FicWad

Deep within the heart of the Forbidden Forest, something had shifted.

The moon, heavy and low, hovered just above the canopy—its wan glow fractured by the dense latticework of branches. Here and there, strands of light pierced through the gloom, casting slivered shapes across the bark of trees. The forest floor was thick with decay—wet leaves layered atop soil, the roots beneath curling and coiling.

And beneath those towering trunks, at the base of a shallow hollow where no natural light reached, a circle of cloaked figures stood.

They did not speak.

Their hoods concealed their faces, but the glint of pale, faceless masks shimmered faintly in the moonlight, catching in the curve of jawbones and the occasional twitch of a hand.

Then—without warning—a sharp snap rang out.

Somewhere behind them, a branch gave way beneath a careless foot.

Every head turned.

No wands were raised. No words exchanged. But the tension surged through the clearing at once. The plan had begun. Whatever they’d come here to do—it was underway now.

High above them, concealed by foliage and silence, a cluster of centaurs stood motionless.

Their coats gleamed faintly in the fractured moonlight, but none shifted. Their bows remained sheathed. They did not draw breath louder than the wind.

They were watchers. Observers. Proud creatures who had, for centuries, refused to meddle in the petty wars of humans.

But this—this was no ordinary trespass.

One of them—a young stallion with smoke-grey flanks—tilted his head slightly, nostrils flaring.

There, against the shadow of an old beech tree, slumped and bound, was a human figure.

Red hair. Freckles, just visible beneath the grime. A wand cast aside nearby. Rope cutting cruelly into his wrists and chest.

George Weasley.

A murmur passed between the centaurs—silent and brief. This was not a battle. Not an ambush. This was something far worse.

This was a violation.

Below, George knelt in the loam. His back was pressed against the gnarled trunk, breath shallow, sweat collecting in the hollows of his collarbone. His skin was pale beneath streaks of dirt and dried blood. His body trembled, though whether from cold, exhaustion, or pain, even he couldn’t have said. Still, his eyes remained sharp. Alert. Unyielding.

He would not beg.

Not for them.

Before him stood Yaxley, shoulders slouched against a tree, wand dangling idly at his side. His long face was turned up towards the moonlight, the corners of his mouth drawn in a shape that might’ve passed for amusement in better company.

“It’s nearly time,” Yaxley said at last, as though discussing supper.

His voice was calm. Unhurried. The sort of voice one used when they already knew how the story would end.

“They’ll be here soon enough.”

George didn’t reply. He kept his gaze fixed on Yaxley’s, though his stomach twisted with nausea. Every heartbeat came louder than the last, pounding behind his ribs.

To the left, another figure shifted. His fingers twitched near the hilt of his wand, and beneath his mask, a moustache streaked with grey could just be made out. Macnair.

He did not look at George. He turned slightly towards Yaxley, voice low and dry.

“Are you sure they’ll come?” he muttered. “It’s been hours. Could be they’ve left him to rot.”

Yaxley didn’t move. His lips twitched.

“They’ll come,” he said again, with the quiet arrogance of a man who couldn’t imagine being wrong. “The Weasleys don’t abandon their own. And Potter? He’ll come running. I made sure of it.”

He finally tore his eyes away from George and gestured with his chin to the far side of the glade.

A figure stood there, removed from the circle. Silent. Still.

Draco Malfoy.

His arms were folded tight across his chest, the sleeves of his robes bunched at the elbows. His jaw was clenched so hard it might have been locked in place. Grey eyes darted back and forth between the trees, restless, unblinking.

He hadn’t spoken once since they arrived.

“This place feels wrong,” Macnair muttered, glancing at the twisted branches above. “It’s too still.”

Yaxley gave a snort of laughter, shaking his head.

“It’s a forest,” he drawled. “What were you expecting? Birds singing and a tea trolley?”

But Macnair wasn’t amused. He scratched his jaw, eyes narrowing.

“No,” he said. “It’s not the quiet. It’s us. We’re not alone. I can feel it.”

Yaxley rolled his eyes but gave a quick flick of his wand all the same. The perimeter wards were intact. No movement. No breach.

Still, something gnawed at the back of his mind.

He had been so certain. And yet…

This didn’t feel like triumph.

It felt like a trap. And not the one they’d laid.

George shifted again. Every movement sent sharp bolts of pain through his limbs, but he forced them down.

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse but defiant.

“This won’t work,” he said. “You’re wasting your time.”

Yaxley turned back to him, lips parting in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh? You think they’ll leave you behind?”

“I think,” George said, drawing breath, “that you’ve underestimated all of us. Again.”

Yaxley’s expression didn’t falter. But Macnair looked away.

Even Malfoy’s posture had changed—his arms had dropped slightly, hands clenched into fists.

George lifted his chin, just a fraction.

“They don’t need to come rushing in like heroes,” he went on, quieter now. “They’ll outthink you. Outfight you. And when they do—when they come—don’t expect mercy.”

Yaxley turned. His smile was slow, deliberate, and cruel—not meant to reassure but to threaten. He crossed the clearing with measured steps, the hem of his robes whispering over the damp leaves, and crouched low before George.

He studied him—not as one man might study another, but the way one might eye a fracture in a dam, a hairline crack waiting to split wide and drown everything behind it.

“Oh, I think you’re mistaken,” he said softly. “Your suffering—that’s not the mistake. It’s the message. It tells the world exactly what they need to hear: you lost. And when Potter finally shows his face, when he stumbles in playing the saviour once more, I’ll make sure that same message is carved so deep into his bones, it echoes when he walks.”

George stared up at him, eyes burning through the bruises. His face was slick with sweat, split at the lip, jaw tight. And still, the fire had not gone out.

“You’ve already lost,” he said, voice hoarse but steady. “Voldemort’s dead. Your so-called movement’s crumbled to ash. You’re not warriors. You’re cowards in a forest, hiding from a war that ended without you.”

The slap came before the final word had finished echoing.

A sharp, open-handed crack across the face—fast, brutal, and meant to humiliate. George’s head snapped to the side, breath sucked from his lungs. His cheek flared with fresh heat, and a line of blood dripped from his lip into the churned soil.

