FicWad

Arthur stood alone in the Ministry atrium, his footsteps echoing faintly against the polished stone floor. The flickering torchlight did little to warm the space. What had once bustled with memos and hurried greetings now felt like the threshold to something hollow and watchful. The silence clung to him. Familiarity had drained from the place, leaving only the chill of uncertainty.

He glanced behind him. Empty. But the shadows pressed close, and the hairs on the back of his neck refused to settle. Ever since the Howler arrived—blazing and venomous, spitting threats laced with hate—he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of being followed. Hunted.

George was taken.

The lift let out a low groan and slid open. Arthur moved towards it but stopped short as a figure stepped out.

“Arthur,” said Kingsley. His voice, rich and steady as ever, cut through the quiet. He looked tall and commanding, eyes sharp behind the calm. And in that moment, something like hope sparked in Arthur’s chest.

“I need to talk to you,” Arthur said quickly—too loudly. His voice cracked on the last word.

Kingsley gave a brief nod, already reading the fear in his face. “Come on. My office.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Arthur followed him into the lift, the gates clanging shut behind them. The journey was short, but it felt longer than it should have. Arthur could hardly breathe.

Kingsley’s office was quiet, the noise of the Ministry sealed behind thick walls. He motioned for Arthur to sit, and Arthur did so stiffly, his hands wringing in his lap. For a second, he wished he could stop time. Just long enough to gather himself.

“It’s George, isn’t it?” Kingsley said, without preamble.

Arthur nodded, unable to speak at first. Then, “Yes.” The word came out raw. “We got a howler. Said he’s been taken.”

Kingsley’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look surprised. “I was alerted not long ago. One of the Aurors flagged a disturbance in Diagon Alley—Death Eater activity near the joke shop. I sent a team, but they were too late. The place was already torn apart.”

Arthur gripped the arms of the chair. “Percy went to the flat. I told him to check for anything—notes, traces of magic, anything that might help.”

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

“Yaxley.” Arthur’s face was pale now. “He said we’ve got until midnight. Bring Harry to the Forbidden Forest, or George dies.”

Kingsley straightened, his composure faltering. “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. But it wasn’t just that. There was… something more. Some kind of ritual. They drank it too, all three of them. And now they’re unconscious as well.”

Kingsley leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed. “A binding spell, perhaps. Shared magic that crosses boundaries. It’s dangerous work, even for trained healers.”

Arthur stood abruptly, pacing now, rubbing at his temples. “We don’t know what it’s doing to them. We don’t know anything. They could be—”

A knock rang sharply through the door.

Kingsley rose and opened it. Percy stood there, pale-faced, his hair windswept, robes smudged with ash.

“Dad,” he said, voice unsteady.

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

Percy shook his head. “The shop’s wrecked. Nothing left but rubble. And George’s flat… it’s empty. Not a sign of him. Not even a struggle.”

Arthur’s breath caught. It felt like the ground had dropped beneath him.

He turned to Kingsley, voice cracking. “What do we do now?”

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

Arthur’s voice rose. “They’ll kill George! You didn’t hear that howler. It wasn’t just bluster, Kingsley—he meant every word.”

“I believe you,” Kingsley said quietly. “But this is what Yaxley wants. Chaos. Desperation. If we give them Harry now, it won’t end with George.”

Arthur’s hands trembled. He dropped into the chair again, staring at the floor. “Then what? What do I tell Molly? The rest of them?”

Kingsley was quiet for a moment. Then: “We do what we’ve always done. We fight back. We’ll bring in every Auror we can trust—Tonks, Diggle, Dawlish if he can be cleared. We’ll track Yaxley. Find where they’re keeping George.”

He looked at them both—Arthur, Percy—with something deeper than reassurance.

“I won’t let this become another war fought in the dark. We will not let them win.”

The evening air was sharp with tension, the sort that settled low in Arthur’s chest and refused to shift. Every sound—the crunch of gravel beneath his boots, the soft rustle of leaves, the distant call of an owl—seemed too loud in the hush he and Percy carried with them. The night was cool, but Arthur hardly felt it. His thoughts were too full—George, taken. Harry, unresponsive. And time, fast slipping through their fingers.

Percy walked beside him, silent. His face was pale in the moonlight, drawn tight with worry. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing left to say that hadn’t already been said or thought.

Shell Cottage appeared ahead, its shape familiar against the dark backdrop of sea and sky. A warm light burnt in the windows, but it brought little comfort. Tonight, even home had lost its safety.

