Ron, Hermione, and Ginny moved quickly through the halls of St. Mungo's, their footsteps muffled against the polished floors. The hospital felt different now—still and tense. The usual chatter and bustle had vanished, replaced by an uneasy quiet that clung to the air.
The reception area, normally crowded with injured witches and wizards, was nearly deserted. Only a few patients lingered in the waiting chairs, each of them bearing some obvious wound or strange affliction. One witch had bandages wrapped tightly around her head, her eyes unfocused. A wizard nearby clutched his arm, which was twitching uncontrollably. The only sound was the soft rustle of pages from a few readers flipping through old issues of Witch Weekly.
The trio approached the ENQUIRIES desk, where a plump, disinterested blonde witch was absently picking at her nails. She barely glanced up as they stopped in front of her.
"We're here to see Rubeus Hagrid," Hermione said at once, her voice brisk, though her hands were clenched tightly at her sides. Her eyes were sharp with worry.
The witch blinked slowly, her tone flat. "The giant?" she said, as if she didn't particularly care one way or the other. She yawned, lazily stretching her arms. "He caused quite the stir when he came in. Had to squeeze through the entrance—nearly took the doorframe with him."
"What happened?" Ron asked quickly, stepping forward, his voice a notch louder than necessary.
The witch didn't bother lowering her voice. "He was a mess. Cuts everywhere—deep ones, nasty. Blood everywhere. Looked like he'd walked straight out of a dragon's mouth, honestly. But he didn't say much. Barely flinched." She shrugged as though she were describing the weather. "Probably sleeping now."
Ginny's eyes widened, and her hands flew to her mouth. "Where is he?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly.
The witch pointed a long, bony finger toward the towering double doors behind her. "Fourth floor. Spell Damage. Take the lift."
Hermione nodded stiffly, and the three of them hurried off without another word.
They pushed through the heavy doors and entered a broad corridor lined with tall portraits of legendary healers. Candles floated above their heads, flickering softly. The hallway felt sacred, like a place not meant for chaos or blood.
Their footsteps echoed as they moved. Hermione kept her eyes fixed ahead, her mind racing. The idea of Hagrid—sweet, gentle Hagrid—wounded and lying in a hospital bed sent a sharp pang through her chest. She remembered him standing tall during their first year, his booming laugh, and his fierce loyalty. The thought of him hurt, bleeding, possibly dying—it was almost too much.
Ginny's voice cut through the silence. "What if it's worse than they said?" she whispered, barely audible. Her fingers were trembling.
Ron was silent for a moment. Then, with forced calm, he said, "Hagrid's been through everything. He raised a dragon in his hut, befriended giant spiders, and lived near the Forbidden Forest. If anyone can survive something like this, it's him."
Hermione didn't respond, but her lips were pressed into a thin line.
At the end of the corridor, they found the ornate silver grilles of the lift. As they stepped in, the doors closed smoothly behind them, and the lift began to hum and rise.
None of them spoke. The silence was thick. Each second felt like an hour.
Finally, a soft, enchanted voice rang out: "Level Four: Spell Damage."
The doors slid open—and they were immediately met with a strange sight. Dozens of enchanted paper planes fluttered overhead, their wings emblazoned with the name "BILL". The little messengers swirled in gentle chaos, dipping and diving around them as if dancing.
For a brief moment, the three of them stared, caught off guard.
Then a soft voice drew them back.
"Hello, dears. Can I help you?"
A kind-looking healer with gentle eyes had approached them, her robes fluttering lightly with movement. Her presence was calming, a soft contrast to the nerves wound tight in their chests.
Hermione stepped forward, forcing herself to speak steadily. "Yes, please. We're here to see Rubeus Hagrid. We were told he's on this floor. Is he… is he alright?"
The healer's face softened even more. "He's stable, but it was close. He was very brave. They've done all they can for now—he's resting."
Ginny let out a shaky breath.
"His room's at the end of this hallway," the healer continued, gesturing gently. "Turn left past the potions trolley. You can go in, but please try not to wake him."
"Thank you," Hermione said, her voice thick with emotion.
The three moved as one, hearts pounding, dreading what they might see—but needing to see him more than anything.
The hospital ward was quiet, dimly lit, and far too cramped for its single occupant. Though it had space for four patients, every inch seemed swallowed by the massive presence of Hagrid. His enormous body barely fit on the narrow cot, his legs awkwardly bent, his shoulders spilling over the sides. White bandages wrapped his chest and arms, stained faintly in places.
As soon as they stepped into the room, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny rushed forward.
"Hagrid!" they exclaimed in unison, their relief obvious.
