The news of Harry Potter's death spread like wildfire through the tangled trees, carrying on a Death Eater's cruel voice that split the night like a jagged blade. The sound echoed in the dark, cold and sharp, and it felt as though the very forest recoiled.
Arthur sat frozen, his silhouette carved from shadow. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat heavy and hollow. The stars above blinked silently, bright and indifferent, a cruel contrast to the chaos stirring within him. The night should have been peaceful. Instead, it was a grave.
He watched as Hagrid collapsed beside Harry's body, his enormous frame trembling with each sob. "Yeh told me yeh'd be okay this time…" Hagrid's voice cracked and broke as he reached out with shaking hands to brush Harry's still face. His fingers, usually so sure and gentle, hovered uncertainly, as if afraid to touch what they already knew was gone.
Arthur's breath caught. The sight of Hagrid—strong, loyal Hagrid—so utterly undone pierced something deep inside him. Tears welled in Arthur's eyes, reflecting the faint silver of the stars, but within them swirled a far deeper darkness. Memories flickered like old film: Harry's shy smile at the Burrow, the quiet conversations about Muggle inventions, the fierce love he held for his friends—for his children.
It all seemed so distant now. So impossibly out of reach.
Hagrid leaned over and gently pulled the blanket back over Harry's face, a final act of tenderness. The motion was soft, reverent, as if he still hoped the boy might stir. But the stillness remained.
Arthur didn't move. Couldn't. He sat rooted to the spot as the full weight of his guilt settled across his shoulders like a leaden cloak. I should have been there, he thought, the words curling in his chest like smoke. I should have protected him.
"I should have been there," he whispered aloud, his voice swallowed by the trees.
Not far off, Molly sobbed into her hands. Her body shook with the force of her grief, and each agonised cry from Hagrid sent fresh daggers into her heart. Their family—once filled with laughter and love—had been reduced to this unbearable silence. Arthur knew he should go to her, hold her, anchor her. But the pain had turned his limbs to stone. He could only watch, helpless, as the world unravelled around them.
Laughter echoed suddenly, low and venomous.
The Death Eaters. The vultures in the shadows.
Arthur didn't need to look to know their expressions—smug, gleeful, intoxicated by the power they thought they'd claimed. Their joy in the face of Harry's death turned Arthur's stomach. It was grotesque. They didn't mourn. They gloated. Their laughter was a sickness, wrapping itself around the clearing like smoke from a dying fire.
His jaw clenched.
"Slughorn," Arthur murmured, his gaze drifting to the professor who knelt nearby. The man looked dazed, broken—his eyes vacant and shimmering with unshed tears. His fine robes were torn and soiled, his hands stained from cradling a fallen hero. Arthur saw in him a mirror of his own grief: powerless, ashamed, and lost.
And still—beneath all of it—something darker stirred.
Arthur's mind flashed back to Shell Cottage, to the desperate preparations before the battle. Had they done something wrong? Had the ritual failed? Had his decision to leave—however brief—cost them everything?
His chest tightened. His thoughts turned to Ginny, Ron, and Hermione, their faces flashing through his mind like lightning strikes. Where were they now? Were they safe? Alive?
Panic surged. His throat closed. He bit hard into his lip, trying to stop the wave of fear from crashing down. "They aren't dead," he told himself, the words small and fragile. But it was something. The only thing he had left to hold onto.
Then—like a blade through a wound—Yaxley's voice rang out, high and cruel.
"What a magnificent evening it has turned out to be!" he announced, his words cutting into the hush. He strode forward, the moonlight glinting off his smirk. "At long last… The-Boy-Who-Lived is dead!"
The Death Eaters cackled in unison, their laughter rising like a twisted hymn. Arthur's fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. Fury roared to life in his chest, as hot and violent as fire. They were laughing. Laughing at him. At Harry.
Yaxley turned toward the grieving Weasleys, his eyes glinting with sadistic pleasure. "This is a moment I've been waiting for," he sneered, then looked down at Slughorn with mock pity. "Not much of a final act, was it? The boy was practically a corpse already."
A cold chill swept through Arthur.
Hagrid rose slowly, his massive shoulders drawn taut. The grief in his eyes was now joined by something else—something dangerous. His hands, normally open and kind, had curled into fists. His eyes burnt like embers.
"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were yeh," Hagrid growled, his voice low and trembling with rage. "You don't speak his name."
Yaxley laughed.
Arthur watched, the rage inside him burning against the cold. He had lost so much already. They all had. But he wasn't done. Not yet.