As Arthur opened the door, the air inside met him like a wave—close, tense, and thick with the unspoken. The cottage was quiet, but not calm. It was the kind of silence that hummed with fear.

Molly stood in the centre of the room, wringing her hands. She looked up at once, her eyes red-rimmed, wide with hope and dread.

“Arthur?” she asked, her voice already unsteady. “Did you speak with Kingsley?”

“I did,” he said quietly. He kept his voice measured, soothing. Now wasn’t the time for panic. “He’s gathering a team. They’ll go ahead of us—reach the forest before we do, scout the area.”

His gaze flicked round the room as he spoke. Bill sat near the fire, his jaw tight. Hagrid stood by the wall, arms folded, shadowed and still. Slughorn hovered awkwardly near the corner, tugging at the hem of his robes. All of them were listening. All of them were waiting.

Molly stared as though she hadn’t heard properly. “But we can’t go without Harry,” she said, voice rising. “If we do—if we leave him behind—they’ll kill George.”

“Kingsley will try to negotiate,” Arthur said. The words felt thin even as he spoke them, stretched and fragile. “He won’t walk in blind. He’ll buy us time—create a diversion, if he can. We’ll be ready.”

“But what if that’s not enough?” Her voice cracked on the last word. “What if—what if it’s already too late?”

Arthur crossed to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “We will do whatever it takes,” he said firmly. “We will not lose George.”

Molly trembled under his touch. “I can’t go through this again,” she whispered. “Not another child, Arthur. Not this time.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Neither can I.”

For a moment they stood like that, drawing what strength they could from one another. Too many memories between them. Too many close calls. Too much grief was barely behind them.

Then Bill stood. “Mum,” he said gently, “Percy and I will go with you and Dad. We’ll stay together. We’ll keep each other safe.”

Arthur met his son’s eyes and gave a nod. Bill had always been steady, even as a boy. In moments like this, he was his mother’s calm and his father’s courage both.

“I’m comin’ too,” Hagrid said, stepping into the light. His voice was low, rough with feeling. “I won’t let yeh go alone. I won’t let them take another one of yeh. Not if I can help it.”

Arthur felt a pang deep in his chest. Hagrid had seen too much loss, buried too many friends. His loyalty, as ever, was fierce and full-hearted.

Slughorn spoke at last, voice more composed than Arthur had expected. “I’ll remain here,” he said. “With the children. If they wake, someone will need to act quickly.”

Arthur gave a tight nod. “Thank you, Horace.”

Plans took shape in low voices and urgent glances. Wands were checked. The air felt heavy with anticipation, like the last stillness before a storm breaks.

At the doorway, Arthur paused. Molly stood beside him, back straight, chin lifted despite the tremor in her hands. He looked once towards the bedrooms.

Harry lay silent in the room beyond, surrounded by his unconscious friends. Children, all of them. Still fighting a war they never asked to fight.

Arthur turned back, jaw set. “It’s time.”

They stepped out into the cold night, the wind sharp with sea salt and unspoken fears. No one said a word. With a final glance towards the cottage, they Disapparated into the dark.

The chamber was cold and airless, the stone walls pressing in on them like the inside of a tomb. Every step Harry took echoed off the flagstones, hollow and accusing. Ginny, Ron and Hermione flanked him in silence—their presence at once reassuring and suffocating. The air hung heavy, damp and still, as though they had stepped into a snare spun long ago, and only now had it closed around them.

At the centre of the room, beneath a shaft of pallid, flickering light, stood a narrow stone table. Upon it lay a dagger: slim and silver, its hilt coiled like a serpent frozen mid-strike. It glinted unnaturally, as though it were breathing, watching—calling to him in a voice beneath thought, beneath language. The pull of it was almost physical. Harry took a step forward, then another, heart thudding hard against his ribs.

“Harry—wait!”

Hermione’s voice cut through the silence.

He stopped, jaw tightening. Not now.

She stepped forward, brow creased. “Can we talk? Just a moment. Please.”

The sharp flare of frustration in his chest was immediate. Why now? Couldn’t they see he had to do this?

“Make it quick, Granger,” he muttered, not turning back.

She hesitated, then drew a breath. “We’ve decided. We’re not going to do the tasks any more. And we don’t think you should, either.”

Slowly, Harry turned to face her. His eyes narrowed.

