FicWad

In the depths of the Forbidden Forest, where shadows twisted into curious shapes and secrets whispered through the leaves, a clandestine gathering took place. The moon struggled to illuminate the darkness, casting faint patterns on the ground, where gnarled roots sprawled like the fingers of sleeping giants. Amidst this eerie stillness, hooded figures loomed, their faces obscured by unsettling masks. They formed a circle interrupted only by the sound of breaking twigs and hushed murmurs, gathering for an unholy meeting orchestrated by the remnants of a defeated past.

High above, in the underbrush where trees stood as ancient sentinels, a band of centaurs watched in growing concern. Although fiercely protective of their domain, their curiosity bit at the edges of caution. What dark magic had pulled these figures to such a wicked convergence? Their stoic bodies flexed, muscles tensed and ready should trouble arise, as their eyes pinned down the masked figures with judgement that pierced the night like an arrow.

The centaurs’ hearts sank as they detected a flicker of red against the backdrop of a tree. A human—bound, helpless—struggled against the tightly wrapped ropes. The sense of urgency coiled in their chests like a tightening noose. Who was this captive? And more importantly, why had the Death Eaters dared to disturb the fragile equilibrium of the forest?

Among the figures gathered, Yaxley leaned nonchalantly against a twisted trunk, the moonlight slicing through the canopy to illuminate his face—a visage marked by mischief and malice. “Time’s nearly up,” he declared, prompting alarm and anxiety within the bound George Weasley, kneeling at his feet, eyes aflame with defiance.

“Do you think they’ll arrive as planned?” enquired a timid Death Eater, his moustache twitching like a cat’s whiskers in the face of impending danger.

“Certainly, Macnair. The orders I gave were very clear,” Yaxley replied, a smirk curling his lips, his gaze drifting from Macnair to Draco Malfoy. Draco, positioned at a distance, squinted into the murky shadows, his cold grey eyes slipping from figure to figure, weighing the consequences of this gathering, while an unease settled heavily at the pit of his stomach.

“Are you absolutely certain that this location is secure?” Draco finally asked, his voice laced with genuine unease that underpinned the bravado he wore as armour.

“Yes, as I mentioned earlier, we have the area well-guarded. I will be alerted if anything unexpected occurs,” Yaxley drawled, his tone casual, dismissive of the visible tension that hung like smoke between them.

Draco’s face remained composed, but his heart beat a warning, echoing in rhythm with the rustle of leaves stirred by a spectral breeze.

Yaxley turned back to face George, still squirming, the corners of his mouth twisting as the words swirled into sculpted taunts.

“No matter what you’re planning, you won’t succeed,” George managed through gritted teeth, fighting against the bonds that chafed at his wrists, pinning him to the ancient bark. “You’ve lost, old man! You’ll be caught and thrown into Azkaban soon enough!”

Yaxley’s amusement vanished, replaced by a sharp focus. “Not when the beloved Potter boy is dead. It’s a pity your twin passed away before witnessing that historic event. I wonder how your parents will react if they find out that their other precious son is also gone. Grief can lead people to strange behaviours, after all.” His voice dripped with venomous pleasure, conjuring painful images that danced in George’s mind.

“Keep my family out of this!” George shouted, his body seething with raw energy. “Let’s settle this between us.” The fierceness of his words ignited an intensity in him; every pulse in his veins screamed for justice, for a reckoning that could shatter the unfinished chapters of his brother’s life.

“Did I hit a nerve?” Yaxley purred, an unsettling smile unfurling. He basked in George’s anger, feeding off it like a predator enjoying the chase. “I don’t think you can bargain, do you?”

“Why are you doing this, Yaxley?” George spat, rage fuelling his courage. “What do you gain from all this? You’re devastated by the death of your master and losing your power. You have nowhere to hide!”

“Yes,” Yaxley admitted begrudgingly, “but it doesn’t matter... seeing the famous Boy-Who-Lived take his life will be ironic and entertaining.”