Not while monsters like Yaxley still walked the earth.
Yaxley stood unfazed, his posture casual, even as Hagrid trembled with fury just metres away. The Death Eater's voice carried easily through the tense stillness, laced with mockery and malice.
"So…" he drawled, turning to his companions, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "What shall we do with him now?" His gaze swept back to Harry's motionless form. "Shall we follow our Dark Lord's example and have a little fun? Some of those games he liked to play the last time this boy tried dying here?"
The words were spoken lightly, but their meaning struck like a curse.
Arthur stiffened. Confusion crept up his spine, mingling with the dread that had long since nested in his chest. He exchanged glances with his family and saw the same puzzled fear mirrored in their eyes. "Games?" The word felt wrong. Twisted.
Then he caught sight of Hagrid's face.
The giant had gone pale beneath the wild tangle of hair. His eyes, wide and wild, filled not just with grief but with terror. Arthur's heart dropped. He knows what Yaxley means.
"Don't you touch him!" Hagrid shouted suddenly, his voice cracking under the weight of emotion. "H-Harry's—he's—" His words faltered, but the desperation in his tone said more than he could. It was unbearable to witness—this mountain of a man brought to his knees by the boy he loved like a son.
Yaxley grinned, enjoying every second.
"Come now, half-breed," he taunted. "Surely you can't deny us a bit of amusement? He's practically a corpse already. What harm is there in a Cruciatus or two? He won't feel a thing."
The Death Eaters chuckled behind him, their laughter low and cruel.
Arthur felt heat rising up his throat—rage, nausea, and helplessness all knotted together. Yaxley's words were like poison soaking into the air. The man was toying with them. With Harry. With their grief.
"Yeah," Rookwood added with a sneer. "We'll toss him around like a broken puppet. See how long the 'Chosen One' lasts before he falls apart completely."
Their laughter grew, sharp and jagged, ripping through the clearing.
"You've got what you wanted!" Percy's voice rang out, hoarse but defiant. He stepped forward, eyes blazing, fists trembling at his sides. "So leave him alone!"
The weight of his fury cracked something in the air. The Weasleys, wounded and grieving, began to huddle tighter. George leaned against a tree for balance, his shirt torn, blood drying on his face. He stared hard at Yaxley, pain and fury burning behind his eyes.
"Is desecrating the dead part of the celebration now?" George said coldly. "Or is it just the only way you lot can feel like you've won?"
Arthur felt a flicker of pride in his son's strength, even through the chaos. George had lost so much—Fred, his ear, his peace—and yet here he was, standing tall in the face of monsters.
Yaxley's eyes glimmered with delight. He turned toward George slowly, voice dripping with menace. "Surely you remember our last encounter, don't you?" he whispered. "A bit of Imperius. A dash of Cruciatus. So many toys to choose from." He chuckled. "Sadly, your precious Boy Who Lived may not last long enough to enjoy them again."
A murmur rippled through the circle of Death Eaters—excitement, anticipation. Wands shifted in hands. Eyes lit up with the promise of violence.
"Shall we begin, then?" Macnair asked eagerly, flexing his fingers around his wand like he couldn't wait to unleash it. "Let's make it a night to remember."
"Get away from him!" Hagrid bellowed, stepping forward with shaking fists. His voice echoed through the trees. "Yeh lay one wand on him, and I swear—"
His threat cut off with a choked growl. He couldn't even finish. The pain was too raw. Too deep.
And still Yaxley laughed. "So much anger," he said gleefully. "I rather like it. Shall I provoke you more? Or will you come running like a dog to defend your fallen master?"
The tension was unbearable. Arthur could feel it stretching taut, ready to snap. His fingers twitched for his wand on the ground, even as his common sense screamed to hold the line.
Molly broke.
"You vile creature!" she shrieked, struggling against Bill's arms. He held her back with everything he had, but her rage was uncontainable. "You think this is victory? You think this is honour? You're nothing but filth—twisting the body of a boy you couldn't break in life!"
Arthur watched. Her eyes were blazing through tears, her whole body trembling with grief and fury. She looked ready to collapse or explode—and maybe both.
Yaxley only smiled wider. He turned slowly, arms outstretched as though conducting an orchestra of torment.
"Well then," he said, voice smooth and dark. "Let's begin."
The leaves rustled above them, as if the forest itself were recoiling. Shadows grew longer. The air tightened, and Arthur could feel it—the very moment before the storm broke. It was coming.
And if no one acted soon, it would devour them all.
