FicWad

The news moved like fire through the trees.

A Death Eater’s voice carried it—high, mocking—splitting the night. The sound echoed through the tangled woods, sharp and cold, and it seemed for a moment that even the forest itself recoiled.

Arthur did not move.

He sat still as stone, his figure lost in the shadows, heart thudding dully in his chest. Each beat echoed like a drum in a tomb. Above him, the stars blinked with indifferent brilliance, the sky vast and silent. It might have been a beautiful night—cool, quiet, full of silver light.

Instead, it was a grave.

In the clearing below, Hagrid collapsed to his knees. The giant’s body shook with sobs too large for words, each one tearing free like boulders rolling from a cliffside. He reached out with trembling fingers, gently brushing the boy’s face as if still hoping to find warmth there. But there was none.

“Yeh told me yeh’d be all right this time…” he murmured, voice cracking under the weight of it. “Yeh said yeh’d come back.”

His fingers hovered—uncertain, almost afraid—and then retreated. Even Hagrid, with all his strength and size, could not bear to touch what he already knew was gone.

Arthur’s breath hitched.

Something inside him broke at the sight of it—Hagrid, so loyal, so unshakeable, weeping like a child beside the boy he’d once carried from the Forbidden Forest.

Tears welled in Arthur’s eyes, catching the cold starlight. But behind them was something deeper—a churning darkness of memory and guilt. Harry’s quiet smile over breakfast, the way he listened when others didn’t, how fiercely he loved Ron, Ginny, Hermione—all of them.

He remembered the boy who cared about their well-being.

The boy who became something more.

And now—

Gone.

Hagrid reached out once more and drew the blanket gently over Harry’s face. The movement was slow, deliberate. A final act of kindness. And then he folded his hands in his lap, shoulders heaving as fresh sobs wracked his body.

Arthur could not move. He felt as though he were sinking beneath the weight of it all—of every choice, every absence, every moment too late. The guilt settled heavy across his shoulders like a cloak soaked through with rain.

“I should have been there,” he whispered.

The trees swallowed the words.

Not far off, Molly sobbed into her hands, her grief no less terrible for its quietness. Each new cry from Hagrid drove the dagger deeper, and Arthur could hear her breath stuttering, breaking apart. He ought to go to her—hold her, steady her—but he couldn’t. The pain had turned him to stone. All he could do was watch as their world unravelled around them.

And then—laughter.

Low. Guttural. Mocking.

The Death Eaters.

Arthur did not look. He didn’t need to. He could see their faces in his mind—twisted with cruel delight, gorging themselves on the moment. Harry’s death was no tragedy to them. It was victory. Power. Celebration.

Their joy was a sickness.

It crawled through the clearing, fouling the air with its poison.

His jaw clenched.

Nearby, Slughorn knelt in silence. He looked older now, somehow shrunken. His rich robes were filthy and torn, his face streaked with ash and tears. His hands—those careful hands that once uncorked crystal vials with ceremony—were stained. He stared at the ground, dazed and lost, the sorrow around him mirrored in his empty eyes.

Arthur looked at him and saw himself.

And deeper still, something darker stirred.

His thoughts raced—Shell Cottage, the plans they’d made, the protection spells, the desperate rituals, the risk he’d taken to leave. Had it all been a mistake? Had he failed?

His throat tightened.

He thought of Ginny. Ron. Hermione.

Where were they now? Were they safe?

Were they alive?

Panic surged, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, trying to steady himself. “They aren’t dead,” he told himself. “They can’t be.”

But the words felt fragile. Hollow.

And then—Yaxley’s voice cut through it all.

“What a magnificent evening it’s turned out to be!” he cried, his voice rising like a toast. He stepped into the clearing, his grin gleaming in the moonlight. “At long last… The Boy Who Lived is dead!”

The air tightened.

The laughter swelled behind him, wicked and wild, a mockery of triumph.

Arthur stared ahead, unmoving, unblinking.

They were celebrating. Applauding death. And somewhere, beyond the pain and the helplessness, beyond the grief and the guilt, something began to burn.

He didn’t know what was coming next.

But he knew this: it was not over.

Arthur’s fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. Heat surged through his chest—rage, sharp and all-consuming. They were laughing.

At Harry.

At all of them.

Yaxley stepped forward, his expression gleaming with something cold and triumphant. His eyes swept over the devastated Weasleys before landing on Slughorn, still kneeling in the dirt beside the shrouded body.