George felt their cruel gaze weigh heavily upon him, but even in his fragile state, he was determined to stand his ground. “Harry would never do that!” He erupted, disbelief and fury burning brightly in his determined brown eyes.

Yaxley’s voice cut through the silence like a serrated knife. “Not without the help of the Imperius curse,” he remarked, a twisted grin plastered across his face, gesturing towards his fellow Death Eaters, whose laughter reverberated ominously in the forest. “So, how many of us are there? Perhaps we can infiltrate his mind and offer some helpful suggestions. It shouldn’t prove to be too challenging.”

“What should I make him do?” Yaxley continued, half to himself, half to his amused entourage. “Get eaten by a giant squid? Drown himself in the lake? Cut his wrists? There are many options to consider. My, my, what will everyone say?” Each suggestion dripped with sadistic glee as the laughter rose and fell like a dark tide around them.

Surrounded by a group of hooded Death Eaters, George felt a surge of fear as Yaxley looked down at him with a menacing gaze. The ropes binding him tightened, causing him excruciating pain. Through clenched teeth, he mustered the courage to speak. “Taking Harry’s life will not bring you true happiness.”

Yaxley feigned a dramatic sigh, savouring every moment of George’s suffering. “Oh, I would find immense pleasure in seeing you be the one to end Potter’s life under the Imperius Curse,” he sneered. The deathly quiet of the forest was shattered by the approval nods of his companions, their eyes glinting with hopeless malice.

“I can’t let you do this,” George muttered, struggling against the ropes that cut into his skin. He attempted to push himself off the ground, only to be met with a cruel yank of the ropes that sent him crashing back down. “No, you wouldn’t—”

“Enough of this pointless conversation!” Yaxley snapped, impatience edging his tone. “Surrender now, you worthless traitors, for you stand no chance against us.”

“Not until I see your stupid arse thrown into Azkaban, where scum like you belong!” George shot back, surprising even himself at the fire in his rebuttal.

Yaxley smirked condescendingly. “Do you honestly believe you can make a difference in your current fragile state?” He leaned closer, malicious intent blazing in his eyes.

Locking eyes with Yaxley, a chilling wave of determination washed over George. “Harm anyone I love, and you will come to know the extent of my power.” He pushed the words through clenched teeth, drawing strength from the memories of battling alongside Harry and Dumbledore’s Army.

Yaxley straightened, the smirk faltering momentarily. “I won’t find out if you’re already dead,” he replied firmly.

“Nothing will ever be the same for you, even if I’m dead. That much I’m certain of,” George replied, refusing to back down.

Yaxley’s lip curled in a sneer as he chuckled darkly. “I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you. The Dark Lord’s intention was to elevate purebloods like us to rule over Muggles and Mudbloods—”

“You only joined him out of fear,” George interjected, voice steadied, feeding off the mixture of dread and defiance within him. “You were all nothing, merely seeking his fame and fortune. You were all just puppets dancing to his whims.”

Sinister laughter echoed through the clearing, a dark symphony of twisted pleasure. “Well, who wouldn’t want to be rich? I’m sure you Weasleys understand, given your embarrassing lack of money.” Yaxley gestured dismissively. “Has your family really gone down the drain?”

“Do not dare speak ill of my family!” George snarled, his heart racing. “At least we know how to find happiness despite our situation, unlike you dimwits who grovel at the feet of You-Know-Who.”

The laughter subsided, an unsettling silence filling the air. Yaxley’s eyes glinted with cruel satisfaction before he whipped his wand from his robes and unleashed a Stinging Hex. Pain erupted across George’s forehead, blood trickling down his face, a reminder of the battle of wits that hung in the balance.

“All right down there?” Yaxley asked, feigning concern as he leaned close. The smugness etched into his features taunted George’s determination.

George turned his head, unwilling to bear witness to Yaxley’s sadistic pleasure. But in that moment, Yaxley’s grip on his throat tightened, and air fled his lungs. Gasping, he met Yaxley’s unsettling gaze. “I would relish silencing your tongue, but you have proven to be quite entertaining. Perhaps a few more hexes for my amusement would not trouble you?”