Draco lingered near the edge of the clearing, half-shrouded by the twisting silhouette of a gnarled tree. Arms crossed, his expression unreadable, he watched the unfolding chaos with a detached air that didn't quite mask his discomfort.
"This isn't the time," he said at last, his voice quiet but firm, cutting through the death-laced revelry. "Nor the place. You're making a spectacle of something that was never meant to be paraded."
Yaxley turned slowly. The grin on his face withered, replaced by a cold, narrow-eyed stare. "This," he hissed, his voice slick with venom, "is precisely the time. Have you gone soft, Draco? Look around you—this is victory. The end of Potter. You should be rejoicing." He jabbed a finger toward Harry's still form, his voice thick with mockery. "Or are you so far gone you can't even take a turn?"
Draco scoffed, the sound brittle. "You think I haven't waited for this?" he asked. His voice held a forced detachment, but Arthur saw the tightness in his shoulders, the way his gaze faltered. "But desecration isn't justice. It's theatre for fools."
Yaxley's eyes glittered with contempt, his amusement curdling into disdain. "What's holding you back, then? Pity?"
Draco didn't answer at first. He pushed away from the tree, casting a wary glance toward the clustered Weasleys, then to the shadows beyond. "If humiliation is what you want, do it somewhere people will see it. Diagon Alley, perhaps. Or the steps of the ministry. Not… here. Not like this."
The clearing stilled.
Arthur watched the way Molly froze beside him. Her trembling hands fell from her face as the implication took root. Her eyes burnt with a mother's fury as she turned sharply toward Draco.
"You snake!" she shrieked, voice sharp as broken glass. "How dare you speak of dragging his body through the streets? Is that what you are now—just another coward with a wand and no spine?"
Yaxley rolled his eyes, already bored by the outburst. But Draco pressed on, voice steadier now, laced with an eerie calm. "You want to make a statement? Then make one. Not in the woods, whispering to trees. But out there, in full view. Unless," he added, flicking his hand toward the Weasleys, "this is the audience you hoped for."
The other Death Eaters stirred, the mood fracturing into frustration and mutters of discontent. The spectacle was slipping from their fingers.
"After everything he did for you?" Arthur's words trembled but struck like iron. "After the life Harry saved, the mercy he showed you in that burning castle, this is how you repay him?"
Draco's face twisted. "I repaid him," he snapped. "I repaid him every time I kept your people alive in that dungeon. Every time I looked the other way. But that debt's gone now. He's dead. There's nothing left."
With a flick of his wand, there was a sudden gust of displaced magic. Arthur staggered, the invisible bindings holding him shattering like brittle thread. The wands belonging to the Weasleys—his own, Molly's, Bill's, Percy's, and Arthur's—flew into Draco's hand and then scattered through the air, returning to their rightful owners with a shimmer of defiance.
Arthur gasped as he regained control of his limbs, but the weight pressing down on him remained—a grief too heavy to shake.
"You expect us to walk away?" Molly asked, her voice low and trembling. Her fists clenched at her sides. "To turn our backs on him? You think we'll just leave him here, at the feet of vultures like you?"
"No!" Hagrid's voice boomed, drawing every eye to his towering frame. He stepped forward, towering over them all. "If we're goin', we're takin' Harry. I'll carry him if I have ter. But he ain't stayin' here. Not with them."
Draco's composure cracked. His eyes flashed with anger, his wand raising instinctively. "Are you all deaf?" he roared. "I said you're finished here! Take the half-dead one and leave!"
He was shaking now, whether from rage or something deeper, Arthur couldn't say. But the words hung like thunder in the trees.
Then—
"Enough!"
The voice came from behind them, sharp and sudden. Slughorn stepped forward, his robe billowing slightly, his face uncharacteristically flushed with fury. He turned, not on the Death Eaters, but on the Weasleys.
"You're not thinking clearly!" he snapped. "George is alive! Think about what you risk by staying. You think Harry would want you to fight now, when it's already over? He'd want you to survive!"
The clearing held its breath.
Even Molly stumbled back a step, the vehemence in Slughorn's voice striking her mute. Arthur reached for her instinctively, steadying her, though he himself could barely stand.
And behind them, Yaxley laughed.
"Finally," he drawled, clapping mockingly. "Someone with a bit of perspective. Yes, yes—take your wounded, weep for your saviour, and leave the forest to us."
His smile curled into something uglier. "Unless, of course, you'd rather join him in the dirt."
Bill's voice broke through the mounting chaos like a flare in the darkness. "What about Harry?" he cried, horror etched deep into every syllable. "We can't just leave him—not with them!"