“It’s not a threat,” she said quickly, her voice trembling despite herself. “But you’ll die if you keep going. We can feel it. These aren’t just tasks, Harry—they’re traps.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “What’s so dangerous about this one? The last task wasn’t even that bad.”

Ron let out a short, incredulous breath. “Aside from the part where you nearly fell off your broom and blacked out mid-air? Right.”

“You’re afraid,” Harry snapped, his voice sharp. “That’s all this is. You’re scared, and you’re giving up.”

Ron’s arms were folded across his chest. “You think we’re scared?” he said coolly. “That’s rich. You’re the one flinging yourself into every cursed room like you’re desperate to prove something.”

“I am,” Harry said, voice rising. “Because clearly none of you believe I can handle this.”

Hermione’s voice dropped, her expression softening. “It’s not that. It’s what these tasks are doing to you. They’re not just testing strength or skill. They’re testing your soul, Harry. Wearing you down.”

Ron glanced at him, his voice low. “This isn’t you, mate.”

The words landed like a blow. Harry blinked. Not you.

He looked at them—at all of them—and something knotted in his throat. “You mean this isn’t the version of me you like,” he said bitterly. “Don’t call me ‘mate’. Don’t even call me Harry. We’re not friends.”

The last word cracked as it left him. The silence that followed it was thick and final.

Ron flinched, the pain showing in his face. “We are,” he said quietly. “We always have been. You just… you don’t remember it right now.”

Harry turned his head, staring once more at the dagger. That ache inside him, the one he refused to name, was back.

“Says who?” he murmured.

“Me,” said Ron. “And Hermione. And Ginny.” He nodded towards her. “We all remember. You’re the one forgetting.”

Harry’s chest tightened. He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to feel it. He took a step toward the table.

“I don’t need any of you,” he said coldly.

Hermione moved forward, her voice pleading. “Harry, just think. This isn’t about winning or finishing. These tasks—they’re burrowing into your mind, twisting things. You can’t see it, but we can.”

“So you want to protect me, is that it?” Harry said, the laugh breaking out of him raw and joyless. “What’s the point of being protected if I’m not allowed to live?”

“You are living,” said Ginny.

He hadn’t heard her move, but now she stood beside Hermione, her eyes dark with worry.

“This isn’t you,” she said softly. “Not really. This place—these tasks—they’re not just dangerous, they’re corrupting you. Changing who you are.”

Harry’s gaze flicked from her to the blade, then back again. The dagger pulsed faintly in the light, as though it too were listening.

And still, he hesitated.

He glared at Ginny. “Yeah? Tell me something I don’t know.”

But Ginny didn’t flinch. “The real you wouldn’t be doing this,” she said firmly. “You wouldn’t shut people out. You wouldn’t use power to cut yourself off. You’re kind, Harry. Brave. Selfless. That’s the person we love.”

His jaw clenched. Words like ‘brave’, ‘kind’, ‘selfless’ – they sounded foreign now. Like relics from another life. They didn’t belong to him. Not anymore.

“You think saying that changes anything?” he muttered. “You think words are enough?”

Ron’s voice came then, low but steady. “We’re not trying to convince you. We’re reminding you. Of who you are.”

Hermione stepped forward, nodding. “We know you, Harry. We’ve seen you risk everything—over and over. You fought for people no one else would. Werewolves, house-elves, giants, Muggle-borns. You didn’t care what the world said—they mattered to you. That’s who you are.”

He stared at the dagger. His hands were trembling again. Why couldn’t he drown them out? Why did their voices still reach him?

“You don’t have to go through with this,” Ginny said, her tone gentler now. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to us. Not to the ones who built this place.”

“I’m tired of being told who I am,” Harry muttered.

“Then remember it for yourself,” Hermione said quietly. “We’re not here to make the choice for you. We’re just here… hoping you’ll choose to come back.”

The dagger shimmered faintly, its surface catching the light like water.

Harry didn’t move. His chest rose and fell in short, unsteady breaths. He felt as though he were standing on a ledge, the drop just beneath his toes. One step further and the fall would be absolute.

Still, something stirred inside him. A flicker—uncertain, unwelcome—of doubt. Were they telling the truth? Or simply repeating the memory of someone he no longer was?

No one spoke.

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

Harry froze.

The words settled over him like a dusting of snow on something long buried. If you fall, we fall with you.

He didn’t want it to matter. He didn’t want to let it in. But it stuck fast, digging into a part of him that hadn’t gone numb yet.

“You’ve faced worse than this,” Ron went on, gently now. “Dementors. Death Eaters. Voldemort. And you beat him.”

