FicWad

Arthur stood alone in the Ministry’s vast atrium, the sound of his own footsteps faintly echoing across the polished floor. The torches along the walls flickered in their sconces, their flames throwing unsteady shadows that did little to chase away the chill. Once, this space had been full of bustle—witches and wizards striding to the lifts with parchment clutched in hand, enchanted memos fluttering overhead, and snatches of conversation carrying from every corner. Now it seemed less a hub of government than the antechamber to something hollow and watchful.

The silence seemed to settle around him in layers. Familiarity had been bled from the place, leaving behind the thin, cold taste of uncertainty.

He glanced over his shoulder. Empty. Still, the shadows clung to the edges of his vision, and the hairs prickling on the back of his neck refused to lie flat. Ever since the Howler had arrived, the feeling had grown on him. He could hear the words still, as though the envelope had split open inside his mind: threats steeped in hate, delivered in a voice that left no room for doubt.

George had been taken.

Arthur swallowed, his throat tight.

The lift groaned in the far wall, its grated doors sliding open. Arthur started towards it, eager for movement, for anyone else to stand in this oppressive space—only to stop as a tall figure emerged.

“Arthur,” Kingsley said.

His voice was deep, steady, and cutting cleanly through the air. He looked every bit the Auror and Minister both: broad-shouldered, robes neat, eyes alert. Something—not quite relief, but the shape of it—stirred in Arthur’s chest.

“I need to talk to you,” Arthur said quickly, the words coming out louder than he meant. His voice caught at the end.

Kingsley’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading him in an instant. “Come on. My office.”

He did not wait for agreement, already turning back into the lift. Arthur followed, the iron gates clanging shut behind them. The lift rattled upwards, the familiar sensation of rising through the Ministry’s upper floors suddenly uncomfortable, almost claustrophobic. Arthur found his chest tightening, his breaths too shallow.

Inside Kingsley’s office, the walls seemed to shut out the atrium’s cold emptiness. The fire burnt in the grate, though the warmth barely registered. Kingsley motioned to a chair, and Arthur sank into it stiffly, clasping his hands so tightly in his lap that the knuckles whitened. If he could have stopped time—just for a moment—he might have used it to steel himself, to push his voice into something steady.

“It’s George, isn’t it?” Kingsley said at once.

Arthur nodded. He had to swallow before he could manage the single word: “Yes.” It scraped out of him raw. “We got a Howler. Said he’s been taken.”

Kingsley’s jaw tightened, though his expression didn’t betray surprise. “I was alerted not long ago. One of the Aurors picked up signs of trouble in Diagon Alley—Death Eater activity near Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. I sent a team straight away, but by the time they arrived, the shop had been torn apart.”

Arthur’s fingers dug into the arms of his chair. “Percy went to the flat. I told him to check for anything—notes, traces of magic, anything at all that might help.”

Kingsley gave a short nod. “Do you know who sent the Howler?”

“Yaxley.” Arthur’s voice dropped to something close to a whisper. “He said we’ve got until midnight. Bring Harry to the Forbidden Forest, or George dies.”

Kingsley sat straighter, the mask of composure slipping just a fraction. “Where is Harry now?”

Arthur hesitated. “With Bill. Molly’s there too. But… Harry’s unconscious. Has been for hours.”

Kingsley frowned. “Unconscious how?”

“Ron, Hermione, and Ginny—they started some sort of healing magic. A potion was part of it, but there was something else. Some kind of ritual. They drank it as well, all three of them. And now they’re out cold, same as him.”

“A binding,” Kingsley said, leaning back in thought. “Shared magic across more than one person. Not work to be taken lightly. Even skilled Healers avoid it unless—”

Arthur stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor. He began to pace, one hand pressing at his temples. “We don’t know what it’s doing to them. We don’t know anything. They could be—”

A knock came, sharp and decisive.

Kingsley crossed the room and opened the door. Percy stood there, pale as parchment, his hair windblown and his robes dusted with ash.

“Dad,” Percy said, his voice uneven.

Arthur crossed the office in two strides. “Did you find him?”

Percy shook his head. “The shop’s wrecked. Not a single wall left standing. And George’s flat—empty. Not a sign of him. Not even a struggle.”

Arthur’s breath hitched; for a moment, the floor beneath him seemed to drop away.

He turned to Kingsley. “What do we do now?” His voice broke on the last word.

Kingsley stepped forward, his tone firm but not unkind. “We don’t hand Harry over.”

Arthur’s voice leapt, sharp with disbelief. “They’ll kill George! You didn’t hear that Howler. It wasn’t just a show of temper, Kingsley—he meant it.”

“I believe you,” Kingsley said, steady as stone. “But this is exactly what Yaxley wants—panic, rash decisions. If we give them Harry now, it won’t end with George.”

Arthur’s hands trembled. He dropped back into the chair as though his knees had given way, staring at the floor. “Then what? What am I meant to tell Molly? Or the others?”

Kingsley was silent for a moment, watching him. Then: “We do what we’ve always done. We fight back. I’ll bring in every Auror I can trust. We’ll track Yaxley. We’ll find where in the forest they’ve taken George.”

His gaze shifted between Arthur and Percy, something fierce burning behind his calm.

“I will not let this become another war fought in shadows. And we will not let them win.”

Arthur drew in a slow breath, as though the air itself might steady him, but it caught halfway down. He’d heard rousing words before—promises, rallying calls—but it was different when it was his son.

His George.

He could picture him far too easily—laughing in the back room of the shop, hands busy with some ridiculous invention that was certain to backfire in the most spectacular way. Fred’s ghost lingered in every image, the two of them inseparable, conspirators until the end. And now…

Arthur blinked hard. Not here. Not now.

“Dad,” Percy said quietly, still standing just inside the doorway. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, but Arthur could see the tight set of his shoulders. “Mum—she’ll need to know. I can go to her if you like.”

Arthur shook his head sharply. “No. I’ll speak to her.” He tried to make it sound decisive, but it came out heavy.

Percy’s mouth tightened, but he nodded.

Kingsley moved round to the other side of the desk, resting both hands against the polished wood. “Arthur, I meant what I said. I’m not in the business of false assurances. If there’s a way to bring him back, we’ll find it.”

Arthur gave a short, humourless laugh. “I remember you saying that once before. Back when they took Emmeline Vance.”

Kingsley didn’t flinch.

“They killed her,” Arthur said, his voice low.

For a moment, none of them spoke. The crackle of the fire filled the space between them. Arthur’s gaze fell to his hands, still clasped together as though he were afraid they might shake if he let them go.

He thought of Molly if she was back at the Burrow—how she would go quiet when she was frightened, moving about the kitchen with restless energy, scouring pots that were already spotless. He thought of Bill and Fleur, of Charlie and Percy, of Ron and Ginny, and of the stubborn knot of pride and fear in his chest when he looked at them.

