The lights in the hospital ceiling flickered like dying stars, buzzing weakly. Shadows crept along the peeling walls, stretching and twisting like fingers reaching for him. Harry was trapped under them, a prisoner in his own failing body.
Every breath was a battle—shallow, wheezing gasps that barely filled his lungs before slipping out again. His chest felt like it was caving in, crushed under invisible hands. His stomach churned violently, waves of nausea clawing up his throat.
A wet, shuddering cough racked his frame, and then he was retching again, the bitter taste of bile burning his mouth. Nothing but sour liquid came up, but still his body spasmed, desperate to expel something, anything. His arms were too weak to even lift himself. He hung over the bed's edge, trembling uncontrollably, too sick to care who was watching.
Hagrid's huge hand thudded awkwardly against his back, a poor anchor against the storm tearing him apart.
"Easy, Harry, easy now…" Hagrid mumbled, his voice shaking. But it wasn't easy. It was never going to be easy again.
Harry's skin burnt with fever; his body, slick with sweat, stuck to the sheets. Every nerve screamed, every heartbeat a raw stab inside his ribs. It felt like the poison was laughing at him, digging deeper, sinking claws into his very bones.
He tried to speak—to ask if it was supposed to hurt this much—but his mouth only opened in a dry, soundless gasp. His hands scrabbled weakly at the blankets, at the air, at nothing. Panic flared inside him, wild and feral. I'm dying. I'm dying.
Hagrid's face hovered above him — pale, desperate. Too big for this tiny room, too solid for the nightmare unspooling inside Harry.
He heard the healers moving, speaking—sharp words exchanged like blows—but the noise twisted and bent in his ears. He couldn't understand them. Couldn't focus.
Something bright flashed—a flask. The antidote. Harry's blurred gaze caught on it just long enough for a flicker of hope to spark inside him.
"Wha's that?" Hagrid demanded, voice thick with dread.
The healer's face was a grim mask. "An antidote. Angel's Trumpet toxin. Fast. Fatal. This will save him… if he survives the next few days."
If.
Harry barely felt the needle slide into his arm. He barely had time to brace himself.
Then the real agony hit.
It wasn't pain—it was annihilation.
Fire exploded through his veins. His spine bowed sharply off the mattress in a violent arc. A scream tore out of him, raw and hoarse. His vision shattered into white-hot fragments. His body convulsed, muscles locking so tightly it felt like he was being torn apart.
He vomited again, helpless, as the antidote rampaged through him. His throat burnt. His eyes blurred with tears he couldn't wipe away. Please, his mind begged, please make it stop, please—
But there was no stopping it. No mercy. Only the antidote ripping the poison out and, with it, tearing him down to nothing.
"Can't we—!?" Hagrid choked, voice cracking. "Somethin' fer the pain—!?"
"No," the Healer snapped. "If he sleeps, he dies."
And then they left. Abandoning Harry to the nightmare chewing him alive.
He writhed helplessly on the bed, thrashing against invisible shackles. His body was a battlefield, every limb a casualty. His nails clawed weakly at the mattress, at his own skin. Hot, salty blood filled his mouth where he'd bitten his lip trying not to scream.
He didn't know how long it went on. Minutes? Hours? Days? Time meant nothing anymore.
Somewhere, dim and far away, Hagrid's huge, shaking hands pinned him gently to the bed. Trying to stop him from hurting himself. Trying to keep him here.
"Stay with me, Harry," Hagrid pleaded brokenly. "Don't yeh leave me, please—"
Harry couldn't answer. He could barely think. Only the pain was real, the pain and the darkness crowding at the edges of his mind, whispering how easy it would be to let go. To fall into it. To stop fighting.
But then he felt it—Hagrid's hand clumsily squeezing his, anchoring him to the living world.
I can't leave him. The thought burnt through the haze, stubborn and fierce. I won't leave him. I won't.
So he held on. Even as the poison tried to drag him under. Even as the antidote ripped him apart.
He held on.
Because Hagrid was still there. And Harry had never been able to bear the thought of leaving the people he loved behind.
The world fractured.
One moment Harry was in the hospital bed, drowning in pain; the next, he was somewhere else—somewhere wrong. The walls stretched and twisted like molten wax. The floor yawned open beneath him, a gaping black mouth.
He staggered through it, gasping, clutching at his burning chest. Shapes moved in the shadows — half-seen, half-heard. Whispers skittered through the darkness, curling into his ears.
Weak… Failure… Burden…
He flinched from them and tried to run, but his legs refused to obey. They moved like they weren't his anymore, slow and clumsy. His body was heavy, stuffed with stones. Every step tore another scream through his throat.
Then he saw them—faces in the dark.
Ron. Hermione. Ginny. All pale, all hollow-eyed. Staring at him with expressions twisted by disappointment.
"You couldn't even survive this," Hermione said, her voice a brittle, broken thing. "After everything we've done for you."
"You always were dead weight," Ron muttered, shaking his head.
Ginny just turned away, her red hair swallowing her like a flame.
