Hermione's brow was knitted tightly, eyes sharp with scepticism as she turned to Harry. "Is there really a cave in Ireland?" she asked, arms crossed, her tone cautious the moment he'd finished recounting what Malfoy had told him.
Harry hesitated, blinking slowly as the question hung in the air. He'd been expecting it, maybe even dreading it. The truth was, he didn't know—not for certain. But he hadn't been able to dismiss the way Malfoy had looked at him, the way his voice had trembled, not with fear, but something close to guilt. Or maybe desperation.
"I think so," Harry said, but even to his own ears, it sounded more like a hope than a fact.
Across the room, Ron sat stiffly at the edge of the bed, arms folded tightly over his chest. His expression was flat, but his raised eyebrow said everything. "You think he's actually telling the truth?" he asked, his tone laced with disbelief, a bitter scoff buried beneath the words. "It's Malfoy, Harry. His whole life has been built on lies."
Harry looked away. He was too tired for this argument—too worn out to explain the knot in his chest that refused to untangle. He rubbed a hand over his face. "I believe him," he said quietly, forcing the words out. "I don't think he would've come if he meant to deceive us. He had no reason to."
That wasn't entirely true, and they all knew it. Malfoy could have reasons none of them understood yet. But there had been something different in him this time. Not polished or rehearsed—just raw. Uneasy.
Ron's eyes narrowed. "Even if that's true, they're still dark wizards, Harry. You can't just forget that. Deception's in their blood—it's who they are."
Harry flinched. He hated that line—in their blood. It sounded too much like something someone else might've said once, someone who believed people couldn't change. He turned away from Ron's hard stare, focusing instead on the crack in the wooden floorboards beneath his feet.
"I'm not forgetting anything," he muttered. "But he did help us at Malfoy Manor. You were there. You saw it too. He hesitated. He didn't give us away."
"That's not the same as choosing a side," Ron shot back.
"No," Harry agreed softly, "but it's something."
He could still see that moment—Malfoy, pale and uncertain, hovering behind his parents while they debated what to do with the captured trio. He hadn't stepped forward then, but he hadn't stopped them either. Maybe that had been cowardice. Or maybe it had been a first crack in something he'd been taught never to question.
Hermione finally spoke, arms now folded across her chest in thought. "Your father mentioned the Malfoys were trying to negotiate with the Ministry. They want to clear their name, apparently. Offering help in exchange for leniency."
Ron's scoff was immediate. "Of course they do," he muttered. "They're desperate. That's not remorse; that's survival."
Harry didn't argue. He couldn't. Because some days, survival was the only reason he had kept going too.
"I just don't know if I can trust them," Ron said, shaking his head slowly. His voice cracked around the edges. "After everything… everything they stood for… it feels wrong to let them walk away from it all like it never happened."
"They won't walk away unscathed," Hermione said. "The war left scars on everyone, Ron. Even them."
Ron's eyes darkened. "Yeah, well, some of us didn't get to choose our scars."
The words hit Harry like a slap. His throat tightened. He swallowed, but it still felt raw. There was truth in Ron's anger. There always had been. But Harry couldn't ignore the other truths, too—the ones that didn't fit neatly into justice or vengeance.
"I owe Narcissa," Harry said, almost to himself. "She saved my life. She lied to Voldemort, risking everything… for her son."
His voice wavered slightly, that memory sharp and strange even now—lying in the forest, Voldemort standing in the distance, and Narcissa's quiet voice asking only one thing: Is Draco alive?
"She wasn't loyal to him," Harry added. "Not really. She was a mother. That was the only thing that mattered to her in that moment."
Hermione's expression softened. "I understand that. But Harry, we can't ignore their past just because of that one moment."
"I'm not ignoring it," he said. "But that moment mattered. She didn't save me for me—but she still did. And Malfoy—" he paused, jaw tightening, "he didn't have to come to me at all. But he did."
Ron leaned forward, brow furrowed. "You think that's enough? That we just forgive them and let them back into the world without consequence?"
"No," Harry said firmly. "But maybe we start by giving them the chance to be better."
The silence that followed was heavy. Hermione shifted, thoughtful. Ron's mouth was tight, his jaw clenched. Harry could feel their tension like a weight pressing into the air, thick and suffocating.
Then Ginny, who had been quiet in the corner, finally spoke. "Kingsley wouldn't let it go too far," she said gently. "He's fair. He's not going to destroy them just for the sake of revenge."
Ron snorted. "You think threatening to take everything they have isn't revenge?"
Hermione frowned. "It's leverage, not punishment. Kingsley said he'd seize their assets only if they lied. That's not cruelty—that's caution."
"And if they do lie?" Ron challenged. "What then?"
"They'll face the consequences," Harry said simply.
His voice was hoarse now, throat aching from the weight of too many conversations like this—too much pain that still hadn't found a place to rest. He was tired. Bone-deep tired. Of the war, of the aftermath, of the constant question of what people deserved.
