FicWad

Arthur stood in the dimly lit Atrium, the echo of his hurried footsteps reverberating against the marble floors. Anxiety gnawed at his insides as he cast a furtive glance around, half-expecting dark figures to emerge from the shadows. The Ministry of Magic had transformed from a place of familiar security into something much darker in the last few days—ever since he’d received that dreadful Howler.

The heavy lift doors slid open, momentarily drawing his attention away from his racing thoughts. He stepped forward, but as he did, a strong, commanding presence caught his eye. There was Kingsley Shacklebolt, tall and unyielding, standing like a beacon in the murky waters of Arthur’s dread. Their eyes met, and Arthur’s heart pounded not just with fear, but with an unexpected flicker of hope.

“I need to talk to you,” Arthur blurted out, urgency lacing his every word.

Kingsley’s brow furrowed slightly, and he stepped out of the lift, his demeanour quickly shifting into one of concern. “I think I have an idea of what this is all about,” he said, leading Arthur into his office with the air of a man accustomed to receiving troubling news. “Let’s discuss it in my office.” He gestured for Arthur to follow him as they made their way back into the lift, which ascended to the first level.

The spacious and sparsely decorated office bustled with an urgency unique to the Ministry of Magic. With their chairs cushioned in plush fabric, Arthur felt simultaneously comforted and cramped as he tried to deliver the gravity of his situation.

“It’s about your son, George, isn’t it?” Kingsley enquired, the gravity of his voice its own echo in the stillness.

Arthur’s heart sank. “Yes,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “A Howler informed us that George had been abducted.” The words clawed their way out, dragging with them the weight of despair that had settled heavy on his chest.

Kingsley’s face grew sombre as he reached out to clasp Arthur’s shoulder. “I’m aware of the circumstances. A member of the Auror department contacted me via Floo Network. Death Eaters have infiltrated the joke shop in Diagon Alley.” Each sentence carried the weight of a well-rehearsed script, yet the emotional resonance was unmistakable. “Upon hearing about the incident at the shop, I immediately sent additional Aurors to further investigate.”

“Percy went to the shop and George’s flat to gather information,” Arthur replied, fidgeting nervously with his hands, anxiety bubbling up like a potion slightly too hot over the cauldron’s edge.

Kingsley nodded, his expression grave. “Who sent the Howler? What did it say?”

Arthur’s fury ignited at the mention of the Howler. “Yaxley told us he had kidnapped my son! He demanded that we bring Harry to the Forbidden Forest before midnight—or else they’d kill him!” The words burst forth, tinged with desperation.

“Where is Harry now?” Kingsley asked, his tone shifting to one of urgency as he leaned closer.

“He’s with my son, Bill. Molly’s there, too.” As realisation dawned on him, Arthur’s stomach dropped. “Kingsley, Harry’s condition is critical. He’s unconscious.”

The minister’s expression shifted. “Unconscious? Has his illness worsened?”

“He’s in a critical condition, but he’s managing to stay alive. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny have initiated the healing procedure, but now they all seem to be in a state of unconsciousness.”

Kingsley’s brows furrowed deeper, mulling over the terrible turn of events. “Why is that? I was aware they needed to brew a potion, but… Did the potion not have the desired effect?”

“The potion worked, but…” Arthur hesitated, glancing out of the window to the bustling streets of London beyond, unaware of the peril hiding within the shadows. “There seems to be a ritual or task that must be completed afterward, but I lack the details. They’ve been out for so long I—”

Before he could finish, a loud knock interrupted, snapping him out of his spiralling thoughts. Kingsley strode to the door, opening it to reveal Percy, visibly shaken, standing in the doorway.

“Dad,” Percy said, addressing Arthur, his eyes wide with alarm. “I couldn’t find George. The shop was in chaos, and there were reports of hooded figures entering the premises. His flat was empty, too.”

Arthur turned sharply to Kingsley, his expression stricken. “What do we do next?”

Kingsley gazed at him, his firm demeanour returning. “We cannot take Harry to the Forbidden Forest.”

Panic washed over Arthur. “How do we meet their demands? I’m terrified for George!”

“There’s another way,” Kingsley said, the steadiness of his voice cutting through the storm of fear. “Let me gather the aurors. We’ll handle this situation.”