"No," Harry gasped, reaching out, but his hand passed through them like mist. "No, please—I'm trying—"
The shadows laughed. Low and cruel.
Another wave of nausea slammed into him. In the real world, he vomited again, choking on bile and acid. His body seized, curled in on itself.
Somewhere, dimly, he felt a hand gripping his shoulder—steady, unmovable. Hagrid. The only real thing left in the world.
But even that anchor wasn't enough to stop the flood of darkness rushing back in.
The dream shifted. Now he was back at the graveyard—not Cedric's death, no. His own. Cold hands wrapped around his throat, dragging him down into the soil. He kicked and fought, but his limbs were leaden, useless.
The earth swallowed him. Dirt clogged his mouth and nose. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream.
The poison, he realised dimly. It was killing him all over again.
"Give up," a voice hissed from the soil, sibilant and cruel. "You don't deserve to live. Let go."
Harry almost did. Almost.
Until a new sound cut through the suffocating dark: a rough, broken voice, shouting his name over and over.
"HARRY! Fight, yeh hear me?! FIGHT!"
Hagrid. Still there. Still holding on.
Somewhere deep inside the broken wreck of himself, Harry latched onto that voice. That stubborn, ridiculous humanvoice that refused to let him fall.
He forced himself to breathe. To fight. Even as the earth crushed him. Even as the poison raged in his blood.
The darkness howled, furious at losing its grip.
Harry clawed his way up through it—up toward the pain, toward the sick, brutal reality waiting for him.
Because if he died here—if he let go—he wouldn't just lose himself.
He'd lose them too.
He gasped awake with a choking sob, blinking into the blurry, flickering light of St. Mungo's. His entire body screamed in protest. Sweat poured off him in sheets. His stomach spasmed again, dry-heaving even though there was nothing left inside.
Hagrid leaned over him, huge and broken-looking, tears streaking his weathered face.
"Tha's it, Harry," Hagrid whispered hoarsely, clutching his hand like it was the only thing keeping them both from falling apart. "Tha's it. Keep fightin', lad."
Harry's whole world narrowed to that—the hand gripping his, the broken voice calling him back, and the unbearable pain he chose to endure.
Because he wasn't done. Not yet.
Not while they still believed in him.
Not while he still had something left to fight for.
The hours bled together into something that barely resembled time.
Harry floated in and out of awareness, each moment a fresh nightmare. Fever raged through him, cooking his brain inside his skull. His skin felt stretched too tight over his bones, every breath a battle.
The bed reeked of sweat, vomit, and something sharp—like burning metal—and Harry wasn't sure if it was the poison bleeding out of him or just the stink of dying.
Sometimes he surfaced just long enough to hear Hagrid's voice, low and desperate, calling for help no one answered quickly enough.
Other times, he sank back into visions—visions so sharp and cruel he couldn't tell dream from reality.
In one, he was back in the Forbidden Forest, lost, stumbling through the tangled roots. The trees whispered his name with every gust of wind, their branches clawing at his face, his arms. He stumbled again and again, knees splitting open on stones, hands torn and bloody.
Every time he tried to find his way out, the forest closed in tighter.
"You can't save anyone," it hissed.
In another, he saw Dumbledore—not the calm, wise figure he remembered, but cold and distant, turning away from him.
"You were never enough," Dumbledore said, and his voice echoed like a curse.
Harry tried to scream, but his mouth was full of dirt again, choking him.
In the real world, Hagrid wiped Harry's face with a damp cloth, his massive hands trembling. The healers had left them for hours now, trusting—or forgetting—that Hagrid would stay no matter what happened.
The fever was worse now. Harry's body was a furnace, his skin burning under Hagrid's touch. Every few minutes, another fit of dry heaving wracked him, leaving him gasping and shivering in the bed's soaked sheets.
"Hang on, Harry," Hagrid kept muttering, over and over, like a prayer. "Yer strong. Stronger than any poison. Jus' keep fightin'."
But even Hagrid wasn't sure anymore if he was lying.
Once, when Harry seized so badly that the bed rattled against the floor, Hagrid tried to hold him still—terrified Harry would snap a bone or rip open the wound where the antidote had entered.
"Easy, easy now," he crooned, tears sliding silently down his rough cheeks.
Harry's hand found his somehow—bone-thin, trembling. He squeezed once, feebly.
It nearly broke Hagrid's heart.
Night fell, or maybe it had been night all along—Harry couldn't tell anymore. The world outside the room might as well have been another universe.
At some point, the fever dreams worsened.
Harry found himself standing at the edge of a lake—cold, black water stretching endlessly under a sky with no stars. Figures stood in the shallows, half-sunk, calling to him with hollow voices.
Sirius. Fred. Lupin. Tonks. Cedric.
All the dead he had failed.
"Come with us," they whispered. "It's easier. You've earned your rest."
Harry took a step forward, hypnotised. He could almost feel the chill of the water licking at his ankles. The peace it promised was so sweet.
But then—Hagrid's voice again, rough and cracked from too many tears:
"Yeh ain't alone, Harry. Don' yeh dare think yeh're alone."