A slow, familiar smile spread across Hagrid's bruised and bearded face as he struggled to sit up, wincing slightly. His voice rumbled through the room, warm despite the pain. "Well, would yeh look at this? Thought I might be dreamin'. Good thing yeh got my letter—I've been goin' mad with nothin' but the walls ter talk to."
Hermione pulled up a chair while Ron and Ginny hovered beside the bed, eyes scanning the injuries on Hagrid's giant frame.
Ron's brow furrowed. "We came as soon as we got your letter this morning. Harry would've been here too, but… things have gotten worse."
Hagrid's smile faltered. "Worse?" he repeated, blinking. "What d'yeh mean, worse? He… he doesn't know I'm here, does he?"
Ginny hesitated, her voice catching in her throat. "No. He doesn't know."
She looked down at her hands, voice soft and trembling. "He's not doing well at all, Hagrid. He's barely strong these days. He can't eat. He's so weak, he struggles just to lift his legs. We didn't tell him about you—we couldn't. He'd fall apart if he knew you were hurt too."
For a moment, Hagrid just stared, his dark eyes filling with sorrow. He drew in a shaky breath, his massive chest rising slowly under the bandages.
"Poor lad," he murmured, voice thick. "I wish I could see him. I didn't think… I didn't know he was that bad."
Hermione reached out and gently placed a hand on his arm. Her touch was dwarfed by the size of it, but her voice carried weight. "You scared us, Hagrid. When we read your letter… being attacked by Death Eaters? Please, tell us what happened. We need to know everything."
Hagrid shifted uncomfortably, letting out a low grunt of pain. "Yeah… yeah, all right," he muttered. "It happened fast."
Ron leaned in, tense. "Where were you? Near the Thestral cave?"
"I was," Hagrid nodded, then looked toward Ron. "I went searchin' for 'em like yeh said, over in the eastern forests near the border. Didn't know exactly where until I got yer letter. But…"
He hesitated. His brow furrowed as something occurred to him. "Did yeh check on yer owl this mornin', Ron?"
Ron blinked. "No, why?"
"He looked injured," Hagrid said slowly. "His wing was bent funny. Feathers all ruffled, like he'd been in a struggle. I worried he wasn't gonna make it back to yeh."
Hermione's face paled. "Do you think someone tried to stop him? You're saying Ron's letter might've been intercepted?"
"Could've been," Hagrid said grimly. "Would explain how they found me so fast. Not long after I reached the cave, they came outta nowhere. Dark cloaks. Wands drawn. I barely had time ter grab the Thestral tail hair."
Ron's voice was tight. "You saw their faces? Did you recognise anyone?"
"No," Hagrid said, shaking his head. "They kept their hoods up. But they moved like Death Eaters—fast, cold, like they were hunting."
Ginny's gaze fell to the fresh bandages around Hagrid's chest. "How did you get hurt?" she asked softly.
"Severin' Charm," he muttered, his tone dark. "Two of 'em hit me at once. Caught me across the chest—would've torn right through if I weren't so thick-skinned. Still, it was bad. Blood everywhere."
Hermione gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. Ron looked stunned.
"I didn't wait to see what else they had planned," Hagrid went on. "Disapparated straight out. Could barely stand when I landed outside St. Mungo's. Collapsed at the entrance. They got me patched up, but it was close."
Ginny clutched the edge of the bed, her knuckles white. "If you hadn't escaped when you did…"
"I know," Hagrid said, his voice quieter now. "I know."
Silence fell for a moment. The hospital lights flickered faintly overhead, casting dull glows on the sterile walls. The air was heavy with fear, with exhaustion, with the unspoken worry that they were all being watched, hunted, picked off one by one.
"Don't tell Harry just yet," Hagrid added after a moment. "Let him rest. He's been through enough."
Hermione nodded solemnly. "We won't. But when he's strong enough… he'll want to see you."
"I'll be waitin'," Hagrid said, forcing a small smile. "Tell him that."
Ron's cheeks flushed a deep, furious red, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against the bed. The silence in the room was thick, but Ron shattered it with a voice that cracked under the strain of anger.
"It was Malfoy," he blurted. "He's the one who sent the Death Eaters after you, Hagrid!"
The words seemed to hang in the air, sharp and volatile.
Hagrid blinked, caught off guard. His broad face creased with confusion, lips pulling into a doubtful frown. "Draco Malfoy?" he repeated slowly, as if the name itself were foreign. "But why would he do a thing like that?"
Ron clenched his jaw, the tension visible in every muscle. "Because he knew," he said tightly. "He knew about the cave. He knew exactly where Thestrals were."
"That doesn't mean it was him," Ginny cut in, her voice quiet but firm. She looked between Ron and Hagrid, eyes steady. "You-Know-Who could've passed that information to any of his followers. We shouldn't jump to conclusions."