The name rang out with a kind of quiet finality. Harry blinked.

“Voldemort?”

It sounded empty. Like a name borrowed from someone else’s story.

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

Something inside Harry recoiled. There was no memory. No image. Just a swell of heat, grief—fury, even—that came from nowhere. It rose fast, out of reach, uncontrollable.

“That’s enough!” he barked, his voice sharp, brittle, teetering on something dangerous. “I won’t stand here and listen to any more of your stories.”

Ron stepped back, visibly rattled. “I wasn’t trying to upset you—I was just—”

“Really?” Harry cut across him, eyes blazing. “That’s what I am to you? A tragic tale? A sad little orphan with a weakness for strays and half-breeds?”

His gaze snapped to Hermione, who hadn’t moved. Her face was soft, full of sorrow. Worse—full of pity.

He hated that.

“How many versions of me do you lot need?” he hissed. “How many lies have you rehearsed?”

And he didn’t wait for an answer. He turned, fury rising, pushing him forward faster than thought. The anger was armour. It always had been.

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

But he didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

If he did, he might see hope in her eyes. And hope, right now, was the most dangerous thing of all.

The cold deepened around him as he neared the table once more. Then—suddenly—it hit: a shift in the air. Magic, raw and thick, like wind through a broken wall.

A blast of unseen force tore through the chamber.

He whirled around just in time to see Hermione flung backwards, her cry echoing off the stone as she crashed to the floor.

A thick mist began to rise from the ground, curling like smoke around his ankles. It thickened quickly, billowing into a barrier—dense and shimmering—that split the room in two. Harry was alone on one side. The others were trapped on the other.

“Hermione!” he shouted, panic flaring through the lingering anger.

“I didn’t do anything!” she called back, scrambling to her feet. Her palms slammed against the invisible wall. “Harry, please—stay with us!”

Her voice was already fading, muffled as though she were speaking through glass. He stepped forward instinctively, but the mist repelled him. It pulsed, humming with something more than magic—something aware. It was watching him.

Slowly, he turned back toward the table.

The dagger was gone.

In its place lay a new object—one far more familiar. A basilisk fang.

Its curved surface glinted faintly, the pale ivory tinged with greenish venom. He could feel the danger thrumming beneath it, alive and patient. And yet it didn’t frighten him. The fang called to him—not with words, but with promise. Power. Precision. Release.

His hand hovered above it.

Then the mist moved.

Shapes shifted within the fog, condensing into a silhouette—first a blur, then sharper, more distinct. Human-shaped. Lean. Gaunt. Wild black hair. Pale skin.

And eyes.

His own.

Or close enough.

Harry stared, rooted to the spot. The figure stood a few feet from him, its posture hunched, as if it had been worn down by the weight of too many battles lost. When its gaze met his, there was no malice in it. Only emptiness.

Despair.

“Harry?” Ron’s voice, thick through the mist, reached him. “What is that? What are we seeing?”

Harry couldn’t reply.

The thing in front of him—this hollow version of himself—raised a hand. Slow. Gentle. Not a threat. A plea.

It wanted him to come closer.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Was this what he was becoming? Or what he might have been, had things gone just slightly wrong? Was this what he was fighting so hard not to be?

A silent warning stirred inside him.

This is not your path.

“Don’t take its hand!” Ron shouted. “Harry, don’t! Something’s not right!”

“Come back!” Ginny’s voice cracked. “Please, Harry! Just come back to us!”

Hermione was pounding against the mist again, her palms slick with condensation. “It’s not real!” she cried. “It’s not you! You’re stronger than this!”

But it felt real. The figure—this version of himself—looked the way he’d felt for months now. Angry. Lost. Disconnected. As though he didn’t belong with them anymore.

And yet—

Something in him recoiled.

He didn’t want to be that person.

He didn’t want to disappear.

His hand fell away from the fang.

The figure stilled. Expression unreadable. Almost… sad.

Harry took a step back from the table.

And through the mist, barely visible, he saw them—three silhouettes with hands pressed against the barrier. They hadn’t moved. Still there. Still waiting for him.

Still believing.

And that—that—was almost unbearable.

A terrible urge flared in him. Something reckless. Something he didn’t understand but couldn’t stop.

Just one touch.

His hand trembled as it reached out. His fingers brushed the figure’s cold, translucent skin—

And the world shattered.

It was like plunging his arm into ice, only colder. Smoke surged through his veins, and the chamber was gone.

