Deep in the Forbidden Forest, where ancient trees towered like slumbering giants and the wind whispered through the leaves like distant voices, something unnatural disturbed the stillness. The moon hung low, veiled by heavy branches, its silvery glow filtering through the canopy in broken strands. Light slid down the bark of old oaks, casting thin, jagged shadows. The forest floor was a maze of gnarled roots and damp leaves, coiled like the fingers of something buried and waiting to wake.
In a hollow ring surrounded by these watchful trees, a circle of hooded figures stood in silence. Their masks caught the faint moonlight—blank, gleaming faces that gave no hint of the twisted thoughts behind them. They stood like ghosts conjured from the ashes of a war already lost, clutching to purpose in the absence of victory.
Then—a sudden snap. A branch breaking underfoot.
Every masked head turned slightly. A flicker of tension passed through them like a breath caught in a throat. No one spoke. But the meeting had begun.
Above, among the dark boughs and tangled underbrush, a cluster of centaurs observed in absolute stillness. Their eyes gleamed with intelligence and suspicion, tracking every movement below. Though they made it their law not to meddle in the affairs of wizards, what they saw now went beyond mere trespass.
One of them stiffened.
A glimpse of movement. A flash of red hair tied against the trunk of an ancient tree. A human figure—bound, gagged, and trembling.
George Weasley.
A quiet ripple passed through the centaurs as realisation dawned. This wasn't a meeting. It was a crime. A desecration. The boy was a prisoner, his pain a stain on sacred ground.
Below, George knelt in the dirt, his back forced against the tree, ropes digging into raw skin. Sweat clung to his temple, dripping down into the collar of his shirt. His limbs ached. His breath came hard and shallow. Yet his eyes were sharp—alive, burning with anger, not fear.
And in front of him stood Yaxley.
The former Death Eater leaned lazily against a tree, as if this were some twisted picnic rather than an act of war. His pale face was sliced by moonlight, highlighting the cruel curve of his mouth and the cold glint in his eyes.
"Almost time," Yaxley said, his voice disturbingly calm. It cut through the silence like a blade, echoing faintly off the trees. "They'll be here soon."
George swallowed hard but said nothing. He kept his stare level, refusing to flinch, even as nausea twisted in his gut.
One of the masked men shifted, fidgeting as though the silence were pressing down on him. His mask tilted, revealing a greying moustache and an uncertain scowl. Macnair.
"Are you sure they'll come?" He muttered, voice cracked and dry.
Yaxley didn't bother looking at him. "They'll come," he said with easy certainty. "The Weasleys won't let one of their own die in the dirt. And Potter? He's addicted to sacrifice. I gave him every reason to walk straight into our trap."
He finally turned, glancing toward the edge of the clearing, where another figure stood apart from the rest.
Draco Malfoy.
He said nothing, but his posture spoke for him—rigid, coiled. His arms were crossed tight, his jaw set. His eyes, grey and sharp, never stopped moving.
"This place feels wrong," Macnair muttered. His voice was low but edged with unease. "It's too quiet."
Yaxley smirked. "It's the middle of the forest, Macnair. That's how it's supposed to feel."
"No," Macnair replied, his gaze still flicking through the trees. "It's watching us."
Yaxley gave a short, humourless laugh. "We've set wards. Death Eaters on the perimeter. No one's getting close without me knowing."
But Macnair didn't relax. His gut told him what his mind didn't want to admit: this wasn't a plan. It was a gamble. A desperate one.
George shifted slightly, his wrists screaming from the friction of the rope. His voice broke through the tension, hoarse but steady. "This won't work. You're wasting your time."
Yaxley turned to him with a slow, deliberate smile. He walked over and crouched in front of him, studying George like a puzzle he planned to break piece by piece.
"Oh, I think it will," he said softly. "See, your pain isn't the point. It's the message. It says, 'You lost.' And if Potter shows his face, I'll make sure that message is burnt into his bones."
George's eyes burnt with fury. "You've already lost. Voldemort is dead. Your movement's dead. You're just a coward hiding in the woods, pretending this isn't over."
The slap came without warning.
A sharp crack of skin against skin. Not enough to do real harm, but enough to steal George's breath for a second. His head snapped to the side, blood trickling from his lip. He spat it into the dirt without hesitation.