Ron turned to her sharply, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "I'm not jumping, Ginny. I'm following the only damn lead we've got." He looked back to Hagrid, words coming faster now. "Malfoy told Harry about the cave himself. If he betrayed Harry after everything—after what Harry did for him…"
Hagrid's thick brows drew together. "Wait—what do yeh mean? What did Harry do for Malfoy?"
Ron gave a bitter laugh, the sound devoid of humour. "Saved his life. During the Battle of Hogwarts, when everything was falling apart—Harry dragged him out of the fire. Literally. Risked everything."
He leaned forward, voice hard. "And now that same coward turns around and sets Death Eaters on you? After Harry spared him? I wouldn't have bothered. I'd have left him."
Hermione stepped in before the words grew any sharper. "We don't know for sure it was him, Ron," she said, trying to keep her tone calm, though frustration laced her voice. "You're assuming the worst—again. There's no proof."
Ron crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. "You always say that. It's like you want him to be innocent."
"I'm not defending him," Hermione snapped, her patience fraying. "But I saw him, Ron. He came to the Burrow and asked to see Harry. He was worried—"
"Oh, please." Ron cut her off with a scoff. "Worried? That's rich. He's a Malfoy. He only does anything if it serves him."
Hermione's jaw tightened. "Then why come at all? Why risk it if he didn't care even a little? He knew Harry was vulnerable. He could've told the world. But he didn't."
Ron waved her off, as if brushing away a fly. "Because he's playing some game, Hermione. He always is. Maybe he's pretending to be useful so we drop our guard."
"Maybe," she said quietly, then added, more to herself, "Or maybe he's trying to change."
The words hung between them. For a second, no one spoke.
Hagrid finally broke the silence, his low voice rumbling with restrained emotion. "Yeh lot've been through a lot. I don't know what Malfoy's up ter, but I do know this wasn't yer fault. What happened ter me—that's on the ones who did it, not on yeh."
Hermione's eyes softened, guilt still clinging to her like a second skin. "We never meant for you to get hurt," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "We thought we were being careful."
Hagrid gave her a small, pained smile. "I'd do it again. All of it. Fer Harry. Fer all of yeh."
Hermione felt her chest tighten. In the midst of all the uncertainty, Hagrid's loyalty remained a steady anchor.
"How long are you staying here?" she asked gently.
Hagrid glanced around the little room. "Was hopin' ter stay a few days. But, bein' what I am… Well, folks tend ter feel a bit uneasy when I'm around too long."
He gave a half-hearted chuckle, then fumbled inside his coat pocket with a large, calloused hand. "Oh—almost forgot."
He pulled out a stained envelope and handed it to Hermione. Her breath caught as she opened it and found the delicate silver strand nestled inside—Thestral tail hair, shimmering faintly in the light.
"Hagrid," she breathed, eyes stinging with tears. "This is—Harry will be so grateful."
She held the envelope close, heart swelling with emotion. "Would you come with us? He's missed you. We all have."
A genuine smile stretched across Hagrid's face. "I'd love ter."
He rose, careful not to knock his head on the low beams of the ceiling, and reached for his pink umbrella—his trusty wand hidden inside.
"Just lemme grab me things."
As Hermione stepped outside the room, she slowed at the sight of a familiar figure near the entrance to the ward. Augustus Pye. She recognised him at once—the same kind-eyed healer who had treated Mr. Weasley during the war, still wearing his ever-cheerful smile like armour against the gloom of the hospital.
Ron and Ginny hadn't noticed him yet. But as soon as Augustus caught sight of them, his face lit up with unmistakable delight.
"Well, look who it is!" he called out warmly, hurrying over. "I had a feeling I'd run into the Weasleys today!"
Ron raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously. "Why'd you think we'd be here?"
Augustus blinked, a little thrown. "Well—aren't you here to see your brother?"
Ginny stiffened beside Ron, her smile faltering. "What?" she said sharply. "Which brother?"
"Percy, of course," Augustus replied with a casual nod, as though it were obvious. "He was admitted early this morning."
The words seemed to echo, hollow and absurd.
"That's impossible," Ron said slowly. "Percy's at the Burrow. We saw him just—" He stopped, his brow furrowing. "We saw him recently."
Augustus frowned now, glancing between them. "No… He hasn't left the hospital. He was found unconscious—attacked, apparently. I assumed you were here for him."
Ginny took a step back, her face paling. "Attacked?" Her voice cracked. "Are you sure it was Percy?"
"I treated him myself," Augustus said gently. "He's awake now. A bit shaken, but stable."
Hermione's stomach twisted. She caught Ron's eye, and he looked as stunned as she felt. "This doesn't make sense," she whispered.