Merlin help him, he thought of Fred.

And he could not—would not—let George join that list.

“When do we start?” Arthur asked finally, looking up at Kingsley with something close to defiance.

Kingsley’s mouth curved into the barest ghost of a smile. “We already have.”

The evening air had the brittle edge of winter, the sort that lodged itself low in Arthur’s chest and refused to ease. Each sound felt magnified in the hush he and Percy carried with them—the crunch of gravel under their boots, the restless stir of leaves overhead, and the far-off hoot of an owl from the trees beyond the lane. The night was cool, but the cold never reached him; his thoughts were too crowded.

George—taken.

Harry—still not waking.

And the clock—ticking down far too fast.

Percy strode at his side, hands in his pockets, shoulders drawn as if bracing for a blow. The moonlight thinned his face to pale planes and shadows. Neither of them spoke. By now, words felt useless; anything worth saying had already been said and repeated in their minds until it hurt.

Shell Cottage came into view ahead, a squat silhouette against the glimmering ribbon of sea. Its small, familiar windows glowed in the dark, warm light spilling onto the sand, but the sight stirred no relief in Arthur. Tonight, even home seemed stripped of its safety.

When he pushed open the front door, the air inside met him with the weight of a held breath—close, taut, and heavy with what no one was yet willing to name. The cottage was not peaceful. It was a silence that hummed with dread.

Molly stood in the centre of the room, twisting her hands together. She looked up at once, eyes red and raw round the edges, her face caught somewhere between hope and fear.

“Arthur?” she asked, her voice already wavering. “You’ve spoken to Kingsley?”

“I have,” he said, keeping his tone even, careful. Panic would serve none of them now. “He’s assembling a team. They’ll go ahead of us—reach the forest before we do, scout the ground.”

As he spoke, his gaze took in the others. Bill sat rigid near the fire, his mouth set hard. Hagrid filled the far corner, arms folded, his bulk shadowing the lamplight. Slughorn lingered by the dresser, his robes gathered in one hand, eyes darting from face to face. They were all listening. All waiting.

“But we can’t go without Harry,” Molly said suddenly, the words breaking higher than she meant them to. “If we do—if we leave him here—they’ll kill George.”

“Kingsley will not walk in unprepared,” Arthur replied. He could hear how fragile it sounded even as it left his mouth. “He’ll buy us time—make a diversion, if it comes to it. We’ll be ready.”

“But what if that’s not enough?” Her voice caught, cracked. “Arthur… what if it’s already too late?”

He crossed the space between them and set his hands on her shoulders. “We’ll do whatever it takes,” he told her, steady, certain. “We will not lose George.”

Molly’s breath shuddered under his touch. “I can’t bear it again,” she whispered. “Not another child, Arthur. Not again.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Nor can I.”

They stood a moment, holding each other’s gaze, drawing strength from the stubborn fact that they were still here—still fighting. Too many near misses. Too many names they spoke only in silence.

Bill rose from his chair. “Mum,” he said gently, “Percy and I will go with you and Dad. We’ll stick together. Watch each other’s backs.”

Arthur met his eldest son’s eyes and gave a brief nod. Bill had always had that unshakeable steadiness—his mother’s patience bound to his father’s resolve.

“I’m comin’ too,” Hagrid rumbled, stepping forward so the light caught his face. “I won’t let yeh go alone. I won’t let ‘em take another one o’ yeh. Not if I can help it.”

A pang went through Arthur. Hagrid’s loyalty was as fierce as it had been the day Arthur first met him, and he’d seen far too many friends carried away.

Slughorn cleared his throat. “I’ll remain here,” he said with unexpected firmness. “If they wake—Harry, the others—someone must be here to act quickly.”

Arthur inclined his head. “Thank you, Horace.”

They moved about the room with quiet urgency, wands checked, cloaks fastened. The air thickened with the strain of anticipation.

At the threshold, Arthur paused. Molly was beside him, her spine straight, chin high, though her fingers trembled. He glanced towards the closed doors at the back.

Harry lay in one of those rooms, pale and unmoving, with Ron and Hermione alongside him and Ginny nearby—children still, in so many ways, yet entangled in a war they had never asked to fight.

Arthur’s jaw set. “It’s time.”

They stepped out into the cold. The wind carried the tang of sea salt and something heavier, an unspoken fear that clung to all of them. No one spoke. With one last look at the cottage’s glowing windows, they turned on the spot and Disapparated into the waiting dark.

The chamber swallowed sound. Cold and dry and utterly lifeless, it felt more like a forgotten crypt than any sort of trial room. The walls pressed in around them, dull stone stained by age, the air thick with something old and unpleasant—damp, metallic, still. Every footstep echoed far too loudly, bouncing off the flagstones in sharp cracks that made Harry’s skin crawl. His trainers scuffed with each pace, and somehow even that seemed to accuse him.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny flanked him in silence. Close. Supportive. Smothering. Harry didn’t look at them. Their worry clung to him, prickling against the back of his neck. Every glance they exchanged behind him, every breath they took that wasn’t quite steady, reached him more clearly than words.

He hated it.

And needed it.

And couldn’t bear either.

The chamber’s centre was illuminated by a pale shaft of flickering, unnatural light—no visible source, no fire. Beneath it stood a narrow stone table, rough-hewn and ancient, as though it had been dragged from some darker place and dropped here to wait.

Upon the slab, resting unnervingly still, was the dagger.

Slim and silver, its blade gleamed in the strange light with a sheen too slick to be natural. The hilt twisted into the shape of a coiled serpent, mouth parted, fangs bared, frozen in the moment before a strike. But it was more than a weapon—it was watching him. It didn’t shimmer, exactly, but shifted, as though it breathed along with him. It seemed to be reaching for him in silence.

Harry stopped walking. The tug in his chest was back—low and urgent. Not panic. Not fear. It was deeper than that. A kind of knowing.

He stepped forward.

“Harry—wait!”

Hermione’s voice rang across the chamber. Not a shout, but too loud in the quiet.

He stilled, jaw clenching.

He didn’t turn. “Make it quick, Granger,” he said. His voice came out harsher than he intended—but he didn’t apologise.

She hesitated, then stepped forward, just past Ron, her brows drawn tight. “We’ve decided,” she said, her voice taut. “We’re not doing the tasks anymore. And we don’t think you should either.”

Slowly, Harry turned to face her. The heaviness in his chest twisted into something colder. “You’ve decided, have you?”

“It’s not a threat,” Hermione said quickly, her voice trembling just a little. “But you’re going to die if you keep going. These aren’t just tasks, Harry. They’re—”

“Traps,” Ron finished, stepping in. His arms were folded, and his face was pale but steady. “They’re designedto get into your head.”

Harry let out a bitter laugh. “What’s so deadly about this one then? No cursed water, no broomstick, no monsters. It’s just a knife on a table.”

