FicWad

Deep in the Forbidden Forest, where the trees rose like sleeping giants and the wind whispered like half-remembered voices, something had shifted.

The moon hung low above the canopy, its pale light fractured by the thick branches. Thin shafts of silver cut through the darkness, tracing patterns across the bark of ancient oaks. On the forest floor, roots twisted through the damp earth like knotted limbs, hidden beneath a layer of wet leaves.

In a hollow beneath those towering trunks, a ring of cloaked figures stood without speaking. Their masks glinted faintly in the moonlight—blank, pale faces offering no glimpse of the men behind them. They stood like relics of a war they’d already lost, clinging to old shadows, to purpose in the absence of victory.

Then—a sharp crack.

A branch, somewhere behind them, splintered underfoot.

Every head turned, slow and silent. No one spoke. But the circle had come alive with tension. The meeting had begun.

Above, hidden amongst thick branches and ferns, a group of centaurs watched in silence. They did not move. Their eyes shone, unreadable, tracking the scene below with something colder than curiosity. They did not intervene in wizard affairs. That was their law.

But this—

This was something else.

One of them stiffened.

There—against the trunk of an old beech, half-lost in shadow—a figure. Red hair. A wand discarded in the dirt. Ropes binding him in place.

George Weasley.

A flicker of alarm passed through the centaurs like a breath. This was no mere trespass. This was desecration. The boy was not a guest. He was a prisoner. And his pain had been dragged into sacred ground.

Below, George knelt in the leaf-mulched earth, his back pressed to rough bark, ropes biting into torn skin. Sweat slid from his brow, pooling at his collar. He was shaking—whether from pain or cold, it was hard to tell—but his eyes were fierce. Wide, alert. Refusing to break.

Yaxley stood before him, one shoulder against a tree. He looked bored.

The former Death Eater let the moonlight slice across his pale features. There was a calm cruelty in the curve of his mouth.

“Almost time,” he said, as though commenting on the weather. The words fell softly but cut through the clearing like steel. “They’ll be here soon.”

George said nothing.

He kept his eyes on Yaxley’s, even as nausea coiled in his stomach.

To Yaxley’s right, one of the others shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching at his wand. His mask tilted slightly as he turned, revealing a greying moustache and a face lined with doubt.

Macnair.

“Are you sure they’ll come?” he muttered. His voice was hoarse, parched.

Yaxley didn’t turn.

“They’ll come,” he said simply. “The Weasleys won’t leave one of their own behind. And Potter—he can’t help himself. I gave him every reason to walk straight into it.”

He finally looked away from George, nodding towards the edge of the glade.

A lone figure stood apart from the others.

Draco Malfoy.

He hadn’t spoken once. His arms were folded tightly across his chest. His shoulders tense. Jaw clenched.

His grey eyes flicked ceaselessly through the trees.

“This place feels wrong,” Macnair said. The unease in his voice wasn’t masked. “It’s too quiet.”

Yaxley’s mouth curled. “It’s a forest,” he said dryly. “What did you expect, birdsong and biscuits?”

But Macnair wasn’t laughing.

“No,” he said. “It’s watching us.”

Yaxley made a short, scornful sound in his throat. “We’ve set perimeter wards. Nothing gets in without alerting me.”

But even as he said it, he checked the shadows.

Macnair was right. This didn’t feel like control.

It felt like waiting.

George shifted again. The ropes burnt at his wrists, but he ignored them.

His voice came low. Dry. Defiant.

“This won’t work,” he said.

The words hung in the air.

“You’re wasting your time.”

Yaxley turned with a slow, deliberate smile. He crossed the space between them and crouched low, eyeing George with the kind of curiosity one might reserve for a crack in a dam—knowing, with time, it would split wide open.

“Oh, I think it will,” he said softly. “See, your pain—it’s not the point. It’s the message. It says, ‘You lost.’ And when Potter shows his face, I’ll make sure that message is carved into his bones.”

George met his eyes, rage glowing beneath the bruises. “You’ve already lost. Voldemort’s dead. Your movement’s dust. You’re just a coward in the woods pretending there’s still a war to fight.”

The slap came without warning.

A hard crack, skin meeting skin. It wasn’t enough to do lasting damage—but it stole George’s breath. His head snapped to the side, a thin line of blood trailing from his lip. He spat into the dirt.

Yaxley leaned closer. His breath stank of bitterness and decay.