"No," Ron murmured, his fists clenching. "It doesn't."
Ginny was already moving. "Take us to him," she demanded.
Augustus nodded and turned without hesitation, leading them down a long corridor where the glow of sconces barely touched the shadows. The air grew colder as they moved, the silence thick with dread.
"I don't like this," Hermione muttered under her breath, her hand trailing along the bannister. "Something feels off."
They rounded a corner, and Hagrid's massive silhouette appeared at the far end of the hall. He was bent slightly, peering through a window into one of the private rooms. When he straightened, he gave them a grim nod and stepped aside.
Hermione's breath caught as she saw the figure on the bed inside—red hair tousled, face pale and strained. Percy.
He was sitting up, stiff and uncomfortable, his eyes scanning the ceiling until he caught sight of them. He startled visibly, then offered a thin, almost guilty smile.
"Oh—uh—I didn't think anyone would come," he said, voice hoarse.
Ron stared at him, heart pounding. "We weren't expecting you to be here," he said slowly, stepping closer. "Percy, what's going on? Is everything alright at the Burrow? What happened?"
Percy let out a weak laugh, but it sounded wrong. Forced. "The Burrow?" he echoed, confused. "No, I've never been. I mean—I meant to visit; I just never got around to it."
Hermione's blood ran cold.
Ginny blinked at him, frozen in place. "Percy," she said slowly. "What do you mean, you've never been to the Burrow?"
He looked puzzled. "Dad told me about what happened. Said that Harry's—I heard he's ill? I've been meaning to check in on him, but work's been—well, you know."
Percy shook his head, visibly distressed now. "I—I didn't want anyone to know I was here. Didn't want to make a fuss. I was going to sort it out myself."
"The healer said you were attacked," Ginny said, her voice breaking.
Percy looked at her blankly. "Attacked? I don't… remember that."
Hermione stepped forward, heart hammering in her chest. "Percy," she said gently. "Do you know what year it is?"
He hesitated. "Of course," he said quickly. "It's… it's—?" But he couldn't seem to remember.
Hermione felt the breath leave her lungs. Ginny gasped.
Ron gripped the edge of the bed tightly, as if to steady himself. "Percy… it's 1998."
Percy went silent. His mouth opened, then closed again, eyes flicking between their faces.
"Something's wrong with him," Ginny whispered, tears welling up. "Something's really wrong."
Percy's face crumpled as confusion overtook him. "I—I don't understand. I was at work… I think. I don't remember how I got here. Where's Dad? Is he here?"
"No," Ginny said softly, wiping her eyes. "We're here for Hagrid. He was attacked by Death Eaters."
Percy reeled back. "Hagrid? But he's—he's harmless! Who would—?"
"We don't know," Ron said grimly. "But he's safe now. Healers patched him up. He'll be alright."
Percy sagged with relief, clutching the blanket. "That's good," he murmured, eyes glassy. "That's… really good."
Hermione stood silently, staring at him. The room was cold, and Percy's presence didn't feel real. Something had happened. Something none of them understood yet.
"So—what on earth happened to you?" Ron asked, frowning. His voice was tight, more confused than angry, but worry crept into the edges.
Percy shifted uncomfortably in the hospital bed, his fingers twitching against the sheet. "I—I was in my office this morning," he began slowly. His voice held a tremor, like he wasn't sure of his own memory. "I remember sitting down to go over a report, and then…" He hesitated, eyes narrowing as he searched his foggy recollection. "I think I heard something. A voice, maybe. Muffled. I couldn't make out the words."
Hermione leaned forward, her eyes intense. "Did you see anyone? Anything unusual?"
Percy swallowed hard. "No, I don't think so. Just… a strange feeling. The room spun, and I felt lightheaded. Like the floor was tilting under me. And then—nothing. Everything went black." He shook his head in frustration. "After that, it's all a blur."
Ron's hand tightened around Hermione's arm. She winced slightly but didn't pull away. Ginny, standing beside them, looked pale. Her arms were crossed tightly across her chest, and her eyes hadn't left Percy's face.
Percy looked between them, confusion hardening into alarm. "Wait—what's going on?" he demanded. "You said I was at the Burrow earlier. But I've been here. I never left the hospital."
Hermione's eyes widened, a sick realisation dawning behind them. "Percy," she said slowly, her voice shaking, "this morning… you flooed to the Burrow. We spoke. You were there—we saw you." Her words faltered, and her breath hitched. "Oh no."
She slapped a hand over her mouth. Panic rippled across her face as she looked at Ron, then Ginny.
Ron turned to Percy, his face ashen. "That wasn't you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Someone's pretending to be you."
The room seemed to go still.
