FicWad

The news spread through the trees like wildfire.

A single voice carried it—thin, shrill, laced with cruel delight. It rang across the forest, slicing through the hush of night, and in its wake came silence—not the soft quiet of peace, but something brittle and broken. Even the leaves seemed still, as though nature itself recoiled.

High above, the stars glittered coldly, unmoved by the devastation unfolding below.

Arthur did not move.

He remained where he was—half-seated against the gnarled roots of a tree, limbs heavy, chest tight, heart labouring in slow, stunned beats. Each thump echoed within him, a dull reminder that he still lived when another had not.

From where he sat, the clearing below was still visible: a hollow ringed in shadow, silver-lit, solemn.

In the centre of it all, Hagrid collapsed.

The half-giant crumpled to his knees with a groan that shook the earth beneath him, as though the world itself mourned through him. His great shoulders heaved, racked with sobs that seemed too large, too raw to come from a living being. He reached out a trembling hand, massive fingers brushing the boy’s unmoving face.

“Yeh told me,” he whispered, his voice unrecognisable—splintered and hoarse. “Yeh told me you’d come back this time…”

His hand hovered there, hanging in the space between belief and truth, and then slowly, almost reverently, it fell away. Even Hagrid, for all his strength, could not bear to hold what had once been Harry.

Arthur’s breath caught.

The sight of it—the quiet, terrible tenderness of a giant brought low by grief—was enough to undo him.

Tears welled in his eyes. They caught the starlight as they fell, but they were more than grief. Beneath the sorrow lay something more dangerous—older. Regret. Guilt.

He thought of the mornings Harry had sat at his kitchen table, quiet and polite, always listening. He remembered the boy’s worried frown when George’s ear was cursed off, the protectiveness that had shone in him when Ron was hurt, the laughter he’d shared with Fred and George, and the way he had become a brother without asking to be one.

Not a guest.

Family.

And now—gone.

Hagrid reached forward again, hands unsteady, and drew the blanket up over Harry’s face. The movement was slow. Purposeful. Not to hide, but to honour. A final act of care from the man who had first carried Harry into this world of magic—and now carried him out of it.

Arthur’s limbs refused to move. He felt as though he were being buried beneath the weight of it all. His grief was not loud. It had settled across his shoulders like a yoke, wordless and heavy. It pressed him down and held him still.

“I should have been there,” he whispered.

The forest took his words without answer.

A short distance away, Molly was weeping, but not with the violent cries of earlier. Her sobs had turned inward—deep and trembling, barely audible. Her hands covered her face as if to block out the world. Arthur heard each breath as it fractured in her throat. He should have gone to her. Held her. But he couldn’t. The grief had rooted him to the ground.

Then came laughter again.

Low. Harsh. Cruel.

It rolled in from the dark edges of the clearing, a sound no less obscene for its softness. The Death Eaters. They had begun to enjoy themselves.

Arthur didn’t turn his head. He knew what they looked like: sneering mouths, gleaming teeth, eyes alight with malice. They were revelling in it. In Harry’s death. In the agony it had wrought. This wasn’t grief to them. It was a triumph. It was sport.

Their laughter tainted the air.

It curled through the clearing like poison, staining everything it touched.

Arthur’s jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists.

A little further off, Slughorn remained on his knees, silent. He looked reduced—his fine robes torn and muddied, his hair plastered to his scalp with sweat and tears. He stared at the ground as though it held all the answers he had failed to find in life.

His hands—once so precise in their careful pouring of elixirs and draughts—were stained, useless. His face bore the grey hue of one who had seen too much, lost too much, and now sat hollow amidst the pieces.

Arthur looked at him.

And saw himself.

He remembered Shell Cottage. The careful plans. The protection spells they had risked so much to cast. The decisions he had made. The ones he hadn’t. Each one echoed now, terrible in hindsight.

Had they been wrong?

Had he failed?

His vision blurred.

His thoughts turned to his children—Ginny and Ron—and to Hermione, so often alongside them. Where were they now? Had they seen what had happened? Had they survived?

Were they—

No. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. The pain helped. He breathed.

“They’re not dead,” he told himself aloud, though the words came out in a whisper. “They can’t be.”

But doubt had already crept in.

The forest gave no reply.

The only answer was more laughter—cruder now, a triumphant chant taken up by cruel voices.

And then—cutting through grief, through silence, through the fragile stillness that had settled over the clearing—Yaxley’s voice rang out.

“What a magnificent evening it’s turned out to be!” he called, the words ringing false with their theatrical cheer, his tone pitched as if to toast a victory at a Ministry banquet. He stepped into view, boots crunching against the earth, his robes impeccable, gleaming in the pale light that filtered through the trees. His grin caught the moonlight, toothy and triumphant. “At long last… the Boy Who Lived is dead!”

The clearing recoiled.

The air, which had felt breathless with mourning, seemed to draw back upon itself—tightened, coiled. Behind Yaxley, laughter erupted, cruel and jagged, rising from the ranks of shadowed Death Eaters who clustered at the edge of the trees, drunk on the spectacle. Their jeers sliced through the dark.

Arthur did not move.

His eyes were fixed ahead, unfocused, unblinking. His body remained rigid where it sat, but something deep within had shifted. They were celebrating. Cheering a boy’s death. Applauding the extinguishing of a light they could never hope to understand. And somewhere beyond the sorrow, past the tremors of guilt, there was something else.

It began as a flicker.

Then a spark.

Then flame.

He did not yet know what he would do. But he knew, with absolute certainty, what he would not do.

He would not sit idle while they desecrated Harry’s memory.

His fists clenched, nails digging crescent wounds into his palms, and for the first time since the cry had shattered the trees, he felt heat in his chest. A fury as old and enduring as fatherhood itself. Let them laugh,he thought. Let them think it was over.

It wasn’t.