The Death Eaters remained silent as Yaxley continued to torment George. Not a soul dared to intervene, cowed by the dominating presence of their dark leader.

Yaxley raised his wand and cast a Severing Charm that sliced through George’s chest, causing him to cry out in excruciating pain as blood soaked his shirt, forming a deep crimson stain on the fabric.

“Wasn’t that simple enough?” Yaxley taunted with a cruel sneer. “You’ve brought this upon yourself, you know. This could have been avoided if you had just cooperated.” His words dripped with malice and taunting superiority as he looked down on George with disdain. “That’s your punishment for being disrespectful, boy,” he reprimanded, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Never belittle our dignity. We’ve dedicated ourselves tirelessly to our cause, even before the Dark Lord’s rise to power. He saw our potential and granted us the authority we deserved.”

The forest earth dampened with George’s blood as he gasped for breath, his ragged shirt a testament to Yaxley’s cruelty. Pain shot through him like wildfire, yet defiance blazed in his heart, a flame stubborn and undying, refusing to be extinguished. “What a spectacle you’ve become, Yaxley,” George spat with fierce determination, despite his injuries. “A coward hiding behind a mask of authority. Yeah, those glory days did pay off! Look where they got you now... back in this wretched hovel, hiding and fleeing, afraid of being apprehended!” he spat out with disdain, his anger bubbling to the surface.

The simple act of uttering words felt like a victory, a spark against the darkness that encircled him, even as Yaxley’s expression soured in response to his insolence. With a flick of his wand, George was hurled against a nearby tree, the impact rattling his very soul. He crumpled to the ground, fighting against the agony that spread like vines into every fibre of his being.

“Your resilience is commendable,” Yaxley stated, slowly advancing towards him. “It could be considered one of your strongest attributes. However, it is truly unfortunate that you fail to grasp the importance of the Dark Lord’s vision. As a pureblood, you should understand its significance.”

“It’s hard to see clearly with your head so far up your own backside!” George retorted through gritted teeth, each word loaded with disdain. “When this is all over, you’ll be just another footnote in a history nobody wants to remember.”

“Disgraceful!” Yaxley suddenly roared, startling those around him despite their full attention. “You and your family will come to regret your choices. Sometimes you have to rely on others to know what’s best,” he snarled with a twisted grimace, as if tasting something foul.

George defiantly met Yaxley’s gaze, his jaw clenched in determination. “I will not regret a thing!” he hissed resolutely.

Yaxley shook his head in disappointment. “What a waste,” he muttered. “So be it. Crucio!”

A wave of agony flooded George’s mind—an overwhelming rush of pain that consumed him and drowned out all thoughts. Consciousness flickered like a dying flame, and for a moment, he was lost in darkness—until his spirit ignited with defiance once more, refusing to be snuffed out.

Seconds stretched into minutes, but eventually, the curse lifted, leaving George trembling, tears mingling with blood. He fought against the shuddering aftershocks that racked his body, desperate to regain control. Yaxley hovered over him, a dark spectre relishing in the aftermath of destruction.

“Are you regretting your choices, boy?” he hissed, the self-satisfaction dripping from his tone. “Because I can assure you, this can happen over and over, until you beg for mercy. You don’t want me to repeat that, do you?” He smiled indulgently.

George ignored him. He winced at the slightest movement, despite his heavy breathing. When he managed to roll to his side, the pain became worse.

“I asked you whether you wanted me to do that again,” Yaxley said softly. “Answer me!”

But before George could respond, a rustling in the thicket broke through the tension—a noise that stirred like a promise of hope. The urgency in the shifting branches broke into a symphony, signalling the arrival of new forces.

“They’re here,” a Death Eater muttered, the threat in his voice puncturing the silence that followed Yaxley’s taunts.