Percy sat bolt upright, as if the realisation physically struck him. "What?" he breathed. "Right now? Someone is out there—posing as me?"
His heart thundered against his chest, a wild, chaotic rhythm. The walls felt like they were closing in, shadows creeping into the corners of his vision. His breath quickened.
Ginny let out a sharp gasp, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. "Mum and Dad—Harry!" she choked out. Her voice trembled with fear.
Percy flung back the blanket and swung his legs over the bed. He winced, clutching his side, but pushed through the pain.
"I have to go," he said, already reaching for his coat.
"Percy—wait," Hermione said, but he was already halfway to the door.
"I'll be back soon, Augustus!" Percy called over his shoulder, barely registering the startled healer standing frozen in the doorway.
And then they were gone—Percy, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Hagrid—rushing into the unknown, hearts pounding with a single terrifying question:
Who was walking around in Percy's skin?
"Harry, wake up!"
Harry came to with a jolt that sent fresh waves of pain crashing through him.
He couldn't breathe properly—his chest was too tight, his throat swollen shut with something thick and invisible. His eyelids fluttered like they were glued together. It felt like every inch of him had been bruised, inside and out.
A low hum rang in his ears. Disoriented and shivering, he tried to lift his head.
Nothing. His neck barely obeyed. Even his heartbeat felt off—too fast, too loud, pounding like it didn't belong to him anymore.
Where was he?
A blurry ceiling came into focus—familiar and strange all at once. The Burrow?
Yes. The Weasleys' living room.
But it was wrong. Too quiet. Not even the ghoul upstairs was making noise, or the gnomes in the rose bushes were making sounds. The house felt… dead.
His breathing hitched as he forced himself to move. Muscles screamed in protest. Even his fingers ached.
Then—he saw him.
Percy. Standing directly over him, like a statue.
The stiff suit. The horn-rimmed glasses. The usual air of controlled disapproval. But his face—his eyes—something was off. Too still. Too calm. His lips were pulled tight, almost smiling, but there was no warmth in it. Just… calculation.
"Finally," Percy said. "You've been out for almost an hour."
His voice didn't sound like Percy's. It was clipped, cold, and hollow. Like it was borrowed.
"Wha… what…" Harry croaked, the words dying in his throat.
Percy crouched, pulling something from his robes—a small glass vial, red liquid catching what little light there was.
"Here," he said softly. "You need this."
Healing potion. That's what he was saying. But why would he wake me up and tell me to drink a potion?
Harry's mind spun. He couldn't focus.
"Where's… Mrs. Weasley?" He whispered, barely able to speak. "Where's… Ron?"
No answer.
Just Percy, uncorking the vial with a sharp twist.
Harry's heart thundered.
Why isn't anyone here? Why would Percy wake me for this? Why is he alone? The Weasleys never left him without saying something. They never left him.
"Drink," Percy said again, pushing the vial toward his lips. "You'll feel better."
The glass touched his mouth, but Harry clenched his jaw shut.
Percy's smile faded. His eyes sharpened, irritated.
"Don't make this harder."
Harry tried to turn his head, but he was too weak. Too slow. The vial pressed harder against his lips.
"Stop—stop—" he gasped, but Percy's hand was already forcing the vial against his mouth.
The moment the liquid hit his tongue, Harry knew.
Wrong. It was wrong.
The taste was coppery, burning, and unnatural.
He tried to spit it out, to jerk away, but Percy had already withdrawn.
It took seconds.
First came the burning—starting in his throat, snaking down into his chest like wildfire. Then the nausea, violent and immediate, curled his insides. His vision went white. His nerves lit up like they'd been soaked in lightning.
His arms twitched violently, legs kicking, back arching off the couch.
Then came the real pain.
Every bone in his body felt like it was cracking open. His skin felt stretched, as if something inside was trying to claw its way out. His veins pulsed with acid. His heart stuttered. Then raced.
Then stuttered again.
He screamed.
He didn't even recognise the sound—it was raw, animal, full of terror.
He fell, crashing to the floor in a twisted heap.
"W-what—what did you—" he gasped, his face pressed to the floorboards, slick with sweat.
Percy tilted his head, watching him without emotion. Then—he laughed.
Low. Controlled. Wrong.
Harry dragged himself forward, using one elbow, then another. His legs wouldn't work. His stomach heaved, but nothing came up. His arms trembled so hard he could barely hold himself up.
"Help…" he whispered. "Please—someone—"
Percy kicked him hard in the back.
Harry screamed again. Fire exploded through his chest. He rolled onto his side, choking.
"You never were all that bright, were you?" Percy muttered, pacing now, hands behind his back like a professor on patrol.
"W-what… why…" Harry sobbed, his voice wrecked. "What are you doing?"
