The moonlight spilt through the gap in the curtains, silver and cold, casting soft shadows that danced across the floorboards. I lay flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling beams, tracing the cracks in the plaster as if they'd somehow pull my thoughts away from him—from Harry. But the image wouldn't leave me.
His face.
Those eyes.
The way he looked before they dragged him away.
No matter how many times I blinked or how tightly I shut my eyes, it was still there. Burnt behind my eyelids. Harry, bound and helpless. His face was pale. His expression—not afraid, not exactly—but pleading. Pleading to be saved. To be found.
I turned onto my side again. It was no use. Sleep had no place here tonight.
The dormitory was still dim and restless. Lavender and Parvati whispered in the corner bed, their voices hushed but sharp, like they were afraid to speak too loud, afraid that if they acknowledged what had happened, it would become even more real. I couldn't blame them.
None of us had truly gone to bed. Not properly.
How could we?
The castle felt wrong. Hollow. Like it was holding its breath.
Maybe the Slytherins were asleep now. Maybe they could rest, smug and untouched in their beds. They'd sleep peacefully tonight, wouldn't they? While we lay here, grieving. While the rest of us—those who actuallyfought for something—were left clinging to silence and memories.
I pulled the blankets tighter around my shoulders, as if they could shield me from my thoughts.
If I'd been braver earlier—if I'd spoken up in the common room, if I'd rallied everyone before it was too late—maybe we could've done something. Anything.
Maybe we wouldn't have lost him.
Maybe he wouldn't have been taken.
I let out a breath. Slow. Unsteady.
We should've stormed the dungeons. We should've forced the truth from them—Malfoy, Nott, whoever was down there. But we'd hesitated. I'd hesitated. And now Harry was gone.
Did he even know how hard we were trying? How much we needed him?
I pushed back the covers and sat up, my heart pounding for no reason at all. It had been doing that for hours. The emptiness next to my bed made me ache—it should've been full of noise and movement. Laughter. Ron muttering in his sleep. Harry's voice in the common room below. All of it was gone.
The thought of Dumbledore hit me next—sudden and sharp, like cold water. The ache deepened.
Where was he now?
Was his body lying somewhere—forgotten, desecrated by Death Eaters? Or had someone… had someone already buried him? The thought made me nauseous. I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes and shook my head.
Don't go there. Don't even think about it.
I swung my legs off the bed and tiptoed to the window, needing something to ground me. The stone was cool under my fingers; the castle spread out below in a quiet stillness that felt like a lie. It looked so beautiful from up here. Majestic. Intact. As if everything was just as it had always been.
But it wasn't. Everything had changed.
I wished I could see into the dungeons from here. I knew Harry was down there. I could feel it. He was so close. But there were walls and spells and corridors between us.
So many barriers.
Too many.
And still no word from Dobby.
We'd sent him into danger, and the guilt was eating at me now. What if he'd been caught? What if they'd hurthim?
I couldn't sit still anymore. I crept down the staircase to the common room. It was empty—quiet in a way that only made the silence louder. The fire had burnt down to its last embers, casting a soft orange glow across the room. I stood there for a moment, remembering all the times we'd sat here together. Laughing. Planning. Dreaming of a world that didn't feel this broken.
I was just lowering myself into one of the armchairs when I saw it—a movement by the portrait hole. My heart jumped into my throat.
Please. Please.
And then I saw him.
"Dobby?" I breathed, nearly falling over my own feet as I rushed towards him.
The little elf stepped into the light, his wide green eyes shimmering like dewdrops in the dawn. He held something carefully folded in one hand and in the other—a wand.
Relief flooded through me so fast I nearly cried. "You're back! Are you alright?"
"Dobby has come to bring the cloak, miss," he whispered, his voice thin and cautious. "It was where you said, at the top of the tower. And then…"—he paused, holding out the wand—"Dobby found this, miss. Dobby believes it belonged to Harry Potter."
My heart stopped. "You're sure it's his?"
"Dobby has seen Harry Potter's wand many times, miss."
I took the Invisibility Cloak from his small hands first—soft and familiar—and then the wand. It trembled slightly in my grip. Holding it felt like holding a piece of him. Something real. Something alive.
"Are you hurt?" I asked quickly, dropping to my knees in front of him, scanning his small frame. "Dobby, are you sureyou're alright?"
He nodded with a smile, though his hands still shook. "Harry Potter's friend is very kind. Dobby is not hurt. Dobby is careful. No one saw Dobby, miss."
I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding. But the worry wouldn't leave me. "But it took you so long… Did something happen?"
Dobby's eyes shimmered with tears, wide and wet in the dim firelight. His lip quivered. He swallowed, but his small chest shook with the effort.
"It has happened, miss," he said, voice cracking like thin ice.
And just like that, my blood ran cold.
My breath caught in my throat. "What… what happened?" I asked, already terrified of the answer. Something heavy coiled in my stomach. Dread. "Dobby… did something happen to Harry?"