Yaxley’s glacial blue eyes darted around the forest, sensing the movement in the shadows. He suddenly turned, his gaze harsh and demanding, as the snapping twigs and rustling leaves hinted at an unwelcome intrusion. Around him, his followers readied their wands, a thin veneer of control barely concealing the sinister thrill of cruelty that surged within them all. Their focus shifted, but Yaxley simply smirked, unfazed, as he awaited the intruders’ arrival.

From beyond the dense curtain of trees, the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats rang out, but before any figure could emerge, there came the familiar, thunderous footsteps of Hagrid. The gamekeeper’s broad shoulders held the burden of protecting those he loved, and beside him marched the Weasley family, each face etched with concern and determination.

“Well... well... well,” Yaxley trilled, his voice dripping with mockery. “I see Potter’s not with you. Where is he?”

The question hung heavily in the air, leading to a silence that quivered with anxiety. Arthur Weasley, usually so composed, grappled with his words, exchanging worried glances with his wife and children.

“I—” Arthur began, only to be cut off by Yaxley’s impatient sigh, a true master at instilling dread.

“You need a reminder of the seriousness of the situation,” Yaxley rasped, flicking his fingers like a conductor leading an ominous symphony. The wind stirred as the Death Eaters stepped aside, revealing a sight destined to haunt them all: George, just a few steps away, bloodied and crumpled on the cold, forgotten ground.

“Mum... Dad!” he cried, his voice both desperate and weak, igniting a spark of raw terror within his parents. The sight of him, so vulnerable and hurt, shattered the fragile calm, and Molly rushed forward, her heart racing with maternal instinct.

“George!” she screamed, her voice filled with anguish that echoed into the depths of the forest. But her frantic advance was met with an explosive bang, causing her to collapse limply at Hagrid’s side.

“Don’t move, lady!” growled a grimy Death Eater, his wand steady and menacing.

“Hagrid!” Molly gasped, pulling herself back from unconsciousness as the half-giant emerged as a shield between her and the deadly threat.

“Stay here, Molly. I’ve got yeh,” Hagrid assured her, his gravelly voice steady though fury flickered like wildfire in his chest.

Percy stood rigidly at his family’s side. His loyalty now surged as anger flared through him like a beacon. “Damn you, Rookwood!” he shouted, directing all his fury at the nameless Death Eater beneath the hood. “You’ll pay for what you did to Fred!”

Mockingly, Rookwood laughed, a harsh sound seeped in arrogance. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, boy,” he jeered, his voice echoing against the trunks of ancient trees.

Yaxley leaned forward with predatory delight. “Ah, Percy, my old friend! How amusing it is to see you wound up so tight. Tell me, how is that head wound of yours?”

A dark shadow passed over Percy’s features, his resolve hardening. “Better, now that I can kill you!” Spitting the words, he raised his wand, ready to unleash the storm of his fury.

“Not if I kill you first,” Yaxley replied, his grin cruel and infectious amongst the other Death Eaters. They laughed with reckless abandonment, exposed in their unfettered delight at the family’s suffering.

“Why torment us?” Percy cried with rage, his voice quaking with intensity. “Does cruelty bring you joy? Are you that pathetic?”

Before Yaxley could respond, Hagrid surged forward, catching Rookwood off guard and tackling him to the ground. Fists flew as Hagrid pounded the Death Eater, but soon a cadre of robed figures trained their wands on him, a chorus of shouts to retreat reverberating through the air.

Arthur, Bill, and the others were caught in a spell of indecision, their anxiety radiating in waves. Among them, Arthur’s eyes locked onto Draco Malfoy, who stood at the edges of the gathering and nonchalantly raised an eyebrow, as if the chaos unfolding was merely entertainment.

“Can’t we all stay calm?” Yaxley suggested slyly; his tone dipped in condescension. “Though I admit, I wasn’t expecting such a family reunion.” He flashed a malevolent grin, confident in his power. “No matter... I say, lower your wands.”

A chilling, tense moment enveloped the clearing; nothing moved but the whispers of the wind and the rustle of leaves, the choice heavy in their hearts.