Yaxley strolled further into the clearing with the measured arrogance of a man convinced of his own invincibility. He turned in a slow circle, as if appraising a crowd at a gala. His gaze settled on Slughorn, who still knelt beside the shrouded figure in the centre of it all, bowed and unmoving.

Yaxley’s lip curled.

“This is the moment I’ve been waiting for,” he purred, his voice syrupy with false civility. “All that prophecy, all that defiance… and in the end, Potter collapsed like any other child.”

He gave a theatrical sigh and cocked his head at Slughorn.

“Though I expected a bit more of a performance from you, Professor. All those years cultivating favourites, and this is your grand finale? A weepy collapse in the dirt?”

Silence.

Even the Death Eaters hesitated.

And then—

A sound.

Low. Rough. Trembling.

Hagrid was rising.

He pushed himself to his feet with slow, deliberate weight, towering over the others, his eyes shining not with tears now, but with a fury that burnt red behind them. His arms hung at his sides, fists clenched, great hands shaking.

“I’d think real carefully before finishin’ that sentence,” Hagrid said, his voice shaking with the effort of restraint. “Yeh don’t speak his name.”

Yaxley gave a dry chuckle, unaffected.

“Touching,” he said lightly, eyes glittering with malice. “You always were sentimental, weren’t you, half-breed?”

Arthur could feel his own breath quickening. The air had taken on a charge now. Every heartbeat echoed with it.

Yaxley turned to the crowd behind him, spreading his arms wide, his tone turning theatrical.

“So… what do we do with him now?”

He faced the body once more, tilting his head as if admiring a sculpture. The shrouded figure was still—utterly still.

He smiled.

“Shall we honour the Dark Lord’s legacy?” he asked softly. “He did have a particular flair the last time the boy died here. Perhaps a few of his favourite amusements?”

The words hung, cold and dreadful, in the air.

Arthur inhaled sharply.

He turned to glance at his family. Molly was frozen, one hand covering her mouth. Percy stared, face drained of colour. Bill’s jaw was so tight it trembled.

And Hagrid—Hagrid had understood.

Arthur saw it in his face. That flicker of something beyond grief. The blood had drained from his cheeks. His eyes widened. His breath came fast and shallow.

“Don’t yeh touch him!” Hagrid bellowed suddenly, his voice cracking like a whip across the clearing. “He’s—Harry’s—” The name faltered. Broke.

But he didn’t need to say more.

The anguish in his voice said it all.

Yaxley’s expression twisted with amusement.

“Oh, come now, really,” he drawled, stepping closer. “You wouldn’t deny us a little entertainment, would you? He’s barely more than a shell now. He wouldn’t feel a thing.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, smiling as though he’d shared a clever joke. “Might even make him dance, if the spell’s cast just right.”

The Death Eaters laughed. Not with joy. There was no warmth in the sound. Only venom. Malice. Madness.

Arthur felt the bile rise in his throat.

It wasn’t grief anymore. It was sacrilege.

This wasn’t war. It was corruption. Profanation. They weren’t just gloating—they were mocking a life, desecrating a sacrifice.

Then another voice.

“Shall we toss him around a bit?” came Rookwood, stepping forward with a sneer. “See if the ‘Chosen One’ holds together or comes apart like the fairy tale he was?”

Laughter again—louder, sharper, uglier.

And then—

“Enough!”

The shout cracked across the clearing, sharp and sudden, cutting clean through the rising tension.

It was Percy.

He stepped forward, shoulders squared, fists clenched at his sides. His face was drawn and pale, but his eyes—his eyes burnt. There was fury in them, but something else too: a raw, keen grief.

“You’ve got what you came for,” he said, his voice hoarse from shouting, from everything he had seen and lost. “So leave him alone.”

The words struck the silence like sparks flung from a dying fire.

The Weasleys moved in, drawn as though by instinct, rallying around one another. They were battered, bruised, and exhausted to the marrow—but still standing. Still defiant.

George was leaning against the wide trunk of a beech tree, one arm curled protectively around his ribs, his shirt torn and darkened with blood. His face was half-shadowed, the wound beneath the ragged bandage on his head long dried. And yet when he looked at Yaxley, his stare held none of the weariness that burdened the rest of him.

There was no tremor in his voice when he spoke.

“Is that what victory looks like to you?” he asked quietly. “Mocking the dead? Is that the only way you lot can feel powerful? By defiling someone braver than you’ll ever be?”

There was a weight behind his words—not loud, but cutting all the same. It wasn’t rage that fuelled them, nor theatrical bravado. It was clarity. Cold, clear contempt.

For the first time, the jeering behind Yaxley began to falter. The laughter thinned. Even among the Death Eaters, the mood shifted slightly—as though George had reminded them they were being watched, even now.

Arthur felt something shift inside his chest.

It wasn’t grief this time, nor rage, nor even the helplessness that had gnawed at him since they’d stumbled into the Forbidden Forest. No, this was different.

It was pride.

George—his son—had lost almost everything. His twin. His ear. His peace of mind. But he was still here. Still standing. Still speaking truth into the darkness.

Yaxley’s smile widened, slow and sinister, as he turned fully to face George. There was something predatory in his expression now—mocking, but with a flicker of delight. His voice dropped into something oily and low.

“Ah, yes. I remember our last chat. Such fun we had. A flick of Imperius here, a dash of Cruciatus there. All those lovely little toys to choose from…” He gave a soft laugh. “Pity your precious Potter won’t be with us long enough to sample them again.”

A murmur passed through the line of black-robed figures behind him. Low and eager. Wands shifted. Shoulders rolled in readiness. There was hunger in their eyes.

“Shall we begin, then?” came Macnair’s gravelled voice. He stepped forward, dragging his wand slowly through the air, his mouth curling into a grotesque smile. “Let’s give them something to remember us by.”

“Get away from him!”

The bellow shook the trees.