Yaxley leaned in, his breath sour with rage. "You think this was ever about him? This isn't about Voldemort. This is about reminding people they're never safe. Not really. Not ever."
George turned his head slowly, his voice low and dripping venom. "You're pathetic."
Yaxley's smirk faded for a heartbeat. Then, very quietly, he said, "And you're alive only because you're useful. But that can change. Quickly."
Above them, the trees creaked.
The centaurs had not moved, but the forest had. A gust of wind stirred the leaves like a warning, sharp and cold. And the watchers in the dark began to take aim.
"When Potter walks into this trap…" Yaxley leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming with something cold and cruel. "I want to see the light drain from his eyes. That moment—when he realises he's failed you—it'll be beautiful."
George let out a bitter laugh, low and sharp. "You think Harry would fall for this? He's not stupid."
Yaxley tilted his head like a curious animal. "No. But he's a hero. And heroes," he said, almost fondly, "are predictable. They always come running."
Silence settled thick across the clearing. Not peace—no, something taut and coiled. Overhead, the trees stirred. Leaves whispered in an ancient tongue, wind snaking through the branches like breath through gritted teeth. High above, cloaked in shadow, the centaurs waited. Their arrows had been drawn for minutes now. Their eyes were hard. Focused. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath.
Below, George could feel the Death Eaters' stares raking over him—unblinking, hungry. They watched him like vultures circling a dying animal. His body throbbed with pain, his limbs stiff from the ropes, but his spirit—fractured as it was—remained whole.
"Harry would never let you use him like that," he spat. His voice cracked, raw with defiance. "He'd never hurt someone because you told him to."
Yaxley turned slowly, with the leisurely cruelty of a predator who knows its prey has nowhere to run. His grin widened, revealing too many teeth. "Not without a little help," he said, almost sing-song, "but the Imperius Curse is such a lovely thing in the right hands."
A murmur rolled through the masked crowd. Then the laughter came—low, guttural, inhuman. It spread like smoke, curling through the trees, infecting the air with something foul.
Yaxley stepped into the centre of it all and began to pace like a showman on a stage. "So many possibilities," he mused aloud. "Shall we have him take a little swim in the Black Lake? See how long he lasts before the squid decides he's interesting? Or maybe a graceful leap from the Astronomy Tower?" He clicked his tongue. "No—too messy."
He turned suddenly, eyes bright with cruelty. "Perhaps something elegant. A note. A wand. A clean slice across the veins. 'Boy Who Lived Dies by His Own Hand.'" He gave a dramatic pause. "Tragic. Poetic. Sell a lot of papers, don't you think?"
The circle laughed harder, the sound rising like a dirge sung out of tune.
George's stomach turned. His hands curled into fists against the ropes. Pain pulsed through his arms, but he held the line. Held his voice.
"You won't break him," he said, each word dragged from the fire in his chest. "And you'll never make me part of it."
Yaxley crouched low again, his face inches from George's. The stench of him was suffocating—sweat, blood, rot.
"But that's the plan, isn't it?" he whispered, the words slithering out. "You. With your own wand. Killing your friend. A fitting tribute to this pathetic little rebellion."
George didn't flinch. "You really think making me a puppet would mean you've won?"
"I think," Yaxley said, standing with a casual roll of his shoulders, "that watching you crumble would be a personal delight."
The other Death Eaters chuckled again—some nodding, others silent, content to wait for the blood.
George grimaced, ropes tightening as if sensing the moment. His body screamed in protest, but he pushed upward, even if only a little. The dirt clung to his knees. The bark pressed into his spine. He felt the sharp edge of a rock dig into his thigh. He used the pain.
"I won't let you do this," he breathed. "You—"
A yank cut him off. The ropes jerked cruelly, dragging him back down, his face striking the earth with a dull thud. The cry that escaped was muffled by dirt.
"No," Yaxley snapped. His voice lost its false charm, turning jagged, furious. "No more speeches. No more brave little resistance talk. You're done."
George coughed. Blood and soil coated his teeth, but he lifted his head again, stubborn as ever.
"Not until I see your arse rotting in Azkaban," he rasped. "That's where you belong."
Yaxley froze, then let out a slow, dark laugh. "You've got spirit. I'll give you that."