“This was never about Voldemort,” he said, low. “It’s about reminding people they’re never safe. Not really. Not ever.”

George turned his face slowly back to him. His voice was a rasp of fury. “You’re pathetic.”

For a brief second, Yaxley’s smirk faltered. Then his tone dropped to something quieter, meaner. “And you’re alive because you’re useful. That can change.”

Above them, the forest creaked.

The centaurs hadn’t moved—but the trees had. A gust swept through the clearing, cold and sudden, rustling the leaves like a warning. In the branches above, bows were raised. Arrows notched. The watchers had seen enough.

Below, George’s wrists burnt against the ropes. Still, he held his posture, every breath drawn through clenched teeth.

“When Potter walks into this,” Yaxley went on, his eyes gleaming, “I want to watch it. That moment when he realises he’s failed you. When it hits him—that this time, he wasn’t enough. That’ll be beautiful.”

George let out a low, bitter laugh. “You think Harry’s that easy to fool?”

Yaxley tilted his head. “Not stupid. Just predictable. That’s the problem with heroes. They always come running.”

A heavy silence fell. Not peace—never peace. Something tighter. Brittle and bracing.

Overhead, leaves shifted again, whispering across the canopy like breath held too long. The centaurs did not speak. Their arrows waited, trained on the figures below with unwavering stillness.

In the clearing, the masked Death Eaters watched George closely. Their gazes scraped over him like blades. His body ached. His skin was slick with sweat and grime. But the fire in his chest still burnt.

“Harry would never let you use him like that,” George said, his voice thick, every word dragged from a throat rubbed raw. “He’d never do your bidding.”

Yaxley turned, slow and theatrical. His smile returned—wide, teeth gleaming.

“Not willingly,” he said. “But the Imperius Curse… now there’s a gift. Subtle. Precise. In the right hands…”

A low murmur rippled through the ring of figures. Then came the laughter—rough, guttural, wrong. It spread like fog. Cold. Contaminating.

Yaxley stepped into the centre of it, movements smooth and theatrical now—like a man walking a stage.

“So many ways to make it stick,” he said thoughtfully. “A dip in the Black Lake? See how long he lasts before the squid gets curious?” He clicked his tongue. “Or maybe the Astronomy Tower. Always liked the view up there. Very dramatic.”

He turned on a heel.

“Or something cleaner. A letter. A wand. A single cut across the wrist. ‘Boy Who Lived Dies by His Own Hand.’” He gave a mock sigh. “Tragic. Poetic. Headlines for weeks.”

The Death Eaters laughed harder—howling now, like wolves without a moon. The forest itself seemed to recoil.

George felt bile rise in his throat. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.

“You won’t break him,” he said, low and steady. “And you won’t use me to do it.”

His voice trembled, but not with fear.

Only fire.

Yaxley crouched again, his face inches from George’s. The stink of him—sweat, blood, rot—hung thick in the air.

“But that’s the plan, isn’t it?” he murmured, the words slipping out like oil. “You. Your own wand. Killing your friend. A neat little end to this ragged rebellion.”

George didn’t flinch. “You really think turning me into a puppet counts as a win?”

“I think,” said Yaxley, rising with a careless roll of his shoulders, “watching you break would be a personal pleasure.”

There were murmurs from the others—low, humourless. Some nodded. Most just waited.

George’s breath came shallow. The ropes dug deeper, biting into already torn skin. But he shifted, pushing against them—not enough to free himself, just enough to resist. The earth clung to his knees. Bark scraped his spine. Something sharp pressed into his thigh. He let it hurt.

“I won’t let you do this,” he said, voice thin but steady. “You—”

The ropes jerked, hard. He was yanked down again. His face struck the ground with a dull, wet crack. Soil filled his mouth. The sound he made was half-choked and half-swallowed by dirt.

“No,” Yaxley snapped. The mockery had vanished. What remained was brittle, jagged rage. “No more speeches. No more resistance. You’re finished.”

George coughed. Blood and earth smeared his teeth, but he raised his head once more. Defiance flickered in every laboured breath.

“Not until I see your face behind Azkaban bars,” he rasped. “That’s where you belong.”

Yaxley paused. Then he gave a dark, mirthless laugh. “You’ve got spirit. Foolish. But real.”

“I’ve faced worse than you,” George said. His voice was hoarse but gaining strength, sharpened by pain. “And I walked away. You? You’ve been hiding since You-Know-Who fell. That keeps you up at night? Knowing you’re just the echo of someone else’s failure?”

