I woke up like I'd been dragged from the bottom of a lake—gasping, blind, and cold to the bone.
The pain came first. Not a dull ache or a gentle sting, but a blinding throb in my skull, like someone had cracked it open and poured fire inside. Every heartbeat pulsed against the back of my eyes. My head felt too heavy for my neck.
Where was I?
My eyes fluttered open, and the world was nothing but a swirling blur of grey and black. The air was thick, stale—wet stone and rot. I didn't have my glasses. Everything twisted and slid out of focus, like the world was melting. Shadows moved across the walls, thin and flickering like ghosts. The whole room—if it was a room—reeked of mildew and something worse. Old parchment. Damp earth. Death.
Panic sparked in my chest.
I tried to lift my arm—barely managed a twitch. My limbs were heavy and numb, like they didn't belong to me. My fingers wouldn't curl properly. Something was wrong—deeply wrong. I felt… drugged. Slowed. Like I was underwater inside my own body. My breath hitched. My heart kicked hard against my ribs, as if it wanted to escape me.
Where's my wand?
No answer. No movement. Just that slow, creeping dread crawling up the back of my neck. The cold was biting—raw and sharp like the wind off the Forbidden Forest in midwinter. I was freezing, and yet sweat beaded on my skin.
Something shifted in the back of my mind. A memory—unwelcome, uninvited—rose like bile. The graveyard. Cedric. The flash of green. The cold laugh.
My blood in the goblet.
Stop. Don't go there. Don't think about it.
But the smell—it was the same. That sickly, ancient stink of magic and death. It clung to me. Burrowed in.
Then came the sounds. Distant at first. Muffled. But growing louder. Voices. Unfamiliar, distorted—chanting? No. Laughing. Mocking. I couldn't make out the words, only the tone. Cold. Joyless.
Wrong.
I felt movement around me. Hands. Too many of them. Rough fingers clutching at my shoulders, arms, and chest. I froze. Then I thrashed.
I didn't care how weak I was—I had to get away. I kicked, twisted, and screamed—or tried to. My voice came out broken and hoarse. I was being held down, forced to be still. Panic ripped through me, wild and animal.
No. Not again. Not like the Ministry. Not like the graveyard. I'm not ready. I can't do this again.
Pain spiked through my shoulder—sharp and sudden, like it had been twisted out of place. My back arched with it. My eyes burnt.
A voice cut through the noise—silky and slow. "Ready… Mark… call him…"
Call who?
And then, like fire slashing across my forehead, my scar exploded.
I screamed. My whole body convulsed with it. Agony, hot and white, tore through my head. It was like something was inside my skull, clawing its way out. My mouth opened in a soundless wail. My thoughts split apart like glass.
"…receive the Mark…"
No. No, no, no—what mark?
A horrible idea struck me. A branding. A claim. Something final. Permanent. They were going to mark me like one of them. Panic gripped me tighter.
I'm not yours. I'm not your slave. I'm not your weapon.
But I couldn't say a word. I couldn't even move. My muscles were jelly. My arms flailed against whatever bound me, uselessly.
More shapes flickered past my blurred vision. One of them—female, laughing, teeth bared like a wolf. Another looked familiar. Snape? Or… Dad?
No. That can't be right. I blinked hard, but the face shifted—melting, changing like smoke. I couldn't hold onto anything. My own mind felt traitorous.
Another voice—harsher this time. "…potion… witness… must not miss…"
Witness what?
My thoughts scattered. I was falling again. Not here. Somewhere else. The Department of Mysteries. Sirius falling through the veil. That last second of eye contact—gone.
Gone.
Fingers clutched at my jaw, and I snapped my head away, but I was too slow. Something thick and sweet poured into my mouth. I gagged and tried to spit it out. They pinched my nose shut.
Swallow or choke.
The liquid slid down my throat. I coughed and choked as it burnt its way into my chest.
Then everything… shifted.
The fog lifted in one horrible, shattering second.
And I felt everything.
The air scraping against my skin. The fabric of my shirt where it stuck to sweat. The stone table, cold and jagged beneath me. My heartbeat—pounding, frantic. I was too aware. My skin felt peeled back, raw.
But I still couldn't see. The blur hadn't lifted. Just shadows. Movement.