"I've faced worse than you," George snarled, voice strengthening. "And I walked away. You? You've been hiding in holes since Voldemort fell. Doesn't that keep you up at night? Knowing you're just a shadow of someone else's failure?"
For a moment, just a heartbeat, the grin slipped from Yaxley's face.
He stepped closer. "You're bleeding, tied to a tree, barely breathing—and you think you have the right to mock me?"
George looked up, blood-streaked and bruised, but unbroken. "Absolutely," he said coldly, "and I will find a way to make you pay. Even if it's the last thing I do."
The clearing held its breath.
Yaxley straightened. His mask of arrogance returned, but something behind his eyes had shifted—a flicker of unease.
"I suppose I won't know," he said quietly, "if you're already dead."
George met his gaze without blinking. "Maybe. But if I die here, you'll never sleep soundly again. You'll see my face every time you close your eyes. That's a promise."
Yaxley's face contorted with hatred. "You think you're noble?" he sneered, voice thick with contempt. "You think your sacrifice means anything? The Dark Lord had a vision—a world where purebloods led and filth knew its place."
"And you followed him like a dog," George shot back, teeth bared. "Not out of loyalty—out of fear. Because deep down, you knew you were nothing. You still are. All you ever wanted was wealth, power—"
The laughter that rose from the circle was strained, cracked at the edges. It didn't echo like before. It lingered. Uneasy.
But Yaxley pressed on, hungry to reclaim dominance.
"Well," he drawled, "who wouldn't want a little wealth and power? I'm sure your poor, pathetic family would've liked a taste. Or did the Weasleys finally pawn their last pair of shoes?"
George's eyes ignited.
"Don't you dare talk about my family," he snarled. "We may not have galleons, but we've always had something you'll never understand. Love. Loyalty. Real strength."
The words slammed into the clearing like a physical force. A hush fell. Even the wind stilled.
Then Yaxley flicked his wand.
A bolt of stinging magic cracked through the air and slammed into George's forehead. He cried out as pain split his skin, blood streaming down his temple and into one eye. The world blurred, swimming in red and silver, but he didn't lower his gaze. He would not look away.
The forest darkened around them. Trees seemed taller, more ominous. Watching. Judging.
High above, in the tangled blackness of the canopy, a bowstring whispered—drawn and waiting.
Yaxley crouched beside him again, a vulture hovering over a wounded creature. "All right down there?" he asked, voice oily with mock sympathy. His grin was all malice.
George turned his face aside, refusing to give him satisfaction.
But Yaxley wasn't done. His hand shot forward, closing tight around George's throat.
Air vanished.
George's legs kicked uselessly against the earth as he fought for breath. Stars burst behind his eyes, panic threatening to crack through the steel of his will. Yaxley leaned in close, breath sour and hot against his cheek.
"I should silence that tongue," he murmured, voice soft and lethal. "But you've been such fun. Maybe I'll keep you around. Just a bit longer. Long enough to scream."
Still choking, George clawed at the ropes—anything to fight. Anything to resist.
Yaxley released him with a shove, and George collapsed, coughing violently. But before he could catch his breath—
Flick.
A whisper of incantation, and a crimson line blazed across his chest.
George screamed. The Severing Charm burnt like fire under his skin, the fabric of his shirt soaking with blood. Every breath was agony, every movement pain. He curled forward instinctively, teeth clenched so tightly they ached.
Yaxley stood, towering over him, eyes glittering like frost in the moonlight.
"Wasn't that simple?" he said smoothly. "All this pain—for what? You could've bowed. You could've lived. But no… You had to play the hero."
George trembled, muscles tight with pain. Blood dripped onto the leaves beneath him.
And still—he lifted his chin.
"Some hero you are," he rasped. "Look at yourself. Hiding in the woods. Clinging to scraps of a war you already lost. Like a rat too stupid to drown."
Yaxley's face twisted.
"You call this power?" George pressed, breath ragged. "You've traded your soul for ashes."
For a moment, the mask of cruelty slipped. Just a flicker. Just a beat.
Then came the snarl.
With a roar of fury, Yaxley blasted George off his knees. The spell hit like a battering ram. George slammed into a tree with a bone-jarring crunch and slid to the ground, dazed, gasping. Blood mingled with dirt on his face, but through the fog, he pulled himself upright. Inch by inch. Refusing to stay down.