Arthur turned toward his son, the desperation in Bill's voice cutting through him. The thought of abandoning Harry—Harry, who had saved them all more times than Arthur could count—was unbearable.
Draco stood tall at the heart of it all, wand aloft and eyes sharp. Power crackled around him like dry lightning. He lifted George with a flick of his wrist, but George faltered, nearly collapsing under the weight of his wounds. His face was bloodless, and the brief journey toward the Weasleys looked as though it might undo him.
They came forward as a grim procession—Draco, flanked by Yaxley, Rookwood, and Macnair, trailing behind Slughorn like vultures stalking the last light of day. And in Slughorn's arms—Harry. His body hung limp, his limbs unmoving, his face pale and peaceful in a way that Arthur found more horrifying than any scream.
"Horace, please," Molly begged, her voice threadbare and breaking. Her tears fell unchecked, like the first storm after a drought. She stood in their path, a mother blocking the tide.
But Slughorn didn't pause. His face was drawn, eyes hollow with guilt. "I have no choice," he said, barely above a whisper. "Harry is gone. But George—we still have a chance."
"No!" Arthur shouted, something primal surging in his chest. "You can't do this. Not like this." The words came out hoarse, cracked by grief and disbelief.
He turned to Molly, their eyes locking. The despair in her gaze was mirrored in his own. Their hands reached for each other in the dim light, clinging to the last fragments of hope.
Slughorn faltered, one foot dragging in hesitation. "Time is running out," he murmured. And though he didn't look back, Arthur saw the tremor in his stance.
He looked at Harry.
The boy's head lolled against Slughorn's shoulder. So still. So quiet. A cold wind seemed to pass through Arthur's soul. There had to be another way—there must be. To choose one child over another—even Voldemort hadn't asked them for that.
"Horace," he choked, "please… Don't make us do this."
The clearing held its breath.
Only Molly's sobs filled the air, each one a jagged note in the tension. Hagrid stood behind them, his fists clenched, his grief a mountain barely held in check. The others—Bill and Percy—watched with wide, stricken eyes.
Slughorn stepped forward again, toward Draco.
Yaxley's grin widened. His wand twitched at his side, and Arthur felt a new spike of dread twist through his gut. The Death Eater's eyes were hungry—eager to pounce the moment hesitation turned to weakness.
And then—
"NOW!" Draco's voice shattered the stillness like thunder splitting the sky.
The forest exploded.
From every direction came the cries of reinforcements. A rush of figures burst from the underbrush, and Arthur's heart leapt as spells lit up the night in blinding bursts of red and gold.
Yaxley's face twisted, too slow to process the betrayal before it was already upon him.
In the chaos, Draco shoved George forward, thrusting him into Slughorn's arms. George stumbled, legs buckling, but Arthur was there in an instant. Molly, too. They caught him together, drawing him in as if he were still the little boy who'd fallen off his broom.
Sparks flew overhead. Shouts erupted. The air reeked of grief and fury.
Arthur turned—just in time to see Harry's body jerk upright.
Alive.
No, not just alive—burning with purpose.
"Expelliarmus!" Harry's voice cracked like a whip, his wand already raised. The force of his spell slammed into Yaxley, who staggered back, howling.
Arthur's heart soared and clenched all at once. Harry—his Harry—was on his feet, wand in hand, a fire in his eyes that had never been extinguished. Not even death could hold him.
"I'll handle this!" Draco shouted, his voice sharp with command. "Accio wands!"
A dozen wands shot through the air, whirling toward Draco like comets. They smacked into his outstretched hand—every wand but one. Yaxley held fast, his reflexes inhuman, and collapsed with a snarl.
"Stupefy!" Draco barked, pivoting with precision. The red jet of light hit Macnair square in the chest, sending him crashing into a tree with a sickening crack.
Arthur could hardly keep up. Draco moved like a storm—unleashing spells in every direction, each strike swift, clean, and effective. There was elegance in his defiance, a grace in his betrayal of the darkness he'd once served. Arthur's breath caught in his throat.
He was watching a boy become something more.
Draco reached the Weasleys.
"There aren't many left," he said urgently, eyes darting to the trees. "I stunned most of them, but more are farther out. This isn't over."
Arthur touched his wand with a trembling hand. His fingers closed around it like a man snatching back a piece of his soul.
He looked to Harry—alive, defiant, radiant with defiance—and then to Draco.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure which miracle startled him more.