He spat. Slowly. Deliberately.

Yaxley leaned closer, so close the stench of him filled the air—rot, sweat, and something sour and decaying that clung to him.

“You don’t understand,” Yaxley said, voice low and intimate. “This was never about the Dark Lord. That was a means. A symbol. This is about fear. About reminding the world they are never safe. Not in their homes, not in their schools, not in their dreams.”

George turned back to face him, slowly, eyes steady. His voice was a rasp of contempt.

“You’re pathetic.”

Something flickered behind Yaxley’s smile—something brittle and mean. He straightened slightly, his tone flattening into something colder.

“And you’re alive because you’ve got use left in you,” he said. “That can be changed.”

Above them, the forest stirred.

The wind came with no warning, brisk and sudden, sweeping through the trees and setting the leaves to rustling in low murmurs. The sound wasn’t gentle—it had weight, a whisper with teeth. The branches shifted overhead, and though the centaurs hadn’t moved, their presence deepened.

Among the boughs, bows were raised.

Arrows were notched.

The watchers had seen enough.

Below, George’s wrists burnt with each pulse, the ropes biting into raw flesh. But he didn’t shift. Didn’t lean. Every breath came through his teeth, steady and deliberate.

Yaxley remained crouched. His eyes gleamed, his voice soft and honeyed, like poison in a cup.

“When Potter walks into this—” he murmured, “—and he will—I want to see the look on his face. That moment when he realises he’s too late. That this time, it’s him who failed. That’ll be something to savour.”

George gave a short, bitter laugh. It hurt to do so. He did it anyway.

“You think Harry’s that easy to trick?”

Yaxley’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head.

“Not stupid,” he admitted. “But predictable. That’s the curse of heroes. They always come running. Doesn’t matter if it’s a trap. They can’t help themselves.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Not peace. Not calm. Something tenser—something that stretched at the edges, ready to snap. Every Death Eater stood unnaturally still, eyes fixed on George, on the trees, on the space between.

High above, the canopy whispered.

The centaurs did not speak.

They simply waited.

Below, George held their eyes. Every inch of him ached. His chest burnt with each shallow breath. But the fire inside him—that wouldn’t go out.

“Harry would never let you use him,” he said, every syllable scraped raw. “You couldn’t make him do your bidding if you put a wand to his throat.”

Yaxley didn’t respond right away. He turned instead, slow and theatrical, and faced the masked figures behind him. His smile stretched wide again—this time all show.

“Not willingly,” he said, drawing out the words. “But that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? The Imperius Curse—underestimated, elegant. In the right hands…” He trailed off meaningfully.

A low murmur rolled through the gathered men—chuckled agreement, the uneasy laughter of those trying to mask their own doubts. Then it grew.

The laughter came thicker. Louder.

Cruder.

Yaxley turned a slow circle, basking in it. A stage actor before his crowd.

“So many methods,” he mused aloud. “Toss him into the Black Lake; see if the squid fancies a snack? Or maybe something more… poetic. A quiet walk to the Astronomy Tower. Let gravity do the rest. He always did have a flair for drama.”

He pivoted with a snap of his cloak.

“Or perhaps something cleaner. A letter. A wand. A single cut across the wrist. ‘Boy Who Lived Dies by His Own Hand.’” He sighed, mock-regretful. “Terrible, tragic. Perfect.”

The Death Eaters howled. The sound rang out over the glade—rough and vile and hungry. It filled the forest in a way that even the animals could not abide. Branches shuddered. Somewhere in the undergrowth, something fled.

George felt sickness rise in his throat.

He didn’t show it.

He didn’t blink.

His fists tightened, nails cutting crescents into his palms.

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

His voice shook—but it was not fear. It was fire. Fury. Certainty.

Yaxley dropped low again, so close that George could see the madness behind his eyes.

“But that’s the plan, isn’t it?” he whispered. “You. Your wand. His heart. All wrapped up nice and tidy. One more rebellion silenced before it starts.”

George met his gaze without flinching.

“You really think turning me into a puppet makes you the victor?”

Yaxley stood, slow and stretching, his joints cracking in the cold air.

“I think,” he said, voice casual again, “watching you break will be enjoyable.”

He glanced at the others. Several murmured their agreement. Nods followed. Some stood quiet, unmoving. And one—Draco Malfoy—still hadn’t spoken. His arms hung at his sides now. His fists were clenched.

George’s breath came thin and fast, each draw a scrape against his ribs. The ropes had already bitten deep, but they seemed to dig further now, as though reacting to every twitch of resistance. He shifted—just enough to push back, not enough to escape. The earth sucked at his knees, damp and cold, while the bark behind him ground into the small of his back. A jagged stone pressed cruelly into the muscle of his thigh. He let it. He welcomed the pain—it reminded him he was still here.

“I won’t let you do this,” he managed, voice no more than a scrape of breath, but steady. “You—”

The ropes jerked tight.

He was wrenched forward and down, the motion violent, merciless. His face struck the ground with a sickening crack that seemed to echo inside his skull. Grit filled his mouth. He gagged and coughed. Blood and soil mingled on his tongue. The noise he made was raw—half-choked, half-swallowed by the dirt pressing in from all sides.

“No,” Yaxley snapped.

The humour in his voice was gone. Not even the cold, theatrical cruelty remained. What was left sounded stripped—exposed nerves and jagged edges.

“No more speeches. No more performance. You’re finished.”

George didn’t move for a moment. He just lay there, breath shallow, jaw clenched. His skull throbbed. His lip was split again. But somehow, the stubborn flame inside him refused to gutter out.

He lifted his head.

A small motion—but deliberate. Defiance in every strained muscle, every laboured inhale.

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

There was a pause.

And then Yaxley laughed. A single sound—flat and humourless. It scraped across the air.

“You’ve got spirit,” he muttered, voice low. “Foolish. But real.”

“I’ve faced worse than you,” George said. His voice was cracking, but each word landed with the weight of conviction. “And I walked away. You? You’ve been hiding in the trees since your master fell. Did that keep you awake? Knowing you’re just the shadow of someone else’s failure?”