Yaxley approached, slow and purposeful. "You've got spirit," he said. "But you still don't understand. The purity of the Dark Lord's vision—"
George coughed a laugh, sharp and wet.
"I understand perfectly," he cut in. "You're a coward trying to justify your hate with grand speeches. You call it 'vision'. I call it leeching off a corpse."
The forest was still again. Deathly still.
Even the trees seemed to lean closer.
Yaxley snapped.
"Disgraceful!" he roared. His voice cracked with fury. "Your entire family—traitors, every last one—will rot for siding with filth. You don't think. You parrot. Always waiting for someone else to show you what's right."
George stared up at him, breathing through pain, through blood, through fury.
"I'll never regret standing against you," he whispered. "Not for a second."
Yaxley's wand trembled in his grip.
"So be it," he said coldly.
He raised the wand. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Crucio."
Agony crashed down like a tidal wave.
George convulsed, limbs thrashing against invisible restraints as the curse tore through him, flooding every nerve with white-hot fire. Thought vanished. Identity dissolved. There was no up, no down—only pain, boundless and unrelenting. He was unmade by it, burned to the core by suffering that stretched far beyond the body.
Time warped. Seconds fractured. The world collapsed into a single, endless scream.
And then—darkness.
But not defeat.
Somewhere in the black, beneath the ruin and the ruinous pain, a flicker survived. A spark buried deep in the marrow of him. Small. Flickering. But alive.
Yaxley released the curse at last.
George dropped to the forest floor like a puppet with cut strings, limbs trembling, breath ragged. His face was streaked with blood, sweat, and tears, but he was still conscious. Still there. His fingers clawed weakly at the dirt. He was shaking. But not broken.
Yaxley circled him with predatory slowness.
"Are you regretting your choices now, boy?" he asked, voice oozing satisfaction. "Because I can do that again. And again. Until you're nothing but a husk. Until you beg."
George didn't answer.
He couldn't. And yet—he wouldn't.
The silence was not weakness.
It was defiance.
Yaxley crouched beside him once more, face inches away, voice dropped to a growl. "I asked you a question."
George shifted, every inch of movement a fresh hell. His breath came in sharp gasps, chest heaving with effort. But still—nothing.
The quiet was louder than words.
Yaxley's lips curled. His wand lifted.
And then—a sound.
Soft. Subtle. But not natural.
The barest rustle of underbrush. Too smooth for wind. Too deliberate for any creature.
Yaxley froze.
Every Death Eater turned, eyes narrowing, wands rising.
Another sound—closer now. The crunch of twigs under heavy feet. The slide of leaves disturbed by something far too large.
"They're here," muttered one of the masked figures, wand tight in his grip.
Yaxley's pale eyes shifted to the treeline. He listened. Waited. The grin that stretched his mouth was cold.
From the forest's edge came hoofbeats, distant but growing. Then—something larger. Heavy. Unmistakable.
Hagrid.
He emerged like a moving mountain, eyes blazing, shoulders squared with fury. Behind him, the Weasleys—red-haired, grief-stricken, unyielding. Arthur in front, wand already drawn. Molly beside him, her face ashen but fierce. Bill and Percy flanked them, silent, watchful, and steady.
"Well, well, well," Yaxley said, stepping forward like a man greeting guests at a dinner party. "The whole brood. How charming. All we're missing is the Chosen One. Where is our golden boy? Skulking in the shadows?"
Silence.
Arthur opened his mouth, but nothing came. He looked to Molly, then to his sons. Words failed him.
"I—" he started.
Yaxley cut him off with a sneer. "Save your breath. Maybe you need a little reminder."
He snapped his fingers.
The Death Eaters parted like a curtain.
And there—sprawled in the dirt, battered and bloodied—was George.
His head lifted slightly at the sound of footsteps. One eye swollen shut. Lips cracked. Blood trailing down his face like war paint.
"Mum… Dad…" he rasped.
Molly let out a strangled gasp.
"George!"
She surged forward without thinking—but the blast came fast. A crack of magic exploded at her feet, sending her sprawling backward. Hagrid caught her just in time, pulling her behind him like a human shield.
