Hogwarts had never felt so cold.
It wasn't just the chill in the air—it was something deeper, bone-deep. The kind of cold that settled into the soul and refused to leave. The castle, once filled with chatter and the clatter of footsteps on ancient stone, now stood quiet. Not peaceful. Hollow. Lifeless. The silence pressed in on everything.
Above, thick clouds smothered the sky, erasing the stars, swallowing the moon. Darkness clung to the towers, pooled in the corners of the grounds. Even the torches had given up—they no longer burnt, only glowed faintly as if mourning.
I sat alone on the stone steps just outside the entrance hall, knees pulled up to my chest. The wind cut through my robes like icy fingers, but I barely felt it. I didn't move. Couldn't. This spot—this very step—had once been part of something else, something alive. I could still see Ron here, throwing his head back in laughter. Hermione, frustrated but fond, scolding us both. Ginny, her eyes catching mine, just for a second, sending warmth straight to my chest.
But those moments felt like they belonged to someone else. Someone who hadn't watched it happen. Someone who hadn't lost everything.
The stone beneath me was cold and damp, like it was feeding on me. It leached away what little warmth I had left, and I let it. I deserved it. Maybe if I let the cold in deep enough, it would freeze the grief too.
Dumbledore was gone.
Gone.
I repeated it over and over in my head, trying to make it real. But it didn't sit right in my brain. The words refused to settle. He couldn't be. He wasn't supposed to be.
Just hours ago, he'd stood beside me, tired but alive. We'd faced danger—again. Another Horcrux. Another near miss. His hand had been ruined, blackened with cursed magic, but he had still led the way, still spoken with that unshakeable certainty. He had promised we were close. That we were doing the right thing.
Now he was lying motionless inside the castle. Still. Too still.
I squeezed my wand until my knuckles went white, the wood digging painfully into my palm. It was the only thing that felt real. Everything else—this silence, this night, this unbearable emptiness—it all felt like some sick version of a dream.
Ron's voice broke through the air like a snapped twig.
"He can't be gone… He just can't be."
It wasn't even a whisper, not really. More like a breath that didn't know where else to go. I didn't look at him. I couldn't. If I looked, it would mean facing it. And I wasn't ready.
I didn't think I'd ever be.
Dumbledore's body still lay where it had fallen.
I could still see it when I closed my eyes: his robes crumpled, his arms askew, the expression on his face—not peaceful, not angry, just wrong. The kind of wrong that screamed inside your head. That rewrote everything you thought you understood about the world.
I had seen death before. I had lived it. But not like this. Not him.
And not like this feeling. This utter, crushing stillness inside me. Like something had been carved out of my chest, and no one had bothered to sew it back up.
I thought I knew what it meant to grieve. I didn't.
Not after Sirius. Not until now.
I'd barely begun to understand how to carry that pain. And now this. Now him. The weight of it all pressed down on me, so heavy it felt like the stone of the castle itself was pressing into my ribs.
The others were crying. I heard it, the soft sobs behind me. Professors. Students. People who had admired him. People who loved him.
But I couldn't join them.
My eyes stung, burnt with the need to let it out, but nothing came. Not a single tear. It was as if something inside me had locked up completely. Like I had already drowned, and there was nothing left to spill.
I stared at my hands. Scraped. Muddy. Shaking. They didn't feel like mine. My whole body felt borrowed, like I was floating above it, watching someone else sit here on the steps while the world quietly fell apart.
And in the middle of that silence, I waited for his voice.
But it didn't come.
And that was what hurt most of all.
"Harry…"
The voice was soft, almost afraid to break the silence—but it did. It cut through my thoughts like a blade. Familiar. Kind. Hermione.
I flinched.
Fingertips brushed against my shoulders—gentle, steadying—but the contact sent a jolt through me, as if I'd touched something scalding. I recoiled on instinct, my breath hitching hard in my chest. My heart thudded loud and fast, painfully loud. My hands flew to my temples. I pressed hard, like I could force the storm inside my head to quiet, to stop spinning.
It didn't help.
"Harry, please…" she said again, her voice trembling.
I still couldn't speak. The words were gone, buried beneath the weight of too much feeling. Grief. Fear. Guilt. My throat was thick with them. My mind, a blur of pain and fragments I couldn't hold onto.
I finally forced myself to look up.
Ron and Hermione stood just beyond the steps. Hermione's cheeks were slick with tears, her eyes red, her shoulders trembling under the strain of it all. Ron looked grey—like something essential in him had been drained away. His mouth moved slightly, but no sound came out.