Arthur caught Bill's eye, then Percy's. The wordless exchange between them carried the weight of everything unspoken—grief, loyalty, and fury. All three raised their wands in unison. No more leniency. No more chances. The Death Eaters who remained would not slip away into shadow this time.
The battlefield pulsed with noise and light—crackling spells and shouts rebounding through the forest like lightning ricocheting off stone. But beneath the chaos, Arthur's mind reeled.
Harry was alive.
He'd seen it—Harry, standing on his own two feet, his wand raised with the kind of blazing strength Arthur hadn't seen since the height of the war. No sign of sickness, no faltering steps. Just fire. And yet… Arthur's thoughts clawed back to the moment Slughorn had carried him—limp, lifeless. How had he not seen? Had something shifted in those fleeting seconds, something magical, something profound? Or had it all been misdirection?
"Watch out!" Bill's voice tore through the fog of thought.
Arthur barely moved in time—ducking as a streak of yellow light roared past, singing the air near his shoulder. He dropped to a crouch, wands trained on the attacker, while Percy leapt forward, casting a shield charm that cracked like glass against incoming fire. They moved together now, the Weasleys—brothers, sons, parents, fighting as one.
Arthur turned again, instinctively searching for Draco—for Harry. But Draco was gone, vanished into the darkness beyond the clearing, like smoke dissolving into wind. And Harry—no sign. Just the smell of singed bark and the churned earth where he'd stood.
Arthur's chest clenched.
Where was he?
Then a scream—raw and livid—split the air.
"DRACO!"
Arthur whirled toward the sound. Yaxley stumbled out from behind a thick curtain of trees, wand raised and trembling with rage. His face was twisted, blood streaked across his cheek, eyes wild with disbelief.
"What have you done?!" Yaxley bellowed, his voice rasping with fury and disbelief.
Draco stepped into view. He stood poised, perfectly calm amid the wreckage, the moonlight catching the silver sheen of his hair. He looked almost ethereal, impossibly still.
"Oops," Draco said flatly. "Did I make a mistake? I was only being helpful." His voice oozed sarcasm, and yet, beneath it, there was something colder—more deliberate.
"Helpful?" Yaxley spat, chest heaving. "You think this is helpful?!"
Draco raised an eyebrow, voice as airy as a breeze. "What else would it be?"
Arthur's pulse roared in his ears as he watched the exchange unfold—two Death Eaters, once allies, now dancing on the edge of war. But Draco wasn't afraid. He looked like he welcomed this moment.
"You can't just do what you like," Yaxley snarled, every inch of him trembling. "Striking down my men? Turning them over like trash? I command forces still loyal to me!"
"Oh, please," Draco sneered, stepping closer, wand still loose at his side. "You've got what? A dozen half-witted cowards hiding behind trees? You're a relic. The war ended, and you never even noticed."
Yaxley bristled. "You know nothing. I still have Death Eaters! I—"
"Do you?" Draco cut him off, voice suddenly razor-sharp. "Then look behind you."
Arthur turned.
From the darkness, movement surged—hooded figures stepping into the clearing.
For a moment, Yaxley straightened, a flicker of hope reigniting in his feral eyes.
But then his face collapsed.
They weren't Death Eaters.
They were Aurors. Centaurs. Teenagers from Dumbledore's Army, grim-faced and battle-ready, emerging from the trees like ghosts of a revolution reborn. Bows were drawn, wands raised. The moonlight reflected off determined faces—Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell, and Lee Jordan—all of them with the fire of resistance in their eyes.
A scream of fury tore from Yaxley's throat, primal and defeated.
Arthur's chest swelled—not with fear, but with pride. These weren't just reinforcements. These were the children they'd raised, the friends of his sons, standing now as warriors in their own right. Fred would've cheered. George would've laughed through his pain. Even Percy, solemn and straight-backed beside him, looked ready to roar.
Draco's voice rang out again, low and triumphant.
"You're too late," he said. "You missed your window. They captured your hidden reserves the moment we stepped into the clearing."
Arthur's brow furrowed. We?
He looked again at Draco. There was something calculating behind that smirk—something more than recklessness.
How long had he been planning this? Had Draco—Draco Malfoy—set the trap for Yaxley?
Yaxley seemed to realise it, too.
"How?" he demanded, eyes narrowed to slits. "How did you know?!"
Draco tilted his head, letting the silence stretch before he spoke.
"I had a communicator," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Instant alerts. Just in case things went south." His smirk widened. "Turns out, they went very south. For you."
Arthur stood frozen, swept up in a flood of awe, disbelief, and—if he dared admit it—admiration. The boy who had once taunted Ron in corridors had just turned a battle. Had fooled Yaxley. Had saved Harry, saved George, perhaps saved them all.