The elf's face crumpled as he let out a strangled sound—half-sob, half-wordless wail. "H-he… he is not well, miss," he managed at last, and the look in his eyes—Merlin, the look—was enough to send the world lurching sideways. "He had done it."
Done it? My mind seized. Done what?
"What do you mean?" I choked out, stepping forward on shaking legs. "He's not well? What are you saying, Dobby? Harry has done what?"
But Dobby only shook his head wildly, his ears flapping, his tiny fists clenching at his sides. "No, miss—no," he cried, clearly struggling, his words tangled up with panic. "Dobby cannot… Dobby should not…"
And then there was a noise from behind. Footsteps. Murmurs. The dormitories above were stirring.
Gryffindors were beginning to wake.
"Dobby's sorry," he whispered, panic rising in his voice. "So sorry, miss," and then—just like that—he vanished. A soft pop, and he was gone. Like he'd never been there at all.
I was left standing by the fire, Harry's wand and cloak pressed tightly to my chest, the weight of them unbearable.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Then I heard heavy footsteps pounding down the boys' staircase.
Ron.
He looked awful. His red hair stuck out in all directions, and his eyes were bloodshot, hollowed out by a sleepless night. But when he saw me, sitting motionless near the hearth, something shifted in him.
"Hermione?" he asked warily, crossing the room in two strides. "What's happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"There's no time for jokes, Ron," I said sharply, too quickly, too loudly. My hands were trembling. I tried to still them. "It's Harry. Something's happened."
His face fell. "What?"
"Dobby came back," I said, my voice low, trying to keep it steady. "He brought Harry's wand. And the Invisibility Cloak. But he said something else—something strange." I drew in a shaky breath. "He said Harry wasn't well. That he'd… done something."
Ron stared at me. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know!" I snapped, my voice breaking. "I don't know, Ron. He was crying so hard, I could barely understand him. But it was awful. He looked—he looked terrified."
Ron stood frozen for a moment, then dropped onto the nearest sofa, running both hands through his hair. "Bloody hell…"
The morning light was beginning to creep through the tall windows, soft and golden. It touched the tops of the chairs, the carpet, even the dying fire—but it felt false somehow. Like a spotlight in a place meant for shadows.
The room didn't stir much. A few more students had drifted down, but no one said a word. They just hovered around the edges, eyes tired, faces pale. All of us felt it—this heavy quiet. Like the castle itself had gone still.
Professor McGonagall had left hours ago—stormed out in a rush of black robes and clipped words. She hadn't returned. The longer she stayed gone, the worse the knot in my stomach became. My thoughts raced: had she found Harry? Had something happened to her too?
"Is You-Know-Who still in the castle?" someone asked quietly. A first-year. His voice was soft, shaking, like he didn't really want an answer.
I wanted to reassure him. To say no, of course not; we're safe now.
But I didn't know if that was true. And worse—I was scared too.
"Are we having breakfast with him now?" someone else muttered bitterly from a corner. A grim joke, poorly timed. But no one laughed. The room only grew colder.
"Does he even eat?" a girl whispered. Her voice cracked. It should've sounded silly. It didn't.
"Is it true he can fly?" another boy asked, curled up near the wall. His knees were pulled tight to his chest, eyes wide and too old for his face.
I should've said something. Corrected them. Offered logic or facts—anything to pull us all back to reality. But what was the truth anymore? The monster we'd whispered about for years had walked into our school and killed our headmaster.
And no one had stopped him.
Because Professor Dumbledore was gone.
And Harry…
I looked down at the wand in my hands. It was warm from my grip, its surface smooth and familiar. But it felt wrong in my hands. Wrong without him.
Where was he now?
What had they done to him?
And—horribly—what had he done?
The portrait hole crashed open without warning, tearing through the silence like a scream. I flinched—so did half the common room. A group of students—mostly fifth and third years—spilt in, wide-eyed and dishevelled. Some were crying. Others looked as though they'd run the whole way back without stopping for breath.
Ron was on his feet in a heartbeat. I was already following before my mind even caught up, my legs propelling me across the room, heart hammering with fear I couldn't yet name.
"What happened?" Ron asked, his voice louder than he meant, edged with panic.
One of the girls stepped forward—a fifth-year, I thought, with tangled hair and a hollow look behind her red-rimmed eyes. Her lip trembled.
"We… we went to see Colin," she said. "In the Hospital Wing."
Colin. The name alone made my breath catch in my throat. I stumbled, gripping the arm of a nearby chair for balance.
"What about him?" Ron pressed. "What's happened?"
The girl blinked hard, and when she spoke again, her voice cracked. "He was tortured," she whispered. "By You-Know-Who."
The words hit like a slap. I couldn't breathe.
Everything around me dulled—the fire, the murmurs, the shadows of dawn beginning to spill across the floor. My ears rang.
Tortured.
By him.
No, no. Colin was just a boy. Small. Curious. Always cheerful, always asking questions, camera around his neck like it was part of him. He didn't matter to them, did he? He wasn't a threat. He wasn't…
My thoughts spiralled, then collapsed in on themselves.
"How—how do you know?" I forced the words out, clinging to reason like a ledge.