And I couldn't move. There were no ropes. No chains I could see. But I could feel them—magic, tight and invisible, crushing down on my arms, legs, and chest. I was pinned to the table like a trophy, like prey.
A dark figure stepped forward—cloak swirling. I didn't need to see his face. I knew what he was.
Death Eater.
My chest tightened. My mouth opened to scream—warn, something—but then, with a vicious snap, a silencing spell slammed into me. I felt it clamp down on my face. My lips were sealed. My voice was stolen.
I couldn't cry out. Couldn't call for help. Couldn't beg.
The panic surged so high I thought my heart might stop.
I couldn't even breathe right.
My body shivered uncontrollably, even though the air around me cracked with heat from the fire roaring behind the Slytherin banners. I felt none of it. Just cold. Deep in my skin, in my bones. My arms were stretched tight by invisible bonds, wrists burning, fingers twitching uselessly. My heart battered against my ribs like a snitch in a jar.
Not again. Please—not like this.
A voice cut through the air—low, smooth, and so quiet I almost imagined it.
"Welcome back, Harry."
I didn't have to see him to know. That voice—it wrapped round me like poison. I'd heard it in dreams, in memories, and in screams. Voldemort.
His name echoed through my skull. It didn't matter how many times I heard it—it always came with the same images. Cedric's body crumpling. Mum's scream. My dad's last spell. Sirius disappearing behind the veil. Dumbledore falling from the tower, eyes still open. Blood. Always blood.
He stepped closer. The firelight caught his face—those slitted red eyes gleaming, sharp and wet like cuts. He looked down at me, and I couldn't look away.
You're not real. You're a nightmare. I've woken up from worse.
But the pain in my arms told me it was real. The weight on my chest. The cold in the stone. This wasn't a dream. I couldn't blink it away.
Slytherins crowded the room, gathered like it was a performance. Some looked gleeful. Others were pale, sickened, but none of them turned away. Malfoy smirked, arms folded. Crabbe laughed, low and thick. Parkinson clutched the sleeve of her robe, her eyes wide and shining.
They weren't just watching. They were enjoying it.
Is that all I am to them? A show? A punishment they think I deserve?
Voldemort tilted his head to the side, the way a snake sizes up its prey. "You've had time to rest," he said softly. "That's good. You'll want to be fully awake for what comes next."
His voice was almost kind. And that frightened me more than shouting ever could.
I tried again to move, to pull free, but the bonds tightened until I could barely breathe. My muscles strained, my shoulders screamed, but nothing gave. The table beneath me was hard and cold and final.
In my head, I reached for someone—anyone. Ron's voice, sharp with panic. Hermione's cleverness, her fierce grip on my wrist. Ginny's fire. Neville standing tall. Luna saying something impossibly calm. Please… someone…
But there was no one. Just Voldemort. Just the fire. Just me.
His eyes were fixed on mine. He didn't blink. "I've waited for this moment," he said, almost as if it meant something. "Others have worn the mark, yes. But none like you."
My breath caught. I knew what he meant.
Behind him, cloaked figures rolled up their sleeves as one. Black skulls inked into pale skin. The Dark Mark. They wore them like trophies. Like medals. But I'd seen behind the mask.
Snape's face when his sleeve slipped—haunted. Karkaroff shaking, terrified of the fading stain on his arm.
Voldemort leaned in, his breath hitting my face. Rotting. Foul. I turned my head, but I couldn't move far. I wanted to gag. His words were soft now, so quiet they barely existed.
"Yes, Harry," he whispered. "You understand."
I thrashed, pure instinct. My back arched off the table. The bindings burnt deeper into my skin, but I didn't care. I didn't scream from pain. I refused. My throat cracked with effort. It wasn't a cry. It was rage.
You don't get to have me.
I thought of my mum—no wand, no shield—just love between me and death.
I thought of Dumbledore, broken and smiling, trusting me even in his last breath.
I thought of the DA. Of standing shoulder to shoulder with those who were scared but fought anyway. Of the fire in our lungs, the sting of curses, the strength we found in each other.
I have already chosen. I chose a long time ago.
Voldemort's smile thinned. He straightened and turned slowly to the crowd behind him. "You wonder what it feels like, don't you?" He said, voice raised now. "The Dark Mark. The honour of it."