Ron snorted. “Right. Aside from the bit where the last one nearly knocked you off your broom and you blacked out halfway through the air—nothing dangerous at all.”

“You’re afraid,” Harry snapped. “That’s what this is. You’re scared, and you’re giving up.”

“We’re worried,” Hermione corrected gently. “There’s a difference.”

Harry shook his head, fury surging without warning. “No. You think I can’t handle it. You all think I’m too weak to finish what I started.”

“We’ve never thought that,” said Ginny, stepping beside Hermione. Her voice was low, but it carried. “It’s what this place is doing to you that scares us.”

Harry turned on her. “You don’t know what this place is. You don’t feel it like I do.”

“You’re right,” Hermione said quietly. “We don’t. But we see what it’s doing. We see you changing.”

Ron’s voice was quieter now but more serious than before. “This isn’t you, mate.”

Harry froze.

He blinked.

He looked at them, and something inside him went tight. They stood there, the three of them, eyes full of worry and loyalty and something that felt an awful lot like love, and he hated it. Because he didn’t want it. Or didn’t deserve it. Or maybe both.

“You mean it’s not the version of me you like,” he said, and his voice broke on the last word. “Don’t call me ‘mate’. Don’t even call me Harry. We’re not friends.”

The silence that followed rang louder than any shout.

Ron flinched like he’d been hit. “We are,” he said quietly. “We always have been. You just… you don’t remember it properly right now.”

Harry turned back towards the table. His heartbeat was thudding again. That ache—deep and quiet and constant—had returned to his chest.

“Says who?” he muttered.

“Me,” Ron said. “And Hermione. And Ginny. All of us. We remember you. The real you. The one who fought because he loved people, not because he wanted to be alone.”

Harry stared at the dagger.

It pulsed faintly now. Almost inviting. It didn’t threaten. It welcomed.

He wanted to touch it.

Needed to.

“I don’t need any of you,” he said, and his voice sounded cold even to his own ears.

Hermione stepped forward, desperation softening her voice. “Harry… please. Just think. This isn’t about solving something anymore. These tasks—they’re not about bravery. They’re wearing down your mind. You think you’re in control, but you’re not.”

“So what?” Harry snapped. “You want to lock me in a room, keep me safe, and pat me on the head? What’s the point of being protected if I’m not allowed to live?”

“You are living,” Ginny said, and her voice cut through everything—clear, steady, impossible to ignore.

He hadn’t noticed her move closer, but now she was there, her eyes on his, dark with worry.

“This isn’t living, Harry. Not for you. You’re surviving the tasks, yeah. But you’re not coming out of them whole. Each one takes something. Piece by piece.”

He looked at her. Looked at all of them. His hands were shaking.

“I have to finish it,” he whispered.

“No,” said Hermione. “You think you do. Because that’s what this place wants you to believe.”

“I’m doing this for you!” he shouted suddenly, the words bursting out of him. “I’m doing this so you don’t have to!”

Ron stared at him, hurt carved into his features. “We never asked you to do it alone.”

The dagger pulsed again.

Harry looked at it.

And for the first time since they’d entered the room, he hesitated.

He stood there, torn in two.

Ginny took a breath. “If you pick that up,” she said softly, “you won’t be Harry anymore. Not our Harry. Just another part of this place.”

He turned sharply on Ginny, eyes alight with something wild. “Yeah?” he snapped. “Tell me something I don’t know about that Harry.”

But Ginny didn’t flinch. Her gaze held his steadily—bright and unwavering. “The real you wouldn’t be doing this,” she said, her voice clear, almost calm. “You wouldn’t shut people out. You wouldn’t use power to wall yourself off from the people who love you. You’re kind, Harry. Brave. Selfless. That’s the person we love. That’s the boy who chose us—again and again—even when the world didn’t.”

The words hung in the air, strange and unfamiliar. Kind. Brave. Selfless. They sounded distant, as though she were describing someone else entirely. Another boy, from another time. Someone he might’ve read about once. A legend, not a person. Certainly not him.

His jaw tightened until it ached. “You think saying that changes anything?” he muttered. “You think words are enough to bring him back?”

“No,” Ron said quietly, stepping closer now, his hands clenched at his sides. “We’re not here to convince you. We’re here to remind you. Of who you are—who you’ve always been.”

Hermione moved in beside him, eyes shining but steady. “We’ve seen you, Harry. You’ve risked your life more times than we can count, and never for glory. You stood up for people the world ignored. Werewolves. House-elves. Giants. Muggle-borns. You fought for them because they mattered to you. Not because someone told you they should. Because you knew they did.”

Harry’s throat felt tight again. He stared at the dagger. It still sat there, gleaming faintly, quiet and still—but its presence was suffocating. His hands had started to tremble again, though he didn’t know when. Why couldn’t he shut them out? Why did their voices still reach him, even here? Even now?

“You don’t have to do this,” Ginny said, more gently this time. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to us. Not to anyone. Not to the ghosts of this place.”

“I’m tired,” Harry muttered, not meeting their eyes. “Tired of being told who I am. What I’m meant to be.”

“Then don’t listen to us,” said Hermione softly. “Remember it for yourself. We’re not here to take the choice away from you. We’re here because we’re still hoping—still believing—you’ll choose to come back.”

He didn’t speak.

The dagger caught the strange light again, casting ripples over the chamber wall. Its surface shimmered—not like metal, but like something alive. Not calling now. Waiting.

Harry’s chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. His legs felt heavy. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing here—seconds? Minutes? Time had lost its grip. He felt caught between two things, balanced at a breaking point. One more step, and whatever he was clinging to would vanish beneath him.

And yet… something stirred. A flicker, faint and unwanted—of doubt.

Were they right?

Or were they just clinging to the memory of someone who no longer existed?

No one spoke for a long moment.

Then Ron said, quietly, “If you fall, we fall with you. That was always the deal, wasn’t it?”

Harry’s head jerked up.

The words struck something buried, something old and precious. If you fall, we fall with you. He remembered hearing something like that once, long ago—though perhaps not in words. Maybe in actions. In the way they’d followed him, again and again. Into the Department of Mysteries. Into the forest. Into the fire.

He didn’t want it to matter.

He didn’t want to let it in.

But it lodged deep in his chest, sinking into a part of him that hadn’t gone cold yet.

“You’ve faced worse,” Ron went on, gentler now. “Dementors. Death Eaters. Voldemort.”

The name rang out, sharp in the stillness. Harry blinked, as if hearing it for the first time.

“Voldemort?” he echoed. It sounded distant. Hollow. Like a name pulled from the footnote of someone else’s story.

Ron hesitated, unsure. “He was the dark wizard who… he murdered your parents. When you were a baby.”

