and Draco felt the menace radiating from him. “You underestimate how vital communication can be in this game. The letter spoke of Potter and a certain cave. Did you know how helpless he is?”

Draco felt stirred by Yaxley’s fervour, a part of him wanting to maintain an air of indifference. “And what of Potter now?” he asked, his tone colder than he intended.

“Ah, he’s incapacitated,” Yaxley boasted proudly. “A little poison never hurts anyone.”

Draco’s stomach churned. “How could you take pleasure in that?” he questioned, both repulsed and fascinated by the man’s zeal for cruelty.

“Why not?” Yaxley shot back, not caring to mask his delight. “It’s a rush, Draco, a thrill to see Potter’s façade crumble. His screams were music to my ears.” He leaned back, arms stretched wide as if he were basking in the glory of his dastardly plot. “It’s the perfect revenge after all these years of being overshadowed by him.”

Draco observed Yaxley with a sense of amusement as the latter took out a copy of Witch Weekly and flipped to a page featuring a photo of a sick-looking Harry Potter being held by Hagrid. Yaxley pushed the magazine towards Draco, who glanced at the image, intrigued. “I haven’t read anything from Rita Skeeter in a while. Did she collaborate with you on this?” Draco asked.

“I don’t need to directly communicate with her to influence her work,” Yaxley replied calmly. “She has a knack for sniffing out scandalous stories. I admire her for that.”

Draco was silent, unsure whether to voice his growing unease. He had never envisioned himself standing in the very shadows of what he once perceived as an honourable, if misguided, battle. “But Potter is still alive,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. “He’s recuperating at the hospital, yes?”

“No,” Yaxley replied. “He vanished amidst growing pressure from admirers and enemies alike. But it doesn’t matter. We have a plan in place for him.”

Draco’s heart raced, uncertainty clawing at his insides. “And I’m involved in your little scheme now, am I?”

Yaxley’s grin widened, revealing a jagged edge of malice. “Yes! You see the bigger picture, don’t you? This isn’t just about revenge. It’s a chance to reclaim the legacy of your family, to rise above the rest of them—to return the world to its rightful order.”

With each word, Draco felt hope and sorrow wrestle within him. “You think my family’s reputation can be restored by joining in your madness? Using Harry’s downfall as a stepping stone?”

“Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?” Yaxley pressed, stepping closer. “To prove that the Malfoy name still holds weight in this world? This is your chance!”

His intense gaze locked onto Draco’s grey eyes, causing the younger man to look away and reluctantly nod in agreement.

A satisfied grin formed on Yaxley’s face. “Well done,” he praised. “You have consistently proven yourself as a pureblood, a title I hold in high esteem. It’s good to see that you haven’t strayed from your path, unlike your parents.”

Draco’s defiance flickered for a moment under Yaxley’s fierce scrutiny. “Leave my parents out of this,” he said, his voice icy and resolute. He had shared the same bloodline but had no intention of dragging them into this web of deceit.

“Ahh, such bravery,” Yaxley remarked, his tone dripping with sardonic admiration. “I have missed that. It has been a while since I witnessed it. I wonder why you always hesitated to fully engage in Death Eaters activities. He leaned in closer. “Could it be that your loyalty was not truly with the Dark Lord?”

Draco felt the weight of Yaxley’s dark gaze pin him down. He could hear the echoes of his father’s expectations and his mother’s quiet hope, and they fed him resistance even in the darkness.

“Do not question my loyalty to the Dark Lord!” Draco snapped. “I have achieved expectations before. I carried out his wishes successfully—I killed Dumbledore.” He breathed deeply to combat the throbbing anger building within him. Across from him, Yaxley lounged with an arrogance firmly set on his thin lips, his demeanour reeking of contempt.

“No, you didn’t,” Yaxley scoffed, a smirk creeping back to his face. “You were too scared to go through with it, so Snape intervened and killed Dumbledore himself. Your only contribution was sneaking the Vanishing Cabinet into Hogwarts, enabling us to complete the task after your failure. Sly and elusive like a serpent, you evaded your responsibilities.”

Draco glared with fury, his grey eyes glinting dangerously in the dim light. “I don’t evade anything!” he exclaimed through gritted teeth, the words spilling out like venom.

Yaxley leaned in, his finger jabbing toward Draco’s chest with deliberate provocation. “Then prove it!” he snarled, and the challenge hung heavily between them, charged with unspoken truths.

Draco’s fury surged through him, a toxic stream that threatened to overwhelm his rationality. Yet he understood the importance of masking his rage to unravel Yaxley’s true intentions. “What exactly is your plan?” he demanded, his voice a low growl.

Yaxley regarded him, disdain draping over his features like a cloak. “Our main goal is to kill Harry Potter, of course,” he replied, the glimmer of anticipation dancing in his eyes.

Draco’s confidence wavered. “You can’t possibly be serious. You’ve made that statement a thousand times,” he retorted coldly. “You poisoned him before—why not just end him then and there?”

“Simply killing him off would be too dull,” Yaxley replied, waving a dismissive hand as if brushing aside the very thought. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Draco kept his steely gaze on Yaxley, realising just how much the man thrived on chaos and intricate schemes. “How do you plan to kill him if you have no idea of his whereabouts?” he pressed, determined to peel back the layers of this plot.

Two black-cloaked wizards entered the pub then, gliding with practiced stealth toward Yaxley. One spoke, his voice low yet urgent. “We thoroughly scoured the Weasley house but found no sign of him. It was a close call; we narrowly evaded the Aurors closing in.”

Draco felt a flicker of unease as his mind swirled with thoughts he dared not voice. The Weasleys had been allies of Potter, constantly surrounding him, which meant danger lurked not just for Potter but for anyone associated with him.

“What about St. Mungo’s?” Yaxley asked, his tone sharp, clawing at the thin veneer of boredom he had cultivated.

“The blood traitors are inside with Percy Weasley and the giant,” the other wizard replied, his voice deep and heavy with the weight of their failure. “But we saw no more of him in the building. A Healer reported seeing two of Potter’s friends hurrying down the hallway, carrying a pair of boots, and she claimed she faintly heard Potter’s screams of pain before they abruptly stopped. We believe they used Portkey to escape.”

An ominous smirk crept onto Yaxley’s face, his eyes narrowing. “Is that so?” he mused, motioning for the wizards to depart. “Very well.”

Draco watched them leave, a nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t seen those two before and suspected they were Yaxley’s new recruits, placeholders in a twisted game that continued to evolve with quickness.

“How many Death Eaters do you currently have?” Draco asked, snapping Yaxley from his reverie.

“In these trying times?” Yaxley sighed, his frivolous demeanour faltering momentarily. “At present, our ranks comprise less than twenty devoted followers. Many others lurk in the shadows, hesitant to reveal themselves. It’s a pity, really. They once aspired for a righteous society, only to see it disintegrate. Our dreams of empowering wizardkind became a distant memory.”

Draco lowered his gaze, feeling the weight of the conflict twist within him. After years of being raised to uphold the values of blood purity, he felt a flicker of something deeper, something unprecedented. He regretted the rift that had begun with Potter’s alliances. Imagining a different path, he wondered what their friendship could have been—a shared legacy, aligned ideals.

After a brief silence, Draco hesitantly replied, “Yes, I do.”

Yaxley’s expression shifted, the glimmer of ambition flickering to life in his eyes. “Then we shall make a short visit to one of the blood traitors.”

Curiosity laced with trepidation overtook Draco. “Who?”

“George Weasley.”