For a moment, Yaxley didn’t answer. His smile cracked—just slightly.

He stepped closer. “You’re bleeding. Bound to a tree. Half-conscious. And still you think you’ve won?”

George met his eyes, bloody and battered. “Absolutely,” he said, voice flat. “And I’ll make sure you pay. Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

The clearing went quiet. The trees listened.

Yaxley straightened. His smirk returned, but behind it, something shifted. A flicker of something George recognised: doubt.

“I suppose I won’t have to worry,” he said softly. “If you’re already dead.”

George held his gaze. “Maybe. But if I die here, you’ll see me every time you close your eyes. That’s not a threat—it’s a promise.”

Yaxley’s face twisted. “You think this is noble?” he spat. “You think sacrifice means anything? The Dark Lord saw the world as it should’ve been. A place where the right blood led, and the rest obeyed.”

“And you followed him like a dog,” George snarled. “Not for belief. For fear. Because deep down, you know what you are. Nothing. A parasite clinging to power and wealth you didn’t earn.”

The laughter that followed was thin. Forced. It didn’t ring like before—it stuck in the throat.

Still, Yaxley pressed forward, desperate to reclaim control.

“Well,” he drawled, “who wouldn’t want a bit of wealth? Power? I’m sure your lot would’ve liked a taste. Or did the Weasleys finally sell off their last pair of shoes?”

George’s eyes blazed.

“Don’t talk about my family.”

His voice was iron.

“We may not have galleons. But we’ve got something you’ll never touch. Love. Loyalty. Strength that doesn’t come from fear.”

The words struck the clearing like a curse.

Silence fell.

Even the wind had gone still.

Then Yaxley flicked his wand.

A bolt of magic cracked the air and struck George hard across the forehead. He cried out—short, sharp. Blood streamed into one eye. The world lurched, spinning red.

Still, he did not look away.

He wouldn’t give Yaxley the satisfaction.

The forest darkened. The trees seemed to draw closer, ancient and grim. Above, the canopy thickened, black as smoke.

And high in the branches—silent, unseen—a bowstring drew back.

Waiting.

Yaxley crouched beside him once more, a vulture stooping over wounded prey.

“All right down there?” he asked silkily, his voice thick with mockery. The grin he wore did not reach his eyes—it was all teeth and spite.

George turned his head away, refusing him the satisfaction of a response.

But Yaxley wasn’t finished. His hand shot forward and clamped around George’s throat.

Air vanished.

George’s legs kicked uselessly against the earth as he writhed, straining for breath. Stars burst across his vision. Panic clawed at him, sharp and rising, threatening to break through the iron in his bones. Yaxley leaned in, his breath sour against George’s cheek.

“I ought to cut out that tongue,” he murmured, voice soft as silk and twice as cutting. “But you’ve been such fun. Perhaps I’ll keep you alive. Just long enough to scream.”

Still choking, George thrashed uselessly against the ropes. He clawed at anything—earth, bark, the bonds at his wrists—anything to fight.

Yaxley shoved him down. George collapsed into the dirt, coughing and gasping, throat burning.

But there was no reprieve.

Flick.

A murmur of incantation—then fire seared across his chest.

George screamed.

The Severing Charm sliced through shirt and skin alike, opening a deep line across his torso. Blood surged, warm and sickening. He curled forward, teeth clenched, breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. The world was suddenly very small—only pain and the bitter taste of iron in his mouth.

Yaxley straightened, towering above him, eyes glittering like ice beneath the trees.

“Wasn’t that easy?” He said conversationally. “All this pain—when you could’ve bowed your head and lived. But no. Had to play the hero, didn’t you?”

George’s whole body trembled. Blood dripped steadily from the wound, pattering onto dead leaves.

And still, he raised his head.

“Some hero you are,” he croaked. “Look at yourself. Hiding in the woods. Clinging to scraps of a war you already lost. Like a rat too stupid to drown.”

Yaxley’s expression darkened.

“You call this power?” George pressed on, voice weakening but still defiant. “You’ve traded your soul for ashes.”

For a moment—just a flicker—the mask slipped. Yaxley’s eyes flashed with something that wasn’t triumph.

Then the rage came.

With a snarl, Yaxley flicked his wand.

The spell struck like a sledgehammer. George was flung backwards, his spine cracking against a tree. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs; he collapsed, dazed, ears ringing.

But he moved.