“This is a moment I’ve been waiting for,” he drawled, voice slick with satisfaction. Then, with a glance down at Slughorn, his lip curled. “Not much of a final act, was it? The boy was practically a corpse already.”

A silence fell, deeper than before.

Hagrid stood.

He rose slowly, like a mountain pulling itself free of the earth, his massive frame taut with grief and something else—something far more dangerous. His fists had curled at his sides. His eyes, wet with sorrow, now glowed with fury.

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were yeh,” he growled, voice low and shaking with the effort of control. “Yeh don’t speak his name.”

Yaxley chuckled, entirely unbothered.

Arthur’s breath was shallow. The fury inside him was burning hot enough to shake. Grief still pressed heavy on his chest, but now it had found a companion—vengeance. He had buried too many already. He wasn’t about to sit idle while they laughed over Harry’s body.

Yaxley turned, his movements easy, deliberate. He cast a glance at the other Death Eaters, who stood clustered just beyond the firelight, eyes glittering with malice.

“So,” he said, dragging out the word as if it amused him, “what shall we do with him now?”

He looked back down at the blanket covering Harry, the shape beneath it still and unmoving.

“Shall we follow our Dark Lord’s example?” He asked softly. “Play a few of the games he favoured the last time the boy died here?”

The words dropped into the silence like stones. Their lightness made them more terrible.

Arthur flinched.

He looked to his family. Their faces were pale and drawn. He could see the confusion in Molly’s eyes, the creeping horror in Percy’s. Bill’s jaw was clenched so tightly it trembled. Even now, they couldn’t grasp what Yaxley meant.

But Hagrid had.

Arthur saw it—clear as the moon overhead.

The colour had drained from Hagrid’s face. His breathing had grown shallow. Behind the grief in his eyes was something else now—something almost like fear.

“Don’t yeh touch him!” Hagrid roared. The fury cracked through his voice like thunder. “H-Harry’s—he’s—” The words broke apart in his throat. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t finish.

But he didn’t need to. The look on his face said everything.

Yaxley only smiled.

“Come now, half-breed,” he said, his tone like syrup gone sour. “Surely you wouldn’t deny us a little fun? He’s practically a corpse already. What harm’s a Cruciatus or two? He won’t feel a thing.”

The Death Eaters behind him laughed. It was low, guttural—laughter without joy, only malice.

Arthur’s stomach turned.

It wasn’t just cruelty. It was desecration. Blasphemy. He could feel the rage boiling inside him, tightening his chest, blurring the edges of his vision. They were mocking Harry’s death as if it were sport. As if it meant nothing.

Rookwood stepped forward, sneering. “Toss him around like a broken puppet, shall we?” he said. “Let’s see how long the ‘Chosen One’ holds together before he comes apart.”

The laughter rose again—harsh and brittle.

And then—

“Enough!”

Percy.

His voice cracked like a whip across the clearing. He stepped forward, fists shaking, eyes fierce with grief and fury. “You’ve got what you came for,” he said, his voice hoarse. “So leave him alone!”

The words hung in the air like sparks.

The Weasleys drew in closer—bruised, bloodied, but still standing. Still defiant. George leaned against the trunk of a tree, one arm cradling his ribs, blood drying on his face. He looked at Yaxley with a gaze so sharp it might have cut.

“Is that what victory looks like to you?” George asked quietly. His voice was steady, but beneath it lay something cold and cutting. “Defiling the dead? Is that what it takes to make you feel like you’ve won?”

The Death Eaters fell quiet.

Arthur felt something stir in his chest. Not rage this time, nor grief. Something smaller. Something fragile.

Pride.

George had lost almost everything. His brother. His ear. His peace. But he was still standing. Still speaking. Still fighting.

Yaxley’s eyes gleamed with malicious delight as he turned to face George, his voice soft and oily. “Surely you remember our last conversation,” he murmured. “A touch of Imperius. A flick of Cruciatus. So many toys… and so little time.” He let out a low chuckle. “Pity your precious Boy Who Lived may not be with us long enough to enjoy them again.”

A low murmur passed through the circle of Death Eaters, like a wind stirring dead leaves. Wands shifted in eager hands. Faces lit with a perverse kind of glee.

“Shall we begin, then?” said Macnair, his grin splitting his gaunt face as he rolled his shoulders, wand in hand. “Let’s give them something to remember us by.”

“Get away from him!” Hagrid thundered, stepping forward with fists like boulders, trembling with barely checked fury. “Yeh touch him, and I swear—”

But the threat crumbled halfway out of his mouth. His voice faltered. The grief rose too quickly, catching on every word. He stood there, shaking, eyes blazing and wet.