Yaxley’s wand hovered pointedly towards George, casting a long shadow of doom. “Lower them now!”

After a heartbeat that held eternity, with trembling resolve, their wands clattered to the ground, leaving determination to hang in the air.

Arthur’s heart thudded in his chest, emotions swirling within him as he looked at George, his beloved son. The sight struck him like a curse, melting away the warmth of familial bonds and casting a shadow that hungrily clawed at his soul. The young man’s face, usually lit by mischief and laughter, now bore the pallor of torment, his body crumpled against the cold earth—a puppet severed from its strings.

“What have you done to our son?” Arthur’s voice was a chant of fury, teetering on the brink of despair.

Yaxley, with the arrogance of a serpent coiled around its prey, shrugged off the weight of Arthur’s anguish with a smirk that sliced through the tension. “I’m simply imparting a lesson in manners,” he drawled, the very essence of cruelty tangled into his casual demeanour, as if such atrocities were mere games to him. “Would you like a demonstration?”

Arthur’s fierce blue eyes bore down on Yaxley, embers igniting within as he reiterated his resolve, “Point that wand at my son again, and you won’t live to see another day!” Each word was stained with a father’s raw desperation, but the threat hung in the air, heavy and futile against the throng of Death Eaters who encircled them like wolves closing in on a lone deer.

Yaxley laughed, a sound dark and condescending, dismissing both the father’s rage and the boy’s pain. “Do you honestly believe you can hurt me? Look around, Weasley. You’re outnumbered here.” The glint of triumph in his eyes was enough to send a chill racing down Arthur’s spine.

With each sneer of mockery from the Death Eaters, Arthur felt his determination solidify, his fear transmute into a ferocious protectiveness. “Try to harm him again,” he ground out, his voice unyielded. “And you’ll face the consequences!”

“Ah, the classic threat,” Yaxley replied, a cruel twist to his smile. “Father and son are quite the duo. George is still breathing, Weasley. I have kept my end of the bargain ever since I sent you that memorable Howler.”

“Is torturing him your idea of keeping a promise?!” Arthur roared, his body trembling with anger.

Strolling menacingly in front of Arthur, a cruel smile twisting his features, Yaxley maintained a casual composure. His eyes scanned the surroundings as he paced back and forth, his quiet tone laced with an undercurrent of intimidation. “We’ll need some entertainment while we wait. Surely you understand,” he said, his words dripping with sinister suavity.

Molly, her face streaked with tears, stood transfixed, her gaze never wavering from George. “My son doesn’t deserve this!” she murmured, words thick with agony, even while fury bubbled under her composure.

“Oh, the boy will survive,” Yaxley stated coolly, a malevolent glimmer in his eyes. “I’ve been merciful, unlike the Dark Lord. I don’t kill unless necessary.”

Arthur felt a shudder coursing through him at the coldness threaded in Yaxley’s voice. “Why are you doing this?” he whispered.

“Don’t act dumb, Weasley. You know exactly why,” Yaxley sneered.

“This isn’t the way. Take me instead, and I will do what you ask.”

Moving closer to Arthur, Yaxley fixed his steely gaze on him. “I simply asked for one thing from you. Where is he? Have you truly forgotten to bring Harry Potter?”

“I haven’t forgotten all—”

“Then why isn’t he here?” Yaxley thundered, his impatience curdling into wrath. “Bring Harry Potter to me by midnight if you wish to see your son alive again!”

“We can’t do that—”

“Crucio!” Yaxley shouted without warning, his wand aimed at George, whose startled cry resonated through the trees, a haunting sound that imbued the air with dread.

“NO!” Molly gasped, her voice rising above fear, battling against Hagrid’s powerful grip. The giant watched with sorrowful eyes, knowing well the futility of her struggle.