Inch by inch, with breath shallow and vision swimming, George pushed himself upright. Dirt clung to his bloodied face. His limbs shook.

He would not stay down.

Yaxley approached, slow and measured.

“You’ve got spirit,” he said darkly. “But you still don’t understand. The purity of the Dark Lord’s vision—”

George coughed—a rasping, wet sound that might have been laughter.

“I understand perfectly,” he interrupted, voice rough but steady. “You’re a coward. Hiding behind speeches. Leeching off a corpse and calling it legacy.”

The forest seemed to hush.

Even the trees leaned in.

Yaxley’s wand twitched.

“Disgraceful!” he roared. “Your whole family—traitors, every last one! Do you even think for yourselves, or do you just parrot back whatever Saint Potter says?”

George met his fury head-on. “I’ll never regret standing against you,” he said, voice low but unwavering. “Not for a second.”

Yaxley’s wand hand trembled.

“So be it,” he whispered.

“Crucio.”

Pain exploded.

It wasn’t pain, not really. It was something beyond pain—a complete unravelling. Nerves screamed, muscles seized, and every part of George’s body turned against him. There was no breath, no thought, no time. Just agony.

It went on. Endlessly. Meaninglessly.

He forgot his name. Forgot the trees. Forgot even the ropes. There was only the curse—tearing, shredding, reducing him to something less than human.

And then—

It stopped.

He collapsed in a heap, limbs twitching. His chest heaved, dragging in shuddering breaths. Blood and sweat streaked his face, but he was awake. Somehow.

He moved. Barely.

Fingers curled weakly in the dirt. His jaw was clenched. His eyes, blurred with tears, still burnt.

He was still there.

He was still there.

Yaxley began to circle, slow and deliberate, like a predator savouring the kill.

“Regretting your choices now, are you, boy?” he said softly, voice thick with cruel satisfaction. “Because I can do that again. And again. Until you’re nothing but a husk. Until you beg.”

George said nothing.

He couldn’t. And yet—he wouldn’t.

His silence was not surrender.

It was defiance.

Yaxley crouched once more, eyes level with George’s. “I asked you a question.”

George stirred, each movement sparking fresh agony. His breath rasped in and out, chest labouring with the effort. But still, he held his tongue.

The quiet stretched—louder than any words.

Yaxley’s lip curled. His wand twitched upward.

And then—

A sound.

Soft. Subtle. But wrong.

The barest rustle through the undergrowth. Not the wind. Too smooth. Too measured.

Yaxley stilled.

All around him, the Death Eaters turned, alert. Wands drawn. Eyes narrowing.

Another sound—closer. The snap of a twig. A disturbance in the leaves. Heavy. Deliberate.

“They’re here,” muttered one of the masked figures, grip tightening on his wand.

Yaxley’s gaze swept the treeline. He tilted his head, listening. Waiting.

Then he smiled.

From the forest’s edge came hoofbeats—slow, steady, unmistakable.

And then—something larger. Heavier.

A figure broke through the gloom. Towering. Solid. Fury was etched across his face.

Hagrid.

He strode into the clearing like a force of nature, eyes blazing beneath his tangled beard. Behind him, the Weasleys—wands raised, faces pale with fury and fear. Arthur at the front, wand steady despite the tremble in his hand. Molly beside him, her expression a mix of anguish and iron. Bill and Percy close behind, silent, unflinching.

“Well, well, well,” Yaxley drawled, stepping forward as though hosting a dinner party. “The whole litter. What a touching family reunion. All we’re missing now is the golden boy himself. Where’s Potter? Still skulking in the shadows?”

Silence.

Arthur opened his mouth, but the words faltered. He looked at Molly, then at his sons. No one spoke.

“I—” he began.

Yaxley cut across him with a smirk. “Save it. Perhaps you need a reminder.”

He snapped his fingers.

The Death Eaters parted.

And there, in the dirt, tied and bleeding—was George.

He stirred at the sound of footsteps. Lifted his head, just barely.

One eye was swollen shut. His lip split. Blood traced a path down his face.

“Mum… Dad…” he croaked.

Molly let out a broken gasp. “George!”

She surged forward.

The blast struck before she took her second step. Magic cracked at her feet, hurling her backwards. Hagrid caught her, staggering with the weight, shielding her with one massive arm.

“Stay back!” a Death Eater snarled, wand levelled at her heart.

“Molly, behind me!” Hagrid bellowed. His voice trembled with fury. “Don’t move!”