Harry flinched. There was no image, no memory—just a rush of something fierce and raw. Anger. Grief. Terror. All tangled into a wordless heat behind his ribs, threatening to spill over.

He didn’t know where it came from.

He didn’t care.

“That’s enough!” he barked. His voice cracked down the middle. “I won’t stand here and listen to any more of your stories!”

Ron stepped back, startled. “I wasn’t—Harry, I wasn’t trying to upset you—”

“Oh, really?” Harry said, and the fury burst out of him now, searing and sudden. “That’s what I am to you, is it? A sad little legend to prop up when it suits? The orphan with a heart of gold and a weakness for strays and half-breeds?”

Hermione flinched—barely—but he saw it.

His eyes snapped to her.

She hadn’t spoken, hadn’t even moved, but her face said enough: pity.

That was worse than anger. Worse than fear.

He hated it.

“How many versions of me do you need?” he hissed. “How many lies have you told yourselves, waiting for me to play along?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

The fury was too strong now. Too fast.

He turned, the dagger locked in his sights again, the chamber narrowing around it. Every step forward was like breaking something inside himself—but it was easier than standing still.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice cracked behind him—strained and desperate. “Harry, please—!”

But he didn’t look back.

If he did, he might see it again—that flicker in her eyes. Not anger. Not judgement.

Hope.

And hope, in this place—twisting through him like it wanted to take root—was the most dangerous thing of all.

The cold thickened around him as he stepped closer to the table, coiling around his limbs and pressing at his chest with the weight of something old and vast. Every breath scraped the back of his throat, and the hairs on the nape of his neck prickled.

Then—without warning—it struck.

There was no light, no sound. Only a shift, a sudden warp in the fabric of the space around him. The magic surged, raw and unfiltered, as though something had torn through the chamber’s very seams.

A force unseen burst outward from the centre of the room, and Harry spun around just in time to see Hermione flung backwards through the air. Her cry echoed off the walls as she hit the ground hard, her limbs splayed in a heap.

“Hermione!” he shouted, the name tearing from his throat before he even realised he’d spoken. The anger that had scorched him moments earlier twisted abruptly into panic.

She coughed, wincing, but struggled to her feet. “I didn’t do anything!” she called hoarsely. Her palms pressed against something Harry couldn’t see—some invisible wall that had sprung up between them. “Harry—stay with us! Please!”

But her voice was already dulling, fading behind the strange shimmer that had begun to rise around him.

Mist.

It seeped from the floor like breath from some slumbering thing disturbed, curling first at his ankles, then swelling, spreading, thickening—until it divided the chamber in two. On one side: Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, each with their hands pressed against the mist, shouting, desperate. On the other: Harry, completely alone.

He stepped forward instinctively, but the fog pushed back. Not hard—just enough to keep him where he was. It hummed faintly under his skin, a low, rhythmic pulse. Not just magic—consciousness. Awareness. It was watching him. Measuring.

He slowly turned back toward the table.

The dagger was gone.

He blinked. At first he thought he must have missed it—but no, it wasn’t there. In its place, resting precisely where the dagger had been, was something far more familiar.

A basilisk fang.

Its curved surface gleamed faintly, slick and pale, with a faint green sheen across its point that seemed to throb with venom. The air around it crackled faintly with the promise of what it could do—what it had done. It was dangerous, yes, but not unfamiliar. Not frightening.

Harry stared.

Its message was silent, simple, and unmistakable: This is your tool. This is your answer.

His hand rose slowly, as though of its own accord.

But then—the mist moved.

A shape flickered through it, at first barely more than a blur. Then it sharpened. Shadows turned to limbs. Limbs to posture. And then, unmistakably, a human figure.

Gaunt. Slight. Hair tangled and black, hanging in uneven locks. Skin pale, stretched too thin across cheekbones. Clothes loose, hanging. And the eyes—

His own.

Almost.

Harry stared. He couldn’t have looked away if he’d tried.

The figure stood only a few paces away, its head bowed slightly, shoulders curved inwards, as though it carried something unbearably heavy. When it looked up and met his gaze, there was no threat in it. No fury.

Just emptiness.

Exhaustion.

The kind of hollow weariness that sinks into the bones and stays.

“Harry?” Ron’s voice drifted through the mist, muffled but still urgent. “What is that? What are we looking at?”

Harry didn’t answer.

The thing in front of him—this version of himself—lifted a hand. Slow. Almost careful. It wasn’t a threat. It was… a gesture. A beckoning. A request.

Come closer.

He swallowed hard.

“Don’t take its hand!” Ron shouted, louder now, voice cracking. “Harry, don’t! It’s not right—it’s not right!”

“Come back!” Ginny cried. Her voice shook. “Harry, please—come back to us!”

Hermione was slamming her hands against the mist again, her fingers splayed, palms slipping against the barrier. “It’s not real, Harry! Whatever that thing is—it’s not you! You’re stronger than this!”

The words battered against him, but he could barely take them in. The figure before him wasn’t Voldemort, wasn’t a monster, and wasn’t even a threat.

It was him.

Only… emptied out. The shell was left behind after everything had been taken. His anger. His guilt. His grief. His need to be enough. All of it. This was what remained.

And for a moment it felt like relief.

No more pressure. No more pain. No more trying to be who everyone else thought he was.

Just quiet.

Just silence.

His fingers hovered over the fang.

The figure didn’t move. Didn’t threaten. It waited.

And inside him, something rebelled.

No.

No, this wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t him.

He wanted the pain. The struggle. He wanted them.

He didn’t want to vanish.

His hand dropped away from the fang.

The figure stilled, its expression unreadable.

Almost—almost—he thought he saw sorrow pass across its face.

Harry stepped back. One pace. Then another.

And through the haze of mist, just visible beyond the barrier, he saw them. Three silhouettes, unmoving, waiting.

Ron. Hermione. Ginny.

Their hands still pressed to the barrier.

They hadn’t left. Not even when he’d turned his back. Not even after everything.

Still there.

Still hoping.

Still believing.

And that—that—was nearly unbearable.

A different kind of pain stabbed through him now. It hurt in a way the darkness never had. Because it meant something. It mattered.

His hand trembled again. A terrible urge flooded him, sudden and reckless and impossible to ignore.

Just one touch.

He reached out, his fingers shaking as they stretched towards the figure.

They brushed skin—cold, barely solid—

And the world tore apart.

It was instant.

No light. No sound. Just sensation. The sting of ice plunging into every nerve. Smoke coiled through his bloodstream, and the ground vanished beneath him. No chamber. No mist. No time. Nothing to hold onto.

He was falling, but not down. He was being pulled through—

And then—

Memories.

Not dreams.

His memories.

They came all at once—sharp, jagged, unstoppable.

A tide of memory crashed through him, fierce and unrelenting, ripping past his defences. There was no time to think. No space to breathe. Just sensation.

