Ron, Hermione, and Ginny moved swiftly through the dim corridors of St Mungo's, their footsteps muffled by layers of old enchantments and the gleaming floor beneath their shoes. The hospital had always been a strange place, teeming with magical oddities and the tranquil buzz of recovery, but now it felt different. Off. The usual undercurrent of hurried voices and shifting spellwork had stilled into something colder, more brittle. The very air seemed to hum with unease.
It wasn't bustling anymore.
The halls were half-empty and too quiet.
They passed through a narrow waiting area where a handful of witches and wizards sat slumped in their chairs, each marked by some visible sign of injury or curse. A middle-aged woman, her head wrapped tightly in thick white bandages, stared glassily ahead, unmoving. A wizard nearby twitched sporadically, his right arm jerking as if tugged by invisible threads, his skin ghost-pale with exhaustion. Enchanted magazines faintly rustled, flipping themselves in lazy loops, old, curling issues of Witch Weekly and Modern Magical Ailments that were charmed to turn pages when no one else wanted to.
They approached the ENQUIRIES desk, where a plump witch with bleached blonde hair lounged behind the counter, absentmindedly picking at her nails with the tip of her wand. Ink had also slightly stained her robes' cuffs, which were crumpled. She didn't look up right away, but only when their shadow fell across the table did she finally lift her gaze, blinking slowly as though waking from a daze.
"Can I help you?" she said dully.
Hermione stepped forward at once, her voice polite but taut. "We're here to see Rubeus Hagrid."
The witch arched a thin brow. "The half-giant?"
Ron bristled. "Yes."
She let out a long-suffering sigh, as if the name alone exhausted her. "Caused a real mess when he came in. Barely got through the front doors and knocked the whole brass frame sideways. Gave the welcoming healer a right fright."
"What happened to him?" He pressed, his tone sharp. He now had his fists clenched tightly.
The woman didn't bother to lower her voice. "Covered in cuts. Deep ones. It looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a dragon and lost. Blood everywhere. He did not say a word; he just slumped in through the entrance as if he had walked through a war zone. Barely even flinched when they started casting. He's a tough one, I'll give him that. Should be asleep now, though."
Ginny had turned pale. She clutched the front of her jumper, her voice faintly audible. "Do you know where he is?"
"Spell Damage ward. Fourth floor. Just through those entrances, then take the lift. Can't miss it."
Hermione gave a tight nod. "Thank you," she said shortly, already turning away.
They moved in silence, pushing through the heavy double doors that separated the foyer from the upper wards. The corridor beyond was long and sterile, lined with portraits of distinguished Healers past, each eyeing them with solemn expressions as they passed. Floating candles bobbed overhead, their light flickering faintly, casting strange shadows on the floor.
No one spoke.
Hermione's heart thudded in her chest, too loud in the quiet. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, willing herself not to picture him lying broken and bloodied, stitched together by spells and silence.
Ginny finally broke the stillness, her voice a whisper: "What if it's more severe than they told us?"
Ron didn't look at her, but his tone was firm. "Hagrid has survived more difficult situations. Loads worse. Dragons. Acromantulas. Centaurs. Merlin, he's lived in the Forbidden Forest longer than most people have been alive. He'll be all right."
But even as he spoke, there was something brittle beneath the words.
Hermione didn't reply. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood. She couldn't trust her voice.
The lift clanged as they stepped into the silver-grilled compartment, and the doors creaked shut behind them. A faint magical hum surrounded them as they rose, the sound oddly reminiscent of a swarm of bees just out of sight.
They rode in silence, hearts thudding, breaths shallow.
"Level Four: Spell Damage," announced the cool, disembodied voice.
The lift entrances slid open, revealing a corridor lined with soft green walls and hovering paper planes flitting lazily about the ceiling. Dozens of them, each bearing the familiar red "BILL" stamp on their wings—someone's enchanted memos, long since forgotten by their owner. They circled slowly above, like restless birds trapped in a cage.
They stepped out.
A gentle voice called to them from nearby. "Hello there. Can I help you?"
A witch in green healer's robes was walking towards them, her expression compassionate and open. She looked to be in her fifties, with greying hair pinned back neatly and kind eyes that carried the calm forged from decades of tending wounds others couldn't recognise.
Hermione stepped forward. "We're here to see Rubeus Hagrid. They told us he is on this floor. Is he—" she faltered, forcing herself to breathe. "Is he all right?"
The Healer gave a small, warm smile. "He is stable. He lost a great deal of blood, and the injuries were… severe. But he's holding on. Resting now. Your friend is strong."
She continued, lowering her voice as though to cushion the words. "It was a close thing. We're not sure what did it. Some cuts wouldn't heal with standard spells—there's lingering magic in the wounds, old and dark. But he has made it through the worst of it."
Ginny let out a shaky breath she hadn't realised she'd been keeping.
"Can we see him?" Ron asked almost too quickly.
"Of course," she mumbled. "He's just down the corridor, past the potions trolley. First room on the left. But be mindful. He is still very weak. Try not to wake him if possible."
"Thank you," Hermione whispered, and together they moved forward, feet nearly silent against the soft, charmed carpet.
The ward was dim and far too small for Hagrid's vast frame. The bed groaned beneath his weight. Its brass frame extended magically to accommodate him, but his legs were awkwardly bent, and one arm dangled over the side, his hand larger than the bedside table. Fresh white bandages wrapped his chest, shoulders, and arms, and some were already blotched with red and gold where the healing spells hadn't quite held.
He looked impossibly still.
Too motionless.
The moment they stepped inside, all three of them rushed forward.
"Hagrid!" they cried in unison, the name breaking from their throats—fear, relief, and disbelief all tangled into a single breath.
A slow smile crept unevenly across Hagrid's bruised and swollen face, tugging at the edges of his beard as he stirred under the crisp white bedsheets. He tried to sit up, wincing immediately; the movement sent a visible shudder through his vast frame.
"Blimey," he rumbled, voice rasping with effort yet warm beneath the roughness. "Thought I might've been dreamin'. Good thing yeh got my letter in time. I was startin' ter go spare, lyin' here with nothin' but the ceiling and my own thoughts fer company."
Hermione sank into the chair nearest his bedside, her eyes moving anxiously over him, his bandaged arms, the faint bruising blooming across his neck, and the awkward set of his ribs beneath the linen. She didn't speak straightaway. Words felt too small in the presence of so much injury.
Ron and Ginny remained standing, hovering on either side of the bed, both of them pale and taut with worry.
"We came as soon as it arrived," he said, his voice low and tight. "This morning. First thing."