Darkness, light, sound—

And then came the memories.

Not dreams.

Memories.

His.

They crashed into him all at once—raw and unstoppable. A flood of images and sensations that seized his mind like fire catching dry grass. Faces. Screams. Cold nights and lonely mornings. Shame. Fury. Grief.

Pain he hadn’t known he’d carried—until now.

He gasped and staggered, but the force of it kept him upright, held in place as though chained. He could hear voices calling—Ron, Hermione—but they were fading, lost in the storm rising in his head.

Then—

A stillness.

A flash of clarity.

A small back garden. Trimmed hedges. A patch of grass that looked more like a pen than a place to play.

There— a boy with black hair and glasses. Younger. Thinner. Alone.

He was darting to the side, dodging the wild, clumsy swings of a stick. Dudley, red-faced and laughing, charged after him like it was all a game. But it wasn’t. Not for the boy.

Not for Harry.

His face was drawn with fear—no, not just fear. Resignation.

Then came the voice, shrill and unmistakable.

“Get up! Now!”

Harry flinched. Not the boy in the memory—this Harry. The one watching. The sound of Petunia Dursley’s voice struck something buried in his chest. Something old. Tender. Bruised.

Then came Vernon, bellowing from somewhere out of sight. “Cupboard. No meal.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

The cupboard.

It returned all at once—the musty dark, the smell of damp wood and floor cleaner, the heavy silence. The lock turning. The air was too close.

His heart turned over.

He knew this. Not as a story, but as truth. This had happened.

Why hadn’t he remembered it properly until now?

Why had he forgotten?

His fists clenched, useless. He wanted to reach into the memory, to yank the boy away, to scream at Petunia and at Vernon, and to knock Dudley aside—but the vision played on, impervious to fury.

The image rippled.

It changed.

Now Draco Malfoy stood there, surrounded by Crabbe and Goyle, his smirk sharp and mean.

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

Harry’s jaw tightened. The words were familiar, ones he’d brushed off before. But seeing them land on the boy still bruised from years in the cupboard… it felt different. It felt cruel.

Another scene followed.

“You know how I think they pick the Gryffindor team?” Draco sneered. “It’s a pity. That’s why they chose Potter. No parents, poor thing…”

The boy—his younger self—stood still, not protesting. Not reacting.

Just absorbing it.

Like he believed it.

The sting was sharp. Harry felt it burn in his chest.

The scene shifted again.

Now Snape. Looming, robes billowing, voice like vinegar.

“Fame clearly isn’t everything.”

Then again: “Why didn’t you tell him not to add the quills? That’s another point you’ve lost for Gryffindor!”

Harry stared, breath caught. “That’s not him,” he muttered. “He’s not like that.”

But even as he said it, he knew it was. Had been. Snape had been like that once—cold, cutting, and bitter. Before he’d revealed himself. Before he’d bled for Harry, silently and without thanks.

This wasn’t the man Harry had come to honour.

But it was the man he’d endured.

The memory twisted again. Darkened.

And then—

Pain.

A girl’s voice, high and honeyed. Dripping with pleasure.

“Yes, it hurts, doesn’t it?”

Umbridge.

The blood quill scrawled across the back of the boy’s hand, fresh ink drawn from flesh. I must not tell lies.Again. And again.

Harry recoiled.

The boy didn’t scream. He didn’t even flinch. His mouth was shut, his eyes burning. But the pain was written everywhere else.

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

But the memory held.

It wanted him to see. To remember.

His breath came fast and shallow. He tried to pull away, to look anywhere else—but the vision clung to him like ivy, thorns and all.

And beneath it, buried beneath the fury and nausea and grief—guilt.

This had happened.

Not in this exact place. Not in this twisted version of reality. But somewhere.

To him.

To a version of him who had never been told he was loved. Who had been punished for being different and then punished again for surviving it.

A version who had grown up in silence.

And yet—he had endured.

His legs gave way, and he gripped the edge of the table, chest heaving.

He wanted to hate all of it. He wanted to forget again.

But he couldn’t.

The final echoes of memory began to fade, shadows slipping into silence.

And in the stillness, there was something else.

Not strength. Not peace.

But something stubborn. Something small and deeply rooted.

He had endured.

They had endured.

And maybe, Harry thought, as his fingers curled against the cold stone, that was the point.

The chamber pulsed like a living thing.