The Slytherins leaned in, some breathless, others hungry. They didn't know. They thought this was power. Control.
They had no idea.
I wanted to shout it at them. This isn't strength—it's fear. It's control. It's weakness dressed up as power.
But the silencing spell still held. My jaw clenched uselessly.
I could only stare. I could only feel the chains, the cold, and the burn of magic pressing into me.
But inside—I was still standing.
"This is an honour," Voldemort said, his voice smooth and soft like a knife sliding beneath skin. "My most loyal bear it proudly. And now—so will you."
A freezing weight dropped into my gut. I felt it settle there, heavy and sickening. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
Not proudly. Never proudly.
My heart beat faster, hammering against the inside of my ribs like it was trying to run.
"I gave them power," he went on, eyes gleaming red in the firelight. "Strength. Freedom from fear."
Liar.
He gave them chains. Gave them silence and shame and a brand they could never wash off. I'd seen it. I'd seen what it really cost.
"They accepted it," he said, lips twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Welcomed it."
Because they were terrified of what would happen if they didn't.
He took a slow step forward. I felt it more than saw it—like the air itself was retreating, folding away from him.
"But you," he murmured, gaze settling on me, "you always resist. That makes it… interesting."
My arms tensed against the bindings. I didn't try to speak—what was the point? The silencing spell still held me tight. My mouth might've been locked, but inside I was screaming.
He crouched beside me now, one pale hand hovering over my chest. His eyes burnt into mine. "You may suffer more than they did. It depends on how you feel about me."
His voice was low now, a hiss sliding through my ears, winding around my skull. Every word felt like it carried weight—like it was shaping something inside me I couldn't stop.
"You belong to me now," he said. "Your soul, your thoughts, your pain. I'll be with you in every step you take. In every weakness. Every fear. You'll never be free of me again."
His words twisted around me like ropes, pulling tighter with each breath. I felt the air thinning. My lungs worked harder, faster. The world narrowed down to those eyes, that voice, and the cold certainty in every word.
And still—deep inside—something in me pushed back. Weak, small, but there. A whisper in the dark saying, No. You don't get to have me.
I forced my eyes up, searching the faces around the room, begging—just silently begging—for someone. Anyone. A flicker of doubt. A sign of help.
But all I saw were monsters in student robes.
They watched with wide, unblinking eyes. Some smiling. Some were nearly trembling. Not with fear—no, this was something else. This was hunger. They wanted it. They wanted to see me break. To see me fall. Because if I could fall, anyone could.
And then—he was there. In front of me.
He hadn't walked. He hadn't moved. He was just—there. Inches away.
His hand closed around my arm.
It was cold. Not skin cold—death cold. I gasped, but no sound came. The moment he touched me, something invisible snapped into place. A chain, a curse, a spell—I couldn't tell. It hit me like a wave, dragging the breath out of my body. My knees buckled, but I was already lying down. If I'd been standing, I'd have fallen.
I was sinking now. Into fear. Into darkness. Into him.
Laughter broke out around me, sharp and wild. It echoed off the stone walls like metal on metal. The Death Eaters were circling, buzzing like flies, feeding off my pain. Off my fear. It made me sick. But I couldn't move. I couldn't hide.
Voldemort's voice came again, cutting clean through the noise. Quiet. Measured. Like a ritual.
He began the incantation.
My blood turned to ice. I knew. I knew what he was doing.
The Dark Mark.
I pulled at the bindings. I strained until I couldn't feel my arms anymore. I tried to scream. To beg. To tell him to stop.
Nothing came out. Just a broken, muffled sound—barely human.
And then it began.
The pain.
It wasn't just fire. It was fire laced with acid. A blade dragged through nerves. It seared through my arm, straight into my chest, burning up through my spine and behind my eyes. I screamed, but there was no sound. Only the raw tearing of my throat.
The mark was carved into my skin as though it was alive. I could feel every stroke. Every cut. It wasn't ink. It was magic—dark, furious, final. My whole body arched against the agony, then collapsed again.
Tears poured from my eyes, hot and fast. I didn't even notice at first. They blurred everything. My vision twisted. The ceiling spun. The fire cracked too loudly.
Please. Please stop. I can't—
But he wasn't stopping.
It didn't end.