I wanted to tell them I was sorry. That I understood. That I was with them. But nothing came. My voice had been buried with Dumbledore.
The castle rose behind them, enormous and unfamiliar in its silence. Its towers, once watchful and full of light, now looked like gravestones against the bleak sky. Hogwarts didn't feel like a school anymore. It felt like the ruins of a memory.
I turned my head back towards Dumbledore.
He hadn't moved.
He was still there, sprawled beneath the tower like a fallen statue, wrong in every way. His robes were twisted around him, stained. His arms splayed wide, his spectacles skewed. I kept waiting—for him to stir, to blink, to sit up and say something wise and irritating, to tell us off for making such a scene.
But he didn't.
He never would again.
A weight lodged in my throat. I couldn't swallow it.
"Harry, we… we should go," Ron said, so quietly I almost didn't catch it. He kept his eyes on the ground.
Go?
The word sounded absurd. Go where? To do what? The world we knew had ended on this very stone. There was no direction. No purpose. Just the sick ache of something permanent being torn away.
Then Hagrid appeared beside me. I hadn't even heard him approach. He moved slowly—heavier than usual. His massive frame lowered down, and his thick, calloused hand rested on my shoulder. His voice, usually booming, came out like a whisper meant for a child.
"Come on, Harry. Let's get you inside before the night gets worse."
Worse.
The word echoed through me like a curse. I didn't know how the night could get worse—but something inside me, something quiet and certain, told me it would.
"I can't," I whispered. It was barely audible. I didn't know if any of them heard.
But then—I heard her.
"Harry," Ginny's voice cracked. She knelt in front of me, barely holding herself together. "Please. We should go."
Her eyes met mine, and that's when it happened—something inside me gave way. Just a fracture, but deep enough to let it all in.
I turned toward her slowly, like my neck didn't quite remember how to move. She looked so pale, her face streaked with grief. Her hand reached for mine, trembling slightly but sure. I wanted to be brave for her. I wanted to be something. But I couldn't even meet her gaze for long.
I looked away, ashamed.
Then the world tilted.
Nausea slammed into me. My head spun, and for a moment, the courtyard blurred and folded in on itself. I tried to stand. My knees buckled. I gasped.
"Harry!" Ginny cried out, catching me before I hit the ground. Her arms wrapped around me—warm, human, anchoring.
I clung to her like she was the last real thing in the world. My head pressed against her shoulder, and for a moment, just a moment, I could hear nothing but her heartbeat—steady, strong. Alive.
She held me tightly as I shook, as my breath came in gasps I couldn't control.
I breathed her in—smoke, sweat, the scent of grass and wind and something uniquely hers. Familiar. Comforting. She didn't speak. She didn't let go.
We rose together, slowly. My legs moved as if they belonged to someone else. Ginny stayed beside me, holding my hand as though letting go would break me for good. Around us, the courtyard filled with hushed whispers and wide eyes. Students parted, moving away from me—gently, carefully, like I might shatter.
They weren't wrong.
Then, without warning, pain exploded behind my eyes.
It wasn't a sting—it was fire.
White-hot. Violent.
I screamed.
My knees hit the stone. I clutched my head, pressing my palms hard against my skull as though I could smother the blaze. But it only grew. Blinding. Merciless. My scar seared as if a blade had been driven straight through it.
I was falling. Spiralling. And somewhere inside the fire—
I knew he was watching.
"Harry!"
Ginny's voice cracked. She dropped beside me, grabbing my shoulders, her fingers trembling. "What's happening?!"
I couldn't answer. Couldn't even try.
The pain swallowed everything—my sight, my breath, even my sense of self. It crashed through me in brutal waves, jagged and merciless. My lungs rasped, useless. The world spun and buckled. Somewhere in me, I begged to pass out. To slip away. Anything to escape the fire blazing in my skull.
"Stay with me! Please!" Ginny's voice wavered, but she held on—tighter. Fiercely.
Her hands were the only thing keeping me anchored. I gripped her wrists like they were lifelines thrown into open water. I was drowning, but she wouldn't let go. The agony didn't stop. But her touch kept me from slipping beneath it.
Then—something warm trickled down my face.
Sticky. Thick.
Blood.
I dragged my hand away from my scar and stared, dazed, at my fingers.
Red.
Dark and vivid and wrong.