Yaxley unleashed the curse, allowing George’s tremors to sink into a paralysing quiet. He relished in Arthur’s anguished eyes as they begged for mercy that would not come. “Do you think this is a joke, Weasley?” Yaxley spoke menacingly to Arthur, twirling his wand casually. “Are you seriously going to challenge me? Cruc—”

Before anyone could intervene, Arthur surged forward, unbridled fury propelling him. His heart raced as he saw Yaxley’s wicked laugh drawn tight, unaware of the impending storm. With the desperation of a father left with nothing but shadows, he charged at Yaxley.

The moment collided—they fell upon the ground, limbs entangled in a feral dance. Arthur’s fist met Yaxley’s jaw, a satisfying thud echoing in the stillness, a sound of defiance amidst the dark.

The Death Eaters hesitated, wands raised, eyes glimmering with anticipation, but Yaxley, eager to indulge in the fight, called for them to stay back. The primal clash continued, bodies rolling ceaselessly in a desperate bid for dominance, and amid the chaos, Arthur summoned every ounce of willpower.

Yet suddenly, it unravelled. A flash—a blinding light bursting forth—sent Arthur sprawling against the unforgiving bark of a nearby tree, the pain sharp and immediate, yet overshadowed by a deeper fear frothing within him.

Yaxley took the opportunity, snatching his wand and weaving the treacherous ropes that ensnared the father, binding him tight and rendering him at the mercy of an uncaring fate.

With merciless calm, he approached, eyes gleaming with malice. “Crucio!” Yaxley proclaimed, his voice thick with preemptive triumph, like bitter honey drenching the air as Arthur felt the searing grip of pain latch onto him.

The Weasleys stood frozen in fear, forced to witness the Death Eaters, cloaked figures of pure malice, pointing their wands menacingly at them. Their breaths were shallow, hearts pounding like war drums against the pressing silence of the night. In the centre, Arthur struggled weakly against his restraints, his gaze darting from one menacing face to another. He could feel the weight of despair engulfing his family.

Yaxley towered over Arthur with an aura of cruel authority, ready to deliver a brutal message. He struck Arthur hard across the jaw, causing blood to bloom at his lip like a sinister flower. The sight of their father in pain ignited a fierce despair within each Weasley, a razor-edge of anger mingling with fear that beat like a drum in their chests.

“Even if we hand over Harry, it’s futile!” Bill interjected, his voice sharp and laced with defiance. “He’s unconscious.”

Yaxley’s eyes glinted with rage, echoing his cold voice against the backdrop of the apprehensive forest. “Do I look like I’m concerned about his physical condition?” he spat.

From the shadows, Hagrid’s growl emerged, deep and raw, as he stepped forward, shoulder-squared against the vortex of darkness surrounding them. “Haven’t yer done enough damage already?” His formidable figure imposed itself between Yaxley and the Weasleys, a defensive mountain of rage and sorrow. “Harry has suffered so much already!”

Yet, Yaxley disregarded Hagrid, his focus drawn firmly back to Arthur. “Your actions have only given me more motivation to harm your son,” he snarled, voice low and threatening. “Perhaps it would be best if I simply ended his life right now.” He raised his wand and aimed it at George, a flicker of power surging through his fingertips, the Killing Curse poised between intention and execution.

George’s eyes widened in terror, his heart racing as he shared a fleeting glance with his family, silently pleading for help, for hope—anything to disrupt the encroaching doom.

But then, a wicked laugh sliced through the despair like a hot knife through butter, causing Yaxley to whirl around, caught off guard. Draco Malfoy had risen from his seat, eyes alight with mischief as he slinked closer.

“Now, now…” Draco drawled, his tone smooth but edged with arrogance. “Do you truly wish to jeopardise your chances of capturing Potter?” The sneer he wore was practiced and familiar, as if the game of power was a dance he had mastered. “Exercise some patience.”

Yaxley glared at Draco, his face a mask of fury, every muscle coiled tight. “Patience?” he spat, and his voice trembled with barely restrained wrath. “If Harry Potter does not show himself, the Weasley boy will meet his death!”