The smile on Yaxley’s face wavered.

Only slightly—but George saw it. That brief flicker. A hairline crack behind the mask.

Yaxley stepped closer, his boots crunching the forest floor.

“You’re bleeding,” he said softly. “Tied to a tree. Barely conscious. And still you think you’ve won?”

George raised his eyes.

His vision was blurry now, red streaking across the edges—but he met Yaxley’s gaze squarely.

“Absolutely,” he said, flat and clear. “And I’ll make sure you pay. Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

The clearing was still.

The Death Eaters said nothing. The trees loomed above them, ancient and silent. And high in the branches, something unseen stirred.

Yaxley stood very still for a moment, staring at him. Then he straightened, brushing imagined dust from his sleeve.

“I suppose,” he murmured, “that won’t matter much if you’re already dead.”

George didn’t blink.

“Maybe,” he said. “But if I die here, you’ll see my face every time you close your eyes. That’s not a threat—it’s a promise.”

Yaxley’s expression twisted, something ugly pulling at the edges of his mouth.

“You think this is noble?” he spat. “You think this—” he gestured at the blood, the bruises, the broken ground “—means anything? The Dark Lord saw the world as it should have been. A world of order. Of power. A world where the right blood led, and the rest learnt their place.”

“And you followed him like a whipped dog,” George snarled. “Not because you believed in anything—but because you were afraid. Because you’ve always known what you are. A parasite. Feeding off fear. Off cruelty. Pretending that makes you strong. Letting power and wealth—”

The laugh that came was brittle. It rang false, even to the others standing nearby. One of them shifted his weight. Another glanced up, toward the trees.

Still, Yaxley pressed forward, trying to regain control of the moment, to claw back the illusion of power.

“Well,” he drawled, his tone sharpening to something more mocking, “who wouldn’t want a bit of wealth? A taste of power? I daresay even your lot wouldn’t have minded. Or did the Weasleys finally sell off their last pair of shoes?”

George’s eyes flared.

“Don’t,” he said, “talk about my family.”

There was iron in his voice.

“We may not have vaults full of galleons, but we’ve got something you’ll never touch. We’ve got love. Loyalty. We fight for each other, not because we’re afraid, but because we care. You can’t buy that. You can’t kill it. You wouldn’t even recognise it.”

The words fell through the air like a blow.

And for the first time, Yaxley didn’t speak.

He raised his wand.

A sharp crack split the clearing, and the curse hit George across the forehead with a searing white-hot burn. He cried out—brief, sharp, involuntary. Blood ran in a swift line into his left eye, and the forest lurched. Everything spun.

But he didn’t lower his gaze.

He didn’t look away.

He would not give Yaxley the pleasure.

The trees around them thickened with shadow. Their limbs twisted, stretching above like silent watchers. The forest seemed to lean inward, darker now, denser. Even the air had shifted—thicker somehow, harder to breathe.

High above, out of sight, a bowstring slid into tension.

Waiting.

Yaxley crouched beside him again, in that same sneering posture, one hand resting on his wand, the other dangling loose.

“All right down there?” he asked silkily. “Feeling a bit faint, are we?”

His smile was a mockery of charm, a hollow thing stretched across his face.

George turned his head aside. No answer. No glance. Just quiet refusal.

But Yaxley was not finished.

In a sudden movement, his hand snapped out and clamped around George’s throat.

Air vanished.

George kicked—instinctive, useless. His heels scraped across the ground. His hands jerked against the ropes, raw skin tearing anew. Panic surged through him. His vision pulsed. Colours burst behind his eyes.

And still, he fought the panic.

Yaxley leaned in close.

“I ought to cut that tongue out,” he whispered. “But you’ve been such fun. Maybe I’ll keep you breathing a little longer. Long enough to scream.”

Still choking, George thrashed against the ropes—not with strategy, not with hope, just sheer bloody-minded instinct. His hands clawed blindly at whatever they could reach—dirt, bark, the cords digging into his raw wrists. Every movement lit his nerves with fresh fire, but he didn’t care. There was nothing else to do. There was nothing else he could do.

Yaxley gave a grunt and shoved him back down with a vicious hand to the shoulder. George’s body hit the earth hard. His breath caught—half gasp, half cough—before it fled him entirely. He lay there for a moment, chest heaving, throat raw and scalding.

But there was no reprieve.

Flick.

A whisper of an incantation—and then heat. Searing, immediate, and merciless.

The fire wasn’t real, not in the usual sense—but it may as well have been. George’s scream tore through the clearing as the Severing Charm sliced across his chest, cutting through fabric and flesh alike. The pain was blinding—sharp, red, and total. Blood welled fast, warm and slick, pooling beneath him.

He curled forward, instinctively trying to shield the wound. Teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. The edges of the world blurred. Nothing remained but the burn across his chest and the foul taste of blood on his tongue.

Yaxley straightened, looming above him, wand still raised, face alight with a cruel sort of satisfaction. The light filtering through the trees turned his eyes pale and cold.

“Wasn’t that easy?” he said, as if they were discussing weather. “All this effort. All this pain—when you could’ve bowed your head, shut your mouth, and walked away alive. But no. Had to play the hero, didn’t you?”

George trembled.

His whole body was shivering now—not from fear but from the blood loss, the pain, and the sheer effort of staying upright. A steady drip fell from his chest to the leaves below. Each drop felt louder than it should’ve been.

And still, he lifted his head.

Every part of him protested. His arms hung like weights, and his vision was a red-smeared mess—but he made himself meet Yaxley’s eyes.

“Some hero you are,” George rasped, voice hoarse but laced with something sharp. “Look at you. Lurking in trees. Clinging to the scraps of a war you already lost. You’re nothing but a rat too daft to drown.”

Yaxley’s jaw twitched.

“Call this power?” George went on, quieter now, his voice frayed with strain. “You’ve traded your soul for ashes. You stand there gloating over a tied-up man. Is that the best you’ve got?”

For a single heartbeat, Yaxley faltered. The gleam in his eyes dulled. Something passed across his face—flickering, quick, and not triumph.