"Dennis told us," the girl said, rubbing her nose on her sleeve. "This morning. Professor McGonagall came into the boys' dormitory and pulled him out. Didn't explain a thing. Just said, Come. We followed. We thought maybe it was something minor. Like he'd fainted or fallen, or…"
She didn't finish. Another girl, smaller, let out a broken sob and buried her face in her hands.
"Why would he do that?" she cried. "Why would You-Know-Who go after Colin? He didn't do anything wrong!"
I stepped forward carefully. "Is Dennis still with him?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. Dennis wouldn't leave his brother.
A third-year boy nodded. "Yeah. He said he's staying. Said he won't move until Colin wakes up."
Wakes up. Not recovers. Not improves. Wakes up.
My chest twisted.
I looked at Ron, but he was staring into the fire like he couldn't see it. I turned back to the boy, my voice smaller now. "What… condition is he in?"
The boy hesitated. He looked pale, like he was going to be sick. "He's barely breathing," he murmured. "Like… like something's still choking him. But there's nothing there. Just air."
I pressed a hand to my mouth. My brain immediately conjured an image I didn't want—a boy thrashing on a bed, gasping for breath that wouldn't come. His lips were blue. His eyes were wide.
"What kind of curse does that?" I whispered, more to myself than to anyone else. What sort of magic keeps hurting, even when the caster's gone?
I felt ill.
"Did Dennis say how Colin ended up with You-Know-Who?" I asked, though I didn't want to hear it. Every answer brought us closer to something terrible.
The tall boy with dark curls nodded slowly. "He said they were in the common room last night. Just the two of them. Then Amycus Carrow came in. Said Colin had detention. He had something in his hand. Looked like a list or a file."
I stiffened. "A list?"
"Maybe. Dennis said it all happened so fast. Colin couldn't argue. Just followed him."
And then they took him.
And no one stopped it.
The girl with the wild hair stepped forward again. Her voice trembled. "When we saw him… he was whispering. Just the same thing. Again and again."
"What was it?" I asked.
"Harry's name," she said, and her voice broke. "Just… over and over. He wouldn't stop."
The room was quiet. Deathly quiet.
Harry.
A chill swept through me. A strange, horrible chill, not from cold but from something deeper. Something that wrapped around the spine.
"Why?" I asked.
She shook her head. "We don't know. Dennis doesn't either. We thought maybe… maybe it meant he'd seen him. Maybe Harry was there."
I stared into the fireplace. The last embers glowed faintly. They looked like eyes now. Or screams. Or the last remnants of a battle we hadn't even begun.
Colin had whispered Harry's name.
And if he'd seen him, that meant…
But if he hadn't—
My arms wrapped around my middle, holding myself together. I felt hollow, like something was being carved out of me, piece by piece.
I didn't cry.
Not yet.
There wasn't time.
All I could do was hope—to beg—that somewhere, Harry was still breathing.
The portrait hole burst open again with a jarring squeal, loud enough to split the hush of the common room in two. Every murmur, every whispered worry, died at once.
They stood there.
Alecto and Amycus Carrow.
They didn't step in so much as seep—like damp rot or poison smoke—oozing into the room, their presence instantly curdling the air. Alecto's greasy hair clung to her jowls, her face twisted with something almost gleeful. Amycus was worse—eyes gleaming with anticipation, mouth curled in a mockery of a grin, as though he'd walked in on a surprise party thrown just for him.
Beside me, Ron went rigid. I didn't blame him. My own stomach knotted so tightly I thought I might be sick. I could taste dread—thick and metallic at the back of my throat.
"What are you all waiting for?" Alecto's voice was like gravel dragged across stone. "Every one of you—out. To the Great Hall. Now."
She scanned the room, eyes darting, searching for resistance, for excuses to hurt someone.
No one moved.
It was suffocating—being packed in so closely, yet feeling a cold emptiness settle over us. The entire room was still, brittle. My fingers found the edge of the armchair and gripped it hard. I couldn't help it. My mind had already leapt ahead.
The Great Hall.
Why? What now? What had they done?
Amycus snarled, stepping further inside. "I said, MOVE, you little shites!" His wand twitched in his hand. Not a warning. A threat.
Still, no one stirred.
We were Gryffindors—brave, yes, but we were also tired. Scared. Wounded in places that didn't always show. And we all knew what the Carrows were capable of. We'd seen enough to know that words weren't always the worst things they could throw.
Ron stepped forward, voice tight but steady. "Why?" he asked. Just that. A single word, but it cut the silence.
Amycus's grin widened. "Because you won't want to miss the fun," he said, voice thick with something foul.
Behind him, Alecto let out a horrible, barking laugh. "They're in for a treat," she said, and the delight in her voice made me want to be sick.
The word twisted inside me. Treat. That meant spectacle. Punishment. Pain. And they wanted us to watch.
I felt it then—that same sick chill I'd known since yesterday. Since the Astronomy Tower. Since Harry.
Harry.