The evening was filled with a cacophony of sounds—the rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, a soft breeze stirring the grasses. Only the gentle chirping of crickets provided a soothing background noise as Arthur and Percy made their way towards Shell Cottage. The recent discussion with Kingsley lingered in their thoughts like an uneasy prophecy. Shadows danced around them, and the chill of the night seemed to pluck at their resolve.

Inside Shell Cottage, however, the air was thick with tension. Molly sat restlessly, her fingers entwined in her lap as she paced the wooden floor. Each creak of the floorboards seemed amplified in the silence; each tick of the clock marked a second more to dread. The door’s creak was like a harbinger of news, and she jumped to her feet as if launched from a spring.

As Arthur entered, he caught sight of Molly’s fraught expression. “I spoke with Kingsley,” he murmured softly, trying to prepare her for the weight of the words that were about to follow. His eyes moved to Bill, Hagrid, and Slughorn, who had gathered near; their breaths bated like a line of aurors anticipating a battle.

Arthur took a steady breath. “I informed Kingsley about Harry’s situation. He intends to gather the Aurors to conduct a stakeout in the forest beforehand. Our plan is to meet them there.”

“But we can’t go without Harry!” Molly’s voice was a sharp whisper, a taut string ready to snap. “If we do, they’ll kill George!”

“Kingsley will attempt negotiations first,” Arthur assured her, a calm facade masking the turmoil gnawing at his insides.

“But—”

“We will do whatever it takes to bring our son back,” he interjected firmly, the steel in his voice resonating against the soft walls of the cottage. “If negotiations fail, we will confront them on our own.”

Molly’s shoulders slumped; the warmth of hope battled against the chill of despair. “I cannot bear to lose another family member,” she whispered, her voice quivering, overwhelmed by the weight of her own fears.

“Don’t worry, Mum,” Bill said gently, stepping forward to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. His strong presence was a tether she desperately needed. “Nothing bad will happen. Percy and I will go with you and Dad.”

A throat cleared, and Hagrid stepped forward, his huge frame casting a shadow that seemed to absorb the light. “I’ll come too,” he added gruffly, his eyes fierce yet tender. “I couldn’t bear ter see someone else close ter yeh and Harry killed by Death Eaters. There’ve already been too many deaths. I’ll do everythin’ I can ter prevent more.”

The resolve among them thickened, building a fortress of courage. Slughorn, who had been lingering near the door, spoke up with a steadiness that surprised even himself. “I’ll stay here with the kids in case something happens.

After fevered discussions and cautious deliberations, they agreed on a plan. The atmosphere bore an electric charge as they prepared to take on the unknown. Arthur, with Molly and the others at his side, ventured into the harsh night, their hearts pounding as they prepared to Disapparate.

The dim chamber loomed over Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, like a trap waiting to snap shut. The air was thick with tension, and silence echoed, interrupted only by the soft, rhythmic thud of their own hearts. Each step deeper into the room made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand up. It felt hostile, alive with unseen eyes.

In the centre, a small table glimmered, illuminating a peculiar, sharp object—a sleek dagger with a hilt that twisted and coiled like a serpent. It beckoned to Harry, as if it held whispered secrets only he could understand. He padded closer, pausing only when Hermione’s voice broke through the thick air, laden with urgency.

“Harry!” Hermione’s brow was furrowed, her voice tremulous but firm. “Can we talk for a minute?”

A flicker of concern danced in her eyes, but Harry felt a surge of irritation. Time was slipping through his fingers, and the pull of the dagger was intense. “Make it quick, Granger,” he snapped, though part of him wished he could ignore her.

““We’ve decided not to participate in the tasks anymore, and we strongly advise you to do the same. It’s not a threat, Harry, but you’ll die if you continue this dangerous game.” Her words poured forth, fraying Harry’s composure.

“What’s so bad about completing this task?” he shot back, disbelief threading through his voice. “The last one was far from being risky.”

“Except when you nearly fell off your broom,” Ron chimed in, crossing his arms and attempting to lighten the mood. But his sarcasm only deepened the furrows in Harry’s brow.