The lake rippled. The figures faded.
Harry turned away, wrenching himself back toward the pain, toward the fever, toward the life he still clung to by the barest shred.
He woke with a broken gasp, sobbing for air.
Hagrid was still there, hunched over the bed, a mountain of grief and stubborn love.
"Tha's it, lad," Hagrid choked out. "Come back. Come back."
Harry didn't know how many nights he battled through.
Each one was worse than the last—a gauntlet of burning agony, sickness, and hallucinations that scraped at his sanity.
Each time he almost let go. Each time he almost gave in to the sweet dark that promised no more pain.
But he didn't.
Because of that hand that never let go of his.
Because no matter how deep he sank, he knew Hagrid was still there, anchored to him, refusing to give up even when Harry wanted to.
And somewhere, deep in the shredded remains of his heart, Harry knew he had to stay.
Even if it broke him.
At first, Harry thought he was dreaming again.
The world felt wrong—sluggish, blurred at the edges. The air wasn't thick anymore, but thin and brittle, like glass ready to shatter with every breath. His skin was clammy instead of burning, but there was still something wrong inside him, something twisting under his ribs.
He cracked his eyes open, and the blurry lights above him swam into a nauseating focus.
His head lolled to one side. Hagrid was still there, slumped half-asleep in a too-small chair, one massive hand still clamped around Harry's limp one, as if he had fallen unconscious holding it and refused to let go.
Harry tried to move—just a twitch of his fingers, just a breath—and was met with a wall of resistance.
It was like his own body had turned to stone. Stiff, unresponsive, alien.
Panic flared sharp and wild in his chest.
He forced a deeper breath, and the pain came roaring back: his muscles were cramped, locked tight, as if every fibre had been twisted until it snapped and then left that way. His limbs felt splintered; his back arched stiffly off the bed even when he tried to relax.
The antidote. It was still fighting. Still finishing the war the poison had started inside him.
A low, broken sound escaped him—part moan, part sob.
Hagrid jerked awake instantly, eyes wide with terror until they landed on Harry.
"Harry—!" His voice cracked on the name. He leaned in so close Harry could feel the tremble of his breath. "You're awake… You're awake…"
Harry tried to answer, but his throat was raw, stripped bare. Only a harsh croak came out.
"Easy now," Hagrid said quickly, clumsily adjusting the pillow behind Harry's head, trying to make him comfortable without jostling his ruined body too much. "You're through the worst of it, yeh hear me? You've done it, lad."
But it didn't feel like it.
It felt like he was still drowning, just slower now.
It felt like the antidote was gnawing at his insides, stitching him back together in the most brutal, agonising way possible.
It felt like every tendon had been ripped and reknit wrong.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the weight of it. I survived, he told himself. I survived.
But survival didn't feel like victory.
It felt like defeat.
Every muscle in his body trembled with the effort it took just to breathe. His joints burnt. His hands were curled into claws he couldn't uncurl; the tendons were locked tight with strain.
He tried to shift, tried to speak, tried to do something to prove he was still here, still himself — but the smallest movement sent shocks of pain lancing through him.
Hot tears leaked from his eyes, soaking into the pillow.
Hagrid wiped them away with the corner of his sleeve, murmuring rough, broken things Harry couldn't understand. It didn't matter. The sound of his voice was enough—something real, something steady.
Harry stayed very still, fighting the urge to thrash, to scream.
Because he knew if he moved wrong, even once, the antidote would punish him for it. Like barbed wire wrapped around his bones, tightening every time he so much as breathed wrong.
The fever was breaking—but the fight inside him wasn't over yet.
He wasn't free.
Not yet.
Harry drifted at the edge of consciousness, suspended in a place that wasn't quite waking, wasn't quite dreaming. Every sound around him was muffled, like he was underwater. Even the sharp, sterile smell of the hospital was dulled to a faint chemical haze in his nose.
Footsteps shuffled into the room—hurried, purposeful. Cloaks rustling. Potions clinking against glass.
Healers.
He heard Hagrid's chair scrape harshly against the stone floor as the giant scrambled upright, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong. Harry wanted to turn his head, to see them, to listen—but the thought alone was exhausting. His body refused to answer him.
"He's awake, but only barely," one voice said—clipped, efficient. "The fever's broken. That's something."
"He's survived, then?" Hagrid's voice—hoarse, strained. Almost afraid to believe it.
A pause. Then: "Yes. But…" The healer's voice dropped lower, serious, grave. "The antidote is still doing its work. His body's been pushed far past its limits. He'll need weeks of recovery, maybe longer. Muscle damage. Nerve strain. Magical shock."
Hagrid made a small, broken noise in the back of his throat—relief tangled so tightly with grief it sounded like it hurt to breathe.
Harry tried to understand. Tried to piece the words together.
But they slid past him, meaningless sounds. Heavy and slow.
His mind sagged under their weight.
He could feel the exhaustion pulling at him—deeper than any tiredness he'd ever known. It clawed at him from the inside, dragging him down, down, down.