He stepped forward, immense and immovable, every muscle taut as a drawn bow. Around him, the Death Eaters bristled, their ring tightening.

And then Percy moved.

His wand was already drawn, his face red with fury. He stepped out from the group, sight fixed on Rookwood.

“You’ll pay for Fred,” he said, voice tight. “I swear it.”

Rookwood gave a bark of laughter—harsh and hollow.

“Not a clue what you’re talking about, boy.”

“Still hearing voices, Percy?” Yaxley interjected, sneering. “Wasn’t there talk of a head injury? Always knew you weren’t quite right.”

Percy’s hand shook, but his aim did not falter. “I hear fine,” he said coldly. “And I hear your cowardice loud and clear.”

His wand rose higher.

Yaxley moved like a striking snake. Wand drawn, voice smooth.

“Let’s not be hasty,” he murmured. “We wouldn’t want this to get messy, now would we?”

But it already had.

Hagrid roared.

He launched himself at Rookwood like a battering ram, his fists swinging wild and brutal. The two men crashed to the ground in a flurry of limbs and snarls. No spells—just rage. Just fists and fury.

“HAGRID, NO!” Arthur shouted.

Too late.

Spells flew.

Light flashed in every colour—blinding, deadly. Branches cracked. Leaves burnt. The clearing erupted into chaos. Shouts rang through the smoke. The air turned thick with dust and heat.

And on the edge of it all—

Draco Malfoy.

He stood half-hidden in shadow, leaning against the bark of a tree. Pale. Silent. Watching.

His arms folded, his wand untouched. His face blank. Unreadable.

Like a boy who’d once fallen into a pit and now watched others climb down after him.

Arthur saw him. Their eyes met across the mayhem.

And something in Arthur’s chest twisted.

“Enough.”

Yaxley’s voice cracked like thunder across the clearing.

Spells faltered mid-air. Wands jerked away from targets. Hagrid staggered back under the pressure of a dozen raised wands, blood trickling from his split lip, his eyes blazing with fury.

Yaxley dusted off his coat with deliberate nonchalance, as though none of it mattered. As though this were all some regrettable inconvenience.

Then he turned to George.

The boy hadn’t moved. Hadn’t so much as flinched.

Yaxley lifted his wand.

Pointed it—straight at George’s chest.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft. Almost kind.

“Lower your wands,” he said. “Or he dies.”

No one moved.

Not a twitch. Not a whisper.

Molly’s shoulders trembled with silent sobs. Her eyes were wide, wild with fear. Bill stood rigid beside her, knuckles white on his wand. Arthur’s gaze flitted from George to the man threatening him—but he didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Yaxley smiled.

“Now,” he said again, quieter this time. More dangerous.

The silence that followed felt thick as fog. It pressed against the lungs. Then—one by one—the wands began to fall.

Arthur’s went first.

Then Percy’s.

Finally, Bill’s.

Each thud against the forest floor sounded like a coffin nail.

Arthur’s heart pounded, a painful, erratic rhythm of rage and helplessness. He looked again at George—his son, crumpled and bloodied, broken in the dirt like a discarded puppet. His limbs bent at wrong angles. Freckled face smeared with blood. Chest barely rising.

The light—the spark of mischief and life that had once made him shine—was all but gone.

And something inside Arthur shattered.

He stepped forward, slow and shaking, fists clenching at his sides.

“What did you do to my son?” he asked. The words came out hoarse. Raw. They weren’t just a question—they were a charge. A father’s cry for truth. For justice.

Yaxley tilted his head, as if surprised at the question. That oily smile curved his lips.

“A lesson,” he said lightly. “A little reminder about consequences.”

He waved a hand, dismissive, as if George’s suffering were nothing more than a misplaced quill on a desk.

Arthur’s breath hitched. Percy shifted beside him. Bill’s jaw clenched. But still—none of them moved.

Not yet.

“You did this,” Arthur said, his voice gaining strength. “You put your wand on my son. You tortured him.”

Yaxley stepped closer. Arms spread, mockingly generous.

“Would you like a better look?” he offered. “Go on. He’s still breathing—for now.”

Arthur’s hands curled into fists. His voice dropped low, dangerous. “Point your wand at him again—and I swear on everything I have left—you won’t leave these woods.”

The Death Eaters stirred uneasily, hands tightening on wands. But Yaxley didn’t so much as flinch.

“Empty threats,” he sneered. “Look around you, Weasley. You’re outnumbered. Outmatched. Still playing the hero. Still pretending it’ll make a difference.”