I felt it reach inside. Not just my arm—inside. It clawed at my chest. Twisted through my bones. It branded more than my skin. It left a mark on my soul.
A part of him—inside me now. Just like the scar. But worse. So much worse.
I wanted to disappear. To sink into nothing. Anything to escape that pain. It didn't just hurt. It broke.
I couldn't remember my name. My face. My voice. Just heat. Fire. Darkness.
And then—suddenly—everything went quiet.
The pain didn't stop. But it faded. Or maybe I faded. The edges of the world went soft, dark, and quiet. I was falling—down, down, into silence. Into cold. Into something that wasn't pain, or fear, or Voldemort.
Just black.
And for one awful second, I welcomed it.
A jolt of pain, sharp and burning, dragged me out of the black.
I gasped, eyes flying open, but the world stayed dim and warped. Weak grey light filtered through a slit of a window high on the wall. Shadows stretched long and thin across cold stone. I blinked hard, but everything stayed blurry. My head throbbed with a dull, relentless ache. My thoughts felt scattered—like broken glass strewn across a floor I couldn't cross.
Where was I?
I reached out instinctively, hand scrabbling across the bedside table. It met nothing—no wand, no glasses, no comfort. Just the rough surface of stone.
Panic struck.
Where was I? What had happened? My chest tightened as images flickered through my mind. Shouting. Spells. Screaming. The courtyard—yes—the battle. Dumbledore—
My breath caught.
Dumbledore. Lying still.
Voldemort's voice. Cold. Clear. Triumphant.
Then black.
It wasn't a dream. It had happened. It was happening.
I sat up too fast. The world tilted and spun. My stomach lurched, and for a second I thought I might be sick. My arm ached like something had been carved into it. Slowly—dreading—I looked down.
There it was.
Black ink, slick and dark, curved over my left forearm. A skull. A serpent coiled through its mouth, twisting and alive, almost breathing beneath my skin. My heart stopped.
I knew what it was.
The Dark Mark.
But this one—this one was mine. Forced onto me. A perversion. A message.
I stared, frozen.
It pulsed. Beat. Like a second heart—slow and cold and vile. I couldn't look away.
Then—suddenly—I couldn't bear to look at all.
I clawed at it. Fingers digging into the skin. Desperate. I scraped and scratched until I felt blood, raw and wet, beneath my nails. The pain was nothing compared to what was already there. I tore at it like I could peel it away—rip it off—erase it.
But the mark didn't fade. It only darkened. Bolder. Like it was laughing at me.
A cry broke out of me—ragged, hoarse, not my voice at all. It echoed in the room, bouncing off the walls like a taunt. I was shaking now, my whole body trembling, soaked in sweat. My eyes blurred again, not from the lack of glasses this time, but from tears—hot, silent, bitter. They fell freely, trailing over my cheeks, down my chin, dripping onto my arm, onto the mark.
Still, it pulsed.
Still, it burnt.
Then—inside my head—laughter.
His laughter.
Not loud. Not booming. Worse. Quiet. Cruel. Personal. Like he was there, curled in the shadows of my mind.
"You'll never be free of me, Harry."
His voice wrapped around my spine like a serpent, soft and smug.
"No matter how hard you try… the Dark Mark is seared into your flesh forever."
I pressed both hands to my ears, shaking my head hard. I didn't want to hear it. Didn't want it to be true. I knew this wasn't a Death Eater's mark, not exactly. It wasn't the same magic. It wasn't even supposed to function the same way.
But none of that mattered.
Because it felt real. It felt like it had rooted itself inside me.
Like it was alive.
And it was his. Not just his magic—him. A piece of him, branded onto me. Into me.
The pain surged again. White-hot. Unbearable.
I collapsed.
The stone floor met my knees hard. I curled inwards, arms wrapped around myself, around that cursed patch of skin. My breath came in ragged gasps, fast and shallow. I felt like I was drowning in fire. The mark wasn't just hurting me—it was claiming me. Unmaking me.
And worse—I could feel him watching.
Not with eyes. With magic.
Every throb, every spike of pain—it was him, tightening his grip. Whispering without words: You are mine now.
I shook my head, tears blinding me. "No," I choked, barely a whisper. "No, I'm not."
But the mark burnt hotter, as if to answer.
Yes. You are.