But more than that—he was tired of believing that no one could ever change.
Rage surged off Ron like a storm breaking. He slammed his fist into the wall with a sharp crack that echoed around the room, making the picture frames rattle.
"The Malfoys are cruel, heartless bastards," he growled, voice thick with years of bitterness. "And now they're finally getting what's coming to them. I won't forget how they mocked us—how they sneered at our family for not having gold spilling out of our pockets. I want them to feel what it's like to be desperate. To be humiliated. Let them suffer for once."
Harry flinched slightly at the venom in Ron's voice. He understood it. Merlin, he really did. The Malfoys had made all their lives miserable. But something twisted in Harry's chest—something heavier than hate. A kind of ache that had nothing to do with revenge.
Hermione leaned forward, her eyes alight with that sharp, unrelenting curiosity she always had when something didn't quite add up.
"How exactly are you planning to help the Malfoys, Harry?" She asked, her voice gentle but probing.
Ron scoffed and shook his head, pacing.
"Never thought I'd see the day. You—you, of all people—trying to help them. After everything they've done to you? I thought you hated them."
Harry sat still, hands limp in his lap, staring at a crack in the floorboards as though the right words might be hidden there. His throat was raw, his body aching with something deeper than fatigue—grief, maybe, or guilt. He wasn't sure anymore.
"I don't hate them," he said quietly, and the words tasted strange in his mouth. Honest. Painful. "Not anymore."
Ron froze mid-step, and Hermione blinked at him in surprise. Harry lifted his gaze.
"Everything's changed. The war… it didn't just end with Voldemort. It wrecked a lot of people. Some of them were already broken. And yeah, the Malfoys made their choices. Terrible ones. But maybe it's time to stop pretending punishment fixes everything."
He could feel them watching him, but he pushed on.
"I'm going to talk to Kingsley. I'll tell him everything I know. Maybe it won't matter. Maybe it will. But we've got to start somewhere."
Ginny sat curled on the arm of the chair across from him, arms folded, her brow drawn tight.
"Do you think he'll actually listen to you?" she asked, not unkindly. Just… wary.
"I hope so," Harry murmured. His throat felt tight, and he rubbed at it absently. He hated the idea of walking into the Ministry again—hated the stiff, sterile air, the whispers that followed him down the corridors. "Kingsley's fair. If anyone's going to see reason, it's him. I just—I want to keep this quiet. For now. I don't want it turning into some public trial."
Hermione leaned forward again, a thoughtful crease forming between her brows.
"What if we talked to your dad, Ron? Maybe Mr. Weasley could help. Kingsley respects him, and if we ask him to come here—"
"That might work," Harry said before Ron could object. He was already tired—his bones felt heavy, like they were made of lead—and the thought of avoiding the Ministry, even for a little while, was a relief.
"But what about that cave Malfoy mentioned?" Ginny cut in, her voice tight with urgency. "We can't just ignore it. If it's real, it could be important—dangerous even. We should look into it."
Ron let out a dramatic sigh and flopped back onto the bed with a groan.
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but… yeah. If you really think there's something worth checking out, then I'm in. Though it's probably just Malfoy being Malfoy. Dramatic and useless."
Hermione gave a small smile and clapped her hands together.
"Then we should talk to Hagrid. He knows more about Thestrals than anyone, and if they're involved, he might be able to help us figure out where to start. Especially if it's somewhere in Ireland."
There were nods all around, but the energy in the room was already waning. The adrenaline had faded, and reality was settling back in—thick and unrelenting. Harry's limbs felt too heavy to move, and his eyes were starting to blur at the edges. He didn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Or really slept.
"I think we should wait till tomorrow," Hermione said gently, noticing the way Harry was swaying slightly in his seat. "We can talk to Mr. Weasley then. After we've all had some rest."
Ginny knelt beside Harry, placing a hand on his knee.
"You look awful," she whispered. "You need sleep."
He tried to smile, but it came out cracked.
"Yeah. I know."
Hermione handed him a small vial. "Nutrition potion. Drink it, please. You've barely touched anything all day."
He downed it without argument, and the taste coated his tongue like ash. A moment later, they were gone—soft footsteps retreating down the hallway.
He was alone now, but his mind wouldn't stop. Images flickered behind his eyes: Malfoy, pale and cornered. Narcissa, proud and trembling. Lucius, half the man he'd once pretended to be. There was no triumph in any of it. No satisfaction.
Only the ache.
And the cold.
Sleep took him before he realised it, deep and dreamless. Just silence.
The soft glow of morning light filtered through the old, dusty windowpanes, casting long golden streaks across the creaking wooden floor. Harry winced against the brightness, squeezing his eyes shut. His eyelids felt heavy, like they were stitched together. Something was wrong—off in a way he couldn't yet name.