There was a pause. Then he added almost reluctantly, "Harry… he doesn't know. We didn't tell him. With him, things have got worse."
Hagrid's smile slipped. His great brow furrowed.
"Worse?" he repeated, the word catching in his throat.
Ginny shook her head. Her arms wrapped tightly around her middle now; her voice was barely more than a whisper. "No. We thought… we considered it might be too much."
She looked down at her trainers, twisting her fingers together until her knuckles turned white. "He's not well, Hagrid. Not just… tired. He can't eat or even stand for long some days. It's like—like something inside him is fading." Her voice broke slightly. "If he found out about this—about you—it could… it might break him."
There was silence. Hagrid's enormous chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, quietly, with a heaviness that filled the room, he said, "Poor lad."
His eyes shone now, wet and wide, fixed somewhere far beyond the hospital ceiling. "Didn't know it'd got that bad. I should've gone to him and sent word sooner."
Hermione reached out and placed a hand gently on his forearm, her fingers dwarfed by the thickness of it. "You scared us, Hagrid," she said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to steady it. "When we received your letter and saw what had happened—Death Eaters. Please. Give the precise details."
He shifted slightly, stifling a groan. It took him a moment to find his breath again.
"Yeah… yeah, I'll tell yeh," he murmured at last.
Ron stepped forward, pulling a chair around and sitting on its edge. "Was it near the cave?" he asked, voice quiet but urgent. "The Thestral nesting site—you'd gone looking for it, hadn't you?"
Hagrid nodded slowly. "Eastern forests. Just past the old borderland, where the trees grow thick and the ground gets marshy. I'd spotted tracks, but I wouldn't have found the nest itself if yer letter had not reached me. That message told me what direction ter try. The wild ones had moved again. That info saved me hours."
He paused. Then gave Ron a pointed stare. "Did yeh check yer owl this morning?"
He blinked. "Pig? No, he was asleep in the rafters when we left. Why?"
"Didn't look right when he arrived," Hagrid said slowly. "Wing hangin' low, feathers all ruffled. Looked like he'd been through a hedge backwards, and not by accident."
Hermione's stomach dropped. "You think… someone tried to stop him?"
Hagrid's expression turned grim. "Could be. Might explain how they found me so quickly. I'd just got ter the mouth o' the cave. I barely had time ter collect a few tail hairs when they came outta nowhere. Black cloaks. Masks. Wands already raised."
Ron's face darkened. "Did you see their faces? Anyone you recognised?"
Hagrid shook his head. "No. Hoods stayed up. But I've seen enough of their kind ter know the signs. Death Eaters moved in a similar way. They're fast and cold, like they'd done this sort of ambush before. They were huntin'."
Ginny's eyes flicked to the thick white bandages around Hagrid's torso and arms. "How'd they hurt you?" she asked quietly.
"Severing Charms," Hagrid muttered, almost as if embarrassed. "Two of 'em. Came at once. Crossed me right here—" he gestured, wincing, "—across the chest. Would've sliced a man clean through. If I weren't built the way I am…" He stopped.
Hermione pressed her hands to her mouth. Ron looked visibly shaken, his freckles stark against a suddenly pale complexion.
"Didn't wait ter see what else they had planned," Hagrid continued. "Used the last of my strength ter Disapparate. Thought I might not make it. Popped straight outside St Mungo's. Collapsed right there in the courtyard. Took three Healers just to levitate me through the doors."
Ginny gripped the metal edge of the bed, her knuckles white. "If you'd waited even a second longer—"
"I know," Hagrid said simply. "I know."
A long silence settled over. The ward beyond was quiet now; only the soft clink of a potion bottle and the occasional murmur of a healer behind a drawn curtain reached them. The air in Hagrid's room felt charged.
After a pause, he spoke again, his voice gentler. "Don't mention it ter Harry. Not yet. Let him rest. He has been through more than most could bear."
Hermione nodded slowly. "We won't. But when he's ready… he is going to come. He'll want to see you."
"I'll be here," Hagrid said, forcing a weak smile. "Tell him that. I will be waitin'."
Ron was staring at the edge of the bed, his jaw working, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the frame. His eyes burnt with an expression sharper than fear, a sour and furious emotion.
Then, without warning, he looked up, and his voice came out hard.
"It was Malfoy," he stated flatly. "He's the one who sent them. It has to be."
Hagrid blinked, visibly thrown. "What?" he asked slowly and disbelieving, as if tasting the words for the first time and finding something foul in the flavour. "But… why would he—?"
"Because he knew," Ron said tightly. "He was familiar with the cave and the exact location where the Thestrals nested. He was the one who told us."
There was a momentary pause, heavy with implication.
"That doesn't mean it was him," Ginny interjected swiftly. She was trying to sound calm and composed, but her eyes darted between Hagrid and Ron, full of unease. "Death Eaters could have known that too. Anyone could've. We don't know in whom he confided, or what he has been involved in. We can't just leap to conclusions."
"I am not leaping," he retorted, frustration simmering beneath his skin. "I'm following the only lead we've got."
He turned back to Hagrid, his voice growing quicker, harder, and more urgent. "Malfoy told Harry about the cave himself. Practically handed him a map. And now, Death Eaters ambush you there? It's not a coincidence. If he's betrayed him after everything—"
Hagrid's brow furrowed deeper. "What d'yeh mean?"
Ron gave a bitter, hollow laugh. "He saved his life, Hagrid. During the Battle of Hogwarts. Pulled him out of the fire, dragged him away from the collapsing castle. Risked his own neck when no one else would've bothered."
He looked down, jaw clenched. "And now Malfoy sends Death Eaters after you? After Harry spared him? I'd have left him in the flames."
Hermione stepped in before Ron could say more, her voice cutting cleanly across his. "We do not know it was him."
Her tone was cool and precise. But the sharp glint in her eyes betrayed a storm beneath.
"You constantly assume the worst," she said. "But we don't have proof. Not even a whisper. Just suspicion."
He folded his arms and glared at her, as though she'd simply grown antlers. "You always say that," he muttered. "It's like you want him to be innocent."
"I'm not defending him," Hermione snapped, colour rising in her cheeks now. "But we saw him, Ron. Malfoy came to the Burrow. He asked to see Harry. He looked—he looked worried."
He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, don't be thick. He's worried? That's rich. He is a Malfoy. He does nothing unless it benefits him."
Hermione's jaw tightened. "Then why risk it? Why did he come to us at all, knowing we would hex him on sight? He could've handed our best friend over to the Death Eaters. But he didn't. And that has to mean something."
Ron threw his hands up. "He's playing some game. Luring people into trusting him so he can stab them in the back when it counts."