"Stay back!" shouted a Death Eater, wand aimed squarely at her heart.
"Molly, behind me!" Hagrid barked, his voice shaking with fury. "Don't you move!"
His bulk shifted, protective, as his eyes scanned the ring of enemies. Tension radiated from him like heat off stone.
Then Percy stepped forward.
His wand was already out. His face flushed with rage, but his aim was steady.
He pointed it directly at Rookwood.
"You'll pay for Fred," Percy said, voice tight. "I swear it."
Rookwood laughed. Loud. Cruel.
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're on about, boy."
"Still mouthing off, Percy?" Yaxley interrupted with a sneer. "What's that they said about your head injury? Still hearing voices?"
Percy's hands shook, but his aim did not falter. "I hear fine," he spat. "And I hear your cowardice loud and clear."
He raised his wand higher.
Yaxley moved before anyone else could.
A blur—wand out, steps confident.
"Easy now," he said silkily. "We wouldn't want this to get messy, would we?"
Then—motion.
Hagrid roared and lunged.
He hit Rookwood like a falling tree, sending both of them crashing to the ground. Fists flew, wild and raw. No spells—just fury. Raw strength against cruel intent.
"Hagrid, no!" Arthur yelled.
Too late.
Spells cracked through the air. Chaos ignited.
Shouts. Screams. A blur of bodies. Bright light and broken branches. Dust rising in golden shafts.
And standing at the edge of it all—
Draco Malfoy.
Leaning against a tree.
Watching.
Expression unreadable. Arms crossed. Pale face lit by wand light, like a boy peering down into a pit he'd once fallen into.
Arthur's gaze caught him. His stomach clenched.
"Enough!" Yaxley's voice thundered across the clearing.
Spells halted. Hagrid was forced back under threat, blood trailing from his split lip, eyes full of fire.
Yaxley brushed off his coat as though nothing had happened.
He turned toward George. The boy hadn't moved. Barely breathed.
Yaxley raised his wand.
Pointed it at George's chest.
His voice was soft now. Almost gentle.
"Lower your wands," he said. "Or he dies."
No one moved.
Not a breath. Not a blink.
Molly's face crumpled, silent sobs wracking her shoulders. Bill's knuckles whitened around his wand. Arthur glanced from his son to the man holding him hostage—and made no move.
Yaxley smiled.
"Now," he said again.
The silence that followed was thick, almost alive. Then, one by one, the wands hit the dirt—first Arthur's, then Percy's, and finally Bill's. Each wooden clatter struck the air like a verdict being passed, final and cruel.
Arthur's heart thundered in his chest, a savage rhythm of fury and fear. Every beat felt like a scream. The moment his eyes fell on George—his son, his boy—his breath caught. George lay crumpled on the forest floor, blood streaking his freckled face, his limbs twisted unnaturally. His chest rose and fell so faintly it was barely there. The light that used to spark behind his mischief-filled grin was gone, and in its place was a terrifying stillness.
Something inside Arthur cracked.
He stepped forward slowly, fists trembling at his sides. "What did you do to my son?" His voice was hoarse, raw with rage, thick with disbelief. It wasn't just a question—it was an accusation, a plea, and a cry for justice all rolled into one.
Yaxley smiled. That awful, oily smile. Cold, cruel, smug. "A lesson," he said, as if it were obvious. He waved his hand dismissively, as though George were just some careless accident. "A little reminder about consequences."
Arthur's breath hitched. He felt Percy stir beside him and Bill's jaw clench—but no one moved. Not yet.
"You did this," Arthur said, his voice shaking but rising. "You put your wand on my son—you tortured him."
Yaxley stepped closer, arms spread like he was inviting applause. "Would you like a better look?" he asked, mockingly gracious. "Go on, he's still breathing—for now."
Arthur's body tensed. "Point your wand at him again," he growled, his voice low and feral. "And I swear on everything I have left—you won't leave these woods."
Around them, the Death Eaters shifted, fingers tightening on wands. But Yaxley didn't blink. He stood his ground, arrogant and confident.
"Empty threats," he said with a scoff. "Look around, Weasley. You're surrounded. Outnumbered. And still trying to act the hero? You won't get out alive."
Arthur didn't respond. He didn't need to. His silence was more terrifying than any scream—a silence carved from love, grief, and the will to die standing.