He forced his eyes open and stared at the ceiling, his mind thick with fog. It took more effort than it should have to lift his head. The room was unfamiliar—it didn't feel right. He didn't recognise the worn furniture, the peeling wallpaper, or the old trunk in the corner. A strange vulnerability crept over him, like he was being watched.
Panic pricked at the edge of his thoughts.
Where was he?
He sat up too fast. The world tilted, his stomach churned, and he had to grip the edge of the mattress to stop himself from falling. "Where… where am I?" he croaked. His voice sounded foreign—dry, strained, barely more than a rasp. He cleared his throat, but it only made the ache worse.
Bile rose. His heart was hammering now.
Breathe. Just breathe.
The confusion came in waves, thick and drowning. Nothing made sense. His hands trembled as he pushed the covers away and swung his legs over the edge. His limbs felt too long, too weak—like they didn't belong to him anymore.
He tried to stand.
Tried.
His knees buckled instantly, and he crumpled to the floor with a rough thud, catching himself on a crate before he could hit it full force. Pain flared up his arms. The air felt too thin in his lungs. He stayed there, hunched and shaking, forehead pressed to the wood.
Get up. Come on. Just get up.
He waited a moment, breathing through clenched teeth, then dared to look around again. This time, something clicked. The room was at the Burrow—Ron's house. Relief surged through him like a sudden exhale. But it was fleeting.
If he was here, that meant something had happened.
What had happened?
His mind skated across fragments—flashes he couldn't hold onto. Just feelings: fear, burn, scream, pain. So much pain. But the edges were fuzzy. He couldn't pin any of it down.
Clutching the wall for support, Harry dragged himself to his feet and staggered toward the stairs. Every step was an effort. His body felt alien—like he'd been poured into someone else's skin. His fingers brushed the railing, and even that soft contact made him flinch.
His throat burned. His legs were shaking. It felt like his bones had turned to glass.
The stairs creaked as he walked down. Warm smells and low voices drifted toward him. Mr. Weasley looked up from his place at the table. Harry tried to smile, to offer some kind of greeting—but the moment he shifted his weight, his legs gave out again.
He didn't hit the floor this time.
Strong arms caught him.
"Whoa—got you," Mr. Weasley said, his voice gentle but urgent. Harry felt himself being lifted like he weighed nothing. His stomach twisted—not just from the motion, but from the humiliation.
"Let's get you sitting down."
Mr. Weasley lowered him carefully into a chair. Harry sank into it, trying to disappear. His face burnt with embarrassment.
"I'm fine," he muttered, though it was obvious he wasn't.
Mrs. Weasley appeared instantly at his side, one hand on his cheek. "Oh, sweetheart," she said, worry thick in her voice. "You're ice cold. And pale as parchment. Did you sleep at all? Are you in pain?"
Harry's pulse spiked the moment her hand touched his face. There had once been comfort in it—warmth, safety, something that belonged. But now it felt foreign, like a memory that no longer fits. His skin flinched beneath the contact.
He should have known her.
He should have.
But he didn't.
The woman's face blurred at the edges. Her voice was kind, too kind—soft and trembling with worry—but Harry couldn't place her. Something about her eyes scratched at the edges of his mind, like a name trying to form and then slipping away before he could grasp it.
Panic crept in.
Why couldn't he remember her?
She was saying something—asking if he was alright—but the words were distant, like he was hearing them underwater. He shrank back, muscles tense. Her hand hovered, frozen in the space between them.
"Harry?" she said again, voice smaller now. Hurt, maybe. Or scared.
His breath caught in his throat.
Who are you?
He didn't say it. He couldn't.
The room was spinning slightly, the colours too sharp, the light too loud. His head pounded as he turned—slow, sluggish—to the other voice that had joined in. A different woman this time. Younger. Sitting close. Her hair was wild and frizzy, her eyes full of concern as she leaned in.
She looked vaguely familiar.
But not enough.
She spoke his name like she knew him.
"Harry, what's happening?" she asked gently. "Are you alright?"
Her voice was steadier than the first woman's, calmer, even soothing. But her name—what was her name?
Hermione.
Yes—Hermione. It rang like an echo in his skull, but even saying it aloud didn't make it feel real.
"Hermione," he said slowly, testing the name in his mouth like it might betray him. "I… I'm okay."
A lie. And not even a convincing one. His voice trembled, and his eyes darted between their faces, still trying to make sense of them.
But they didn't feel real. Not yet.
He felt like he'd stepped into a play he didn't remember auditioning for. Everyone knew their lines—except him.
He wanted to ask them, 'Who are you? Why are you looking at me like that? What am I supposed to feel right now?'
But he said nothing. Instead, he clung to the silence, afraid of what might spill out if he opened his mouth again.
Ron's voice cut through next, rough and uncertain.
"You sure, mate?" He was standing just beyond Hermione, arms crossed, his brow deeply furrowed. "You looked kind of… gone for a second."