I tried to speak—to call out—but my throat felt scraped raw, like I'd swallowed smoke and glass.
"Hermione…" The name slipped out, barely more than a breath. "Ron… Ginny…"
But there was no answer. Just silence. And the sound of my breathing—shallow, uneven, like I was trying to stay alive through sheer force of will.
I was alone.
Completely alone.
Not the sort of alone you get when everyone's gone to bed and left you in the common room. Not the kind of quiet you get on the Astronomy Tower at night.
This was the kind of alone that pressed in on you. That watched. That listened.
Voldemort was gone—or maybe he wasn't. I couldn't tell anymore. His laughter still echoed somewhere in my head, like a tune you can't unhear. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It slithered through my thoughts, coiling tighter and tighter until I wasn't sure where his voice ended and mine began.
He didn't need to lay a hand on me. He didn't even need to be in the room.
He just needed to exist.
The darkness at the edges of my vision grew thicker, curling inwards like smoke on the wind. I blinked, but it didn't help. My eyes felt heavy—too heavy to keep open. Like they'd seen too much. Like they'd had enough.
My limbs were useless. Every part of me felt far away, like I'd been dropped into someone else's body and left to rot there.
I wanted to fight. I really did. I wanted to scream and claw and hex the walls until they bled. But all I could do was breathe. And even that felt like a chore.
A sound escaped me. A soft, broken thing—more sob than speech. I didn't even recognise it as my own at first. It came from deep inside, from that place I always tried to keep locked away. The one that remembered Cedric. Sirius. Dumbledore.
Everyone I couldn't save.
I thought I'd already reached the worst of it. I thought the mark had been the final blow. But this… this was worse.
This was after.
This was the part where you don't know if you've survived—or if you just haven't died yet.
The edges of the room blurred. The corners faded. The light grew soft and strange, like the sun had vanished and left nothing but ghosts behind. My thoughts slipped again, scattering like autumn leaves.
And then—
Everything fell away.
Not all at once, but quietly. Like a curtain being drawn. Like the last page of a book you didn't want to end, but had to.
The pain didn't vanish. It just drifted further off, like it belonged to someone else now.
I sank into the black.
And for once, I didn't try to stop it.
When I woke, I was still on the floor.
The stone was rough beneath my cheek—cold, unforgiving. My body ached, every muscle sore and tight like I'd been dragged through thorns. My right arm was wet. Sticky. I didn't need to look. I already knew.
Blood.
I stayed there for a long moment, listening to my own breathing, trying to piece together the edges of thought. The world felt… unstitched. Like time itself had come undone. Like I was floating in the space between seconds.
The pain in my arm had faded. Not gone, not really—but dulled, like it had retreated to somewhere just beneath the skin. Waiting.
Slowly, I lifted my head.
The effort felt enormous, like I was trying to lift a mountain with my spine. My vision blurred, swam. I blinked through it and stared down at the floor, where blood had pooled dark and thick.
I just watched it.
For a moment, I wasn't even sure it was mine.
Part of me didn't care.
Let it bleed.
Let it end here.
But then it stopped.
Not the blood. The pain.
Gone.
I blinked again. My eyes snapped to my arm.
The mark was still there—twisting, black, etched like a brand—but the skin beneath it was whole. Smooth. Clean. The ragged tears I'd scratched into it were gone, vanished as if they'd never been. Not even a scar.
But I remembered. I felt it. The fire. The blade. The break.
This wasn't healing.
This was him.
Control. Reset. Like I was some experiment he'd rewound.
I sat up—shaking, breath catching. My shoulder burnt from the effort. My arm… it was warm now. Not painful. Not normal. Just—warm. Humming, almost. Like it had a pulse of its own.
It felt alive.
Or worse—it felt his.
I pressed my back to the wall, grounding myself in the cold, in the stone. It hurt to breathe, but at least that meant I was still in my own body. Still here. Not… gone.
But was this his new game?
Rip me open. Stitch me back up. Pretend nothing happened.
Then start again.
Break me. Rebuild me. Bit by bit, until nothing left was mine.
The thought made me dizzy.
I looked at the mark again. It didn't hurt now. But it pulsed. And I felt it in my bones. Not like a wound. Like a tether.
"This is just the beginning," he'd said.
I believed him.