Then the rage came.

Without a word, he slashed his wand through the air.

The spell landed like a hammer blow. George was hurled backwards, his body cracking against the base of a thick tree. The bark tore into his spine. The breath fled his lungs. He collapsed into a heap, dazed, ears ringing, the world tipping.

But still—he moved.

He forced himself up, inch by inch, dragging his weight back into something like a seated position. His limbs shook. Dirt clung to his face, mixing with the blood and sweat. His hands—bound, trembling—twitched against the ropes.

He wasn’t done.

He wouldn’t stay down.

Yaxley approached, his pace slow and deliberate, footsteps heavy in the silence.

“You’ve got spirit,” he said darkly, stopping just short of him. “I’ll give you that. But you still don’t understand. The purity of the Dark Lord’s vision—what he was building—what we are still building—”

George coughed. It was a wet, rattling sound—half pain, half defiance. His lips curled.

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” he said, voice rough but clear. “You’re a coward in a mask. Hiding behind speeches. Feeding off a dead man’s name and pretending it’s a legacy.”

The forest stilled.

Even the branches above seemed to lean closer.

Yaxley’s wand twitched.

“Disgraceful,” he spat. “Your whole blood-traitor brood—traitors to your name, your bloodline, everything magic stands for! Do any of you think for yourselves, or do you just nod along every time Potter so much as sneezes?”

George met his fury with something colder—steadier.

“I’ll never regret standing against you,” he said. “Not for one second. Not even now.”

Yaxley’s nostrils flared.

His hand trembled.

“So be it,” he hissed. “Crucio.”

The world exploded.

It wasn’t pain. Not truly. Pain had form. Pain had boundaries. This was something else. A stripping-away. His body seized, nerves on fire, as though every inch of him had been turned inside out. His mouth opened, but he wasn’t sure if he screamed—he couldn’t hear anything, not even his own voice.

Time vanished.

There was only the curse.

Endless. Merciless. Reducing him to nothing but sparks and torment.

And then—

It stopped.

His body collapsed without permission, limbs twitching, breath tearing in and out of his lungs as though each one might be his last. His face was streaked with blood and sweat and tears—though he couldn’t remember when he’d started crying.

But he was conscious.

Barely.

He moved.

His fingers curled weakly into the dirt. His jaw clenched. His eyes—blurred, burning—still held the embers of something unbroken.

Yaxley began to circle him, slow and measured, voice thick with mockery.

“Regretting your choices now, are you?” he drawled. “Because I can do that again. I will do that again. And again. Until there’s nothing left but a shell. Until you’re begging me for the end.”

George said nothing.

Yaxley crouched again, the worn knees of his robes brushing the dirt. His pale eyes fixed on George’s with a hard, unnatural stillness.

“I asked you a question,” he said, voice low but sharp.

George stirred.

The movement cost him. Pain flared—deep, grinding pain that curled through his ribs and pulsed behind his eyes. His breath dragged in, rough and uneven, his chest rising and falling with visible effort. His wrists strained weakly against the ropes.

But he didn’t speak.

He wouldn’t.

The silence stretched—long and brittle and somehow louder than if he’d screamed.

Yaxley’s upper lip curled with contempt. His wand twitched, ready.

And then—

A sound.

Small. Easy to miss.

A soft rustle from somewhere behind the trees—measured, deliberate. Not the idle stirring of wind through leaves. Too smooth. Too intentional.

Yaxley froze.

Every Death Eater around him turned as one. Eyes narrowed. Wands lifted.

Another sound—closer this time. A twig snapped beneath a boot. Leaves shifted, the faint scrape of someone large moving through dense undergrowth.

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

Yaxley said nothing. His head tilted slightly, listening.

Waiting.

Then his mouth curled into a grin.

And from the edge of the trees came the steady beat of hooves. Unmistakeable. Ground-shaking.

And something heavier still.

A great figure broke through the shadows beneath the trees.

Hagrid.

He towered at the forest’s edge, shoulders squared, his dark eyes ablaze beneath that wild mane of hair and beard. His presence filled the clearing before his feet had fully crossed into it—he didn’t so much enter as arrive, as though the ground itself had summoned him.

Behind him came the Weasleys.

Wands raised.

Eyes burning.

Arthur stood at the front, pale but resolute, his grip firm though his hands trembled. Molly, close by, seemed both frantic and furious, her face streaked with worry. Bill and Percy flanked them, their expressions grim, every inch of them taut with purpose.

Yaxley stepped forward, all false charm and venom.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, his tone too casual to be anything but cruel. “The whole litter. What a charming little gathering. Pity you’re missing the golden boy. Where’s Potter, then? Still skulking about in someone else’s shadow?”

Silence answered him.

Arthur’s mouth opened, but the words faltered. He glanced at Molly, then at his sons. Their faces were set. No one spoke.

“I—” Arthur began, but Yaxley cut across him with a sneer.

“Spare me. Perhaps you need a visual aid.”

He clicked his fingers once.

The Death Eaters stepped aside.

And there—half-slumped in the dirt, bloodied, bound—was George.

A breath caught in Molly’s throat.

George stirred at the sound of shifting boots, lifting his head just barely. One eye was swollen shut. Blood painted the side of his face, and his lip had split nearly to his chin. But there was recognition in the good eye—faint, flickering, but real.

“…Mum,” he croaked, voice barely more than a whisper. “Dad…”

The sound shattered her.

Molly lunged forward with a cry. “George!”

She hadn’t taken two steps before the curse struck.

Magic cracked the ground at her feet, hurling her backwards with brutal force. She cried out as she fell—but never hit the ground.

Hagrid caught her.

Even he staggered under the weight, but his arms went around her at once, holding her close, shielding her body with his own like a living fortress.

“Stay back!” a Death Eater barked, wand raised, aimed straight at her heart.

“Molly, behind me!” Hagrid bellowed, fury making his voice shake. “Don’t move!”

He stepped forward, blocking her completely, shoulders squared. The Death Eaters tensed. Wands lifted higher. The ring tightened.

Then Percy moved.

His wand was already drawn. His steps were deliberate, his face red with fury, jaw clenched so tightly it might’ve cracked.