Harry looked at him, and something clicked more easily there—Ron felt more grounded, more solid in his memory—but even that was shaky. Like remembering a dream instead of a person.
"I just…" Harry's voice was hoarse. "I just need a minute."
He turned away, trying to pull in a breath, but it caught halfway and trembled out again. The room felt too small, the air too thin. He was sinking, and there was nothing to grab onto.
What's wrong with me?
The fear settled in his chest.
He was forgetting people.
Not just moments—people. Faces. Names. People who loved him.
How much more will I forget before it's all gone?
He didn't want to admit it aloud—not with them watching, not with their faces full of worry and helplessness—but deep down, he knew: this wasn't just fatigue. It wasn't stress. It wasn't anything.
He was getting worse.
And it was because of his damaged soul.
His head throbbed. His throat was raw, every cough sharp enough to taste blood. His skin stung wherever anything touched it.
He barely tasted the food on his plate when breakfast was served. Every motion took careful concentration. Lifting the fork and cutting the toast—it all felt like too much. His hands wouldn't stop trembling, and every time his fork scraped the plate, the sound made his jaw clench.
At one point, the fork slipped from his fingers and clattered loudly to the floor. Everyone went silent. Harry closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. Humiliation crawled up his spine. He could feel them watching. Waiting.
He picked it up with shaking fingers, not meeting anyone's eyes.
"I'm okay," he whispered again.
But the more he said it, the less it felt true.
Ginny's offer to help felt like a punch to the gut, even though her voice was soft and kind. He hated needing help. Hated that something as stupidly simple as holding a spoon now felt like trying to lift a broomstick with broken fingers.
"I'm so sorry," Harry mumbled, barely able to look at her. His hand trembled as he fumbled with the spoon. The eggs on his plate looked like something out of a memory he couldn't reach—warm, familiar, meaningless.
Ginny didn't flinch. "It's fine," she said gently, as if she'd done this a hundred times before. She nudged the spoon closer, guiding his hand a little. "Just small bites, alright?"
He tried. Really, he did. But after two shaky mouthfuls, his stomach twisted in revolt. He set the spoon down, jaw tight with frustration. The potion Mrs. Weasley had left next to his plate caught his eye. It shimmered faintly in its glass vial. Nutrition potion. Because eating had become too difficult. Because he couldn't even manage that on his own anymore.
Beside him, Hermione was talking softly, her voice threading into the background like distant music. She was speaking to Mr. Weasley, trying to keep things light. Keep things normal. Harry listened, or at least tried to. But every word slid off his mind like water. Familiar sounds, unfamiliar meaning.
"… isn't that right, Harry?" Mr. Weasley asked suddenly.
Harry froze. The room tilted sideways. Everything inside his head turned loud and silent all at once. He blinked, confused, panicking—was he supposed to say something?
"Harry?" Hermione's voice broke through, quiet but urgent. "Can you hear us?"
He blinked again and forced his eyes to focus on her face. She looked worried. Too worried.
"Yes?" His voice cracked, raw and uncertain.
Hermione leaned in. "Are you feeling alright?"
No. Not at all. He didn't say it out loud, but the truth was obvious in the way his hands wouldn't stop shaking, in the cold sweat on his neck, and in the way everything around him felt wrong.
"Mr. Weasley asked you something," she said softly, like she was trying not to scare him. "Do you remember?"
Harry looked between them, his eyes finally settling on the red-haired man across the table. Something about the man's face tickled at the edges of memory, but nothing stuck. Nothing connected. Just a blank, awful space where recognition should've been.
"…Who's Mr. Weasley?" he asked, before he could stop himself.
Silence. Like someone had cast a silencing charm on the whole room.
Ginny froze, her hand halfway to her cup. Ron's eyes widened. Hermione went stiff beside him. And the man across the table—Mr. Weasley, apparently—just blinked, pain flickering in his expression before he managed a sad smile.
"I'm Mr. Weasley," he said, gently. "Arthur Weasley."
Harry's stomach dropped. "I'm sorry," he whispered, heat creeping up the back of his neck. He felt exposed, like everyone could see how broken he was inside. "What was the question again, sir?"
The "sir" slipped out without thinking. It felt safer than calling him by name.
Ron stared at him like he was seeing a ghost. The air around the table had turned cold, thick with something too heavy to name.
Mr. Weasley cleared his throat. "I asked if you planned to give testimony against the Malfoys."
The name hit like a jolt of lightning—but it fizzled out just as fast. He knew the name. Knew it was important. But there was nothing to grab onto. Just empty space and the pressure in his chest growing tighter.
"Testimony…" he echoed quietly. "Against the Malfoys?"
His voice sounded small, distant, like someone else was speaking through him. He didn't know the answer. He wasn't even sure he knew the question. All he knew was the growing panic in his chest and the terrifying truth that he didn't know who these people were. Didn't know what they expected from him. Didn't even know himself.
