The silvery light of the moon streamed through the heavy curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. I settled back onto my bed, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, counting the imperfections in the plaster as if that would distract me. But the image would not leave my mind—Harry, bound and helpless, his eyes pleading for rescue. I turned once more, desperate for sleep, but the image met me again.
Hours already had passed since my last conversation with Ron and Ginny. We were all reluctant to go to bed; none in Gryffindor did. I could hear Lavender and Parvati still awake and talking in whispers. I mean, how could we sleep after all that had happened today?
Who would dare sleep?
Perhaps only Slytherins. They'd be sleeping peacefully, unburdened by our loss.
Had I been braver, perhaps we could have confronted the Death Eaters earlier. Perhaps we could have spilt our plans in the Gryffindor common room and rallied everyone to take action instead of waiting. If Harry only knew how deeply we cared and how hard we would fight to bring him back.
I sighed, letting my head fall back onto my pillow. The thought of Dumbledore's death weighed even heavier. Now, with him gone, the castle felt colder.
Where was Professor Dumbledore's body now? Did someone bury him? Or did the Death Eaters—
No. I couldn't think about it. I wouldn't.
After what felt like hours, I finally stood up, heart racing, and made my way to the window. My fingers coiled around the cool stone of the sill. Hogwarts still looked magnificent, like nothing tragic and dangerous had happened.
I released a deep sigh. I wish I could see the Slytherin House from up here. I could feel Harry's presence so close to us, yet so many barriers were in our way.
Dawn was slowly approaching, and we still haven't heard from Dobby. We sent him into danger, and guilt was taking over me hard.
I made my way down the stairs to the common room; it was empty, with only the dying embers in the fireplace crackling softly, reminding me of the countless evenings spent here with Harry and Ron, plotting and laughing, letting the worries of the world slip away, if only for a moment.
As I prepared to sink into the comfort of one of the worn armchairs, a flicker of movement caught my eye. I turned, my heart leaping, and saw him. It was Dobby, his large, expressive eyes shimmering like emeralds against his mismatched clothing. He held something delicate in his hands—a folded cloth catching just the hint of dawn's light.
"Dobby," I breathed, relief flooding through me. "You're back!"
"Dobby has come to deliver the cloak, miss," he chimed softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "It was indeed at the top of the Astronomy Tower. And then… Dobby found this, miss." He slowly pulled a wand from his pocket. "Dobby thinks it belonged to Harry Potter, miss."
My fingers tingled with anticipation as I reached out to take the Invisibility Cloak and the wand from him. It felt like Hogwarts's last line of defence against You-Know-Who.
"But how did you know it was his?"
"Dobby has seen Harry Potter's wand many times before, miss."
I sighed with relief. "Are you okay?" I asked right away, my eyes scanning Dobby for any sign of harm. "Are you hurt at all?"
"Harry Potter's friend is kind, but Dobby is fine, miss," he reassured me, but a tremor traced through his voice. "Dobby never encountered anyone in the tower, for Dobby knows how to be discreet."
Apprehension gripped my chest. I had a sinking feeling that the story was not over yet. "But did anything else happen?" I pressed, my voice rising slightly. "It's just that you came back just now, and I thought something horrible had happened to you."
Dobby's eyes welled with tears, and he swallowed hard, his small body trembling. "It has happened, miss," he croaked, and with those words, he sent a bolt of ice through my heart.
"What happened?" I gasped, dread coiling in my stomach. The image of Harry's face swam through my mind once again. "Dobby, did something happen to Harry?"
"H—he…" Dobby wailed, and before I could process his meaning, the tear-filled gulf of his eyes was enough to send the world around me spinning. "He is not well, miss. He had done it."
A shudder rippled through me. My mind raced with the implications of his words. "What do you mean, 'he's not well'? Harry has done what?"
Dobby shook his head violently. "No, miss—"
But our conversation was interrupted when Gryffindors started waking up and coming down to the common room.
"I'm sorry, miss," Dobby said, his voice drenched in worry, just before vanishing as abruptly as he had come.