“Quite right…” Draco replied slowly, each word measured and deliberate, as though he were savouring the tension. He pivoted to face the Weasleys, his smile shadowed by malicious intent. “But I believe they have a plan… unless—” He let the words hang heavy in the charged air, a jab at their desperation. “Potter holds more significance to them than their own family.”

Arthur’s heart sank deeper at Draco’s implication, eyes pleading for a shred of the compassion he once thought he saw in the young man. “Draco, I had hoped for better from you,” he said, his voice rasping, sorry for the trust he once placed in Draco’s lineage. “We tried to help you—how could you act in this manner?”

“I should have known not to place trust in a Malfoy,” Percy declared defiantly, stepping forward despite the danger that lurked behind him. “You are simply a reflection of your father!” Words dripped with disdain, each syllable cut deeper than a hex.

“It seems like it,” Draco shot back, his smirk widening as he cast a malevolent glare at Arthur. “But you are hardly in a position to insult me further.” The darkness he cultivated around him fuelled his bravado, and he leaned closer to the brink. “Do you truly want your son dead, Weasley? Surrender Potter to us! His fate is as good as sealed anyway.”

Yaxley thrashed his wand impatiently, teeth grinding against frustration. “I’ve heard enough pointless banter!” he snarled, once again shifting his gaze to George, wand raised and lethal intent glinting in his eyes. “I’ll just get rid of him! There are a lot more Weasleys left—”

But fate, in all its chaos, was not finished. A rustling in the dark woods behind the Weasley family broke the tense standoff, pulling Yaxley’s attention away, his expression morphing from fury to irritation. Something was out there—an advantage, a plan in motion, perhaps.

As the shadows shifted, the air thick with anticipation, the Weasleys held onto hope like a liferaft in a stormy sea—waiting, watching, as the promise of dawn teased its arrival within the pinpricks of darkness, ready to fight back against despair.

A haunting, agonising cry ripped through the atmospheric clouds of their gathering. It spiralled upward, echoing like a ghostly refrain, casting a spell of dread that caused heads to turn in bewildered alarm. In the shadows, a figure loomed—a silhouette veiled in darkness, its movements jagged and despairing.

Yaxley felt a jolt of curiosity and trepidation. He had grown accustomed to walking the thin line between fear and authority, but as he beheld the approaching apparition, uncertainty gnawed at him. He could feel the weight of the collective gaze falling upon him, drawn like moths to a flame of impending tragedy.

“Horace Slughorn,” he muttered, surprise creeping into his voice as recognition sparked. They had hunted the former Potions Master, desperate to recruit him to their ranks, but now he seemed to have wandered into their fold like a lost sheep—wretched and out of place.

The figure stumbled with gracelessness borne of panic and grief. Slughorn was cradling something wrapped in a blanket, and it was only when he came nearer that Yaxley realised what he held: a still shape, its warmth extinguished, its breath a memory.

The cries of alarm spilt from the Weasley family’s lips in unison of disbelief. Arthur tightened his fists, as if willing himself to be a shield against the impending doom. Molly’s face lost its colour as she stepped back in taut disbelief, her hands trembling as they flew to cover her mouth. The world had warped into incomprehensible shapes, and every Weasley—George, Bill, Percy—stood rigid, frozen by the ripple of horror that coursed through their ranks.

“No! No! Oh-oh-NO!” Molly’s voice shattered the silence, rising above the chaos like a siren’s wail. She collapsed, the weight of loss pulling her to the earth, hidden in the comforting embrace of Hagrid, whose broad frame seemed to fold around her like a protective cocoon. His eyes widened with horror as he murmured words of disbelief, “This can’t be happenin’.”

Slughorn dropped to his knees, vulnerability stripped bare as tears cascaded down his cheeks. “I—I couldn’t save—” His voice cracked, each word a painful reminder of what he had lost. “I’m so sorry!” Each sob reverberated with regret, his legs giving in to the crushing grief that hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire.

Then, as if the shadows bore witness to truth in their sinister grasp, a voice broke forth from the gathering storm, piercing through the veil of despair. “He’s dead! Harry Potter! Dead!”