Harry inhaled, slow and deliberate, trying to gather the mess of thoughts tangled in his mind. The words felt foreign, heavy on his tongue, like something that didn't quite belong—but had to be said. His eyes stung, blinking away the pressure behind them, and when he finally spoke, his voice came out rough, uncertain, not quite his own.
"In fact… I want to speak in support of them."
The words fell into the room like a dropped plate—sharp, jarring. For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley stared at him as though he'd grown an extra head. The clatter of cutlery stopped. Mr. Weasley's fork hovered mid-air, forgotten. Mrs. Weasley's mouth opened and closed silently, like she couldn't quite grasp what she'd just heard.
"Are you serious, Harry?" Mr. Weasley's voice was tight, threaded with disbelief. His brow furrowed so deeply it looked like it hurt. "You, of all people, want to help the Malfoys? I… I can't wrap my head around that. Kingsley might take your word seriously, sure—but tell me, honestly—did Draco blackmail you? Is that what this is?"
Harry's jaw clenched. The heat rose in his chest, flushing up into his cheeks. Not anger, not exactly. Just—frustration. The kind that twisted in his ribs and made him want to yell just to be understood.
"No, Mr. Weasley," he said firmly, planting his hands against the edge of the table to steady himself. "Draco didn't blackmail me. No one did. I'm doing this because…" He paused, the words weighing heavier now that they were halfway out. "Because I owe Narcissa Malfoy my life. She saved me—from Voldemort. And I can't ignore that. I can't forget it."
Silence.
It spread like smoke across the room, heavy and awkward. Harry's breath sounded too loud in his own ears. No one spoke. No one moved.
Mr. Weasley rubbed the back of his head, slow and contemplative. "She saved you?" he echoed, like he was still trying to believe it. "That… doesn't sound like any Malfoy I've known."
Harry's chest tightened. He understood. He really did. It didn't make it easier.
Ron leaned forward, eyes darting between his parents. "We get it, Dad," he said quickly. "We do. It's just—this is Harry. He wouldn't say it if it wasn't true."
Mrs. Weasley finally softened. Her expression shifted from shock to something gentler—concern, maybe. Or pity. Harry wasn't sure which stung more.
"Oh, Harry," she murmured, reaching out to rest a hand over his. "That's a lot to carry on your own, dear. But you have to understand—this is… surprising. The Malfoys, they haven't exactly made it easy to trust them."
Harry nodded, almost absently. His throat felt tight. "I know."
"Would you tell us what happened?" she asked, her voice kind.
Harry swallowed hard. He looked down at his glass of water and took a slow sip, stalling. He hadn't spoken of that night to anyone—not really. But the memory was always there, coiled in the shadows at the back of his mind.
The forest. The unbearable silence. The feel of the Resurrection Stone in his fingers. His parents. Sirius. Remus. And then Voldemort. The pain. The darkness.
But through it all—Narcissa's voice. Her eyes. Her lie.
"She checked if I was alive," he began, voice quieter now. "After Voldemort hit me with the Killing Curse. She leaned over me, whispered… and asked if Draco was safe. I told her he was. And then she—she told him I was dead. Lied to him. Gave me a chance to end it. Without that, I don't think we'd be sitting here right now."
The silence returned, but it felt different now. He could feel them thinking. Trying to shift their long-held ideas to square the Malfoys they knew with the one he was describing.
"And after that," he added, "Draco came to me. He said he owed me. Told me where to find the Thestrals. I think he was being honest."
Mr. Weasley leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, lips pursed in deep thought. "That's a big leap, Harry," he said after a long pause. "A big one."
Harry didn't argue. He just nodded. Because it was. And he didn't have all the answers. But something inside him couldn't let it go. Some part of him needed to believe people could change—because if not, then what was the point of everything they'd fought for?
"Oh!" Ron piped up, breaking the tension. "I actually wrote to Hagrid last night. Asked if Malfoy was bluffing about the Thestrals or not. Figured we'd get a straight answer from him."
Harry turned to him, some of the pressure in his chest easing just a little. "Thanks, Ron. That means a lot."
Ron shrugged, trying to look casual. "Figured it couldn't hurt."
Then Hermione, always listening, always ten steps ahead, spoke up. "Mr. Weasley, can Kingsley come to the Burrow? It's just that Harry wants to talk to him."
Mr. Weasley shifted in his seat. "Well, actually, yes, he wants to bring Harry something… something personal. A piece of the Veil." He glanced at Harry. "And maybe have a word, too. I don't know what about, exactly. He didn't say."
"That's fine," Harry said quietly, before anyone could ask again. "He can come."
Mr. Weasley nodded, relief washing over his face. "Good. I'll let him know as soon as I'm back at the office."
And just like that, the conversation turned, but Harry remained still, the weight of everything unspoken pressing down on his shoulders.
The fire roared to life without warning.