"Maybe," Hermione allowed, her tone quieter now, gaze lowered in thought. "Or perhaps he is trying to change."
Those words floated there, tentative and uncertain.
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
It was Hagrid who broke the silence; his voice was low and steady, though every syllable rang with weight. "Yeh lot've been through enough without tearing each other apart."
He looked at each of them, and there was something quiet and ancient in his eyes that was older than Hogwarts and pain. "I dunno what Malfoy's really up ter," he whispered. "But what happened ter me, that's on the ones who cast the spells, not on any of yeh. So don't blame yourselves. And do not start turnin' on each other now."
Hermione's throat clenched, thick with guilt. She bit her lip and blinked hard, but the ache in her chest wouldn't ease.
"We never wanted you to get hurt," she whispered. "We thought we were being careful, and we didn't think—"
Hagrid gave a small, pained smile. "Yeh did what yeh had ter. And I'd do it all again if it meant helpin' Harry or any of yeh."
Hermione turned away for a moment, swiping at her eyes. Even now, after ambush, injury, and blood, his loyalty remained solid as a rock beneath his ribs.
"How long will they keep you in?" she asked quietly, trying to gather herself.
Hagrid looked around the cramped ward, as though only just realising how poorly the room accommodated him. His legs hung awkwardly over the end of the bed, and the ceiling beams loomed dangerously close to his head.
"Few more days, I reckon," he said with a sigh. "They don't see many of my size in here. Bed's too short, robes that never fit, and I keep knockin' the light fixtures with my elbow."
He gave a small, self-deprecating chuckle and reached into the pocket of his moleskin coat, fumbling for something with fingers thick as tree roots.
"Nearly forgot," he said at last, pulling out a slightly blood-stained envelope, the parchment creased and warm from his hand. "Managed ter keep this safe."
He handed it to Hermione, who opened it with reverent care. Inside, nestled against the paper, were a few silvery-black strands—Thestral tail hair, impossibly fine and glowing faintly in the soft ward light.
"Hagrid," she breathed. Her voice trembled. "Harry will be so, so grateful."
She held the envelope close to her chest, her heart aching with a mixture of sorrow, relief, and the fragile hope that she could still salvage something from all this wreckage.
"You should come back with us," she whispered, without looking up. "When you're well. He… he misses you. We all do."
A warm smile broke across Hagrid's battered face, softening the bruises and cuts and crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I would like that," he said, his voice soft. "I'd appreciate that very much. You know what?"
Slowly, with immense care, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The frame groaned beneath him. He straightened, avoiding the low beams, and reached for his battered pink umbrella, the wand concealed inside humming faintly with quiet magic.
"Just lemme gather me things and let's go ter the Burrow."
As Hermione stepped out into the corridor, she slowed, her stride faltering. A familiar figure had caught her eye near the far end of the ward and leaning slightly on the reception desk, with a scroll of parchment tucked beneath his arm, and with that same ever-cheerful expression plastered to his face like a permanent fixture.
Augustus Pye.
It took her only a moment to place him. The kindly young Healer who'd tended Mr Weasley during the war, the one with a perpetual look of optimism that clung to him even in the shadowed halls of St Mungo's. His hair was lighter now, and his robes hung a little more loosely around the shoulders, but the warmth in his smile had not faded.
Ron and Ginny hadn't noticed him yet because they were speaking quietly a few steps behind, their voices low, but Augustus looked up just as they emerged fully into the corridor. His face lit up at once, eyes crinkling with unmistakable recognition.
"Well, look who it is!" he called out, striding towards them with a surprising bounce in his step. "I had a feeling I'd be seeing the Weasleys today!"
Ron narrowed his gaze. The words might have sounded pleasant, but there was something in Augustus's tone, a quiet assumption, that made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.
"Why's that?" he asked, not unkindly, but with a thread of caution running through his voice. "Why did you think we'd be here?"
Augustus faltered ever so slightly, surprised by the question. "Well, aren't you here to see your brother?"
Ginny stiffened at Ron's side, and the pleasant colour in her cheeks drained as if an icy wind had passed through her. She stared at the healer, her speech tight and laced with dread. "What did you say?"
"Your sibling," Augustus stated again, with an almost apologetic smile. "Percy. They admitted him early this morning."
The words struck like a dropped cauldron; it was loud, sudden, and entirely wrong.
Ron blinked, stunned into stillness. "That's not—he's not—Percy's at the Burrow," he intoned, as if each word had to be dragged. "We saw him. Not even—what?—a few hours ago?"
Augustus's brows drew together, a crease forming on his forehead. "No, he has not left since he arrived. Someone found him unconscious at the Ministry in the early morning. Some kind of attack, we think. They brought him in immediately. I… assumed that's why you'd come."
Ginny took a sharp step backward, one hand coming to her chest as if to steady herself. Her face had gone ghostly pale.
"Attacked?" she echoed, the word foreign on her lips. "You're sure it was Percy?"
"I treated him myself," Augustus replied gently, his voice dropping. "He's awake now. Little shaken, a bit confused. But stable. Physically, at least."
Hermione felt the bottom of her stomach drop out. A sickening lurch rippled through her chest, and her mouth had gone dry.
She turned to Ron, who looked as if he'd been stunned. There was no mistaking the tension in his jaw or the wild flicker of doubt in his eyes.
"This makes little sense," she whispered.
"No," he murmured, hands curling into fists at his sides. "It doesn't."
Ginny, recovering her voice, faced the healer with fierce urgency. "Take us to him," she said. "Now."
There was no room for argument in her tone.
Augustus gave a swift nod and turned on his heel, his healer's robes swishing behind him as he led them briskly down the corridor. The usual hum of the ward; the clink of potion vials, the quiet murmur of mediwitches, seemed to fade away as they walked. The walls felt closer somehow, the air colder and heavier. Each footstep echoed in the silence.
"I don't like this," Hermione murmured under her breath, brushing her fingertips against the bannister as they descended a narrow, dimly lit stairwell. "Something's not right."
They rounded the corner. Hagrid was in the lead.
His enormous figure loomed at the far end of the passage, shoulders hunched, peering silently through the window of a private room. He straightened, the lines on his weathered face pulled tight with worry. He said nothing, just gave a sombre nod, eyes shadowed.
Hermione's breath caught.
Through the narrow glass pane, she spotted a figure sitting upright in the bed. His tousled red hair and pale, almost waxy complexion were noticeable. Percy. And yet—
Something felt off, like his posture. The blank look in his gaze. The way he avoided meeting their stares when he noticed them standing there.
He blinked, squinting, and then offered a faint, faltering smile that did not even attempt to reach his eyes.