And yet, the question still echoed in Arthur's mind:
Where was Harry now?
Yaxley's brow furrowed, his expression twisting with confusion. "A communicator?" he repeated slowly, scanning Draco's face for some sign of deceit. "I never saw you speak with anyone. You didn't leave once while we were in the forest."
Draco tilted his head, his voice calm and detached, as if they were discussing something trivial over tea. "Of course you didn't. I planned it all after you kidnapped the Weasley boy." He spoke with cool confidence, each word a deliberate strike. "Naturally, you wouldn't have noticed. You're not exactly known for your insight."
His tone sharpened into something mocking. "Tell me, why the Forbidden Forest? Did you truly believe the creatures here fear you?" Draco held up a small, round coin between two fingers—unremarkable in appearance, but glinting with significance. "It's clever, really. A simple signal, passed along the right hands at the right time."
Yaxley's face twisted with fury, colour rising in his cheeks. "I should have known better than to trust a Malfoy," he spat, his voice trembling with rage barely held in check. "Your whole family is a nest of traitors!"
Draco stepped closer, his smirk widening. "And you're predictable," he said coldly. "You failed the moment you agreed to our plan. It was all too easy."
The air was taut with tension. Arthur stood frozen, heart pounding as he watched the exchange. Every muscle in Yaxley's body was coiled, trembling with suppressed violence. The Death Eater's eyes burnt with hatred as he slowly raised his wand.
"You'll regret this, boy," Yaxley growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I swear, you'll beg me for mercy—"
"Do I look like someone who begs?" Draco snapped. "I've lived through worse than you. And when you rot in Azkaban, I'll sleep just fine."
A pulse of dread rolled through the clearing, thick as fog. Yaxley's wand jerked upward—too fast, too wild. But before he could utter the first word of a curse—
"Stupefy!"
The voice rang out. A bolt of red light surged through the trees, striking Yaxley square in the chest. He collapsed in a heap, barely conscious, before he hit the ground.
Arthur's head whipped around. Harry stepped forward from the shadows, his wand still raised, green eyes fierce beneath a mop of windswept hair. He looked tired—older, somehow—but there was steel in his stance. Determination. Unshakeable purpose.
Draco looked down at Yaxley, then slowly turned to Harry with a nod. "Perfect timing," he muttered.
He stepped forward, crouched beside the fallen Death Eater, and murmured, "Piece of advice, Yaxley: choose your allies more wisely."
The sudden arrival of Aurors shattered the tension. They poured into the clearing, wands raised, spells flying. Within moments, the remaining Death Eaters were disarmed and restrained. The sounds of struggle faded, replaced by the heavy breathing of survivors and the quiet rustle of leaves overhead.
And then… silence. A strange stillness fell over the forest, as if the trees themselves were exhaling.
The centaurs had gone. The battle was over. But in the middle of it all, amid the ruined ground and tangled branches, Draco stood very still—then sank to his knees.
The gesture stunned the Weasleys. Arthur and Molly exchanged a look of disbelief. Here was the boy they'd once watched sneer across the Great Hall, the son of a man who had nearly destroyed everything they'd built—and he was kneeling before them, head bowed, his wand set carefully on the ground.
His pale hair gleamed under the canopy of trees, but his face was weary, almost gaunt. Shadows clung to him—not just the physical ones cast by the trees, but the kind born of sleepless nights and a heart at war with itself.
"I…" Draco hesitated. His voice was quiet, almost lost in the wind. "I didn't mean what I said—before. About Potter. About your family. I didn't mean any of it."
The words fell into the clearing like stones into a still pond. No one moved.
"I was angry. I didn't know who I was or what I believed," Draco went on, his voice tightening. "But that doesn't excuse it. I need you to know—I'm sorry. For all of it. For what my family's done to yours."
Arthur felt something shift inside him, something old and heavy. He took a cautious step forward, his face unreadable. Molly's lips were pressed tightly together, her eyes shining not with anger but with something more complicated: grief, maybe. Or compassion.
Draco lifted his eyes, and for a moment they met Arthur's. "I know I don't deserve it," he said, more forcefully now. "But I want to change. I want to make things right, whatever that means. I'll do anything."
There was a long pause.
Then Arthur stepped forward and placed a hand—warm, solid—on Draco's shoulder.
"Son," he said gently, "sometimes the hardest thing in the world is to ask for forgiveness. And sometimes… the only thing we can do is give it."