It tore through the hearth in a sudden explosion of emerald flame, startling Harry out of the fog he hadn't realised he'd sunk into. He blinked hard against the sudden light, squinting through the smoke and shimmer. A tall figure emerged from the flames like something out of a dream—or a memory he couldn't place. The room jolted with life. Voices stirred. Someone was smiling.
It took Harry a long second to recognise the face. Percy. That was his name, wasn't it? The one with the glasses and the stiff posture. The brother. The one who'd left, then returned. He'd always been somewhere on the edge of Harry's awareness, a name connected to warmth, to Mrs. Weasley's cooking and the scent of Burrow summers.
But right now, he was a stranger.
Mrs. Weasley rushed forward, nearly collapsing into him with relief. "Percy, my dear," she breathed, tears thick in her voice. "I've missed you so terribly. Are you taking proper care of yourself?"
Her arms wrapped around him like he was something precious she might lose again. Mr. Weasley followed, placing a steady hand on Percy's shoulder. "How have you been, son?"
They all looked so glad to see him.
Harry stayed still.
He felt like he was watching it all through a pane of glass. The warmth didn't reach him. The laughter didn't land. He knew he should feel something—joy, relief, comfort—but instead there was just that hollow throb in his chest and the constant, gnawing sense that he was out of place. Like an actor who had stumbled onto the wrong set.
Then Percy looked at him.
The smile faltered. Just for a moment. A flicker—concern, maybe? Recognition?
Their eyes met, and Harry's stomach turned. Not because he was afraid, but because for a brief second, Percy's expression looked exactly like the ones they gave him at St. Mungo's. Like they were trying not to flinch. Like they were measuring his fragility.
Percy tried to smooth it over, sitting down with a breezy, "I'm doing quite well," but his eyes didn't leave Harry.
Why was he staring?
Why did Harry feel like a spotlight had been turned on him?
Ron's voice cut through the tension, muffled by mashed potatoes. "How are you being treated by the Ministry?"
Percy tore his gaze away—finally. "Surprisingly well," he said. "Although… there's been an issue. Death Eaters infiltrating the Floo Network. We're on high alert. It's… exhausting."
Harry barely heard him. His mind had snagged on that look. That moment.
That "Why are you looking at me like that?" moment.
"I heard some are bold enough to attack the Ministry directly," Percy added, his voice turning grim. "And there's been no shortage of talk about you, Harry—" He nodded toward Harry. "The young hero who vanquished the Dark Lord."
The words clanged in Harry's ears like dropped silverware.
He didn't know why, but they felt…wrong.
Ron chuckled nervously. "Yeah, we've heard all about it."
"The young hero," Harry said slowly. The phrase left a bitter taste on his tongue. It didn't sound like him. It didn't feel like him. "Who vanquished the Dark Lord." He tried to repeat it, but the words sounded foreign, like he was mimicking a story someone else had lived. A role someone else had played.
A name drifted to him—Harry—but it didn't stick.
It felt like a label on someone else's school trunk.
Percy frowned. "Yes. That's what I said."
Harry tilted his head slightly, studying him like he didn't quite understand the language. "Why?" he asked. "What happened to him?"
A ripple of silence passed over the room. The clatter of cutlery stopped. Someone inhaled sharply.
Percy blinked. "I—I don't understand. What do you mean?"
Harry's voice came quieter now, but sharper. "The hero. The boy you all keep looking at like he's supposed to be me."
Percy leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Are… are you feeling alright?" His concern wasn't masked anymore—it was blatant now, stretched across his face in tense lines.
Harry didn't answer. He looked down at his hands instead. Pale. Trembling, slightly. Thinner than he remembered, maybe. The scar on his hand—the one Umbridge carved into him—was just a faint ghost now. He rubbed at it absently.
Who are you?
The question wasn't Percy's—it was his own.
He didn't know the answer.
He didn't know why his chest ached constantly or why everything—every sound, every touch—felt like it passed through layers of fog. He only knew he wasn't what they were looking at. Not anymore.
Percy was still speaking—something about exhaustion, about concern—but Harry's thoughts moved elsewhere. He could feel the weight of the other eyes now: Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.
They were all waiting for a reaction. For a flicker of the boy they thought they knew.
But Harry didn't know what they expected.
So he said, in a calm, almost distant voice, "When they see me like this… I doubt they'll even recognise me."
His gaze swept the room without really seeing them.
"Let alone feel anything for me at all."
As Harry's words hung in the air, a heavy silence followed—dense and suffocating. He could feel the way everyone was looking at him, as if seeing someone they barely recognised. Their expressions said it all: fear, pity, disbelief. It wasn't just the words he'd spoken that unsettled them. It was the truth behind them—that something inside him was fading, hollowing out piece by piece.
He had always been the one they leaned on. The one who charged ahead, wand in hand, heart on fire, even when the odds were stacked sky-high. Now they were staring at someone smaller. Dimmer.