Minutes later, Ron stomped down the stairs. He didn't seem to have slept at all by the way he looked. His wild hair was more dishevelled than usual, and his eyes were clouds of fatigue, yet they flickered with concern when he spotted me. "Hermione? What's up with you? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"There's no time for jokes, Ron," I snapped, my voice sharper than intended. Sometimes I wondered how my emotions could churn so violently under pressure. "It's Harry. Something happened to him."
"What?" His exhausted demeanour vanished, replaced by a sharpness in his gaze. "What do you mean? Is he okay?"
I took a deep breath. "Dobby came back with the Invisibility Cloak and Harry's wand, but there's more. I think he checked on Harry and saw something. You know Dobby; he was always having a hard time saying what he saw, but he said, Harry's not well, and he or maybe someone had done something… to him, I think. I'm not sure."
The vulnerability in Ron's expression was undeniable, his stooped shoulders straightening as the urgency of the moment hit him. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know, Ron." The frustration boiled within me, dark and alive. "But the way Dobby cried, it made me feel like something worse had come to pass."
The early morning sunlight spilt across the Gryffindor common room now, casting long golden beams through the tall windows. But the warmth meant nothing today. It didn't touch us. Not really. The light felt cold, somehow—false. Like a candle burning in a tomb.
Everyone around me looked drained. Hunched over in silence, their faces pale and tight with worry, as if fear had aged them overnight. We didn't speak much. We didn't move much either. No one dared go down to the Great Hall. Breakfast seemed… irrelevant. Dangerous, even. We were all just waiting—for what, we didn't know. For another scream? Another attack?
I sat curled in one of the armchairs near the fireplace, arms wrapped tightly around myself. I tried to think, to plan, to feel like myself again. But my thoughts kept folding in on themselves, spiralling back to last night—to Harry.
Professor McGonagall had left the common room in a hurry, face set with grim determination. That had been hours ago—long, quiet, dreadful hours. She hadn't returned. The longer she stayed gone, the worse my stomach churned. Had something happened to her too?
"Is You-Know-Who still in the castle?" a first-year boy asked, barely above a whisper. His voice trembled, like a teacup rattling on a saucer.
I wanted to tell him no. I wanted to tell him he was just scared, imagining the worst. But I couldn't. Because I didn't know the answer. And because I was scared too.
"Are we having breakfast with him now?" someone else muttered bitterly. Laughter should've followed—nervous, awkward laughter—but the room just sank deeper into silence.
"Does he even eat?" asked another girl, wide-eyed, like she was trying to distract herself with a silly question. But it wasn't silly. Not today.
"Is it true he can fly?" a boy asked from near the wall. His voice cracked halfway through. I watched him wrap his arms around his knees, like he was bracing himself against a storm.
I should've scoffed. I should've told them all to stop imagining monsters. But how could I, when the monster had walked right into our school? When he had roamed these very halls?
And no one had stopped him.
Because Professor Dumbledore was gone.
That thought hit me again, sharp and sudden, like it had every hour since it happened. Professor Dumbledore was gone, and we were alone.
The portrait hole burst open, breaking the heavy silence. A group of fifth and third years stumbled in, their faces ghost-white, clothes rumpled, some of them trembling as if they'd run all the way here.
Ron shot to his feet, eyes wide. I was already moving, following him before I even realised I had stood. My heart hammered in my chest.
"What happened?" Ron asked, voice sharp with worry.
One of the girls—a fifth year with wild hair and red-rimmed eyes—stepped forward, her lips trembling. "We… We went to see Colin. In the Hospital Wing."
My breath caught. I grabbed the edge of a nearby chair to steady myself.
"What about him?" Ron demanded. "What happened?"
"He was tortured," she said, her voice cracking. "By You-Know-Who."
The words hung in the air like a curse. For a moment, it felt like the whole common room tilted sideways. My legs nearly gave out beneath me.
Colin. Tortured. By You-Know-Who.
No. No, it couldn't be. He was just a boy. Just… sweet, curious Colin with his camera. Always asking questions. Always smiling.