Was he there now? In the Great Hall, strung up, on display, punished for resisting? My chest tightened. I remembered how he'd looked last. Weak. Broken. Barely conscious. And the Carrows… they'd looked at him like a prize. A trophy to parade.
"NOW!" Amycus bellowed.
I flinched. Others did too. It jolted us into motion—not because we wanted to go, but because standing still felt just as dangerous.
Ron found my hand, and I took it without thinking. His palm was warm, but the grip was hard, urgent. Grounding. My other hand slipped instinctively to my ribs, pressing against the wand beneath my jumper. Just in case. Not that it would do much good—not against them. Not without a plan.
We moved together. All of us. Slow. Stiff. Like condemned souls filing out to judgement. There was no talking, no whispering. Only footsteps and the heavy pulse of fear hanging between us.
I held my head high—because I had to. Because someone had to look like we weren't broken.
But inside, I was unravelling.
Every corridor felt colder. The stone beneath my feet felt sharper. The portraits didn't stir, not even the nosy ones. The castle felt like it was holding its breath.
Waiting.
And my thoughts kept circling the same dreadful place—Harry. If he was waiting for us, it wasn't with open arms. It wasn't to be saved.
It was to be seen.
To be used.
Stop it, Hermione. Don't let your mind go there.
But I couldn't help it. Every step brought me closer to something terrible, and I could feel the others knew it too. No one asked questions. No one dared. We all just… went.
The Carrows herded us down like cattle. Triumphant. Eager.
I glanced back once, just once, at the fading light of the tower window. At the last little flicker of the place we'd called safe.
Then the corridor turned, and there was only the Great Hall ahead.
And whatever waited for us inside.
I knew one thing, deep in my bones: this moment would leave a scar. Not just on the school. Not just on Colin or Harry or even me.
On all of us.
And forgiveness—whatever came next—might be the thing most out of reach.
The Great Hall had never felt so wrong.
This place should've been familiar—comforting, even. I'd eaten every meal here for six years. Laughed. Fought. Watched owls soar beneath the enchanted ceiling and snow drift lazily during the Christmas feast. But now, stepping inside, it was like walking into a graveyard wearing someone else's skin.
The torches lining the walls were too bright, blurring into smeared blotches of yellow without my glasses. The ceiling above was still bewitched, still pretending to be a sky—soft blue, falsely serene. As if nothing had happened. As if Dumbledore hadn't died. As if I weren't about to meet the monster who'd broken the world apart.
Every step I took alongside Snape felt heavier than the last. The air itself seemed wrong. Dead. Like all the warmth had been sucked out of the stones. My legs dragged, not entirely mine anymore. The floor pushed back with each movement, resisting me like it wanted me to turn around and run.
Pain bloomed in my scar, jagged and white-hot—like fire scoring down to my bones. Then the mark on my arm burnt too, twisted under the skin like it was trying to speak, trying to writhe free. I could feel both—one at my head, one at my wrist—pulling at me in opposite directions. Voldemort inside my thoughts. Voldemort in my flesh.
I stumbled. Snape caught my elbow, fingers cold and firm. I wanted to shake him off, but I needed him—just for a second—to stay upright. It disgusted me, needing help. From him.
When he let go, I nearly fell again.
He kept walking.
And I was alone.
There was a hush all around me, but it wasn't quiet. I heard it—the low buzz of whispers, the sharp inhales. People. Watching. Their voices pressed against the inside of my skull, even if I couldn't make out what they were saying. I couldn't see their faces. Without my glasses, everyone was just a smear of shapes, a mess of colours and shadows. But I felt them. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
Staring.
I tried to keep my arm down, to hide the mark that pulsed like a second heart. My fingers brushed over it, uselessly. It didn't matter if they saw. Everyone would know now. They'd already know.
Snape stopped walking.
I stopped too.
At the far end of the hall, where Dumbledore used to sit—where he'd smiled at me every term from behind his half-moon spectacles—stood a figure. Tall. Pale. Still.
Even blurred by my poor vision, I knew who it was.
Voldemort.
The shape of him alone was enough to freeze my blood. He didn't need to move. He didn't need to say anything. Just his presence—cold, vast, poisonous—slithered through the air and wrapped around my spine. He stood like he was carved from ice, untouched by time or fear. Just there. Watching. Waiting.
I couldn't breathe.
My legs locked. My hands clenched into fists. All I could think was that he'd been here all along. In this school. In this hall. Where I used to laugh. Where I'd once called Dumbledore "the greatest wizard who ever lived".
That world was gone.
And then he spoke.
"Harry Potter," he said, softly—like he was greeting an old friend. "At last."
His voice coiled around me, smooth as silk and just as sharp. I wanted to block it out, to shut my ears and scream until I went deaf, but I couldn't. His words slid into my mind and sat down like they belonged there.
I nearly gagged.
Don't let him in. Don't answer. Don't break.
I grabbed onto the first thing that kept me grounded—Colin. His face. His bloody ridiculous camera. His wide-eyed grin, always asking questions, always thinking it was some kind of honour just to breathe the same air as me. Annoying. Endearing. Too young.