And still Yaxley laughed.

“So much anger,” he crooned. “I rather like it. Shall I poke a little more? Will you come charging in like some mutt for your master’s corpse?”

The air grew heavier by the second. Arthur could feel it pressing down, as if the night itself were drawing breath. His fingers itched toward his wand, discarded beside him in the grass. Logic told him not to move—told him to wait, to hold the line.

But fury was pulling harder now.

Then—Molly.

“You vile creature!” she shrieked, trying to tear free of Bill’s grip. He held her fast, but it was like holding fire. “You think this is victory? Does tormenting a boy you couldn’t break in life make you powerful? You’re nothing but rot—fouling the memory of someone a hundred times the wizard you’ll ever be!”

Arthur looked at her, stricken. Her face was white with rage, her tears falling unnoticed. Her voice cracked under the weight of her fury, but her words rang sharp and true, cutting through the clearing.

Yaxley only spread his arms wider, as though he were standing on a stage. “Then let’s begin,” he said, almost cheerfully.

The forest rustled above them—wind, or something darker. Shadows writhed along the ground. The clearing seemed to shrink, the very air tightening.

Arthur felt it: the exact second before chaos. It was about to break.

And then—

“This isn’t the time.”

The voice came from the edge of the trees, quiet but clear. Draco Malfoy.

He stood half in shadow, arms folded, face unreadable. But his tone carried the weight of something more than disdain—disgust, perhaps. Disgust at what they had become.

Yaxley turned, slowly. His grin faded. “This,” he said softly, dangerously, “is exactly the time. What’s the matter, Draco? Gone soft already? Look around—this is triumph. Our triumph. Potter’s finished.” He jabbed a finger toward Harry’s still body. “You should be celebrating. Or are you too delicate to join in?”

Draco raised his chin. His voice, when he replied, was carefully detached, almost bored. “You think I haven’t waited for this?” he said. “But this—” he gestured vaguely at the jeering circle of Death Eaters, “—this isn’t justice. It’s theatre.”

Something flickered across Yaxley’s face—his glee curdling into disgust. “What’s holding you back, then?” he spat. “Pity?”

Draco didn’t respond at once. He stepped out from the tree, slow and deliberate, eyes flicking to the Weasleys huddled near Harry, to Hagrid’s shaking frame, and to the crumpled figure of Slughorn, who hadn’t moved in minutes. Finally, he looked back at Yaxley.

“If humiliation’s your aim,” he said flatly, “do it somewhere it’ll be seen. Parade him through Diagon Alley. Drag him to the ministry steps. But not here.”

His voice dropped lower. “Not like this.”

The clearing stilled.

Arthur saw it happen—the way Molly froze. Her hands dropped from her face, trembling fingers curling into fists as she turned to Draco, her eyes blazing with maternal fury.

“You snake,” she spat, her voice sharp. “How dare you speak of dragging his body through the streets? Is that what you’ve become now—just another coward with a wand and no spine?”

Yaxley rolled his eyes, looking away as if bored by the heat of it. But Draco didn’t flinch. His voice was level, cold.

“You want to make a statement?” he said. “Then make one. Not here, in the dark, whispering to trees. Out there, in full view. Unless,” he added, with a glance at the huddled Weasleys, “this is the audience you were hoping for.”

A rustle went through the Death Eaters—frustration, confusion, the beginnings of discontent. The spectacle was slipping. The narrative wasn’t theirs anymore.

Arthur rose slowly, his chest aching as he forced breath into his lungs. “After everything he did for you?” he said, his voice shaking, but each word hitting like stone. “After all the chances he gave you—after saving your life and your family’s—this is how you repay him?”

Draco’s expression darkened, his mouth twisting. “I did repay him,” he snapped. “Every time I looked the other way. Every time I kept one of yours alive down in that dungeon. But that debt’s paid. He’s dead. There’s nothing left.”

Then, with a flick of his wand, came a flash of wind and magic. Arthur staggered. The invisible restraints holding them—thick as ropes—snapped like dry twine. At once, the Weasleys’ wands flew through the air: Arthur’s, Molly’s, Bill’s, and Percy’s—each one spinning like a thrown dagger before landing in waiting hands.

Arthur gasped, breathing deep for the first time in what felt like hours. But the weight remained—heavier now, sharper. The weight of loss.

“You expect us to walk away?” Molly whispered, the fire not gone but buried deeper now, under layers of grief. “To leave him here with them? You think we’ll turn our backs on him now?”