His eyes found Rookwood.

“You’ll pay for Fred,” he said, voice tight with rage barely held in check. “I swear it.”

Rookwood let out a sharp bark of laughter. It was hollow. Empty.

“Not the faintest idea what you’re talking about, boy.”

“Still hearing voices, Percy?” Yaxley cut in with a jeer. “Wasn’t there something about a head injury after that little Ministry scuffle? Always thought you were a bit cracked.”

Percy didn’t blink.

His hand shook—but his wand didn’t waver.

“I hear fine,” he said quietly. “And I hear your cowardice loud and clear.”

His wand lifted further. The tip glowed faintly.

Yaxley’s smile vanished.

He moved fast—his wand was in his hand, his stance cold, calculating. His voice was low and oily.

“Let’s not be hasty, shall we?” he said silkily. “No one needs to do anything foolish. I’d hate for this to become… unpleasant.”

But it was already too late for that.

Hagrid roared.

The sound was raw. Elemental.

He launched himself at Rookwood, fists swinging. There was no spell, no warning—just brute fury and years of grief and rage given shape and motion. Rookwood was knocked backwards, crashing to the ground with a shout. They grappled in the mud, fists flying, limbs tangled, and snarls ripping through the air.

“HAGRID, NO!” Arthur shouted.

But the clearing had already exploded.

Spells soared—blinding light, deafening cracks. Branches splintered overhead. Smoke and dust filled the air, thick and choking. The ground trembled beneath the onslaught. Screams rang out, mingled with cries of spells cast and shields raised. The forest was no longer still—it was chaos, violent and bright and full of fury.

And on the edge of it all—

Draco Malfoy.

He stood apart from the melee, his pale face ghostly in the half-light. One shoulder leaned against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest. His wand remained untouched at his side.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t speak.

He watched.

As though he’d already seen how it all ends.

As though it no longer mattered to him who lived or who fell.

Arthur caught sight of him, their eyes meeting for one long, strange moment.

And something inside Arthur twisted—not quite pity, not quite hate.

Just a deep, unsettling grief.

“Enough.”

The word rang out—sharp, final. It cracked across the clearing like a whip, silencing spellfire and scattering shouts mid-air.

Yaxley’s voice.

Instantly, the chaos faltered. Wands jerked upwards or dropped, half-cast hexes dying on tongues. The light died from the trees. Even the forest seemed to recoil, wind stilling, leaves motionless. Hagrid stumbled back beneath the looming threat of a dozen aimed wands, blood gleaming on his beard, one lip split and bleeding, though the fire in his eyes did not dim.

Yaxley stepped forward with exaggerated calm, flicking dust from the sleeve of his coat as though brushing away an unpleasant stain. The swagger in his gait was deliberate, theatrical, and meant to unsettle.

Then his gaze slid back to George.

The boy had not moved. Not once.

Not even when the air had erupted with curses.

Yaxley’s wand rose slowly, deliberately, as though he were conducting a string quartet instead of issuing a death threat.

He pointed it squarely at George’s chest.

When he spoke again, his tone was softer. Almost gentle. The kind of voice used with skittish animals before the killing blow.

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

Stillness settled once more, but this was a different quiet. Thicker. Tighter. It drew in the breath and refused to let it go.

No one moved. Not Arthur. Not Bill. Not Percy. Molly stood frozen, shoulders shaking with silent sobs, her face stricken, the grief in her eyes uncontainable. Her lips moved around George’s name, but no sound came.

Arthur’s jaw worked soundlessly. His fingers twitched, tightening around his wand, eyes flicking from his son—broken and silent in the mud—to the wand aimed at his chest.

Yaxley’s smile widened.

“Now,” he said again. The word was quieter this time. And somehow far more dangerous.

The tension strained past breaking.

Arthur moved first.

His wand lowered, slow as snowfall. The wood slipped from his fingers and landed with a dull thud against the earth.

Next came Percy. His arm shook as he dropped his wand.

Bill held on the longest. But at last, he, too, let it fall.

Each wand struck the ground with a weight far beyond wood. It was the sound of surrender. Of something breaking.

Yaxley drank it in.

Arthur’s heart thudded hard against his ribs, every beat a blow he could not parry. He looked again at George—his boy, his son—crumpled in the dirt. Limbs at odd angles. Skin smeared with blood and filth. The freckles across his face were barely visible beneath swelling and bruises.

That irrepressible spark—the mischievous glint that had once lit up every room George entered—was gone.

And something inside Arthur, something central, something ancient, tore itself apart.

He took a step forward.

Slow. Controlled. Shaking with effort.

“What did you do to my son?” he asked.

The words came out hoarse, scraped from the rawest part of him. It wasn’t a question, not really. It was an accusation. It was a demand. It was grief given voice.

Yaxley tilted his head, feigning surprise. That familiar oily smile played across his lips again.

“A lesson,” he said with a shrug. “Just a little… reminder. About consequences.”

He lifted one gloved hand and waved it dismissively, as if George’s brutalised body were no more than a misplaced paperclip on his desk.

Arthur’s breath caught. Percy shifted beside him. Bill’s jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving George’s motionless form.

But none of them moved.

Not yet.

“You did this,” Arthur said, more clearly now. His voice had a different edge—low, deliberate. “You aimed your wand at him. You tortured him.”

Yaxley stepped closer, arms spreading in mock hospitality.

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

Arthur’s hands balled into fists. His voice dropped to a growl.

“You point that wand at him again,” he said, voice trembling with fury, “and I swear on everything I have left, you won’t walk out of these woods.”

The circle of Death Eaters shifted uneasily. Their wands didn’t lower, but a few of them exchanged looks—uncertain now. The atmosphere had changed. It crackled with something more dangerous than magic: a father’s fury, fed by helplessness.

But Yaxley didn’t so much as blink.

He gave a short, scornful laugh.

“Empty threats,” he said. “Look around, Weasley. You’re surrounded. Outnumbered. Still pretending you’ve got the upper hand.” His voice curled like smoke. “Still playing the noble fool.”