“You’re all afraid!” Harry’s indignation boiled over. “Why are you so afraid to keep going?” His eyes darted between them, searching for understanding.

“The tasks are designed to challenge us,” Hermione explained, her tone steady, but concern clinging to her words. “To see if we can look beyond the obstacles and persevere, or if we’ll succumb to fear and give up.”

Ron nodded, his brows drawn together. “This isn’t really you, Harry.” The appeal in his voice almost cracked—like it had once.

“What you mean is that this isn’t the Harry you want me to be,” he retorted, emotion twisting into anger. “Don’t address me as Harry,” he snapped. “We’re not friends, and we never will be.”

His words hung heavy in the air. The desolation in Ron’s eyes cut deeper than any blade could. “But we are friends. Best friends, actually,” Ron murmured, words barely above a whisper.

“Says who?” The demand fell harshly from Harry’s lips, yet beneath the surface of his defiance was the strain of pain—emotional turmoil he refused to acknowledge.

“Come on, mate,” Ron pressed, desperation rising in his voice. “You can’t just push everyone away like this.”

But Harry turned, hungry eyes fixed on the dagger. “I don’t need you—any of you!” He stalked toward the table, his heart thundering in his ears.

Hermione stepped forward, her hand reaching out as if she could bridge the chasm that had sprung up between them. “Harry, please! We just want to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” Harry’s laugh was hollow. “What good is being safe when I’m not really living? And don’t feed me any more nonsense!” The brashness in his tone masked the fear that clawed at his insides.

The echoes of Hermione’s resolute voice still rang in his ears—an annoying buzz of familiarity and frustration.

“This is not nonsense, Harry,” she had stated with that unwavering confidence he both admired and detested at times. “It’s the truth. We are your closest friends. We belong to Gryffindor House together. You have formed friendships with half-breeds and Muggleborns like me, and you have consistently demonstrated what it means to be a true friend. We have shared countless adventures and moments of joy and sorrow, and we have stuck together through thick and thin, supporting each other’s growth. Please, Harry, don’t dismiss our bond. Try to remember who you truly are.”

“Harry, you need to listen,” Ginny’s voice called out. She stepped toward him, worry etched across her brow. “You’re not yourself in this altered reality.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he replied, his voice laced with bitterness. He couldn’t shake the sense that everything around him was a twisted reflection of the person he had once been—or perhaps was meant to be.

“Remember who you are,” she urged, her vibrant hair catching fleeting glimpses of light. “The real you possesses a strong moral compass, Harry. You know right from wrong. You embody bravery and selflessness. You’re not cruel.” Her words wrapped around him, a familiar warmth that felt foreign in this gloom.

Ron joined them, his attitude uncharacteristically subdued. “And let’s not forget your remarkable talents,” he added, sincerity spilling from his tone like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Harry shot Ron a disdainful glance. “At last, some honesty from you, Weasley,” he muttered, rolling his eyes in mock frustration. Yet beneath his facade, a flicker of curiosity ignited. Was there truth in their statements, or were they simply projected images of the mended Harry they wished him to be?

“Well, you’ve battled against the Dark Arts.” Ron leaned forward, almost eager. “Like Dementors, Death Eaters, Inferi—the list goes on. And you defeated Voldemort,” he added nonchalantly, as if recounting a tale of everyday heroism.

“Voldemort?” Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion. The name meant nothing to him—an alien tattooed on the canvas of his memory.

“A dark wizard,” Ron clarified, a slight tremor in his voice. “The one responsible for the untimely death of your parents when you were just a baby.”

At that moment, a rush of emotions surged through him—shock, fury, sorrow. “That’s enough!” he declared, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “I won’t stand for any more of your offensive and nonsensical tales.”

“Why not?” Ron asked, confusion knitting his brows. “I was just getting to the exciting part.”

“Exciting?” Harry echoed, his words laced with an edge sharper than any wand. “Are you trying to paint me as some lost orphan with a fondness for half-breeds and Muggle-borns?” He shot an accusatory look at Hermione, who stood quietly; her gaze softened with pity. “How many more demeaning tales do you have about me? I’m through with this conversation.”

With that, he turned sharply, moving away with purpose, though his heart raced in defiance. He could hear Hermione’s voice fading behind him, pleading, but he quickened his pace, anger and confusion fuelling every furious step he took through the room.