It wasn't just blood—it was pouring from me in twisting, unnatural shapes. Lines. Symbols. They curled and curled like they were writing something, ancient and angry. It didn't make sense. It felt like something buried deep inside me had finally torn its way out.
Hermione dropped to her knees on my other side, breathless and pale. "Harry—look at me!"
I forced my head to turn slightly. It felt like moving through molasses.
Her eyes widened in horror. "Merlin… your scar…" she whispered, barely audible. "It's not just hurting. Harry, it's—what's happening to you?"
"I—I don't know," I gasped. My voice sounded far away. Not mine. "It feels like… he's closer. Inside me. Like something's cracking open."
Hermione didn't flinch. But her eyes betrayed her fear—sharp and sudden. Still, her hand reached forward, brushing gently against my forehead, trying to slow the bleeding. "We've got to get him inside. Right now."
"I'm fine," I lied, barely more than a breath.
They didn't believe me. Of course they didn't. I couldn't even convince myself.
And then—
The air changed.
Not just cold now. Thick. Suffocating.
The world dimmed. Not like before. This was heavier. Hungrier.
Pop.
A sharp crack echoed across the courtyard.
Then another.
And another.
Apparition.
Screams rang out—short, shrill, terrified. Then silence. Cut off like cords snapped in the dark.
My blood turned to ice.
They were here.
I didn't need to see them. I felt it. In my scar. In the marrow of my bones. In the hollow space inside me that had never healed.
Voldemort.
He'd waited for this. Used Dumbledore's death like a door—forcing it open, stepping through. The last protection we'd had… gone.
Every eye turned.
And then he emerged.
From the shadows beyond the courtyard, he glided forward—tall and wrong, like something half-formed out of a nightmare. His robes hung around him like darkness made solid. His skin—pale as ash, waxy. And his eyes—blood red, glowing, pitiless. Bottomless.
Voldemort didn't walk. He floated. A phantom made flesh.
And he smiled.
A slow, joyless thing that curled at the corners of his mouth—pure malice, savouring what was to come.
I couldn't move.
I was on the ground. Bleeding. Helpless. My wand—gone. Lost somewhere behind me. My pockets were empty. My limbs, useless.
Death Eaters emerged one by one, stepping from the gloom like predators. Their masks shone in the torchlight, silver and silent. Wands at the ready. They spread out in a circle, a noose tightening around us.
Trapped.
I saw Ginny rise. Her hand found her wand, her knuckles white. She moved in front of me. Hermione joined her, wand steady despite the tremor in her hand. Both of them stood over me like shields—shaking, but unshaken.
"No," I croaked. "Run, please."
They didn't.
They never would.
I tried to rise. My arms buckled beneath me. Pain stabbed behind my eyes, harder than before. I collapsed with a cry, my face hitting cold stone.
"No!" I roared, my voice raw and wild. "No!"
But it was too late.
The sky groaned above us, the clouds writhing like they were alive. The ground beneath Hogwarts trembled.
And Voldemort… laughed.
A sound like breaking glass and funeral bells. Cruel. Certain.
His eyes found mine. They didn't just look—they invaded. He saw straight through me. Into every crack. Every fear. He saw the doubt I tried to hide. The guilt I tried to bury. The fragile hope I still clung to.
He knew.
And something in him… welcomed it. Drew it closer.
For a fleeting, awful moment, I felt it—a pull. Like a thread had snapped inside me, and part of me was being drawn toward him. Toward the shadow.
He wasn't just my enemy. He was a reflection.
Of what I might become.
Of what I could become if I ever let go of the light.
The night pressed in tighter, thick with magic and malice. The air clung to my skin like smoke, like oil. Every breath tasted like ash. And in the centre of it all stood Voldemort—radiating death, dragging the world down with him.
Something ancient curled inside me. Fear, yes—but not just that.
Resolve.
A last, flickering flame.
Weak. But still lit.
Then came his voice.
Low. Velvet-soft. Poisoned honey.
"Children wandering the castle grounds at this hour…" he purred, each word curling through the air like smoke, thick with mockery. "What a delightful sight."
A sick smile slithered across his lips. It wasn't joy—it was cruelty wearing joy's mask.
Then—Bellatrix.
Her laugh pierced the air like a scream flung from the edge of madness. High, shrill, unhinged. It cracked through the courtyard like a whip, slicing the silence apart. Students flinched. Some cried out. Others stood frozen, too terrified even to draw breath. The very air shifted around us, charged with the scent of fear.