Arthur didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

His silence said more than a thousand words. A silence carved out of grief. The silence that stands at the foot of a grave and dares the world to test its resolve.

Yaxley began to pace.

A slow, circling motion. His boots stirred dust with each step, a vulture in silk-lined robes.

“You were always the righteous one,” he mused aloud, speaking not to Arthur but around him. “Self-important. Self-sacrificing. But that doesn’t win wars. Nobility doesn’t win anything. Power does. Pain does.”

He came in close, his breath rancid with triumph.

“You remember the Howler, don’t you? I warned you. Fail to listen—and this is what happens.”

Arthur’s voice was thin, cracking. “You call this justice?”

Yaxley chuckled. A low, mirthless sound.

“He’s alive, isn’t he?” he said. “That’s more than most. I could’ve finished it. I didn’t. That’s restraint, Weasley. That’s mercy.”

Behind them, Molly gave a quiet sob.

She stepped forward blindly, as though drawn by instinct, but Hagrid caught her gently, encircling her with an arm that trembled with grief.

Her gaze was fixed on George.

Her voice cracked.

“He’s just a boy…”

She didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone, really.

“He never hurt anyone. None of them did.”

Yaxley still didn’t look at her.

“Deserve?” he echoed, lips curling. “What’s ‘deserve’ got to do with anything? This isn’t about fairness. This is about understanding. About control. Pain teaches loyalty. Pain teaches obedience.”

Arthur’s composure faltered.

His face broke.

“Why?” he said again—but this time it came from the bottom of him. A plea, not a protest. “Why are you doing this?”

Yaxley leaned in, lowering his voice until it was barely a whisper.

Cold. Precise.

“Because you failed me,” he said. “You were given one task. One chance. And you spat on it.”

The words lingered in the space between them, heavy and cold.

“Harry—” Arthur began, but the word caught on a jagged edge in his throat, snagged and unfinished.

Yaxley didn’t wait.

His temper ignited.

“WHERE IS HE?” He roared, and this time, the force of it tore through the clearing with all the subtlety of a blasting curse.

The self-restraint he’d so carefully draped around himself fell away in an instant, revealing the raw, unfiltered rage beneath. His face twisted, his voice rising, uncontrolled and venomous.

“You had one job—one!” he thundered, jabbing his wand furiously towards Arthur. “Bring me Potter! And instead—what do you give me? This—” he gestured around, voice thick with contempt, “—circus of sentimentality?”

“We’re not handing him over,” Arthur said, and this time his voice did not tremble. It was quiet, but it held weight. There was no room left for fear. “You already know that.”

Yaxley’s eyes turned flat, all the dark shine of cruelty returning.

The smile vanished from his lips. In its place: something colder. Hungrier.

“Then George pays,” he said.

Molly’s scream tore through the trees before he’d finished speaking. “NO!”

She lurched forward, wild and disbelieving, but Hagrid held her fast, his arms wrapping around her like a wall. She thrashed against him, but his strength did not falter.

“You touch him again—!” she choked.

“Crucio.”

The spell struck with a dreadful silence.

There was no burst, no flash—just George’s body contorting violently as the curse took hold. His back arched, his fingers clawed at the dirt, and his scream—

His scream shattered the world.

It wasn’t a sound made for human throats. It wasn’t a noise meant for any living thing to hear. It echoed, unrelenting, through the trees, cutting through bark and branch and bone.

Even the wind seemed to falter.

“STOP IT!” Arthur roared, stumbling forward, arms outstretched, his voice ragged. “Please—stop!”

Yaxley’s wand remained perfectly still.

He held the curse until something inside George gave way—then released it.

George collapsed.

Not limp.

Not sleeping.

Collapsed.

Molly’s legs buckled beneath her, and she crumpled at Hagrid’s feet, her sobs silent and broken. Her hands trembled uselessly in her lap, reaching for something that wasn’t there.

Yaxley stepped forward, slow and composed once more, brushing dust from his shoulder with casual elegance.

“You still think you’re the one holding the cards?” he asked softly. “Still convinced you’ve got choices to make?”

Arthur didn’t answer.

Instead, he lunged.

There was no forethought to it. No calculation. Just movement born of agony—a storm of rage and love that needed somewhere to go. His fist connected with Yaxley’s jaw, sharp and sudden, sending the man reeling backwards.

They collided with the ground.

No spells. No magic.

Just fists and blood and fury.

Arthur struck again. And again. His hands curled not just around Yaxley’s collar but around every sleepless night, every terrified glance, every bruise on his children’s skin.

Yaxley grunted as his head snapped back, blood streaking his chin. And still—he laughed.

“Let him,” Yaxley gasped, shoving Arthur away, his voice wet with blood and amusement. “Let him try.”

The scuffle turned savage. Earth kicked up. Limbs tangled. Arthur caught him with a blow to the temple, but Yaxley twisted and slammed an elbow into Arthur’s ribs. It was desperate, ugly.

Then—

A flash of blinding white light burst between them.

Arthur was lifted from the ground and flung backwards. His back struck a tree with a sickening crack, and he crumpled at its base, all the air gone from his lungs.

Before he could gather breath again, the ropes came—thick cords of invisible force, slashing through the air and wrapping themselves round wrists, ankles, and chest. He was slammed flat, face to earth.

He groaned.

Did not rise.

Yaxley pulled himself to his feet with a hiss of pain, blood dripping freely now from the corner of his mouth. His eye was already beginning to swell.

Still, he smiled.

It was slower now. Cruel.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, raised his wand, and pointed it at Arthur’s chest.

“You chose this,” he murmured.

Then, almost gently:

“Crucio.”

Arthur screamed.

Not from his throat.

From his soul.

It was a sound wrenched up from somewhere too deep to name—a howl of pain and helplessness, the scream of a man made to watch his children suffer and now dragged into the pit himself.

His body seized beneath the curse. Muscles locking, nerves lighting with fire. Every breath came sharp, short, and wrong. There was no thought. No ground. No sky.

Only pain.

Molly buried her face in Hagrid’s chest and screamed silently into his coat. Her hands clawed at his robes. Her body shook with grief.