A chill ran through the dimly lit chamber, thickening the air until it felt almost suffocating. Harry, standing just before an ancient stone table, had felt the force push Hermione away, and now a swirling mist encased him, trapping his friends behind it like fish in a glass tank. “What in the world is happening here? Did you have something to do with this, Granger?” he shouted, trying to push back against the alarm clawing at him from within.

“I didn’t do anything!” Hermione gasped, frustration mixing with fear as she struggled to rise from the ground. Her eyes met Harry’s as he took a cautious step forward, uncertainty flickering across his features. The fear in her voice echoed off the stone walls. “Harry, please stay with us!” Her hands slapped against the barrier, but only shadows of her desperation returned to him.

Heart pounding, Harry’s gaze was drawn to the table where an ominous familiar object sat alone—a basilisk fang, glinting faintly in the low light. It beckoned to him, an eerie siren whispering promises he didn’t want to hear. He reached for it hesitantly, just as a swirling fog began to rise from the ground, forming into a figure draped in shadow.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny gasped, eyes widening in disbelief. The figure was an echo of Harry himself, though it bore a hollow reflection—gaunt, frightened eyes and a crest of wild hair, all stark against pale skin. This was no mere trick of the light; this was a manifestation of something darker, born from the deepest parts of his mind.

“Harry?” they called in unison, desperate for acknowledgement, for proof that he was still with them.

But the figure, devoid of any recognition, locked its eyes on Harry. The presence of the doppelganger sent chills through him—a weak version of himself, as if his fears had taken form. The realisation sank in, creeping coldly through Harry’s veins. Was this his fate? A wretched fate that gnawed on hope and love, leaving only despair?

The figure raised its hand, a gesture that mirrored a plea for Harry to step closer, to embrace the darkness. In the recesses of Harry’s heart, warnings blared louder than ever.

“Don’t take his hand! Something’s not right!” Ron shouted, urgency lacing his voice.

“Get back to us!” Ginny chimed in, her tone thicker with fear than ever.

“Don’t do this!” Hermione cried, her worry palpable even through the misty divide.

But Harry’s curiosity outweighed his caution. He took a shaky breath and reached out, his fingertips brushing the figure’s cold, translucent hand. Instantly, the world around him blurred, replaced by violent flashes of memory—terrible scenes that scorched his mind and stoked a sadness he had never known.

Voices filtered into his consciousness, frantically clawing at the edges of his awareness. They were all cries of guilt and regret, fragments of sorrow that drilled deep into his core. He stumbled back, but the grip of the memories was like iron chains binding him to this tortured existence.

Panic surged within him, a primal instinct to escape, yet the figure held fast in its grasp, and the shadows whispered seductive lies that crowded around his heart. He couldn’t hear the frantic calls of Ron, Hermione, and Ginny anymore. All he could sense was the darkness threatening to engulf him.

Harry leaned against the table, his chest tight with dread. It was just a dream, he reassured himself, but dread turned to disbelief as he watched a scene unfold before him—one that he could barely believe was part of his own past.

In a tidy backyard, a boy with untamed black hair and glasses, who shared his every feature, dodged the stumbling blows of his cousin Dudley. Harry could feel the adrenaline pulsing through his veins as the other Harry, smaller and frailer, nimbly evaded the stick, swinging like a boisterous club. Yet, the boy’s expression was drawn into a frown of fear and defiance, his eyes searching the ground for footing and escape.

“Get up! Now!” Aunt Petunia’s voice thundered over the tableau, her face a mask of anger as she surveyed the chaos.

He was also frequently chastised by his brash uncle. “Go—Cupboard—Stay—No meal!”

What kind of guardians treat a child like that? A swell of anger coursed through Harry, mingling with a sense of disbelief at the cruelty directed at his other self. The cupboard beneath the stairs felt entirely familiar yet disturbingly foreign. Seeing these moments play out made it painfully real. He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to stride forward and defend the boy who was once him, unable to understand how such neglect could exist in either the wizarding world or the Muggle one.

Yet, as though interrupted by a malicious puppeteer, the scene fluttered and shifted, giving way to a darker memory: Draco Malfoy, smirking with the confidence of authority, stood surrounded by his cronies, mocking the other Harry.

“Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting on the train back to the Muggles?” Draco sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. The words lanced through Harry with both familiarity and repulsion—he had faced Malfoy’s taunts before, but seeing them inflicted upon a version of himself was unlike anything he had experienced.

Another memory of Draco surfaced, showing his bullying nature. “You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor Quidditch team? It’s people they feel sorry for. See, first there’s Potter, who’s got no parents—”

In that moment, Harry felt the veins in his temples throb as he desperately wanted to defend his younger self, wanting to shake the other Harry and tell him that he was worth more than their empty words. But he couldn’t reach them; they danced on a different plane, and all he could do was watch.

As the memory faded, he recognised Snape’s figure emerge—his familiar, harsh presence flashed against the dreams of a time he couldn’t reach. Snape, with his sallow skin and greasy hair, glared down at the other Harry, his lip curling in contempt.

“Tut, tut—fame clearly isn’t everything,” Snape taunted, and with an imperious flick of his wrist, he deducted points before the boy even had a chance to explain.

Another memory of Snape appeared, showing him snarling at a young student, “You—Potter—why didn’t you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he’d make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That’s another point you’ve lost for Gryffindor.” In this alternate reality, Severus appeared cold and unkind, a far cry from the caring godfather Harry had always known in his world. It saddened him to see Severus treat students with such cruelty, knowing that his actions had the power to ruin someone’s day completely.

“He’s not like that,” Harry murmured, though he knew it was futile. This version of Snape was a monster—a figure of ridicule and spite. His heart sank as he remembered the countless times his own Snape had stood by him. The only consistency with the man he had come to respect was that Snape had never treated him as unworthy.

But even as the memories tugged at his heart, the sights grew darker. A new scene unravelled before him—one that made even Hogwarts’s most sinister encounters fade into mere shadows.

Harry recoiled as a professor with a toad-like face sneered, “Yes, it hurts, doesn’t it?” The other Harry whimpered against the pain, as a quill’s words carved deeply into his skin. “I must not tell lies.” The blood formed rivulets, a vivid reminder of agony and humiliation.

Horrified, Harry gasped as he took in the suffering of the boy who was, in so many ways, him. The violations against this other Harry cut him sharply, a vivid representation of cruelty he had never known. He wrestled with nausea at the thought that another child carried such torment, even as he had been free to pursue friendships and laughter.

Suddenly, his rage transformed into an understanding that leached through him—what must it feel like to have hope stripped bare, to be made smaller by the very school designed to elevate you? The weight of the pain intertwined with his identity made Harry realise how lucky he was and how fragile were the bonds of love and safety he sometimes took for granted.

As another memory emerged, vivid and overwhelming, Harry found himself back in a crowded hall, the faces around him twisted with disdain. They had shunned the other Harry—a version of himself who, despite his remarkable abilities, had faced ridicule and rejection. “Liar!” they had chanted, their voices ringing in his ears like the tolling of a bell. In that moment, he felt the weight of past injustices, the burden of being labelled untrustworthy. But as he looked deeper, he couldn’t shake the feeling that their scorn was a reflection of their own dishonesty. It was as if the people around him were being manipulated, like marionettes with strings pulled by hidden adversaries.

He blinked, his mind shifting gears as a new scene unfolded—a tall man with a wooden leg, a magical eye, and a large chunk missing from his nose grinned maniacally. “Who put your name in the Goblet of Fire under the name of a different school? I did,” the man said, morphing into someone Harry recognised: Barty Crouch Jr. Harry’s heart raced. This world was no stranger to Triwizard Tournaments, but the brutality of this one sent a shiver down his spine. Was this the source of the other Harry’s fame? The idea danced like a flickering flame at the back of his mind, illuminating dark corners full of doubts.

Then a different memory surfaced: “Sirius is being tortured NOW!” the other Harry had shouted.

“But if this is a trick of V-Voldemort’s—” Hermione, who stood beside him, stammered and looked terrified.

A new memory emerged in Harry’s mind, vividly depicting the tragic moment when Sirius Black fell through an archway, causing the alternate version of Harry to crumble in despair on the ground.