Harry staggered, the weight of another memory pressing down—this one just as vivid, just as unrelenting. He stood in a great hall filled wall-to-wall with faces twisted in contempt. There was no curiosity in their eyes. No admiration. Only judgement. Accusation. Condemnation.

“Liar!”

The chant rose, swelling like a wave and crashing over the boy in the centre—himself, younger, his back straight despite the burn of shame across his face. The crowd jeered with a fury that felt rehearsed, as if they’d been told what to feel. What to say.

And suddenly Harry saw it.

They were afraid.

Not just of him, but of what he knew. Of what he represented. The hatred didn’t feel natural—it was too uniform, too polished. They moved like puppets. Their fury didn’t come from truth—it came from instruction.

Manipulated.

The word rooted itself in his thoughts, twisting deeper with each heartbeat. What if the crowd had never cared whether he was lying or not? What if it had never been about right or wrong but about control? About silencing him before the truth could reach anyone else?

Before the idea could fully form, the next vision struck like a fist.

A mad grin. A magical eye spinning wildly. A scarred face, leering.

“Who put your name in the Goblet of Fire under another school?” The man barked. “I did.”

And then the face shifted—melting into someone else. Barty Crouch Jr.

Harry reeled. His stomach turned.

He’d heard of Triwizard Tournaments, vaguely—some ancient magical competition. But this wasn’t sport. This was war. The boy in the memory—himself—had been dragged into it. A pawn in someone else’s game. Each task a trap. Each victory was a survival.

And somehow… he’d made it through.

Was this what had earned him his fame? Not skill. Not ambition. Just… suffering?

The thought didn’t fade. It lingered.

Then another memory slammed into view, raw and loud.

“Sirius is being tortured now!” the other Harry cried, voice ragged with panic.

Hermione tried to stop him, her voice shaking. “But if this is a trick of V-Voldemort’s—”

Crash. The moment hit like a spell to the chest.

A black veil. A stone archway. Sirius Black—falling.

Gone.

Harry gripped his shirt, breath catching. He hadn’t known this man. Not really. But the grief bloomed anyway, spreading through his chest like bruising. It didn’t matter that the loss wasn’t technically his—it felt real.

It was real.

Then—

“Crucio!”

Voldemort’s voice tore through the memory. Cold. Inevitable. Harry’s body tensed as if struck himself. He watched the other him writhe. He heard the screams. Felt them in the marrow of his bones.

Voldemort stood over him—cruel, calm, victorious.

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

And then came the killing curse—green and blinding.

Harry turned away, but there was no escape. Every death, every scream, every shattered life bore down on him. The weight of Voldemort’s evil was not abstract here. It was suffocating.

Then—silence.

A final vision flickered to life.

A quiet room. Lined with shelves and flickering candlelight. Glass vials shimmered on the walls, and the air smelt of herbs and something older.

A boy—himself, again—stood before a man with a walrus moustache and sorrowful eyes.

“Professor,” he asked quietly, “is there any way to cleanse a corrupted soul?”

The silence that followed chilled him more than any curse.

“There has been no documented case,” the man replied. “A tainted soul will only deteriorate… leading to a painful death.”

The words were simple. Final. Delivered without cruelty.

Harry’s throat tightened. Tears burnt at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t cry for himself.

He cried for the boy in that memory—who had stood there, quietly, still hoping for a second chance even as the world told him there wasn’t one.

And then, just like that, the shadow realm cracked.

The memories scattered.

And Harry was back.

The chamber returned, dim and breathless.

The cold of the stone seeped through his shoes. The basilisk fang still lay on the table, glinting faintly, as if remembering its old violence. And the figure—his other self—stood where it had before. Hollow-eyed. Still. A ghost wrapped in skin.

They stared at one another.

“Now that you’ve seen both worlds,” the figure said, voice flat as slate, “which path will you choose?”

The words didn’t shout.

They landed like a blow.

Harry’s chest tightened. The question wasn’t just about two timelines. It was about him. Who he’d become. Who he might still become. Was he the Harry who had suffered and survived? Or the one who had been spared—and yet, somehow, was still wounded?

And then—

He saw them.

Their faces swam into view through the mist. Three figures blurred behind a veil of fog. But he knew them—knew them like his own heartbeat.

Hermione. Ron. Ginny.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice broke through the haze, raw and shaking. “Please—just listen before you do anything—please!”

He froze.

Hermione Granger didn’t beg.

She argued. She reasoned. She stood her ground. But here she was—cracked open, scared, utterly undone.