Percy trembled. Hands clenched white at his sides. Eyes fixed on the ground. He didn’t blink.

Bill stood motionless.

He stared straight ahead, unmoving, jaw clenched, his knuckles clenched round empty air.

And above them all, Yaxley stood unmoved, his wand held with surgical precision, expression cold—almost serene. As though conducting a symphony only he could hear.

When he finally released the spell, Arthur fell like a man dropped from a great height.

He didn’t cry out this time.

He gasped, every breath a fight. Blood smeared his chin and bubbled from the corner of his mouth. The ropes around his limbs tightened, cruel and unyielding, cutting into raw, torn skin.

He lay in the dirt, twitching slightly.

But conscious.

Still breathing.

Still present.

Yaxley approached once more.

Not hurried. Not rushed.

He raised a hand—and struck Arthur hard across the face.

The sound rang out—a cruel punctuation mark.

Arthur’s head lolled to the side. His lip split anew, blood blooming red.

He did not scream.

He did not weep.

Molly let out a cry, small and strangled, reaching out before remembering she could not reach him. Her hands fell back to her chest, empty and trembling.

Yaxley crouched, his voice low.

“Still think this is noble, Weasley?” he hissed. “Still believe loyalty’s worth the price?”

“You’re not gaining anything from this!” Bill shouted suddenly, his voice ragged. He took a step forward, and though wands lifted immediately to meet him, he did not stop. “Even if we gave you Harry—it wouldn’t change a thing! He’s unconscious!”

Yaxley turned slowly, eyes narrowing.

“And you think that makes him worthless?” he said, voice soft and dangerous. “I said I wanted Potter. Breathing—or not.”

Hagrid shifted behind them, his fists clenched at his sides. His voice, when it came, was thick with emotion.

“Haven’t yeh done enough?” He growled. “He’s been through more than most grown men. Let the boy alone.”

But Yaxley had stopped listening.

His gaze had shifted.

Back to Arthur.

Then—lower.

To George.

He raised his wand.

This time, the tip glowed faintly green.

And the entire world seemed to still.

Molly screamed.

“NO!”

She broke free of Hagrid’s arms—but only for a second. He caught her again, tighter this time, her limbs thrashing like water against rock.

“Don’t—please—don’t!” She sobbed, over and over, the words crumbling in her throat.

George stirred.

Only faintly.

A twitch in his fingers. A flutter of his lashes.

Then—

His eyes opened.

And what lived in them was not defiance.

It wasn’t bravery.

It was fear.

Unhidden. Undeniable.

He looked across the clearing—not at Yaxley.

At Arthur’s.

And there, in his gaze, was the truth of it: he was a boy. A son. Looking for his father in the seconds before death.

Then—

Laughter.

It came from the edge of the circle.

Dry. Controlled. Utterly out of place.

It was a voice they all recognised.

“Really, Yaxley?”

The drawl came from the treeline—measured, disdainful. “Kill the bargaining chip before you’ve struck the deal? Inspired strategy.”

Several heads turned sharply, wands twitching, and from the shadows stepped Draco.

He was no longer the boy who once lingered at the edges of corridors, avoiding his own reflection in the glass. He stood with arms folded, posture deliberate, expression unreadable. There was poise to him now—honed, not inherited. His face, pale and sharp in the moonlight, was empty of fear. Detached. Cold.

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

Draco tilted his head, the faintest arch to one brow. His voice remained maddeningly calm. “You’re playing Gobstones in a chess match. If George dies now, it’s not a triumph—it’s a miscalculation. A very public one. Your miscalculation.”

Tension crackled between them like a curse unsaid. Yaxley said nothing, but the green tip of his wand burnt brighter.

“I’d watch your tongue, boy,” he growled, his voice dangerously low.

Draco didn’t blink. “I’d watch yours if you intend to survive this war with more than half a reputation intact.”

Then, slowly, he turned to the Weasleys—face still as marble.

His voice cut sharper this time, deliberate and barbed. “Unless, of course… you’ve already decided Potter’s life is worth more than one of your own.”

The words struck harder than any spell.

Arthur’s breath caught. His pulse, already unsteady, thudded painfully beneath his ribs.

“Draco…” he rasped, disbelieving. “We took you in. When no one else would.”

There was no flicker of guilt. Only that same measured distance in Draco’s gaze.

“And look what it cost you,” he replied evenly. “Perhaps next time, you’ll be more careful where you place your mercy.”

His words were ice.

Molly let out a quiet sound—part gasp, part sob—as though struck somewhere old and bruised. Her arms curled tighter around herself.

Percy stepped forward, fists shaking, his face a mask of rage and disbelief.

“You’re just like him,” he spat. “Your father. Cowardly, pompous, petty. Always hiding behind bloodlines and bluster, because you’ve never had the spine to stand alone.”

For the briefest moment, something shifted in Draco’s face.

A flicker.

Not shame.

Something more uncertain.

But it vanished almost as quickly as it came. He looked away.

Yaxley had heard enough.

With a sound of disgust, he turned back to George. His wand lifted once more—unhurried but final.

“I’ve waited long enough,” he muttered. “One less blood traitor in the world—”

Snap.

A single twig cracked.

It was slight. Soft.

But in that clearing—dead silent, bristling with tension—it rang like thunder.

Every Death Eater spun, wands raised.

The trees loomed in unnatural stillness, as though the entire forest had stopped breathing. Not a rustle. Not a whisper. The air grew heavy, full of unspeakable expectation.

And then it came—

A scream.

It tore through the trees with no warning—no shape. No language. It was grief unmade, a sound torn from the deepest vaults of the human heart. Too raw to be anything but real. It shook the leaves. Shook the people. Shook the very bones of the world.

And out of the dark came a figure.

He stumbled, stooped beneath a weight not visible at first. His steps were sluggish, as if the ground resisted him. His once-fine robes hung in tatters—torn, dirt-smeared, soaked through with something that gleamed too darkly for water.

Horace Slughorn.

His face was grey and blotched, not with fear—but with sorrow. A kind of sorrow that hollowed him from the inside out. There were tears on his cheeks, unashamed and unhidden, glinting faintly beneath his spectacles.