"Oh—er—I didn't think anyone would come," Percy uttered, his voice hoarse and oddly thin, as if he hadn't spoken in days.
Ron stepped forward slowly, his heart pounding behind his ribs. "We weren't expecting you to be here," he said cautiously. "What's going on? We thought—well, you were there. Are Mum and Dad alright? Did something happen at the Burrow?"
Percy looked baffled. He gave a weak laugh, which was forced and hollow, and glanced down at the sheets bunched in his lap.
"The Burrow?" he repeated, frowning. "No, I've never been. I mean, I meant to, but… work's been… busy, you know."
Hermione felt the cold in her veins deepen. Ginny took a sharp breath beside her.
"What are you saying?" she asked, her voice tight and trembling. "You've not gone to the Burrow before?"
Percy glanced at her, confused. "I don't understand. I have been meaning to visit our parents, really I have, just… things kept coming up. The Ministry's been—" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Dad told me what happened to Harry. I've heard he's… unwell. Honestly, I wanted to check in. I simply didn't want anyone to make a fuss."
Ron's hands dropped to his sides, limp and useless, as if all strength had drained from them.
Ginny's voice cracked, brittle and high with emotion. "The Healer said someone attacked you."
Percy stared at her, blinking as though she'd just spoken to him in Mermish. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes wide and vacant with confusion.
"Attacked?" he repeated, almost as if tasting the word. "I… I don't remember that."
Hermione stepped forward, her pulse thudding painfully in her throat. Something wasn't right; it hadn't been from the moment they entered. The Percy they knew was fastidious, sharp, and irritatingly composed. This person seemed to have slipped from his own mind.
"Percy," she said gently but firmly, her voice quiet with intent. "Do you know what year it is?"
He gave a strained laugh, but it was hollow, like an echo of what it should have been. "Of course I do, it is—" He faltered. His brow creased. He glanced downward as if the answer was waiting on the blanket tucked around his waist.
"I… it's… hang on—"
But the words didn't come.
He looked up again, startled now, his eyes darting between their faces. "Why can't I remember?"
Hermione felt the breath leave her all at once. Ginny gasped beside her, the sound sharp.
Ron stepped forward, one hand bracing hard against the bedframe, knuckles white. His voice was low but steady.
"Percy… it's 1998."
Silence bloomed like a crack in the wall.
Percy's mouth opened and closed. His gaze flicked from his brother to Hermione, then to his sister, but there was no recognition, no recollection, but only growing dread.
"Something's wrong with him," Ginny whispered, barely audible. She wrapped her arms around herself to keep from falling apart.
Percy looked at them helplessly, the colour draining from his face. "I—I don't understand. It seems like I was at work… I think. I cannot remember how I got here." He looked over his shoulder, as though half expecting the answer to be printed on the hospital wall. "Where's Dad? Is he here?"
Ginny shook her head, her voice breaking. "No. We're here because Death Eaters attacked Hagrid."
Percy flinched. "The gamekeeper? But he's harmless. Who would do that to him?"
"We don't know yet," Ron replied, his tone rough with worry. "But he is safe. St Mungo's patched him up, and he is now recovering."
He sagged against the pillows; the tension easing slightly from his shoulders. "That's good," he murmured. "That's… that's fantastic."
But even as he spoke, Hermione couldn't stop staring. The shape of him was right, the voice familiar, but in the soul behind the eyes, an emptiness was there. The air in the room felt thin and cold, as though Percy's presence didn't fully belong here.
Ron moved closer, crouching a little so he could meet his brother's gaze.
"So, what happened?" he asked, the confusion in his words laced with something else now. Worry. "What do you remember?"
Percy shifted in the bed, uneasy. His fingers twitched restlessly against the blanket, his eyes unfocused.
"I was in my office this morning," he stated slowly. "I recall sitting down to review a report—a departmental briefing, I think. Same routine as usual. I put on a pot of tea, and then…" He paused, frowning. "There was a sound. A voice, maybe. Faint. Muffled. I couldn't make out what it said."
Hermione leaned in slightly, every muscle tense. "Did you see anyone? Did anything unusual happen?"
He shook his head, blinking hard. "No… not really. Just this strange feeling. Like the floor had tilted under me. My ears were ringing. I felt light-headed… as if I was going to faint. And then—nothing. Only black."
He ran a trembling hand through his hair, frustration etching lines across his forehead. "When I woke up, I was here. That's all I've got."
Ron reached for Hermione's arm, gripping it with such force that she winced but remained silent. Her eyes stayed fixed on the eldest Weasley brother, and her mind spun.
Ginny was motionless, her arms clamped tightly around her ribs. The way she stared at her sibling was as if she didn't recognise her own family anymore.
Percy looked at them, with a growing note of panic in his voice. "Wait—you said I was at the Burrow. That you saw me. But I've been here. I haven't left since I came to."
Hermione's stomach dropped.
"Yes…" she whispered faintly, barely managing the words. "This morning. You Flooed to the Burrow. You were there. We spoke to you. You sat at the kitchen table. We had tea. You talked to Harry—don't you remember?"
Percy stared back at her as if she were mad. But Hermione wasn't looking at him anymore.
Her eyes had gone wide with terror. She turned slowly to Ron. Then to Ginny.
And the truth hit her.
"No," she whispered, slapping a hand over her mouth. "Oh, no—"
Ron looked as though all the blood had drained from his face. His voice, when it came, was no louder than a breath.
"That wasn't you," he said. "It was someone else pretending to be you."
Percy sat bolt upright, all colour gone from his features. "What?" he breathed. "Someone's out there—right now—using my name, my appearance?"
The idea seemed to hit him like a Bludger to the chest. He inhaled sharply, his breathing ragged and uneven.
Ginny gasped, a terrified sound that echoed down the corridor. "Oh, Merlin—Harry!"
She clapped her hands to her mouth, her whole body trembling.
Percy threw back the blanket with a sudden burst of energy and swung his legs off the bed, wincing as pain lanced through his side. But he ignored it, fumbling for his coat, his wand, anything that would get him out of the ward.
"We have to go," he said urgently. "We have to warn them!"
He was already halfway to the door, moving as if sheer panic could carry him through the agony.
"I'll be back soon, Augustus!" he shouted over his shoulder, barely noticing the Healer still frozen in the doorway, face pale with shock.
"Wake up, boy!"
The voice pierced the fog.
Harry jolted, a sharp bolt of pain lancing through his chest. He gasped, but the air didn't come properly; his lungs seized, throat thick and burning as if he'd swallowed smoke. He couldn't breathe. An invisible, heavy thing pressed down on him, clamping him.