"How—how do you know?" I forced myself to ask.
The girl wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Dennis told us. This morning. Professor McGonagall came into the boys' dormitory and pulled him out. She didn't even explain. Just told him to come. We followed them. We thought maybe… maybe it was something small. But…"
Another girl sobbed into her hands. "Why would he do that to Colin? He didn't do anything wrong!"
I stepped forward, my voice barely a whisper. "Is Dennis still with him?"
A third-year boy nodded. "He said he wanted to stay. Said he won't leave until Colin recovers."
Recovers.
I didn't like the way that sounded. My throat tightened, and I swallowed against it.
"What… what condition is he in?" I asked, afraid of the answer.
A fifth-year boy—tall, with dark curls clinging to his damp forehead—spoke quietly. "He's barely breathing. Like… something's still choking him. Even though there's nothing there."
I pressed a hand to my mouth. The image of Colin, gasping for air, twisted in my mind. What kind of curse had done that? What kind of magic just kept hurting?
"Did Dennis say anything about how Colin ended up with You-Know-Who?" I asked, my voice shaking.
The boy hesitated, then nodded. "He said they were together in the common room last night. Then Amycus Carrow came in—one of the Death Eaters. He was holding something. Looked like… maybe a file or a list? Said Colin was in detention."
"For what?"
"No one knows." He shrugged helplessly. "Dennis said it was sudden. Colin couldn't argue—just followed him out."
"And then…" the girl with the wild hair stepped forward again. "When we saw him in the Hospital Wing… he just kept whispering Harry's name. Over and over. Like he was stuck in a loop."
Harry.
A strange chill settled over me. "Why?"
"We don't know," she said, her voice cracking. "Dennis didn't either. We were hoping it meant something. That maybe… maybe Colin saw him. Maybe Harry's still alive somewhere."
I stared at the fireplace, at the dying embers that suddenly looked too much like screams. My chest ached. Not just for Colin, not just for Dennis—but for all of us. For how utterly helpless we felt.
And for Harry.
Wherever he was, whatever he was doing—I hoped to Merlin he was still breathing.
The portrait hole banged open with a harsh scrape of hinges, and every conversation in the Gryffindor common room died in an instant. Alecto and Amycus Carrow stepped into the room like poison seeping under a door—greasy, grinning, their eyes alight with something far too eager.
I felt Ron stiffen beside me. My own stomach twisted into a knot, a tight, burning coil of dread.
"What are you all waiting for here?" Alecto barked, her eyes sweeping the room like she owned it. "All of you shall proceed to the Great Hall!"
A cold silence followed.
No one moved.
We were packed into the common room, shoulder to shoulder, yet the air felt cavernously empty. Tense. My fingers curled around the edge of the armrest, nails digging in. I couldn't stop thinking—why the Great Hall? What now? What have they done? My mind raced through every possibility, each worse than the last.
Amycus's lips curled into a snarl. "Move, you little shites!" he bellowed, waving his wand with a wild, impatient twitch.
Still, no one budged.
I could feel the fear crackling in the air around us. Gryffindors—brave and bold, yes—but children all the same. We knew too well what the Carrows were capable of. We'd seen it. We'd felt it.
Ron stepped forward, and I saw the way his jaw clenched, the flicker of fury behind his eyes. "Why do we have to go there?" he asked, voice steady, though I could hear the tight edge of defiance underneath.
Amycus smirked. "Because you don't want to miss the fun," he said darkly, his voice thick with a cruel kind of glee.
Alecto laughed—a horrid, wheezing sound that made my skin crawl. She turned to her brother and said, "Oh, they're in for a treat!"
The way she said it—like she was savouring it—made my throat tighten.
No one else spoke. Everyone was just standing there, frozen. I could feel my heart thudding painfully in my chest. I tried to think, to calculate, to find some meaning in their words—but I couldn't breathe past the rising panic. "Fun." "Treat." That could only mean someone was suffering.
Harry.