“No!” Hagrid bellowed. He stepped forward, shoulders squared, grief and fury fused in his towering frame. “If we’re leavin’, we’re takin’ Harry. I’ll carry him meself if I have ter. But he ain’t stayin’ here. Not with them.”

Draco’s mask cracked. His wand lifted instinctively, hand shaking. “Are you all deaf?” he shouted. “I said it’s over! Take your wounded and go!”

The rawness in his voice rang louder than the words. There was fear in it, Arthur realised. Fear, and something else. Guilt, maybe. Or shame.

Then—

“Enough!”

The cry came from behind them—sharp, commanding. Slughorn.

He pushed forward, the embroidered edges of his robe catching the breeze. His face was flushed, his eyes glassy, but his voice rang clear.

“You’re not thinking!” he barked, not at the Death Eaters—but at the Weasleys. “George is alive! You have to go—now! Harry wouldn’t want you to fight. Not now. He’d want you safe.”

The clearing stilled.

Even Molly faltered, her hand going to her mouth. Arthur reached for her, steadying her, though his own knees were trembling.

Behind them, Yaxley clapped slowly.

“Well,” he drawled, grinning again, “look at that. A touch of reason. At last. Yes—take your wounded, weep for your little hero, and leave the forest to us.”

His smile darkened. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to lie beside him.”

Arthur’s stomach turned.

“What about Harry?” Bill’s voice cracked, and everyone looked up. He was shaking now, his face grey with horror. “We can’t leave him!”

Arthur turned to him, and in his son’s eyes he saw the same agony that clutched his own heart. The thought of leaving Harry behind—to be mocked, defiled, and turned into some ghoulish trophy—was unbearable.

He looked back at the still figure on the ground.

Harry Potter.

Not just a boy. Not just a symbol.

Family.

Draco stood at the centre of it all, wand raised, his face pale but steady. Magic coiled in the air around him—dry and brittle, like a storm waiting to snap. With a flick, George rose from the ground, but his body faltered. His knees buckled under him, and only sheer will seemed to carry him those few feet forward.

Arthur’s breath caught as he saw them approach: a slow, grim procession. Slughorn at the front, shoulders stooped beneath the weight he carried—Harry. His arms wrapped around the boy’s limp body, face half-shadowed, peaceful in the way only death ever looked. And behind him: Draco, Yaxley, Rookwood, Macnair. They followed like carrion, their eyes gleaming in the gloom.

“Horace, please,” Molly whispered, stepping into their path. Her voice was frayed, barely a sound at all. “Don’t do this. Don’t give him to them.”

Slughorn didn’t stop. His expression was hollow, drained of all its usual warmth. “I have no choice,” he said, and the words fell like stones. “Harry is gone. But George—we can still save him.”

“No!” Arthur surged forward, voice cracked and raw. “Not like this. Not this way.”

He reached for Molly’s hand, and she gripped it tight. They stood together in the gathering dark, clinging to what little they had left.

Slughorn hesitated—just for a breath. One foot faltered.

Arthur looked down at Harry. His head lolled gently against Slughorn’s arm, his fringe soaked with sweat. Too still. Too quiet.

There had to be another way. Anything but this. Choosing one child over another—You-Know-Who hadn’t asked that of them, not even at his worst.

“Horace,” Arthur said, barely above a whisper, “please. Don’t make us leave him.”

No one moved. The only sound was Molly’s quiet sobbing. Behind her, Hagrid stood rigid, a wall of grief. Bill and Percy watched in silence, both pale, stunned.

Then Slughorn stepped forward again.

Toward Draco.

Yaxley’s mouth curled into a smile. His wand twitched.

And then—

“NOW!”

Draco’s voice shattered the stillness.

The forest erupted.

Figures burst from the trees, spells streaking through the dark—red, gold, silver—lighting up the clearing like a battlefield on fire. Cries rang out, and the Death Eaters reeled.

Arthur didn’t think. He moved.

Draco shoved George forward, thrusting him into Arthur’s arms. George staggered, his legs folding—but Arthur caught him, Molly beside him in an instant. They pulled him in together, holding him tight as if he might vanish again.

Sparks flew overhead. Someone screamed. The clearing boiled with panic and fury.

Then—Harry moved.

Arthur turned, and his heart lurched.

Harry’s head snapped up. His feet hit the ground. He stood—alive.

No, not just alive. Awake. Alight.

“Expelliarmus!”