Too innocent for this.
"Where's Colin?" I croaked. My voice sounded strange. Like it didn't belong to me.
No one answered.
I blinked hard. "Colin!" I shouted, louder this time. The name echoed in the hall, swallowed by stone.
Still nothing.
Then came the laughter.
Low at first. Just one. Then another. Then a rising tide—high, cruel, grating. The Death Eaters. Dozens of them, hidden in the shadows, delighting in the sound of my pain. My confusion.
It scraped at my insides.
"What have you done to him?" I screamed, my voice breaking halfway through. I didn't know if I was yelling at Voldemort or the whole room. Or maybe myself. For not getting here sooner.
Voldemort didn't answer straightaway. He took his time. Of course he did.
At last, he said, "The boy is of no consequence."
My heart twisted. No consequence? He was a boy. A student. He had a brother. He had friends. He had a future.
"You should concern yourself with what truly matters," Voldemort said, almost lazily, like he was bored.
He flicked a hand.
The shadows shifted.
Black shapes moved—Death Eaters. A wall of them. Closing in. Watching. Hungry.
I turned my head, searching. Trying to find red and gold—Gryffindors. Friends. Her. Anything familiar in the blur of faces. But I couldn't tell who was who. Everyone looked the same—smudged outlines in a dream I desperately wanted to wake up from.
My knees wobbled, but I didn't let myself fall. Not now.
Not here.
Whatever happened next, I would face it standing.
Even if I was the last one.
Even if it meant dying.
And Merlin help him—if Colin was dead, I would make Voldemort regret every breath he'd ever stolen.
Mr. Malfoy's voice cut through the air like a blade dipped in ice.
"Seriously, Potter," he drawled, every word soaked in disdain. "We've been over this before. It's time you learnt the difference between life and dreams."
I stopped breathing.
My body staggered before my mind caught up. I knew those words. I knew them.
Not just the tone—the phrasing. The exact sentence, like it had been plucked from a nightmare. Two years ago. The Department of Mysteries. That cursed room. The false vision. Sirius, falling through the veil.
My insides went cold.
No. No, it can't be.
This isn't real.
The walls of the Great Hall tilted slightly, just for a second, as the truth punched through my gut.
This is a lie.
A trick. A performance.
I'd been baited again—and I'd walked straight into it, wide-eyed and willing.
I turned blindly, trying to find the blur I thought was Snape. He stood still, watching. Unreadable. But something in the way he looked at me—something restrained—felt deliberate. Intentional. Like he was trying to say something without speaking. Like he already knew what I was just now realising.
Colin's not here. He never was.
He was never in this room. Never in danger.
Just like Sirius. Another ghost Voldemort dangled in front of me, and I—idiot that I am—followed.
Again.
My knees buckled.
The pain in my head was nothing compared to the sheer shame crawling through me. Shame hotter than fire. He'd played me—again. Dangled someone I loved in front of my face, twisted my fear into obedience, and I hadn't stopped to question it. I'd let him lead me here like a dog on a leash.
You were supposed to learn, Harry.
Dumbledore told you.
Occlumency. You pushed it away. Said it didn't matter. You let your mind stay open.
And now look at you.
The laughter came next.
Shrill. Hysterical.
Bellatrix.
"The baby can't even tell what's real!" She shrieked, her voice sharp and cruel. "Look at him! Already broken!"
I flinched like I'd been slapped. My hands curled into fists at my sides, trembling with the effort not to collapse completely.
I wanted to scream. To fight back.
But I had no wand.
No wand. No defence. No hope.
Voldemort's voice seeped into my head like rot in old wood.
"Don't be so ashamed, Harry," he murmured. Not aloud. In my mind. So close it felt like he was whispering straight into my skull.
"You were never strong enough. You were always going to lose. That's why Dumbledore died. That's why they all will."
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out—but it didn't matter. His words didn't need eyes or ears. They crawled straight into my thoughts, wrapping themselves around everything weak inside me.
"I can see everything in you," he hissed. "Your doubt. Your guilt. Your weakness. It makes you so… easy."
And the worst part—the part that made me want to rip my skin off—was that I believed him.
Right then, for that hollow, hopeless second, I believed him.
Because I couldn't see.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't even move.
I didn't know how to fight anymore.
A white-hot pain tore through my head, slicing behind my eyes like a dagger of fire. I gasped, then choked, falling—knees crashing against the stone floor with a horrible echo. My hands flew to my forehead, useless against the explosion of pain behind my scar.
I barely heard myself cry out. Everything blurred to black and red and white—my vision gone, my mind screaming.
The pain was too much.
It wasn't even pain anymore—it was something deeper.
A tearing. A possession. A hollowing.
Gasps echoed around the hall.
For one brief, foolish moment, I thought they were gasping at me. My pain.
But then I heard it—clear as day:
"Blimey, is that a Dark Mark on his arm?"
My breath caught.
No—no, no, no.
I looked down.
And there it was.
The Mark. Twisting. Stark. Black as night against my skin. A snake curling from a skull—his symbol. His claim.