The thought hit me like a punch to the ribs. My blood turned to ice. Had something happened to him? Had they taken him? Or worse—was he there, in the Great Hall, being made a spectacle of? I remembered the way he looked when we last saw him—broken, feverish, barely able to stand. They'd dragged him off, and now—
"Now, MOVE!" Amycus roared again.
I jumped, the shout jarring me from my thoughts.
Around us, Gryffindors began to move. Hesitant. Slow. Like prisoners walking toward the gallows.
Ron reached for my hand without a word. I gripped it tightly, needing to feel something solid, something real. My other hand pressed against the fabric of my shirt, where my wand was tucked close to my ribs. Just in case. Not that it would matter if it came to a fight—we were outnumbered, overpowered, and completely at their mercy.
We filed out of the common room like a funeral procession.
I kept my head high, but inside I was falling apart.
Each step down the corridor felt like a step toward something terrible. I could feel it. Taste it. The castle was too quiet, the torches too dim, and the portraits too still. Even the castle itself seemed to be holding its breath.
And somewhere ahead—beyond those stone walls, in the vast emptiness of the Great Hall—Harry could be waiting. Or bleeding. Or—
Stop. Don't think that way. You have to stay sharp. You have to be strong.
But the knot in my chest kept tightening, and with every step I took, the dread grew worse.
They'd said we were in for a treat.
And I knew—I knew—whatever lay waiting for us in that hall would be something we would never forget.
And maybe… never forgive.
The Great Hall had never felt so wrong.
It should've been familiar—comforting, even. I knew every stone of this place. But as Snape and I crossed its threshold, I could barely recognise it. My vision swam, hazy and unfocused, without my glasses. The torches bled into a shapeless blur of yellow light, and the once-grand ceiling—still enchanted, still mocking me with its false calm—looked like a canvas smeared in sickly blue. It was all wrong. Every step forward deepened that feeling in my gut. Like I'd stepped into a warped reflection of Hogwarts—something hollow and drained of life.
Pain erupted again. First my scar—sharp and jagged, like lightning cracking through my skull—then the Dark Mark, seething beneath the skin of my arm like something alive, something inside me.
I stumbled. Snape's grip on my elbow tightened, steadying me for a moment. I hated that I needed it. But my legs didn't feel like they belonged to me anymore. Every step forward was a struggle—like the stone floor itself was resisting me.
Everything was too loud and too quiet at the same time. Voices murmured in the distance, hushed and disbelieving. Gasps. Sharp intakes of breath. I couldn't see them, but I felt them—eyes, hundreds of them, pressing in on me. Judging. Pitying. Or worse—waiting to see what I would do.
My hand trembled against my side, trying uselessly to cover the mark on my arm. It throbbed like a second heart, loud and aching, connected somehow to the pain in my forehead. I could feel both pulling at me, tugging in different directions. Voldemort in my head. Voldemort in my skin.
I didn't know which was worse.
Snape stopped. He let go of me.
I was alone.
I squinted into the distance, trying to make sense of the blurred shapes ahead. At the far end of the Hall, where Dumbledore used to sit, there was a pale figure—vague, featureless. But I knew who it was. Every nerve in my body screamed it.
Voldemort.
The shape of him, even distorted by my poor vision, chilled me to the bone. He didn't move. He didn't have to. His stillness was worse than violence. He radiated power—complete, suffocating power—and I could feel it reaching for me. Curling around my ribs. Slithering up my spine.
My legs locked in place, frozen by instinct. I couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
Then—his voice.
"Harry Potter," Voldemort said, like a lover calling out across a darkened room. "Finally, you've come."
My stomach dropped. I closed my eyes against the wave of nausea that followed. Every syllable soaked in mockery. In victory.
Don't answer. Don't let him in.
I focused on the only thing I could—Colin.
I clung to his face in my mind. His too-bright smile. His camera was always clicking. His excitement—pure and unshakeable. That eagerness, that innocence, it didn't belong in a world like this.
He didn't belong in this world. Not with them.
My voice came out hoarse. "Where's Colin?"
No response.
"Colin!" I called louder, my voice cracking.