Harry’s voice rang sharp across the clearing. The spell hit Yaxley in the chest and sent him stumbling backward, his wand torn from his grip. A howl rose from him, more animal than man.

Arthur stared, breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t a miracle. It was Harry. Always Harry. Somehow unbroken. Somehow still standing.

“I’ll handle this!” Draco shouted. His voice had taken on a strange edge—commanding, crisp. “Accio wands!”

Wands whipped through the air, a dozen of them hurtling toward Draco like birds of prey. He caught them one-handed, spinning on his heel.

All but one.

Yaxley dove, caught his own wand just before it could fly free, and crumpled to his knees with a snarl.

“Stupefy!”

Draco’s spell hit Macnair in the chest. The man flew backward, crashing into a tree with a sickening thud, his wand falling uselessly to the forest floor.

The clearing was chaos now—firelight and spells, shouting and shock—but through it all, Arthur saw one thing clearly:

Hope.

Flickering, stubborn, alive.

Just like Harry.

Draco moved with quiet precision—each spell swift, focused, unhesitating. There was nothing theatrical in it, no show of power—just control. Cold, deliberate, efficient.

Arthur could hardly breathe.

He was watching a boy become something else.

Draco reached them, eyes flicking to the trees, every muscle taut with urgency.

“There aren’t many left,” he said. “I stunned most, but others are still out there. It’s not finished.”

Arthur’s fingers closed around his wand, and something old and essential snapped back into place. He glanced to Harry—alive, somehow, wand steady in hand—and then to Draco.

And he wasn’t sure which astonished him more.

He met Bill’s eyes. Then Percy’s.

Nothing needed to be said. The grief, the fury—they all felt it. Together, the three of them lifted their wands. There would be no more mercy. Not this time.

The forest roared to life around them—bursts of light, shouts tearing through the trees, spells flying fast and wild. Arthur’s heart pounded with every step, every flash of red or gold in the darkness.

But through it all, one thought pulsed in his mind:

Harry is alive.

He’d seen it—Harry, standing, casting, burning with strength. Not fragile, not fading. Alive.

And yet… Slughorn had carried him. Limp. Still. The boy hadn’t stirred.

So what changed?

Was it something buried in the moment? Something magical? Or had it all been a ruse—one last trick to draw the enemy in?

“WATCH OUT!”

Bill’s shout jolted him. Arthur dropped, just in time to feel a curse sizzle past his shoulder. He crouched low, wand ready, and Percy moved ahead of him, shield charm flaring blue as another jet of light struck it head-on.

They fought together—sons and father, side by side.

Arthur turned again, scanning for Draco. For Harry.

But they were gone.

Draco had vanished into the trees, the way a spell disappears into smoke. Harry too—no sign but the trampled earth where he’d stood.

Arthur’s chest clenched.

Then—

A scream cut the night.

“DRACO!”

Arthur spun toward the voice.

Yaxley stumbled out of the shadows, face streaked with blood, wand shaking in his hand. His eyes locked onto something ahead, wild and bright with rage.

“What have you DONE?!” he roared, voice raw.

And then—Draco stepped forward.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t hurry. Just stood, wand at his side, pale hair catching the moonlight.

“Oops,” Draco said, without inflection. “Did I do something wrong? I was just trying to help.”

The sarcasm was light, almost lazy—but beneath it, Arthur caught something colder. Steel, under silk.

“Help?” Yaxley spat. “You call this helpful?! You turned on your own!”

Draco tilted his head. “Did I?”

Yaxley’s wand trembled. “You can’t just do what you like! These were my men! My command! I still have forces—loyal forces—who’ll tear you apart for this!”

But Draco just stared at him.

Then, with the faintest curve of a smile, he said quietly,

“Do you?”

He nodded past Yaxley, voice now like a knife sliding through paper.

“Then look behind you.”

Arthur turned.

From the shadows, figures emerged—hooded at first, their silhouettes indistinct in the moonlight.

Yaxley straightened instinctively, hope flaring behind his eyes.

But it didn’t last.

They weren’t Death Eaters.

They were Aurors. Centaurs. Teenagers from Dumbledore’s Army, stepping through the trees like ghosts, called back to finish what they’d started. Wands raised. Bows drawn. Faces lit with purpose—Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell, and Lee Jordan—all of them sharp with resolve, with the hard-earned weight of war behind their eyes.

Yaxley screamed—a ragged, animal sound, part fury, part defeat.

Arthur didn’t flinch.