Ron stood beside her, pale, eyes wide and unguarded. “We’re not lying, mate,” he called, his voice pitched high with urgency. “You’ve got to believe us. You have to.”

And Ginny—

She clung to the barrier like it might vanish if she let go. Her fingers clutched the edge until the knuckles turned white.

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

Something inside Harry shifted. A step backward. His hand grazed the table.

Everything was a storm: memory, grief, longing, doubt. But in the middle of it—them. Not as he’d remembered them, not as they once were, but real. Raw. Afraid.

They weren’t begging because they needed him to believe them.

They were begging because they loved him.

And that—that—hit harder than anything else.

Harry reached for the fang.

Its weight was wrong. Not heavy like a blade, but heavy like a burden. As though it carried every life it had ever unmade.

His fingers curled around it. White-knuckled. The voices on the other side of the veil called to him—each word a thread, trying to stitch him back into a life he no longer recognised.

Hermione’s voice echoed in the stillness.

“There are so many more good memories than bad ones. You have friends who support you like family…”

Were there?

Or had he simply missed the cracks—been too blind or too desperate for comfort to see what lay beneath?

He had. Once. But could he trust that still? Could they?

Or had the truth—this truth—unmade everything?

He stared down at the fang. Its tip gleamed like liquid moonlight. All around him the silence hummed, straining with possibility. One thrust, and it would be over. One cut, and the world would fold into something else.

Then Ginny spoke.

Not loud. Not demanding.

Soft. Trembling. Steady.

“Don’t let it win.”

She didn’t mean the darkness.

She meant the temptation. The pull to run from pain. To disappear into something easier. Softer. False.

Harry’s throat closed. He felt his voice fracture before it ever left him.

“How am I supposed to choose?” he whispered. He wasn’t speaking to them. Not really. He was asking the air. The shadow. The hollow place where no one could answer.

His other self raised a hand.

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

No prophecy. No wand to guide him.

Just a decision.

Final. Unshareable.

And no one could make it for him.

For one dreadful heartbeat, he hesitated.

He wanted it. The quiet life. The warm house. The laughter and light. A world without graves. A world where Lily Potter kissed him goodnight and James ruffled his hair before breakfast.

He could see it. He could feel it.

And then he looked up.

And he saw them.

Hermione stood pale and trembling, but unbowed. Ron’s jaw was set, his fists clenched at his sides, daring him to throw everything away. And Ginny—

Ginny was silent. Her eyes shimmered with tears she refused to let fall.

Because she knew he was listening.

Because, somehow, she still believed in him.

The words left his mouth before he could call them back.

“My time is too precious to be wasted on illusions,” he said coldly, his smile a curl of smoke in the still air.

He lifted the basilisk fang.

It caught the light.

And they all broke at once.

“Harry, please!” Hermione cried. Her voice cracked like glass. “Don’t make this about you alone!”

Ron stepped forward, eyes fierce. “So that’s it? You’ll pick the easy path and let selfishness decide for you?”

“Ron—” Hermione began, but her voice was already fading. “This isn’t helping…”

But the other Harry—this version of himself—just shook his head, sharp as steel.

“I’ve heard all I need to, Weasley. Don’t underestimate me.”

The words tasted like ash. Cold. Detached.

Not him.

And yet—somewhere, in some dark corner—they had felt right. Like muscle memory.

Ron didn’t flinch.

“Oh yeah?” he snapped. “We stood beside you through every nightmare. We’ve bled for you, Harry. Your parents—your real parents—gave their lives for a future you’re about to throw away.”

His voice cracked, but he pressed on.

“I’d give anything to go back. To sit beside them in your place. But I can’t. None of us can. So we fight for what’s left. And you—you—don’t get to throw that away just because it hurts.”

His words rang in the stillness.

Not cruel. Not angry. Just… true.

And that truth landed like a stone in Harry’s chest.

Because it would be easier. To choose the lie. To step into sunlight and stay there, wrapped in warmth, untouched by war or loss.

But he remembered the other version of himself. Broken, haunted. Still standing.

Still fighting.

He turned.

Ginny’s eyes met his—no anger, no demand. Just sorrow. And something stronger beneath it.

Conviction.

“Even I would take that comfort,” she said quietly. “Anyone would. But strength didn’t come from safety, Harry. It came from choosing what was right, even when it hurt.”

Her voice trembled.

“If you stay here, you’ll be safe. But you’ll never really live. You’ll never know what it means to protect someone. To lose something. To fight for it anyway.”