Nothing.
I turned slightly, scanning the hall, but the faces were still blurs, melted and unrecognisable. Panic gripped my chest. Where is he?
Then—laughter.
It started low, then spread like wildfire through the ranks of Death Eaters. Laughter that scraped against my ears, sharp and cruel and endless.
"What have you done to him?" I shouted. My voice barely held together, shaking with grief and rage. I didn't even know if I was yelling at Voldemort or at myself.
"The boy is of no importance," Voldemort said lazily, as if it bored him to even explain. "You should focus on what matters."
He waved a pale hand. Shadows moved around him—black-robed figures. Dozens of them. Death Eaters, waiting like vultures for the final kill.
My chest heaved. I turned my head wildly, trying to pick out Gryffindor red, anything familiar. But my useless eyes failed me. Everyone looked the same—blurred faces in a nightmare I couldn't wake from.
Are Ron and Hermione here? Are they watching?
Or were they already—
Lucius Malfoy's voice slithered through the air. "Seriously, Potter," he drawled. "We've been over this before. It's time you learnt the difference between life and dreams."
The words hit me like a slap. I staggered.
They were the same words. The exact same ones he'd said—in that room, two years ago. The trap. The Department of Mysteries. Sirius.
My heart dropped into a cold pit of realisation.
This is a lie. It's all a lie.
I turned toward the blur I thought was Snape. He was watching me, unmoving. His eyes, though foggy, seemed almost… deliberate. Urging. A silent message I couldn't decode.
And suddenly I knew.
Colin wasn't here.
He never was.
Just like Sirius. Another false image. Another manipulation. Voldemort had baited me again—and I'd fallen for it. Again.
My knees buckled.
The shame hit harder than the pain. I'd walked into another trap. Let myself be used. I'd learnt nothing. Dumbledore had warned me. Begged me to study Occlumency. I'd pushed it away. Told myself it didn't matter.
And now—this.
This humiliation. This helplessness.
Bellatrix's laugh pierced the silence like a jagged blade.
"The baby can't even tell what's real," she cackled, high and hysterical. "Look at him! All broken already!"
I flinched. My fingers curled into my palms so hard they shook. I wanted to scream. To lash out. But I had no wand. No strength. I had nothing.
Voldemort's voice slithered through my thoughts, colder than ever.
"Don't be so ashamed, Harry," he whispered inside my mind. "You were never strong enough. You were always going to lose. That's why Dumbledore died. That's why they all will."
His words coiled around my brain, squeezing, suffocating. I could feel him pressing further in. Through my pain. Through the cracks in my defences. Through my fear.
"I can see everything in you," he said. "Your doubt. Your guilt. Your weakness. It makes you so… easy."
And I believed him.
Right then, I believed him.
Because I couldn't see. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move.
And I didn't know how to fight anymore.
A searing, stabbing pain exploded behind my eyes.
I barely had time to cry out before the world tilted violently. My scar ignited like a live wire, burning through my skull, and I collapsed, hands clutching at my forehead as my knees slammed onto the cold stone floor. The pain was so sharp, so sudden, it stole the breath from my lungs. For a moment, all I could do was writhe in the darkness behind my eyes, trying not to scream.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
I thought, for one stupid, fleeting second, they were reacting to the pain—my pain—before a voice rang out, shrill and shocked:
"Blimey, is that a Dark Mark on his arm?"
My heart stuttered.
No—no, no, no.
I looked down.
There it was.
Clear and stark against my skin—the Mark. That twisting, hideous symbol. A brand of evil. His mark. I'd forgotten I'd tried to hide it. My hands had been covering it—but now, in my fall, they'd exposed it to everyone.
Frantic, I scrambled to cover it again, but I knew.
Too late.
Voldemort's laughter cracked through the hall like thunder, echoing off the stone walls and into the pit of my soul.
"Don't hide it now, Harry," he purred. "They've seen it. Let them see what you've become."
A voice from somewhere in the haze:
"Does that mean he's already a Death Eater?"