I felt it, everywhere. In the sharp tremble of Ginny's hands. In the rigid tension in Hermione's shoulders. The unspoken truth sank into us all: we weren't safe. Not anymore. Not even here.
A pressure rose in my skull, slow and building.
Then—it hit.
Agony.
My scar erupted in white-hot fire. I reeled, the pain flooding every inch of me. It wasn't just in my head—it was throughme. Crawling down my spine, wrapping around my ribs, digging its claws into my lungs. I doubled over again, choking on air that turned to ash the moment it touched my tongue.
Voldemort stepped closer.
Measured. Calm. Each step filled with the slow assurance of something that knew it could not be stopped. That knew I was powerless.
My wand was gone. Somewhere in the dark. Somewhere I'd never reach.
Even thinking about it felt foolish—like imagining wings when you're already falling.
He stopped in front of me. Towering. Pale as death itself. His face wasn't a face. It was an echo of one—twisted, stretched too thin over something ancient and hollow. His eyes, red and endless, locked onto mine.
And the world… vanished.
No Hogwarts. No Ginny. No Hermione and Ron. No sky. No ground. Just me.
And him.
"Ah," he breathed, his voice a sliver of broken ice, "Harry Potter. Still clinging to hope, I see."
My heart pounded wildly, like it wanted to escape my chest entirely. Every beat felt like a countdown. Like I was standing on a ledge, seconds from the drop.
A sound tore out of me before I could hold it in—a cry. Raw. Animal. My throat burnt. My eyes flooded. I pressed my palms into the stone until my fingernails split. But it wasn't enough. The pain swallowed everything.
Then—I felt his hand.
Cold.
Fingers like iron twined into my hair, yanking my head back with vicious force. My neck snapped backwards. I screamed—sharp, hoarse. My eyes blurred as blood trickled down my face, mixing with sweat and dirt.
He tore the glasses from my face in one slow, dismissive gesture. They fell.
Crunch.
He stepped on them.
Shattered.
Like it meant nothing.
The world smeared into colourless horror. Shapes lost meaning. I could barely make out the outlines of my friends. Everything was slipping—my vision, my strength, myself.
His breath was hot and foul on my face as he leaned closer.
"You understand what Dumbledore's death means, don't you?" He whispered, voice slick with mock concern.
Dumbledore.
The name landed like a curse. My body locked. My chest seized.
Then—
He didn't speak the curse. He didn't need to.
Pain.
Pain.
It exploded through me with no warning. A bolt of white agony through the centre of my chest. My muscles convulsed violently. Blood spilt from my lips—thick, metallic, choking. My lungs refused to pull in air. I couldn't scream. Couldn't move. Couldn't think.
I was burning from the inside out.
He stood over me like some terrible god, wand lowered, expression unreadable. There was no mercy. No flicker of hesitation. Just void. A dead star where a soul should've been.
"I can show you pain beyond your darkest fears," he murmured, almost gently. Almost kindly.
Another pulse of magic drove through me. It was like breathing glass. Every breath carved new wounds. I wanted to cry out again. I wanted to reach for someone. But all I could do was endure. And even that felt impossible.
I was drowning in it.
The darkness welcomed me. Pulled me in. And I—Merlin, I was tired. So tired.
But then—
A voice.
Hermione.
"STOP!"
Her cry cut through the haze like a lightning strike. For a moment, I could breathe again. Barely. But I could hear her.
"What are you doing to him?!"
Shapes moved beyond the blur. Shadows resolving. Ginny. Hermione. Ron. Luna. Neville.
My people.
My family.
I wanted to tell them I was still here. That I hadn't given in. Not yet.
Voldemort's head turned slowly. "Can you see, Harry?" he said, his voice almost amused. "Your friend wishes to help."
"You're murdering him!" Hermione's voice broke on the word.
Murder.
The word echoed in my chest. Final. Absolute.
And for a moment… I believed it.
Maybe this is it.
Maybe there was nothing left to give.
He laughed.
Not loud. Not wild.
Low. Cruel. Confident.
"Murder?" he whispered, tilting his head. "No, no… not yet."
The pain surged again.
Worse than before—sharper, as if lightning itself had splintered inside my chest. My back arched violently. Blood spilt from my mouth in a hot, metallic rush. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Couldn't even tell where my body ended and the agony began. Every nerve felt severed and aflame.
Reality blurred.
Sound slowed.
And then—I heard her.
"Please, stop!"
Ginny.