I'd been trying to hide it. Pressing my arm to my side, covering it with trembling hands.
But in my fall, I'd exposed it.
I scrambled, panicked, to put my hand down again, to hide it, but it was too late.
Too late.
Voldemort laughed—full, rich, and horrible. The sound of triumph. It echoed off every stone in the hall, reverberating through my chest like thunder.
"Don't hide it now, Harry," he purred, gloating. "They've seen it. Let them see what you've become."
Voices all around me now.
"Is he—?"
"Does that mean—?"
"Was he always one of them?"
"No," I rasped, barely audible. "I'm not—"
But my voice failed me.
My throat burnt. The words tangled, meaningless, and died before they reached the air.
And Voldemort struck.
He rose to his full height, voice curling upward with that terrible grace of his.
"You may think you're not a Death Eater," he said, sounding almost pitying, like a teacher disappointed in a pupil, "but you've been branded by me. I see no reason to deny it."
He turned to the hall.
I felt the shift in the room—the way his presence seemed to sweep over everyone at once, like a shadow spilling from the walls.
"Harry Potter," he announced, with poisonous calm, "is now one of my servants."
A beat.
"He is, as of this moment… a Death Eater."
The Great Hall exploded.
Screams. Shouts. Chaos. Voices overlapping in horror and disbelief. I couldn't make out the words—just the sound of people falling apart around me. The sound of belief.
They thought it was true.
They believed him.
They believed I belonged to him.
My stomach twisted violently. I thought I might be sick right there on the floor. The shame curdled in my chest, sharp and acid-hot. I wanted to vanish. To tear off my skin. To scream until the stone walls cracked from the sound.
But all I could do was tremble.
Raw. Exposed. Ruined.
"Damn you, Voldemort!" I choked out. My voice cracked on the edges, shaking with rage and something worse—grief. "I will never—"
He moved.
So fast I didn't see it—just the flash of white, the rustle of robes—
—and then his hand was on my throat.
Everything went still.
Pain exploded through my neck, sharp and immediate. His fingers were cold and hard as bone, and they closed around my windpipe like iron, squeezing until the air vanished. I clawed at his wrist instinctively, but it was like trying to move a mountain.
And then my scar lit up again.
Not just a flare this time—a full eruption, deeper and more vicious. It felt like something had sunk claws into the inside of my skull and was scraping. Scraping at my eyes. At my brain. Pulling me apart from the inside.
"You will bow," he whispered, voice low and close, like poison on a breath. "You will obey."
His face hovered inches from mine—pale, inhuman. Those red eyes bore into me, not just seeing me but searching. Tearing into my mind, prying at every exposed weakness, every corner I'd failed to guard.
Occlumency. You never practised it.
And now he was inside.
"When I tell you to hurt yourself," he murmured, "you will bleed. When I demand you kill, you will kill. No hesitation. No resistance."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. My throat was burning now, my lungs kicking uselessly for air. I felt my body start to sag in his grip. Darkness crept in around the edges of my vision, soft and swallowing.
"Have I made myself perfectly clear?" he asked, almost conversationally. "Or do you require further… persuasion?"
I tried to answer, but it came out as a strangled noise. My hands scraped against his wrist, nails digging in, useless.
Still—some part of me, some broken, stubborn piece that hadn't yet given in, forced the words through my lips:
"I… w-will… n-nev—"
He released me.
I dropped like a stone, gasping and coughing, the air tearing down my throat like knives. My chest heaved. I doubled over on my hands and knees, trembling, spitting, alive.
For now.
When I looked up, he was already turning away. His movements were slow and elegant. His wand rose—not aimed at me, but out into the blurred chaos of the crowd. I couldn't see clearly. Just light and shadow. Indistinct forms.
And then—
A scream.
High and raw and human. It split the hall in half like a blade and tore through the air like lightning.
My whole body seized.
"No!" I rasped. "Voldemort, stop!"
But the scream didn't stop.
I didn't know who it was. Couldn't tell if it was a boy or girl—all I could hear was agony. Pure, helpless agony.
I tried to stand. My body didn't listen.
I collapsed again, arms shaking beneath me. My muscles refused to hold me. My mind was fogged with pain and horror and shame.
And then the pain came again.
My scar flared, searing. The mark on my arm burnt hot, as though someone had pressed a brand into the bone. My thoughts scattered like broken glass.
And then—
A thud beside me.
A body hit the floor.
I turned, half-mad with panic. Even through the blur, even through the red haze of pain, I recognised the curls. The uniform stained with blood. The shaking fingers.
Justin.
"Justin!" I wheezed. I dragged myself closer, barely able to move. His eyes fluttered open, blood lining the corner of his mouth.
He was alive.
Barely.
Relief hit me so hard I almost sobbed. My hands found his and gripped them tight.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, shaking. "I didn't know. He's using me, I swear—I never meant—"
And then that voice again.
Smooth. Cruel. So quiet it cut deeper than any shout.
"Oh yes, you did, Harry," Voldemort said. "You knew exactly what would happen. And you defied me anyway."