His eyelids fluttered open by sheer force of will, leaden as though someone had glued them shut. His vision blurred, then sharpened, then became unfocused again. A dull, insistent hum filled his ears.
He was lying flat—on a sofa? The arm was digging into his ribs. His entire body ached. It wasn't just soreness; it was as if he'd been dropped from a great height, bones jostled and nerves flayed. He tried to shift, to lift his head, but his neck refused. The effort sent a wave of nausea rolling through him.
Where am I?
His eyes finally focused on the ceiling overhead and saw plaster, slightly cracked, with a dangling light fitting that had once held a mobile of enchanted butterflies.
The Burrow.
He was in the Weasleys' sitting room.
But something wasn't right.
The house was silent and, wrongly so. No thudding from upstairs nor the clang of pans in the kitchen. No distant singing from the wireless. Even the gnomes outside weren't making their typical racket.
Where is everyone?
He shifted, grimacing at the burn that followed, and then—
"Finally," came a voice.
A figure loomed into view, standing over him.
Percy.
Crisp Ministry robes. Horn-rimmed glasses glinted in the low light. The usual frown of fastidious disapproval.
Except—
Harry's breath caught.
Something was not right.
The face was Percy's, but too smooth, too composed. His eyes were all wrong; they were unblinking and flat. And the smile, which was thin and clinical, stayed fixed in place, as if pinned there.
"You've been asleep nearly an hour," the figure said.
The voice was close, but not quite. Not exactly his; it lacked cadence and conviction. It was as if someone were trying to sound like him and failing.
Harry tried to sit up, but pain knifed through his side. He groaned instead, the noise rasping painfully out of his throat.
"Wha… what…" he croaked, but the words barely formed.
Percy crouched beside him, withdrawing something from his robes.
A glass vial.
Slender. Crimson liquid inside, swirling thickly.
"Here," he said, his tone soft, coaxing. "You'll need this."
Healing Draught? That's what he was supposed to be offering. But the moment it appeared, a part of Harry recoiled.
Why is he giving me a potion? Where is Mrs Weasley? Why isn't she here instead?
His thoughts fractured and slipped away as quickly as he tried to grasp them. His brain felt fogged, like he'd been Confunded.
"Where's Ron?" he rasped. "Where are they?"
No answer.
Percy just watched him, unmoving, as he twisted the cork free from the bottle.
Harry's heart was pounding now, far too fast and too loud in his ears. Something was not right. Deeply, terribly wrong.
He tried to move once more, but his limbs were heavy and unresponsive.
"Drink," he insisted, more firmly this time, and leaned forward to press the vial to his lips.
But he clenched his jaw. Shook his head as much as his body would allow. His instincts, which were buried though they were beneath the pain, screamed at him not to take it.
Percy's smile vanished, his expression tightening.
"Don't make this difficult, boy," he said.
Harry grunted, twisting feebly away, but the vial was already there, jamming against his mouth. Cold glass. The scent of copper.
"Stop—stop—" he groaned, struggling weakly.
Too late.
The potion poured onto his lips, bitter and thick.
The taste hit him like a blow; it was metallic, searing, wrong.
Not Healing Draught.
Not anything he'd ever tasted before.
He tried to spit it out, but the damage was already done. It slid down his throat like acid.
The burn came instantly.
Fire, spreading from his chest outwards. His stomach clenched. His vision flared white.
No—no no no—
His arms convulsed, legs kicking against the cushions, then sliding uselessly off the edge of the sofa. His back arched. The scream tore out of him before he could even consider stopping it.
A sound not quite human.
He hit the floor with a thud, body twisting violently. Nerves on fire. Skin crawling. His heart thudded, then skipped, then thundered again.
It felt as if something was inside him; thrashing, clawing, trying to rip its way out.
He couldn't breathe or think.
Make it stop—
"W-what… What did you…" he gasped, his face pressed to the cool wood floor, soaked in sweat.
He could barely see. The world swam in and out of shape. But the figure above him hadn't moved.
Percy stood calmly, adjusting his cuffs.
And then he laughed.
A low, measured sound. Wrong. So terribly wrong.
Harry dragged himself forward with both elbows, every joint screaming in protest. His legs were deadweight. His stomach churned as if he might be sick again, though there was nothing left to bring up.
"Please," he rasped. "Help—someone!"
A kick landed squarely on his back.
He let out a strangled cry, rolling onto his side, breath hitching as fresh agony tore through him.
Percy watched. He was entirely unmoved.
"You never were all that clever, were you?"
The voice sliced through the haze, smug and deliberate. Harry blinked up through the spinning world above him, his head pounding, vision still warped with pain.
The man pacing the room moved with an eerie precision, hands clasped behind his back as though some pompous Ministry official holding court.
But nothing about him felt right.
There was coldness in his stride. A cruel calculation was in the way his boots clicked softly against the floorboards. He was circling Harry like a predator.
"W-why… what…" he coughed, the words catching in his throat, raw and tattered. "What are you… doing?"
His voice cracked; it was barely a whisper now. He was trembling. He could feel the sweat pouring from him, soaking the back of his shirt. His limbs convulsed every few seconds with the spasms the potion had ignited in his nerves. The pain had become a second heartbeat, steady and relentless.
"Fixing things," said Percy in a light, breezy voice, as though he were discussing nothing more than reorganising a bookshelf. "Putting matters back the way they should've been, before you… meddled."
Harry tried again to move. If he could just reach the fireplace and crawl, inch by inch, grab a fistful of Floo powder, and throw himself into the grate, he could get out and alert someone.
He had barely dragged himself a few inches before Percy seized him by the collar and slammed him backwards, his head crashing against the floor with a sickening crack.
Stars burst behind his eyes. The world spun violently.
His lungs spasmed. He gasped, but no air came. The burn intensified, curling deeper into his core. His muscles locked. His heart stuttered once or twice before slamming back into a brutal, erratic rhythm.
Percy crouched beside him again. Too close. His breath was warm against Harry's ear.
"I used to think you were special," he whispered, the words soaked in malice. "The-Boy-Who-Lived. The Chosen One. All that fuss… all those stories."
He gave a low, mirthless chuckle.
"But you're just another gullible little kid who believed the hype. Look at you now. Broken. Helpless. And no one's coming to save you."
Harry's body trembled violently. Tears slid down the sides of his face, unwanted and stinging. He didn't know if they came from anguish or fury or fear, but perhaps all three. His hands scrabbled weakly against the floor, fingers searching desperately.
A wand, anything. Please, something.
There was nothing. No way out.
The agony rolled over him again, tighter this time; his ribs searing with cold and heat all at once, the pain curling like a serpent around his spine. He couldn't breathe properly. His hands were numb, bloodless. His head was full of fog, and his thoughts were sinking beneath the weight of it all.