"You always were the noble one," Yaxley sneered, pacing around him like a predator. "But noble doesn't win. Cruelty does. Power does." He leaned in, his voice turning to venom. "You remember the Howler, don't you? I warned you. I told you what would happen if you failed."
Arthur's voice cracked with fury. "You call this justice? You torture my son and pat yourself on the back for mercy?"
"Mercy?" Yaxley echoed, amused. "He's still breathing, isn't he? That's more than some get. I could've ended it. I didn't. You should be thanking me."
Behind them, Molly let out a soft, broken sob. Her hands trembled as she tried to reach for George, but Hagrid kept her back, his massive arms gently restraining her. Her voice was a whisper, but every syllable carried years of maternal love. "He's just a boy," she said, barely audible. "He never hurt anyone. He doesn't deserve this. None of them do."
Yaxley didn't even glance her way. "Survival isn't about what you deserve. It's about understanding pain. Pain teaches loyalty."
Arthur's expression crumpled. "Why?" he asked again, this time not with anger—but with anguish. "Why are you doing this?"
Yaxley's voice dropped to a whisper. "Because you failed me. Because you had one task."
His words sliced like ice.
"Harry…" Arthur began, throat tightening, but Yaxley's temper snapped like a whip.
"Where is he?" he shouted, his composure vanishing. "You had one job—bring me Potter. And instead, what do you bring me? This circus of sentimentality?"
"We're not handing him over," Arthur said, steady now. "You already know that."
Yaxley's eyes turned cold, murderous. The smile disappeared from his lips.
"Then George pays."
"No!" Molly screamed, lunging forward. Hagrid caught her again, barely restraining her.
"You lay one more finger on him—"
"Crucio."
The curse hit like lightning.
George's body arched off the ground, contorted in agony. His scream—raw, primal—ripped through the forest. The trees held their breath. Even the wind seemed to stop.
"Stop it!" Arthur bellowed, his voice cracking open like a wound. "Please, stop!"
Yaxley held the curse for long, torturous seconds before releasing it. George fell back to the earth, limp and silent. Molly collapsed to her knees, sobbing.
"You still think you're in control?" Yaxley asked, quiet again, almost conversational. "You still think you have any power here?"
Arthur didn't answer.
He lunged.
He didn't think—he moved. The world tunnelled down to Yaxley's face, that hateful smirk, and then Arthur's fist crashed into it.
They hit the ground together, a tangle of fury and flesh. Arthur struck again and again, yelling without words, everything inside him pouring out through his fists—fear, rage, heartbreak. Yaxley's blood smeared across his knuckles.
The Death Eaters raised their wands.
But Yaxley laughed—actually laughed—through split lips and broken teeth. "Let him," he gasped, shoving Arthur back. "Let him try."
The struggle continued—raw, animalistic—until a flash of white light burst between them.
Arthur flew backward, hitting a tree with a sickening thud. Pain exploded in his ribs. He tried to rise, but cords of magic lashed out of nowhere, coiling around his limbs and yanking him to the ground. He landed hard, breathless, bound and pinned.
Yaxley rose slowly, face bloodied, grinning down at him. His wand pointed at Arthur's chest.
"You chose this," he said softly.
And then, like a lover's murmur:
"Crucio."
Arthur's scream tore through the clearing—hoarse, broken, and unrecognisable. The Cruciatus Curse raked through his nerves like white-hot wire, igniting every inch of him in agony. His body writhed against the forest floor, muscles convulsing beyond his control. There were no words strong enough to hold that pain—only the raw sound of a man being unravelled from the inside out.
Molly sobbed into Hagrid's chest, her cries muffled but no less harrowing. Percy stood trembling, fists clenched, his face pale and stricken. Bill didn't move—he couldn't. His whole body was locked in place, frozen by the unbearable sight of their father breaking before them.
Yaxley stood over Arthur like a monument to cruelty, his wand steady, a sick glint of satisfaction flickering in his eyes.
Arthur gasped through gritted teeth as the curse released its grip. His chest heaved, his breath ragged, each inhale a small battle. The magical ropes binding him bit deeper into his skin with every movement, scraping raw against his arms. He twisted uselessly, his body twitching from the aftershocks. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, bright and damning against the dirt—a stain of both violence and defiance.