"Will he be able ter walk again?" Hagrid asked roughly.
The healer hesitated. "In time. But it will be painful. He'll need help—a lot of it."
Something cold and hard twisted in Harry's chest. He didn't want help. He didn't want to be a burden, dragging everyone down.
But he was too tired to feel anything properly. Even shame.
The voices blurred together, rising and falling like a tide he couldn't fight against.
Words like "nerve regeneration", "potions therapy", and "muscle reconditioning" floated past, meaningless.
Harry's body throbbed with dull, aching pain, too deep to localise, like he was bruised all the way through to the marrow.
The bed was too hard. The sheets were too rough. The very weight of the air pressing down on him was unbearable.
Still, his eyes fluttered closed. He couldn't hold them open anymore.
He couldn't keep fighting.
The last thing he heard was Hagrid's voice, closer now, a low, rough murmur.
"Sleep, Harry. Yeh earned it, lad. Yeh fought harder than anyone I've ever seen."
Something warm—Hagrid's massive hand—brushed through his hair, clumsy and gentle.
Harry surrendered at last, slipping into a deep, heavy sleep that swallowed him whole.
Harry drifted awake slowly. The light in the hospital room was soft and muted, filtering weakly through the curtains. For a long moment, he just lay there, blinking up at the blurry ceiling, not entirely sure where he was—or even who he was. Everything hurt. It was a deep, bruising ache that seemed to sit in his bones. His body felt wrong, heavy.
When he finally managed to turn his head, he spotted a huge, familiar figure slumped awkwardly beside his bed. Hagrid. Fast asleep, his massive frame crammed into a too-small chair, his wild hair and beard making him look even more dishevelled than usual—like some kind of giant, battered old teddy bear.
A small, broken sound escaped Harry's throat—part relief, part pain. He tried to sit up, but the effort sent a stabbing agony through his chest and down his limbs. Every tiny movement felt like it ripped something open inside him. He bit down hard to keep from crying out.
Still, even that small shift was enough. Hagrid stirred, blinking blearily, then jerked upright with a grunt, eyes wide and frantic, searching the dim room like he expected an attack.
"Harry?" he said, voice thick with sleep and fear.
Harry swallowed hard. His throat felt raw, like he hadn't spoken in days. "Hey, Hagrid," he croaked, forcing a small smile. "Sorry… I didn't mean to wake you." His voice cracked embarrassingly, and he curled closer to Hagrid's arm without thinking, desperate for some sort of warmth, some anchor in the middle of everything spinning out of control inside him.
Hagrid leaned closer, his massive hand hovering uncertainly over Harry's shoulder like he was afraid to hurt him. His face was twisted up in worry. "It's alright, Harry. Don' yeh worry about me," he said gruffly. "How're yeh feelin'?"
Harry gave a weak laugh that turned into a cough. "Like I got flattened by a bloody Bludger," he rasped. "Everything hurts."
He tried stretching an arm out experimentally, but a vicious jolt of pain lanced through his muscles, and he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Easy, now," Hagrid said quickly. "The antidote's workin'. Bit slow, but… The poison's startin' to leave yer system. Healers said it'll just take a bit o' time."
Poison. Right.
The word sat heavy in Harry's mind. He remembered flashes—fear, shouting, cold spreading through his veins. And then… darkness.
He nodded vaguely, letting his head fall back against the pillow. His mind felt like it was wading through mud.
"Is this… St. Mungo's?" He mumbled after a pause, glancing around the unfamiliar room. It was small and plain, almost peaceful. Somehow it didn't match the chaos he felt churning inside.
"Aye," Hagrid said, lowering his voice like they were sharing a secret. "We brought yeh here. Got yeh outta there quick as we could."
Harry frowned. We?
He turned his head slowly to squint up at Hagrid. "We?" he repeated, confusion thick in his voice.
Hagrid nodded, solemn now. "Yer friends. Ron, Hermione… Ginny too. They're the ones who found yeh."
A sharp jolt of emotion punched through Harry's chest—relief so strong it nearly hurt. They're okay. They're alive.
"Where are they now?" he asked, a little too urgently. The idea of them being hurt—because of him—made his stomach twist painfully.
"In the waitin' room," Hagrid said gently. "Healers said no visitors just yet. Gotta let yeh rest first."
Harry's heart sank, but he nodded. It made sense. Still, the thought of them being just outside the door—and not being able to see them—gnawed at him.
"But you're here," he said quietly, almost accusingly, needing to understand why Hagrid had been allowed to stay when the others hadn't.
Hagrid gave a small, sheepish chuckle. "They made an exception fer me. Told 'em I weren't goin' anywhere. Mighta scared 'em a bit, if I'm honest," he added with a wink that didn't quite hide the shine in his eyes.
Despite everything, Harry found himself smiling weakly. Trust Hagrid to be stubborn even with hospital staff.
But the smile faded fast when he noticed the thick white bandages wrapped around Hagrid's arms, peeking out from under his sleeves. His stomach dropped.
"Hagrid—what happened?" Harry demanded, trying to sit up again and immediately regretting it as a fresh wave of dizziness hit him.