Draco blinked in surprise. His breath caught. Molly moved closer, her expression softening as she looked down at the boy who had once been her enemy.
"We've all lost too much," she said quietly. "Maybe it's time we stop holding on to hate."
Draco's lips parted, but no sound came out. A tremor passed through him, like something old breaking free. He nodded once, slowly.
"I'll do better," he whispered.
A tentative smile flickered on his face—small, uncertain, but real.
And for the first time in what felt like years, the forest didn't feel so cold.
A voice broke through the quiet, half-laughing, half-sincere.
"I always thought you'd be a stuck-up ferret forever," George called from the back, his voice a careful mix of teasing and truth. "But I'll admit… it's good to see you've finally come to your senses."
A ripple of laughter spread through the group, light and spontaneous, like the first rainfall after a drought. It washed over them—cleansing, warm, and unexpected. The tension that had choked the air seemed to loosen with every breath.
Molly turned sharply, a half-hearted glare aimed at George, her motherly instincts flaring. But her expression softened almost instantly, a reluctant smile pulling at her lips. "That's enough, George," she said, trying to sound stern, though her voice held more fondness than bite.
George, of course, was undeterred. He took a step forward, his shoulders squared, his grin crooked. "No, really. If he hadn't turned things around, I'd have had to resort to drastic measures. And we both know I'm terrifying when I get creative."
A few people snorted. Someone muttered, "Too right," and more laughter followed. Draco shifted uneasily, surrounded by voices he once would have mocked, or feared, or avoided entirely. Now they stood around him, arms not raised in defence, but crossed in amusement. Somehow, it felt more dangerous.
"I wouldn't dream of getting on your bad side," he muttered, mostly to himself, but loud enough to be heard. "Believe me—my past is already riddled with terrifying encounters."
"'Terrifying encounters', is it?" Bill chuckled, his long hair catching the moonlight, a knowing smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. "That's rich, coming from the bloke who just helped lead Death Eaters into a trap."
The group laughed again, but this time it wasn't just amusement—it was camaraderie. A shared sense of relief, hard-won after everything they'd endured.
Then Ernie Macmillan stepped forward, his face earnest under a mop of fair hair. "Honestly, with at least twenty of us backing each other up, any lone attacker would be… well, let's just say I wouldn't want to be on the wrong end of that."
"You're not wrong," piped up a girl with rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes—Hannah Abbott, her laugh light and contagious. "You'd have to be completely daft to go up against us."
Another wave of laughter broke out. Even Draco gave a small, reluctant smile before looking down, his expression shadowed. It was still hard to look so many of them in the eye. They'd fought for a world he once didn't believe in. And now they stood with him—not out of necessity, but out of something approaching trust.
It was baffling. And strangely… comforting.
Arthur raised a hand gently, and the hum of conversation quietened. His face was thoughtful, the corners of his eyes lined not just with age, but with days of worry and nights spent searching the trees for answers.
"So," he asked, his tone measured, "how did all of this come about?"
Before Draco could find the words, Kingsley stepped forward. The minister's voice carried a quiet authority that settled the group immediately. "It was Draco's idea," he said simply. "His plan. All of it."
Draco exhaled, some weight lifting from his shoulders just hearing someone else speak for him.
Kingsley continued, his tone respectful. "He felt it was the only proper way to repay his life debt to Harry."
Arthur's brow furrowed in confusion. "Didn't you already repay that debt?" he asked, glancing at Draco. "You told Harry about the cave in Ireland, didn't you?"
"I did," Draco replied, his voice subdued. "That was supposed to be enough. But… it didn't feel like it. Potter risked everything to save my life. And when I found out that George had been taken—" His voice faltered for just a second as he met George's gaze. "I knew I had to do something more. Not just for Harry… but for all of you."
A silence followed. Not cold, not hostile—but one of acknowledgement. Of understanding.
Arthur's gaze softened. He could see the effort behind Draco's words, the guilt etched into his face, and the way he kept his posture straight despite the emotional weight pressing down on him. This wasn't the posturing of a Malfoy; it was the quiet determination of someone trying to rebuild from rubble.
Kingsley took over again. "As part of his probation, Draco checks in with the Ministry daily. When he found out what happened to George, he came straight to me. Before our meeting in the office, we'd already begun coordinating a response."
Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly. "And why was I left in the dark?"
Kingsley met his gaze directly. "Because of your reaction," he said simply. "We needed you to act naturally—to grieve, to rage, to panic. Yaxley needed to believe he had won. Your genuine emotion gave us the opening we needed."