Hagrid had moved, stepping forward with hands curled into fists as large as cauldrons, trembling with the effort of restraint. His enormous chest heaved. Grief was carved deep into the lines of his face, but beneath it was a heat rising—dangerous and vast.

“Yeh touch him—you touch him—and I swear I’ll—”

But his voice faltered. The words crumbled before he could finish. The pain caught in his throat like a choke chain. He stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes blazing and wet.

Yaxley laughed again—softly this time, taunting.

“Oh, I do enjoy it when the half-breeds bark,” he said, voice syrupy with malice. “Shall I prod a little harder? Will you come galloping in for your precious little saviour? All muscle and mudblood sentiment?”

The tension stretched taut.

The clearing had grown still—not quiet, not truly, but breathless. Every eye was fixed, every wand ready, every body on the cusp of movement. Arthur could feel it—that moment. The one just before something breaks.

Logic whispered restraint.

But fury pulled harder now.

And then—

“You vile creature!”

Molly.

Her voice rang out, shrill with fury, cutting straight through the spell of tension. She surged forward, her arm wrenched back by Bill, who held her in place with both hands. She struggled, wild with rage, her face blotched with tears.

“You think this is a triumph? Standing over a boy you couldn’t break while he lived? You think tormenting the dead makes you strong?” Her voice cracked, splintering like ice beneath the weight of grief. “You’re nothing but rot—foul, cowardly rot. Harry Potter was more of a man at seventeen than you’ll be if you live to see a hundred.”

Arthur stared at her. She was incandescent—burning with a mother’s grief, with love too deep to bear. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her hair tangled, and her wand clutched so tightly her knuckles were white. And yet she stood as she always had—between her family and the dark.

Yaxley didn’t even flinch. He only spread his arms wider, as though receiving applause.

“Then by all means,” he said, a twisted cheer in his tone, “let’s begin.”

Overhead, the trees shuddered. Branches groaned. A wind—or something far more ancient—twisted through the canopy. Shadows rippled across the clearing.

Arthur knew that feeling.

It was the breathless pause before lightning strikes.

But then—

“This isn’t the time.”

The voice was calm. Cool. Unmistakable.

Heads turned.

At the edge of the clearing, half-swallowed by shadow, stood Draco.

He didn’t move forward. Didn’t raise his wand. He stood still, arms crossed, face unreadable. But his voice cut through the gathering storm with quiet certainty.

“This isn’t the time.”

Yaxley turned, slowly, and his smile faltered. “Oh, but it is,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “This is exactly the time. Look around you, Draco. Look what we’ve won.” He gestured grandly toward Harry’s still form. “Potter’s finished. This is our moment.”

His voice dropped to a snarl. “You should be celebrating. Or are you too delicate to take part?”

Draco held his ground. His chin lifted a fraction.

“You think I haven’t waited for this?” he said, his voice level, emotionless. “I’ve waited years. But this—” he gestured toward the ring of jeering, twisted figures “—this isn’t justice. It’s theatre. Ugly, cowardly theatre.”

Something flickered across Yaxley’s face—a split-second faltering of his grin, as though something sour had crept across his tongue. Disgust curled his lip.

“What’s holding you back, then?” He sneered, teeth bared. “Pity?”

Draco didn’t answer at once. He stepped out from beneath the shadow of the trees, his movement measured and unhurried. His eyes flicked from face to face—the Weasleys, bloodied and hunched protectively near Harry’s body; Hagrid, unmoving save for the shudder of his shoulders; Slughorn, still slumped behind a moss-covered root, ominously still. Finally, his gaze settled back on Yaxley.

“If your aim is humiliation,” Draco said, his voice stripped of emotion, “then do it properly. March him through Diagon Alley. Chain him up on the Ministry steps. Make your little spectacle where someone might actually care to watch.”

He paused. And then, with quiet precision, he added, “But not here.”

The clearing fell quiet.

“Not like this,” he finished.

There was a sharp intake of breath beside Arthur, and he turned just in time to see Molly freeze. Her hands dropped from her face, trembling fingers curling slowly into fists. Her eyes blazed with fury as she stared at Draco, her voice rasping with venom.

“You poisonous little snake,” she spat, her voice taut and trembling. “How dare you speak of dragging his body through the streets? Is that what you are now? Just another coward with a wand and no soul?”

Yaxley gave a dramatic roll of his eyes and turned away, seemingly bored. But Draco didn’t flinch. His eyes didn’t leave Yaxley.

“You want to make a statement?” Draco said evenly. “Then make one. But don’t slink about in the shadows muttering threats to trees. Do it in the daylight, in front of everyone. Unless”—he glanced briefly at the Weasleys, a flicker of bitterness in his voice—“this is the audience you had in mind.”

There was a stir among the Death Eaters. Irritation. Restlessness. The performance had begun to sour. The attention had shifted. Whatever script they’d been following was slipping away from them.

Arthur rose slowly to his feet. His limbs ached, his ribs felt cracked, and blood had dried along his temple. But his voice, when it came, was steady.

“After everything he did for you?” he said. “After every chance he gave you—after saving your life, this is your repayment?”

Draco’s jaw tightened. His features twisted, just slightly.

“I did repay him,” he snapped. “He’s dead. There’s nothing left to owe.”

And with a sharp flick of his wand, there was a sudden rush of wind and power—silent, but felt. Arthur staggered back a step, gasping, as the invisible bonds holding him vanished all at once. A heartbeat later, a rush of motion—four wands flew through the air, hurtling back to the Weasleys: Arthur’s, Molly’s, Bill’s, and Percy’s—each one landing neatly into open, shaking hands.

Arthur drew in a breath that felt like it reached the bottom of his soul. But it wasn’t relief that followed. It was weightier now, sharper.

The weight of choice. Of cost. Of Harry.