Her voice cracked down the centre, split open with grief and rage. So raw. So real. I wanted to turn toward her. To reach out. Say her name. Tell her I was still here. Still holding on. But my body wouldn't move. My throat wouldn't obey. The words stayed buried, crushed beneath the pain.
Then Voldemort stepped back.
Slowly. Almost thoughtfully.
His smile was the worst part—something smug and serpentine. Cold satisfaction flickered across his face like candlelight in a crypt.
"They think you're weak, Harry," he said, his voice smooth as oil and twice as poisonous. "Are they wrong?"
I couldn't reply. But I clenched my fists. Gritted my teeth. Bit down hard on the scream building in my chest.
I would not break.
He leaned close again—so close I could feel the heat of his breath. It reeked of rot and magic.
"Don't worry," he whispered. "I have all the time in the world to break you. This is only the beginning."
Blood trickled down my neck in thin streams. My limbs shook, every muscle drawn tight. I was on the edge—teetering, tilting—but I hadn't fallen. Not yet.
Then—light.
Red.
A burst across the darkness. A spell. A curse. A warning.
Voldemort turned, his attention snagged. I crumpled, hitting the stone courtyard hard. The cold seeped into my skin. I gasped, the ground suddenly real beneath me. A stolen breath. A fragment of time.
I twisted my head.
Neville.
He stood there—alone, wand raised, hands shaking. His face was ashen, his jaw set. But he stood.
"You dare curse me?" Voldemort hissed, voice laced with disbelief and venom.
Neville didn't move.
"Yes, I do," he said. His voice was thin, but it didn't waver. "But I'm still learning. Not yet, guys."
I didn't know what he meant by that—but the words cracked something open inside me. Pride. Pain. Love. A hundred emotions all at once. My throat tightened, and my eyes stung—not from pain this time, but from that.
That kind of courage.
That kind of loyalty.
Voldemort tilted his head, curious. "You command loyalty," he said slowly. "Are they slaves?"
Neville didn't even flinch. "They're friends," he said. "Real ones."
A silence rippled through the courtyard.
Then Voldemort chuckled—dark and low. "Shall I test their loyalty against mine?"
"No—" I croaked. I tried to rise. My arms buckled beneath me. Pain flared. Then—
Another curse.
Lucius Malfoy. His wand like a snake's fang.
The spell slammed into me, flattening me against the ground. I choked, pain erupting down my spine. His voice followed, silken and smug.
"Not so fast, Potter."
I writhed. My mind screamed 'move'—but my body didn't listen.
Voldemort raised his wand again.
And then—Neville screamed.
A short, sharp sound. Like steel biting flesh.
Gasps broke out among the crowd.
I turned my head and saw him—Neville still standing, blood seeping from a wound across his ribs. His robes were streaked with red. But his wand was still in his hand.
Still defiant.
"You'd do well to respect your betters," Voldemort muttered, bored now.
"Neville!" I cried, my voice tearing through my throat. "What have you done?!"
Voldemort didn't even look at me. "Just a scratch," he said mildly.
Neville didn't fall. He trembled—but he stayed upright.
"What do you want?" I rasped. "You don't have to hurt them. Hurt me."
Voldemort circled slowly. "Harry," he said, voice lowering, "it's not just me. Others deserve a turn. You do understand, don't you?"
My fear hardened into something else. Hotter. Brighter. Fury.
"I'm the one you want. Leave them alone."
He paused. Smiled wider. "Brave," he said. "But your friend crossed a line. He had to be shown."
I didn't reply. I glared at him with everything I had left. He wouldn't get the satisfaction.
Then—
He reached for me.
His hand gripped my face.
Cold.
His fingers pressed into my skin like claws of ice. My skull felt like it was being crushed in a vice. My scream ripped through the air, wild and raw.
"NO! STOP!"
"Please," I gasped. "Please…"
He leaned in again, eyes gleaming. Not human. Never human.
"Begging won't save you, Harry," he whispered. "But it will teach you."
Then—agony.
Like drowning in fire. Like venom in my veins.
I screamed. My body arched. My soul felt like it was being peeled away, one layer at a time.
His laughter filled the air—sharp, echoing, joyous. Inhuman.
And then—
Darkness.
Total.
Complete.
Like falling into a well with no bottom.
I don't know how long I was out.
Time had lost all meaning—splintered, warped. My mind floated somewhere dark and endless, where there was no before or after. Only echoes. A low, humming resonance vibrated through my skull, like the sound before thunder. The kind of stillness that knows a storm is coming. Or maybe already here.
Far off, someone was screaming.