Arthur didn't respond right away. His jaw tightened, but after a moment, he nodded once—slowly. "I suppose I can't argue with the results."
Kingsley inclined his head. "We also involved Dumbledore's Army. Draco gave us a list of members—those he believed would still be willing to help. Neville was already at St. Mungo's when Yaxley made his announcement. He passed the word on."
Draco raised a hand with a faint chuckle. "Yaxley only agreed to the Forbidden Forest because I suggested it. Said it would be poetic, or something."
The DA members behind him burst into laughter.
"Was I really that convincing?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Not even a little," George, Bill, and Percy said in unison.
"Focus," Kingsley said with a weary smile. "The centaurs helped surround the area. They know these woods better than anyone, and Draco's anti-Disapparition charms did the rest. Once they were trapped, we moved in fast."
Angelina shivered slightly. "I'll never get used to how dangerous these woods are."
George took her hand. "No one should."
Kingsley nodded. "When we spotted the Death Eaters gathering, Seamus sent the signal through enchanted coins. Same idea they used in the war." He pulled one from his pocket, holding it up for Arthur to see. "Simple. Efficient. Untraceable."
Arthur took it, turning the coin over in his fingers. "Remarkable," he murmured. "I've never seen anything quite like it."
Parvati Patil gave a small nod, her voice steady and sure. "It was Hermione's idea," she explained. "The coins, I mean. She thought they'd help keep us connected—especially when everything started falling apart."
There was a brief hush, filled with the unspoken weight of what they'd all survived.
Kingsley nodded in agreement, his expression unreadable but his tone firm. "Our plan was for Slughorn to step in just in time," he said, then added with a glance toward the Weasleys, "before Yaxley went too far. Timing was everything… and a bit of luck."
He tried to smile, but it faltered. Even now, in the aftermath, the tension of what could've happened clung like smoke to his words.
Horace gave a short, almost theatrical bow, his robes swaying with exaggerated grace. "Let's just say it was the performance of a lifetime," he said with a sniff. "I haven't shed that many tears since Celestina Warbeck cancelled a concert in '73."
But behind the bluster, his eyes were red-rimmed, and his smile trembled just slightly.
Arthur's jaw tightened as memories surged back without warning—Harry's body crumpled on the forest floor, Slughorn's cries echoing like funeral bells, the dread that had frozen his limbs and stolen his breath. He hadn't known it then, but those moments had etched themselves into his bones.
Kingsley turned back to him, his voice low and grave. "We couldn't risk you knowing everything. Your reactions had to be real. That was the only way Yaxley would believe it—when he saw your grief, heard Slughorn weeping…"
Arthur exhaled slowly, eyes falling shut for a heartbeat. "I can't describe the relief I felt when I saw Harry alive. My heart was ready to shatter."
"You were brilliant, Professor," Percy added, stepping forward. His voice was uncharacteristically soft, touched by reverence. "The way you carried the scene—it had all of us convinced. Even me."
"Terrified," Hagrid added, voice rough and thick with fatigue. He rubbed at his eyes with one meaty hand. "Thought he was gone, I did. Nearly lost me mind."
The group fell quiet again. Grief, even faked, left a lingering sting.
Then Molly's voice pierced the fog. "Where's Harry?"
Her eyes scanned the clearing, heart suddenly racing. In the distance, she spotted him—or thought she did—kneeling by a cluster of captured Death Eaters, turning their wands over in his hands like they were puzzle pieces.
"There you are!" she cried, crossing the distance in a few quick steps. She pulled him into her arms without hesitation, clinging to him as if he might vanish again.
Arthur followed, his steps slower, more cautious. "Harry," he said softly, the name itself a balm. "We're so glad you're alright." He looked into Harry's face, hoping to see a flicker of that familiar boy behind his glasses—but something felt… off.
Harry didn't return the embrace. He shifted awkwardly, his expression unreadable, almost guarded.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Weasley, but—"
"What is it, dear?" Molly pulled back slightly, concern sharpening her features. "What's wrong?"
Before Harry could answer, Kingsley checked his watch. His brow furrowed.
"Time's up," he said grimly.
Arthur turned sharply, alarmed. "Time's up? What do you mean?" The words echoed oddly in the clearing, out of place in the moment.
The collective tension surged again, the fragile sense of peace shattering as every eye turned toward Kingsley.
Arthur looked back at Harry in Molly's arms—and froze.
The hair, the clothes, the stance—it was all Harry. But the face…
"Neville?" he breathed, stumbling backward as recognition struck like a blow.