Hagrid reached out and gently pressed Harry back down against the bed. "Easy there, easy," he said. Then, with a sigh, he shifted in his chair, his massive shoulders slumping like someone had taken the wind out of him.
"I got attacked," he said, voice low. "In the cave. Was searchin' fer what we needed… didn't reckon on how dangerous it'd gotten. Barely made it out."
Harry stared at him, horrified. Because of me.
If something had happened to Hagrid—if Hagrid had died—because of his stupid quest, he didn't know how he would have lived with himself.
"But… you're alright now, right?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry—Merlin, I'm so sorry—we shouldn't have dragged you into this—"
"Stop that," Hagrid cut in firmly, holding up a massive hand. "This weren't yer fault, Harry. None of it."
For a moment, it looked like Hagrid might actually cry. His black eyes were shiny, his mouth trembling slightly under his beard. But he swallowed hard and kept going.
"I'm worried about you, not me," he said thickly. "Ron and' Hermione told me… about yer soul. About the poison. Gave me a right scare, I can tell yeh."
He scrubbed at his face roughly with one hand, as if trying to wipe the memory away. Then he straightened up and said, more steadily, "I got what yeh needed. The tail hair. Gave it to Hermione straightaway. They're already workin' on the potion."
Harry closed his eyes, relief flooding him for a second—but it didn't last. A prickle of unease crept under his skin.
Had Ron and Hermione told Hagrid everything? About the price of the potion? About the risk?
"Thank you, Hagrid," he said sincerely, forcing the words past the tight knot in his throat. But deep down, fear twisted inside him.
He wasn't sure any of them truly understood what they'd set into motion.
The door creaked open, slow and hesitant, like even it wasn't sure if it should be disturbing him. Harry blinked blearily at the sound, lifting his head from the pillow. The light from the hall spilt into the ward, and through it stepped Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Their faces were a mess of emotions—worry, relief, maybe even a little guilt.
"Harry!" they cried in near unison.
Before Harry could fully sit up, Ginny had crossed the room and thrown her arms around him. Pain shot up his ribs, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath—but he didn't care. He closed his eyes and held onto her hand tightly, grounding himself in the warmth of her touch, the steady thrum of her presence. For the first time since waking up, the hollow fear gnawing at his chest loosened a little.
"We couldn't stand it anymore," Ron said, half out of breath, like he'd sprinted all the way up. "Waiting… Merlin, Harry, you won't believe everything that's happened while you were out."
Hermione was right behind him, peering at Harry like she was afraid he might vanish. "How do you feel?" she asked, her voice tight with worry.
Harry tried to shift upright, only for a sharp jolt to bolt down his spine. He gritted his teeth, trying not to wince too visibly. "The antidote's helping," he muttered. "Still feels like I got hit by a Bludger, though." He offered a weak smile, hoping to ease their nerves. "Hagrid told me about… the cave."
Ron fidgeted with the hem of his jumper, a telltale sign he was itching to say something. "Harry… do you reckon Malfoy was involved?" His voice was careful, but hopeful too, like he wanted Harry to confirm all his worst suspicions.
Hermione stood rigidly still, her lips pressed tight, waiting for Harry's answer.
Harry swallowed, his mouth dry. Part of him still reeled from everything—from Malfoy's warning, from the attack, from the awful hours trapped in darkness with nothing but the sound of his own breathing. His chest ached—from the poison, sure, but also from something heavier: his damaged soul.
"I wanted to talk to you about that," Ron rushed on, serious for once. "Your opinion—it means everything, mate."
Harry met Ron's gaze, and, despite the fuzziness in his brain and the constant thrum of pain, he knew one thing for certain. "It wasn't Malfoy," he said flatly.
Ron's jaw dropped. "You're joking."
Harry shook his head, ignoring the way the motion made the room tilt. "He warned me. I didn't think he hurt Hagrid either. He… he actually helped."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, sceptical as ever. "How can you be sure?" she asked, cautious but not unkind. "I'm not saying you're wrong, Harry, but it is Malfoy."
"I know," Harry said, a little sharper than he meant to. He shifted again, and a spike of pain made him see stars. He squeezed Ginny's hand tighter. "But he came to the Burrow. Met with your dad, Ron. Face-to-face. He didn't have to do any of that. If he wanted to set me up, he could've done it differently. Easier."
Ron crossed his arms, scowling like Harry had just announced he was planning to invite Voldemort over for tea. "So you trust him now?"
"No." Harry let out a short, humourless laugh. "Trusting Malfoy? That'd be bloody stupid. I'm just saying—he didn't betray me this time. That counts for something."
"But what if he's just waiting for a bigger opportunity?" Ron pressed, his frustration rising. "Maybe he's playing the long game, trying to get close enough to—"
Harry cut him off with a shake of his head. "He owed me. He paid his debt. That's it."
Ron looked like he wanted to argue, but Ginny squeezed Harry's hand gently and spoke up instead, her voice soft but serious. "Then… if it wasn't Malfoy, do you think Yaxley's working alone?"