Everything ached—not just my body, but everything. The weight of it. The truth of what I'd lost. Of what had been taken. Dumbledore. Sirius. Trust. Safety.
Even Hogwarts.
Gone.
There was no safe place now. Not even in my own head.
I shut my eyes.
Not to sleep. Just to try—to reach. Into that place where I used to find light. Warmth. Memory.
Faces flickered.
Hermione, fierce and steady.
Ron, wide-eyed and loyal.
Ginny, aflame with anger and love.
Neville. Luna. Fred and George.
The ones who'd stood beside me. Bled for me. Fought for more than just themselves.
Were they still out there?
Or were they somewhere like this, bleeding and screaming and praying it would stop?
The not-knowing was the worst.
Worse than the pain.
Worse than the mark.
Worse than him.
I opened my eyes.
Still here.
Still alone.
Still bleeding on the inside, even if the outside had been wiped clean.
Still his.
For now.
The room pressed in—quiet and alive. The air was thick. The silence was a living thing. The walls, deep green and slick with shadow, seemed to breathe with me. Watching.
The silver serpent of the Slytherin crest loomed opposite. Polished and perfect, coiled in judgement. Its eyes gleamed like it knew. Like it recognised something in me now.
I felt sick.
I lifted a shaking hand to my forehead. It came away red. Wet. Blood. But I hadn't felt the cut. Hadn't even known it was there.
That was the worst part.
The forgetting.
The erasing.
I sat up properly. Slow. Unsteady. The bed behind me creaked, sharp and metallic, like it was warning me. Every surface in the room gleamed—emerald, silver, and cold. Too clean. Too precise.
This wasn't a bedroom.
It was a stage.
A cell.
A reminder.
And it was waiting for what came next.
The panic came fast. No warning, no breath—just there, slamming into my chest like a curse. My throat clenched. My spine prickled. I staggered to the door, fingers slipping on the cold metal handle. I twisted and yanked.
Locked.
I hit it harder. Once. Twice. The wood groaned but held fast.
Trapped.
I pressed my forehead to the door. Tried to listen—really listen. But there was nothing. No footsteps. No breath. Just the silence. Dense and humming and cruel. The kind of silence that watches.
I turned. The room blurred. Then sharpened.
And my heart stopped.
My belongings.
In their place, folded neatly on the chair like a gift no one wanted: emerald green robes stitched in silver thread. A Slytherin crest glinted at the breast. Clean. Precise. Waiting.
On the desk: a tie. Coiled. Silver and green. Like a snake waiting to strike.
Books sat beside it. Familiar spines, familiar titles—but warped. The covers shimmered, slick with enchantment. Serpents moved beneath the leather, slithering through the embossed gold like veins under skin.
Even the quills twitched.
Alive.
This wasn't a room. It was a message. A mockery. A lie wrapped in silk and polish.
I collapsed onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath me, soft and silent. Too silent. Like it was listening.
This couldn't be real.
But it was.
The magic here wasn't messy or chaotic—it was precise. Intentional. Every detail was a scalpel to the mind.
I stared at the robes. At the tie. At the glimmering green of the serpent's eye. Rage pulsed beneath my skin, rising like heat, but I couldn't move. I wanted to scream, to tear the room apart. Smash the mirror. Burn the books. Rip the crest from the wall and make it stop.
But I didn't move.
I couldn't.
The fear was too deep. Rooted. And below that—worse than the fear—was something hollow.
Nothing.
I wiped my eyes with a shaking hand. It came away wet. The tears just kept coming, hot and helpless. I wasn't supposed to break again. Not now. Not after everything.
But I did.
They wanted this.
Whoever they were.
They wanted me questioning everything. My choices. My house. My self.
They wanted me to wonder if I belonged here.
I curled forward, elbows on my knees, forehead in my hands. Breathing shallow. Fast. I was alone. Not just in the room—in the world. Cut off from every light I'd ever known.
Hermione. Ron. Ginny.
Gone.
Replaced by silence. By shadows. By a mirror with too much to say.
I heard them. The voices in my head. Not mine.
Laughter. Cold and sharp.
Snape. Dumbledore's scream.
Voldemort's voice, silk-wrapped in poison.
"What now?" I whispered into the dark.
My voice didn't even sound real. Small. Stripped down. Like it had forgotten how to belong to me.