"No," I whispered. "I'm—"
But my voice faltered. My throat burnt. The words tangled and died before they could reach anyone.
And Voldemort seized the moment.
His voice rose, smooth and cold.
"You may think you're not a Death Eater," he said, with mock sympathy, "but you've been branded by me. I see no reason to deny it."
He turned to the crowd. I could feel the pressure of his gaze sweep the room like a sickening wave. "Harry Potter is now one of my servants," he declared. "He is, as of this moment… a Death Eater."
The Great Hall erupted. Screams. Shouts. Cries of disbelief. I could barely make out the words, but I could feel them.
They believed him.
They believed I was his.
My stomach turned over. I wanted to vomit. To scream. But all I could do was tremble—raw, exposed, ruined.
"Damn you, Voldemort!" I croaked. My voice shook with rage and grief. "I will never—"
He moved faster than I could process. One moment, I was speaking—fighting for breath—and the next, his hand was around my throat.
The pain was instant. Blinding. His fingers were ice and steel, crushing the air from my windpipe, and at the same time, my scar ignited again—deeper this time. As if a claw were buried in my brain, scraping behind my eyes.
"You will bow," he growled, voice low and intimate and terrifying. "You will obey. When I tell you to hurt yourself, you will bleed. When I demand you kill, you will kill. No hesitation. No resistance."
His face loomed over mine—a pale smear through my blurred vision. His eyes, twin pits of red flame, stared into me. I could feel him in me again, in my thoughts, in the cracks of my mind where I hadn't built walls strong enough.
His grip tightened. My head spun. My lungs screamed. Darkness crept in at the edges.
"Have I made myself perfectly clear?" he whispered, "or do you require further… persuasion?"
My hands clawed at his wrist. Useless. He was too strong. My vision dimmed.
Still—some part of me, some last ember of resistance, forced the words out:
"I w-will n-nev—"
He let go.
I collapsed, coughing, gasping in air like I was drowning. My chest burnt. My throat throbbed. But I was alive.
For now.
Then he turned.
Without a word, Voldemort stood, his wand raised—not at me, but somewhere into the crowd. I strained to follow the movement, but my vision was a smear of light and shadow. I couldn't make out who it was. But then—
A scream.
A scream so sharp, so full of pain, that it cleaved through the hall like a blade.
My stomach twisted.
"No!" I cried out, still wheezing, trying to rise. "Voldemort, stop!"
The scream didn't stop.
Boy or girl—I couldn't tell. Just agony. Helpless agony.
I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't hold me. I collapsed again, weak, shaking, and utterly powerless.
My scar flared again. The mark on my arm felt like molten metal. The pain blurred everything—sounds, thoughts, time. All I could do was listen to the suffering I'd caused.
Another thud.
A body hit the floor beside me.
I turned.
Even through the haze, I knew the curls. The bloodied uniform. The pale, trembling hand.
Justin.
"Justin!" I gasped. I dragged myself closer. He was alive—barely. His eyes fluttered open. Relief flooded me so violently I nearly sobbed.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't know—he's using me, I swear—I never—"
Voldemort's voice cut in like a knife sliding between ribs.
"Oh yes, you did, Harry," he said softly. "You knew exactly what would happen. And you defied me anyway."
A wand clattered to the floor in front of me.
"Prove yourself," Voldemort said. "Torture him."
I stared at the wand. My hand twitched. Every part of me recoiled at the thought.
No.
No, I wouldn't.
I wouldn't be like them.
Voldemort said nothing. But the pain surged through me again—blinding, electric. It dragged a scream from deep in my chest. I curled in on myself, shaking, teeth clenched against the horror ripping through me.
"You will obey me," Voldemort said. His voice was as soft as falling ash.
I forced my head up. "N-no."
He studied me. A flicker of disappointment… or amusement?
"Then you leave me no choice."
His wand moved.
"Imperio."
Justin stiffened beside me.
His eyes glazed over.
"No—no—" My words were choked, strangled by panic.
Voldemort didn't even look at me when he gave the command.
"Kill yourself."
Justin took the wand from the ground.