The question weighed heavily in the room. Harry opened his mouth, unsure what to say. His head was pounding again, and a deep, tired ache crawled through his limbs. Every thought felt sluggish, sticky. He hated this—hated being weak, hated being unsure.
Before he could form a proper answer, the door slammed open with a bang, making him jump and jolt his injuries in the process.
"Bloody hell," Harry muttered under his breath, grimacing.
Kingsley Shacklebolt strode into the ward like he owned it, Percy following closely behind, looking stiff and uncomfortable. A healer was right on the front, her face a thundercloud of annoyance.
"What is the meaning of this?" She snapped, glaring at all of them like they'd just set fire to the hospital. "Mr. Potter needs rest. Only two visitors at a time, maximum! The rest of you—out!"
Harry blinked at her, half expecting her to hex them all on the spot.
Kingsley, calm as ever, stepped forward. His deep voice cut through the tension like a blade. "I apologise for the intrusion. But I must speak with Mr. Potter and his friends. Now."
The Healer opened her mouth to argue, thought better of it, huffed loudly, and stormed out, her heels clacking furiously down the corridor.
The world tilted a little when Harry tried to sit up straighter. Pain spiked under his ribs, sharp and cold, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from wincing like a kid with a scraped knee. Great, he thought. One more thing he couldn't control.
"Harry Potter," Kingsley said, his deep voice cutting through the room like a wand through mist. "I apologise for intruding, but Percy here informed me of the situation immediately."
Harry turned his head slowly, careful not to trigger another dizzy spell. Percy stood ramrod straight beside Kingsley, looking like he'd swallowed a broomstick. Probably thought he was being heroic. Across the room, Ron was rolling his eyes so hard Harry thought he might actually dislocate something. Even now, it was almost funny.
Almost.
"We were just discussing the matter, Minister," Hermione said briskly.
Kingsley gave a brief smile. "Please—call me Kingsley."
The knot of tension in the room loosened slightly. Not in Harry, though. The pain still gnawed at him like a rat chewing at the floorboards of his chest.
"Tell me what happened," Kingsley prompted, his voice gentle but firm.
Harry stayed quiet, letting Hermione step forward. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk—it was that he was afraid he might say something stupid like 'Everything's fine' and then pass out on the floor.
"Draco Malfoy came to the Burrow yesterday," Hermione began, her voice steady, "to see Harry. He… he wanted to repay his debt to him for saving his life during the war. And in return, he told him about a cave in Ireland. A cave containing a crucial ingredient to heal Harry's soul."
Harry caught the flash of disbelief on Ron's face and gave him the faintest shrug. Yeah, he didn't get it either. Malfoy showing gratitude was right up there with Voldemort sending Christmas cards.
"We thought it was worth checking out," Hermione continued. "So we sent a letter to Hagrid."
Harry shifted slightly, another jab of pain radiating through his side. He tried to hide it by pretending to adjust his shirt.
"And then," Hermione said, swallowing hard, "this morning Percy arrived at the Burrow. Only… we discovered too late it wasn't really Percy."
Kingsley's expression didn't change, but Harry felt the crackle of anger in the air. The memories flashed through his mind—the poisoned potion, the heavy silence, the sudden, paralysing fear.
"Corban Yaxley," Hermione said, her voice almost a whisper. "He poisoned Harry and attacked Mr. and Mrs. Weasley."
A silence fell heavy as a tombstone.
Kingsley's jaw tightened. "Where are Molly and Arthur now?"
"In the next room," Ginny said immediately. Her voice was flat, stretched too thin. "They're still unconscious, but the Healers are with them."
Harry forced himself to look up. He hated the guilt in Ginny's eyes. Hated knowing this was all connected to him—to the broken, poisoned thing he'd become.
"And when you say you discovered too late that Percy was an impostor?" Kingsley asked Hermione gently.
Hermione's composure cracked like ice underfoot. "When Harry started getting worse, Yaxley—the impostor—asked me what was wrong. And I…" She wiped hastily at her eyes. "I told him everything. About Harry's condition, how it started."
Harry didn't even hesitate. "It's not your fault," he said roughly. "None of us knew it wasn't the real Percy."
"But he could use that information against you, Harry!" Hermione burst out. "I told him everything."
Ron, still at her side, gave her shoulder a firm squeeze. "We were all fooled. Hermione, come on—it's Yaxley. He could trick anyone."
A part of Harry wanted to believe that. Another part of him—the part that had lived through too many betrayals—whispered that maybe he was just too easy to hurt these days. That maybe he'd always been.
The pain crept higher, almost reaching his throat. He coughed into his hand, hoping nobody noticed.
"I'll see to it that Yaxley's locked up the moment we find him," Kingsley said grimly. "The Aurors are already searching."
Harry wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or just… tired. Probably both.
Kingsley turned to Percy. "Did you notice anything strange before you were attacked?"
Percy straightened like a soldier at inspection. "No, sir. I… I heard a faint voice. Then—nothing. I woke up in the hospital."