“You think we’ll just walk away?” Molly whispered. Her fire had not gone out but had sunk lower, beneath layers of loss. Her voice shook now, not with rage—but with sorrow that threatened to swallow her whole. “You expect us to leave him? Abandon him to them?”

“No!” Hagrid thundered, taking a step forward, shoulders hunched and fists clenched. Grief and rage burnt together in him now, wild and enormous. “If we’re leavin’, we’re takin’ Harry. I’ll carry him meself if I have ter. But he’s not stayin’ here.”

Draco’s mask slipped for the first time. His wand raised, trembling. His voice rose, desperate.

“Are you all deaf?” he shouted. “It’s over! He’s gone! Take your wounded and go!”

There was something raw beneath the words—fear, yes. But something else too. Not mockery. Not even contempt.

Guilt.

Arthur saw it, plain as day, and it knocked the breath out of him.

Then—

“Enough!”

The voice came from behind, sharp and unexpectedly firm. Slughorn.

He’d staggered upright, his face flushed and wet with sweat. But he pushed forward, his wand raised and voice clear, gaze fixed not on the Death Eaters but on the Weasleys.

“You’re not thinking!” he snapped. “You’ve got to go—now. George is alive! Bill—Percy—all of you—you must go! Harry wouldn’t want you to stay and die for him. He’d want you safe!”

The clearing went still again.

Even Molly hesitated, her hand fluttering to her mouth. Arthur reached for her instinctively, his hand resting on her shoulder to steady them both. He didn’t speak.

Behind them, Yaxley began to clap—slowly, sarcastically.

“Well,” he drawled, his smile slithering back into place. “At last—a voice of reason. Go on then. Take your wounded. Weep for your little martyr. Leave the forest to those who understand what victory means.”

He stepped closer, his tone darkening, venom leaking into every word.

“Unless, of course… You’d prefer to lie beside him.”

Arthur’s stomach turned. His hand clenched around his wand.

Bill’s voice cracked through the stillness.

“What about Harry?”

He was pale and trembling, his eyes bright with something sharp and terrible. “We can’t leave him here.”

Arthur turned to him, and what he saw in his son’s eyes mirrored everything he felt in his own: agony, disbelief, and the quiet, screaming refusal to accept what was happening.

They’d fought beside him. Watched him grow. Watched him lead.

Harry Potter.

Not just the Boy Who Lived. Not some headline or symbol or prophecy fulfilled.

Family.

Draco stood at the heart of it all, wand aloft, his posture stiff but unwavering. His face was drawn—white about the edges, eyes rimmed with weariness—but there was a steeliness there too, something sharpened by what he’d seen and done. The magic hanging around him was tense and crackling, brittle with restrained force, as though the very air knew how close it had come to tearing.

With a small, practised flick of his wand, George’s body rose from the forest floor. His limbs hung oddly at first, uncoordinated—like a puppet strung too hastily—but he managed to stagger upright. He took a lurching step forward, knees trembling, the sheer force of his will dragging him through those last few feet of agony.

Arthur’s breath caught.

He saw them emerge from the shadows like a slow-moving funeral march: Slughorn at the front, robes torn, face pale beneath the flickering wandlight, arms cradling the limp form of Harry Potter as if he were no heavier than a child. Harry’s head lolled gently against his shoulder, his hair soaked with sweat, his limbs unmoving, and his mouth slightly open. There was a serenity about his face—still and pale in a way that made Arthur’s stomach lurch.

Behind them, trailing like scavengers, came the others—Draco, his wand still raised; Yaxley, his expression gleaming with triumph; and Rookwood and Macnair slinking in their wake, their eyes glittering in the gloom.

“Horace—please—” Molly’s voice, frayed and fragile, barely more than breath, trembled as she stepped into their path. “Don’t give him to them. Not Harry. Please, not like this.”

Slughorn didn’t look at her. His steps did not slow.

“I have no choice,” he said quietly. The words dropped with a finality that made Arthur flinch. “He’s gone. Harry is—he’s gone. But George—he’s alive. And if we move now, he might yet stay that way.”

“No!” Arthur’s voice cracked, hoarse with grief. He surged forward, but not with anger—with pleading. “Not this way, Horace. Don’t make it this.”

Molly’s hand found his, her grip fierce despite her shaking. They stood side by side, backs straight, tethered to one another by love and loss and memory. The remnants of everything that mattered.

Slughorn hesitated.

Just a flicker—a moment’s pause in his step. One foot didn’t fall where it was meant to.

Arthur’s eyes dropped to the body in his arms.

Harry’s fringe had fallen forward, matted and soaked. His face was too still. Too calm. Every inch of him wrong in its stillness.

There had to be another way.

There had to be.

Choosing one child over another—Voldemort hadn’t even forced that upon them, not truly. And yet here they stood, inches away from that impossible line.

Arthur’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Horace,” he said. “Don’t make us leave him.”

Silence.

Molly’s quiet sobs carried softly through the trees. Behind her, Hagrid stood unmoving, his expression hollow and unreadable. Bill stood just beside him, pale as bone, and Percy had turned his face away entirely, as though looking directly at Harry would shatter what little control he had left.

And then Slughorn took another step forward.

Not towards safety.

Towards Draco.

Yaxley’s mouth twisted into a leer, wand twitching in anticipation.

And then—

“NOW!”

Draco’s voice tore through the stillness.

The clearing exploded into motion.

Figures burst from the tree line—Aurors and allies and members of the Order—wands drawn, spells flying in every direction. Brilliant jets of red and silver and gold lit the woods, turning the shadows into searing light. Screams rang out. Branches splintered. The ground heaved beneath their feet.

Arthur didn’t hesitate. His instincts took over.

Draco seized George by the arm and thrust him forward—straight into Arthur’s path. George collapsed again, groaning, and Arthur caught him before he hit the ground, one arm wrapped around his chest. Molly was there in a heartbeat, both of them holding him as if by touch alone they could anchor him to the world.