Pride surged through him—not the distant kind, but something fierce and immediate. These were the children they had raised. Their sons’ friends. The ones who had kept fighting when no one else could. Fred would’ve laughed. George would’ve cheered through the pain. Percy, stiff beside him, looked ready to cast without blinking.

Then Draco’s voice rang out, steady and measured:

“You’re too late,” he said. “You missed your window. The moment we entered the clearing, your hidden reserves were already taken.”

Arthur’s breath caught.

We?

He glanced sideways. Draco stood tall, wand at ease, calm amid the wreckage. But there was calculation in his eyes—an edge Arthur hadn’t seen before. A plan, concealed and unfolding.

Had he laid the trap himself?

Yaxley seemed to realise it, too.

“How?” he demanded, voice sharp. “How did you know?!”

Draco didn’t blink. He let the silence stretch—then answered simply,

“I had a communicator. Instant signals. Just in case things got… messy.” His lips curled. “And they did. For you.”

Arthur stared at him, stunned. The boy who once sulked in hallways and spat slurs now stood at the centre of the storm, having orchestrated its end. He had outplayed Yaxley. Saved George. Saved Harry. Maybe saved them all.

Arthur almost didn’t recognise him.

Still, one question pressed against his ribs like a stone.

Where was Harry now?

Yaxley narrowed his eyes, mistrust rising again. “A communicator?” he repeated. “You never left. I watched you. You never sent a message.”

Draco tilted his head, cool as frost. “Naturally. I made the plan after you kidnapped the Weasley boy. Quietly. While you were busy congratulating yourself.”

A beat passed.

“You never noticed. You don’t tend to.”

Yaxley’s face twisted.

Draco stepped forward, holding up a small, plain coin. It caught the moonlight, glinting faintly.

“Simple magic,” he said. “Signal passed hand to hand. No wands. No sparks. Just enough to bring the right people at the right time.”

Yaxley’s lips curled in rage. “I should’ve known. The Malfoys were always snakes.”

Draco’s expression didn’t flicker. “And you were always arrogant.”

He took another step, eyes locked on Yaxley.

“You walked into this thinking you were clever. But you brought the wrong men. Hid in the wrong forest. Trusted the wrong side.”

Yaxley shook with fury, wand twitching at his side. “You’ll pay for this,” he snarled. “I’ll make sure of it. You’ll beg.”

Draco didn’t move.

“Do I look like someone who begs?”

His voice was quiet now—deadly calm. “I’ve stood face-to-face with worse than you. When they cart you off to Azkaban, I won’t lose a wink.”

The clearing held its breath.

Yaxley’s wand shot upward—fast, reckless, burning with rage.

But before he could speak—

“Stupefy!”

The voice rang out—a spell, clean and swift.

A bolt of red light streaked through the trees and struck Yaxley square in the chest. He dropped before he could even cry out, crumpling into the dirt with a dull thud.

Arthur spun around.

Harry stepped forward from the shadows, wand raised, his green eyes fierce beneath windswept hair. He looked older—drawn, perhaps—but his stance was steady. Determined. Alive.

Draco glanced down at Yaxley, then turned toward Harry and gave a small nod. “Perfect timing,” he said quietly.

He crouched beside the fallen Death Eater. “Piece of advice, Yaxley,” he murmured. “Next time, do avoid making friends with the wrong sort.”

Before Yaxley could speak, the Aurors arrived—sweeping into the clearing with wands drawn, spells flying. In moments, it was over. The remaining Death Eaters were disarmed, bound, and silenced.

The chaos drained away, replaced by the low murmur of spells and the heavy breathing of those left standing. Leaves stirred overhead in the soft wind. The centaurs were gone. The battle had ended.

And in the centre of it all, Draco stood completely still.

Then he dropped to his knees.

Arthur felt the moment jolt through him.

Draco knelt in the churned mud, head bowed, his wand laid gently at his side. His pale hair caught the moonlight, but his face looked hollow—drawn by more than exhaustion. Shadows clung to him, the kind that came from long nights and longer regrets.

“I…” Draco began, voice barely audible. “What I said—about Potter. About your family. I didn’t mean it.”

The words fell into the quiet like stones in still water. No one moved.

“I was angry. I didn’t know who I was or what I believed. But that doesn’t excuse it.” His throat worked around the next words. “I need you to know I’m sorry. For all of it. For what my family’s done to yours.”

Arthur looked to Molly. Her mouth was pressed in a thin line, her eyes wet, but not angry. Something else. Grief, maybe. Or recognition.