Yaxley didn't speak at first. He simply stepped closer, towering over him. Then, with a sharp motion, he backhanded Arthur across the face.
The crack rang out.
Arthur's head snapped to the side. Blood bloomed instantly on his lip, a crimson smear that seemed to pulse with every heartbeat. Hagrid flinched. Percy's jaw tightened, and his eyes filled with fury, but he didn't move. Molly cried out softly, her hand reaching toward Arthur as if she could absorb the pain herself.
Yaxley grinned. "Still think this is noble, Weasley? Still think loyalty's worth this?"
"You're not gaining anything by this!" Bill shouted, finally stepping forward. His voice quivered with rage, but he didn't falter, even as half a dozen wands rose to meet him. "Even if we gave you Harry—it wouldn't change a thing! He's unconscious!"
Yaxley turned slowly, eyes like shards of ice. "And you think that makes him useless?" he asked, his voice low and venom-laced. "I said I wanted Potter. Breathing or not."
Hagrid stepped forward, shoulders squared, his voice gravelly and tight with pain. "Haven't yeh done enough?" he growled. "Harry's suffered more than anyone. Let him be."
But Yaxley's eyes had already drifted back to Arthur, and now they darkened further. "You leave me no choice," he murmured, as if it were Arthur's fault his cruelty had escalated. "Maybe it's time your son pays the price."
He raised his wand again—this time pointing it at George.
The faint glimmer of green began to pulse at the tip. The air went dead still.
"NO!" Molly screamed, lunging forward before Hagrid caught her again, holding her tight as she fought with everything she had. "Don't—please—don't!"
George stirred, just barely. His body twitched, his eyes fluttering open for a second—and in them was raw terror. He wasn't the defiant joker now. He was a boy—a son—facing death. His gaze locked with Arthur's, wide and wet, silently begging.
And then—laughter.
Dry. Measured. Disrespectful.
"Really, Yaxley?" came a drawling voice from the sidelines. "You'd kill the bargaining chip before we've made the trade? Brilliant strategy."
All eyes turned.
Draco stepped forward, pale and composed, his arms folded with a kind of arrogant calm that seemed utterly misplaced.
Yaxley's eyes narrowed. "You think this is the time for clever remarks?" he spat.
Draco tilted his head, unbothered. "You're playing checkers in a chess match. If George dies, it's not a victory—it's your failure. You really want that risk?"
Yaxley stared at him, unmoving. A heavy silence stretched between them like a drawn bow.
"I'd watch your tongue, boy," he said at last, wand still glowing with death.
Draco didn't back down. Instead, he turned to the Weasleys with a new, cutting edge in his voice. "Unless, of course… you've already decided Potter's life matters more than one of your own."
Arthur's heart clenched. That sentence landed harder than the curse had.
"Draco," he rasped, voice thick with disbelief, "we took you in. When no one else would."
Draco didn't blink. "And look what it cost you."
His voice was cold as steel. "Maybe next time you'll choose your allies more wisely."
Percy's voice cut through next—clear and burning. "You're just like him. Your father. Cowardly. Rotten. Hiding behind pureblood arrogance because you're too weak to stand alone."
Draco's expression faltered for just a heartbeat. But he said nothing.
Yaxley had had enough. He turned back to George. "I'm done waiting. One less blood traitor in the world—"
A sudden sound snapped through the woods.
A rustle—sharp, deliberate. The crack of a twig.
Every head turned. The Death Eaters tensed, wands rising instinctively. Something was moving in the trees. Not large. But steady. Inevitable.
The forest went quiet. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Then came the scream.
It wasn't human—not entirely. It was raw grief made sound, a hollow, harrowing wail that clawed up from the gut and shattered the air like glass. It echoed through the clearing, long and wild and full of mourning. It silenced everything.
Then, stumbling from between the trees, came a figure.
Dishevelled. Stooped. Robes torn and filthy. His face was streaked with dirt and tears but unmistakable. His arms cradled a bundle wrapped in a blanket—still and small.
Horace Slughorn.
Yaxley froze, the spell still ready at his fingertips.
"Slughorn?" he said, the name brittle in his mouth. Something sharp entered his voice—doubt. Suspicion. Dread.