Sparks erupted overhead. Somewhere to the left, a wand clattered uselessly to the ground. A Death Eater howled.

And then—Harry moved.

Arthur turned, heart leaping wildly. It couldn’t be—

But it was.

Harry’s head jerked up. His feet found the ground with sudden strength. He stood tall, wand already in hand, eyes ablaze with fury and clarity.

Not just alive.

Awake.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry shouted.

The spell tore through the air, striking Yaxley squarely in the chest. The man staggered back with a howl, his wand flung from his hand. He landed hard, snarling.

Arthur could scarcely breathe. It wasn’t a miracle. It wasn’t some enchanted twist of fate.

It was Harry.

It had always been Harry.

And somehow, against every unimaginable odd, he was still standing.

“I’ll handle this!” Draco barked, the command sharp and crisp.

He raised his wand again, voice firm. “Accio wands!”

A flurry of motion—the air thrummed as wands tore themselves from Death Eaters’ hands, spinning through the clearing in a deadly arc. Draco caught them mid-air with precise, practised flicks of his wrist.

All but one.

Yaxley dove—scrabbling across the dirt like a wild thing—and snatched his own wand just before it could be pulled from his grasp. He crouched low, teeth bared.

“Stupefy!”

Draco’s spell struck Macnair full in the chest. The brute flew backwards into a thick tree trunk, collapsing with a grunt. His wand tumbled to the earth and lay still.

The clearing had become a battlefield—light and noise and motion—but through it all, Arthur saw it. Clear as day.

Hope.

Not distant. Not faint.

Here. Present. Blazing.

Just like Harry.

Draco moved through the chaos with quiet efficiency, his spells clean and economical. No flourish. No bravado. Every movement purposeful. Every strike calculated.

It was not a boy that fought before them now.

Arthur watched, stunned, as Draco stunned another attacker without breaking stride, his eyes always scanning—never hesitating.

He reached the group, face drawn but resolute.

“There aren’t many left,” he said shortly. “I took out most. But there are still some deeper in the woods. It’s not over yet.”

Arthur’s hand clenched around his wand. The feel of it in his palm felt right again—solid and certain. He looked to Harry and then to Draco.

And he didn’t know which astonished him more.

He turned. Caught Bill’s eye. Then Percy’s.

He didn’t need to speak. The grief was still there. The ache. But underneath it now, coiled and waiting, was something else.

Vengeance.

Together, the three of them raised their wands.

There would be no surrender.

Not tonight.

The forest had come alive with fury.

Explosions of spells tore through the trees—blazing arcs of red and silver, green sparks bursting overhead, the bark scorched and leaves set alight. Shouts and screams rang out from every direction, human and inhuman, the chaos pressing close, suffocating in its violence.

Arthur ran, wand raised, heart hammering so loudly it drowned out everything but the surging need to move, defend, and survive.

Every flash of light lit up the woods in jolting glimpses—Percy’s face streaked with dirt, Bill ducking behind a fallen tree, a jet of blue light arcing past his head. A crackling hex scorched the earth beside Arthur’s boots, and he barely had time to throw himself sideways before another lit the air behind him.

But through the confusion, through the tangled cries and flickering light, one thought thrummed at the centre of Arthur’s mind, louder than the rest:

Harry is alive.

He’d seen it. Seen it.

Harry stood amidst the turmoil, wand in hand, magic coursing through him with unmistakable purpose. He hadn’t looked broken or feeble. He hadn’t looked like someone clinging to life. He’d looked—whole. Brilliant. Terrifyingly alive.

And yet…

He remembered Slughorn—arms wrapped around the boy’s limp frame, Harry’s head fallen forward, still and sweat-soaked. No movement. No flicker of breath.

So what changed?

Was it something buried in the moment? Some latent surge of power waiting for the right spark? Or had it all been a calculated misdirection—one final ruse to lure in the enemy?

He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“WATCH OUT!”

Bill’s voice tore through the din.

Arthur dropped instinctively, the heat of a curse grazing the air over his shoulder. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and had his wand already swinging into position.

Percy moved in front of him, swift and solid, a shield charm bursting to life. A red curse smashed against it with a crackle like lightning.

They were together. Fighting not just for survival, but with one another—sons and father, united in a way war often forged, cruelly and without permission.

Arthur turned his head, eyes scanning the melee.

Where was Draco? Where was Harry?

The two boys—no, not boys anymore—had vanished into the shadows. No trace remained but the churned-up soil where they’d stood moments before. A single broken branch dangled from a nearby pine, twitching as if still touched by their passing.

Arthur’s chest tightened. His breath caught.

Then—a scream.

Not one of pain, but fury.

“DRACO!”

He spun towards it.

Yaxley came stumbling out of the gloom, his long black coat torn, face smeared with blood, wand shaking violently in his grip. His breathing was ragged, every step a struggle. But his eyes—those were clear. Mad with rage. Burning with betrayal.

“You traitorous little—” Yaxley snarled, stopping just ahead, voice cracking with fury. “What have you DONE?!”

And then Draco stepped into the open.

There was no panic in him. No flinch, no urgency. He moved like someone who knew exactly where to be and when.

His wand dangled loosely at his side. Moonlight caught in his pale hair, throwing his features into sharp relief—aristocratic, unreadable.

“Oops,” he said mildly. “Did I do something wrong? I was only trying to help.”

There was something brittle and polished in his voice. A trace of mockery, cool and distant—but beneath it, Arthur caught something else. A subtle edge. Something sharpened.

Steel, where once there had been silk.

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

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Did I?”

“They were mine!” Yaxley spat. “My command! Do you think you can just slither out of this like it’s some bloody game?! I still have forces out here. Real ones. Loyal ones. They’ll tear you apart for this!”

Arthur tightened his grip on his wand, ready to act. But Draco remained still.