Arthur didn’t reply.

He didn’t need to.

His silence was heavier than any curse. A silence born of love and loss. The kind of silence that stood firm at gravesides and dared the world to push it one step further.

Yaxley circled him now, a vulture in fine robes.

“You were always the noble one,” he said. “But nobility doesn’t win wars. Cruelty does. Power does.”

He leaned in, voice twisting into venom. “You remember the Howler, don’t you? I told you then. Fail to listen—and this is what happens.”

Arthur’s voice cracked. “You call this justice? You torture my son and expect us to thank you for it?”

Yaxley gave a short, mirthless laugh. “He’s still alive, isn’t he? That’s more than most get. I could have ended it. I didn’t. That’s mercy, Weasley.”

Behind them, Molly made a soft, broken sound.

She tried to step forward, but Hagrid caught her gently, wrapping his massive arms round her trembling frame. Her eyes stayed fixed on George.

“He’s just a boy,” she whispered. “He never hurt anyone. He doesn’t deserve this. None of them do.”

Yaxley didn’t look at her.

“Deserve?” he echoed, coldly amused. “Deserve’s got nothing to do with it. Survival’s about understanding pain. Pain teaches loyalty.”

Arthur’s face crumpled.

“Why?” he asked again, but now the word carried no rage—only anguish. “Why are you doing this?”

Yaxley’s voice dropped to a whisper, cold and razor-sharp.

“Because you failed me. Because you had one task.”

The words fell like frost, freezing the air between them.

“Harry…” Arthur began, but his throat caught—and Yaxley’s temper detonated.

“Where is he?” he roared. The control vanished from his voice, leaving behind only fury. “You had one job—bring me Potter! And instead—what do you give me? This… circus of sentimentality?”

“We’re not handing him over,” Arthur said, voice low and firm now. “You already know that.”

Yaxley’s eyes turned black with intent. The smile dropped from his mouth, and what was left behind was cold and merciless.

“Then George pays.”

“No!” Molly’s scream pierced the clearing. She surged forward, but Hagrid’s arms held fast around her.

“You lay one more finger on him—”

“Crucio.”

The curse landed with a soundless crash. George’s back arched, his limbs jerking against the earth as the spell tore through him. His scream—raw, animal, human—rang through the trees, cutting the night in two. Even the forest held its breath.

“Stop it!” Arthur bellowed, his voice torn open with desperation. “Please—stop!”

Yaxley held the curse just long enough to break something. Then he let go.

George collapsed, motionless.

Molly fell to her knees, sobbing without sound.

“You still think you’re in control?” Yaxley asked, quiet again now, almost conversational. “Still think you’ve got choices left?”

Arthur didn’t reply.

He lunged.

He didn’t plan it or think—it was instinct. Rage. Grief. Love. All of it crashing together in the space of a heartbeat. His fist connected with Yaxley’s jaw, sending the man stumbling back.

They hit the ground together—scrabbling, striking, and rolling. Arthur struck again, and again, the weight of everything inside him exploding through his hands. Yaxley’s face smeared red. Still, he laughed.

“Let him,” Yaxley gasped, pushing back, blood in his teeth. “Let him try.”

The brawl was savage—no wands, no spells—just pain and fury. Until a flash of white light burst between them.

Arthur flew backwards, hitting a tree with a crack of bone and bark. He collapsed, wind knocked from his lungs.

And before he could rise, magic snaked through the air—binding ropes of raw force, lashing round his wrists and his ankles. He hit the ground again, hard, and this time he didn’t get up.

Yaxley climbed to his feet slowly, blood trailing from his lip, his cheek swelling. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then pointed his wand directly at Arthur’s chest.

“You chose this,” he said softly.

And then, almost lovingly:

“Crucio.”

Arthur screamed.

It tore from his chest, wild and strangled—a sound no father should ever make. His body jerked beneath the curse, limbs twitching as if trying to escape themselves. Fire tore through his nerves, white-hot and endless. There was no time, no place—only pain. Blinding. Drowning.

Molly buried her face in Hagrid’s chest. Her sobs came in broken gasps, shaking her shoulders.

Percy stood rigid, hands clenched into fists, tears brimming in his eyes.

Bill didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

He stared, unblinking, as the man who had raised him was brought to his knees—then below them.

Yaxley stood above it all, wand steady, gaze distant, as if conducting some quiet, private symphony of suffering.