He didn't want to die on the floor of the Burrow.
Not here. Not in this manner.
The poison churned again. He cried out, or tried to. His throat had gone raw. His fingernails broke as they scraped across the boards, trying to drag himself even an inch further away.
Then—
The back door creaked.
It was a sound so simple, so ordinary, but in that moment it cracked the nightmare wide open.
Footsteps. More than one. Heavy. Measured.
Harry tried to lift his head. His vision wobbled, shifting between red and black. But through the pain and through the storm surging in his chest, he heard.
"Wha's happened 'ere?"
Hagrid's voice. Thick. Familiar.
Harry's breath hitched. His stomach clenched.
Another followed; it was high and panicked.
"Mum? Dad?"
Ginny.
Her tone cracked on the second word. Harry felt it like a jolt to the heart. Were they hurt?
"They're alive," she said a moment later, her speech shaking but determined. "They must've fought back just enough before they were stunned."
He held on to her words desperately. But the pain surged again, dragging him beneath it. He was drowning in it now; his lungs on fire, skin crawling. He couldn't speak or even scream anymore.
"We need ter get 'em outta 'ere—quick," Hagrid said sharply, no hesitation in his voice. "Could be more of them nearby."
Harry tried to cry out to warn them.
It's not Percy. Don't trust him.
But his mouth wouldn't obey him. His tongue felt thick. His limbs were deadweight. The poison had wound itself so thoroughly through him that his body hardly belonged to him anymore.
And then Percy laughed.
It was a terrible sound. Not just cruel, it was wrong. Hollow, like something trying to remember what laughter truly sounded like.
Harry barely lifted his head.
He looked up and saw the imposter standing calmly over him, smiling as though he'd already won.
And then, without warning, a sharp, brutal kick drove straight into Harry's ribs.
He screamed.
This time the sound came. A ragged, shattered howl of pain tore through the house.
The strike alone might've broken something. But it wasn't just that. The potion flared again, as if the violence had ignited it anew. It rushed through his blood, resembling molten iron. His back arched, hands clawing at the air, a fresh wave of fire ripping through every nerve.
Please—stop—stop—
He couldn't hear properly anymore. His ears were full of a rushing, like wind, or maybe it was his own pulse, thudding madly as if trying to outrun death itself.
But in the swirling blur around him, he saw movement.
Wands. Cries. Gasps. Footsteps.
Voices.
Ron. Hermione. Ginny.
And—
Another Percy.
Harry's breath caught.
There were two of them, identical faces. But only one looked stricken. Pale and breathless and real.
Harry tried to speak again, to warn them, but all that escaped was a hoarse, broken croak.
The impostor, who remained poised and unmoved, sat down casually on the edge of the coffee table. Crossed his legs. A small glass vial spun lazily between his fingers.
Dark liquid inside. Thick and glimmering.
The imposter tilted it, watching the contents swirl.
"Fascinating," he murmured, as if to himself. "How just a few drops can unravel someone so completely."
"Who the hell are you?!"
Ron's voice rang out like a spell blast; it was sharp, furious, trembling at the edges.
He was struggling madly against Hagrid's restraining arms, face red, his gaze wild. "What did you do to Harry?! Let me go, Hagrid!"
The impostor turned toward him slowly, his expression one of cool amusement, as though the outburst were barely worth acknowledging. The Percy-mask was still there; his glasses slightly askew, ginger hair neat and ordinary, but the eyes gave everything away. Too motionless. Too smug.
"I poisoned him," he said mildly, as if announcing he had added milk to his tea. "And I must say, watching it take hold has been… enlightening. Rather exquisite, really."
Harry heard Hermione gasp, a choked sound of disbelief, but it seemed to echo from somewhere impossibly far away. Her voice wavered, lost beneath the roaring in his ears. His chest felt like it was being compressed by iron bands.
His vision blurred again. Darkness pressed at the edges. The pain was pulsing now; it was rising and falling in waves. But he fought it. Anchored himself to it. He couldn't lose consciousness.
Suddenly, a hand seized a fistful of his hair.
He didn't even hear the footsteps; he only felt the sudden, wrenching agony as someone yanked his head back, causing him to cry out, his throat raw and ruined. The white-hot torment that followed exploded behind his eyes. Every nerve in his body was screaming. He couldn't breathe or think.
"I'm not the one you should fear," the impostor whispered, breath sour against his cheek. "I am just the beginning."
Then—
A roar shook the house.
"Don' yeh dare touch him!" Hagrid bellowed, and the sound was like thunder breaking against the walls.
Harry dimly heard the rush of movement; the heavy boots pounding across the floor. His giant of a friend was charging, his open grasp—
But then came silence.
A smothering, sickening weight in the atmosphere, as if the room had swallowed itself.
Magic. Thick and ancient. The kind that didn't only tingle, but crushed.
Harry's vision, already swimming, focused just long enough to see it: Hagrid, frozen mid-air. Arms caught halfway in motion, face twisted in fury. Held there, trapped. Suspended as though seized in invisible stone.
And the impostor? He hadn't even moved or flinched. He simply let out a soft, contented chuckle; low, cold, and utterly devoid of feeling.
Hermione stumbled forward a step, wand raised, voice trembling but laced with steel. "Why?" she asked. "Why are you doing this?"
There was fear in her tone, but also understanding. The kind that comes too late.
The impostor didn't answer.
Instead, he reached inside his robes and withdrew a second vial. This one was darker than the first. It was viscous and heavy, a syrupy liquid that seemed to pulse on its own.
Without any hesitation and flourish, he drank it.
The change was immediate.
Magic rippled through the air. The face melted, features warping, bones shifting. The neat ginger hair paled to blond. Freckles vanished. The sharp line of the nose, the cruel set of the mouth; they were familiar in the worst possible way.
Hermione staggered backward. She made a choked, horrified sound.
"No," she whispered, her voice breaking. "No, it can't—"
But it could. And it was.
"Corban Yaxley," Ron breathed, his tone brittle, hollow with shock.
Harry had seen that person before, flashing in torchlight at the Ministry, leering from the shadows in Malfoy Manor. A Death Eater who'd always kept his distance. But now he was here, standing in the Burrow, wearing Percy's face.
"That's right," said Yaxley, as though they were old friends catching up over drinks.
Harry could barely keep his eyes open. His body no longer felt entirely his. The poison was eating through him, and his limbs seemed heavy, disconnected. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, slow and erratic.