Faces. Screams. Cold corridors and colder mornings. Emptiness. Fury. A sharp, twisting grief that hollowed him out from the inside. Shame that sank its teeth in deep.

Pain—real and old and buried so deep he hadn’t even known it was still there.

Until now.

Harry gasped, staggering, but something in the force of it kept him upright—held him fast. Not with hands or chains, but with memory. He could hear voices—Ron’s, Hermione’s—but they were distant now, like shouting through wind.

Then—

Stillness.

Just for a moment. A strange clarity, cool and piercing.

A small back garden appeared before him—clipped hedges, a scruffy patch of grass, dry and yellowed, not from lack of care, but from neglect. It wasn’t a garden for playing in. It was a space to be tolerated. A cage with a hedge border.

And in the middle of it—a boy.

Black-haired. Glasses slightly too big for his thin face. His limbs were wiry and awkward. His movements were jerky with nerves. He darted to the side, avoiding the sweeping arc of a thick stick wielded clumsily but enthusiastically by a red-faced Dudley.

Dudley was laughing—genuinely, breathlessly, as though this was all great fun.

It wasn’t. Not for the boy.

Not for him.

Harry stared, heart clenching.

He knew this place. That boy. That expression. It wasn’t fear, not exactly.

It was expectation.

As though he’d learnt, long ago, that pain was inevitable and that no one would stop it, so there was no point crying out.

Then—

A voice. Shrill. Sharp enough to make his insides flinch.

“Get up! Now!”

Harry flinched reflexively—this Harry, the one watching. The boy in the garden didn’t even seem to register it. He was already moving, already dragging himself to his feet before Aunt Petunia’s voice had finished echoing across the garden wall.

Then, Vernon’s thunderous growl from somewhere inside the house: “Cupboard. No meal.”

Harry felt something twist in his chest.

The cupboard.

And with it came the dark.

The heavy air, the scratch of wood against his back, the musty scent of dust and polish and damp. The weight of silence. The click of the lock.

It flooded in, all of it, the way dreams sometimes did—so vivid, so real, you couldn’t remember where you were. Only that you were small. Powerless. Forgotten.

His stomach turned.

This had happened. Not just once. Not as a vague recollection, but as truth. And he’d buried it. Shut it away so tightly that even thinking about it felt like dragging something foul into the light.

Why hadn’t he remembered it properly?

Why had he needed to forget?

His fists clenched, jaw tight. He wanted to reach through the vision, to snatch the boy out of that miserable patch of grass, to shout at Petunia, to do something. But he couldn’t.

The memory didn’t care.

It played on, relentless.

And then—rippling, shifting—it changed.

Now they were at Hogwarts. The Great Hall. Familiar stone and sky. And Draco Malfoy stood before him, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, his smirk lazy and cruel.

“Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting on the train back to the Muggles?”

Harry gritted his teeth.

He’d heard that line before. He remembered brushing it off with a glare and a snide retort. But seeing it now—seeing Malfoy speak those words to a version of himself still raw from the cupboard, still carrying invisible bruises—

It felt different.

It felt vicious.

Another memory followed, unbidden.

“You know how I think they pick the Gryffindor team?” Malfoy again, smirking. “It’s a pity, that’s all. That’s why they chose Potter. No parents. Poor thing…”

The boy didn’t argue. Didn’t react.

He just stood there. Shoulders tight. Chin lifted, but only barely.

As though he’d heard it all before. As though a part of him believed it.

Harry’s chest burnt.

The vision twisted again.

Snape.

Billowing robes, face set in scorn. Voice sharp, each syllable laced with disdain.

“Fame clearly isn’t everything.”

And again, colder still: “Why didn’t you tell him not to add the quills? That’s another point you’ve lost for Gryffindor.”

Harry winced. “That’s not him,” he muttered aloud. “He’s not—”

But he stopped.

Because he had been. Once. Back then.

Before the truth had come out. Before Snape’s silence had become sacrifice. Before he’d shown that even the cruellest mask could hide something painfully human underneath.

Harry didn’t want to see it.

But he had seen it. Had lived it.

And still—more.

The memory darkened, and this time it wasn’t words that hit him.

It was pain.

A girl’s voice, sweet and false.

“Yes, it hurts, doesn’t it?”

Umbridge.

Harry’s breath caught.

He saw the boy again, sitting still at a desk, expression impassive, as the blood quill etched its message across the back of his hand. I must not tell lies.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Harry recoiled.

“Stop,” he whispered. “Stop it. Please…”

The boy didn’t scream. His lips were set in a thin, tight line. But the pain—it was there, all over him. In the way he sat. In his shoulders. In his silence.

And Harry couldn’t look away.

The memory held. Demanding. Unforgiving.

It wanted him to remember.

His pulse was a roar in his ears. His breath came too fast. He wanted to claw his way out of it, to run, to bury it all again.

But something in him refused to move.

Because underneath all of it—beneath the fury, the shame, the helplessness—there was something else.

Guilt.

This had happened.

Not just here. Not just in this twisted mirror the mist had made for him.

But in him. To him. To a version of himself who had never been told he was loved. Who had been punished for asking questions and punished again for surviving the answers.

A version who had grown up in silence.

And yet—

He had endured.

Harry’s knees buckled. He reached out blindly and gripped the edge of the table, anchoring himself against the swell of it all.

He wanted to hate every memory. Every face. Every word. He wanted to rage and scream and forget all over again.

But he couldn’t.

Because forgetting hadn’t helped.

The memories dimmed slowly. Their shapes faded. The voices fell silent.

And in the quiet that followed, he felt something stir in the hollow they’d left behind.

Not strength.

Not peace.

But something small. Solid.

Stubborn.

He was still here.

Bruised. Yes. Burnt. Tired. But not gone.

He had endured.

And perhaps, Harry thought, fingers curling tightly against the stone, that was the point of all this.

The chamber pulsed—as if drawing breath, as if watching.

Harry stumbled, hand braced against the nearest pillar, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. Another memory surged forth, uninvited and undeniable—pressing down on him with a terrible gravity. It coiled around his thoughts, squeezing, stretching. His vision swam.

And suddenly—

He was there again.

Not the chamber, but a towering room filled from end to end with faces. Rows upon rows of them, crammed into benches, lining the walls like a tribunal. Cold eyes. Tight lips. Not a whisper of kindness among them.

There was no curiosity in those faces. No uncertainty. They had already decided what he was.

“LIAR!”

The word crashed down, sharp and immediate, echoed and amplified by dozens more.

“LIAR! LIAR!”

Harry flinched, though the boy in the centre of the vision—his younger self—did not. That boy stood with his back straight, shoulders drawn as taut as bowstrings. But his face burnt red, hot with humiliation. He didn’t meet their eyes.

The crowd jeered louder, a wall of noise thick with scorn.