"Fixing things," Percy said. "Setting them right."
Harry tried again—tried to reach the fireplace. If he could just grab some Floo powder, if he could throw himself in—
But Percy grabbed him by the collar and slammed him back down, his head bouncing off the wooden floor with a crack.
Stars exploded in his vision. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
The poison clawed deeper, his muscles spasming, his heart skipping so many beats it felt like it might just stop.
Percy crouched again, leaning close.
"I used to think you were special," he whispered into Harry's ear. "The Boy Who Lived. Chosen One. But you're nothing. Just another broken, gullible fool."
Harry's body trembled uncontrollably. Hot tears streamed down his face.
He reached out blindly, fingers scratching against wood, hoping for something—anything—a wand, a chance.
But there was nothing.
Only Percy.
A haze of heat and cold and stabbing, molten agony twisted through his insides. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. Each inhale felt like swallowing glass. He couldn't move. Could barely think. The poison was eating him from the inside out, and all he could do was endure it.
He wanted to cry out, to say something, but his throat had turned to dust. His fingers scrabbled uselessly at the floorboards, nails tearing against the wood. Every heartbeat was a hammer blow. Every moment stretched like it was trying to kill him slowly.
Then—the back door in the kitchen creaked open.
Harry heard it. Multiple footsteps. Slow. Unhurried.
Pain flared like fire behind his eyes. He forced his head up—barely. His vision blurred, edges pulsing red and black. The poison clawed at his stomach, twisting through his spine. But he pushed through it, jaw clenched tight, breathing through his nose like he could keep the pain at bay.
A voice cut through the silence. Hagrid.
"Wha' happened 'ere?"
Harry blinked, disoriented, the words distant and hollow, like they were being shouted from underwater. Everything was spinning—his vision warped at the edges. Had something happened in the kitchen? Why did it feel like the floor was shifting beneath him?
Then—Ginny. Her voice cracked.
"Mum? Dad?"
Her panic slammed into him harder than the pain. What had happened? Were they—?
"They're alive," she breathed, a little steadier this time. "They must've fought back before they were stunned."
Harry tried to latch onto her words, but the pain dragged him down again. His stomach twisted—burnt—as if something inside him were gnawing, clawing, tearing its way out.
"We need ter get 'em outta here, fast," Hagrid said, urgency tightening his voice. "They could still be in grave danger."
Harry tried to lift his head—tried to speak—but his mouth wouldn't work properly. The poison had coiled through him like icy fire. His limbs felt too heavy, his thoughts sluggish, murky.
And then—Percy laughed.
But it wasn't his laugh. Not really.
It was hollow. Wrong. A sound that didn't belong in this house.
Harry's head jerked up, and his vision swam. The impostor—that Percy—was standing over him, grinning like a predator. The next thing Harry knew, a sharp kick slammed into his side.
He screamed.
Not just from the blow—though that hurt like hell—but because the poison ignited all over again, surging through his veins like molten lead. The scream that tore out of him was raw, guttural, the kind of sound that didn't sound human.
Pain. So much pain. Every breath felt like it was slicing his lungs open from the inside.
Make it stop. Please. Just make it stop.
He barely registered the sound of footsteps—gasps, wands being drawn. He couldn't even lift his head anymore. His world had narrowed to fire and darkness.
Through blurred eyes, he saw shapes—Ron, Hermione, Ginny. Another Percy. The real Percy.
He wanted to speak, to warn them. But all that came out was a choked noise.
The impostor sat there—so calm, so composed—as if this were nothing more than a game he was winning. Legs crossed, back straight, hands casually holding a tiny glass vial that shimmered with poison.
Harry's heart pounded in his ears.
The impostor tilted the vial, watching the liquid swirl inside.
"It's fascinating," he said, voice dripping with mockery. "How just a few drops can unravel someone so completely."
Ron's voice cut in, sharp and shaking. "Who the hell are you?" His rage was palpable. "What did you do to Harry?!"
He fought against Hagrid's grip, wild with fury. "Let me go, Hagrid!"
The impostor looked at Ron with cool amusement. "I poisoned him," he said simply, like he was commenting on the weather. "And I must say—watching it work… it's been delightful."
Harry barely heard Hermione's gasp. He was sliding again—his vision flickering, black creeping in at the edges.
Don't pass out. Not yet.
A rough hand gripped his hair suddenly, jerking his head back. Harry cried out, vision flaring white with agony. His skin felt ice-cold and burning-hot all at once. He couldn't breathe.
"I'm not the one you should be afraid of," the impostor whispered, voice low, close to his ear. "I'm just the beginning."
Hagrid roared.
"Don't yeh dare touch him!"