Draco looked up, eyes locking with Arthur’s. “I know I don’t deserve it. But I want to change. I want to make it right—whatever that takes. I’ll do anything.”

Silence stretched. Then Arthur stepped forward and laid a hand—firm, weathered, kind—on Draco’s shoulder.

“Son,” he said quietly, “sometimes the hardest thing is asking for forgiveness. And sometimes, it’s the only thing worth doing.”

Draco stared at him, startled.

Molly stepped up beside her husband. Her voice was soft. “We’ve all lost too much. Maybe it’s time to stop keeping score.”

Draco’s lips parted, then closed. A tremor passed through him. Slowly, he nodded.

“I’ll do better,” he said. The words were simple, but his voice shook.

A small, uncertain smile flickered across his face—fragile, but real.

And suddenly, the forest didn’t feel so cold.

A voice piped up from the back, wry and unmistakable.

“I always figured you’d be a stuck-up ferret forever,” George said, his voice thin but amused. “But I’ll admit… Good to see you’ve pulled your head out.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the clearing. Tired, warm, real. It didn’t chase the grief away, not entirely. But it made room for something else—something softer.

Hope.

Molly turned sharply, levelling a half-hearted glare at George, her maternal instincts flaring on reflex. But it melted almost instantly. A reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

“That’s enough, George,” she said, trying for stern but landing squarely on fond.

George, naturally, was undeterred. He stepped forward, his grin crooked, his shoulders squared like he was about to deliver a punchline.

“No, really. If he hadn’t turned things around, I’d have had to resort to drastic measures. And we both know how terrifying I am when I get creative.”

A few people chuckled. Someone muttered, “Too right,” and another round of laughter followed.

Draco shifted, uneasy. He was surrounded now not by wands but by voices—voices that once would have mocked him, or feared him, or written him off entirely. Now they stood close, arms crossed in amusement, not defence. Somehow, that felt more dangerous.

“I wouldn’t dream of getting on your bad side,” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard. “Believe me—my past is already littered with terrifying encounters.”

“‘Terrifying encounters’, is it?” Bill said with a chuckle, his long hair catching the moonlight. He shot Draco a wry look. “That’s rich, coming from the bloke who just helped trap half a dozen Death Eaters.”

More laughter—this time warm. Not mockery, but camaraderie. The laughter of people who’d survived something.

Ernie Macmillan stepped forward next, his face earnest beneath his sandy hair.

“Honestly, with twenty of us working together, any attacker would’ve been mad to try anything.”

“You’re not wrong,” piped up Hannah Abbott, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “You’d have to be completely daft to go up against this lot.”

Another ripple of laughter. Even Draco managed a faint, reluctant smile. But his eyes dropped quickly to the ground. It was still hard to look at them—these people who had fought for something he hadn’t believed in. Who now stood beside him not because they had to, but because they chose to.

It was baffling. And, in a strange way… comforting.

Arthur raised a hand. The laughter ebbed to a hush.

His face was thoughtful, lined not only by age but also by months of grief and sleepless nights spent hoping—not expecting—for something to change.

“So,” he said, quiet but clear, “how did this all come about?”

Draco opened his mouth, but no words came.

Kingsley stepped forward before he had to try. His voice carried calm authority, cutting through the silence like a steady current.

“It was Draco’s plan,” he said simply. “Start to finish.”

Draco exhaled, some of the weight loosening from his shoulders just hearing it spoken aloud by someone else.

Kingsley went on, his tone respectful. “He believed it was the only proper way to repay his life debt to Harry.”

Arthur blinked. “Didn’t you already repay that?” he asked, turning to Draco. “You told Harry about the cave in Ireland. You saved his life.”

Draco nodded slowly. “I did. That was supposed to be enough.” His voice dipped lower. “But… it didn’t feel like it. Potter risked everything for me. And when I heard George had been taken—”

His gaze flicked to George. “I couldn’t stand by. Not again. Not this time. It wasn’t just for Harry anymore. It was for all of you.”

A silence followed—not tense, but weighty. The kind that came with understanding.

Arthur studied him. Not the boy who once sneered from across the Great Hall, but the young man now standing still, spine straight, voice clear. There was guilt there—yes—but also purpose.

He wasn’t performing.

He was trying.

Kingsley spoke again. “As part of his probation, Draco reports to the Ministry daily. When he found out what happened to George, he came to me first. By the time we met at the office, he’d already begun organising the response.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “And why was I left in the dark?”