When the curse ended, Arthur crumpled like parchment, every breath a struggle. Blood streaked his chin, his mouth, and his shirt. The ropes around him tightened, grinding into raw skin. His body twitched against the dirt, ribs rising in short, shallow bursts.

Still, he was conscious.

Still, he endured.

Yaxley stepped forward—silent, methodical.

He raised his hand—and struck Arthur clean across the face.

The sound cracked through the clearing.

Arthur’s head lolled to the side.

But he did not cry out.

He did not break.

Not yet.

Blood blossomed on Arthur’s lip, a vivid smear that throbbed with every beat of his heart. Hagrid winced. Percy’s jaw clenched, fury rising in his eyes, but he remained rooted to the spot. Molly let out a soft cry, reaching instinctively for Arthur—as if her touch alone could draw the pain from him.

Yaxley smirked. “Still think this is noble, Weasley? Still believe loyalty’s worth this price?”

“You’re not gaining anything from this!” Bill shouted, stepping forward at last. His voice trembled with rage, but his stance held firm—even as a ring of wands lifted to meet him. “Even if we gave you Harry—it wouldn’t change a thing! He’s unconscious!”

Yaxley turned to face him slowly. His gaze was glacial. “And you think that makes him worthless?” he said, voice soft and acidic. “I said I wanted Potter. Breathing—or not.”

Hagrid took a step forward, broad shoulders squared. His voice was low and gravelly, straining under the weight of emotion. “Haven’t yeh done enough?” he growled. “Harry’s suffered more than any of us. Let him be.”

But Yaxley’s attention had already shifted. His eyes found Arthur again—and this time, they darkened. “You’ve left me no choice,” he murmured, as if regretful. As if cruelty were something forced upon him.

His wand rose—this time, aimed at George.

A faint green shimmer lit the tip.

The air stilled, suddenly and completely.

“NO!” Molly screamed, surging forward before Hagrid caught her again. She thrashed against his hold, desperate, her voice cracked and breaking. “Don’t—please—don’t!”

George stirred. Just barely.

A twitch. A flicker.

His eyes fluttered open—and what shone in them wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t bravery.

It was terror.

Pure and human.

He looked at Arthur, wide-eyed and wet, and in that gaze was a child’s silent plea. A son reaching for his father in the face of death.

And then—

Laughter.

Dry. Measured. Inappropriate.

“Really, Yaxley?” came a drawl from the edge of the clearing. “Kill the bargaining chip before the deal’s struck? Brilliant strategy.”

Heads turned.

Draco stepped out from the shadows, pale and composed, arms folded across his chest. There was a coldness to him—one that didn’t belong to the boy who once shook behind borrowed robes. He looked… sure of himself. Detached.

Yaxley’s eyes narrowed. “You think this is the time for clever remarks?”

Draco tilted his head, voice maddeningly calm. “You’re playing gobstones in a chess match. If George dies now, it’s not a victory—it’s a failure. Your failure.”

Yaxley didn’t speak. Tension coiled between them, taut as wire.

“I’d watch your tongue, boy,” he said at last. The wand tip still pulsed with green.

Draco didn’t flinch. Instead, he turned to the Weasleys. His voice sharpened.

“Unless, of course… you’ve already decided Potter’s life matters more than one of your own.”

The words hit harder than any curse.

Arthur’s heart lurched.

“Draco,” he said, his voice raw with disbelief. “We took you in. When no one else would.”

Draco didn’t blink. “And look what it cost you.”

His voice was colder than the night air. “Maybe next time you’ll choose your allies more wisely.”

Percy stepped forward, fury blazing. “You’re just like him,” he spat. “Your father. Cowardly. Rotten. Hiding behind pure-blood pride because you’re too weak to stand alone.”

For a moment, Draco’s expression faltered.

But he said nothing.

Yaxley had heard enough. He turned back to George, wand lifting.

“I’m done waiting. One less blood traitor in the world—”

A sound cut through the clearing.

A sharp rustle. Deliberate. A twig snapped underfoot.

Every head turned.

The Death Eaters spun, wands raised. Something was moving in the trees. Not large—but steady. Certain.

The forest went silent. Even the wind stilled.

Then—the scream.

It wasn’t human.

Or perhaps it was—too human. It was grief, torn from the depths of a soul, a sound that did not belong in the realm of language. It echoed through the trees like a dirge, raw and unending.

And from the darkness stumbled a figure.

Horace Slughorn.