High. Frantic. Torn from the gut.
Hermione. Or maybe Ginny. I couldn't tell. Their voices were frayed by distance, smothered by fog. The world had become smoke and shadows—unreal, unanchored. I didn't know if I was falling or flying, drifting or drowning. My body was gone. Burnt away.
All that remained was pain.
Pain was carved into the fabric of who I was. Pain that lived inside the marrow of my bones. Deep. Endless.
Then—something pulled.
A violent, gut-wrenching jolt, like I'd been lassoed by a rope around the neck and yanked back into being.
My eyes snapped open.
Cold stone beneath me. Blood pooled in my mouth. I coughed, breath coming in short, broken bursts. My chest rose and fell in spasms. Every nerve still crackled—residue of dark magic crawling through my skin like sparks under glass. My limbs trembled with exhaustion, but the pain hadn't gone. It was simply waiting.
Then I heard it.
Sobbing.
Hermione.
She was crying uncontrollably, her voice breaking as she screamed at someone—anyone. "Stop!" she wailed. "You've done enough—he's bleeding—you've done enough!"
And then—Ginny.
Not sobbing. Not screaming.
Her voice was steady. Just barely. Like a candle refusing to flicker out in a hurricane. I blinked hard and turned my head.
She was standing.
Between me and Voldemort.
Her wand gripped in white-knuckled fists. Her arms trembled—but she didn't lower them.
"You want someone to fight?" She said, voice sharp and quivering with fury. "Fight me. Or are you only brave when your victims are too weak to stand?"
Something flickered across Voldemort's face.
Curiosity.
Dangerous.
"So much fire," he said softly.
Red light.
It hit her square in the chest. The spell knocked her backwards like a ragdoll. She hit the ground with a crack and a cry that turned my stomach to ice.
Hermione screamed. Ron bellowed her name—but Lucius had him in a chokehold, wand jammed against his throat. Ron struggled anyway, fury radiating off him like heat. His whole body strained with the effort of breaking free.
"LET ME GO! LET HER GO!"
Voldemort walked slowly, deliberately, between the fallen bodies and broken wands. Like a general inspecting what was left of a battlefield he'd already claimed.
"Such bravery," he said, almost to himself. "And such waste. You throw yourselves at me like moths to a flame. Knowing it will burn. Knowing it will kill."
Then his gaze fell on me again.
I tried to lift my head. It felt like trying to move a mountain with my forehead. Everything screamed. Everything hurt.
"You're not finished yet," he said, crouching down beside me. His voice dropped to something cold and close. "There's still so much more you need to lose."
I could barely draw breath. My throat was raw. My vision blurred.
But I found my voice.
"Do your worst."
His lips curled, and his breath ghosted over my face.
"Oh, I intend to," he said. "But slowly. A lesson… for all of you."
He stood.
"Nott," he said without looking. "Your turn."
A boy stepped forward. Thin. Narrow-eyed. Smiling. His wand was already raised.
"Crucio."
Agony exploded through me—white-hot and immediate. I arched off the floor, a sound ripping from my throat that didn't sound human. It didn't need to be Voldemort. The spell didn't have to be perfect. It just needed to hurt. And it did. Every nerve in my body shrieked. My vision fractured. I thought I might vomit. Or pass out. Or both.
"STOP IT!" Neville's voice rang out.
A flash of light—wild, desperate—shot from his wand. Nott spun too late. But Bellatrix was faster.
She caught the curse mid-air.
And laughed.
"Oh, the little lion cub wants to roar," she crooned.
Her wand flicked.
Neville dropped like a stone, choking.
She walked over and kicked him.
Right in the ribs.
A sound came out of me I didn't recognise. I clawed at the stone, fingers scraping uselessly. My arms shook. I tried to crawl. I had to move. Even just an inch.
Inches.
That's all I managed.
Then—
"Enough," Voldemort said.
Everything stopped.
The curses. The laughter. The screams.
Only the sounds of blood dripping. Of sobbing. Of gasping breath.
He turned to me once more.
"You still don't understand, Harry," he said, not cruel now. Just… disappointed. "This was never about killing you. Not yet."
He turned his back.
"It's about breaking you."
His wand rose.
And the last thing I felt was a crack—magic slamming into me like a falling star. Pain erupted behind my eyes, sharp and final. The world tilted. My scream never came.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
The last sound I heard before everything disappeared was Ginny's voice.
"Harry!"
It broke.
Then—silence.
Then—nothing.