"You can't afford to be seen, Harry," Hermione said quietly, her voice trembling with the kind of fear she rarely let slip. "If the Death Eaters realise how frail and defenceless you've become, they'll stop at nothing to finish what Voldemort couldn't. It's too dangerous."
Harry looked at her—really looked. There was something desperate in her eyes. He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to sound strong, to pretend he was still that person who'd once faced down death and won. But even now, just sitting upright felt like dragging himself through sludge.
"I know," he said, his voice hoarse, as he pressed his fingers to his temples. His head throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. "They won't hesitate. To them, I'm already gone."
Hermione stepped closer, shaking her head. "Don't say that, Harry. Please don't say that. You have to keep fighting. We'll find a way—we always do."
Her voice cracked, just slightly. Harry heard it, and it sent a wave of guilt rushing through him. He hated making her sound like that. He hated what he was doing to all of them, just by existing like this.
Mr. Weasley cleared his throat, trying to steady the mood. "We must be cautious about who we involve," he said, the calm in his tone a fragile mask. "We have access to resources that may help Harry… But we can't afford to compromise that by acting rashly."
Harry barely heard him. Everyone was speaking in plans and precautions, strategies and steps forward. But all he could feel was the silence inside himself—where thoughts used to come clearly, where memories used to feel sharp and vivid. Now they came in flashes. Or not at all.
He was slipping. He could feel it. Like trying to hold on to water with bare hands.
"Er—how's life been here at the Burrow, Harry?" Percy's voice rang out, forced brightness cutting through the gloom like an off-key note.
Harry blinked slowly, lifting his head. Everything hurt. His muscles ached from just being. Even answering felt like climbing uphill.
"It's… it's okay," he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "Thanks, Percy."
His throat burned. Had he eaten today? Had he slept last night? It was all blurring.
Ginny moved toward him, hands gentle as she reached for the vials. "Try these," she said softly, her voice more a whisper than a plea. "They'll help, I promise."
He looked at her, and something stirred—something buried under the fog. The shape of her face, the way her hair caught the light. Familiar. Comforting.
Even now, he could feel how much she cared. That look in her eyes—it anchored him.
"Okay," he murmured, barely audible. He let her hold the vial to his lips. The potion tasted awful, bitter and metallic. But he drank. For her.
"Would you like to lie down?" Mrs. Weasley asked gently, stepping into view. "You can sleep on the sofa. I'll bring a blanket."
Harry nodded. Or thought he did. He tried to stand—he really did—but his legs gave out underneath him before he even straightened fully.
"Harry!" Ron caught him in an instant, Mr. Weasley at his side. They eased him back down like glass that might shatter.
He managed a faint, slurred "Thanks" before the weight of exhaustion finally dragged him under.
He didn't dream.
"Is he really dying?" Percy asked quietly, his voice barely holding together.
Mrs. Weasley didn't answer right away. Her hand covered her mouth, her eyes glistening. Then she looked away.
"It's hard to believe," she whispered. "But it's happening. He's… slipping through our fingers."
Percy stared at her. The words didn't compute. "But—he was fine. After the battle. He was fine. How could it get this bad so quickly?"
"It started when Voldemort destroyed the part of his soul inside Harry," Ginny said, her voice hollow. Her fingers trembled as she brushed them against her sleeves, trying to hide it.
Percy blinked, confused. "His soul? What are you talking about?"
Hermione stepped forward. Her voice was calm, but her hands were clenched. She explained what she could—what Harry had carried, how it had been torn out of him, how it had never truly left him untouched. She didn't say the word Horcrux. But the room seemed to darken with every word.
When she finished, Percy just stood there, staring.
Ginny shook herself, voice sharpening with urgency. "We're not done yet. We're close. All we need are the final ingredients. When Hagrid and Kingsley arrive, we can start. Every moment counts."
"Did Dad speak to the minister?" Percy asked, trying to latch onto something practical, something he could control.
"Yes," Ginny said. "He's bringing the stone fragment himself."
Percy frowned, remembering something. "Earlier, Harry didn't even respond to his name. Not at first."
They exchanged glances—haunted ones.
"His memories are slipping," Hermione said softly. She placed a steadying hand on Ginny's shoulder. "He gets confused. Sometimes he's clear, then suddenly… nothing. He's lost in it. We don't know why it changes so fast."
Ginny's face crumpled. She leaned into Hermione, shaking with sobs. "It's like he's disappearing. And I can't stop it. I can't even tell if he knows me anymore."
Hermione held her close, jaw tight, eyes wet. "We're going to get through this," she said fiercely, her voice trembling with belief she had to cling to. "He's still Harry. He's still fighting. He will come back to us."
A faint, hurried tapping against the kitchen window broke through the muffled chatter. Everyone fell silent. Ron's head snapped toward the sound, eyes wide with sudden hope.
"It's got to be Hagrid!" he said breathlessly, already leaping to his feet.