Harry heard the rush of movement—Hagrid lunging forward—but then a strange silence. A crackle of magic, heavy and thick.
The imposter didn't even flinch. Hagrid was hanging there—suspended, mid-air—arms stretched toward Harry but frozen, powerless.
The imposter chuckled. Quiet. Cruel.
Ron's wand sparked violently, and Hermione stepped forward. Harry wanted to yell at them to run—to do something—but he couldn't make his mouth move.
"Why are you doing this?" Hermione asked, voice trembling with a terrible kind of knowing.
The imposter ignored her.
Instead, he pulled another vial from inside his cloak. This one was different. Thicker. Darker. Harry knew what it was. He had seen it before.
Without hesitation, the impostor drank.
Harry felt the magic shift. It pulsed through the air, heavy and wrong. The impostor's body shimmered, distorted—red hair bleeding away into pale blond, freckles vanishing, features sharpening into something both familiar and foreign.
Hermione staggered back. "No," she whispered, her voice cracking. "No—"
Harry's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.
The face looking back at them now wasn't Percy.
"Corban Yaxley," Ron breathed, his voice thin and hollow with dread.
Harry's stomach clenched. That name—sharp and cold like a knife in the dark. He had seen him at Hogwarts.
"That's right," came Yaxley's voice, sickeningly calm. Harry squinted through the throbbing haze in his skull.
"I rather like the spot you used to Disapparate from during your little Ministry break-in," Yaxley continued, tone casual, almost amused. "I've made it my own hideout. Convenient, really. I assume you were a bit too distracted to return and check on things?"
Harry tried to push himself up, but his limbs felt foreign—heavy and disconnected. His spine screamed in protest. Something inside him was wrong, deeply wrong. The poison twisted in his gut, scorching through his veins like fire.
"G—Grimmauld Place… isn't y—yours…" he rasped. The words tasted like iron and ash. He could barely hear himself speak.
Then came the kick.
A sharp, cruel blow to his side sent lightning bolts of pain shooting through his body. He cried out, his breath torn away, face smashing into the cold floorboards. Yaxley laughed—low, vicious.
"Oh, but it is now," he sneered. "You've stolen from me, Potter. The Dark Lord's plans, his secrets, his victories… And so now, I'll take what matters most to you. This place. Your friends. Your life. Piece by piece."
Harry could barely keep his eyes open. Each blink was a fight against the darkness pressing in. He could hear Ron's snarl, Hermione's muffled sob, and Ginny's trembling breaths—but they all sounded so far away. Like they were behind glass.
"Get away from him!" Ron bellowed.
The rage in his voice sparked something deep inside Harry. A flicker of resistance. But his body refused to respond.
Yaxley didn't flinch. "I heard Potter's dying," he said lightly. He pulled a small vial from his robes, swirling its contents—thick, oily, and black. "Thought I'd help it along."
He crouched beside Harry, and Harry saw his face—pale, sunken, almost gleeful.
"This one's a bit special. Makes you feel every nerve as it burns."
"No!" Ron shouted. Harry heard someone lunge forward—scraping feet, a wand raised—but a sharp, explosive bang kept them at bay. Yaxley's grip clamped onto Harry's jaw.
Harry tried to resist. He turned his head weakly, but it was like swimming against a riptide. Every nerve shrieked. His body was no longer his.
"Don't worry," Yaxley whispered, pouring the poison into his mouth. "You won't die just yet."
The liquid was cold. Then hot. Then everything.
A scream ripped itself from Harry's throat, primal and raw. The world convulsed. His body buckled. Agony unfurled like wildfire—an inferno beneath his skin. His vision shattered into stars and shadows.
He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
There was only pain.
Why can't I move—why can't I stop this—please—make it stop—make it stop—
The room spun. A thousand knives inside his chest. Bones grinding. His lungs filled with smoke. Screams—his? Hermione's?—echoed around him. It was like drowning in fire.
And above it all, Yaxley's laughter. Distant and cruel.
Then—silence. Yaxley Disapparated.
Gone.
The pain didn't leave with him. It stayed, relentless and suffocating. Harry lay motionless, spasming in the aftermath. His skin felt like it was peeling off. He couldn't find his voice. Couldn't form words.
Dying, he thought. I'm dying.
Hands touched him. Voices swam near.
"Harry! Stay with us—stay with us!" Hermione. Her voice cracked. Desperate.
"We've got you—just hang on—" Ginny.
"Portkey—where's the damn Portkey!" Ron's voice, shaking.
A blur of red rushed past—Percy. "Use this!" he shouted, thrusting an old Witch Weekly magazine into Ron's hands. "Get him to St. Mungo's now. I'll handle the ministry—just go!"
Harry felt arms under him—massive, trembling. Hagrid. His beard was soaked. Was he crying?