Harry could feel it now—not just the shame, but the helplessness that had come with it. The sense of being swallowed by something vast and unfair and unstoppable. A room full of witches and wizards, adults who should have known better—should have cared—and yet they had all sat there, thunderously judging, condemning. Not one of them had stood for him.

Why?

Then he saw it.

They were afraid.

Not just of him but of what he knew. What he had seen. What he represented.

And the hatred—so sharp, so unified—it wasn’t natural. It was too rehearsed. Too clean.

Their fury moved in unison, like a single beast with many heads. Their disdain didn’t come from disbelief.

It came from instruction.

Manipulated, Harry realised. The word dug in, cold and heavy.

What if none of them had ever truly cared whether he was telling the truth or not? What if it had never been about justice? What if it was about something else entirely—silence?

If they could discredit him, humiliate him, isolate him… They could kill the truth before it ever had a chance to spread.

The thought struck hard.

But before he could finish it, another vision struck faster than thought.

A leering grin. A mouth twisted by madness. A spinning magical eye—unblinking. Constant. And a voice.

“Who put your name in the Goblet of Fire under another school?”

The voice snarled the words with sick delight.

“I did.”

Harry’s stomach lurched. He recognised that face. Knew it far too well.

Moody.

No—not Moody. Barty Crouch Jr.

The image melted and reshaped, and the truth behind the lie emerged: a man who had worn another’s skin like a costume. All those months, the real Alastor Moody was locked away in a trunk—while Harry had looked up at a madman wearing his face.

And all the while, he’d been manipulated. Played.

The Triwizard Tournament—some historic, noble competition in theory—had been corrupted. War in disguise. Each task was a death sentence carefully dressed up as a spectacle. Every challenge was a trap.

Harry had survived it all. Barely.

Was that what had earned him the headlines? The whispered admiration? The fame?

Not brilliance.

Not cunning.

Just… pain.

That thought didn’t leave him. It settled into his bones.

The vision shuddered. Shifted.

And then—

A new memory ignited, as jarring as a slap.

“Sirius is being tortured now!” the younger Harry shouted, voice frayed with desperation.

Hermione, her face pale and tight with fear, tried to hold him back. “But what if it’s a trick? What if it’s not real—what if it’s him—”

She had said his name—Voldemort—but Harry hadn’t listened. Couldn’t. Not then.

The next moment came too fast.

The archway.

The room.

The veil.

Sirius, laughing—shouting—fighting—and then falling.

Falling.

And gone.

Harry gripped his shirt, a sharp pain twisting behind his ribs.

He hadn’t known Sirius long. Barely a year. But he’d hoped. Hoped for a home. For family. For something more than pain.

The grief was still fresh, no matter how many years had passed. The loss was real. Unfair. And final.

He hadn’t even said goodbye.

Then—

“Crucio!”

Harry’s body reacted before his mind caught up. His muscles tensed. His breath seized.

It was him again—Voldemort. Standing tall, wand poised with cruel precision. Calm. Enjoying it.

“You won’t say no?” the Dark Lord whispered. “Obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die… Perhaps another little dose of pain?”

The younger Harry screamed, back arching, body convulsing.

The scream tore through Harry’s memory—not just a sound but a feeling, curling inside his spine, burning through marrow and muscle. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

And then came the flash—sickly green and all-consuming.

Avada Kedavra.

Harry turned his face away, instinctively—but there was no escaping it. The green light was everywhere. It filled the chamber, the space behind his eyes, and the pit of his stomach.

Every death. Every scream. Every stolen future pressed upon him all at once.

This wasn’t history.

This was personal.

And still, the memory held him. It refused to let go.

Then, at last, the scene faded.

Only to be replaced by the quietest vision of them all.

A room, warm but dim. Rows of shelves lined with vials and glowing candles. The scent of old parchment and healing draughts. It might have been any office—but for the silence. That deep, thoughtful silence.

A boy—him again—stood across from a man with kind eyes and a walrus moustache.

Slughorn.

“Professor…” the boy asked, voice scarcely above a whisper, “is there any way to cleanse a corrupted soul?”

Harry’s throat tightened.

He knew what was coming.

Slughorn hesitated. His expression didn’t change—no pity, no judgement. Just a soft, inevitable truth.

“There has been no documented case,” he said gently. “A tainted soul will only deteriorate… leading to a painful death.”

The words were not meant to wound. But they did.

Harry’s vision blurred.

He didn’t cry for himself.

He cried for the boy in that memory—who had stood there quietly, still hoping. Hoping for redemption. Hoping that even someone broken might be put back together.

And the world had told him no.

And just like that—

The chamber cracked.

The memories shattered, spinning away into darkness.

He was back.

Back in the dimness. In the silence. In the cold.

The chamber stood as it had before—massive, indifferent. The basilisk fang still gleamed on the table nearby, catching what little light there was. It seemed almost smug, as though proud of its history, of all the pain it had caused.

And opposite him stood the figure.

The other him.

That thing in his shape, hollow-eyed and still as death.

They stared at each other. Not enemies. Not allies.

Reflections.

“Now that you’ve seen both worlds,” the figure said quietly. The voice was dry, weightless. “Which path will you choose?”

The words weren’t loud.

But they didn’t need to be.

They struck deep.

Harry’s chest constricted, as if something unseen had wrapped itself tightly round his ribs.

This wasn’t just a question of timelines.

It was him.

The boy he had been. The man he might still become. The versions of himself that existed, split across experience—one who had endured the storm and staggered through the wreckage, and one who had been spared the worst of it but still bore scars. Invisible ones. Quiet ones.

Had pain shaped him, or had it simply followed?

And then—

He saw them.

The mist, thick and restless, gave way to movement. Shapes began to form on the other side of the veil—blurry at first, undefined, as if memory was trying to sharpen into something solid.

But he knew them.

He’d know them even if he were blind. He’d know them by the thrum in his bones, the way his heart stuttered at the sight of them.

Hermione. Ron. Ginny.

His lungs seized. For a second, he couldn’t breathe.

“HARRY!” Hermione’s voice split the stillness, raw and breathless. Her hands pressed against the veil, her eyes wide with something close to panic. “Please—just listen before you do anything—please!”

He froze.

Hermione Granger didn’t beg. She never begged.

She reasoned. She argued. She lectured. She planned everything down to the last parchment scrap—but this? This was her, undone. Unravelled.

She was frightened.

Beside her stood Ron, mouth tight, fists clenched as though holding in whatever it was threatening to pour out of him. “We’re not lying, mate,” he called, his voice cracking under the weight of it. “You’ve got to believe us. You have to.”

Harry stared. They looked impossibly real. Not illusions. Not memory. Not some imagined version from his own hopes or regrets.

They looked tired. Weathered. Hurt.

But they were there.

And Ginny—

Ginny clung to the veil, her fingers gripping the edge as though it were the only thing keeping her from vanishing. Her knuckles had turned white. Her jaw trembled, but she didn’t look away.