Aimed it at his own chest.
Piercing screams of pure terror and anguish ripped through the crowd as they witnessed the horrific scene unfold before their eyes. Students were already in a state of hysterics, sobbing uncontrollably and shrieking in outrage at the profound injustice they had just observed.
"No—no——Justin—don't—!"
My voice broke. It came out raw, hoarse, barely more than a gasp of air, but the sound of it seemed to echo in the stillness.
Justin's hand trembled; the tip of the wand pressed against the centre of his chest.
I stared, frozen, my body screaming to move—but I couldn't. My limbs felt carved from stone. My knees had gone numb. My vision blurred again, like tears were trying to form, but everything inside me had turned to ice.
Move, I told myself. Move. Stop him. Crawl if you have to. Just do something—
But I didn't.
Because I couldn't.
Because Voldemort was watching.
And in some horrifying, sick twist of fate, a part of me knew—if I moved, if I tried to stop it—he would make it worse. He'd punish Justin for my defiance. He might enjoy watching me beg. Watching me fail. That was what he wanted. It wasn't just obedience. It was the humiliation. The surrender. My soul broken into pieces at his feet.
"No," I whispered again, though I didn't know who I was speaking to anymore. Voldemort? Justin? Myself?
Justin's eyes—once so warm, full of brightness and curiosity—were now empty, blank. He didn't even look at me. He couldn't. He wasn't there anymore. His hand was steady now. The curse had anchored him in that frozen clarity, while I—I was falling apart.
"This isn't real," I tried to tell myself. "It's a trick. It has to be a trick. Just like before. Like Sirius. Like the Department of Mysteries—"
But this time… the body was right in front of me. Blood on his collar. The shallow rise and fall of his chest. His lips twitching under the weight of a command he couldn't resist.
It wasn't a trick.
And it would be my fault.
My fault if he died.
"Stop it!" I shouted, louder now, desperation cracking through me like lightning. "Voldemort, stop it—stop this!"
Silence.
The wand in Justin's hand twitched.
"No—please, not him—take me, not him—please!"
I tried to reach for him, tried to touch his arm, but my arms gave out beneath me, burning in pain. I collapsed hard, my cheek slamming against the stone floor.
I couldn't stop shaking.
I couldn't breathe.
This was what Voldemort wanted. He was showing them—showing everyone—what power looked like. How easily he could make me helpless. How easily he could make a student turn their wand on themselves with nothing but a whispered word.
This wasn't a duel. This wasn't a battle. This was a message carved in flesh and terror:
You cannot save them.
My thoughts spiralled, frantic. Would the spell go through his heart? Would he die instantly? Would he scream? Would I hear it for the rest of my life? Would I be forced to watch?
"STOP!" I roared again, but my voice cracked in the middle, collapsing under its own weight. I sounded like a child. Not the Chosen One. Not a hero. Just a boy—broken, frightened, useless.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
But it didn't stop the image.
Justin. Wand to chest. Controlled. Violated.
Because of me.
Because I hadn't been strong enough.
Because I hadn't taken Occlumency seriously. Because I'd let my emotions drive me here, chasing a lie, a vision, another trick. Because I was weak—and Voldemort knew it.
I opened my eyes.
And I made myself look.
Made myself face it.
If Justin was going to die, I was going to see him. Not turning away. Not pretend I was better than this. Not hide from the truth of what I'd brought into the world.
His wand hand was steady again.
He was just waiting for the final push.
One word.
One more whispered command.
I braced for it.
And I realised—I was whispering something too.
Please. Please. Please. Please…
Adrenaline surged like fire in my veins as I lunged forward. My fingers clutched blindly in the haze, scrabbling to wrench the wand from Justin's grasp just as a deadly green spark began to swell at the tip.
"NO!"
My body collided with his, the force of it tearing the wand from his hands—and then—
—silence.
For a moment, the world stopped.
A strange tranquillity fell over me, heavy and warm, like I'd sunk beneath the surface of a still, endless sea. My thoughts drifted away, soft and shapeless. No pain. No fear. Just weightless calm.