Harry almost pitied him. Almost. But the pounding behind his eyes was making him too irritable for charity today.
Kingsley frowned deeply. "It sounds like Yaxley planned this for a while. Was he there when you received the letter from Hagrid?"
Ron and Ginny exchanged a glance and shook their heads. "Yes," they said at the same time, sounding grim.
"Then how did he find out?" Kingsley asked.
Hermione picked up the thread. "Ron sent the letter the same night Malfoy told us about the cave. But Hagrid said later the owl looked battered when it arrived."
"Aye," Hagrid rumbled from where he sat awkwardly by the chair. "Looked like it flew through a battlefield."
Harry winced—half from the memory, half from another sharp stab in his gut. Great. Now even the owls were getting beaten up because of him.
"They must have intercepted the letter," Hermione concluded, voice shaking. "That's how they knew."
Kingsley nodded slowly. "And if they knew about the cave, they likely knew about the Burrow too."
A cold trickle slid down Harry's spine. Nowhere was safe anymore. Not the Burrow. Not home.
Kingsley turned back to Percy, his face all business. "You'll recheck every single enchantment around the Burrow. Walls, fireplaces, windows, the lot. If Yaxley got in, it means the protections are failing."
Percy straightened even further—if that was humanly possible. "Yes, sir!" he said, like he was about to charge off into battle.
Harry leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. His body ached like an old, cracked broomstick, and the room was spinning just enough to make him nauseous.
Kingsley's gaze shifted again, restless, as if every corner of the room held a different version of the future.
"As for Draco Malfoy," he said, voice like stone grinding against stone, "I have my doubts. He's being watched, of course, but it would be foolish to dismiss the possibility. Tell me, Harry—do you think Draco might be collaborating with Yaxley?"
Harry let out a short, tired breath. His hand drifted up, fingers raking through the mess of his hair. He was so bloody tired of suspicion, of constantly being asked to weigh the worth of people like he was some final judge.
He wanted to say it was impossible, but the words stuck in his throat.
Too many betrayals still sat raw under his skin.
"I know how it sounds," Harry said finally, his voice rough-edged. "But no. I don't think he would. Malfoy's a lot of things, but he isn't a fool." His chest tightened painfully. "He came to me because he owed me. He wouldn't spit on that debt—not now. Not when it's the only thing keeping his family afloat."
Kingsley watched him closely, dark eyes steady.
"Your instincts haven't failed you yet, Harry," he said slowly. "But we'll stay cautious."
Harry gave a bitter little laugh under his breath.
Instinct. Right. His so-called instincts had gotten plenty of people killed already. Sirius. Dumbledore. Fred. He shoved the thought away before it could sink its claws deeper.
"The Malfoys know exactly how fragile their place is," Harry said, more forcefully. He needed them to understand—needed to believe it himself. "They wouldn't risk everything they've managed to cling to just for another taste of power."
Kingsley folded his arms, weighing the words like stones in his hands.
"Recklessness has never been the Malfoy way," he agreed. "They move when it's safe to move." His gaze sharpened. "If you're right—if they're truly trying to change—would you stand for them? Would you testify?"
The words hit harder than they should have, leaving Harry momentarily breathless.
Would he? Could he really defend them—the family that had once stood at Voldemort's side while he himself had bled and broken under their indifference?
He felt every stare in the room land on him, heavy as chains. They still looked at him like he had the answers. Like surviving meant he knew something they didn't.
But Harry didn't feel wise. He didn't feel strong.
He felt hollow. And tired. And so, so old.
Still, he straightened his spine, forcing himself to meet Kingsley's gaze.
Because if he didn't believe in second chances, what the hell had any of this been for?
"I'll do it," Harry said quietly. "I'll testify."
Kingsley's mouth pressed into a thin line, unreadable, but he gave a small nod.
Harry took a breath, deep and ragged, and let the memories unfurl inside him like a wound reopening.
"During the Battle of Hogwarts," he began, voice low and rough, "Voldemort had me at his feet. I thought I was going to die. Maybe part of me wanted to, by then." His throat tightened, but he forced the words out anyway. "It was Narcissa Malfoy who saved me. She lied. Risked everything, just to find out if her son was alive."
He let the truth hang there, sharp and terrible.
Because in the end, it hadn't been some grand act of heroism that saved him. It had been a mother's fear.
"She didn't do it for me. She didn't even do it because it was right. She did it because she loved her son more than she feared Voldemort." He gave a short, humourless laugh. "Love. That stupid, human thing Voldemort never understood. And it cost him everything."
He caught Hermione's eye across the room—saw her give him the smallest, tightest nod. He clung to it like a lifeline.
"After the battle," Harry went on, voice steadier now, "the Malfoys didn't stay to fight. They didn't try to reclaim what was lost. They just searched for their son. They walked away. From everything."
The silence in the room was thick enough to choke on.
Harry felt the weight of it pressing against him, whispering that he was wrong, that the world wasn't that simple, and that maybe the Malfoys didn't deserve forgiveness.