“Please,” she said quietly. “Just give us a chance. Just one.”

Something inside Harry shifted. A slow, aching tilt of the world.

He took a step back from the altar. His hand drifted towards the stone table where the basilisk fang lay, gleaming faintly in the shadows.

Everything within him roared—a storm, a howling mess of confusion, grief, longing, and rage. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. He wanted clarity—just once, to know what was right without having to bleed for it.

But at the centre of the chaos… there they were.

Not perfect. Not polished.

They weren’t begging because they feared the consequences.

They were begging because they loved him.

That—that cut deeper than any wound.

He reached for the fang.

It was smooth beneath his fingers. Familiar. Almost deceptively gentle. It didn’t feel like a weapon—it felt like history. Ancient and unforgiving.

A part of him whispered that this would be easier. Cleaner. A way out. A door.

He could feel the tears prickling behind his eyes. His grip tightened.

The voices beyond the mist kept speaking, each word reaching out across the divide, threads trying to pull him home—though he wasn’t sure where home even was anymore.

“There are so many more good memories than bad ones…” Hermione’s voice again, trembling but firm. “You have people who love you—who see you. We all do. You’re not alone.”

Was that true?

Or had he imagined it?

Had he only ever seen what he needed to see, because the alternative would’ve been too hard to bear?

Had they loved him—or the idea of him?

Had he spent years believing in loyalty that never quite held when things got dark?

He didn’t know.

Not anymore.

He stared at the fang. Its point shimmered, catching the dim light overhead, as if it were offering something. Not salvation, perhaps—but silence.

One movement. One choice. And the weight would lift. The questions would stop. He’d never have to wonder again.

And then—Ginny spoke.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Soft.

But clear.

“Don’t let it win.”

Harry blinked.

She meant the thing he’d spent so long resisting—the temptation to escape. The subtle, insidious pull to vanish into a world where the pain didn’t reach so deep. Where he didn’t have to carry every loss like a second skin.

She was telling him that hope was a fight. That survival wasn’t the same as surrender. That giving up wasn’t peace—it was defeat in disguise.

His throat closed.

He looked down. He could hardly see the fang now through the blur. His hand shook.

“How am I supposed to choose?” he asked, barely a whisper.

The figure—his other self—lifted a hand.

“You can erase me,” it said, calm and unreadable. “Or you can pierce yourself and live the life you saw. The choice is yours.”

No prophecy.

No wand.

No Dumbledore, no map, no phoenix song to point the way.

Only this.

His choice.

And the unbearable silence of it.

No one could answer for him.

He closed his eyes. For one dreadful, heart-thudding moment, he wanted it.

He wanted the life he’d seen. The warm mornings. The laughter that didn’t come from survivors trying to forget. A house with curtains that fluttered instead of being burnt shut. A world where Lily kissed his forehead and James ruffled his hair and nobody spoke in the past tense.

It was beautiful.

It was false.

He opened his eyes.

And they were still there.

Hermione—trembling but upright. Ron—fighting everything inside himself not to scream. And Ginny—

Ginny, whose eyes were bright with unshed tears, not because she was breaking.

But because she believed.

He wasn’t a hero in her eyes. He wasn’t a name in a book.

He was Harry.

The words escaped his lips before he could rein them in.

“My time is too precious to waste on illusions,” he said coolly, his voice hollow and distant even to his own ears. A brittle sort of calm wrapped around him, but it wasn’t peace. It was armour.

His smile flickered—thin, uncertain—and vanished just as quickly. He reached for the basilisk fang.

It caught the faintest light from the chamber ceiling, a glint that made the air feel sharper. Colder.

And in that moment—

They all broke.

“Harry, please—!” Hermione’s voice fractured, as if some thread inside her had finally snapped. “Don’t do this. Don’t make it all about you—it never was.”

She was crying. Not in the loud, dramatic way Harry remembered from arguments past, but quiet, desperate tears, like something precious was slipping through her fingers and she couldn’t stop it.

Ron stepped forward without hesitation, fists clenched at his sides, eyes burning.

“So that’s it?” he demanded, his voice taut with disbelief. “You’ll pick the easy road? Let selfishness steer the wheel and call it choice?”

“Ron—” Hermione warned gently, her hand brushing his arm, but the tremor in her voice gave her away. “This isn’t the way—”

But the other Harry—the one who stood between them and the choice—was unmoved.

“I’ve heard enough, Weasley,” he said coolly, eyes narrowed. “Don’t insult me with sentiment.”

The words rang out with force, but Harry flinched even as he spoke them. They weren’t his.

At least… they shouldn’t have been.

And yet somewhere, buried in the folds of his memory, they felt familiar. Something he might have said in a moment of exhaustion, or bitterness, or quiet, unspoken despair. They left a sour taste in his mouth.

Ron didn’t budge. He didn’t even blink.

“Oh yeah?” he shot back, his voice rising. “We stood beside you through everything. Every cursed year, every near-death escape, every funeral. We bled with you. Your parents—your real ones—they gave everything for a future you’re about to throw away.”

His voice cracked—just slightly—but he pushed through it.

“I’d give anything to have what you had. Just one day with them. One meal. One stupid argument about chores. But I can’t. None of us can. So we fight for what’s left. And you—you don’t get to throw it all away just because it hurts.”

His words hung in the air, unflinching.

Not angry. Not cruel.

Just honest.

And that truth—that truth—settled heavily in Harry’s chest.

Because it would be easier. To take the lie. To step sideways into a life filled with sunlight and soft things, where war had never touched him, where no one ever had to die for his sake. Where he could be just Harry—no Chosen One, no lightning bolt, no shadows following his every step.

But easy wasn’t right. Not always.

He had learnt that the hard way.

He turned to Ginny.

She was standing perfectly still, her hands pressed against the veil as if it were the only thing anchoring her in place. Her eyes locked onto his—steady, unblinking. There was no accusation there.

Only sorrow. And something stronger than grief.

Conviction.

“Even I’d want that kind of comfort,” she said, her voice low, careful. “Anyone would. But that’s not where strength comes from, Harry. It’s not safety that makes us strong. It’s choosing what’s right, even when it shatters us.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“If you stay here, you’ll be fine. But you’ll never live. You’ll never understand what it means to protect someone or to lose them—and still keep fighting. Even when it breaks you.”

He wanted to argue. To shout. To ask how she could be so certain when everything inside him felt hollow and wrong.

But he didn’t speak.

Because she was right.

So was Ron. So was Hermione.

And that—that was the worst part of it.

He looked down at the fang again.

It gleamed softly, as though waiting for his answer. The air around it was tense. Expectant.

Then, quietly, Hermione spoke once more.

Her voice was nearly a whisper. A plea wrapped in reason.