He didn’t speak at first. He merely tilted his head, as though listening to something far away. Then, with the faintest curl of a smile—thin-lipped and chilling—he said quietly:

“Do you?”

He nodded once.

“Have a look behind you.”

Arthur turned.

From the forest, figures began to emerge—shadows at first, vague and ghostlike beneath the trees. Hooded. Silent. For one awful moment, Arthur thought they were more Death Eaters, more darkness drawn to finish what the rest had failed to.

But they weren’t.

The hoods dropped.

They were ours.

Aurors in worn Ministry robes, half-covered in dirt and blood. Centaurs—tall and wild-eyed, bows already raised. And in their midst: young witches and wizards, barely past school age, but every inch warriors now. Dumbledore’s Army.

Angelina Johnson, her dreadlocks pulled back, her eyes shining with fury. Alicia Spinnet beside her, wand arm already raised. Katie Bell. Lee Jordan. Zacharias Smith. Even young Dennis Creevey—wand clenched tightly in both fists, eyes alight with purpose.

Arthur stared. His throat closed around a surge of emotion he hadn’t expected.

These were the children they’d once fretted over. Fed. Grounded. Taught to ride brooms. These were Fred and George’s mates, Ron’s allies, and Ginny’s comrades. They weren’t children now.

They were what remained.

Yaxley spun. He saw them. All of them.

And screamed.

It wasn’t a human sound. It tore from him, half-choked, a mixture of rage and horror.

Arthur didn’t flinch.

There was no fear left in him. Only pride—raw and immediate, scorching through his chest. This was what Voldemort could never understand. This was the reason they would never fall.

Draco’s voice rang out again—flat and precise:

“You’re too late. You missed your chance.”

Yaxley wheeled round to face him again.

Draco stepped forward now, voice calm and level.

“The moment we entered the clearing, your reserves were already being picked off. Quietly. Silently. Most of them didn’t even see it coming.”

Arthur blinked.

We.

His gaze flicked to Draco—no longer a boy fumbling in the dark, but something else entirely. Calculating. Prepared. There was a sharp intelligence behind those eyes now, honed not in books, but in war.

Had he laid the trap?

Yaxley clearly sensed it too. His face twisted.

“How?!” he spat. “How did you know?!”

Draco held his gaze for a beat, unblinking. Then he shrugged.

“I had a communicator,” he said simply. “Set for silent relay. Just in case things got messy.”

His eyes glittered.

“And they did.”

Arthur stood motionless.

The boy who’d once drawn sneers from the Gryffindor table—who’d mocked and schemed and sulked through Hogwarts corridors—had just outmanoeuvred one of Voldemort’s top commanders. Had saved George. Had saved Harry.

Possibly, had saved them all.

Arthur found he couldn’t look away.

There was one thought, one worry, that returned to him like a breath he’d forgotten to take.

He turned, scanning the woods again.

Where was Harry now?

Yaxley’s narrowed gaze didn’t leave Draco’s face. His suspicion was rising again, crawling over him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. “A communicator?” he echoed coldly, voice laced with disbelief. “Don’t lie to me. You never left my sight. I watched you. Every step. You never sent a single bloody message.”

Draco, infuriatingly unbothered, tipped his head to one side with that aristocratic composure that had once made Arthur want to shake the boy senseless. But there was something different now. Colder. Sharper.

“Naturally,” he replied, voice quiet and composed. “I made the plan after you abducted the Weasley boy. Quietly. While you were too busy basking in your own cleverness.”

A taut silence followed. Tension strung the clearing as if stretched on a wire.

“You never noticed,” Draco added, something close to pity in his voice. “You rarely do.”

Yaxley’s lips peeled back, fury twisting his features. He was accustomed to obedience, to fear. Not this.

Draco stepped forward then, and in his hand, raised just enough to catch the light, was a small coin—plain and round, the sort of thing no one would look at twice. Yet it glinted under the moonlight with quiet significance.

“Old trick,” Draco said. “Nothing fancy. A basic signal charm, passed hand to hand. No need for wand work, no bursts of magic to trace. Just enough to bring the right people to the right place… at the exact right time.”

Yaxley’s expression contorted into revulsion.

“I should’ve known,” he spat. “The Malfoys were always snakes. You never knew where your loyalties were. Spineless little—”

Draco’s eyes flickered, but his voice remained steady.

“And you were always arrogant. Always mistaking fear for respect.”

He advanced another step, his wand still lowered, but his presence unmistakably dangerous.

“You walked in here thinking you were clever. But you brought the wrong men, hid in the wrong forest, and sided with the wrong cause.”

Yaxley’s entire body quaked with rage now. His wand twitched in his grip, and the muscles in his jaw clenched with restrained violence.

“You’ll pay for this,” he hissed. “You think you’ve won? You haven’t. You’ve just delayed it. I’ll see to it myself. You’ll scream before the end. You’ll beg.”

Draco didn’t flinch.

“Do I look like someone who begs?”

The words weren’t shouted—they were quiet. Low. Chilling in their calmness.

“I’ve stood across from people far more dangerous than you. I’ve watched them fall. When you’re rotting in Azkaban, screaming in your cell, I’ll sleep just fine.”

The clearing was deathly still.

Then Yaxley raised his wand.

He moved quickly—clumsily, but fast—his fury making up for precision. A curse was already forming on his lips, something cruel and dark, when—

“Stupefy!”

The spell came swift, clean, and without hesitation.

A streak of red light burst through the trees and struck Yaxley square in the chest. His curse never left his mouth. He crumpled backwards, arms slack, wand flying from his hand. He hit the earth with a graceless thud.

Arthur spun, wand half-raised.

And froze.

Harry was stepping forward from the shadows, wand still extended. His hair was windswept, his robes scorched and damp with sweat, but his eyes were steady and fierce beneath the grime.

He was older now. Not just in age, but in bearing. There was no hesitation in him. No boyishness. Just purpose.