And then—
"Kill the boy…"
A whisper slithered into the calm.
"Kill him… just kill the boy…"
The peace rippled, darkened.
No. No.
A voice—faint, but mine—rose from somewhere deeper.
I will not.
"Just kill the boy…"
I won't kill him.
"Kill the boy."
My hand twitched. The wand lay on the floor when I knocked it out from Justin.
The whisper grew louder, insistent, venomous. My skull throbbed with the pressure of it. It wanted to go inside. Wanted to tear through me and take root.
"Kill him. Kill him now."
I won't. I won't do it. I WON'T—
"I WON'T!"
My scream shattered the illusion, cracking through the fog like a lightning bolt. The ocean of numbness vanished in an instant. I was back—and the pain came with it, flooding every nerve. My scar pulsed, throbbing in time with my heartbeat. My arm blazed like fire where the Mark lived.
I gasped, trying to catch my breath, but it felt like my lungs were full of ice.
Voldemort's voice slithered out from the silence, cruel and quiet.
"You won't?"
His eyes glowed with cold fire, like two embers burning holes into my soul. "You won't kill the boy?" he repeated, soft and curious—as if surprised I still had the strength to refuse him. "Does this mean… you'd rather I finish him now, Harry?"
Terror gripped me like a fist around my throat.
"No—don't—please—" I flung myself between Justin and Voldemort, my arms outstretched, my body trembling. "Don't hurt him— please—I'll do anything—just don't kill him!"
There was no mercy in Voldemort's eyes. Only malice.
"Crucio."
Pain exploded through me.
It wasn't pain like a broken bone or a cursed wound—it was fire in my blood, needles in every nerve. My body arched violently, my back slamming against the stone floor. My muscles seized, locked in a scream that never quite left my throat.
And then—it ended.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then—
"CRUCIO!"
My scream tore out of me this time—raw, hoarse, too loud for my own ears. My limbs twisted on their own, spasming like I was caught in a storm.
It happened again.
And again.
I had no idea how many times.
The pain was everything. There was nothing but pain. My body felt like I was something else. A puppet made of nerves. A vessel of suffering.
At some point, I stopped begging. Stopped screaming. I didn't have the breath.
I just endured.
Until finally… silence.
I lay on the floor, shaking, every breath ragged. My body convulsed with tremors. I couldn't lift my head. I couldn't move.
Justin.
Where was he?
Was he alive?
Was he dead?
My mind tried to reach for him, but everything was fog and ringing and pain.
Suddenly, I was being dragged—hauled upright by strong arms. My legs were useless, hanging beneath me like dead weight. Every muscle screamed. My vision swam.
The Great Hall around me was a blur of chaos. Gasps. Screams. Someone sobbing—multiple someones. The sounds seemed to echo from far away, as if I were underwater.
I heard someone shouting—something about getting me back to my room.
Snape?
Was it Snape holding me up again?
We moved—half-stumbling, half-dragging—through the corridors. The cold stone walls reeled past us. My limbs flailed uselessly, my head lolling forward with every uneven step.
"Justin…" I croaked. My throat felt like sandpaper. "Is he…?"
"Don't worry about him now," Snape said, voice tight with strain.
I twisted weakly in his grip. "But… I have to… save him…"
"You did what you could."
"Not… enough…"
I stopped walking. My body pitched forward, and Snape caught me again.
"I think—I'm—" I couldn't finish. I doubled over violently, heaving bile onto the stone floor, my stomach cramping with every retch.
There were more footsteps now—quick, urgent. Voices barking orders. One cut through clearly:
"Get him to his room. The Dark Lord wants you now, Snape."
Snape tensed behind me. I felt it in the way he gripped my arm tighter.
Snape's arms wrapped around me again.
But I couldn't go any further.
My legs were gone. My strength—gone. My will—frayed and bleeding.
The corridor blurred.
The torches seemed to dim.
"Justin…" I whispered again, as everything tilted sideways.
Snape said something—my name, maybe—but it sounded so far away.
Then darkness took me.