“Ask yourself this,” she said. “Have you ever had someone you’d die for? Truly? Not because you were forced to. Not because you were marked. But because your heart couldn’t bear the thought of living without them?”

The question struck him—not as an accusation, but as a revelation. A riddle he hadn’t realised he was meant to solve.

He opened his mouth to reply.

Nothing came.

He’d faced death. Many times. He’d stood between it and others, over and over. But it had always been about duty. About defiance. About making sure others didn’t have to feel what he had.

Never this.

Never a moment where the choice was clear, sharp, in his hand—where the weight of someone else’s future balanced against the temptation to simply be safe.

His hands trembled.

The fang slipped a fraction in his grip.

He thought of his parents—alive, laughing, warm—and felt the ache bloom all over again.

But even they, for all their love, couldn’t fill that silence inside him. That hollow place carved out by years of loss, by choices no teenager should have had to make.

And then—quietly, without fanfare—Hermione lifted her head.

There was a pause, just long enough for Harry to catch the faint tremble in her chin before she stilled it. When she spoke, her voice was steady. Soft. But clear enough to cut through the air like a bell at dawn.

“For us,” she said, looking him straight in the eye, “that person is you.”

Harry’s breath caught. The words struck with such plain force that he actually recoiled.

He hadn’t expected her to say it—not like that. Not so openly. Not with that strange, unshakeable certainty in her voice.

Hermione Granger, who always measured her words, who wrapped her feelings in logic and facts and carefully ordered steps—she had just said the one thing that made his defences tremble.

“We’d risk everything for you,” she went on, and this time there was no tremor at all. “We already have.”

The words didn’t float. They clung—dense and heavy, settling around his shoulders. He blinked, hoping they’d lift.

They didn’t.

And somehow, that was worse.

“Why?” he whispered.

It came out so much smaller than he’d intended—raw and uncertain, as though spoken from some much younger version of himself. One who still curled beneath stairs at night and counted cracks in the ceiling to keep the silence away.

“Why would you choose me?”

Ron shifted forward, his voice lower, quieter than usual.

“Because you’re our mate,” he said simply. “Because we trust you. Always have.”

There was no hesitation in him. No flinching. He wasn’t trying to convince—he was just telling the truth.

And Harry hated how badly he wanted to believe it.

He turned his face away, something bitter rising in his throat before he could stop it.

“You don’t even know me,” he said, voice sharper than he intended. “Not really.”

“We do,” Ginny said. Her voice was calm—not quiet, exactly, but composed. She stepped forward to stand beside Hermione, her arms folded tightly across her middle.

“You might not remember everything. But we do. We’ve seen who you are, Harry. Every reckless, brave, stubborn bit of you. And we love you for it. Not in spite of it.”

Hermione nodded at her side, her expression unwavering.

“And now,” she said, “it’s our turn to save you.”

Harry shook his head. Too much. It was all too much.

The words weren’t soft anymore—they scraped. They didn’t comfort. They clawed.

“Why would you put yourselves in danger for me?” he demanded, voice rising. “Why would you keep putting yourselves in danger for someone who didn’t ask you to?”

His hand curled tighter round the fang. The weight of it was unbearable now, but he didn’t loosen his grip.

“I never asked for any of this.”

“Because you’re more than a friend to us,” Ginny said. Her voice didn’t waver. She wasn’t pleading. She was stating. “You’re family. That’s what family does. We fight. We hold on. Even when the other person pushes back. Even when they try to run.”

Her eyes locked onto his, and something in them made his heart flinch.

There was fire there. But underneath it—vulnerability. Not weakness, but truth. The kind of truth that asked nothing but stayed anyway.

And Harry—

He felt it. A shift inside. A tug somewhere deep. A thread, long-frayed, straining to hold.

But it wasn’t enough.

The silence inside him was too wide. The space where belief used to live was still hollowed out.

He took a step back. The fang gleamed in the dim light. His arm ached from holding it so long.

“I’m tired,” he snapped, the words tumbling out in jagged pieces. “Tired of everyone deciding who I’m meant to be. Tired of being the one who’s supposed to fix things. I never wanted to be a hero.”

His voice dropped, ragged and hoarse.

“Maybe I never was. Maybe I’m just the mistake everyone bet their lives on.”

Ron’s face pinched—not in anger, but with something sadder. Something weary and far too familiar.

“This isn’t about being a hero,” he said. “It’s about not giving up. Not on us. And not on you.”

Harry’s fingers tightened. The fang trembled slightly in his grip, his knuckles aching now with effort.

“I don’t want this responsibility,” he muttered, and it was no longer a defence. It was a confession.

“You’re not on your own,” Hermione said, her voice gentle but certain. “Not anymore. You don’t have to carry all of it by yourself.”

He met her eyes. Then Ron’s. Then Ginny’s.

They weren’t staring at him with expectation or obligation.

Just love. Quiet. Patient. Whole.

And that was what hurt the most.

Because he wanted to believe them. Wanted to reach out and be caught. Wanted to trust that they meant it. That if he dropped the weight, someone else would lift it.

But the doubt hadn’t let go.

It clung, gnawing at his mind.

What if he wasn’t enough? What if they were wrong about him? What if he let them down again?

His grip shifted. His breath hitched.

“No.”

The word slipped out, barely a whisper.

Then again, louder.

“No!”

He lifted the fang, arm trembling, breath coming fast.

A sharp inhale. The point of the fang glinted, catching a flicker of pale light.

Ginny gasped. Hermione gave a small, broken cry.

“Harry, please!” she begged, tears streaking her cheeks, voice laced with desperation. “Don’t do this!”

Ron moved forward a half-step, his face pale but resolute.

“You’re better than this,” he said. “You know you are.”

But Harry—

Harry wasn’t hearing them anymore.

He was caught inside himself. In the noise. In the maelstrom of everything that had ever happened and everything he still couldn’t name. Grief and love and rage, guilt and memory, all tangled into something unbearable.

And at the heart of it—he wasn’t certain who he was anymore. Whether anything left inside him was worth saving.

Then—

“DON’T!”

Ginny’s scream shattered the moment.

It rang through the chamber, raw and unguarded, cracking against the walls like thunder. She lunged forward, both hands clenched tight around the bars, voice shaking with fury and fear.

“Don’t you dare! We love you, Harry! I love you! Don’t you throw that away!”

He froze.

Everything inside him stopped. The fang hung suspended, hand shaking violently now.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Her words echoed in it, and Harry stood motionless at the centre—his chest tight, breath caught, throat closing.

He wasn’t shaking from rage.

He was shaking because he was crying.

Not loud. Not obvious.

But the tears were there. Hot and quiet and relentless.

He didn’t want to be alone.

He didn’t want to be broken.

But he didn’t know how to be whole.

And somewhere beneath all of it—beneath the fear and the fury and the doubt—he could still hear her voice.

Don’t throw that away.