Bent. Ragged. Robes torn and dirt-stained. His face was streaked with tears.

In his arms, a bundle. Wrapped in a blanket. Still. Too still.

Yaxley froze.

The spell still pulsed at his fingertips, but his hand faltered.

“Slughorn?” he said, the name brittle in his mouth. Suspicion sharpened his voice, undercut by something else—something cold. Dread.

Because whatever Horace Slughorn carried in his arms… wasn’t moving.

And it had changed the air.

He stumbled into the clearing as though gravity itself had turned against him, dragging at his every step. His fine robes were torn, mud-slicked and bloodstained, flapping limply around his legs. In his arms, clutched as if it were the last thing tethering him to the earth, was a bundle wrapped in a soot-blackened blanket.

But it wasn’t the bundle.

It was the way Slughorn held it—like something sacred. Something broken beyond repair. The way his fingers gripped the cloth, trembling, knuckles white, as if to let go would be to surrender entirely.

He crossed the clearing and fell to his knees, a hoarse cry escaping him as he crumpled to the ground. The bundle stayed tight to his chest. His shoulders shook with each ragged sob, the sound raw and unguarded—too full of pain for dignity.

The clearing stilled.

Even the Death Eaters, sneering a moment ago, hesitated. Their faces twisted not with amusement now, but with unease. The Weasleys did not move. They couldn’t. Arthur’s heart pounded in his ears, and a deep, slow terror coiled in his gut, rooting him to the spot.

Then Yaxley spoke, his sneer thin and unsure.

“What in Merlin’s name is that meant to be?”

Slughorn looked up.

His eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, his face wet with tears and smeared with ash. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and barely a whisper—every syllable scraped raw.

“You asked for Potter…”

He reached down with a shaking hand and peeled back the blanket.

Time shattered.

There was no silence. Only the sound of something breaking—lives, faith, air itself.

Bill made a choked noise and staggered backward, hand to his mouth, his face bloodless. Molly gasped—and the gasp became a cry, the cry a scream, a sound so full of anguish it seemed to unmake the world around it.

Arthur’s throat locked.

“No…” he whispered. “No… that’s not…”

He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t look away.

Harry lay still in Slughorn’s arms, pale as frost, eyes closed, lashes resting softly against his cheeks. There was no rise of breath.

Only stillness.

Molly collapsed, a keening wail tearing from her chest. Hagrid caught her before she hit the ground, enfolding her in his great arms, his own tears falling silently. He turned her face away, but not before she had seen it.

“Harry!” she screamed. “HARRY!”

The cry tore through the trees like lightning. Wild. Wordless. The sound of a mother losing a son—whether by blood or by love, it made no difference.

Bill stumbled, as if struck. His hand pressed to his head. “No… no, it can’t be him,” he murmured. “He’s just a boy—he’s just—he’s Harry.”

Percy dropped to his knees beside him, shaking, his hands sinking into the dirt. His glasses had fallen, forgotten. “He was meant to wake up…” he whispered, rocking forward. “He promised…”

George stared.

Bloodied, slumped against a tree, his head lifting slowly as if from a great weight. “Harry?” he croaked. “Harry, mate… Come on…”

He reached out with one trembling hand and then let it fall, limp. There was no hand to grasp his. No grin. No comeback.

Just silence.

Slughorn laid the body gently on the earth and knelt beside it, his hands falling to his lap, empty now. He was no longer the smiling teacher with the crystal bottles and sugared pineapple. He looked ancient. Hollowed.

“I tried,” he whispered. “I gave him everything—every potion, every charm—I begged him to hold on…” His voice cracked. “But I couldn’t… I couldn’t save him.”

No one spoke.

Even Hagrid—towering, unshakeable Hagrid—was weeping. His great shoulders trembled. Tears coursed through his beard and fell to the forest floor.

“This ain’t real,” he murmured. “He’s Harry. It—it can’t be.”

Then the voice came.

High. Cold. Gloating.

From the edge of the trees, it slithered into the clearing like a curse.

“He’s dead!”

It was a sing-song mockery. Cruel. Triumphant.

“Harry Potter is dead!”

The words split the clearing like a thunderclap.

Everything froze.

There lay Harry. Still. Silent.

The boy who lived.

The boy who had always lived.

And now—

Hope cracked.

The words rang out again. Louder. Clearer. As though they might write themselves into the sky:

Harry Potter is dead.

And the world, in that moment, was forever changed.