Each flash of memory clawed at Harry’s heart. A man, cloaked in darkness, wielding terrible power, cruelty etched on his face. “Crucio!” Voldemort’s voice echoed, sending icy fingers through Harry’s very being. He felt the pain of that different version of himself, caught in a web of horror and desperation, subject to the whims of a dark and malevolent force.

Another memory rushed to flood his vision. “You won’t say no? Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die… Perhaps another little dose of pain?” Harry saw the green glow of the Killing Curse taking lives.

The images swirled around him, each more vivid and painful than the last, revealing the toll Voldemort had exacted on countless souls.

The last memory came into focus, showing a dimly lit room illuminated by candles and lined with tall rows of potions along the walls.

Suddenly, he found himself in a dimly lit potions room, the air heavy with the scent of herbs and decay. “Professor, is there any way to cleanse a corrupted soul?” Harry asked, facing the short man with the silver walrus moustache, desperation lacing his tone. The professor’s response was grim; the reality he laid bare was stark and unyielding. “There has been no documented case… a tainted soul will only deteriorate, leading to a painful death.”

As tears brimmed in his eyes, Harry felt himself pulled sharply back from that shadowy realm, connecting back to the familiar confines of the room. The other Harry loomed before him, an echo of despair etched across his features. Their eyes locked, and with a flat, toneless voice, he asked, “Now that you’ve witnessed both worlds, which path will you choose?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Harry’s heart raced as he searched the other Harry’s face, wondering if the absence of emotion was a test of his resolve or a sign that the other had lost himself entirely. He thought of his own life—flawed, but relatively normal compared to the maelstrom that the other Harry had endured.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had sought him out, their faces pale and drawn, each of them desperate in their own right. Their eyes pleaded with him, but the shadows of doubt loomed larger than ever.

“Harry, please listen to us before you make any decisions!” Hermione’s voice broke through the thick silence, tremors of anxiety gripping her words as tears streamed down her face. “Don’t do this!”

The anguish radiating from them shook Harry to his core. He had always known Hermione as the logical one, the voice of reason when chaos reigned, but today she was raw and vulnerable. Ron, usually brimming with bravado, stood beside her, concern etched on his features. And Ginny—her eyes held sadness that pierced through the very essence of his being.

“We’re not lying, Harry!” Ron’s voice strained as he tried to convey the truth to him.

“Just give us a chance to prove it to you,” Ginny cried, her voice cracking as she grasped the bars that separated them, her fingers turning white from the pressure.

Harry took a step back, bewilderment coursing through him. Their usual teasing was eclipsed today by a depth of emotion that left him struggling for understanding. He looked at Ron, then Hermione, and finally Ginny. The sincerity in their eyes flickered like distant stars in the night sky, pushing back against the dark void of uncertainty within him.

“The memories you saw are only a part of the truth, Harry,” Hermione urged, pressing her forehead against the cold iron. “There are so many more good memories than bad ones. You have friends who support you like family. Please, have faith in yourself and in us.”

Harry’s heart began to race. The memories swirling in his mind were conflicting—his parents alive, the joy he felt in this new reality, completely free of the darkness that always loomed. Yet, what lay before him was hauntingly real. The burden of his other self’s life threatened to crush him under its weight. He hesitated, grappling with the choice he didn’t want to make.

“You’ve faced your fears countless times, Harry,” Ginny added, her gentle voice shaking with emotion. “The life you’re running from… Don’t let it overpower you. Please, don’t let it win.”

For a fleeting moment, he entertained the thought of staying in this perfect world, the sanctuary of familiarity. But the sincerity in their eyes refused to let him linger.

“How can I make a decision?” Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with uncertainty. “What should I do?”

The figure lifted its arm, and a glimmering basilisk fang floated toward him, hovering ominously. “You have the power to erase me and continue living as you were by piercing my form with this fang,” it intoned, its voice echoing throughout the chamber. “Or pierce yourself and live the life you saw instead. The choice is yours.”

At that moment, clarity flickered through Harry’s mind. A choice steeped in consequence. It grounded him, solidifying his conflicting thoughts into a singular point of resolve. He stole a glance at the others, their expressions a mixture of fear and hope, yet he knew he couldn’t carry that hope within himself. He felt its weight crushing him.