Kingsley didn’t flinch. “Because of your reaction,” he said simply. “We needed it to be real. You had to grieve, to rage, and to panic. Yaxley needed to believe he’d broken you. That belief was our opening.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. For a long beat, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he gave a single nod. “I suppose I can’t argue with the results.”

Kingsley inclined his head. “We brought in Dumbledore’s Army. Draco gave us a list—those he believed would still answer the call. Neville was already at St Mungo’s when the news broke. He passed the word.”

Draco lifted a hand with a faint chuckle. “Yaxley only agreed to the Forbidden Forest because I suggested it. Said it’d be poetic or something.”

The DA behind him burst into laughter.

“Was I really that convincing?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not even a little,” George, Bill, and Percy said in unison.

Kingsley raised a hand, though his smile betrayed the same weariness they all carried. “Focus. The centaurs helped seal the perimeter. They know these woods better than anyone. Draco’s anti-Disapparition wards did the rest. Once Yaxley walked in, there was no walking out.”

Angelina shivered. “I’ll never get used to how dangerous these woods are.”

George reached for her hand without a word. “No one should.”

Kingsley nodded. “When the Death Eaters started gathering, Seamus sent the signal through the coins—the same ones they used in the war.” He pulled one from his pocket, holding it up for Arthur to see. “Simple. Efficient. Untraceable.”

Arthur took the coin, turning it over in his fingers. “Remarkable,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Parvati stepped forward, her voice steady. “They were Hermione’s idea. During those Dumbledore’s Army practices. She thought we’d need a way to stay connected, even when everything else fell apart.”

A brief hush followed, thick with the weight of shared memory.

Kingsley broke it. “The plan was for Slughorn to intervene just before Yaxley crossed a line. Timing was everything… and we had to hope for a bit of luck.”

He tried to smile, but it faltered. Even now, after the victory, the memory clung to them like smoke.

Slughorn gave a theatrical bow, his robes swishing dramatically. “Let’s just say it was the performance of a lifetime,” he sniffed. “I haven’t wept like that since Celestina Warbeck cancelled her Yule concert in ’73.”

But his eyes were red-rimmed. His voice wavered beneath the bluster.

Arthur’s jaw clenched. Unbidden, the memory surged—Harry’s body on the forest floor, Slughorn’s grief like a funeral bell, the numb dread that hollowed him out from the inside. He hadn’t known it was staged. That moment had carved itself into his bones.

Kingsley turned back to him, voice quieter now. “We couldn’t risk you knowing. We needed Yaxley to believe it. He had to see your grief… hear Horace crying…”

Arthur closed his eyes for a beat, breath shaking. “I can’t describe what it felt like. Seeing Harry again. Alive.”

He looked up, voice hoarse.

“My heart was ready to shatter.”

“You were brilliant, Professor,” Percy said, stepping forward. His voice, usually crisp and clipped, was softened now—reverent. “The way you delivered it… even I believed you.”

“Terrified, I was,” Hagrid rumbled, his voice thick with fatigue. He rubbed his eyes with one massive hand. “Thought he was gone. Nearly lost me mind.”

A hush settled again. Even a staged grief had weight—left its own bruises.

Then Molly’s voice cut through it. “Where’s Harry?”

Her eyes swept the clearing, her heart beginning to race. In the distance—just beyond the Aurors—she saw him. Or thought she did. Kneeling by a group of restrained Death Eaters, inspecting their wands with detachment, like pieces of a puzzle he wasn’t quite sure how to solve.

“There you are!” she cried, already moving. In a few swift steps, she reached him and pulled him into her arms—tight, trembling, as though touch alone could anchor him.

Arthur followed more slowly, his face worn but hopeful. “Harry,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “We’re so glad you’re alright.”

He searched the boy’s face for something—anything—familiar. But what met him was… off. Not wrong. Just distant. Guarded.

Harry didn’t return the embrace. He shifted, stiff and uncertain.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Weasley, but—”

Molly pulled back, concern flaring. “What is it, dear? What’s wrong?”

Before he could answer, Kingsley checked his watch. His brow creased.

“Time’s up,” he said, quiet but grim.

Arthur turned sharply, every nerve going taut. “Time’s up? What do you mean, time’s up?”

The words hung in the air, dissonant, chilling.

Silence fell like a thunderclap. All eyes turned to Kingsley.

Arthur looked back to Molly—still holding Harry close—and his breath caught.

The clothes. The glasses. The stance.

But the face…

His stomach dropped.

“…Neville?” He breathed, stumbling backward as recognition struck like a blow.