In his arms, held with a tenderness too terrible to name, was a bundle.

Wrapped in a soot-blackened blanket.

Still.

Too still.

The clearing held its breath.

Yaxley froze, wand still raised, but his hand faltered. Suspicion crept across his features—followed by something else.

Dread.

“Slughorn?” he said, and the name came hoarse from his mouth. “What—what is that?”

But no one answered.

Because they already knew.

It wasn’t the bundle that undid them.

It was the way Slughorn held it.

Not as one carries a thing.

But as one carries someone.

Someone beloved.

Someone gone.

His arms curled tightly around it, knuckles pale, trembling. Every step he took seemed to cost him dearly—as if gravity had tripled in its pull, dragging him inch by inch through the clearing.

His knees hit the earth with a crack.

He crumpled forward, clutching the bundle to his chest, and let out a sound that was not a sob nor a cry.

A wail.

It scraped from his throat, dry and hoarse and full of things that could not be said aloud.

“Merlin,” whispered Percy. “No…”

Molly whimpered softly. Her hands rose to her mouth.

Arthur stared at the scene before him, helpless and bound, his chest heaving. His mind fought to reject what his eyes had already accepted.

The Death Eaters stood stock still, all confidence drained. Even Yaxley’s sneer had dropped. They didn’t lower their wands—but they didn’t raise them further either. Their expressions faltered, caught between disbelief and a cold, creeping awareness.

Then Yaxley spoke at last, though his voice had lost much of its usual venom. The sneer remained, but it faltered—thin, uncertain, a sneer in name only.

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

Slughorn lifted his head.

His eyes were raw and red-rimmed, the skin about them swollen and puffy, as though he’d been crying for hours. Ash clung to the wet tracks down his cheeks, smudged across the trembling folds of his jowls. His lips moved before any sound came. When he finally spoke, it was little more than breath—hoarse and hollow, every word frayed at the edges.

“You asked for Potter…”

His hand, slow and shaking, reached for the bundle cradled in his arms. He tugged the fabric aside—just enough.

What was revealed brought time to a halt.

Not silence—never silence—but something deeper, sharper. A rupture.

A break so complete it seemed the very air had been torn open.

Bill made a sound that wasn’t a word, part gasp and part sob, and stumbled backward as if struck. He clutched at his face with both hands, blood draining from his skin as though the sight had syphoned life from his body.

Molly gave a breathless cry—and that cry collapsed into a scream. It pierced the clearing, unrestrained, raw with a grief too great for sound alone.

Arthur staggered. His knees buckled. “No…” he choked. “No… that’s not—he can’t—”

But the words ran aground, strangled by disbelief.

And still, they looked.

They couldn’t not look.

There, in Slughorn’s arms, lay Harry Potter.

Unmoving.

His face was turned slightly to one side, head resting against the older man’s chest as if merely asleep. His skin was pale, too pale, tinged with grey, and his fringe was damp with sweat and ash. His lashes lay soft against his cheeks, closed to the world. No breath stirred his chest. No flicker of life betrayed his stillness.

He looked peaceful. That was the worst of it.

Not broken. Not wounded. Not in agony.

Just—gone.

Molly collapsed. Her legs gave way beneath her, and Hagrid caught her just in time, gathering her into his arms as gently as he could. But she screamed still—her voice sharp, shattering, the sound of a mother mourning a son, whether born or chosen.

“Harry!” she shrieked. “Harry!”

Hagrid turned her face from the body, shielding her eyes with one massive hand, but she had already seen. Her scream echoed through the trees, a sound so full of despair it seemed to pull the forest inwards.

Bill bent double, clutching his knees. “It’s not him,” he gasped. “He’s just a boy—just a boy—he’s Harry, for Merlin’s sake—he always comes back—”

Percy sank to the ground, his legs folding beneath him. He fumbled blindly for his glasses but didn’t put them back on. His hands dug into the soil. “He said he’d be fine,” Percy muttered, as though reasoning with the earth itself. “He said he had a plan… he—he promised…”

George lifted his head. Blood stained the side of his face, and his breathing was ragged, but his eyes locked on the still figure with sudden clarity.

“Harry?” he croaked, and his voice was barely his own.

He reached out, one shaking hand stretching forward—slow, desperate—but it stopped mid-air and fell limply to his side. There was nothing to grasp. No warm hand to take his. No wry smile. No cheeky reply.

Just the quiet.

Slughorn knelt down at last. He eased Harry’s body onto the forest floor, the motion careful, reverent, as if laying down something sacred. His hands lingered on the boy’s chest a moment longer, then slipped away and lay useless in his lap.

He looked smaller now. All the bluster, all the pomp, the fondness for indulgence and self-preservation—gone.

He seemed… empty.

“I tried,” he whispered. “I did everything—every tonic, every charm—I—I begged him to stay…” His voice cracked, and he pressed a hand to his mouth to contain the sob. “But he was… already fading. I couldn’t stop it.”

No one spoke.

The Weasleys remained rooted, their faces crumpling under the weight of loss. Even the Death Eaters, so smug moments before, stood unsure, unmoving, as though something holy had been broken before their eyes.

And Hagrid—Hagrid, who had held Harry in his arms when he was no more than a baby—now stood shaking, fat tears cutting tracks through his tangled beard.

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

But it was.

And then—slicing through the grief like a knife through flesh—came the voice.

High. Icy. Dripping with glee.

From the edge of the clearing, it slithered out between the trees.

“He’s dead!”

It was a cry of mockery. Of triumph. Every syllable wrapped in cruel delight.

“Harry Potter is dead!”

The words rang out—louder now—echoing across the clearing, crashing against the ears of all who heard them.

There lay Harry.

Still. Cold. Unbreathing.

The boy who had stood against every terror.

The boy who had been hope.

Now he was gone.

And the world, in that terrible moment, tilted. Something shifted—subtle, devastating. As though fate itself had gasped.

Again, the voice shrieked, unmistakable and cruel:

“Harry Potter is dead!”

And in the stunned silence that followed, the world felt suddenly darker.