"Yeh'll be alright, Harry. I promise. Just hold on, now—"
Harry wanted to answer. To say thank you, or I'm scared, or just please. But his mouth wouldn't work. The poison coiled tighter around his lungs.
He saw Hermione conjure stretchers for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, both pale and still. Ginny hovered beside them, brushing hair from her mother's face, whispering something through tears.
Then Percy shouted again. "Touch it! Now!"
They all grabbed the magazine.
A violent yank tore Harry from the floor. The world whirled—a spinning storm of light and noise—and then, suddenly, they landed.
The world tilted sideways.
Harry couldn't tell if it was the corridor spinning or just his own body collapsing under the weight of something vile in his bloodstream. The cold floor hit his back, distant and far away, like he wasn't even inside himself anymore. Voices blurred together—shouts, footsteps, panic—and then a searing pain dragged him back. His lungs refused to work. Every breath felt like it was being scraped.
They were saying something about poison.
Poison.
His mind scrambled through a fog of memories. A drink? No, a spell? Had he been cursed? He couldn't remember. He couldn't think. All he could feel was his own heart thudding out of rhythm, his hands clutching at the air like he could rip the pain out of himself.
Everything was collapsing.
I'm dying.
That truth slid in, sudden and uninvited, slick with cold terror. His chest tightened. He couldn't speak, couldn't even call out. He could see shapes moving—blurred figures rushing around, silhouettes with wands and glowing hands—but none of it felt real. Just sound and colour, crashing over him in waves.
Then the pain hit again, sharper this time, a spike through his spine that forced a cry from his throat. It echoed through the lobby, raw and panicked.
He couldn't stop it. He wasn't even sure it had come from him until he saw the faces turning—everyone looking, everyone staring.
"Harry has been poisoned!" Hermione's voice sliced through the chaos like a lightning bolt. "He needs help—now!"
There was a beat of silence, like even the hospital wasn't sure how to react. Then a voice—thin, stunned. "Harry? You mean Harry Potter?"
Always that name, Harry thought bitterly. Even here. Even dying.
"YES, it's him!" Ron's voice, furious. "Now stop gawking and HELP HIM!"
The air seemed to shift. Healers sprang into action, and Harry was vaguely aware of being lifted, his body moving without his permission. They were speaking in clipped, urgent tones he couldn't make sense of. He thought he saw Augustus Pye somewhere in the chaos, pale and frantic, shouting orders. For a moment, Harry wondered if Pye ever questioned why the Weasleys—and anyone close to them—kept ending up in St. Mungo's like they were cursed.
Maybe they were.
He tried to say something, anything, but his throat only made a choking sound. More faces appeared above him, blurring in and out of focus. He couldn't feel his legs. His fingers were numb.
Don't let me die. Not here. Not like this.
Somewhere nearby, Hagrid's booming voice broke through the noise, and Harry felt a sudden weight of comfort and sorrow roll through his chest. Hagrid. He was here. That meant it was bad. That meant they all knew.
He wanted to scream, but the darkness was pulling at him.
In the room above, the air was a tomb.
The silence pressed in on Harry's chest like it could crush him, even though he wasn't sure if he was really in the room or just floating somewhere outside his body. He could hear things—voices, pacing, breathing—but it was all faint. Distant. Like he was behind a pane of glass.
He could hear Ron trying to sound strong. "The healers have plenty of antidotes. They can fix this—they haveto."
He wanted to believe him.
But Hermione's voice was a thread of ice. "Even if they do, it might not be fast enough. Depending on the type of poison… the damage could already be irreversible."
Irreversible.
Harry felt like something inside him snapped. He tried to move, to reach out to them, but his body wouldn't respond. He was trapped in it, locked behind eyes that wouldn't open.
"I… I think I know which poison it is," Ginny's voice whispered, fragile but steady. "And if it's the same one… he might not survive another attack."
A cold dread slid over Harry like a shroud.
He was running out of time.
Meanwhile, Ron's fury was burning out of control. "Yaxley and Malfoy," he spat, his voice vibrating with rage. "They're behind this. I know it. If I see them again—Merlin help me—I'll make them pay."
No one said anything at first. The words hung heavy in the room.
Finally, Hermione spoke. "Ron, revenge isn't going to help Harry right now."
"I don't care!" he shouted. "He's in there dying, and they're out there walking free! Someone has to do something!"
Harry wanted to tell him to stop. He wanted to tell him not yet, not while the poison was still crawling through his veins, not while his heart was slowing down like a broken clock.
But he couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
He was slipping further.
He could feel it—like water filling his lungs. Like the world turning colder with every second.
Help me, he thought, but the words never reached his lips.
Please.