Harry said nothing.

Because there was nothing to say.

She was right. So was Ron. So was Hermione.

And that was the problem.

He looked down at the fang.

It still gleamed. Still waiting. The chamber crackled with choice, heavy and silent.

“Ask yourself,” Hermione said, her voice lower now, as if afraid of the answer, “have you ever had someone you’d risk your life for?”

It hit him like a jolt.

He opened his mouth—but the words wouldn’t come.

He’d faced danger, yes. Death, more than once. But it had always been reaction—defiance, duty, survival. Never a choice like this. Never standing on a knife’s edge, holding the fate of others in his palm, weighing loveagainst comfort.

And beneath the memories—the victories, the escapes, the hours spent surrounded by people—was a silence. A hollow. Something he couldn’t name.

He swallowed. Hard. The fang trembled slightly in his grip.

He thought of his parents. Alive, loving. But even they couldn’t fill that space. Not fully.

And then Hermione lifted her head.

Her voice was steady now.

“For us,” she said, quiet but clear, “that person is you.”

Harry flinched.

He hadn’t expected that.

Not so plainly. Not from her.

“We’d risk everything for you,” she said. “We already have.”

The words clung to him like fog. Dense. Unshakeable.

He blinked, but they stayed.

“Why?” he whispered.

His voice was raw. Childlike.

“Why would you choose me?”

Ron took a step forward.

“Because you’re our friend,” he said, quiet but certain. “Because we trust you. Always have.”

Harry looked away. The bitterness in his voice surprised even him.

“You don’t even know me.”

“We do,” Ginny said, moving to stand beside Hermione. Her voice was low, steady. “You may not remember everything, but we’ve seen who you really are. Every brave, reckless, stubborn part of you.”

Hermione didn’t hesitate.

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

Harry shook his head, the words cutting too close. “Why would you put yourselves in danger for me?” he said, voice rising. “I didn’t ask for this. I never asked for any of it.”

“Because you’re more than a friend to us,” Ginny said firmly. There was no pleading in her voice, only truth. “You’re family. That’s what family does. We fight. We hold on. Even when the other person tries to push us away.”

Her eyes locked onto his. There was something fierce there. And fragile.

And Harry—

He felt it. That pull. A thread inside him, tugging loose.

But the walls he’d built were still too thick. The silence he carried was too loud.

He stepped back.

The fang gleamed in his grip, heavy as judgement.

“I’m tired of people telling me who I am,” he snapped. “Tired of being the one everyone looks to. I never asked to save anyone. Maybe I never was your hero. Maybe I don’t want to be.”

Ron’s face tightened—not with anger, but something quieter. Sadder.

“This isn’t about being a hero,” he said. “It’s about not giving up. On us. On yourself.”

Harry’s fingers tightened round the fang. His arm trembled with the effort of holding it steady.

“I don’t want this responsibility,” he said. The words cracked, jagged and small. “Not again.”

“You’re not alone,” Hermione said softly. “Not anymore. You don’t have to carry it on your own.”

He looked at her. Then at Ron. At Ginny.

Their eyes weren’t asking for anything. They weren’t full of expectations. They were full of hope. Of the kind of love that didn’t demand—it simply waited.

And that—

That hurt more than anything.

Because he wanted to believe them. He wanted to reach through the ache and the anger and believe.

But the doubt was still there. Clawing at him. Telling him he didn’t deserve this. That if he let go, everything would collapse.

“No.”

The word slipped from his mouth like a fracture.

Then louder.

“No!”

He lifted the fang, the point catching the dim light like a drop of silver fire.

Ginny gasped.

Hermione’s cry rang out sharp and raw.

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

Ron took a step forward, fists clenched. “You’re better than this, mate. You know you are!”

But Harry—

Harry couldn’t hear them anymore. Not properly.

He was caught in the storm—his storm. A whirl of pain and love and fury and memory, all twisted into something unbearable. It wasn’t just grief anymore—it was grief tangled with guilt. With the fear that he was already lost.

And then—

“DON’T!”

Ginny’s scream ripped through the chamber.

She lunged forward, fists clutching the iron bars, her voice shaking.

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

He froze.

The fang hung in the air, trembling in his grip.

The world seemed to tilt.

Her voice echoed in the silence that followed, and he stood still at its centre, vision blurred—not from magic, not from fear.

From tears.

He didn’t want to be alone.

He didn’t want to be broken.

But he didn’t know how to be whole.