Because whatever Slughorn was carrying… wasn't moving.
And it had changed the air.
Slughorn stumbled into the clearing as though gravity had turned against him, dragging his every step. His opulent robes were torn and muddied, forgotten. In his trembling arms, he held a bundle wrapped in a worn, soot-stained blanket. But it wasn't the bundle itself that silenced the forest—it was the way Slughorn held it: with a reverence so raw it cut straight through his usual bluster and grandeur.
When he finally crossed into the clearing, his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the earth with a strangled gasp, clutching the bundle to his chest as if letting go would destroy him. His shoulders shook with ragged sobs, each one wrenching from his throat like something torn.
For a moment, everything stilled.
The Weasleys froze, their bodies turned to stone. The Death Eaters stared, expressions twisted in unease and faint amusement, not yet grasping the gravity of what was unfolding.
A slow, creeping dread began winding its way up Arthur's spine, each breath colder than the last. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Yaxley stepped into the silence with a sneer, his voice laced with contempt.
"What in Merlin's name is that supposed to be?"
Slughorn lifted his head. His eyes were red and swollen, his face streaked with tears. The voice that emerged was barely more than a whisper, wrecked by anguish.
"You asked for Potter…"
He reached down with shaking fingers and peeled back the edge of the blanket.
Time shattered.
What followed was not silence but a tidal wave.
Bill made a choking sound and staggered backward, shaking his head, eyes wide with horror. Molly's gasp became a moan, then a cry, then a scream of such raw devastation it silenced even the birds in the trees.
Arthur's fists clenched, his breath faltering. "No," he said hoarsely, as if denial could turn back time. "No… That's not…"
He couldn't finish. His eyes were locked on the still, pale face lying in Slughorn's arms. Harry's eyes were closed, and his face was pale and lifeless. There was no rise or fall of his chest. No flicker of movement. Nothing.
Molly staggered as if her legs could no longer support her. Her hands flew to her mouth, trembling violently, trying to cage the scream clawing its way out. Her knees buckled, but before she could hit the ground, Hagrid caught her in his arms, folding her against his chest like she was something precious. He turned her away from the sight, but not before her eyes had locked on Harry's face.
"No… no… oh God—HARRY!" she wailed. The sound tore through the trees, a mother's cry stripped bare of dignity or restraint. Her voice cracked again and again, a siren of grief that pierced the very marrow of those who heard it.
Bill took a stumbling step back, clutching his head in his hands, disbelieving. His breath came in harsh, shallow gasps. "It can't—it can't be him," he muttered. "He's just a boy—he's just—"
Percy collapsed onto the ground beside Bill, his hands buried in the dirt. His glasses had fallen askew, and tears spilt freely down his face. "No… please, no…" he whispered, rocking slightly. "He was supposed to wake up…"
George, still slumped against a tree and bloodied from his earlier injury, blinked slowly as if unsure whether he was dreaming. "Harry?" he rasped. His voice cracked around the name. "Harry… mate… wake up…" He reached out a trembling hand, then let it fall, useless. There was no hand to grasp his. No smirk. No sarcastic quip. Just silence.
Slughorn finally let go of the bundle, kneeling beside the body, his hands falling limp at his sides. The old professor was no longer the polished host or flamboyant mentor—he was a man undone.
"I tried," he wept. "I—I gave him everything I had, every potion, every spell I knew. I begged him to hold on…" His voice broke. "I couldn't save him… I couldn't save him…"
No one spoke.
Even Hagrid, towering over them all, was trembling. Tears spilt down his cheeks in thick silence. He pressed his face into his shoulder to hide it, but the grief in his eyes could not be masked.
"This isn't real," he mumbled, shaking his head. "It—it can't be Harry. He's… he's Harry."
Then came the voice.
High. Cold. Triumphant.
From the edge of the clearing, it rang out like a curse.
"He's dead!" it sang. "Harry Potter is DEAD!"
The words cracked through the clearing like lightning, a jolt that turned blood to ice.
Time stopped.
Every heart froze. Every breath caught.
There was Harry, unmoving. Silent. The boy they'd all believed would save them.
Hope itself seemed to wither in that moment.
And still, the words echoed.
Harry Potter was dead.
And the world would never be the same.