No answer.
Just the snake on the wall, smiling with silver teeth.
I sat there, unmoving. The silence pressed down like a weight. Time didn't pass—it curdled. Slow and thick, dragging me under. My heartbeat kept hammering, like it knew something I didn't.
Then—
A creak. Soft. Far.
Beyond the door.
I froze.
Breath caught in my throat. Muscles locked. My skin turned to ice.
Something was out there.
Or someone.
I waited. Nothing else. Just enough sound to remind me I wasn't safe.
Or worse—that I was forgotten.
I stood. Legs trembling. The world tipped sideways, then settled. I stumbled to the desk. My hand closed around the tie. Green and silver. Beautiful and wrong.
I squeezed it like it owed me answers.
But it was just cloth. Just another symbol of the lie.
They wanted me to wear it.
They wanted me to believe I belonged here.
That thought curdled in my stomach. Spread like poison.
I turned to the mirror.
And nearly recoiled.
That face—pale, drawn, streaked with blood. Eyes sunken. Hollow. Scar red and furious, like something still burning from within.
Was that… me?
Or what they were making me?
I reached for the glass. My fingers met the surface—cold, slick. For a moment, I saw it.
Movement.
Behind me.
I spun. Nothing.
Just the robes. The books. The bed.
Still.
But I wasn't.
The fear had changed. Shifted. Morphed into something new.
It wasn't panic anymore.
It was certainty.
You're not getting out.
I backed away—first from the mirror, then the desk, then the bed—like the whole room might fold in on itself, like it was waiting to collapse and swallow me whole.
My body was betraying me. The shaking had started again, worse now. Violent. My hands trembled like they didn't know they were mine. My knees buckled under the weight of it all. I pressed my palms to my face and sucked in a breath—sharp. Shallow. Useless. Every inhale scraped my lungs like broken glass.
What did they do to me?
Was it magic? A curse? A potion? Or something more final—something that had already hollowed me out and left this echo behind?
Was I even still me?
I thought of Ron. Hermione. Ginny.
I tried to see them.
Tried to remember how Ron laughed when he was nervous. How Hermione's brow furrowed when she corrected me. How Ginny looked when she was angry—wild and brilliant and alive.
But they were far.
Too far.
Like stars you could only see if you weren't trying to look at them. Like memories blurred by distance and time and pain.
My throat closed. A low, aching burn bloomed in my chest.
I wanted them. Needed them. Someone. Anyone.
But the room gave me nothing.
No warmth. No sound. Just me. And the dark. And the not-knowing.
I sank to the floor, back against the wall, legs curled to my chest. My arms wrapped around them, trying to hold myself together.
I shut my eyes.
But the silence wasn't silent.
It whispered.
Not words. Not always. Just… noise. Slices of sound stitched from the worst of my memories.
Screams. Laughter. A baby crying.
My name—over and over—in a voice that wasn't a voice.
I pressed my hands to my ears and dug my fingers in.
"No," I whispered, then louder, "No—stop. Please."
But the voices didn't stop.
Maybe they weren't coming from the room.
Maybe they were already in me.
Then—
The door creaked.
It wasn't loud. Just a groan of old hinges. But in the quiet, it split the air.
My whole body flinched—not from the sound itself, but from what it meant.
Movement.
Change.
Threat.
I shot to my feet too fast, breath catching hard in my throat. My chest rose and fell like I'd just burst through water. The cold stone burnt my bare feet, but I welcomed it. Let it anchor me.
My hands shook. Useless.
I scanned the room for my wand, even though I already knew it wasn't there.
It never was.
They made sure of that.
Useless.
The word echoed like a curse. Like prophecy.
And then the shadow moved through the doorway.
Draco Malfoy.
Pale. Gaunt. His face ghostly in the low light. His eyes flickered over me and then away, like even he didn't want to look too long. Like he was afraid of what he might see. Or what I might.
The sneer curled across his face—tight. Mechanical. Muscle memory, not malice.
But it didn't cover it.
Not all the way.
He looked hollow.
Like something inside him had already given up.
But none of that mattered.
Because then I saw it.
The mark.
His mark.
Dark and burnt into his arm like a promise he could never take back.
Something exploded in my chest.
Rage, sharp and sudden, tore through me, so fast I nearly choked on it. My fists clenched. Nails into palms. Blood and fury and heat.