“Nice timing,” Draco said, glancing briefly down at Yaxley before turning to Harry with the faintest of nods.

He crouched beside the unconscious Death Eater and shook his head.

“Piece of advice,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Next time, pick your friends with a little more care.”

There wasn’t time for a reply.

Aurors swept into the clearing moments later—robes whipping around them, spells lighting the air. They moved quickly, wordlessly, disarming the last few stragglers, binding them where they fell. There was no mercy in it—just efficiency. Routine.

The centaurs had vanished, their silence as abrupt as their arrival. The skirmish had ended.

In its wake, only breath and heartbeat remained.

And then Draco… dropped.

Without warning, he sank to his knees in the mud. His wand fell from his fingers and landed softly beside him.

Arthur felt something twist in his chest.

Draco’s pale head was bowed. His shoulders, rigid until now, hunched slightly. The proud lines of his face looked worn. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from running or fighting—but from enduring.

He looked—emptied.

“I…” Draco began, barely audible over the breeze. “What I said. About Potter. About your family…”

He trailed off, voice thin. He raised his eyes, and when they met Arthur’s, they didn’t carry malice. Or even pride.

Only remorse.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, forcing the words out. “Back then. I was angry. I didn’t know who I was or what I believed. And that doesn’t excuse it, I know. But I need you to hear me—I’m sorry. For all of it. For what my family’s done. What I did.”

The words fell into the silence. Arthur could feel the tension shift—feel eyes on Draco, waiting.

“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness,” Draco said quietly. “I know I never will. But I want to be better. I want to do better. Whatever that means. However long it takes. I’ll earn it. Or I’ll die trying.”

He looked down again, his shoulders trembling faintly.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Arthur stepped forward, his boots squelching softly in the mud. He stopped in front of Draco and laid a firm hand on the young man’s shoulder. It was rough from years of work, the touch strong and steady.

“Son,” Arthur said gently, “sometimes the hardest thing in the world is asking for forgiveness. But it’s also the bravest.”

Draco looked up, eyes wide, the vulnerability in his face raw and unguarded.

“And sometimes,” Arthur continued, “it’s the only thing worth doing.”

Molly appeared beside him, her face drawn but soft. Her voice came as a quiet balm.

“We’ve all lost too much,” she said. “And if we keep tallying who hurt whom, we’ll never stop losing. Maybe it’s time to stop keeping score.”

Draco didn’t answer at once. His mouth opened, then closed again. A tremor passed through him—brief but unmistakable.

Then he nodded.

It was small. But it was real.

“I’ll do better,” he said at last.

From somewhere near the back of the clearing came a voice—wry, unmistakable, and just a little cracked at the edges.

“I always figured you’d be a stuck-up ferret forever.”

A few people turned at once, startled—but it was George, of course, standing there with his arms folded and an irrepressible grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.

He looked thinner than usual, pale under the moonlight, and there was a faint tremble in the way he stood. But the mischief in his eyes—though tempered—was unmistakable.

He went on, his voice thinning as though it had been held in too long. “But I’ll admit… Good to see you’ve finally pulled your head out. Was starting to think it might be permanent.”

There was a beat—and then it came. A ripple of laughter passed through the clearing, slow and hesitant at first, but genuine. Tired, warm, and utterly real.

It didn’t banish the grief. It didn’t erase what had come before. But it made space for something else—something tentative and quiet and terribly precious.

Hope.

Molly turned sharply on instinct, fixing George with a glare so familiar it might’ve been lifted straight from a scolding across the breakfast table.

“That’s quite enough, George,” she said, though her tone lacked bite. The corners of her mouth were twitching despite herself.

George, of course, was unmoved.

“I’m just saying,” he said cheerfully, striding forward, “if he hadn’t turned things around, I’d’ve had to resort to drastic measures. And we all know what I’m capable of when I get inventive.”

A low chuckle rolled through the gathered group. Someone muttered, “Too right,” and there was another ripple of laughter, a little stronger this time.

Draco shifted where he stood, clearly unsure what to do with himself. This was unfamiliar ground. He’d spent years dodging hexes from these same voices—or returning them. Now they stood around him not with wands raised, but arms folded in amusement. It was… disarming. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

“I wouldn’t dream of crossing you,” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard. “Believe me—my past’s already a gallery of deeply traumatising encounters.”

“’Traumatising encounters’, is it?” said Bill, who was leaning against a fallen log nearby, arms folded. His long hair was caught in the moonlight, glinting faintly. He raised an eyebrow at Draco. “That’s rich, coming from the bloke who just helped trap half a dozen Death Eaters.”

Another round of laughter—looser this time. Not cruel. Not pointed. The laughter of people who’d stood in the dark and lived through it.

“Honestly,” came a voice from the crowd—Ernie Macmillan, looking surprisingly rumpled but upright, “with twenty of us working together, any attacker would’ve had to be utterly off their rocker to try anything.”

“Completely daft,” agreed Hannah Abbott from his left, cheeks flushed with wind and adrenaline. “We had an actual strategy. That’s new.”

The group laughed again, and even Draco allowed himself a brief smile—faint, fleeting. He ducked his head a little, not quite ready to meet their eyes. The camaraderie felt too sudden, too easy. He didn’t know what to do with it. These were people who had stood for something he’d once mocked. Fought for something he hadn’t believed in. Yet now they stood beside him—not out of obligation, but because they chose to.

It was, in a strange and unfamiliar way, comforting.

Arthur raised his hand gently, and the laughter ebbed at once. Not with unease, but with a quiet deference.

He stepped forward, his expression thoughtful. The lines around his eyes were deeper than before, carved by grief and sleepless nights and all the waiting that came after war.

“So,” he said slowly, his voice clear in the hush, “how did all this come about, then?”

Draco opened his mouth—but no words came.

It was Kingsley who stepped forward instead. Calm and composed, his presence as steady as ever.