A wand dropped in front of me.
My stomach turned to ice.
"Prove yourself," he said. "Torture him."
I stared at the wand like it might burn me. My hand twitched toward it—then froze.
No.
Every part of me recoiled.
No. I won't.
I won't become like them. I won't let him twist me into something I hate. I won't be a monster.
Silence.
Then the pain.
It hit like fire. Electricity tearing through every nerve. I screamed—loud and raw—my whole body convulsing. I curled into myself, muscles locking, shaking so violently I thought my bones would break.
"You will obey me," Voldemort said. He might as well have been whispering a lullaby.
I lifted my head. My vision was black at the edges. Blood dripped from my nose.
"N-no."
He looked at me—long and unreadable. Something flickered in his expression. Disappointment… or amusement?
Then he turned.
"Then you leave me no choice."
His wand rose.
"Imperio."
Justin's body went still.
His breath caught.
And then—his eyes glazed over. Blank. Empty.
"No—" My voice cracked. "No, no—please—"
Voldemort didn't even look at me when he spoke.
"Kill yourself."
Justin reached down.
Picked up the wand.
Pointed it at his own chest.
Screams tore through the hall.
Not just frightened now—shattered. Grief, horror, fury, disbelief—every voice seemed to bleed with it. Students sobbed openly, shrieking as they clutched one another or backed against the walls. Some cried Justin's name. Others shouted at Voldemort. But it all blurred into a wall of noise I couldn't feel a part of. I was beneath it. Drowning in it.
"No—no—Justin—don't—!"
My voice cracked. The sound scraped up my throat and barely came out at all, but somehow it echoed anyway—hung in the space between us like a final plea.
Justin's hand trembled. His wand was pressed against his chest now. Right over his heart.
And I couldn't move.
My brain screamed at me—move! Do something! Crawl, reach, scream louder, throw yourself at him if you have to—but nothing responded. My arms wouldn't work. My legs had gone hollow. It was like someone had carved out everything inside me and left only stone.
I was paralysed.
Not by a spell.
By him.
Because I knew—deep down, I knew—that if I tried, if I reached for Justin, if I resisted even a fraction more… Voldemort would make it worse. He'd turn it into a performance. Draw it out. Punish Justin for my defiance. Maybe he'd kill him anyway, slower this time. Maybe he'd make me choose someone else.
That was the game.
It wasn't just control he wanted.
It was the breaking.
My voice.
My will.
My soul, piece by piece, handed over in defeat.
"No," I whispered again, even though I didn't know who I was speaking to anymore. Voldemort? Justin? The wreck of myself?
Justin didn't look at me.
He couldn't.
His eyes—those warm, clever eyes—were blank now. Empty. There was no fear in them. No awareness. Just silence. Like the light had been turned off behind them. The curse had hollowed him out, and I could do nothing.
His hand didn't shake anymore.
The Imperius made him calm. Focused.
And I—I was falling to bits.
"This isn't real," I said under my breath. "It's a trick. Another one. Like Sirius. Like before—"
But it wasn't.
He was right there. Right in front of me. Blood on his collar. His chest rising and falling, too shallow, too fast. His fingers twitching around the wand he never should've had to hold like this.
It was real.
And it would be my fault.
"Stop it!" I shouted, louder now—louder than I'd ever shouted in my life. My voice cracked open in the middle, torn apart by desperation. "Voldemort, stop it—STOP THIS!"
Nothing.
Just the twitch of Justin's wand hand. The calm before the final order.
"Please—not him—take me! Take me, not him, please!"
I reached out.
Tried to touch his arm.
My muscles gave out completely. My body collapsed onto the stone floor with a painful thud. My cheek slammed against the cold surface, and I couldn't even turn my head. Couldn't lift myself up.
I just lay there, twitching, trembling, gasping like a fish washed up on shore.
And Voldemort watched.
He didn't speak. Didn't even need to.
He knew.
He was making sure they all knew.
This wasn't a duel. It wasn't a battle. This wasn't about power anymore.
It was about helplessness.
It was about proving that Harry Potter couldn't save anyone—not even the boy bleeding beside him.
That all it took was one curse. Two words.
That he was God now.
My thoughts spiralled. Would the spell hit Justin's heart? Would it be instant? Would he scream? Would it be quiet? Would I watch his body crumple beside me and never be able to forget the sound it made when it fell?
Would I ever sleep again?
"STOP!" I shouted. No—screamed. But it came out cracked, childish, almost petulant. Like a tantrum in a nightmare.
It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
But that didn't make it go away.
The image burnt behind my eyelids—Justin, still as a puppet. Wand aimed at his own chest. Controlled. Violated. Because of me.
Because of me.
Because I hadn't learnt. Because I hadn't listened. Because I thought Occlumency was a waste of time. Because I let my anger rule me. Because I walked into another trap. Because I was still the same boy who believed in visions. Who believed Sirius was alive. Who believed he could save people.
And Voldemort knew.
He always knew.
I forced my eyes open.
And I made myself look.