Yaxley turned toward him again, face smug. "I rather liked the tiny spot you and your friends used to Disapparate from after your little Ministry escapade," he drawled. "I made it my own, you know. It took me a while to work out the Fidelius, but… well. Patience pays off."
His voice dropped to a murmur, mocking. "I assume you were too busy running for your life to go back and check?"
Harry gritted his teeth. He tried to sit up and speak, but his body screamed in protest.
"G—Grimmauld Place… isn't y—yours…" he rasped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Yaxley smiled. A slow, cruel curl of the lips.
"Oh, but it is now."
Then—crack.
His boot slammed into Harry's ribs again. The pain was instantaneous and blinding.
The floorboards muffled his scream as his face smashed against them; the world spiralled into a white-hot flare of agony. His hands trembled. Something sharp had lodged in his torso, twisting in his lungs.
Yaxley crouched beside him, breath cold against Harry's skin.
"You've stolen from me, Potter," he murmured. "The Dark Lord's plans. His victories. His secrets. So now I'll take you. I'll take this house. I'll take every miserable little thing you care about. Piece by piece."
Harry wanted to fight. To move. But he couldn't. His body had become a prison. His limbs were leaden; his magic unreachable. He could not even lift his arm.
He could just about hear Ron yelling furiously and desperately.
"Get away from him!"
It sounded as if it had come from a great distance. Hermione was shouting something too; her voice breaking, choked with tears. Ginny's ragged breathing filled the edges of his awareness.
But Harry, he was barely holding on.
Everything inside him screamed at once; his nerves, his bones, and his magic. He was fading. Slipping beneath the pain.
"I heard Potter's dying."
The sound cut through. Light. Amused. Unbothered.
Yaxley stepped into the centre of the room with the ease of someone who believed themselves entirely untouchable. His pale face glistened in the morning glow, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. His eyes settled on Harry with unfeigned satisfaction.
"Thought I'd help it along," he added casually.
He withdrew a vial from the inner folds of his cloak, holding it delicately between two fingers. The contents were thick, black, and glistening like oil. He gave it a slow swirl, watching it catch the light.
Harry's heart pounded weakly against his ribcage, each beat harder than the last. He could scarcely lift his head, but dread rolled over him in great crashing waves.
Yaxley crouched beside him, the folds of his cloak whispering against the floorboards. Up close, Harry could see the hunger in his face, the barely contained thrill.
"This one's special," he murmured, voice dipped in poison. "It lets you feel every nerve as it burns."
"No!" Ron's shout exploded through the room, raw with rage. There was a crash, then the hurried scuffle of boots—he was lunging, wand raised, arm outstretched—
Bang!
A blast of red light shot through the air, flinging him backwards. Sparks sprayed the walls. Hermione screamed.
"Ron!" she cried, darting forward, but another wave of magic crackled between them, forcing her and Ginny back with a shriek of power that split the atmosphere.
Harry tried to move, to shout, to do something, but agony imprisoned his body. He was dimly aware of Yaxley's hand clamping round his jaw, which was cold, sharp nails digging into skin.
"Don't fight it," Yaxley whispered with a smile that made Harry's blood run colder than the potion ever could. "You won't die yet."
The vial tilted.
Harry gagged as the foul, greasy, and icy liquid touched his tongue, and then, all at once, fire.
He tore a scream from his chest. It ripped free, wild, and guttural, scraped raw from the very centre of him. It encompassed everything rather than just being pain. He wasn't sure where his body ended and the agony began. His skin burnt, blistered, and then froze over, only to burn again. His lungs seized, and his stomach twisted.
His mind shattered.
There was no time. No thought. No air.
Only suffering.
He didn't know if the screams he heard were his own anymore. Hermione's? Ginny's? The world blurred; colour and light smeared together. His vision fractured into shards of white and black, each blink worse than the last.
Somewhere very far away, laughter reached him.
Not human amusement. Cruel. Detached. Triumphant.
Yaxley.
Then—crack.
The sound of Disapparition. Yaxley was gone.
But the pain did not go with him.
It stayed. Burrowing deeper. Twisting round his ribs, his lungs, his spine. Every breath was a punishment. His body spasmed against the floor, uncontrolled, his muscles jerking violently. His skin still felt aflame; too tight, too raw.
I'm dying, he thought. And it didn't even sound afraid anymore, just certain.
Then—hands.
Warm.
"Harry, stay with us!" Hermione's voice cracked in panic. She was holding his hand; he could feel her trembling.
"We've got you… you're safe," Ginny soothed; her tone was low and desperate, thick with tears. She was brushing the sweat-soaked hair off his forehead.
"Portkey—where's the bloody magazine?!" Ron's shout, frantic, echoed in the background.
A blur of motion. Someone sprinting. A flash of ginger. Percy, real this time, face drawn, eyes wide.
"Use this!" he barked, shoving something into his brother's hands. "Here! Witch Weekly! Just go! I'll deal with the Ministry—go!"
Hagrid loomed over him next; giant fingers trembling as he scooped him up.
"Yeh'll be alright, Harry. I promise. Jus' hold on, mate. Jus' hold on."
He wanted to say a word, to thank them, to plead for it to stop, to tell Ginny how sorry he was, how afraid he was, but he couldn't make his mouth work. His tongue was heavy. His lungs no longer felt like they could draw enough air.
He saw Hermione conjuring stretchers with a flick of her wand; her hands shaking as she carefully levitated Mr and Mrs Weasley, both frighteningly still. Ginny was on her knees beside them, whispering something Harry couldn't hear, her tears falling fast and silent as she stroked her mother's hair.
The entire world felt like it was tearing at the seams.
"Everyone, touch it! Now!" Percy shouted.
They all reached for the magazine.
Harry's hand, half-curled, barely brushed it.
And then—whoosh.
He lost all the air in his lungs. His body twisted in mid-flight, the floor vanishing beneath him. Light and noise spun in a dizzying whirl, a vortex of colour and pain.
And then—impact.
Hard, cold stone. Fluorescent lights. Shouts. The sharp smell of antiseptic and potion fumes.
St Mungo's.
Harry didn't know if the corridor turned wildly around him, or if his body simply surrendered, betraying him under the weight of whatever vile thing had forced itself into his veins.
Voices clashed above him, tangled and frantic; panicked shouts, the thunder of rushing footsteps, and sharp bursts of spellfire. Someone was crying out. The others were barking orders. He couldn't make sense of it.
Then something ripped through his chest. A jolt so fierce it tore a raw sound from his throat and slammed him straight back into his body.
His lungs stuttered and seized. Each breath dragged through his windpipe, cruel and jagged. He clawed at the air, at nothing, fingers twisting, seeking desperately—for what? Help? A wand? Someone to make it stop?