“My time is too precious to be wasted on illusions,” Harry declared coldly, a sinister grin tugging at his lips as he held the fang before him, gleaming with ominous promise.

“Harry, please.” Hermione’s voice trembled with sorrow, piercing through his resolve. “Consider more than just yourself.”

Ron stepped forward, anger igniting in his eyes. “Is that all there is to it? You will let selfishness dictate your actions without regard for the bigger picture?”

“Enough, Ron.” Hermione’s voice was strained, her desperation palpable. “This isn’t helping.”

But Harry brushed them off, dismissive and hardened. “I’ve heard all I need to, Weasley. Don’t underestimate me.” The words flew from his lips, bitterly detached from the bond they had all shared.

“Oh yeah?” Ron challenged, his voice laced with fierce determination. He stood opposite Harry, unwavering and resolute. “We’ve stood by your side throughout our lives. We fought for what was right. Your parents sacrificed everything to save you. I swore to cherish those moments and remain with you until the very end. You may choose the easy way, but true happiness doesn’t come from staying in your comfort zone, mate.”

Harry’s chest tightened at Ron’s words. It was too easy to retreat into the familiar, too simple to wish for the absence of danger and fear. He wanted that comfort, but the weight of Ron’s challenge hung heavily on him. He caught a glimpse of Ginny, her expression soft yet earnest.

“Harry,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “I know you like the comfort and security here, and you’re not thinking about a difficult life because everything has been provided for you. Even I would gladly accept such safety. But you’ve also seen how different your life could’ve been without comfort. I know you’d never choose that other life, but here’s the thing: if you continue to live in this sheltered environment, you’ll never learn to fight for what’s important. You’ll never understand what’s truly worth fighting for—not nearly as much as you would in that harsher world.”

Ron and Hermione nodded in agreement, their eyes reflecting their shared concern for him. But Harry felt a pang of frustration.

“Ask yourself, Harry,” Hermione said carefully, avoiding his gaze as she stared at the floor. “Have you ever had someone you’d risk your life for?”

Her question pierced through Harry’s defences, making him reflect on the connections he had forged. For all his encounters with danger, he had never fully grasped the depth of strong friendships—those bonds that transcended mere companionship. Despite his loving parents, he still felt a void within him, the yearning for a deeper connection.

Hermione’s voice grew stronger, shattering the silence that enveloped them. “For us, it’s you.” Her declaration was relentless, cutting through the uncertainty like a blade. Harry blinked, caught off guard, sensing the gravity of her words settle around him like a shroud.

“Why would you choose me?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly, revealing the vulnerability he sought to hide.

“Because you’re our friend,” Ron replied simply, his tone resolute. “We have complete faith that you would do the same for us.”

“How can you be so sure?” Harry’s brow furrowed, suspicion flashing in his eyes.

“We know because you’ve done it before, numerous times,” Ginny interjected, determination lacing her words. “You’ve been our saviour when we needed you the most.”

“Now it’s our turn to save you,” Hermione added softly, her smile fragile yet genuine. “No matter the risks involved.”

“Why put yourselves in danger for me?” Harry asked, the bewilderment trembling in his chest.

“Because to us, you’re more than just a friend; you’re family,” Ginny replied with heartfelt sincerity, her gaze piercing through Harry’s defences. “Our love for you runs deeper than words can express.”

His heart ached with disbelief. He felt weary of their persistent reassurances, as if their words were an empty promise that could shatter at any moment. This was not what he wanted; he had grown tired of the well-meaning declarations, the burden of their expectations pressing down on him like the weight of a stone.

“No!” he exclaimed defiantly, turning inward to the storm of emotions swirling inside him. His grip tightened around the cold basilisk fang that rested in his palm, prepared to strike if necessary. The anger bubbling beneath the surface forced him into a position of action.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were taken aback, their faces morphing into expressions of fear and horror as they witnessed Harry’s determined stance and raised weapon, poised for a decisive strike towards the lone figure and—

“NOOO!” Ginny shouted, her voice trembling as it echoed against the walls. Hermione’s tears flowed freely, while Ron stood frozen in place, unable to comprehend the chaotic volley of emotions that filled the air.