The tapping grew more insistent, echoing in the quiet room like a nervous heartbeat. Without hesitation, Ron flung open the window. A gust of cold air swept in, rustling papers and stirring the curtains. Pigwidgeon tumbled inside with an urgent flutter of wings, barely managing to stay aloft. The tiny owl quivered all over, his energy nearly spent.
"Poor thing," Ginny murmured, reaching out to steady the owl as Ron carefully untied the scroll bound to his leg. Pigwidgeon let out a high-pitched trill, then perched shakily on the windowsill, still twitching with residual panic.
Ron's fingers trembled as he unrolled the parchment. Hermione and Ginny leaned in beside him, silent and tense, watching his eyes scan the message.
"Hagrid," Ron said, voice tight, and began reading aloud:
Ron,
I got the Thestral's tail hair, but I'm badly injured. Death Eaters attacked me.
I'm being treated at St. Mungo's.
– Hagrid
The letter ended there—abrupt, unsteady, and terrifyingly sparse.
A suffocating silence fell over the room. Even Pigwidgeon's wings seemed to hesitate in the air, flapping in an uneasy rhythm. Ron exchanged a dazed, almost disbelieving glance with Hermione and Ginny, his breath shallow.
Then, as if gravity returned all at once, the three dropped back into their seats. Percy, startled by the sudden movement, nearly spilt his tea.
"Did Hagrid get attacked in Ireland?" Ron asked, voice cracking as fear crept in. "Is that where he went?"
Hermione's face had gone pale. "How?" she breathed. "No one else was supposed to know. That cave was completely off the map."
Mrs. Weasley, who had been scrubbing a dish at the sink, stopped mid-motion. She took the parchment from Ron with shaking hands, read it once, then passed it silently to Mr. Weasley, who had just stepped into the room. His brow furrowed deeply as he read, jaw tightening.
"Death Eaters are everywhere now," Ron muttered, his voice heavy with dread. "Percy warned us. They're desperate—cornered rats. They'll do anything."
Hermione began pacing. Her footsteps echoed across the kitchen tiles, her arms crossed, brow furrowed in thought.
"It doesn't make sense," she said finally. "The cave Hagrid went to—it was crawling with Thestrals. Even fully trained wizards would think twice before going in there. Why would Death Eaters risk it? Unless…"
"They're completely mad," Ginny said flatly, eyes flicking toward the dark window. "Or worse—they knew something we didn't."
She hesitated, then added more quietly, "I don't like this. I keep feeling like we're being watched. What if someone followed Hagrid? What if—?"
Ron's expression darkened. Anger bloomed across his face like a storm.
"Malfoy," he spat.
Hermione turned toward him, startled. "What?"
"It has to be Draco Malfoy," Ron said, voice rising. "He told Harry about that cave. He knew. He knew, Hermione!"
Percy straightened up. "Draco Malfoy?" he echoed, his tone suddenly sharp. His eyes glittered with suspicion. "And how would he know about Thestrals? Or Hagrid's plans?"
Ginny wrung her hands, anxiety flickering across her face. "He came here, remember? Just after Dad got home. Asked to speak with Harry. He told him where to find wild Thestrals."
"No one else knew," Ron growled. "Only us."
Percy's expression tightened. "So Malfoy fed Harry information, and now Hagrid's in a hospital bed. Doesn't that sound… convenient?"
"Hold on," Hermione cut in quickly. "Malfoy owes Harry a life debt. He wouldn't betray him now. He can't. That kind of magic—it's binding."
Ron snorted. "You really believe that? Malfoy's still a Death Eater. Life debt or not, they'll sacrifice anything—anyone—for their cause."
"But what if…" Hermione's voice wavered. "What if he's not in control of what's happening? What if he's being used, Ron? Trapped?"
Ron slammed his hand on the table, making Ginny flinch.
"He's always been two-faced. He's been playing both sides from the start, pretending to help while feeding the Death Eaters our plans. We can't trust him!"
"We don't know that!" Hermione snapped back, her own frustration bubbling to the surface. "And if he is the only lead we have, we can't just shut him out. We need answers, not more blind guesses."
Ron turned away, fists clenched, jaw tight.
Ginny stepped between them. "Enough," she said softly but firmly. "This isn't helping. Hagrid's hurt. We should go to St. Mungo's. He might know what happened. We need to hear it from him—not tear each other apart while we guess."
Percy cleared his throat. "I'll stay here," he said. "With Mum and Dad. Someone should keep an eye on things while you're out. And on Harry."
Ron nodded slowly, casting one last glance at the crumpled letter still clutched in his hand. The fear hadn't gone—but now it had companions: suspicion, confusion, and a sick, rising anger he couldn't shake.
Without another word, he went to the door; Hermione followed, her mind racing with questions. Ginny paused at the door, glancing back once.
"Let's hope Hagrid's awake," she whispered. "Because we're running out of time."