If Justin was going to die, I would see it. I wouldn't look away. I wouldn't lie to myself. I wouldn't pretend I was still a hero.
His hand was still.
His breath was faint.
He was waiting.
Just one more word.
One whisper from the evil in the room.
And I realised I was whispering too.
Not to Voldemort. Not to Justin.
Just… into the world.
"Please. Please. Please. Please…"
Adrenaline ignited in my veins, scorching and wild.
I moved without thinking. My whole body surged forward, teeth gritted, hands clawing through air—just as a sickly green light began to swell at the tip of Justin's wand.
"NO!"
My shoulder slammed into him. The impact knocked the wand clean from his grip, sent it clattering across the flagstones—and then—
Silence.
For one long, impossible second… everything stopped.
No screams.
No pain.
No Voldemort.
Just stillness. Like I'd fallen beneath the surface of a lake—submerged in something warm and heavy. The world faded into soft shadows, the edges of my thoughts drifting like mist.
There was no fear here.
No grief.
Just peace.
Too much peace.
Wrong.
And then—
"Kill the boy…"
The whisper curled through the quiet.
"Kill him… just kill the boy…"
The water rippled. The warmth darkened.
No.
No.
A voice—faint, flickering like a candle deep inside me—stirred.
I will not.
"Just kill the boy…"
I won't.
"Kill the boy."
I WON'T!
My hand twitched—brushed the wand lying near Justin, the one I'd knocked away. My fingers recoiled like they'd touched fire.
The voice in my head rose now, relentless. It scraped along my skull like a dull blade.
"Kill him. Kill him now."
I won't—I won't—I WON'T—
"I WON'T!"
The scream erupted from me—shattering the trance like lightning cracking through glass. The fog vanished in a blink, and reality crashed down like a wave.
Pain hit first.
Blinding. Splintering. My scar pulsed like a drumbeat. The mark on my arm seared like molten iron, tearing through skin and soul alike.
I gasped—ice in my lungs—my body convulsing from the shock of being back.
Then his voice.
Low. Slithering. Satisfied.
"You won't?"
I turned—barely—and saw him.
Voldemort.
Eyes lit with cruel delight, burning embers set deep into that skeletal face. "You won't kill the boy?" he repeated, voice smooth, curious. Almost amused. "Does this mean… you'd rather I finish him now, Harry?"
Terror choked me.
I flung myself in front of Justin without thinking, arms thrown wide. My whole body was trembling. "No—don't—please—please—don't hurt him—I'll do anything—please—just don't kill him!"
I meant it.
I would've said anything. Done anything.
But there was no mercy in his face. Only satisfaction. He had what he wanted.
"Crucio."
The pain came like lightning in my blood.
My back arched violently as my whole body convulsed. A scream clawed at my throat but I couldn't escape. I writhed on the cold stone floor, every nerve set ablaze, every muscle jerking out of my control.
And then—
It stopped.
One breath.
Then—
"CRUCIO!"
The scream tore from me this time. Hoarse. Raw. My voice was shredded by it. My limbs spasmed so violently I thought something might snap. My back slammed against the floor again, again, again.
He did it again.
And again.
Time lost meaning. There was no count. No end. Just pain.
I was nothing but pain.
A puppet made of nerves. A body with no will.
At some point, I stopped screaming. Couldn't. There was no breath left. No voice.
I simply endured.
Until finally—
Silence.
I collapsed. Shaking. Gasping. Limbs twitching uselessly. Every inch of me burnt. I couldn't move. I couldn't lift my head. My vision pulsed.
Justin.
Was he—?
I tried to reach for him. Tried to see. But everything was fog and ringing and pain.
Then arms—strong, unrelenting—hauled me upright.
My legs dangled. My weight hung limp. My body wasn't mine anymore.
Stone walls passed in a blur.
Screams faded behind us.
Sobbing. Footsteps. Voices—sharp, urgent.
I heard someone shouting.
Snape?
Was it Snape?
We moved quickly, my body dragged half along the corridor. I couldn't lift my head. Couldn't breathe properly.
"Justin…" I croaked. My throat was scorched. Every word tasted like ash. "Is he…?"
"Don't worry about him now," Snape said tightly.
"But… I have to… save him…"
"You did what you could."
"Not… enough…"
My body sagged. My knees buckled, and Snape caught me, arms tightening.
"I think—I'm—" I didn't get to finish.
I lurched forward, retching violently onto the flagstones. Bile burnt my throat. My stomach twisted in on itself, cramping with every heave.
More voices.
Closer now.
Someone barked an order. One sentence cut through the din like a knife:
"Get him to his room. The Dark Lord wants you now, Snape."
Snape's hands twitched on my arm.
Tension. Fear?
He wrapped his arm around me again.
I tried to take a step.
Couldn't.
My legs wouldn't work. My body was finished. Shaking, useless.
The corridor tilted.
The torchlight blurred.
"Justin…" I whispered again. Couldn't stop. Didn't want to. "Justin…"
Snape said something—my name, maybe.
But I didn't hear the rest.
Darkness came down.
And I let it.