"Poison," a person was saying. The word slipped, thin and clipped and terrifying.
Poison.
His brain scrambled backwards, blindly searching for the moment it had happened. A drink? Had he taken something? No, he hadn't eaten or touched anything. Had it been a curse? Was it a spell? Or was it in that vial—Merlin, the concoction—
But his thoughts were thick and slow. Everything was pulling away from him, spinning out of reach.
All that remained was the thud of his heart, which was lurching, frantic, and uneven as though it, too, were trying to escape the pain.
He was dying.
The realisation settled over him, cold and heavy. It wasn't just fear anymore. It was the truth. Irrefutable. Solid. He couldn't speak or scream. His body had become a prison of hurt and silence. He could feel the panic tightening in his chest, growing sharper with each ragged breath.
He tried to lift his head, but the world reeled sideways. Everything around him fractured; faces and ceiling lights warping into one another. Shouts echoed. He was slipping further, deeper; the pain rushing in from all sides.
Then—a scream.
His own. He hadn't known it was there until it broke out of him. A desperate, ragged thing, raw with agony and fear.
He became dimly aware that people were staring.
"Harry is poisoned!" Hermione's words rang out, high and hoarse, trembling with urgency. "He needs help now!"
There was a pause, only a second, but it was long enough to make Harry's stomach twist. It was the hesitation. The recognition.
A voice broke through, half whisper and awe. "Harry? You mean, Harry Potter?"
Always that name.
Even now. Even here, with poison burning through his veins and death closing in, he couldn't just be Harry. Just a teenager. Just someone in need of help.
Of course it's me, he thought bitterly, head rolling to one side. Who else would it be? Who else has disasters like this?
"YES, that's him!" Ron bellowed, his voice raw and furious. "Now stop standing there and HELP HIM!"
The air snapped to life.
Healers rushed forward at last, cloaks billowing. Harry felt himself being lifted, hands everywhere; levitating, rotating, stabilising. But his body was limp and foreign, as if he had separated from it entirely. Voices overlapped in a storm of orders, too fast to follow. Someone was running beside him, shouting about dosage levels and containment fields.
Through the blur of movement, Harry caught a flash of a familiar face; thin, nervous, and too pale.
Augustus Pye.
Some strange part of Harry's mind fixated on him; on the bags under his eyes, the lines of worry etched deep. Did he ever wonder why the Weasleys and everyone they loved always seemed to end up in his ward? Was it bad luck? Fate? Or were they cursed, one and all?
Maybe they were.
He tried to speak. To ask for someone. Ginny? Hermione? Even Percy. But only a strangled, broken sound escaped his throat. His hands twitched but wouldn't close.
Then he heard it.
A booming, rough, impossibly loud voice in a hospital full of noise.
"I'm not leavin' Harry!"
Hagrid.
He wanted to cry with relief. His friend was here. He knew. It made it real and terrifying. If he were here, everyone was aware. It meant they'd seen what had taken place. This signified they wouldn't brush aside what happened, as they would with a casual curse or fight.
It was serious.
Harry's vision greyed at the edges. He could feel the darkness clawing at the corners of his mind, dragging him down. The pain flared again; his chest twisted, ribs aching, every breath shallower than the last.
He wasn't ready. He didn't want to go. There were still things he hadn't said. Faces he wanted to see once more. Ginny—
He tried to fight it. To remain. To hold on.
But it was slipping through his fingers. His world was fading into cold and silence.
The final thing he heard before it all went black was Hermione's voice, cracked and shaking:
"Harry, please. Stay with us."
The silence was thick and oppressive. It pressed against Harry's chest like an invisible weight, smothering and unrelenting. For a moment, he wasn't sure if he was actually there at all. His mind felt untethered, floating somewhere just beyond the reach of his body. Everything muffled the sounds.
Footsteps. Breathing. Low murmurs that echoed too softly to latch onto. He hovered on the edge of consciousness, caught in the space between pain and nothingness.
Then, through the fog, a voice broke through.
Ron.
His speech was hoarse, rough-edged with strain, like he'd been shouting for hours. "The Healers will have antidotes. Loads of them. They know what they're doing. They can sort this; they have to."
Harry latched onto the sound and tried to focus. He wanted to believe it, to allow Ron's stubborn certainty to be adequate. If Ron believed, maybe he could too.
But then Hermione spoke. Her tone was quiet. The kind that made Harry's stomach twist.
"Even if they do…" she intoned, and he could hear the effort it took not to let her voice crack, "it might not be fast enough. Depending on the poison… the damage could already be irreversible."
Irreversible.
The word crashed into him like a spell to the chest.
No. No, not permanent. Not after everything. He'd survived too much and had come too far for it to end here. Not on a hospital bed.
He tried to move. Even just a twitch. He attempted to open his eyes, to force some part of him to react, but nothing happened.
Then Ginny's voice filtered in. Quieter than the others. Trembling, but clear.
"I… I think I know which poison it is," she said. "If it is the same one I'm thinking of, and if it's what they used before, he might not survive another dose."
Her words were measured. Not dramatic. Not shouted. But they hit harder than anything else.
Harry felt something heavy and cold settle over him, curling into his chest; dread. It was deeper than he'd ever known. Not the panicked, frenzied fear of battle, but a distinct thing. Sinking. Like the creeping certainty of drowning, just before your head goes under.
He was running out of time.
Across the room, Ron's fury erupted once more. It burnt in his voice; hot and barely contained.
"Yaxley," he snarled. "And Malfoy. It's got their stink all over it. I know it is them. And if I see them again—if I get within ten feet—Merlin help me, I'll make them pay."
Silence.
Even in Harry's blurred awareness, he felt it. Ron's words hung in the air, bitter and furious.
Then came Hermione's voice. Gentle. Not soft.
"Ron… revenge won't save Harry."
A beat. A breath.
"I don't care!" he shouted, tone cracking with rage and an emotion dangerously close to despair. "He's in there; he is dying, and they're out there walking free! Someone has to dosomething!"
He wished he could answer.
Not yet, he wanted to say. Wait for me. Let me stand beside you and fight too.
But nothing came. No words. Not even a whisper.
He couldn't move or draw breath without pain. It was like the world around him was slipping further and further away, while he remained trapped, buried somewhere deep within a body that no longer responded.
And he could feel it. The shift. The way the edges of the room were blurring, how everything seemed colder. Distant. The warmth of the voices was fading. Even Ginny and Ron.
It was like water filling his lungs. A slow, creeping pressure. He attempted to call out, to say anything, but the words dissolved before they could reach his mouth.
Help me.
But no one heard.
And then the dark pulled him under again.