You.
You let them in.
You let him die.
The image of Dumbledore falling—silent, weightless—crashed behind my eyes. That final second when all the light vanished from the world.
And Malfoy had been there for it.
He hadn't killed him. But he may as well have.
He held the door for the ones who did.
He stood by and watched.
And now here he was.
In this place.
Watching me.
"I should kill you," I said.
Only—it wasn't my voice.
Not really.
It came out low, broken, hollowed by something sharp and unrecognisable. Something scraped raw.
Malfoy smirked like he'd been waiting for those words.
"You can't even lay a hand on me," he said, slow and smug, like he was offering a fact. Like it was a joke I wasn't in on.
I moved before I thought.
Lunged—pure instinct, rage in my blood—
And then the pain hit.
White-hot. Blinding.
It lanced through my arm like fire under the skin, burning deep, not just nerves—but memory. Identity. Magic.
My knees buckled. I collapsed against the wall, gasping, teeth bared.
The room tilted. Spun. The floor no longer felt flat beneath me—just shifting stone and noise.
It wasn't the Cruciatus.
It was worse.
It was like being unstitched from the inside out.
"What the hell…?" My voice barely made it out. Not a question. A plea.
The Dark Mark twisted on Malfoy's skin—coiled, pulsing. Almost alive.
"You feel it, don't you?" He said, tone low. "The bond. The magic you don't understand."
The magic I didn't consent to.
The magic he'd forced into me.
"The Dark Lord did something to you, Potter. You're marked. Just like us. And now…" His smirk widened. "Now you're bound."
I shook my head.
"No."
But the pain said otherwise.
"It's in you now. You touch any of us with the Mark, and your magic fights you. Like trying to choke yourself with your own hands."
My stomach turned. Cold sweat broke across my skin. I stared down at my hands, trembling and foreign, as if they'd betrayed me.
The magic was still there—I could feel it, faint and flickering—but it had pulled away. Like it was watching me from a distance. Hesitating.
Twisted.
"He owns you now," Malfoy said, stepping closer.
I laughed—if you could call it that.
A sound dragged up from the bottom of a pit.
"He'll never own me."
Malfoy's eyes glinted. "Keep telling yourself that. But next time you raise your wand against us, you'll feel it again. That's not resistance, Potter. That's a leash."
And I wanted to scream.
Not at him.
At myself.
For being too slow. Too naïve. Too stupid.
For failing.
For not saving Dumbledore.
I turned my face away, trying to swallow the grief rising like bile. It tasted like ash. Like guilt.
I promised.
I promised I'd protect the school. The mission. Them.
And now I was here—stripped, shackled, poisoned by the very magic that murdered him.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" I rasped. "Just say it."
He hesitated.
It was small. Barely a beat. But I saw it.
"The Dark Lord is waiting for you," he said. "In the Great Hall."
My head snapped up.
"Why?"
Malfoy smiled, but there was no joy in it. Just cruelty.
"He wants to make an example of you."
My stomach dropped. Cold and sudden.
"Tell him I'm not coming."
"You are coming," Malfoy said, sharper now. "Unless you want him to start on your little friends instead."
That hit.
Ginny's face flickered in my mind—bloodied, screaming. Hermione's voice, shrill with terror. Ron, red with rage. Neville, eyes wide, still stepping forward.
My fists clenched.
"You think threatening them will make me obedient?"
"I think you care too much," Malfoy said. "That's what makes you predictable."
And I hated him for how calm he sounded.
I hated that part of me knew he was right.
But deeper than the hate, deeper than the fear, was something else.
I remembered.
Hermione, bleeding but still fighting.
Neville, standing his ground even when his wand shook.
Ginny—Ginny—reaching for me through the fire like it didn't matter if it burnt.
They weren't afraid to die for me.
So I can't be afraid to live for them.
I met Malfoy's gaze.
"You said he owns me," I whispered. "But you're the one following orders. You're the one wearing his mark."
I stepped forward, trembling but steady.
"You tell me—who's the real slave here?"
And for the first time since he walked in, his smirk faltered.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
That crack in the mask.
I held his eyes.
Still here.
Still me.
The pain still burnt.
But I was standing.
Malfoy turned, wordless, and walked away.