“It was Draco’s plan,” he said, without hesitation. “From beginning to end.”

A small exhale escaped Draco’s lips. It wasn’t quite relief, but it was something close. The weight of it sounded different when spoken aloud by someone who mattered.

Kingsley’s tone didn’t waver. “He believed it was the only proper way to settle his life debt to Harry.”

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

Draco nodded, eyes steady but tired. “I did. That was supposed to be enough.”

His voice dropped a little. Not weak—just honest.

“But it didn’t feel like it. Potter risked everything for me. Everything.” He drew a breath. “And when I heard George had been taken—”

His eyes flicked to George. “I couldn’t stand by. Not again. Not this time. It wasn’t about Potter anymore. It was about all of you. It was about making it mean something.”

A stillness followed—not tense, but weighted.

Arthur looked at him—not the boy who had once sneered across the Great Hall or spat bloodline insults in a corridor—but the young man now standing in mud, his robes torn, his voice quiet, his guilt not hidden but worn plainly for them to see.

And more than guilt—purpose.

He wasn’t performing.

He wasn’t asking to be liked.

He was trying.

“Well,” George said, after a pause, and his voice—though light—carried something gentler beneath it, “I suppose I should say thank you. Not to your face, of course. That would ruin my reputation.”

“Please don’t,” Draco replied dryly. “I don’t think I could handle that kind of emotional trauma.”

Laughter again—softer, but with the comfort of familiarity.

Kingsley’s voice carried across the clearing, calm but firm. “As part of his probation, Draco reports to the Ministry daily. When he discovered George had been taken, he came to me first. By the time we met at the office, he had already begun organising the response.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “And why was I left in the dark?”

“Because of your reaction,” Kingsley said simply, eyes level. “We needed it to feel real. You had to grieve, to rage, to panic. Yaxley had to believe he had broken you. That belief… that was our opening.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing, letting the words settle in the pit of his stomach. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he nodded. “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 thought would still answer the call. Neville was already at St Mungo’s when the news broke. He passed the word.”

Draco let a faint chuckle escape. “Yaxley only agreed to the Forbidden Forest because I suggested it. Said it would be poetic, or something.”

The DA behind him burst into laughter, a short, sharp, joyous sound. “Was I really convincing?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

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

Kingsley raised a hand, gently curbing the amusement. His smile lingered, though tired. “Focus. The centaurs helped seal the perimeter. They know these woods better than anyone. Draco’s anti-Disapparition wards did the rest. Once Yaxley stepped into the clearing, there was no leaving.”

Angelina shivered, the memory of the dark, twisted forest pressing on her. “I’ll never get used to how dangerous these woods are.”

George reached for her hand. “No one should.”

Kingsley continued. “When the Death Eaters began gathering, Seamus sent the signal through the coins—the same ones used during the war.” He drew a small, dull coin from his pocket and held it up. “Simple, efficient, untraceable.”

Arthur turned the coin slowly between his fingers, marvelling. “Remarkable. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Parvati Patil stepped forward, voice steady, carrying the weight of memory and resolve. “It was Hermione’s idea. During DA meetings, she thought we’d need a way to stay in contact.”

A hush fell over the group, heavy with shared recollection. The ghosts of their younger selves, the risks taken in secret, the nights they had trained in quiet halls—all of it pressed down upon them.

Kingsley’s voice cut through the silence. “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 victory, the memory clung, refusing to release them.

Slughorn, ever dramatic, gave a theatrical bow. “Let’s say it was the performance of a lifetime,” he sniffed. “I haven’t wept so convincingly since Celestina Warbeck cancelled her Yule concert in ’73.”

His voice wavered beneath the bluster. His eyes, red-rimmed, glimmered with fatigue and grief.

Arthur’s jaw clenched involuntarily. The memory surged unbidden—Harry’s body lying still on the forest floor, Slughorn’s grief like a funeral bell tolling in the cold night, and the hollow ache that had spread through him. He hadn’t known it was staged. That moment had burrowed into his bones and would not leave.

Kingsley’s tone softened. “We couldn’t risk you knowing. Yaxley had to see your grief… hear Horace cry…”

Arthur closed his eyes for a heartbeat, letting his breath shudder. “I can’t describe what it felt like. Seeing Harry again… alive.”

He opened his eyes, voice hoarse. “My heart was ready to shatter.”

“You were brilliant, Professor,” Percy said, stepping forward. His usual clipped tone softened by awe. “The way you delivered it… even I believed you.”

“Terrified, I was,” Hagrid admitted, his voice thick, heavy with exhaustion. “Thought he was gone. Nearly lost me mind.”

A hush descended. Even staged grief bore weight—etched its own scars.

Molly’s voice, sharp and anxious, broke it. “Where’s Harry?”

Her eyes swept the clearing, heart hammering. And then she saw him. Kneeling a little distance away, near a group of restrained Death Eaters, inspecting wands as though each were a puzzle he was slowly solving. Calm, methodical, untouchable.

“There you are!” she cried, moving in swift steps, her hands wrapping around him, pulling him close. Trembling, shaking—but grounded. Alive.

Arthur followed more slowly, worn and wary but relieved. “Harry,” he said, voice low, hoarse with emotion. “We’re so glad you’re alright.”

He searched the boy’s face for familiarity, for the warmth that always met him. But Harry’s expression was distant, measured. Guarded.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Weasley, but—” Harry began, voice careful.

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

Before an answer could form, Kingsley glanced at his watch, his brow tightening. His tone was low and measured but carried the weight of inevitability. “Time’s up.”

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

The clearing held its breath. Silence pressed, heavy and chilling.

Arthur’s gaze swept to Molly, then to—

His stomach dropped, a cold weight settling in his chest.

The clothes. The posture. The glasses.

The face.

“…Neville?” He breathed, staggering backward, recognition striking him like a lightning bolt.