But he also remembered lying in the dirt of the Forbidden Forest, half-dead, and feeling Narcissa's fingers tremble against his chest. He remembered the way she had whispered to him, "Is he alive? Is my son alive?" —and how desperately she had needed the answer.
"They chose their family over the war," Harry finished quietly. "That has to count for something."
For a long moment, nobody moved. Harry could feel the pounding of his heart in his ears.
Finally, Kingsley exhaled slowly.
"Thank you, Harry," he said, his voice gentler than before. "You've given me much to consider. Your experiences… they carry a weight the rest of us can't ignore."
He paused, gathering his thoughts.
"In light of your testimony, I will recommend mercy. No Azkaban." He lifted a hand, forestalling any protest. "But there will still be consequences. They will answer for what they've done. Justice demands it."
Harry nodded, the knot in his chest loosening—but only just.
He felt no triumph. No satisfaction. Only the bitter, familiar ache of loss—the understanding that no choice in this broken, bleeding world would ever feel clean again.
"I figured you'd say that," Harry said with a tired, crooked smile. "You're not nearly reckless enough to let me make all the decisions."
Kingsley let out a quiet chuckle, and the tension in the room eased—but not entirely.
Harry lay there for a moment longer, breathing in the heavy air, feeling the old scars throb beneath his skin.
Another small victory, maybe.
But the war inside him hadn't ended.
"It's not often we get a chance to have a proper conversation, Harry," Kingsley said with a rare, soft smile, pulling something from the depths of his pocket. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he was handing over something more dangerous than valuable.
"Here. This is the stone fragment you need for your potion."
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. For a second, he just stared at the pouch resting in Kingsley's outstretched hand, half-wondering if this was some kind of test he was about to fail spectacularly.
Then he took it, feeling the faint, steady warmth of the stone bleed through the fabric, grounding him. He clutched it tightly, almost afraid it might disappear if he loosened his grip.
"I didn't think you'd have it ready so soon," Harry said, a little hoarsely, stuffing the pouch deep into his pocket like it was something precious—or fragile. "Thanks, Kingsley. Really."
"Anytime, Harry," Kingsley said, voice carrying that steady kind of encouragement that somehow made Harry feel both seen and deeply uncomfortable.
He wasn't used to people handing him things anymore—not without asking for something in return.
"I look forward to seeing you at Auror Headquarters," Kingsley went on, tone shifting slightly—firmer, more expectant. "Putting your skills to good use. It's time you showed the Ministry what you're really capable of."
Harry opened his mouth to reply—to protest, maybe—but Hermione beat him to it.
"Absolutely!" she said brightly, practically bouncing on her toes. "Harry's more than ready. Honestly, Minister, he ought to be the next Head of the Auror Department."
Harry's face went hot so fast it felt like he might spontaneously combust. He shot Hermione a wide-eyed look of pure betrayal, but she only grinned at him, completely unfazed.
Kingsley chuckled, clearly amused by Harry's discomfort, and nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes, Ms. Granger," he said, almost teasingly. "I think you might be onto something. Mr. Potter—my office. One week from today. Don't be late."
Harry sat there, stunned, feeling like someone had just casually dropped a boulder on top of him and then patted him on the back for good measure.
He managed a weak smile, mostly because Kingsley was still watching him expectantly.
"Yeah," Harry said, voice cracking embarrassingly. "Of course. Wouldn't dream of it."
Kingsley's laughter rumbled low in his chest as he clapped Harry on the shoulder and turned to leave, his cloak swirling behind him like he was somehow above the general chaos of the world.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Ron threw up his hands in exaggerated frustration.
"Well, that's just brilliant, isn't it?" Ron said loudly, half-laughing, half-complaining. "You don't even have to apply for a job, but I'm stuck filling out applications like some kind of Muggle paperboy. Honestly, Harry—just hire me as your assistant already. I'll even make your tea."
A ripple of laughter swept through the room, the tension breaking for the briefest moment. Even Harry chuckled, the sound rasping out of him like it had to claw its way up first.
It was strange how life could still offer up these odd, bright moments—little sparks of normalcy in a world still stitched together with grief.
But of course, reality was never far behind.
The healer stormed back into the ward, robes flapping like angry sails, a deep scowl carving across her face.
"This boy needs REST, for Merlin's sake!" She bellowed, her voice carrying with the force of a hundred howlers. "OUT! All of you—OUT!"
There was a lot of hurried muttering and reluctant shuffling as people scrambled for the exit, trying not to get hexed for lingering. Even Hagrid—all seven feet of stubbornness—gave a guilty little shrug and trudged out, shooting Harry one last worried glance that felt like it weighed a tonne.
And then, just like that, Harry was alone.
The room seemed too big without the noise, too empty.
He shifted slightly on the bed, grimacing as the sharp, familiar pain knifed through his side. It had been lurking under the surface the whole time, waiting for the quiet to strike.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling, the stone fragment warm against his leg through his pocket.
It was a small comfort, but not enough to drown out the ache that settled deep in his bones—the ache of everything he had won and everything he had lost to get here.
Victory didn't feel much like victory when you were the one left behind to carry it.